Generation Stalin: French Writers, The Fatherland, And The Cult Of Personality 0253038227, 9780253038227

Table of contents :
Cover......Page 1
Title......Page 4
Copyright......Page 5
Dedication......Page 6
Contents......Page 8
Acknowledgments......Page 10
Introduction......Page 16
Chapter 1. Henri Barbusse and Stalin’s Official Biography......Page 55
Chapter 2. Romain Rolland and the Politics of Terror......Page 118
Chapter 3. Paul Eluard and Stalin’s Seventieth Birthday......Page 175
Chapter 4. Louis Aragon and the Great Patriotic War......Page 222
Conclusion......Page 271
Bibliography......Page 278
Index......Page 300
About the Author......Page 312

Citation preview

Generation

Stalin

Andrew Sobanet

Generation

Stalin French Writers, the Fatherland, and the Cult of Personality

Indiana University Press

This book is a publication of Indiana University Press Office of Scholarly Publishing Herman B Wells Library 350 1320 East 10th Street Bloomington, Indiana 47405 USA

Manufactured in the United States of America Cataloging information is available from the Library of Congress.

iupress.indiana.edu

ISBN 978-0-253-03821-0 (hardback) ISBN 978-0-253-03822-7 (paperback) ISBN 978-0-253-03825-8 (ebook)

© 2018 by Andrew Sobanet

1 2 3 4 5 23 22 21 20 19 18

All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences— Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.

For Amanda, Audrey, and Mira

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments Introduction

ix 1

1 Henri Barbusse and Stalin’s Official Biography

40

2 Romain Rolland and the Politics of Terror

103

3 Paul Eluard and Stalin’s Seventieth Birthday

160

4 Louis Aragon and the Great Patriotic War

207

Conclusion

256

Bibliography

263

Index

285

ACKNOW LEDGM ENTS

I could not have completed this book without the support of many family members, friends, and colleagues. This project also benefited from substantial financial support from Georgetown University, in the form of a senior faculty fellowship, two summer academic grants, and competitive grants-in-aid. I completed a significant portion of the writing and research for this book while serving two terms (2009–15) as chair of the Department of French and Francophone Studies at Georgetown. During that time and after, I received crucial support from Joan Matus, our extraordinary departmental administrator, whose kindness, thoughtfulness, and generosity have simply been invaluable to me. I also am deeply grateful to Deborah Lesko Baker for filling in for me as chair on an interim basis, as well as for her leadership and support as my current (and past) department chair. I am very thankful to my former dean, Chester Gillis, for his generous support and mentorship. I would also like to thank my friends and colleagues in the dean’s office of Georgetown College, especially Bernie Cook and Sue Lorenson. I am also grateful to Provost Robert Groves, Ali Whitmer, and Cynthia Chance, all of whom supported my sabbatical leave schedule once I completed my terms as chair. Thanks also to John Q. Pierce, Georgetown’s eminent registrar, for his kind moral support. This book benefited from substantial input and helpful readings from a number of my friends and colleagues: Peter Baker, Roger Bensky, Jacques ix

x

|

Acknowledgments

Berlinerblau, James Collins, Sam Di Iorio, Paul Dry, Jean-Max Guieu, Martha Hanna, Amadou Koné, Lawrence D. Kritzman, Susanna Lee, Marcia Morris, Warren Motte, Anne O’Neil-Henry, Gerald Prince, Denis Provencher, Kylie Sago, Carole Sargent, Susan Terrio, Alissa Webel, and Paul Young. I am very grateful to each of them for their time, advice, and support. Any errors in the book are my own. I am also grateful for the valuable feedback I received in the context of various research seminars: the Slavic Studies Seminar (2011) and the War to End All Wars speaker series (2014), both at Georgetown University; the Specters of the Great War conference (2014) and the French Cultural Studies Institute (2015), both at Dartmouth College; and the French Seminar Series at the University of Pennsylvania (2017). I received assistance from a number of individuals in acquiring and organizing source material for this book. I am grateful to the late Charles Latil, the former president of the Association France-URSS, who generously gave me his own bound copies of the magazine France-URSS, and to Jean-Max Guieu, who put me in touch with him. I am thankful to Igor Vesler, who produced many excellent Russian-to-English translations of archival documents, and to Lillian Clementi, who introduced me to him. I would also like to thank Claude Pennetier, director of the Maitron Dictionnaire biographique du mouvement ouvrier, Michèle Rault at the Fonds Thorez-Vermeersch, Jeannie Bail at Queen Elizabeth II Library of Memorial University of Newfoundland, and Sylvie Figha at the Bibliothèque de documentation internationale contemporaine. I am especially grateful to Marion Boulestreau at CinéArchives and also to the entire image reproduction department at the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BNF). Both Ciné-Archives and the BNF were extremely helpful as I worked to find high-quality reproductions of archival images. I am also very grateful to my colleagues at Lauinger Library at Georgetown, especially Christine Sawyer and Brenda Bickett, for their assistance in acquiring highly useful source material. A number of Georgetown students helped me with this project along the way. Special thanks to Nick Albanese and Masha Chilikina-Brown, both of whom helped me navigate and collect material from Russian archives and who, moreover, aided me in selecting which documents to have professionally translated into English. Maximilian Cohen-Casado, Brandon DeLamarter, Emma Doerfler, Sophia Recio, Andrew Tabas, and Robyn Witt also provided helpful research assistance.

Acknowledgments

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xi

I am very thankful to all those at Indiana University Press who helped make this project possible. I am especially grateful to Jennika Baines, who shepherded the manuscript through the review process and also provided very helpful advice as I prepared the text for publication. Kate Schramm provided excellent guidance as I edited the manuscript and searched for high-quality archival images. I am thankful to Carol McGillivray for her help with the copyediting and to Nancy Lightfoot for her sound advice as the project moved through the production process. I am deeply grateful to friends and family who gave me crucial support along the way: Jim Tipton, Justin Marshall, Lynn Tipton, George O’Brien, Jesus Rodriguez, Theodore Fuller, Jessica Sarow, Jackie Shumaker and Mary Harper, Carol and Eric Hansen, Chet Foat and Denise Shumaker Foat, Annette and Douglas Finnegan, and especially Jennifer and Henry R. Sobanet. The biggest thanks of all go to my wife, Amanda, who supported this book project from beginning to end, and to my daughters, Audrey and Mira, who made the work all the more worthwhile. This book is dedicated to the three of them. During the time it took to research and write this book, both of my parents passed away—my mother, Diana, in 2011, and my father, Henry, in 2016. The love and support they gave me continue to nourish me every day.

Generation

Stalin

INTRODUCTION

“We all, the peasants of Grigny, wish a happy birthday and a long life to Generalissimo Stalin, who freed us with his victory.”1 So said an anonymous Frenchman in a 1949 cinematic tribute to Joseph Stalin on the occasion of his seventieth birthday. The mythical image of Stalin as a military genius—the savior of France and of all the peoples of Europe during the Second World War—was at the core of the French Communist Party’s belief system in the early Cold War period. The party saw the fatherland (la patrie) as guarded under the watchful eye of Stalin, the world’s sole bulwark against fascism and imperialism.2 In the universe of the French Communist Party (PCF), those myths counterbalanced the idea, promoted by Charles de Gaulle, of a French nation in control of its own dramatic and historic destiny.3 It was to Stalin—not to a unified “eternal” France supported by admirable allies, as the Gaullist vision would have it—that the French owed their freedom.4 There is, of course, a grain of truth to the PCF myth of Stalin as the savior of France, as the eastern front was instrumental to the Nazi defeat. Still, the notion that it was Stalin, through “his” victory, who saved the French fatherland is a distortion representative of prevailing PCF discourse from the Stalinist era. The idea of Stalin as an exceptional military leader—he took the grandiose title of “Generalissimo” after the Allied victory in 1945— had been integral to the Soviet leader’s cult of personality since the late 1920s and early 1930s.5 It was a politically expedient myth, one that could be mobilized in accordance with shifting currents in world affairs. In late 1949, 1

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| Generation Stalin

it served to marginalize the wartime accomplishments of Anglo-American forces at a moment when both the newly signed NATO agreement and the presence of US troops in France were disparaged in the PCF press. Furthermore, that the praise for Stalin’s prowess came from the mouth of a French peasant implied that the origins of affection for the Soviet leader were local, deep, and even natural in the French context. It was an idea the poet Paul Eluard promoted by writing the script for the quasi-documentary film in honor of Stalin—L’Homme que nous aimons le plus (The man we love the most)—in which those affectionate words were spoken. As Eluard himself stated as the narrator of that same film, “Without Stalin’s heart, without his intense reason, the wheat would not grow for us today. Those who grow the wheat know this.”6 Indeed, there was a particular form of nationalism, another “eternal” France distinct from de Gaulle’s—rooted in a specific understanding of French culture, French history, and even the French soil—that existed alongside the Stalinist internationalism promoted by the PCF from the mid-1930s through the early 1950s. Eluard’s formulations do not readily mesh with received ideas about the poet, who is conventionally known as one of the most notable names in surrealism. That incomplete understanding of Eluard’s career and legacy endures in part because literary historiography and criticism are nearly universal in obfuscating his Stalinist phase, which lasted from 1947 through his death in 1952. Eluard was not alone among prominent French writers and intellectuals in his dedication to Stalin and Stalinism. His work is in many ways emblematic of that of a core group of French intellectual figures who helped shape Stalinist propaganda in the international Communist sphere—including within the USSR—during the Stalinist era, a period spanning from Stalin’s consolidation of power in the late 1920s through his death in 1953. Furthermore, the manner in which Eluard’s political and literary activity has been selectively remembered by the broader public and treated in scholarship is also representative of the ways in which the Stalinist political activity of French intellectuals has been, in the main, forgotten, overlooked, and even obscured by critics. Indeed, despite considerable scholarship devoted to the relationship between French writers and Communism, the Stalinist side of such political engagement has yet to be comprehensively explored.7 The present study aims to fill that void. Generation Stalin is an investigation into the ways in which French writers promoted Stalinism in France

Introduction |

3

and, as an integral part of that effort, aided in the creation and propagation of Stalin’s cult of personality. This book explores the work and trajectories of the four most notable writers affiliated with the PCF: Henri Barbusse, Romain Rolland, Paul Eluard, and Louis Aragon. Exploration of the political engagement of these four writers allows us to trace the rise and evolution of Stalinism and the Stalin cult in France. In charting that rise and evolution, Generation Stalin argues that these writers, in accord with party doctrine, helped promote a philo-Soviet vision of French citizenship. I contend that while that vision rests on specifically French traditions of social justice and patriotism, it is also international in its outlook, hierarchical and authoritarian, and perpetually proselytizing for the worldwide Communist project and its omnipresent leader, Joseph Stalin. Throughout the Stalinist era, intellectuals and writers played an important role in crafting party propaganda and in facilitating the PCF’s public outreach. While the party’s domestic political fortunes ebbed and flowed, it enjoyed periods of prominence and power on the French national stage, particularly during the Front Populaire (Popular Front) era and in the years immediately following the Liberation.8 The PCF’s centrality to the rise of the Front Populaire movement also gave the party and its figures considerable international prestige, most notably within the USSR. Of the many writers and intellectuals affiliated with the party during Stalin’s rule, Barbusse, Rolland, Eluard, and Aragon were the four writers of national and international prominence who were the most intimately connected to the PCF and its ever-broadening mediasphere. And yet these four writers have never before been isolated as a group and studied together. There are several elements—literary, ideological, and even biographical—that serve to unify the work and careers of these four writers. Most prominent among those elements are these writers’ deep and longstanding commitment to party doctrine, their profound integration into the party’s media apparatus, and especially, their aid in the crafting and propagation of Stalin’s personality cult. Those factors set them apart from a host of other French writers and intellectuals—a group including André Gide, André Malraux, Paul Nizan, and Jean-Paul Sartre—whose relationships with the party, Communism, or Marxism are perhaps better known but were not as deep or enduring. At the same time, Barbusse, Rolland, Eluard, and Aragon were the luminaries in a broader but lesser-known group of party loyalists (writers, intellectuals,

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| Generation Stalin

artists, journalists, and politicians) who promoted the evolving Stalinist line in dedicated fashion.9 Generation Stalin illuminates phenomena that were paramount in political and literary circles during an especially significant and tumultuous period in French history. The importance of these phenomena stems in part from the centrality of Communism, the Soviet Union, and of Stalin himself to twentieth-century history, as scholars of Soviet Communism can attest. As Martin Malia wrote in 1999, “Communism has been the great story of the twentieth century.”10 For his part, Hiroaki Kuromiya argues, “It would not be an exaggeration to state that without understanding Stalin, one cannot understand the twentieth century.”11 Similarly, the centrality of Stalin to the PCF worldview—especially from the mid-1930s through the early 1950s—cannot be overstated, and each of these writers played an important role in bolstering his prominence. Moreover, the overlapping careers of Barbusse, Rolland, Eluard, and Aragon allow not just for an account of the rise and evolution of Stalinism and the Stalin cult in France. Indeed, exploration of their trajectories also sheds light on how the PCF and its affiliated intellectuals responded to crises of great international import, including the rise of fascism and National Socialism, the Great Terror of 1937–38, the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of nonaggression between the USSR and Nazi Germany, the outbreak of World War II, the Nazi occupation of France, and the nascent Cold War. When taken together, the careers of these four writers permit exploration of the relationship between the PCF and intellectuals from the party’s earliest years (preceding Stalin’s rule) through the period of de-Stalinization, which in France lasted through the early to mid-1960s.12 This study’s focus on the political engagement of Barbusse and Rolland even allows for treatment of phenomena predating the 1920 founding of the PCF, most notably the antiwar movements that emerged as a result of World War I and that contributed to the rise of Stalinism in France. The Stalinist period also saw the rise to prominence of the surrealist movement, and its shift toward a tenuous and tense relationship with the PCF. The surrealists’ turn to Communism eventually led to a dramatic and bitter split between the doctrinaire Communist Louis Aragon, on the one hand, and the staunchly independent surrealist leader André Breton and his acolyte Paul Eluard, on the other. Breton and Eluard would suffer their own rupture in the latter half of the

Introduction |

5

1930s, when Eluard moved closer to Communist circles during the Spanish Civil War. Eluard eventually rejoined the party and reconciled with Aragon, with whom he marched in lockstep support of the PCF through a moment of high Stalinism in the early Cold War period. In addition, of particular significance to this study is the fact that it was during Stalin’s rule—and thanks to Stalin’s influence and model—that Maurice Thorez had the apex of his lengthy tenure as the leader of the PCF (1930–64).13 As party general secretary, Thorez actively cultivated relationships with writers, intellectuals, and artists, including those studied here. A cult figure in his own right, Thorez worked to integrate French patriotism and an ideal of national unity into Stalinist PCF discourse.14 Such discourse emerged during the early years of the Front Populaire and became especially honed and prominent in the Cold War era leading up to Stalin’s death. In addition to situating French intellectuals within the political debates and international crises of this turbulent era, Generation Stalin sheds light on literary and discursive phenomena whose importance extends beyond the context of the PCF and the mid-twentieth century. These four writers used a variety of genres and forms—biography, the novel, theater, film, poetry, reportage, and essays—to support dictatorial leadership. This is particularly significant in the context of post-Dreyfus France, when intellectuals often attempted to serve and were viewed as secular moral guides. Despite that privileged position, each of the writers treated here ultimately serves as a case study in complicity with authoritarianism. Study of their work furnishes an opportunity to explore the form and function of propaganda as well as the concept of the cult of personality. The analyses performed here, therefore, aid in understanding the ways in which writers, intellectuals, politicians, and journalists promote authoritarian tactics, regimes, and movements. This is true not only for mid-twentieth-century extremist movements like fascism, National Socialism, and Pétainism. This analysis is also germane to the political context of the twenty-first century, given the resurgence of personality-based and illiberal politics in both the West and the former Eastern bloc.15 Furthermore, mid-twentieth-century Stalin cult imagery and strains of Stalinist doctrine have been recycled in contemporary state-run media outlets in Russia. This rehabilitation of Stalin’s image and worldview reflects ominously on the overall tenor, character, and ambitions of the regime of the authoritarian Russian president, Vladimir Putin,

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who famously described the collapse of the Soviet Union as the greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the twentieth century.16 The Stalin Cult in Fr ance

It is a little-known fact that the first official biography of Joseph Stalin was written by an award-winning French novelist. That novelist, Henri Barbusse, is today remembered above all for his documentary novel, Le Feu (Under Fire, Prix Goncourt, 1916). From the mid-1930s through the 1950s, however, Barbusse was celebrated within PCF circles not just for that famous antiwar novel, but also for his final book, the biography of the general secretary, titled Staline: Un monde nouveau vu à travers un homme (Stalin: A New World Seen through One Man, 1935). Written with considerable assistance and input from Soviet authorities, Barbusse’s Staline would have a lasting legacy and should be read, I argue, as a prototype for the dictator’s official biographies into the early Cold War period.17 What would come to be known as the Stalin cult was not launched, however, with the publication of that first official biography. Indeed, Barbusse’s text drew upon and was consonant with canonical depictions of Stalin in party media, in both France and the USSR, some of which dated back several years. There is consensus among historians that the December 1929 celebration of Stalin’s fiftieth birthday in the USSR marked the inaugural moment of the Soviet leader’s cult of personality.18 For that occasion, as Stalin cult specialist Jan Plamper notes, there was an orchestrated burst of activity in Soviet newspapers, led by Pravda, the official paper of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Publications around that celebration consisted of an unprecedented series of laudatory articles, congratulatory telegrams, and poetic tributes, all in praise of Stalin, who was depicted as the most prominent theoretician of Leninism, the organizer of the USSR, the mastermind of industrialization, a gifted military leader, and a Bolshevik revolutionary of distinction.19 Prominent visual portraits of the general secretary were included alongside textual tributes.20 After that 1929 birthday celebration, there was a pause until mid-1933 when the Stalin cult “took off in multiple media” in the USSR.21 From then on, the cult would remain a prominent feature of Soviet society and the Soviet political system until Stalin’s death.22 The concept of the cult of personality—also referred to as “leader cult,” “cult of the individual,” and variations on those terms—has been the subject of intense scholarly investigation and broad public interest,

Introduction

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7

especially with respect to authoritarian regimes in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The basic outlines of the concept are familiar: the portrayal of a leader as the incarnation of the values, ideology, or ambitions of a movement, party, or state; the promotion of the infallibility of that leader and of the flawlessness of a regime’s policy; the notion of a symbiotic, vital connection between the leader and the people; and the promotion, via mass media—radio, newspapers, posters, television, film, internet—of the leader’s characteristics and qualities as well as the public’s supposed adulation of that leader. Personality cults generally require a closed system to flourish, as they rely on misinformation and disinformation for their success, as well as the rejection of information (by means of embargo, censorship, or refutation) that may undermine the leader’s image of infallibility or compromise the illusion of overwhelming public support. Scholars have argued that the modern personality cult shares characteristics with cults of monarchs, emperors, and saints going back centuries, even millennia—well before the era of mass media and totalitarian regimes—including what has been called the “cult of the Sun King” around Louis XIV.23 Similarities between modern cults of personality and cults from much earlier eras include depictions of the cult figures as saviors endowed with quasi-miraculous powers, as well as elaborate protocols that seek to preserve the figure’s mystique.24 For instance, Louis XIV, who had an intricate, ceremonialized daily routine, was often compared to the heroes and gods of classical mythology, like Hercules and Apollo.25 More recent antecedents include cults around prominent figures from French and American revolutionary history. Lenin cult specialist Nina Tumarkin observes that cults—in the sense of organized, venerated worship that mobilized popular loyalty and promoted regimes’ legitimacy—existed around George Washington, Marat, Robespierre, and Napoleon Bonaparte.26 Tumarkin underscores the veneration professed for Washington in odes, paeans, and biographies, as well as the desire of Americans in the early nineteenth century to display in their homes a portrait of the first president of the United States. As for French revolutionary leaders, Tumarkin emphasizes the proliferation of busts and miniatures depicting their likenesses, which were replaced by artifacts dedicated to Bonaparte. Louis XIV, Marat, Robespierre, and Napoleon Bonaparte are not the sole important links between French political history and the cults of

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personality of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Indeed, Plamper argues persuasively that the first truly modern personality cult existed around Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte, who was first elected president of the Second Republic in 1848, and then proclaimed Emperor Napoleon III in 1852, a position he held until 1870. For Plamper, modern personality cults are set apart from their predecessors by five characteristics: they are engendered by politics directed at the masses; they use modern mass media for the dissemination of cult products; they are a product of closed societies; they are the product of a secular society; and they are “patricentric”—that is, the objects of veneration are men.27 Plamper contends that Napoleon III was able to seduce and dazzle the French populace, thanks largely to what have come to be known as fêtes impériales, an ensemble of celebrations, spectacles, visits, military reviews, and universal expositions.28 And indeed, as Matthew Truesdell writes, those events were used to portray the French emperor as “the providential savior of the country and the guarantor of a peaceful, prosperous, and glorious future.”29 Truesdell’s description and choice of vocabulary—evoking providence, salvation, and glory—touch on a key element of leader cults: the sacralization of political power. Indeed, although existing in a secular society, the object of the leader cult is elevated and endowed with, in Plamper’s terms, “sacral aura” or “sacrality.”30 E. Arfon Rees similarly emphasizes the role of the sacred in his treatment of a modern leader cult, which he defines as “an established system of veneration of a political leader, to which all members of the society are expected to subscribe, a system that is omnipresent and ubiquitous and one that is expected to persist indefinitely.”31 Rees’s definition, like Plamper’s, applies to the Stalin cult as it existed in the USSR. Stalin is among the most prominent twentieth-century leaders who were objects of personality cults, a group that includes Mussolini, Hitler, and Mao Zedong. There have, moreover, been Stalinist-style cults of personality that endured into or were initiated in the twenty-first century, including those of Saddam Hussein, Bashar al-Assad, and the Kim hereditary dynasty of North Korea. Most relevant to this study is the fact that Vladimir Putin has embraced elements of the Stalin-style cult. These elements include portrayals in state-run media of Putin’s virility and his innate connection with and ability to dominate nature, qualities touted in relation to Stalin in the 1930s. Barbusse, for instance, described Stalin, when in exile

Introduction

|

9

in Siberia, as “a Robinson Crusoe of the frozen tundra,” while Russian state television pushed a story that described Putin’s supposed tranquilizing of a tiger in the wild, saving both himself and a TV crew.32 Putin’s shooting of the tiger was somehow not captured on video, but his nurturing and examination of the sedated animal were. Also in Stalinist style, on the occasion of Putin’s sixty-fourth birthday in October 2016, the lower house of the Russian parliament began its day’s work with an ovation in honor of Putin, who received a gift of 450 roses, one from each member of parliament “in gratitude for his incessant labor.”33 In addition, the ways in which the Russian president has been the object of sacral veneration are also consonant with the Stalin cult. Russian political operative Vladislav Surkov stated that he believed Putin was sent to Russia by God.34 Furthermore, an all-female Russian sect is reported to have worshipped Putin as “the reincarnation of the early Christian missionary Paul the Apostle.”35 Rees’s and Plamper’s definitions of leader cults apply to the Stalin cult that flourished within the PCF, with the party itself functioning as a closed, secular, patricentric society within the broader French body politic. As Annie Kriegel has argued, French Communists constituted “not merely an aggregate or a political organization, but a ‘countersociety’ within France,” which partly replicated the society created by the Bolsheviks.36 While Stalin’s cult of personality in the USSR had its inaugural moment in December 1929 and then took off in mid-1933, the evolution of his personality cult in France followed a different path. Indeed, the lavish, coordinated Soviet tributes for Stalin’s fiftieth birthday had a feeble echo in the Hexagon. L’Humanité, the PCF’s daily newspaper and most prominent propaganda outlet, marked the occasion three days late, with a small front-page photo of the general secretary, offering him limited praise by underscoring his role in the development of the railway sector in the USSR. Over the next few years, PCF media featured praise of Stalin that increasingly echoed Soviet tributes, especially in relation to his status as an excellent leader of the Bolshevik party, the widespread affection for him felt by Soviet citizens, the “dizzying” achievements in agricultural collectivization, the feats of accelerated industrialization, and the overall success of socialism in the USSR.37 Idealized visual depictions of Stalin also began to appear, especially in 1933 and 1934, with the vozhd’ (chief) generally appearing youthful, optimistic, and visionary.38

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Figure 0.1. Portrait of Stalin, published in L’Humanité on December 24, 1929, in honor of his fiftieth birthday. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Introduction

| 11

Figure 0.2. Close-up of Stalin’s 1929 portrait, which was accompanied by praise limited to his work in the railway sector. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France.

It was not until the marking of Stalin’s fifty-fifth birthday, however, that coordinated cult activity of the type previously seen in the Soviet Union appeared in France, across multiple media, including the Barbusse biography (published March 1935) and its various excerpts and promotions thereof in the party press. Indeed, given the importance of leaders’ birthdays in Communist culture and the example of orchestrated cult activity previously set in the USSR, I contend that the broad context of Stalin’s fifty-fifth birthday celebration in late 1934 and in early 1935 marks the beginning of the Stalin cult in France.39 This contention is based on a reading of all issues of L’Humanité and Les Cahiers du bolchévisme (the party’s “theoretical” journal) published between late 1929 and early 1935. For example,

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Figure 0.3. Idealized portrait of Stalin. Published in L’Humanité on January 22, 1934. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France.

on December 21, 1934, the director of L’Humanité and party elder Marcel Cachin published on his newspaper’s front page his article titled “The Head of the Bolshevik Party is 55 Years Old,” with a subheading that blared in bold letters, “Stalin, we are proud to be your disciples!” Such declarations represent a significant departure from the mundane praise proffered to the general secretary in 1929. Over the latter half of the 1930s, the Stalin cult continued to be an important feature of official party media in France as

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well as party-oriented literature. By the end of the decade, it was central to party discourse. Whereas in 1929, the party’s daily newspaper made a tardy announcement for Stalin’s fiftieth birthday—and with no corresponding story in Les Cahiers du bolchévisme—by December 1939, the culture of the PCF had undergone an important change. Indeed, on the occasion of Stalin’s sixtieth birthday, adherence to and promotion of the cult was apparently so crucial that the party paid tribute to Stalin in an underground issue of Les Cahiers du bolchévisme. The issue was published after the PCF and all its publications had been outlawed by the French government in September of that year as a result of the nonaggression pact between Nazi Germany and the USSR and the resulting Soviet invasion of Poland.40 Similar articles and tributes appeared in other underground wartime issues of Les Cahiers, including one titled “Long Live Stalin” from 1940, which praised the general secretary as “the brilliant [génial] leader of the international proletariat” and the man who shows to workers around the world “the path of humanity’s material and spiritual liberation.”41 That issue appeared a few months after the NKVD (the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, a predecessor of the KGB and today’s FSB) executed at Stalin’s directive approximately 20,000 Polish officers, soldiers, and civilians who had been captured by the Red Army (an event known as the Katyn Forest Massacre).42 Cult activity in France would reach an apex in the early Cold War years, especially from 1949 through Stalin’s death in 1953, a period that included a dramatic increase in hero worship for the occasion of the generalissimo’s seventieth birthday in December 1949. While there was a lag in the rise of the Stalin cult in France compared to the USSR, the contours and content of the personality cult in the two countries share striking similarities. This in itself is not surprising, given the PCF’s adherence to Moscow-directed doctrine, as well as state control of Soviet media. Still, it is worth noting that the overall nature of the depiction of Stalin in party-directed and party-oriented media was quite uniform over a long period of time. The portrayals were so consistent that Nikita Khrushchev’s critiques of the cult in his famous “secret speech” of February 1956—a watershed moment in the de-Stalinization process in the USSR— apply as accurately to French cult products from the mid-1930s as they do to those of the 1940s and 1950s. Especially pertinent is Khrushchev’s underscoring of a basic contradiction: the existence of a personality cult in an

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ideological environment that is said to privilege collectivism. He described as against the principles of Marxism-Leninism the elevation of one person above others, “to transform him into a superman possessing supernatural characteristics, akin to those of a god.” He continued, stating, “Such a man supposedly knows everything, sees everything, thinks for everyone, can do anything, is infallible in his behavior.”43 In the French context, the modest praise offered to Stalin in 1929 does not come anywhere near the level of encomium Khrushchev described. However, such descriptions do appear as early as the 1935 Barbusse biography, in which Stalin is described as an omniscient protector of all humanity.44 Nearly fifteen years later, Aragon’s protégé André Stil endowed the Soviet leader with even greater powers. In his short story “The Gift to Stalin,” written for Stalin’s seventieth birthday celebration, Stil articulates the collective thoughts of members of a French Communist cell: “It’s true, we know that we all have a little bit of Stalin deep down inside of us, he watches over us from the inside, smiling and serious, and he gives us confidence. For us Communists, this presence of Stalin inside of us constitutes our consciousness.”45 André Stil would continue producing ultraorthodox Stalinist literary texts, including his Premier choc trilogy (The First Clash, 1951–53), which was deeply critical of the Atlantic tilt of French foreign and domestic policy (NATO, the Marshall Plan, and the American “occupation” of France). Stil’s dedication paid off. The first volume of Le Premier choc earned him the 1952 Stalin Prize for literature. It was a triumphant moment for the French Communist Party. Official party organs, most notably L’Humanité and Les Cahiers du bolchévisme—which was renamed Les Cahiers du communisme in the mid1940s—portrayed Stalin as the beloved and dedicated leader of a country spanning one-sixth of the world’s surface. Stalin is routinely depicted as infallible, clairvoyant, and heroic: he is the guiding light and steward for the worldwide proletariat.46 Central to official depictions of Stalin, especially in the early 1930s, is that he is Lenin’s most loyal and greatest disciple, his counterpart and “continuer.” As such, he is granted a fourth spot in the hallowed intellectual lineage of Marx, Engels, and Lenin. Stalin’s infallibility extends to Soviet policy implemented under his direction. Thus, when he himself is not the object of great praise, Stalinist policy is. This is especially the case with industrialization, the collectivization of agriculture, the construction

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of large-scale infrastructure, increased militarization, and achievements in Soviet science. Furthermore, the USSR itself is depicted as a utopia, a land where children are happy, where men and women are equal and have found renewal and a dedicated purpose in collective living. It is a land of plenty, of striking modernity, of great ambition. That image of the USSR is frequently placed in juxtaposition with descriptions of the capitalist world, which is characterized by war, poverty, unemployment, and perpetual crisis. Such descriptions involved grotesque misrepresentations of reality. For instance, in June 1932, when the Great Famine—which eventually claimed the lives of an estimated five to ten million Soviet citizens—had already begun, L’Humanité touted “constant progress” in agriculture in the USSR, the “country without crises.”47 The PCF also embraced Leninist notions of revolutionary violence, supporting the purging—via imprisonment, exile, or execution—of saboteurs, wreckers, kulaks (relatively wealthy peasants), exploiters, and other “enemies of the people” accused of undermining the conquests of the revolution.48 Such are the basic contours of a leader cult that was continually updated for world events, including dramatic reversals in Soviet foreign policy, like the USSR’s diplomatic engagement with the West in the mid-1930s and its about-face in relations with Nazi Germany in August 1939, which came after years of pronounced vilification of Hitler and National Socialism in the party press. The writers explored in this study were integral to the promotion of this personality cult and the Soviet foreign policy to which it was linked. When that policy shifted toward Western engagement, PCF discourse underwent a noteworthy change: the party began to embrace a distinct form of internationalist patriotism and, along with it, a particular sense of the French nation. Certain Ideas of Fr ance

Whereas the cult of Napoleon III can be characterized as the first modern personality cult, his is not the French leader cult that most closely resembles that around Stalin. That distinction goes to the cult of personality around Maréchal Philippe Pétain in his capacity as the head of state of Vichy France from 1940 to 1944. At the origin of that cult was the massive popular enthusiasm for Pétain resulting from the ending of combat with the Nazis via armistice, several weeks after they had invaded France in May 1940. From

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the moment of his ascension, Pétain represented state power. In his speech of June 17, 1940, Pétain famously said that he was giving to France the “gift” of his “person” (le don de ma personne) to alleviate the nation’s suffering. The authoritarian Vichy regime that rose in place of the defunct Third Republic cultivated that highly personalized expression of power, which helped legitimize the new French state and its actions. The Pétain cult of personality used as its basis not simply the maréchal’s role in ending combat between France and Germany, but also his military history as a soldier and as the hero of Verdun.49 A set of symbols came to represent Pétain as the head of Vichy France, especially the seven stars worn by the maréchal and the francisque, a two-headed axe in the style of an ancient weapon—bearing the blue, white, and red of the French flag. The seven stars and the francisque frequently appeared in propaganda posters and images. Furthermore, Pétain’s image was omnipresent. The Vichy regime set up a department to create Art Maréchal: portraits of Pétain were produced on an industrial scale and were placed on a host of goods, including postcards, calendars, plates, ashtrays, vases, and so on.50 Pétain’s connection with the people was emphasized in Vichy propaganda, which underscored the large crowds that welcomed him as he traveled to some fifty cities in the nonoccupied zone from 1940 to 1942. Pétain himself furthermore represented national continuity, but of a very distinct kind.51 “Follow me,” he told French citizens in October 1940, just days after his infamous handshake with Hitler in Montoire. “Maintain your confidence in eternal France.”52 For Pétain, that eternal France, like a “giant of myth,” would “recover her full strength by reestablishing contact with the soil.”53 Like other personality cult heroes, Pétain was depicted as a savior in a variety of media, including posters, literature, painting, and even music. The maréchal was portrayed as a messianic figure who would return France to its supposed roots—an ethnically pure nation, rescued from the corrupting forces of cosmopolitanism, individualism, and modernity. Within the context of its “National Revolution,” the Vichy regime promoted its vision of a regenerated French nation, based on discipline, order, and youth. The regime replaced the soaring, aspirational triad—“Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité”—with the notorious “Work, Family, Fatherland,” a slogan tied to daily life, reactionary traditionalism, and duty (as opposed to rights).54 The regime’s emphasis on rootedness underscored a belief in what it deemed

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“natural” communities: the family, the commune, the workplace, and the region.55 In this new worldview, the nation became the supreme community.56 Oddly, however much Vichy rejected fundamental republican values and forms of governance, the regime nonetheless—as the francisque would indicate—embraced some of its symbols and traditions, like the tricolored flag, Bastille Day, and “La Marseillaise.” Vichy also celebrated Joan of Arc, France’s prototypical nationalist heroine. As was the case with Vichy, the idea of the nation was central to setting the ideological tenor of the PCF. In its early years, while still adopting certain French intellectual traditions, especially the Zola mold of political engagement, the party was largely antinationalist. In keeping with that worldview, from the mid-1920s through the early 1930s, the party was critical of the legacy of the French Revolution, which it, in the main, interpreted as having benefited the bourgeoisie at the expense of the proletariat. The PCF furthermore adopted strident positions against the French government, like its stance against France’s role in the Rif War in Morocco in 1925. But in the mid1930s, Soviet foreign policy began to change in favor of openness toward the West, which led to the PCF’s 1934 policy of unity with the leadership of the socialist party and the Franco-Soviet mutual assistance pact of 1935.57 Concurrently, the party began to cultivate and promote a distinct form of patriotism, one that would retain its basic shape even beyond the Stalinist era.58 This effort to Gallicize the PCF—which had previously been much more centered on the USSR and international Communism—was done in accord with counsel from Soviet authorities, and it mimicked Stalin’s own emphasis in the USSR on traditional nationalism and defense of the Russian fatherland.59 Maurice Thorez, as party leader, was the main promoter of the PCF’s new patriotic discourse. Thorez was integral to the PCF’s transformation from a small, sectarian force in French domestic politics in the late 1920s and early 1930s into a party with far broader national appeal that became the pride of the Comintern by the mid-1930s.60 Thorez became intimately associated with his slogan stressing national unity (“Unir, Unir, Unir”), as well as what Kriegel aptly dubbed “National-Thorezism,” denoting his distinct understanding of nationalist pride and the role of the PCF in preserving the “true” France.61 It has, of course, long been established that history and memory play central roles in the formation of a nation’s identity.62 The same can be said for

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the ways in which the PCF constructed, within party discourse, its sense of French nationhood and citizenship. In the classic 1882 text “What is a Nation?” Ernest Renan argues that a nation depends on a “rich legacy of memories” as well as “the present-day consent, the desire to live together, the will to perpetuate the value of the heritage that one has received in an undivided form.”63 He continues, asserting that great men and glories (past, present, and future) serve to unite a people. This large-scale, socially constructed solidarity is comprised in part by the “feeling of the sacrifices one has made in the past and of those that one is prepared to make in the future.”64 Renan’s essay describes with uncanny accuracy the ways in which the PCF would attempt to construct its idea of the French nation. In the era of the Front Populaire and beyond, the party began espousing a certain sense of patriotism that was shaped by an evolving understanding of French history. The PCF often adopted and appropriated historical symbols, figures, and narratives that served its contemporary political purposes and helped to shape its ethos as a countersociety. Many of the lieux de mémoire embraced by the party were sites of contestation, as they had also helped shape the identities of French governmental regimes, including the Third Republic, Vichy, and Charles de Gaulle’s government-in-exile.65 The party’s overall effort to adopt a specific ideal of Frenchness in the Front Populaire era had a lasting impact on the basic tone of Thorez’s speeches and reports, in which he praised the beauty of French national space, as well as the country’s agricultural and industrial productivity, its vibrant culture, and its rich political and intellectual history.66 The attempt to connect the PCF to a certain idea of France was reinforced by a host of prominent party figures. As Paul Vaillant-Couturier, one of the party’s founders, wrote in the build up to the celebration of Bastille Day in 1936: “Our Party . . . necessarily represents a moment in eternal France.” He continued, stating, “We are ready to guarantee not the ‘resurrection’ but rather the continuity of France.”67 Over the course of the 1930s and 1940s, this patriotic ideal became so central to Thorez’s worldview that the PCF produced a collection of his reports in a volume titled Une politique de grandeur française (1945), a deliberate echo of Charles de Gaulle’s rhetoric around the grandeur of the French nation.68 And by the mid-1940s the PCF commonly used the term “patrie” in relation to France (as opposed to the USSR, previously their “true” fatherland).69 The Thorezian worldview not only came to dominate

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party media (the press, journals, film, pamphlets), but it also helped shape the work of party-affiliated intellectuals across multiple genres and forms. The party’s instrumentalization of patriotism places it alongside Pétainism and Gaullism as among the most prominent mid-twentieth-century visions of an idealized, eternal France. For all of his emphasis on the grandeur of the French nation, a specific form of Stalinist internationalism shaped and provided a broader context for Thorez’s vision. This can be linked not only to Thorez’s loyalty to and admiration for the Soviet Union, but also to the lack of freedom of movement offered by Moscow to the PCF general secretary. Thorez, for instance, was forbidden by the Comintern from joining Léon Blum’s Front Populaire government in 1936.70 Thus, unlike in Gaullist discourse, the PCF’s view of the greatness of France—its bountiful natural resources, its strong labor force, its rich cultural patrimoine (heritage)—was often juxtaposed with praise for the Soviet Union, its leaders, and its role in shaping politics around the globe. And in contrast with the Pétainist vision, in which the French nation was the supreme community, the French nation in the PCF’s worldview existed in a broader Communist international context. Furthermore, Thorez’s praise of French agricultural and industrial productivity is a noteworthy domestication of Soviet discourse around the Five-Year Plans. If, in the Pétainist mind-set, the soil had magical powers of regeneration by virtue of its Frenchness, in the PCF worldview, that soil would need to be cultivated by a laborer under the watchful eye of Stalin.71 The PCF also domesticated the siege mentality, Manichaeism, and paranoia that flourished in Bolshevik circles. Integral to this mind-set was the notion of “enemies of the people,” a label attached to any group or person deemed counterrevolutionary, as seen above. Lenin adopted the term from the Jacobins, and the mode of thinking was reimported to France by the PCF. As Robespierre wrote, for example, in a December 1793 report, “The revolutionary government owes good citizens full national protection; it owes nothing but death to the enemies of the people.”72 The PCF, consequently, had an evolving set of enemies that it attacked with vigor and relish. Depending on the era, these enemies included the bourgeoisie, socialdemocrats—whom they referred to as “social-fascists” before the Front Populaire era—and Trotskyists. In the Cold War context of the late 1940s and early 1950s, the United States assumed in party discourse the role of the

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hated imperialist “fascist” power, in the place once held by Mussolini’s Italy and Nazi Germany. Moreover, examples abound of prominent individuals targeted by the party. Boris Souvarine, the author of the motion to adhere to the Third International at the Congrès de Tours in 1920—marking the founding moment of the PCF—was ousted from the party in July 1924 after having criticized and deviated from the party’s increasingly rigid orthodoxy. Souvarine not only lambasted the deification of Lenin and the ossification of the party’s ideology, but he was also the sole person who came to the defense of Trotsky at the Thirteenth Bolshevik Party Congress in Moscow.73 A perhaps better-known example would be André Gide, who, after supporting the party and the USSR for several years, published Retour de l’URSS (Return from the USSR), his testimonial travelogue based on his voyage to the Soviet Union in the summer of 1936. Gide, whose Caves du Vatican was once serialized in L’Humanité, was vilified in the party press and affiliated publications for having criticized the deep flaws in the Soviet system, including Stalin’s cult of personality.74 This practice of demonizing individuals continued into the Cold War era. In 1949, for example, David Rousset (a survivor of Nazi camps and the author of L’Univers concentrationnaire [The Other Kingdom]) initiated a campaign critical of the Gulag and political repression in the USSR. For that, he was attacked in the party press, especially Les Lettres françaises, in which Pierre Daix accused him of lying and being a tool of the United States. Rousset won a defamation lawsuit against that publication, a once-noteworthy clandestine resistance organ that turned Stalinist in the postwar period.75 If, as Philippe Burrin has argued, Vichy is the memory regime par excellence, then the PCF during the era of “National-Thorezism” was the memory party par excellence.76 Indeed, under Thorez’s leadership, the party calibrated and promoted a sense of French history that was consonant with Bolshevik ideology. The PCF’s partisan take on French history emphasized a progressivist tradition, and this sense of history became fundamental to its identity. Across party media, the PCF underscored moments and figures in French history that would be familiar to a broad public but that were, at the same time, carefully selected and artfully depicted to conform to and bolster the party’s image as the true heir of republican or revolutionary values. The party was thus guided by an evolving form of collective memory that was shaped by contemporary political concerns. In this retelling of the history

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of France, the PCF had two primary points of emphasis, both of which had been also embraced by the Bolsheviks. In promoting these points of emphasis, the PCF was—as they were with the Jacobinist-Leninist demonization of their enemies—aping and reimporting to France a Soviet interpretation of French history. The PCF’s first and most longstanding major point of emphasis was the Paris Commune of 1871. Indeed, the party directly associated itself with the Communards—the members and supporters of a municipal, progressive government independent of the state and created in the wake of the Franco-Prussian War. The Commune is a moment in French history that, as Marie-Claire Lavabre argues, is part of the national heritage as well as that of the proletariat.77 Commemorating and celebrating it were therefore quite natural for the PCF before, during, and after the Front Populaire era. For instance, in a 1946 propaganda film titled Nous continuons la France, the party praised the Commune as the first instance in history that the proletariat had taken hold of the levers of political power and, however briefly, of the destiny of the fatherland.78 Very shortly after their independent, local government was established, the Communards were attacked by the forces of the recently formed National Assembly, based in Versailles, which sought to crush them. The Communards met that effort with intense armed resistance but were ultimately subject to brutal repression by the Versaillais, culminating in the Semaine sanglante—the Bloody Week of May 21–28—the biggest massacre in Europe in the nineteenth century, with many thousands of deaths.79 Le Mur des Fédérés inside the Père-Lachaise cemetery—where many Communards were gunned down—became a lieu de mémoire serving to recognize victims of the Versaillais.80 Named in honor of the National Guard battalions loyal to the Commune, that wall became a focal point for the PCF, which used the site as a meeting point for demonstrations and rallies.81 The party routinely described the October Revolution of 1917 as the successor of the Paris Commune, sometimes arguing that the Bolshevik revolution avenged its destruction. It is moreover worth pointing out that the Commune was of great symbolic importance in the USSR: an authentic red flag of the Communards was solemnly presented to Soviet authorities by French Communists in July 1924, and it was placed as a memento in the tomb of the embalmed Lenin.82

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Whereas the Commune was consistently the subject of commemorative efforts throughout the 1920s and 1930s and beyond, the 1789 revolution—the party’s second major point of reference during the Thorez era—followed a less linear path. Although embraced by partisans of the Third International and party-affiliated historians in the very early 1920s, from 1923 to 1934, the legacy of the revolution was viewed as overwhelmingly in favor of the bourgeoisie.83 During the Front Populaire era, however, the 1789 revolution became integral to the party’s collective memory and identity.84 The PCF began to champion the broader principles of the revolution, while using discrete episodes in revolutionary history as illustrative of contemporary French politics and society. One noteworthy symbolic change in the era of the Front Populaire was the party’s integration of Bastille Day—a holiday that it had previously shunned or criticized as bourgeois, shallow, or bereft of its real populist meaning—into its regular repertoire of anniversaries, what I call its “culture of commemoration” (which I will explore in greater detail below). That transformation of the role of Bastille Day serves as an example of the party’s broader appropriation of republican and revolutionary symbols, imagery, values, and figures, which were recast in a long historical arc leading to the liberation of the proletariat.85 Similarly, as the adoption of the concept of “enemies of the people” indicates, the PCF situated itself in the lineage of the Jacobins, whom they portrayed not just as the vanquishers of the nation’s enemies, but also as patriots and unifiers. As stated in Thorez’s report to the eighth party congress in 1936, “We are the heirs of the revolutionary audacity and energy of the Jacobins who gave to France and the world the best examples of democratic revolution.”86 He then segued to a quote that he would cite again at the party’s ninth congress the following year: “Lenin often said: ‘Bolsheviks are the Jacobins of the proletarian revolution.’”87 In this view, the PCF not only legitimizes itself through a broadly familiar historical narrative, but it also sets itself up as the upholder of a political process that would result in the establishment of the dictatorship of the proletariat in France.88 This use of revolutionary figures, symbols, and traditions continued into the postwar period, albeit with less intensity and with some new calibrations for the Cold War context.89 Bastille Day, for instance, was used as a means of calling for national unity and peace, in the face of what the party decried as rampant American imperialism and aggression.90

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After the Liberation, the party incorporated the Second World War into its revisionist historical narrative. Depending on the iteration of World War II history, the party gave primacy either to Stalin (as the world’s primary enemy of fascism, as seen earlier) or to French Communist resistance fighters. Jacques Duclos, who for many years was second only to Thorez in the party hierarchy, articulated the party’s view of their underground struggle: “Without Communists, there would not have been the victorious national insurrection that gave back to France the prestige of a great nation unswervingly dedicated to liberty.”91 The PCF promoted itself as the party of “75,000 fusillés,” in recognition of Communist militants killed during the war, even though that figure was grossly exaggerated.92 Whether the emphasis is on Stalin or Communist insurgents, the party’s official version of World War II history minimizes the work of Anglo-American allies, as well as the Gaullist resistance. Furthermore, the PCF’s narratives of the war consistently either elide or rationalize the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of 1939. That is not surprising, as the party’s support for the pact represented one of the low points in its history: it resulted in justified accusations of betrayal by many within the party orbit and a sharp decline in party membership. After the war, the party used the pact episode as a litmus test for loyalty. In biographical information forms from the immediate postwar period, the party asked its militants, “What was your position at the moment of the German-Soviet treaty?”93 A particular kind of memory of the war was therefore required of those who were affiliated with the party. A Cultur e of Commemor ation

The Thorezian vision of history came with a cast of characters who, like prominent historical events, were selected and depicted in ways that resonated with contemporary political concerns. This selection and lionization of heroes is reminiscent of successful practices used by early leaders of the Third Republic, who embraced, in Venita Datta’s terms, a “cult of heroes” that included Joan of Arc and Victor Hugo.94 The PCF adopted its own set of local heroes in pursuit of legitimacy and support for the USSR’s foreign policy. These included the Jacobin martyrs Saint-Just and Robespierre and the veteran Communard and PCF member Zéphirin Camélinat, who was acclaimed and memorialized in L’Humanité upon his death in 1932. Moreover, the party claimed the memory of assassinated socialist leader Jean

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Jaurès, whose legacy was a site of contestation between Communists and the socialist party. Like Vichy and Third Republic leaders, party officials reached as far back as Joan of Arc, whom they extolled as a “popular heroine” and as the self-sacrificing savior of France who bravely faced English occupiers.95 In 1946, for example, the party’s praise of Joan as a liberator of France served to criticize both the English and the Nazis simultaneously. Also in the post–World War II era, the PCF linked Joan as a savior and martyr to Danielle Casanova, a Communist militant and active resistance member who died of typhus at Auschwitz in 1943. In April 1949, L’Humanité, for instance, ran a feature on the two women titled “Jeanne and Danielle: National Independence Heroines,” in which they were praised for their struggle against foreign invaders and their “shared immense love of the fatherland.”96 It is likely that the party’s embrace of Joan of Arc in the postwar period was an attempt to reappropriate her not just from Vichy, but also from de Gaulle, given the fact that her symbol, the Lorraine cross, had been adopted by the Gaullist resistance. The promotion of this set of Communist heroes—which included French intellectuals, especially Zola, Hugo, Barbusse, and Rolland—through anniversaries and birthdays was but one form of celebration and commemoration in which the party engaged quite regularly. Indeed, as we will see in the following chapters, a hallmark of the PCF during the Stalinist period was its culture of commemoration. In the years of Stalin’s rule, the marking of milestones and anniversaries on a distinct party calendar played an important role in the enforcement of loyalty, the dissemination of current doctrine, and the promotion of its particular vision of history.97 Many of these events on this calendar would be recognizable to an international audience, including anniversaries marking Lenin’s birth and death, the October Revolution, the date the Soviets took Berlin, or the creation of the People’s Republic of China. The PCF even marked the anniversaries of the publication of books deemed important to the party catechism, like the twenty-fifth anniversary of Stalin’s 1924 Des principes du Léninisme (Foundations of Leninism). That book, lauded as “a classic work by Stalin,” represented an integral characteristic of his personality cult: Stalin as a genius of Marxism worthy of being Lenin’s successor.98 The party’s culture of commemoration also served to place PCF leaders within a broader pantheon of Communist heroes, intellectual, political,

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industrial, and otherwise. Marcel Cachin and Maurice Thorez, for instance, were praised alongside Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin.99 Cachin had a minor cult of personality built around his status as a founding member of the party and longtime director of L’Humanité. Thorez, for his part, was the object of a full-blown Stalin-style cult of personality, which began to take shape in 1936 and 1937.100 The parallels between Stalin’s and Thorez’s cults of personality are but one indicator that the French general secretary represented an extension of Stalin’s power, albeit in a Gallicized format, from the mid-1930s on.101 Central to the Thorez cult was his (ghostwritten) autobiography titled Fils du peuple (Son of the People), which was originally published in 1937 and rereleased in updated editions that accounted for shifts in the party line and world events. Changes included—in true Stalinist fashion— the retouching of photographs to eliminate individuals who had fallen out of the party’s favor.102 Upon its initial publication, Thorez’s autobiography was the subject of massive coordinated promotional efforts in party periodicals, on the radio, and even via the cinema. The party produced a short film (bearing the book’s title) that depicts Thorez as a hardworking family man, dedicated to the cause of the ordinary laborer, and widely appreciated by the masses.103 The impressive sales figures of the 1937 edition of Fils du peuple (150,000 copies were reportedly sold) were dwarfed by those of the 1949 edition, which appeared when the Thorez cult was in full bloom. Indeed, Thorez is said to have signed and dedicated about 150,000 of the 414,000 copies sold of that latter edition.104 In 1950, the party celebrated in grand fashion Thorez’s fiftieth birthday. That celebration followed by only a few months the massive festivities for Stalin’s seventieth birthday, which the Thorez fête mimicked in coordination, tenor, and style—complete with intense publicity in the party press and a large public exhibition displaying gifts, paintings, and tributes in his honor.105 Promotional efforts also included the printing of approximately 40,000 posters, 200,000 invitations, and 50,000 cards—all picturing Thorez.106 Within international party circles, Thorez’s reputation remained intact into the period of de-Stalinization. In July 1964, for instance, the Ukrainian mining town of Chystyakove was renamed Torez, a gesture that kept with the longstanding Soviet tradition of naming sites after prominent party figures. The choice of town reflected the centrality of mining to Thorez’s persona, as underscored in Fils du peuple, whose incipit

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reads, “Since both my father and grandfather were miners, all my most distant memories recall the hard life of a worker.”107 In 2016, however, on the recommendation of the Ukrainian Institute of National Memory, the name change was reversed, as part of a broader effort to condemn the country’s totalitarian past.108 Writers, Propaganda, and the Party Media

The PCF freely used the term “propaganda” to refer to information it disseminated to promote and advance the cause of international Communism. This was in keeping with Bolshevik practices that predated the creation of the PCF. Indeed, the very first of the twenty-one conditions to which socialists in various countries had to agree in order to join the Third International begins as follows: “Day-by-day propaganda and agitation must be genuinely Communist in character.”109 Propaganda in Stalinist-era France was disseminated in a host of media and forms, including newspapers, magazines, journals, pamphlets, short films, feature-length films, plays, novels, short stories, and poetry. Given the importance of propaganda to the party, it is not surprising that the PCF enthusiastically embraced the participation of writers in its cause. Moreover, reading, writing, and crucially, literature were simply part of Communist culture. Literature helped shape the worldviews of the party’s leading figures, including Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin. Engels, for instance, stated that Balzac presented in La Comédie humaine “a complete history of French Society from which, even in economical details . . . I have learned more than from all the other professed historians, economists and statisticians of the period together.”110 In a questionnaire published by Barbusse’s weekly magazine Monde, Lenin—an avid reader who knew Barbusse’s work—listed “writer” under the category of “principal jobs before 1917.”111 Stalin had an enduring fascination with literature, theater, and cinema. In his youth, long before he had adopted the pseudonym “Stalin” (signifying “Man of Steel”), Josef Vissarionovich Djugashvili wrote poetry: his work, written in verse in his native Georgian, was published when he was still a teenager and in 1916 was included in a prominent anthology.112 When enrolled in seminary as a young man, he repeatedly violated the institution’s strict rules by reading contraband texts. He was especially fond of Victor Hugo’s Quatrevingt-treize (NinetyThree), which he was sent to the school’s punishment cell for reading. There,

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he was again caught with a Hugo text—Les Travailleurs de la mer (Toilers of the Sea)—which was confiscated by a school inspector. Stalin in his youth was also fond of Zola, Maupassant, Balzac, Gogol, and Chekhov.113 His admiration for at least some of those writers appears to have endured: in 1952, the Soviet Union commemorated, in characteristically grandiose fashion, Hugo’s 150th birthday as well as the 100th anniversary of Gogol’s death. Like Lenin and Stalin, Thorez prized writers and intellectuals. Thorez held French intellectual history in high regard, especially the Encyclopedists, whom he praised for having laid the foundation for 1789, “the great Revolution.”114 In 1936, he lamented the decline of classical French letters alongside the rise of detective novels and pornographic literature, a phenomenon that was accelerated, he argued, by the mainstream press. “In the country of Rabelais, Corneille, Racine, Molière, Voltaire, Beaumarchais, Flaubert, Balzac and Emile Zola,” Thorez stated, “the decadence is frightening.”115 Intellectuals, in Thorez’s view, were the custodians of France’s cultural heritage, and under his direction, they were granted privileged roles in party congresses, rallies, and demonstrations. In his reports and speeches, Thorez routinely praised writers and intellectuals as a group, as well as specific individuals (especially Barbusse, Rolland, and Aragon). Intellectuals conferred prestige and legitimacy upon the party, and the party, in turn—especially as it gained national and international prominence—gave intellectuals a platform and publicity. Furthermore, the writers explored in this study were not simply creatures of the PCF— something that can be said, for instance, of Stalin Prize–winner André Stil or Jean Fréville, the ghostwriter of Thorez’s autobiography. The four writers studied in Generation Stalin were celebrated during their careers (both in and outside the party), and some are still venerated or deemed canonical. Henri Barbusse and Romain Rolland were central to French intellectual life from the 1910s through the 1930s and are widely considered foundational figures for the modern French left. Barbusse, as mentioned, won the Prix Goncourt in 1916 for Le Feu, and Rolland was the recipient of the 1915 Nobel Prize in literature. Eluard was not only one of the founding members of the surrealist movement, but he has also been recognized around the world for his stunning 1942 ode to freedom, “Liberté.” Aragon—also a famous name in French surrealism and poetry in general—was a major literary and cultural figure who worked to fuse poetics and politics for the larger part of the

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twentieth century. One of the goals of this study is to recalibrate received ideas about these writers’ legacies, such that their Stalinist phases are properly taken into account. Naturally, writers made their most enduring mark on party life through their participation in the PCF mediasphere, a term that I use to denote the many outlets controlled by or affiliated with the party. Each of the writers explored in Generation Stalin worked in party-affiliated media or publishing and, moreover, frequently contributed articles, features, and, in some cases, poetry across a broad spectrum of the PCF press. And when not directly contributing to party-controlled or affiliated periodicals, they and their work were often the subject of interviews, congratulatory feature articles, and reviews written by a large stable of party journalists. Each of the following chapters analyzes these writers’ works within the context of this broader mediasphere. These analyses reveal that there was a constant cycle of reciprocal promotion of ideas in the party press and in the fiction and nonfiction produced by party-allied authors. The PCF universe was a highly insular one, wherein ideas and policies promoted in one publication found support and legitimation in others. Evolving trends in this parochial echo chamber are therefore traceable across novels, biographies, pamphlets, newspapers, films, and so on. The title of the present study, Generation Stalin, is a play on a remark made by Aragon within the party echo chamber. In a glowing June 1935 review of Henri Barbusse’s Staline, Aragon wrote, “As there once was the generation of Le Feu, they will say, one day, that there was the generation of Staline.”116 That review, titled “Staline a raison” (Stalin is right), was published in Monde, the Barbusse-directed party-aligned weekly focused on culture, science, and current events. Staline was also promoted in L’Humanité, where Barbusse once worked as literary and scientific director, and where Aragon had worked as an editor. Staline was furthermore promoted in Commune, the monthly party-line journal where, in early 1935, Barbusse and Rolland served on the board of directors and where Aragon was an editor. Monde was so bound up in Barbusse’s career and minor cult of personality that it folded not even two months after he died in Moscow in August 1935. It was thus that authors’ work and ideas were circulated, promoted, and legitimized in the party mediasphere. As is clear from the above example, and as we will see in the chapters that follow, the writers explored here

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were deeply involved in party intellectual life and media. Before working at L’Humanité and then founding and directing Monde, Barbusse served as director of Clarté, a magazine closely linked with the Third International that would later, after Barbusse’s departure, become Trotskyist. For his part, Rolland was instrumental in the founding of Europe, a review whose perspective (like that of Rolland) evolved from independent internationalism into fellow-traveling support of the USSR. Aragon, in addition to his roles at L’Humanité and Commune, was chosen by Thorez to work as coeditor of Ce Soir, a nominally independent newspaper that supported the PCF’s worldview. After the Second World War, Aragon served (after the Rousset episode) as the editor-in-chief of Les Lettres françaises, which followed the PCF line and was supported by Eastern bloc funds. While Eluard held no official editorial positions in the PCF media, he played an important role in partyoriented clandestine publishing during the Nazi occupation of France. In the following chapters, I read works by each of these writers as part of the PCF’s overall propaganda campaign. Indeed, the primary works analyzed in Generation Stalin are characterized by a host of narrative techniques that allow for treatment thereof as propaganda. Some of those techniques are as follows: the inclusion of false and highly questionable information that is favorable to the subject; the careful balance of truth and fiction, such that there is often some element of credibility to what is recounted; the use of polarized language (hyperbole, superlatives, absolutes); a reliance on slogans; an abundance of repetition; the practice of demonizing or insulting those deemed enemies; and the inclusion of details that seek to inflame the emotions of the reader or spectator. The specifically French Stalinist content of each of these works becomes apparent once explored within the context of the broader, evolving ideological trends in the PCF.117 Chapter Overview

The first chapter of Generation Stalin represents the most comprehensive treatment to date of Joseph Stalin’s first official biography, Henri Barbusse’s Staline: Un monde nouveau vu à travers un homme (1935). In exploring the text’s origins, this study shows, through archival and historical research, how Staline was informed and influenced by input from Soviet authorities. This chapter argues that the biography is a foundational document for the Stalin cult, including in the USSR. This study contains close textual analysis

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that explores Barbusse’s attempt to depict Stalin as a superhuman, endowed with mythical powers and godlike characteristics. Those same superhuman characteristics, as well as the basic narrative arc of Barbusse’s text, would be recycled and updated in future official biographies and biographical statements on the vozhd’. This chapter also shows that there is a paradoxical side to the legacy of Staline. For despite lasting discursive influence within the Stalin cult, Barbusse’s biography itself would have a limited legacy in the USSR. Furthermore, I argue that the text would become quickly dated in relation to rapidly evolving Comintern doctrine. In order to set the stage for my analysis of Staline, I explore in detail Barbusse’s steadily deepening involvement in the party-oriented and party-aligned mediasphere over the course of the 1920s and early 1930s. As we will see, an element central to Barbusse’s worldview was his tendency to embrace figureheads, prominent spiritual and religious leaders, and strong political figures—a diverse lot including Woodrow Wilson, Lenin, Jesus of Nazareth, Gandhi, and, in the last phase of his life, Stalin. This first chapter, which reshapes conventional wisdom around Barbusse’s overall career, is informed by a vast array of sources, including French and Russian archival documents, PCF periodicals, the most recent historical and biographical research on Stalin, and unofficial biographies of the general secretary from the 1930s. Chapter 2 focuses on the work of Romain Rolland. This chapter traces Rolland’s intellectual trajectory from World War I pacifism through his embrace of Stalinism and his promotion of the cult of personality. Although Romain Rolland remained a fellow traveler, his activity for most of the 1930s was largely indistinguishable from that of intellectuals who were members of the PCF. This study focuses in particular on Robespierre (1939), his play depicting the final three months of the life of “the Incorruptible,” as the highly controversial and polarizing revolutionary figure is known. This chapter situates the play within the cultural and political context in which it was written, published, performed, and received. Central to that context is the 1939 celebration of the 150th anniversary of the French Revolution, a national commemoration that was embraced and appropriated by the PCF. Part of that appropriation was the promotion of a specific vision of French revolutionary history, one that argued for the rehabilitation of Robespierre—in response to significant branches of historiography that depicted him as a tyrant and dictatorial leader of the Terror of 1793–94.

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Rolland’s play was consonant with party efforts to recast Robespierre as a figure dedicated—whatever the sacrifices or the means—to the success of the revolution and the happiness of the French people. This chapter argues that the rehabilitation of Robespierre had a specific resonance for the contemporary political context of the late 1930s. Indeed, I contend that Robespierre is an allegorical manifestation of the cult of personality, with the Terror of the 1790s serving to justify the Moscow purges of the 1930s and with Robespierre serving as a stand-in for Stalin. Chapter 3 of Generation Stalin moves into the Cold War period, exploring how the PCF celebrated Stalin’s seventieth birthday in 1949, with particular emphasis on the short film produced for the celebration, L’Homme que nous aimons le plus. The film is typical of Stalinist propaganda produced and disseminated in France in the Cominform era. Written and narrated by Paul Eluard, it is emblematic of the poet’s party-aligned work in the final five years of his life. The film promotes the Soviet Union as a worker’s paradise of peace and prosperity. Above all, it praises Stalin as a genius in all fields and as a leader and savior for the French people. In addition to close study of the film and Eluard’s overall political trajectory, this chapter provides a treatment of the special place Stalin’s birthday holds in the creation and perpetuation of his cult of personality. This chapter explores coverage of the event throughout the party mediasphere (promotion thereof began three months before the December 21, 1949 celebration). The analysis covers reportage, essays, pamphlets, short stories, poetry, and gifts given to Stalin. In analyzing this film and the cultural context in which it was produced, distributed, and received, this chapter argues that L’Homme que nous aimons le plus shows how French contributions to the Stalin personality cult appropriate French traditions of social justice and revolution in the service of worldwide Communism and, more particularly, Stalin’s consolidation of power. This chapter represents the most comprehensive study to date of L’Homme que nous aimons le plus, an important (and surprisingly overlooked) artifact from the early Cold War era. Chapter 4 of Generation Stalin focuses on the work of Louis Aragon, who was central to party intellectual life for most of the Stalinist era. This chapter explores how the discourse Aragon adopted in the early 1930s and employed through the early to mid-1950s shows deep dedication to the Soviet Union, Stalin, and the various Communist leadership cults, as well as often strict

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conformity to the positions advocated by the party during the Comintern and Cominform eras. This chapter analyzes those tendencies in Aragon’s work through a treatment of his multivolume historical novel, Les Communistes. First published between 1949 and 1951 and then revised for rerelease in 1966, Les Communistes is Aragon’s most ambitious novel. His original goal with the text was to craft a grassroots epic history of the Second World War, treating the years 1939 through 1945. Aragon abandoned the project after covering the period from February 1939 through June 1940. Despite being unfinished, Les Communistes is more than two thousand pages long in some editions. It therefore constitutes a highly detailed telling of those seventeen months through portrayal of the experiences of its diverse cast of about two hundred characters (including soldiers, factory workers, politicians, Communist activists, right-wing conspirators, and ordinary citizens). The changes Aragon made for the 1966 edition of Les Communistes add to the literary and political importance of the text, for they underscore differences in PCF discourse in two eras: the height of Stalinism in the late 1940s and early 1950s, and after de-Stalinization. This chapter argues that Les Communistes uses World War II to teach specific lessons to readers about the presentday context of the early Cold War era. This analysis furthermore illustrates how Aragon promotes the cult of personality and how he justifies key elements of Stalinist wartime policy, including the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact and the unprovoked Soviet invasion of Finland. Finally, this chapter argues that Aragon’s reworked 1966 version of the novel constitutes a repentance of sorts for his embrace of Stalinism during the Cominform era. Generation Stalin represents an attempt to come to terms with the most pivotal decades of what has been called the Soviet Century. This exploration of Stalinism in France aims to fill a void in literary and cultural scholarship that becomes all the more apparent when seen in comparison to the scholarly research on twentieth-century French intellectuals and the extreme right, a body of work that is impressive in quality and scope. Indeed, critics and scholars, especially since the early 1980s, have explored in great depth the notorious figures on the extreme right in France, particularly those who were Pétainist or collaborationist, as well as their intellectual antecedents—groups that include Charles Maurras, Maurice Barrès, Pierre Drieu la Rochelle, Henry de Montherlant, Alphonse de Châteaubriant, Robert Brasillach, René Barjavel, and, perhaps most notoriously, Céline.

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At the same time, since the late 1970s and early 1980s, there has been little new research on intellectuals and the PCF.118 Consequently, scholarship in the fields of literary and cultural studies has not sufficiently taken into account the opening up of archives since the fall of the Soviet Union, a phenomenon that has had a significant impact on the historiography of Stalin’s regime and, to a more limited extent, of the PCF. Generation Stalin is deeply informed by new and recent books on a host of topics, all of which have been transformed by new archival research, including Stalin’s regime, life, and political biography; Soviet cultural outreach; and Franco-Soviet cultural exchange. Moreover, in addition to new and recent historiography, there has been important recent biographical scholarship on Rolland and Aragon, the study of which has sharpened my analysis of their literary work and activity within the Franco-Soviet sphere. Finally, this study has benefited from considerable archival research, both in traditional archives as well as a number of recently digitized archives and collections.119 All of this historical and archival research has informed and enriched Generation Stalin, a study that reshapes our understanding of how French writers supported Stalin, the USSR, and international Communism. Notes 1. Mercanton, L’Homme que nous aimons le plus (version courte), 9:00. Translation is mine. Throughout this book, when published English translations of texts are available and accurate, I use them and indicate pagination for both the original French (first) and the translation (second). Otherwise, translations are my own, and pagination in those cases refers only to the original French. In rare cases, when only an English translation is available, I make note of that. 2. For clarity, I refer to the Communist Party in France as the PCF, including in reference to the era when it was named Section Française de l’Internationale Communiste (SFIC). I translate patrie as “fatherland” based on the etymology in Trésor de la langue française: “Le mot patrie chez les anciens signifiait la terre des pères, terra patria, gé patris.” “Fatherland” is furthermore widely used in translations of “La Marseillaise”: “Arise children of the Fatherland” (“Allons enfants de la Patrie”). 3. See de Gaulle speeches of June 23, 1942; January 30, 1944; and June 6, 1944. 4. See de Gaulle speech of August 25, 1944. 5. This is especially so in the early 1930s. See Knight, “Beria and the Cult,” 750–51. 6. Mercanton, L’Homme que nous aimons le plus (version courte), 8:48. 7. Previous noteworthy scholarship on French intellectuals and Communism includes Caute, Communism; Judt, Past Imperfect; Lottman, Left Bank; VerdèsLeroux, Au Service; Hazareesingh, Intellectuals; Kupferman, Au Pays. On intellectuals

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and Stalinism, including the USSR’s efforts to seduce Westerners, see especially, Stern, Western Intellectuals; David-Fox “Rolland” and Showcasing; Cœuré, Grande Lueur; Cœuré and Mazuy, Cousu de Fil rouge; Margulies, Pilgrimage; Birchall, Sartre; Hollander, Political Pilgrims. 8. The Front Populaire era, which I will discuss in greater detail below, can be interpreted, in a broad sense (taking into account PCF maneuvers as well as Comintern policy), as the years 1934 through 1939. The coalition governed from 1936 to 1938. 9. This group includes, among others, Georges Sadoul, André Wurmser, JeanRichard Bloch, Jean Fréville, Jean Kanapa, Pierre Daix, André Stil, Fernand Grenier, André Fougeron, Maurice Thorez, Jacques Duclos, Marcel Cachin, and Paul VaillantCouturier. Although the party regularly professed to be in favor of equal rights for women and men (especially in the post–World War II era), women were granted a significantly reduced role in the party mediasphere and the upper echelons of party politics. The two women with the most prominent political or intellectual roles within the party orbit during the Stalinist era were Jeannette Vermeersch, the party activist and politician (and the wife of Maurice Thorez), and Elsa Triolet, the Russian émigrée and writer (and Aragon’s wife). 10. Malia, “Uses of Atrocity,” ix. 11. Kuromiya, Stalin, ix. 12. Courtois and Lazar provide an overview of the PCF’s resistance to the process of de-Stalinization in the 1950s (Histoire, 299–311). Goulemot contends that era of the cult of personality ends in 1960 with the “pitiable agony” of Thorez’s sixtieth birthday in 1960 (quoted in Dioujeva and George, Staline à Paris, 20). Another noteworthy marker is the party’s tardy commemoration of Stalin’s eightieth birthday. Six months after that birthday, the party published (with no byline) a remarkable text in the May 1960 issue of Les Cahiers du communisme titled “J. V. Staline: Le 80e anniversaire de sa naissance” (J. V. Stalin: The 80th anniversary of his birth) in which Stalin’s achievements as a revolutionary and as general secretary are praised, but he is also criticized for the cult of personality. Forest writes that the publication of Solzhenitsyn’s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich in 1962 represented another key moment in de-Stalinization in the French intellectual context (Aragon, 707–8). Tiersky’s analysis suggests that the process continued through the mid-1960s, and it was accelerated by the death (in 1964) of Thorez, who served as an impediment to the process (French Communism, 250). 13. Beginning in 1930, per Courtois and Lazar, Thorez was de facto general secretary; his primary rivals for leadership were eliminated by 1934; and two months before his death in 1964, he was elected president of the PCF with Waldeck Rochet becoming general secretary (Histoire, 103, 106, 332). Wieviorka notes that Thorez officially took the title general secretary in 1936 (Maurice et Jeannette, 244). 14. See, for instance, Thorez, Politique de grandeur, 114, 182–84. 15. An illiberal government or leader can be defined, as Applebaum writes, as “democratically elected, but determined to change the rules” in a direction away from democratic norms and practices.

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16. See “Putin: Soviet Collapse a ‘Genuine Tragedy.’” The twenty-first-century political context is explored further in the book’s conclusion. 17. This argument is developed in chapter 1. 18. See, for example, Plamper, Stalin Cult, 29; Gill, “Soviet Leader Cult,” 167. 19. Plamper, Stalin Cult, 29; Gill, “Soviet Leader Cult,” 167–68. 20. Brooks, Thank You, 61; Plamper, Stalin Cult, 29. On the orchestrated nature of these initial publications, see Plamper, Stalin Cult, 29, 248–49. On Stalin’s control of Soviet media, see Plamper, Stalin Cult, 29; Enneker, “Stalin Cult,” 84; Brooks, Thank You, 59–60. On the politburo’s concerted preparations for the fiftieth birthday celebration, see Enneker, “Stalin Cult,” 84. Per Plamper, Stalin controlled the media as early as 1927 (Stalin Cult, 29). 21. Plamper, Stalin Cult, 27. 22. Gill, “Soviet Leader Cult,” 167; Enneker, “Stalin Cult,” 84. As Gill notes, there were periods of varying intensity in promotion of the cult of personality in the USSR. 23. Rees, “Cult,” 249; Burke, Fabrication, 2; Giesey, “Models of Rulership,” 59. 24. Rees, “Leader,” 5. 25. See Burke, Fabrication, 6–7; Giesey, “Models of Rulership,” 59–60. 26. Tumarkin, Lenin Lives!, xx, 1–2. See also Rees, “Cult,” 249. 27. Plamper, Stalin Cult, xvii–xviii. 28. Plamper, Stalin Cult, 2; Truesdell, Spectacular Politics, 3–4. 29. Truesdell, Spectacular Politics, 4. 30. Plamper, Stalin Cult, xvi. Elsewhere, Plamper argued for a direct correlation between secularism and sacrality: “Rulers after the Enlightenment and the French Revolution derived their legitimacy no longer from God, but (parts of) the people. The sacral energy set free by God’s assassination attached itself to individual politicians, giving rise to the secular personality cult” (Plamper, “Introduction,” 19). 31. Rees, “Leader,” 4. 32. Barbusse, Staline, 61. On Putin and the tiger, see Elder, “Putin’s Fabled Tiger.” 33. Quote is from Kishkovsky, “No Hockey.” See also Sharkov, “Putin Receives,” and Rosenberg, “Russian MPs.” On Putin’s cult generally, see Satter, Less You Know, 77; Pomerantsev, Nothing Is True, 233. 34. Satter, Less You Know, 134–35. 35. See Osborn, “All-Female Sect.” 36. Kriegel, French Communists, xi. 37. For excerpts of Stalin’s notorious text on agricultural collectivization, “Dizzy with Success,” see I. Staline, “Le vertige du succès,” L’Humanité, March 19, 1930, 4. A November 1934 example of a promotion in France of the Soviet people’s “all-powerful” love for Stalin is explored at the beginning of chapter 1. 38. See Rees, “Leader,” 10 and Plamper, Stalin Cult, 35 for use of the term vozhd’ in relation to Stalin. Plamper writes that the term connotes heroic, charismatic, and sacral qualities, and has roots going back to Old Church Slavonic. 39. This late-1934 and early-1935 episode is explored in detail in chapter 1. Jean Marie Goulemot, who has done excellent work on the Stalin and Thorez cults, stated

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that the cult began with the publication of the Barbusse biography (Dioujeva and George, Staline à Paris, 20). I maintain, however, that the biography should be seen in this larger context encompassing late-1934 and early-1935 publications across party media. 40. See Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 306–7. 41. Les Cahiers du bolchévisme, 3rd trimester, 1940, 3. The 1941 issue opened with portraits of Lenin and Stalin. 42. See “Records Relating”; Fisher, “Katyn”; Montefiore, Court, 333–34; Khlevniuk, New Biography, 170. 43. Quoted in Wolfe, Khrushchev, 88. See also the text of Khrushchev’s speech famously published in the New York Times on June 5, 1956 (“Text of Speech on Stalin by Khrushchev as Released by the State Department,” 13–16). The quote is also in an abbreviated version of the speech in Khrushchev, “The Cult of the Individual,” 231. 44. Barbusse, Staline, 320; Stalin, 282–83. 45. Stil, “Le Cadeau,” 1950, 112. 46. See, for example, Florimond Bonte, “Sur le chemin du XVIIe Congrès du Parti bolchevik,” L’Humanité, December 25, 1933, 4. Stalin is referred to as “le pilote génial de la Révolution prolétarienne.” 47. See “Au pays sans crise,” L’Humanité, June 4, 1932, 4. On famine statistics, see Alekseyenko et al., “Holodomor,” 4; Khlevniuk, New Biography, 116–19; Graziosi, “Holodomor,” 389–90. Alekseyenko et al. cite a United Nations statement of November 7, 2003, stating seven to ten million dead. Khlevniuk cites five to seven million dead; Graziosi estimates six million dead. 48. See, for instance, “Face à la tourbe contre-révolutionnaire,” L’Humanité, February 19, 1930, 4, which contains a large chart outlining recent trials and executions in the USSR, including the notorious Shakhty trial of 1928. 49. The following description and analysis of the Pétain cult is based on Jackson, France, 278–81 and Rousso, Les Années noires, 46–58 as well as my own research. 50. Jackson, France, 278. Jackson notes that the Pétain cult was not exclusively directed from above, as Pétain was a very popular figure from June 1940 through the spring of 1942 (France, 280–81). 51. Burrin, “Vichy,” 191. 52. Pétain, Discours aux Français, 96. 53. Quoted in Burrin, “Vichy,” 194. 54. Jackson underscores this distinction between duty and rights (France, 149). 55. See Jackson, France, 149; Burrin, “Vichy,” 192. 56. Rousso, Les Années noires, 38. 57. Per Courtois and Lazar, the pact was signed in May 1935 and ratified in February 1936 (Histoire, 136). The PCF’s relationship with the socialist party would endure vicissitudes through the period of de-Stalinization. 58. See Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 223–38 on the shift in policy toward alliance first with the socialist leadership and, later, with other political parties, unions, and organizations. Courtois and Lazar note that this Gallic version of Communism was

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taken up by Thorez’s successors and had a resurgence in the 1990s (Histoire, 133). See also Lazar, Communisme, 63–87. 59. Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 127, 132. 60. See Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 189. The Comintern (1919–43) was the Moscow-directed organization that promoted Communism internationally. Its early Cold War successor was the Cominform (1947–56). See Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 209, 216 for information on the party’s membership in the late 1920s and early 1930s. Per Courtois and Lazar in 1931 it had just 25,000 members but grew to 328,000 in 1937 (Histoire, 109, 143). 61. See Kriegel, Ce que j’ai cru comprendre, 317; Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 411. For a treatment of the idea of “true France,” see Lebovics, True France. 62. See, for example, Gillis, “Memory and Identity.” 63. Renan, “What is a Nation?” 82. 64. Renan, “What is a Nation?” 83. 65. Those sites of memory (to use Pierre Nora’s term) were “sites of contestation in which competition over definitions take place” (Schlesinger, “National Identity,” 260–61). Lavabre argues that the status of the party as a countersociety aids in the relatively efficient organization of collective memory and forgetting (Fil rouge, 24). 66. See Thorez, Politique de grandeur. 67. Paul Vaillant-Couturier, “Des Capétiens aux communistes,” L’Humanité, July 11, 1936, 1–2. 68. Brogi, Confronting America, 16. There is substantial debate among historians regarding the nature of relations between the PCF and de Gaulle in the immediate postoccupation period (from, roughly, the fall of 1944 through January 1946). See Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 221–24. 69. See, for instance, Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 126. 70. See Wieviorka, who writes that there is consensus on this point among historians, including Courtois, Kriegel, and Serge Wolikow, all of whom studied the Comintern archives (Maurice et Jeannette, 248). 71. See Burrin, “Vichy,” 191 on the magical powers of the soil in Pétain’s worldview. 72. Vellay, Discours, 312, 367. For a sample of Lenin’s understanding of the concept, which he expressly labels as Jacobin, see his June 1917 article “The Enemies of the People,” in Collected Works, vol. 25, 57–68. 73. Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 70–87. 74. Les Caves du Vatican was serialized in L’Humanité (June 12–July 30, 1933). 75. On the Rousset case, see Aragon, Œuvres poétiques complètes, vol. 1, cxii–cxiv; Forest, Aragon, 585. 76. See Burrin, “Vichy,” 182 on Vichy and memory. 77. Lavabre, Fil rouge, 89. 78. Daquin, Nous continuons, 35:21. 79. The total number of Communards killed remains a matter of debate. Estimates range from several thousand to 35,000 dead. (Most hover around 20,000.) See Merriman, Massacre, 2, 250, 287.

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80. See Merriman, Massacre, 254. 81. On the Fédérés, see Shafer, Paris Commune, 75. See also Rebérioux, “Le Mur,” 640–43. 82. See Braire, “Le drapeau”; Everdell, End of Kings, 228; J. Berlioz, “Le drapeau des communards au tombeau de Lénine,” L’Humanité, March 18, 1933, 6. See also Lenin, “Lessons of the Commune,” in Collected Works, vol. 13, 475–78. 83. See Lavabre, Fil rouge, 52. 84. See Thorez, Politique de grandeur, 146. See Hincker, “Lecture” for an overview of how the revolution was treated in L’Humanité from the early 1920s through the 1940s. The party promoted the idea of a Communist memory of the revolution during the 1989 bicentennial celebration (Lavabre, Fil rouge, 37). See also Lazar, Communisme, 74–75; Lavabre, Fil rouge, 44–64. 85. See Hincker, “Lecture,” 104. 86. Thorez, Politique de grandeur, 74. 87. Thorez, Politique de grandeur, 74, 149. 88. See Thorez’s speech of June 25, 1939, in L’Humanité, June 26, 1939, 1–2 (“Le discours du secrétaire général du parti communiste”). 89. The Front Populaire–era discourse around the revolution resurfaces intact in the party’s 1946 film Nous continuons la France. See Daquin, Nous continuons. 90. See, for example, André Stil, “Le Quatorze Juillet,” L’Humanité, July 13, 1950, 1, as well as the commemorative front pages of L’Humanité on July 14, 1951 and July 14, 1952. 91. Duclos, “Preface,” 8. 92. Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 226. 93. Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 320. 94. As Datta argues in Heroes and Legends, those early practices were part of an effort to create continuity with the past, and thereby legitimize the nascent republican regime. This cult of heroes, she argues, existed alongside the adoption of “La Marseillaise” as the national anthem and the choice of Bastille Day as the national holiday. She writes, “The Third Republic needed national heroes who could unify in their persons both the idea of an eternal nation and that of the modern republic” (11). 95. See, for example, “Avec éclat Orléans fête Jeanne d’Arc, héroïne populaire,” L’Humanité, May 8, 1939, 1–2. 96. Jeanne Tétart, “Jeanne et Danielle, héroïnes de l’indépendance nationale,” L’Humanité, April 30, 1949, 3. See also Pennetier, “Casanova.” 97. Jeannelle briefly comments on this phenomenon (“Le PCF,” 103). 98. V. Kroujkov, “XXVe Anniversaire du livre de Staline,” L’Humanité, April 30, 1949, 5. 99. As Caute writes, “The cult of personality . . . saturated Party life” (Communism, 220). 100. Wieviorka writes that the first signs of the Thorez cult appeared between April 1936 and early 1937 (Maurice et Jeannette, 274). She notes that the cult began to blossom in December 1937 at the PCF’s congress in Arles (264). 101. See Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 106.

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102. See Lavabre, Fil rouge, 14; Le Marec, Photos truquées, 94–95. 103. See Fils du peuple. 104. Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 503. 105. See Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 516–27 and Goulemot, Pour l’Amour, 119–57 for more information on Thorez’s signing of Fils du peuple and his fiftieth birthday celebration. 106. Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 516–17. 107. Thorez, Fils, 7; Son, 1. 108. See https://www.unian.ua/politics/1342963-rada-pereymenuvala-naseleni -punkti-na-okupovanomu-donbasi-torez-na-chistyakove-krasnodon-na-sorokine.html. Accessed September 17, 2017. 109. Lenin, Collected Works, vol. 31, 206–11. 110. Baxandall and Morawski, Marx and Engels, 115. 111. See “Lénine sur lui-même: questionnaire,” Monde, January 18, 1935, 9. 112. See Montefiore, Young Stalin, 57–58, 267–68. 113. See Montefiore, Young Stalin, 58–67 on the Hugo episode and Stalin’s literary taste as a youth. 114. Thorez, Politique de grandeur, 74. 115. Thorez, Politique de grandeur, 42. 116. Aragon, “Staline a raison.” 117. On the element of credibility, see Clews, Communist Propaganda, 8 and Margulies, Pilgrimage, 16; on polarized language, see Clews, Communist Propaganda, 25–26; on slogans, see Labin, Stalin’s Russia, 62; on repetition, see Clews, Communist Propaganda, 8. 118. Among the few exceptions are Judt, Past Imperfect; Birchall, Sartre; Hazareesingh, Intellectuals. Still, those studies focus on the post–World War II era. 119. Generation Stalin is informed by archives on Rolland and Barbusse from the Bibliothèque nationale de France; the Russian State Archive of Social and Political History (the RGASPI, as well as Yale University’s curated version thereof, the Stalin Digital Archive); the Portail Archives Politiques Recherches Indexation Komintern et Fonds français (Paprik@2F), which is rich with party pamphlets from the era; the CinéArchives (a trove of PCF audiovisual material); and the Fonds Thorez-Vermeersch. To understand better the important role these writers played in the party mediasphere, I conducted extensive research into Communist or Communist-leaning periodicals, from the 1910s through the 1950s, especially, L’Humanité, Clarté, Europe, Le Surréalisme au service de la révolution, Monde, Commune, Les Cahiers du bolchévisme, Les Cahiers du communisme, Ce Soir, La Nouvelle Critique, and Les Lettres françaises.

ON E

HENRI BARBUSSE AND STALIN’S OFFICIAL BIOGRAPHY

On November 7, 1934, the French novelist and World War I veteran Henri Barbusse witnessed a spectacle that he described as unprecedented in its magnitude.1 From a platform atop Lenin’s Mausoleum in Moscow’s Red Square, standing alongside Stalin and key members of his inner circle, Barbusse saw massive infantry regiments, tanks, planes, and a reported 1.75 million Soviet citizens take part in a six-hour military parade marking the seventeenth anniversary of the October Revolution. It was the sort of spectacle—marked by colorful banners, f lags, and large-scale portraits of leaders—that would become routine viewing in Communist countries in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. But in 1934, the scope and tenor of the parade made a deep impact on Barbusse, who described it as more perfect, more complete, and more exuberant than previous celebrations of its kind. And the parade’s politico-military function did not escape the former infantryman. In his account of the event, which was published on the front page of L’Humanité, Barbusse remarked, “One could see today—through a few glimpses—on what foundation the Soviet Union’s drive for peace is based.” Furthermore, the French writer made a point of underscoring an element he deemed central to the commemoration. He wrote, “There would be something missing in even a hasty exposé . . . if one did not note the all-powerful love, based on gratitude and trust, that this unlimited mass of people has for Comrade Stalin.”2 40

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Several months later, Barbusse would publish the first official biography of the Soviet leader, Staline: Un monde nouveau vu à travers un homme (1935). The book’s opening pages depict a military parade similar to the one he had recently witnessed, complete with vivid displays of adulation for the general secretary. The text’s overture is typical of the tenor of the biography, and the overall narrative appears to have pleased Aleksei Stetskii, the head of the culture and propaganda department of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. In the foreword to the Russian translation of the biography, Stetskii states, “The book has been written with a tremendous amount of love for the Soviet land, its peoples and its leader.”3 And indeed, Barbusse’s Staline is a monument to the general secretary’s rule and a foundational text for his personality cult. For Barbusse, the biography represented the culmination of more than fifteen years of writing, editorial work, and engagement as a public intellectual in promotion of revolutionary violence, the Soviet Union, and its leadership caste. Staline is the last book Barbusse published in his lifetime.4 Given its place as a capstone to many years of deep involvement in the Communist orbit, it should be considered alongside his Goncourt-winning novel Le Feu (1916) as a career-defining work. To be sure, Le Feu is central to Barbusse’s legacy, as it announced many of the themes that would be central to his writing through the end of his life. It, moreover, led to Barbusse’s lasting reputation as the antiwar “Zola of the trenches” and as one of the “founding fathers of engagement.”5 However, contrary to conventional wisdom, Staline is a text more representative of his overall corpus and his work as a public intellectual. That fact is significant not just for Barbusse. For as we will see over the course of this book, Barbusse’s political engagement served as a blueprint for Communist-aligned intellectual activity in France for a generation. This analysis of Staline will shed light on the ways in which the cult of personality and Soviet policy were promoted in France from the 1920s through the 1950s. I will argue that in addition to serving as a touchstone text for the PCF, Barbusse’s biography of Stalin should be read as a prototype of future official biographies of the general secretary. Furthermore, as I contend, Barbusse’s Staline serves as a case study in the evolution of discourse around French revolutionary traditions, nationalism, and internationalism in Communist circles in the 1920s and early-to-mid-1930s. Throughout the Stalinist era, French political and intellectual history played a role in the

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ways in which the party’s leadership caste and policies were promoted in philo-Soviet texts. This chapter shows that Staline is an artifact from the moment in France when the Front Populaire movement was taking shape. Crucially, at that time, in accordance with new Comintern tactics and policies, the PCF began to promote a patriotic line, one that involved an embrace of national defense and the promotion of French republican symbols and values. That new orientation, I argue, clashed with Barbusse’s deep-seated antinationalism, and those tensions are reflected in Staline and its reception in party circles. Despite the importance of Staline to Barbusse’s overall career and to the French Communist Party, the text has received scant scholarly attention.6 In order to grasp the importance of the biography to Barbusse and to the party as a whole, it is necessary to place the text in the discursive and cultural context in which it was produced and received. To that end, I will analyze Barbusse’s Staline in light of his other writing on the Soviet Union, his activity as a public intellectual during and after World War I, the history of the PCF, French and Russian archival documents, and other noteworthy biographies of Stalin (those contemporary to Barbusse’s as well as those published very recently). I conclude this chapter with an exploration of the complex legacy of Barbusse’s text itself in the Soviet Union. For while Staline was lauded for nearly two decades within the PCF and should be read as a prototype of future official biographies, the book itself had a limited legacy in the USSR, due to Barbusse’s praise for a number of Soviet figures who would be executed as enemies of the people in the years following its publication. From War to R evolution

In an August 1914 letter to the then-socialist newspaper L’Humanité, a fortyone-year-old Henri Barbusse wrote of his decision to enlist in the infantry despite an official exemption from service on the front lines.7 Although not himself a member of the Section Française de l’Internationale Ouvrière (the French socialist party, or SFIO), he described his motivations as based in socialist ideals “against our infamous old enemies: militarism, imperialism, the Sword, the Boot, and I will add, the Crown.”8 The conflict would be a “social war” that would serve what he called the socialist antimilitarist cause.9 The coming war would, in his view, be a violent means of liberating

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humanity from oppression. A nationalist war effort would therefore serve as a means of achieving socialist internationalist ideals. Significantly, Barbusse wrote, “If I sacrifice my life and if I go to war with joy, it is not only as a Frenchman, but it is above all as a man.”10 As little as two years later, as Le Feu and subsequent nonfiction writing indicate, although Barbusse’s antimilitarist and antiimperialist views survived his tour of duty, he had abandoned the notion that war itself could purge humanity of oligarchy. Indeed, in Le Feu, the Great War is depicted as a criminal and futile endeavor: “Two armies fighting each other— that’s like one great army committing suicide.”11 Infantrymen struggle to survive horrific conditions on the front, but the reader is never given a clear sense of why the brutal battles are fought. War, moreover, is not a heroic endeavor: one soldier declares that he and his comrades-in-arms are nothing but “murderers.”12 To make matters worse, noncombatants are depicted as ignorant of the soldiers’ sacrifices and eager to exploit economic opportunities created by the conflict. Wartime society, says the anonymous first-person narrator, is sharply divided into “those who gain and those who grieve.”13 Barbusse’s August 1914 declaration that he would go to war “with joy” as both Frenchman and human being quickly became obsolete. From the very first chapter of Le Feu—composed not even two years later, in part while convalescing from his tour of duty on the front lines—Barbusse upends not just the notion of the war as a humanistic social cause, but also the legitimacy of nationalist motivations to go to war.14 In the novel’s telling opening scene, which takes place in an alpine sanatorium at a significant distance from society and its conflicts, men of various nationalities contemplate the news of the declaration of war. Many take positions against their own countries: a German patient says, for instance, “I hope Germany will be beaten.”15 In harmony with that opening sequence, a central message of Le Feu is that nationalism is an illusion created by arbitrary frontiers and used by those in power for profit and personal gain. Nationalists and traditionalists distort moral principles, and their abuse of patriotic ideals leads to war.16 As one soldier asserts, “The Jingoes—they’re vermin.”17 The novel aims furthermore to show that the working class is disproportionately victimized by war and nationalism. An underlying premise of combat in Le Feu is that French and German soldiers on opposite sides of the front lines have more

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in common with each other than they do with their officers and political leaders, not to mention the profiteering and disengaged civilians back home. Overall, Barbusse paints a bleak picture of soldiers’ daily life in Le Feu. The experience of war is eloquently described as “that endless monotony of misery, broken by poignant tragedies.”18 There is a glimmer of hope, however, that emerges in the novel’s final chapter. Titled “The Dawn,” the chapter introduces many of the concepts and themes that would come to dominate Barbusse’s writing for the remainder of his life and that, moreover, foreshadow his turn to Communism. Through the narrator’s commentary and the political discussions among the main characters, Barbusse underscores the notion that militarism—“the spirit of war,” in the language of the soldiers—must be vanquished.19 To that end, the reader is told, peoples of all nations should abandon the nationalism promoted by their governments and religious figures (“with the morphine of their Paradise”) and unite in a quest for total equality.20 Indeed, equality is the sole republican value that is espoused by the narrator and his fellow soldiers, with “fraternity” and “liberty” dismissed as mere words.21 For its part, equality—“the great human formula”—can lead to justice.22 The narrator sees the desire to quash militarism and pursue a pure form of equality as the potential source of a future, yet unspecified “Revolution.”23 A continuation and expansion of the French Revolution, this new revolution would emancipate “the peoples” from their bellicose and greedy “masters.”24 Le Feu became a touchstone for the World War I generation. For years after its publication, its core principles were embraced by the French socialist press and, later, the French Communist press. More broadly, the novel became one of the most widely discussed and important works of fiction produced in the first decades of the twentieth century.25 It established Barbusse as a major literary figure of his day and a distinguished heir of his idol, Emile Zola. It is indeed telling that Barbusse, who prior to the war wrote in relative obscurity, was selected to give a speech at Zola’s home in Médan in 1919 at the annual ceremony in honor of the author of “J’accuse!”26 The 1919 event was the first such gathering since 1913—the Médan pilgrimages had been suspended due to the war—rendering Barbusse’s role even more meaningful. For a brief period after the publication of Le Feu, Barbusse expressed views regarding the French republic that were more moderate than those

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expressed in his 1916 war novel. That shift away from the more radical stance he took in Le Feu is part of the author’s broader display of respect for Western institutions, values, and leaders in his work from 1917–19. For instance, in a July 1917 text addressed to war veterans, he expresses hope for a flourishing of French republican values: democracy, equality, liberty, and a society working for the interests of all.27 In this same time period, Barbusse made a distinction between reactionary nationalism (i.e., the jingoism criticized in Le Feu) and what he saw as a superior form of patriotism that embraced liberal democratic traditions. Barbusse described Woodrow Wilson as a guiding light, an embrace that, as his later work shows, is typical of his tendency to view politics through the lens of figureheads and “great” men. Barbusse praised Wilson’s vision of internationalism as the best means of continuing the work of “the Great France of 1789.”28 Indeed, in a December 1917 article, he praised the United States’ stated goals for the war, which included establishing free and open international trade, self-determination for colonies, and the establishment of a “defensive league for the people.”29 Barbusse repeatedly expressed admiration for the League of Nations, and he asserted his belief that if Wilson’s vision were realized, the world would be fundamentally more just, peaceful, and democratic.30 In this same phase, while Barbusse heaped praise upon the French Revolution—calling it “the splendid and indelible glory of our country”—he held a dim view of the Russian Revolution.31 Just weeks after the Bolsheviks took power, Barbusse referred to their act as a “murderous split.”32 Much would change. Over the course of the year 1919, Barbusse’s viewpoint underwent a fundamental shift. He began to speak in reverential terms about the seismic events taking place in the “north” and predicted that the day was coming when “there would be just one terrestrial fatherland as there is only one God.”33 Barbusse expressed anger about the enduring imperialist and conservative status quo in the West.34 It is perhaps not surprising, then, that it was also in this same formative time frame that Barbusse made some of his first postwar intimations that radical societal transformation may involve—and justify—the use of violence. This new form of violence would be distinct from the “social war” Barbusse thought would democratize the international landscape when he volunteered for the infantry in 1914. Indeed, this violence would be revolutionary in nature. In September 1919, he wrote, “The dishonest morality of nationalists and

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reactionaries must be destroyed . . . that which is up must come down, that which is held down must be raised up.” He continued, “Human society must overturn itself completely, and then the world will finally be right-side up.”35 The notion that the world must change “in one way or another” was indicative of Barbusse’s permanent shift away from a belief in Western democracy and in the ability of the French republic to realize its ideals.36 This transformation is consecrated in a front-page article in L’Humanité (October 12, 1919) bearing the Zola-inspired title “Nous accusons!” (We accuse) and accompanied by a large portrait of Barbusse in his military uniform.37 In that watershed text, Barbusse makes clear that he is not simply against the West but that he is for the defense of “the natural law of the Republic of Soviets in Russia,” which he described as intimately linked with liberty, justice, and truth. For Barbusse, the Russian Revolution came to represent the only solution to rid definitively the world of war and exploitation. And as for the Bolsheviks’ “murderous split” that Barbusse had decried two years earlier, their dictatorial measures, he now argued, are “temporary and justified consequences of all successful revolutions.”38 Barbusse’s revolutionary convictions would harden in the ensuing few years, as did his tendency to view the world as divided into inherently hostile binaries: exploiters vs. exploited, reactionaries vs. revolutionaries, warmongers vs. proponents of peace, nationalism vs. internationalism. He composed two manifestos in this period—Lueur dans l’abîme (The light in the abyss, 1920) and Le Couteau entre les dents (A knife between my teeth, 1921)—both of which are essential to grasping the political positions that inform his subsequent writing. Both texts reveal a passionate commitment to supporting the Russian Revolution, couched in an increasingly uncompromising and absolutist political discourse. Barbusse evokes the themes that are common to the bulk of his postwar body of work: World War I represents the end of a civilization in decay; nationalism is based on arbitrary distinctions that impede the rise of a just internationalist order; a small minority controls and manipulates the popular masses for profit; governments and mainstream newspapers cannot be trusted; and reformists in favor of incremental social change—as opposed to total revolution—are reactionary. Barbusse also expands in those two manifestos his critique of the West, placing European society and politics in sharp contrast with the goals

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Figure 1.1. Barbusse’s Zola-inspired “nous accusons!” Published on the front page of L’Humanité on October 12, 1919. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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of the Russian Revolution. He decries economic ruin and inequality in France, a Versailles treaty that guaranteed future war, and the prospect of a rising and revanchist Germany. He describes the achievements of 1789 as inadequate.39 Furthermore, he overtly critiques Wilson and his vision of internationalism—which Barbusse came to view as diluted and corrupt— referring to the League of Nations as “the monopoly of nationalists.”40 Unsurprisingly, Western nationalist and patriotic symbols also receive harsh criticism. He writes, “It is enough to look at any element of our republican regime to see how superficially its tricolored camouflage is painted.”41 Barbusse furthermore describes the flags of nations as “showy labels” that do nothing but lead to war.42 There exists, however, an exception: “There is but one red flag, just as there is only one type of human blood, one justice, and one truth.”43 Indeed, Soviet exceptionalism plays a major role in Barbusse’s discourse around the USSR—which he dubbed in 1921 his “true fatherland.”44 That exceptionalism manifests itself in a number of ways, both in the early 1920s and in his subsequent work. Through the end of his life, Barbusse would maintain that the Russian Revolution represented a major and indelible step forward in the history of the liberation of humanity. Moreover, he persistently describes the USSR as managing to exist, even thrive, in a hostile world despite incredible odds, a common refrain among Western intellectuals in support of the Soviet experiment.45 That exceptionalism—for Barbusse, for many of his peers, and for many others who would follow in his footsteps— is bound up in what they described as superhuman leadership. This onetime Wilsonian shifted his allegiance to Lenin, whom he defends and praises in terms that foreshadow his embrace of Soviet cults of personality. He writes, “In spite of the mistakes of which he may have been capable—if there were any—amid the hostility of events and humankind, the face of Lenin will appear like that of a Messiah.”46 Le Couteau entre les dents also represents a further step toward revolutionary radicalism for Barbusse. The book’s title is an ironic appropriation of a famous slogan critical of the Bolsheviks, and it indeed signals the author’s adoption of a more militant stance. He expands on his previous remarks around the function of violence, which he describes not as a weapon, but rather as a useful tool for profound social transformation.47 He writes in response to critiques of revolutionaries, “You are shocked that we tell you: ‘Those who are not with us are against us.’ You are wrong to be shocked.”48

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That absolutist thinking conforms to philo-Communist discourse employed in France as early as the 1920 Congrès de Tours, when Marcel Cachin promoted the Leninist notion that all those who do not support the revolution are necessarily counterrevolutionary. It is a line of thinking—rooted in Jacobinism—that sees enemies as destined for submission or elimination.49 Barbusse as Public Intellectual

The same month it appeared in bookstores, Le Couteau entre les dents was promoted and excerpted in L’Humanité, a venue in which Barbusse regularly published a wide variety of texts (articles, appeals, manifestos, essays, and serialized fiction), and where he was often praised in glowing terms (some examples: “our friend,” “our great,” “our dear,” “our glorious Henri Barbusse”). Barbusse’s relationship with that newspaper was an indicator of his close affiliation with the PCF, which he joined in February 1923 (a move he announced in an essay on the paper’s front page).50 So close was Barbusse’s relationship with the party that two years prior to his actual membership, the newspaper erroneously announced in a triumphant front-page article his decision to join the PCF.51 That announcement shows that Barbusse’s postwar prestige conferred legitimacy upon the nascent French Communist Party and its primary propaganda organ. And he was indeed a prestigious figure in the early postwar period. Lenin read and admired his work and, in 1919, deemed it an indicator of the growth of revolutionary consciousness among the masses.52 Barbusse was included on a list of illustrious political and literary figures (including Marx, Lenin, Trotsky, Jaurès, and Gorky) whose portraits were advertised in L’Humanité for purchase.53 His fame (and his image) had a broad reach: Einstein wrote in a 1922 letter to Barbusse that he kept the latter’s portrait “before my work station, next to that of my late mother.”54 Barbusse’s prestige and fame in the very early 1920s stemmed not just from Le Feu, but also from his prodigious activity in the budding PCF mediasphere and party-oriented circles. His high level of activity is not surprising, given his view of the social role of writers and intellectuals as part of a pragmatic and politically engaged avant-garde that should seek out, document, and disseminate the truth.55 He even described intellectuals as “thought workers,” a formulation that foreshadowed Stalin’s own famous description of writers as “engineers of the soul.”56 Barbusse was affiliated with new PCF-oriented and party-aligned periodicals, including La Voix des Femmes, Foreign Affairs, La Butte Rouge, and L’Internationale.

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His most important work in the period immediately following the war was in his leadership of two entities: the Association Républicaine des Anciens Combattants (ARAC) and the Clarté group in France. Each group had its own publication: L’Ancien Combattant, which was succeeded in late 1919 by Le Combattant, where Barbusse served as the political director, and Clarté, which he directed for its first few years and with which he remained affiliated—despite considerable turbulence—through 1925.57 ARAC later led to the creation of an international umbrella organization for veterans called L’Internationale des Anciens Combattants (IAC). ARAC/IAC and Clarté in their initial conceptions and their evolution shared a good deal: they were nominally independent from political parties (although closely linked initially to socialism and, later, the Third International) and generally reflected Barbusse’s increasing alienation from French republican political practices. Both groups were also characterized by Barbusse’s own deepening Marxist internationalist convictions and advocated positions against phenomena they deemed fundamentally interrelated: capitalism, imperialism, militarism, and nationalism.58 Also at the origin of Clarté was the idea—one indebted to Romain Rolland—of an independent, international intellectual elite guiding the way toward social regeneration.59 Barbusse remained loyal to his initial vision for Clarté as a means of gathering intellectuals of various backgrounds (including bourgeois and non-Communist writers and thinkers). His more universalist vision placed him in conflict with younger members of the journal’s editorial board (especially Marcel Fourrier), who were eager to adhere to a more rigorous Communist line and to promote revolution in the West. Still, in the period before his final rupture with Clarté, Barbusse was in fundamental alignment with the journal’s antimilitarist, antinationalist, and philo-Communist positions. In 1923, for instance, the editors of Clarté described themselves as Communists and therefore by “definition and position” outside the national community and incapable of feeling what they called “French sentiments.”60 Barbusse’s texts in Clarté took on a host of forms—including fiction, political essays, correspondence, and manifestos. From a political standpoint, his contributions to Clarté were largely typical of his work from the early 1920s, that is to say, in promotion of Leninist ideals and the cause of international Communism.

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When Barbusse announced his decision to join the PCF in his February 1923 essay, titled “La Ligne droite” (The straight line), he explained that the grandeur of the Communist ideal led him to set aside his independence, which he says he had maintained in order to better serve the party. In joining the party—a move he never made when it came to the SFIO—Barbusse praised the PCF for its adherence to the Third International, lauding the latter for its intransigence and its refusal to compromise with existing social order. As he had done elsewhere, Barbusse promotes in “La Ligne droite” a willingness to resort to violence to undergird the party’s ideological rigor. Indeed, the position staked out by Communists, Barbusse argues, needs to be “pure to the point of brutality.” Barbusse is again critical of the French republic, deriding it for only existing as words on the page: “The republic, its liberty and its equality exist nowhere but official texts and speeches.” By the mid-1920s, Barbusse willingly adhered to party discipline, even publicly rejecting the notion of a “Barbussism”—that is, an ideology all his own—in favor of promoting the party line.61 Arguing for the utility of party discipline over personal vanity, he wrote, “Speaking for myself, I will always bow before the decisions taken and the line of conduct traced by the directors of the party I have joined with full knowledge of the facts.”62 Fittingly, given his frequent contributions to the Communist daily paper, Barbusse was named scientific and literary director of L’Humanité in 1926, a post he occupied until 1929.63 Upon being named director, he underscored his belief that art, literature, and film should be weapons in the party’s ideological battle. He stated he would use the position to promote proletarian art, which he described as “healthy, young, strong, and clear.” He argued that such art would give voice to the struggle of the masses and help lead them toward emancipation.64 In this same period, Barbusse advocated for that same type of art in his communications with Anatoly Lunacharsky, the Soviet People’s Commissar for Education, promoting the creation of a weekly magazine that would mobilize artists and intellectuals. Much like his original insistence with Clarté, ARAC, and the IAC, this new periodical, Monde, would be independent, or at least would appear so on the surface. In February 1926, he wrote to Lunacharsky, “[Monde] should present itself as a great literary and current events paper.”65 Seeking a wide readership, he aimed for the appearance of broader unifying goals: to unite intellectuals and workers, to fight

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reactionary tendencies, and to form and promote “an art of the masses.”66 Barbusse set up an ambitious international executive committee for the magazine, which included Einstein, Gorky, and Upton Sinclair. Monde launched in June 1928.67 It is important to emphasize that there is substantial evidence revealing that the independence of Monde was in many ways a façade. Indeed, as is indicated in a recently published letter from February 1928 (previously housed in Russian state archives), Barbusse revealed in communications with Soviet authorities a different understanding of Monde’s purpose. In that letter, which was written to VOKS (a Soviet foreign-outreach organization) appealing for financial and material support for Monde, Barbusse wrote, “VOKS seeks to spread and to propagandize Soviet culture and activity. Monde is an international organ that sees itself as having the same directives concerning the Soviet Union. One can say that the work of Monde and that of VOKS have the same goal.”68 According to Barbusse, Stalin himself—in 1927, when the project was still being conceived—approved of this nominal (and tactical) independence of Monde.69 Furthermore, based on information in Marcel Cachin’s notebooks, it appears that Barbusse worked to maintain a specific pro-Soviet stance for the weekly magazine and received funds for doing so.70 In 1929, Barbusse appealed to Stalin to allow funds from the sales of Monde in the USSR be made available to him in a currency that could be used in France (i.e., dollars, marks, or francs), given that the Soviet ruble was not internationally exchangeable.71 Despite its party-line orientation, Monde was more diverse in content than overtly official party organs (like L’Humanité or Les Cahiers du bolchévisme). While its heterogeneous nature in theory opened it to a broader audience, it also made it vulnerable to accusations from within the party of being hostile to Marxist precepts, of not promoting proletarian literature in line with party strictures, and of promoting bourgeois values. Monde was accused, in short, of being “confusionist,” in the parlance of the PCF. The magazine was thus a subject of much debate and controversy within party circles for its first few years.72 This was even the case in the USSR, despite the prior official approval Barbusse had received. Concerns there were raised (by the culture and propaganda department of the Central Committee of the Communist Party) about the “Trotskyite elements” who grouped themselves around Barbusse through Monde.73 Still, such problems, which

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in large majority subsided by the end of 1932, did not have a lasting effect on Barbusse’s stature within the party or on the continued existence of Monde (which had been threatened for both financial and political reasons).74 In the final analysis, Monde was an important outlet for promoting a host of Soviet policies, including rapid industrialization, collectivization of agriculture, and officially sanctioned Soviet art and literature. Beyond serving as director, Barbusse frequently published in Monde, and not surprisingly, his books received ample promotion and glowing reviews in the magazine. Monde was intimately bound up with the final years of Barbusse’s career, and it was shuttered shortly after he died in August 1935. As we will see later in this chapter, the study of Barbusse’s magazine aids in the tracing of the development of the Stalin cult as it manifested itself in France and the ways in which French revolutionary traditions were used to promote Comintern policy. In addition to his considerable work in the party mediasphere, Barbusse was instrumental in uniting progressive intellectuals around causes that were sanctioned at least in part by the Soviet Union, the Comintern, and/or the PCF. This is especially so with the Amsterdam-Pleyel movement against war and fascism of 1932–33, as well as the Front Populaire–oriented Congrès international des écrivains pour la défense de la culture of July 1935. In Search of a Savior

In a 1917 essay, Barbusse cautioned his readers about the dangers of using individuals as a basis for a political worldview. He wrote, “Beware of individuals. We have a tendency to incarnate a doctrine in a man . . . and the doctrine is bound up in the approval or the disapproval that the figure inspires, or in his talent or his mediocrity or his ignorance. That is a failure of reason. Take care to avoid it. Always, always separate men from ideas.”75 Based on his postwar fascination with Wilson and Lenin, it is clear that in the years following publication of that essay, Barbusse no longer held the view that personality-based politics stemmed from a failure of reason. And that tendency to embrace leading figures would only continue to become more pronounced in the 1920s, reaching an apex in the mid-1930s. For instance, Barbusse in the early 1920s—likely in competition with Romain Rolland, as we will see in the next chapter—took an interest in Gandhi. Like Rolland, Barbusse saw in Gandhi the potential for the realization of

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his own revolutionary vision. However, unlike Rolland (who was Gandhi’s most prominent champion in the West), Barbusse’s espousal of revolutionary violence was far out of line with the nonviolent methods of the Indian independence leader. As articulated in a lengthy essay published in Clarté in July 1923, Barbusse tries to fit Gandhi into a Bolshevist revolutionary mold, eliding or ignoring fundamental differences that exist between the two movements. He attempts, for example, to convince readers that Gandhian nonviolence is really not so distinct from Bolshevik violence. Both involve suffering, Barbusse argues, whether it be the martyrs of the Indian independence movement at the hands of the British or those neutralized by the Bolsheviks.76 Barbusse’s reasoning is flawed, of course, since the initiators of violence are inverted in those scenarios, placing the Bolsheviks on par with British colonial forces. Most importantly, Barbusse’s description of Gandhi reveals his tendency to admire powerful figures and his reveling in their capacity to shape entire peoples. He refers to Gandhi as “a real leader of crowds” and “a real builder of societies” and states that he and Lenin are “men of the same type, prodigious calculating men who, leaning over bustling continents, know how to weigh pros and cons.”77 The idea of men single-handedly shaping continents and societies finds its echo in Barbusse’s later depictions of Stalin, wherein he insists upon the idea that the general secretary’s domain spans one-sixth of the world’s surface. Barbusse’s fascination with Gandhi was far more ephemeral than that of Rolland, who published a prominent biography of the independence leader in 1924.78 Indeed, after initially receiving favorable coverage in Monde, Gandhi was criticized in the magazine in late 1931 and early 1932 for his indifference to the Russian Revolution, his embrace of nonviolence, and his apparent belief in his own “quasi-divine spiritual power.”79 A few years after this brief flirtation with Gandhism, Barbusse engaged in an equally surprising fascination with Jesus of Nazareth, on whom he published two books (both in 1927).80 The first book, Jésus, purports to be a “gospel” of “Jesus, son of Mary.” It is written as a chapter-and-verse style narrative and borrows its tone and some language from the New Testament. Jésus was followed by a nonfictional companion volume, Les Judas de Jésus, in which Barbusse sought to explicate his “gospel” and his understanding of Jesus in more standard Communist doctrinal fashion. Barbusse’s Christ narrative borrows a number of story lines and tropes from the New

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Testament. As the tale of his life progresses, from early childhood to crucifixion, readers are privy to several key elements of his evolution, many of them familiar (his humble origins as a carpenter, his rage at merchants in the temple, and so on). As that sampling of biblical tropes suggests, the prophet found in Jésus is constructed to serve Barbusse’s political concerns of the late 1920s. Barbusse’s treatment of Jesus is thus similar to his depiction of Gandhi, in that he attempts to cast the Christ figure as a Communist, arguing for a rapprochement between his teachings and the PCF worldview. Indeed, Barbusse’s Jesus is an ordinary man and an atheist, who only finds his true calling when he realizes he can be a catalyst for “Revolution.”81 His rhetoric is Marxist: “Cast off your chains, you who wish to.”82 He believes in equality, justice, and radical redistribution of wealth: “After the Revolution, everything would belong to everybody.”83 And yet despite his important calling as the Messiah, he considers himself a simple laborer (“ouvrier”) among other laborers, and he values the humble and patient work of others. Crucially, this Jesus, like Barbusse and his fellow doctrinal Communists, is an internationalist. The nation is subsumed within the global structure: “My country is only the village of the Earth.”84 Finally, in classically Leninist and Barbussian fashion, this Jesus wants peace, but he learns that it is impossible for peace to be born of peace. Indeed, “spirit” must be married with “force.”85 His body on the cross will be a “red flag.”86 Barbusse’s volumes on Jesus appeared when he was still literary director at L’Humanité. The texts were well received in the newspaper and promoted in reviews, ads, and editorial notes as being in harmony with official Communist doctrine, that is to say, a worldview that is atheist and against any form of mysticism. Jésus, for instance, was described in an editor’s note as “an excellent instrument for clarity in the struggle against religion.”87 This support came despite grumblings expressed privately by the paper’s thendirector Marcel Cachin, who wrote in his notebooks, “Barbusse calmly substituted himself for Christ. He turned him into a precious, Communist aesthete.”88 For its part, Les Cahiers du bolchévisme published a piece describing the debates that resulted from the book, ultimately casting Barbusse’s work in a favorable light.89 The same cannot be said for other elements of the revolutionary press in France: Barbusse’s Jésus was the subject of a three-part critique by Pierre Naville in the pages of Clarté.90 That divide foreshadowed a deeper one, as Clarté moved toward the Trotskyist Left

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Opposition and Barbusse marched in further lockstep adherence with official Communist doctrine. That split in France was a reflection of the rising tension in the USSR between Stalin and the Oppositionists in the pivotal year of 1927. That was the year of the tenth anniversary of the October Revolution, when Stalin banned the Opposition’s demonstrations and when Trotsky and Grigory Zinoviev were ousted from the party. It was also the year in which Barbusse—by then firmly entrenched in the party’s politicointellectual apparatus—made his first trip to the USSR. Staline: The Official Biogr aphy

Barbusse first traveled to the Soviet Union as an invited guest and representative of the PCF to celebrate the Revolution’s tenth anniversary.91 He was treated to a hero’s welcome upon his arrival, complete with packed train stations, signs, banners, music, and effusive speeches.92 At one official event in his honor, he was described as “the most eminent contemporary novelist” and also as “a revolutionary leader.”93 And as his speeches made during that trip indicate, Barbusse—as a self-described “friend” of the USSR—could be relied upon to promote the Soviet Union and critique French nationalism and Western imperialism.94 Aside from ceremonial visits, tours, parades, speeches, and attendance at an opera at the Bolshoi, Barbusse also had substantial business to attend to, as he had traveled east with a number of goals for research, publication, fundraising for Monde, and the prospective sales of translations of his books in the USSR.95 One reliable account suggests that Barbusse did not pay much heed to aspects of Soviet life that reflected unfavorably on the Revolution. Indeed, shortly after his arrival in Moscow, Barbusse had a meeting with Victor Serge, an event recorded in Serge’s Mémoires d’un révolutionnaire and also documented in Barbusse’s archived itinerary of September 11, 1927.96 A member of the Trotskyist Left Opposition and frequent contributor to Clarté, who would become a victim of political repression in the USSR, Serge describes his attempt to confront Barbusse with information on such repression under Stalin. Serge, who is in general quite scrupulous in his portraits of his contemporaries, writes that Barbusse feigned to have a headache and pretended to be unable to hear him properly. Instead of addressing the question at hand, Barbusse slipped into vague generalizations about the tragic destinies of revolutions. Serge notes with dismay and anger, “Hypocrisy itself was before me.”97

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From Barbusse’s point of view, however, the trip was a success in a number of ways: he gathered documentation for his book on the Transcaucasian region (Voici ce qu’on a fait de la Géorgie [What they have made out of Georgia]); his Monde project gained further official support; he signed a contract for the publication of his work in Russia; and he solidified his already strong international standing among writers and intellectuals in the Soviet orbit.98 Most importantly, it was also during his 1927 visit to the Soviet Union that Barbusse first met Joseph Stalin.99 Barbusse was granted an interview with the general secretary, a privilege shared by few other Western writers during the interwar period (among them H. G. Wells, Emil Ludwig, Romain Rolland, and Lion Feuchtwanger). According to his longtime secretary and frequent traveling companion, Annette Vidal, Barbusse was completely taken with Stalin after their initial meeting, which lasted two and half hours.100 The two did appear to have a special relationship: according to Vidal, each time Barbusse traveled to the USSR, he met with Stalin.101 Archival sources confirm that Stalin granted Barbusse audiences in September 1927, October 1932, August 1933, and November 1934. Barbusse and Stalin also corresponded in the late 1920s and early 1930s.102 During the October 1932 interview, Stalin and Barbusse discussed support for a host of pro-USSR initiatives, including what was then referred to as the “Amsterdam” movement (later, Amsterdam-Pleyel). The text documenting that interview indicates that the two expressed a good deal of mutual admiration. When Barbusse thanked Stalin for his time, Stalin replied in charming fashion, stating, “I am not so busy that I can’t find time to talk to Comrade Barbusse.” The documentation of the meeting shows that Barbusse was deeply impressed by the Soviet leader, and his respect for Stalin shines through in their subsequent correspondence. For instance, after Barbusse received the Soviet worker inscription funds Stalin had promised to deliver in support of Amsterdam, Barbusse wrote an obsequious letter of thanks. He stated, “I thank you with all my heart, dear and great comrade, for the admirable welcome I was given [in Moscow], and which is so glorious for me. It is difficult to remain worthy of it, but I will work hard to do so.”103 Their rapport did not go unnoticed by other prominent figures. Indeed, Cachin wrote in his notebooks on January 10, 1933, that Stalin gave Barbusse his seat at the Bolshoi theater during the fortieth anniversary celebration of Maxim Gorky’s career as a writer.104

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The ultimate fruit of this close relationship was the first official biography written on Stalin. According to Vidal, it was Barbusse who proposed such a biography to Stalin in 1933. She writes that upon hearing the idea, Stalin laughed, pointed to one of his loyalists (Lazar Kaganovitch), and said, “There is the man who will be able to give you everything you ask of him.”105 Historians of the Soviet Union and archival documents tell a different story. Historians describe the process of constructing Stalin’s official biography as being fraught for many years with difficulties and false starts.106 Roy Medvedev argues that the delay in producing an official biography was attributable in part to Stalin’s search for a “reputable” writer for the purpose.107 He writes, “In the early 1930s, Stalin began by roundabout methods to seek some prominent writer of the day to do a biography of him. Discussions with Gorky, Lion Feuchtwanger, and André Gide were held. . . . In the end, the well-known French Communist writer Henri Barbusse agreed.”108 A. Kemp-Welch furnishes a similar account, but he writes that Gorky was approached only after Gide and Feuchtwanger declined.109 David Brandenberger describes a host of failed or unrealized efforts to put together a biography involving elite and secondary figures in the Soviet bureaucracy and intelligentsia (including Mikhail Bulgakov and Sergey Kirov).110 Sarah Davies and James Harris write that in the early 1930s, Stalin himself appears to have quashed some initial attempts to write his biography.111 The culture and propaganda department of the Central Committee ultimately deemed Barbusse trustworthy, in particular regarding the fight against Trotskyism, and recommended in December 1932 that his proposal to write the biography be accepted.112 Source material for the biography was provided by the Central Committee of the Communist Party, Stalin’s secretariat, and experts at Moscow’s Institute of Marxism-Leninism. Willi Münzenberg, the influential Comintern representative, served as an intermediary.113 Barbusse sent an enthusiastic letter to Münzenberg confirming his interest in the project. He wrote, “I will be very happy to devote all of my efforts to depicting this great figure, whose current role is so gigantic and who incarnates . . . all of the constructivist enthusiasm of the Revolution in all the territory of the Union.”114 He requested that Münzenberg obtain documents from their “Soviet comrades” specifically on Stalin’s political activities “from  the beginning.” Barbusse confirmed receipt of a long list of documents in April

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1934, most of them indeed centered on or written by Stalin (including his books and party congress reports).115 A draft of the book was reviewed by Aleksei Stetskii, the head of the Central Committee’s culture and propaganda department. In September 1934, Stetskii wrote a letter to Barbusse in which he stated that he had generally been pleased with the manuscript, but had some reservations with the way Stalin himself was portrayed. He wrote to Barbusse, “I do not believe the book pays sufficient attention to Stalin’s image as a person; no mention is made of his working style or language, his multifaceted ties to the masses or the universal love that surrounds him. Though you need neither my compliments nor my praise, I would like to tell you that it is the job for such a powerful talent as yours to present a magnificent image of Stalin.”116 Barbusse appears to have heard the message clearly. Just a few weeks later, his account of the military parade celebrating the seventeenth anniversary of the October Revolution was published in L’Humanité (as seen earlier), an account in which he made a curious insistence upon the importance of mentioning the Soviet people’s “all-powerful” love for Stalin. Furthermore, Barbusse’s final version of Staline is consonant with the adulatory tone and content that Stetskii urged the French writer to adopt (and which Stetskii praised in his eventual 1936 foreword to the book). The set of steps taken to enable Barbusse to write the biography of Stalin coincide roughly with the moment that Stalin’s cult, as Plamper writes, “took off in multiple media” in mid-1933 in the USSR.117 The process of finding a biographer precedes—but not by long—the first coordinated Stalin personality cult activity in France, which occurred in late 1934 and early 1935 and manifested itself in L’Humanité, Monde, and Les Cahiers du bolchévisme.118 That burst of activity in France was centered on Stalin’s fifty-fifth birthday, a moment that foreshadowed the enormous, international, and heavily orchestrated celebration of his seventieth birthday in 1949. That early French Stalinist propaganda chimed with what was produced during the inaugural moment of the personality cult itself in the Soviet Union, specifically, the December 1929 celebration of Stalin’s fiftieth birthday. The coordination of publications in 1934–35 not only constituted the first major manifestation of the Stalin cult in France. It was also an early manifestation of the echochamber phenomenon in party-oriented publications. That echo-chamber phenomenon would continue during the Front Populaire era and would

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become especially pronounced in the Cominform years, especially around officially sanctioned anniversaries and commemorations. Not surprisingly, Barbusse played an important role in that early Stalin cult activity in France. He wrote an adulatory two-page centerfold article for Monde, complete with several photos, including one said to show the room in which Stalin was born.119 The importance of that article as well as Barbusse’s stature are underscored by the fact that the text (simply titled “Staline”) was translated into Russian and placed in a Soviet archive.120 An extended advertisement for Barbusse’s forthcoming biography of the general secretary, the article displays notable differences from his work of the mid-to-late 1920s, which previously had centered on the Revolution, the USSR as a whole, and Lenin. By 1934, in philo-Soviet French discourse, the USSR, its people, and their aspirations were overwhelmingly incarnated by Stalin. Furthermore, Barbusse’s text is consonant with the articles marking Stalin’s fifty-fifth birthday published in L’Humanité (which devoted a full supplementary page to the celebration), as well as articles in the January 1, 1935 issue of Les Cahiers du bolchévisme (which comprised about a third of the number).121 Taken together, all of those texts cover the themes that would become canonical in the Stalin cult in France, repeated for decades across PCF media, and continually updated to take into account world events. Stalin would be depicted as the most faithful disciple of Lenin, a modest but uncontested leader of the popular masses (both Russian and international), the champion of industrialization and agricultural collectivization, and a gifted military leader and Marxist thinker. Barbusse’s biography of the general secretary presented an expanded version of that mythical vision of Stalin and should be considered part of the initial manifestation of Stalin cult activity in the Hexagon in late 1934 and early 1935. Barbusse’s book, published by Flammarion in France, appeared in March 1935. It thus appeared before Lavrentii Pavlovich Beria’s On the History of the Bolshevik Organizations in Transcaucasia, which has been incorrectly cited as the first major official biographical statement on Stalin.122 Barbusse’s Staline appeared in Russia in serial format and as a book in 1936. The serialized version was published in the Soviet literary periodical Roman-gazeta, which had a wide circulation.123 By the time Staline appeared on bookshelves in France, Barbusse had already published two nonfiction books on the Soviet Union: the aforementioned Voici ce qu’on a fait de la Géorgie (1929)

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and Russie (One Looks at Russia, 1930). The two books purport to document various sociocultural phenomena, both longstanding and postrevolutionary, in the young Soviet state. Notably, both texts foreshadow the treatment the USSR receives in Staline and represent steps in Barbusse’s evolution as a propagandist for the Soviet Union and its leaders. In Géorgie, Barbusse provides a glowing depiction of the transformation of Transcaucasia—a region encompassing Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan—following Sovietization. Barbusse argues that, after the overthrow of the tsar, the region experienced unprecedented political freedom, an agricultural and industrial renaissance, and a burst of urban construction. The book’s main goal is to underscore that the people of the Soviet Union have overcome tremendous difficulties in a world hostile to them and, having done so, now represent a promising future for all of humanity. Given that the focus is largely on the people of the Transcaucasian region and the date of publication—early 1929, before the cult of Stalin was launched—Stalin is seldom mentioned. Indeed Lenin is mentioned far more often. Nonetheless, in describing his meeting with Stalin in Moscow in Géorgie, Barbusse is careful to depict the general secretary as a decisive and highly capable leader.124 In Russie, which is largely a compilation of articles previously published in Monde and L’Humanité, Barbusse continues along the same lines of Géorgie: the Soviet Union is depicted as a land of epic proportions, in which everything is done on a grand scale, despite immense difficulties and challenges. What was once an incredibly diverse collection of ethnicities and nationalities has been magically transformed. All racial distinctions but one, the “Soviet race,” have been eliminated.125 This new land is a place where one passes from one amazing discovery to the next, both large (the death of religion) and small (the world’s oldest man, supposedly “at least” 140 years old).126 The text clearly displays Barbusse’s infatuation with the new Soviet state, and his praise for the country is so hyperbolic that, in anticipation of criticism, he maintains that his objectivity is total and that he obeys no “Communist commandment” in depicting this budding utopia.127 And Barbusse is careful to note that he does not stand to profit from his ideological position: boycotts of pro-Soviet writers, he tells his readers, negate any money he and others would have netted from their positions.128 Nonetheless, clear signs exist that this is an early work of propaganda. In a claim that would seem straight out of Orwell’s 1984, Barbusse writes that change in the

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USSR is so fundamental and profound “that it is not visible to the eye.”129 Furthermore, the universe is split once again into sharp binaries: whereas Russia represents a categorical ideal where human equality is absolute, the West represents complete decay, a society controlled by the banker, the general, and the priest.130 The primary difference between Russie and Staline is that the central hero of the latter is largely absent. Nevertheless, Stalin rules over Russie like an invisible hand. If elements of the cult of personality are absent—again, a fact not surprising given the year of its publication and the relatively slow launch of the cult in the very early 1930s—Stalin’s policies are not. The first Five-Year Plan, agricultural collectivization, and the USSR’s constructivist ethos are all heavily promoted. And, consistent with the PCF’s discourse around the USSR, as well as Aragon’s work around this same time (Hourra l’Oural [Hurrah, the Urals] in particular), Barbusse portrays the Soviet Union as a symbol of burgeoning modernity. The absence of praise for Stalin as a figure in Russie is a lacuna for which Barbusse amply compensates in his biography of the general secretary. The full title of the biography, Staline: Un monde nouveau vu à travers un homme (Stalin: A New World Seen through One Man), gives the reader a clear sense of Barbusse’s goal in composing the text: to tell the story of a new world order, with Stalin at its center. The title is fitting in an ironic sense as well: Barbusse depicts an “official” version of the world as seen through Stalin’s eyes. The text is replete with facts—and fiction under the guise of fact—about Stalin’s personal life as well as his accomplishments both before and after the Revolution. Much of the text focuses on four decades of Russian history, with particular emphasis on the birth of the Revolution, the Bolsheviks’ struggle to consolidate power in the immediate postrevolutionary years, and the radical sociopolitical and cultural changes wrought by both Lenin and Stalin in the 1920s and 1930s. Barbusse uses myriad narrative and discursive techniques to depict Stalin as a new Messiah for the proletarians of the world. Many of those techniques can be found in any narrative purporting to be a work of nonfiction that takes on a particular advocacy position: a contract between text and reader that emphasizes the narrative’s veracity, an ordering of events calculated to emphasize the subject’s importance, and omissions of factual information unfavorable to the subject. Other techniques are shared by works of propaganda, Stalinist and otherwise: the inclusion of false and highly questionable information that is favorable to the subject;

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the careful balance of truth and fiction, such that there is often some element of credibility to what is recounted; the use of polarized language (hyperbole, superlatives, absolutes); a reliance on slogans; an abundance of repetition; the demonization of enemies; and the inclusion of details that seek to inflame the emotions of the reader.131 Throughout the biography, it is clear that Barbusse attempts to perform a balancing act between, on the one hand, depicting Stalin as an ordinary Soviet citizen among many and, on the other, as an exceptional superhuman capable of leading a worldwide revolution. The question of the superhuman is a central one in the case of Stalin, as it was fundamental to his cult of personality. In his famous February 1956 “secret speech,” Nikita Khrushchev marked a watershed moment in the dismantling of that personality cult in part by highlighting that particular issue. He stated, “After Stalin’s death the Central Committee of the party began to implement a policy of explaining concisely and consistently that it is impermissible and foreign to the spirit of Marxism-Leninism to elevate one person, to transform him into a superman possessing supernatural characteristics akin to those of a god. Such a man supposedly knows everything, sees everything, thinks for everyone, can do anything, is infallible in his behavior.”132 Given the centrality of the supernatural and superhuman to Khrushchev’s critique of the Stalin cult, analysis thereof in Staline aids in establishing the text as a foundational work of Stalinist propaganda. Furthermore, a treatment of the tension between the human and superhuman in the Barbusse biography of Stalin permits a showcasing of narrative techniques at play in the text. At some points in this analysis, it will be necessary to compare Barbusse’s telling to accounts written by historians of Stalinism and other biographers of Stalin, in order to highlight Barbusse’s status as a propagandist.133 As seen in the first pages of this chapter, Staline opens with a depiction of a massive parade at the very epicenter of the Communist universe, Lenin’s Mausoleum in Red Square: “All around diverges and converges a great symmetrical swarm, which seems to come out of the earth and to return to it. A ceremony is taking place, kaleidoscopically, through the length and breadth of the Square; an interminable fluttering procession of red canvas and red silk covered with letters of the alphabet and phrases. . . . Or else a gigantic sports parade which, as it advances, keeps forming different patterns. Or even the swarming of the most enormous army in the world, the

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people of the Red Army.”134 The lengthy and ornate spectacle—which seems to resuscitate the mummified Lenin—is centered not just around that revolutionary giant, but also around Stalin, whose name is chanted repeatedly by legions of loyal citizens.135 After getting a clear sense of Stalin’s prominence, readers then learn that his formal portrait is omnipresent on the “Soviet continent,” a geographic expanse that stretches over one-sixth of the globe.136 But lest this power give ammunition to critics of the regime or alienate Barbusse’s loyal Communist—and therefore, in principle at least, egalitarian—readership, the author is quick to highlight Stalin’s humility, his humanity, and his rejection of the luxuries and the spoils that an ordinary Westerner might assume are afforded to someone in his position. Indeed, it is meant to be encouraging that despite the magnificent splendor on display in Red Square, Stalin chooses to occupy a tiny three-story house in the Kremlin: “[An] insignificant edifice, which would probably escape your notice if it were not pointed out to you . . . and that was inhabited by some servant of the Tsar.”137 The space and food provided to the general secretary are so basic that the average capitalist worker would not be satisfied with Stalin’s living conditions. And this family man—readers learn he is surrounded by his children—makes the same salary as his colleagues: “the meager maximum salary of officials of the Communist Party.”138 Just after this description of Stalin as an ordinary man, the tension between the human and superhuman resurfaces, in case Barbusse’s readers might think that Stalin is so ordinary that he does not merit attention. Barbusse therefore quickly highlights not just Stalin’s significance (“He is the most important of all our contemporaries”), but by extension the importance of his own text: “The biography of Stalin . . . is an extremely important part of the Russian workers’ revolutionary movement.”139 It is “a very serious undertaking” to document the affairs of this man who is involved in “the work of a whole continent.”140 For the story of Stalin leads readers to “new situations in the sacred annals of humanity.”141 It is a story that deals with “the burning question of all time, namely, what is to be the future of the human race, so martyred hitherto by history, and what is the amount of comfort and the amount of earthly justice to which it may aspire?”142 In that grandiose overture, readers of Barbusse have already been exposed to three myths about Stalin, “this mover of universes.”143 The first would be that the general secretary was loved by all Soviet citizens, a notion that is

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nothing short of an absurdity. A cursory glance at the history of the collectivization of agriculture in the late 1920s and early 1930s will render that clear: massive property expropriations, significant peasant unrest and resistance, millions exiled, several million dead from famine. Furthermore, by 1935, terror had already become a primary instrument of Stalin’s governance, with purges, executions, and exiles on a large scale that would only become more massive during the Great Terror of 1937–38. The second myth—natural domesticity chez Stalin—is easily debunked as well. In painting the picture of Stalin’s home life, where his oldest son is said to sleep on a convertible bed in the dining room, Barbusse makes no mention in the opening pages of Stalin’s recently deceased wife, Nadezhda Alliluyeva. Barbusse’s sole and very reverential reference to her is found near the very end of the text, describing in accurate terms her gravestone.144 What Barbusse does not mention is that Nadezhda had committed suicide in 1932, an act interpreted by some as a loyal Communist’s protest against Stalin’s policies but that was more likely the result of her frail mental health and Stalin’s philandering.145 Furthermore, Barbusse does not mention that Nadezhda was actually Stalin’s second wife. Stalin was first married in 1906 to Ekaterine “Kato” Svanidze, with whom he had his first son, Yakov (he of the convertible bed).146 Recent biographies provide ample detail regarding Stalin’s deficiencies as a husband to Kato and father to Yakov.147 Kato fell ill and died in November 1907. (Her relatives would blame her death on Stalin’s neglect.) Afterward, Yakov went to live with other relatives for the next fourteen years.148 Stalin also fathered at least two illegitimate children.149 His poor qualities as a father and husband pale in comparison to what would come in the latter half of the 1930s, when he persecuted members of the Alliluyev and Svanidze families.150 Finally, the notion that Stalin lived a meager life as leader of the USSR is a fallacy: for instance, although he lived in a “gloomy” apartment in the Poteshny Palace in the early 1930s, he also had a very large dacha outside Moscow.151 His regular trips to the South for vacations inspired him to build new homes.152 The Kremlin had Rolls-Royce automobiles that were kept in a special garage, and in 1935 Stalin ordered 40,000 Cadillacs for the workers of the NKVD (the secret police apparatus).153 The idea that Stalin lived a humble material existence is common among admirers who see assertions about the general secretary’s enjoyment of the material privileges of power as “vulgar calumnies, intolerable blots on their cherished picture

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of a simple and modest leader.”154 This is part of what Plamper describes as Stalin’s “immodest modesty.” He writes, “The modesty was affected in order to overcome the contradiction of a personality cult in a polity that claimed to be implementing a collectivist ideology, Marxism.”155 And true to form, Stalin’s material comfort was a sensitive enough topic that Barbusse’s reference to a “femme de service”—a female domestic servant, who on occasion would prepare food for Stalin—was deleted from the English translation of the biography.156 In a similar vein, such “immodest modesty” extended to the creation of the cult of personality itself, as Davies and Harris show. Stalin was critical of the cult (of which he supposedly had no control) while he simultaneously gave signals to allow it to continue.157 The mythmaking continues in Barbusse’s telling of Stalin’s childhood, which follows the book’s opening sequence. As is the case with the depiction of the massive rally at Red Square and Stalin’s daily life, the account of Stalin’s origins highlights, paradoxically, both the exceptional nature of his talents and his fundamental ordinariness. The young Joseph (“Soso”) is depicted as a perfectly normal boy, although he was endowed with the bearing of a refined intellectual. Barbusse describes his father as a hardworking but impoverished shoemaker: “He was a poor man, of very little education; but he was a good man.”158 Despite their poverty, his parents were deeply dedicated to him. Barbusse writes that it was his father who enrolled him in school in Gori and then in the Tiflis Seminary, from which he was expelled because of his illicit readings of forbidden subjects like natural science and sociology.159 Those rebellions foreshadowed an adolescence and young adulthood filled with early revolutionary activities and astounding intellectual growth. He moved from the seminary into the world of the factories and the workers, as a “workman in the workers’ cause.”160 Barbusse’s telling of Stalin’s childhood is in part corroborated by some of the most recent scholarship and biographies on Stalin, which argue that Soso was a gifted student and voracious reader, in addition to being a tough, street-smart youth with a magnetic personality.161 Nevertheless, recent accounts of Stalin’s childhood are vastly different from Barbusse’s airbrushed version, in that they also explore the substantial turmoil and violence in Soso’s upbringing. In that regard, recent scholarship and biographies share a good deal in common with earlier historiography on Stalin’s life, much of which insists upon his debilitating physical injuries, his

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various deformities and ailments, and his alcoholic and abusive father.162 Consistent across biographies of Stalin is that he came from a broken home in which beatings were common.163 Soso’s father eventually abandoned him and his mother. Still, his mother was devoted to him and was determined to raise an educated son. It was due to her tremendous efforts (not his father’s, as Barbusse wrote) that Soso enrolled at the Gori Church School at the age of ten and was later admitted to the seminary in Tiflis (now, Tbilisi).164 Barbusse’s depiction of Soso’s rebelliousness as a seminarian is accurate in its broad strokes. Although he excelled in his early years at the seminary, he was notorious for reading contraband texts. He was indeed expelled (officially, for missing exams).165 Barbusse’s claim that Stalin moved from seminary directly to a worker’s life, however, is false: the future dictator’s brushes with an ordinary worker’s existence were brief and very few in number. His experience working was mainly alongside his father, who in Soso’s early childhood was not an impoverished laborer, but rather the owner of a shoe workshop, complete with apprentices and as many as ten employees (an “exploiter,” Stalin would later call him).166 The story of Stalin’s youth that Barbusse tells is thus an entirely plausible and pleasant tale of the evolution of a seminal revolutionary figure from his humble origins. It is also a tale that, in spite of a few strategically placed facts, contains a number of inaccuracies and falsehoods. If limited to such personal details, Barbusse’s sanitized version of the early life of the general secretary could be understandable for an account that is meant to be favorable to its subject. This is especially so in the case of a public figure meant to represent the aspirations of an entire people and the international working class. However, Barbusse’s mythmaking about Stalin’s origins is far from innocent, as it sets the stage for misconceptions and falsehoods about matters of great political import later in the biography. Barbusse adeptly moves from those opening pages to an overview of four decades of Russian history, with Stalin’s personal history intertwined. As the latter part of the story moves on, uncritical devotion to and adulation of Stalin overwhelm Barbusse’s feeble early efforts to tie his subject’s experience to that of the ordinary Soviet citizen and functionary. As readers learn about the Bolshevik Revolution and its origins, World War I, the civil war, the New Economic Policy, the “parasitic war” with the Trotskyist Left Opposition, and two Five-Year Plans, Barbusse not only accentuates Soviet

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exceptionalism, but also the extraordinary qualities of Stalin. As a young man and underground revolutionary leader, Stalin is described as being born of “thunder and lightning.”167 He is depicted as someone who was, in a sense, born a revolutionary, finding his calling to work with and for the masses as a very young man. Readers of Barbusse are told that Stalin was a sort of monk for the Marxist cause: “[He] had neither home nor family; he lived and thought exclusively for the Revolution.”168 Barbusse’s depiction of Stalin as an exceptional agitator and dedicated revolutionary figure before October is consonant with recent biographies.169 Nonetheless, Barbusse leaves out any number of roles that Stalin played that do not fit the narrative of a Marxist monk, including arsonist, bank robber, kidnapper, pirate, and murderer.170 Indeed, Barbusse elides many details around the overall climate of criminality, conspiracy, violence, and terrorism in which Stalin operated for many years.171 Instead, Barbusse emphasizes the exceptional heroism, courage, strength, and intelligence revolutionaries needed to survive under the tsar and the “immense forces of Capitalism” that gripped the country.172 And revolutions, Barbusse tells his readers as he delineates Stalin’s history, are achieved through the rational forces and logical systems of Marxism.173 Barbusse therefore sanitizes and depersonalizes the violence inherent in revolutionary activity, describing true Marxist socialism as “concrete wisdom, which tends naturally towards the double task of demolition and construction.”174 Revolution, therefore, seems little more than the product of a fruitful intellectual exercise. It is crucial to take note of such minimization of violence—in particular Stalin’s violent revolutionary existence before October—as it is indicative of Barbusse’s willingness to obfuscate, downplay, or justify the Soviet ruler’s career-long penchant toward violence and his cavalier attitude regarding the value of human life. In this instance, this downplaying of violence— which is atypical for Barbusse, as we have seen—is likely an indicator of two goals: first, to appeal to a broader readership, and second, to ensure that the portrayal of Stalin as a young man meshes with that of the courageous and inclusive international leader he would supposedly become. Barbusse’s very brief telling of a deadly workers’ uprising in 1902 that Stalin led in Batumi, Georgia, is an excellent example of this tendency. Although Barbusse tells of the resulting casualties and describes Stalin as the leader of the uprising, he offers little detail, stating only that Stalin placed himself

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at the head of the demonstration, “like a target.”175 In contrast with this model of self-sacrifice, according to Simon Sebag Montefiore’s detailed account, Stalin was exhilarated by the uprising and viewed the human cost as secondary to the political value of the violence.176 Barbusse’s treatment of Stalin’s performance during the civil war is similarly partial, but in this instance, as in others depicting his work as leader of the Soviet Union, the mythmaking begins to have greater consequences for Stalin as a leader in the new socialist state. During the civil war, Barbusse describes Stalin’s exploits as legendary: “Stalin’s successes seem, because of their speed and completeness, to be the result of strikes by a magic wand.”177 In this context, Barbusse shifts gears and now praises Stalin’s “main de fer” (“mailed fist,” or iron hand) and his willingness to be ruthless, given the importance of the cause: “With enemies, we will behave as enemies.”178 He depicts Stalin’s role as singularly heroic: “Wherever on the Civil War front the danger was greatest, there Stalin was sent.”179 Russian historian Medvedev refutes this notion, by criticizing a similar assertion repeated in Stalin’s Short Biography, an official successor to Barbusse’s Staline. He writes, “In the late twenties Stalin was frequently referred to as a top military leader of the revolution. Later, when most of the commanders and commissars of the civil war had been killed, people began to write about Stalin as the ‘direct inspirer and organizer of the most important victories of the Red Army in the civil war, a man whom the party sent to every front where the fate of the revolution was being decided.’ This myth was destroyed by Soviet historians in the early sixties.”180 In one particularly important instance of a misrepresentation of facts, Barbusse describes Stalin’s alleged heroics and success in the city of Tsaritsyn (later named Stalingrad, and today Volgograd), where he was sent to resolve a food crisis. He writes that in Tsaritsyn, “This man, who had never served in the army, possessed such a comprehensive sense of organization that he was able to understand and to solve all the most intricate and difficult technical problems.”181 Barbusse’s telling of the situation of Tsaritsyn and the results of Stalin’s military rule there differs sharply from other historical accounts and can serve as a fine case study in how he distorts history in the biography.182 In reality, Stalin failed to resolve the crisis and his iron-fisted tactics rendered chaotic Tsaritsyn’s military situation, creating what Hiroaki Kuromiya refers to as a “black hole” and a “murderous bedlam”: “Everything disappeared there: money,

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people, and equipment designated for other purposes were expropriated by Stalin’s orders.”183 So bad was the situation that, at Trotsky’s insistence, Stalin was recalled to Moscow by Lenin. Barbusse’s depiction of Stalin as a brilliant military strategist and leader is consonant with Stalin’s own lifelong vision of himself as “a natural commander-in-chief.”184 It also meshes with the portrayal of Generalissimo Stalin in post–World War II propaganda as the world’s sole bulwark against fascism. And indeed, in January 1950, L’Humanité ran a prominent feature on the parallels between Stalin’s crushing of the enemy in the same city but in two different eras: 1918 Tsaritsyn and 1943 Stalingrad.185 “I do not obey God, I think the same as he”

Barbusse’s glowing treatment of Stalin as a young man, revolutionary-era Bolshevik, and civil war veteran pales in comparison to his depiction of Stalin as a head of state. As the above quote (from Seneca via Barbusse) aligning Stalin with God suggests, the whitewashing of his record and the glorification of his persona reach new levels in the latter portions of the biography.186 The “God” referenced in that quote is Lenin, which is fitting given the professed secularism of the Communist universe. Barbusse emphasizes repeatedly that Stalin is Lenin’s loyal disciple. This is neither by chance nor unique to Barbusse’s iteration of Stalin’s life story and his version of Russian history. Historian Alan Wood writes that the cult of Leninism “was established immediately after the Bolshevik leader’s death. . . . Lenin was immortalized, almost deified, and a whole idolatrous cult was built around his name, with all the ritual trappings, ceremonial, sacred texts and symbols, mythology and hagiography of a major religion.”187 Once Lenin’s supremacy was established, Robert Tucker writes, Stalin’s “glorifiers set about rewriting history in accordance with Stalin’s canons and in a manner calculated to accentuate [Stalin’s] role and merits in the party’s revolutionary past, while discrediting those of his enemies.”188 The result was a “hyphenate cult of an infallible Lenin-Stalin.”189 It is clear that Barbusse attempts to render legitimate Stalin’s rule through a link with Lenin. His Staline therefore plays a role not just in the creation of the cult of personality around Stalin, but also in the perpetuation of the cult of personality around Lenin. Given this “hyphenate cult” phenomenon, it is therefore not inconsequential that Lenin is introduced in the very first paragraph of Staline, as

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he is crucial to the depiction of Stalin as a legitimate ruler of the worldwide proletarian movement. Indeed, Barbusse uses this biography to recount to his French readership the early life story of Stalin, as well as Lenin’s parallel rise to power. In this portrayal, even at the age of seventeen, Lenin had superb revolutionary and “scientific” (i.e., Marxist) instincts, and at twentythree, he demonstrated a fine mind capable of jousting with the most distinguished theoreticians of his era.190 Furthermore, his capacity to lead was uncanny: “Out of an apathetic worker he would make a rebel; and out of a rebel he would make a revolutionary.”191 His ideas were not just brilliant, but altogether new to this world: “the most vast temporal schemes that have ever been conceived by the human brain.”192 Like the Soviet enterprise as a whole, Lenin was truly exceptional: “Lenin, agitator and world statesman, and quasi-superhuman in the infallibility with which, in every circumstance, he was completely successful in combining revolutionary theory and practice.”193 The various nicknames Barbusse uses to refer to Lenin only reinforce this “quasi-superhuman” status, including one favored by Stalin: “a mountain eagle.”194 Barbusse also refers to Lenin as “Le Géant” (the Giant), “ce bienfaiteur” (this do-gooder), or even simply “l’Autre” (the Other One).195 “L’Autre,” the “Other One,” is a useful designation for Lenin in Barbusse’s narrative, because as he tells it, destiny seemed to bring Lenin and Stalin together. Even before they met, they shared common intellectual pursuits in Marxism.196 Both have the gift of being accessible to all workers, and both have the capacity to transform other men into revolutionaries.197 When the time came to choose between the Bolsheviks and Mensheviks, Stalin decided “Lenin.”198 Stalin’s decision is cast as a formative moment and in mythic terms: “A moment always arrives at which a man of action must make a decision of this sort which is destined to affect the whole future course of his life. One is reminded of the old Greek myth, grandiose because of its antiquity, of Hercules being compelled to choose, at the beginning of his divine and sportive career, between Vice and Virtue.”199 Even stylistically, Stalin follows in Lenin’s footsteps, “instinctively” adopting the latter’s simple style of oratory. (Still, the ever-exceptional Stalin is capable of speeches that are literary masterpieces.)200 Stalin as the living incarnation of all things Leninist is a primary motif of this text, a characteristic Staline shares with cult themes circulated in the

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USSR in the late 1920s and early 1930s.201 In a chapter titled “The Giant,” which is largely devoted to Lenin’s revolutionary career, Barbusse writes, “Il n’y eut jamais de désaccord entre Lénine et Staline.”202 The assertion is even more categorical in the English translation: “There was never, at any time, any difference of opinion between Lenin and Stalin.”203 Barbusse’s claim is a curious one, and its adamance renders it worthy of close examination. Many historians argue that, despite an earlier close working relationship and even a tight bond, Lenin and Stalin had hostile relations in the period before Lenin’s death.204 Evidence of that hostility is said to be found in the series of texts known as “Lenin’s Testament.”205 In those texts, which are said to have been dictated by Lenin in December 1922 and January 1923 while he was ailing after two strokes, Lenin expresses doubts about Stalin’s capacity to use the “immense power” he had concentrated in his hands as general secretary with “sufficient caution.”206 He is also said to have suggested that comrades find a way to “remove” Stalin from his position.207 There is recent debate among historians around the actual provenance of those texts due to a lack of firm documentary evidence.208 That debate notwithstanding, Lenin’s Testament is an important part of Soviet history, as it threatened Stalin’s legitimacy and contributed to his overall sense of mistrust and paranoia.209 Medvedev’s research indicates, for instance, that many Communists were interned in camps or incarcerated for possession of the “counterrevolutionary” Testament.210 In short, any legitimate account of Lenin’s death and Stalin’s rise to power requires at least some reference to the Testament. While Barbusse makes no reference to it, I would argue that his categorical assertion—“There was never, at any time, any difference of opinion between Lenin and Stalin”—is actually a way of refuting the validity of the Testament without acknowledging its existence. It is highly unlikely that Barbusse was unaware of the Testament. It was referenced in a number of books about Stalin and the Soviet Union available in France as he was writing the biography.211 Furthermore, the Testament was published in Clarté, Barbusse’s former journal, in a November 1927 special issue devoted to the tenth anniversary of the October Revolution.212 Considering the journal’s Trotskyist slant in its final phase, its publication there is not surprising. The argument in favor of the legitimacy of Lenin’s Testament was especially appealing to supporters of Trotsky, whom they saw as Lenin’s real successor. It is within this context that Barbusse’s withering criticisms

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of Trotsky, found throughout Staline, should be read. Indeed, whereas Barbusse describes Stalin as bold, clear-sighted, earnest, modest, collegial, confident, progressive, and a true Leninist, he depicts Trotsky as cowardly, pessimistic, Bonapartist, divisive, vain, and anti-Leninist. Barbusse’s assertions about the absolute integrity of the Lenin-Stalin bond are at least in part a means of attacking Trotsky’s legitimacy. The anti-Trotsky slant found in Staline would remain integral to French Stalinist propaganda well after Trotsky was killed by Stalin’s agent in 1940.213 Barbusse saves his most soaring rhetoric around the Lenin-Stalin cult for the final passage of Staline, which is worth quoting here at length. Barbusse strategically begins and ends his book by putting the first two Soviet heads of state in close juxtaposition, thereby reinforcing their proximity in the reader’s mind. After painting a picture of a politically menacing world in which the only hope for the future of humanity lies in the USSR and Stalin (“The Man at the Wheel”), Barbusse ends his narrative with words that are meant to comfort readers: When one passes at night through the Red Square . . . it seems as though the man who lies in the tomb, in the center of that nocturnal, deserted square, is the only person in the world who is not asleep, and who watches over everything around him, in the towns and in the fields. He is the real leader—the one of whom the workers used laughingly to say that he was master and comrade at the same time; he is the paternal brother who is really watching over everyone. Although you do not know him, he knows you and is thinking of you. Whoever you may be, you have need of this benefactor. Whoever you may be, the finest part of your destiny is in the hands of that other man who also watches over you, and who works for you—the man with a scholar’s mind [la tête de savant], a workman’s face, and the dress of a private soldier.214

That final passage of Staline grants both Lenin and Stalin omniscience and omnipotence. Barbusse’s granting of such powers to Lenin in his afterlife is in alignment with the latter’s cult, which since his death had been based upon one theme: as Tumarkin puts it, “Lenin lives!”215 She writes, “A declaration of Lenin’s immortality was a pledge of faith and loyalty to the party and government.”216 Simultaneous with that grandiose—but politically expedient—declaration, Barbusse attempts, albeit feebly, to create room for both Lenin and Stalin to be considered the comrades of ordinary Soviet citizens. That tension is captured in the reference to Lenin as the “paternal brother” and in Stalin’s ordinary face and clothing, which belie the mind of a scholar (savant).

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Despite such cosmetic efforts to retain a semblance of balance, by the final pages of the narrative, the extraordinary overwhelms the ordinary, and Barbusse’s approach to Stalin’s body of work becomes so laudatory and uncritical, it is difficult to refer to it as anything other than propaganda. Barbusse writes that the masses literally have “faith” in him: “Faith rises from the soil itself.”217 And without irony, Barbusse tells his readers, “If Stalin has faith in the masses, it is reciprocated. It is a veritable religion [un véritable culte] that the New Russia holds for Stalin. . . . He has saved. He will save.”218 The uneasy balance between splendor and humility found at the beginning of the narrative is gone, and the promotion of the revolutionary project— under the guidance of a messianic leader-hero—takes precedence. A Soldier for Peace?

Given his extensive political commitment, his status as a decorated war veteran, and his record as an antiwar writer, it may be tempting to take Barbusse’s stance at face value: that his deep commitment to world peace led him to espouse the Soviet enterprise and its leader with immense fervor. To be sure, the notion that Barbusse was a steadfast warrior against fascism and for peace is a constant in the reportage in L’Humanité on his death. In exhorting Parisians to turn out for his funeral, for example, the main frontpage headline of L’Humanité on September 7, 1935, blared, “People of Paris, you will be behind Barbusse, soldier of peace!” That description was apparently borrowed by Barbusse’s secretary, Annette Vidal, for her laudatory book on Barbusse’s life as a writer and intellectual, Henri Barbusse: Soldat de la paix. Critic and historian Frank Field very much went in this direction in his friendly interpretation of Barbusse’s pro-Soviet political engagement at the end of his life. He writes, “It would be churlish to criticize Barbusse too harshly for his efforts to spare mankind another holocaust like the one that had taken place between 1914 and 1918.”219 Philippe Baudorre adopted a similar approach in his biography of Barbusse, which is revealingly subtitled “Le pourfendeur de la Grande Guerre,” the “sworn enemy” of the Great War. Baudorre in fact minimizes the Stalinist side of Barbusse’s career. He devotes, for instance, just two pages of his four-hundred-page biography to Staline, referring to it as Barbusse’s most mediocre and conventional book. Of the portrait of Stalin as “the man with a scholar’s mind, a workman’s face, and the dress of a private soldier,” Baudorre is critical, but he allows readers

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plenty of room to forgive Barbusse. He writes, “This simplistic invocation, which can today seem either disarmingly naïve or revolting in its madness, was celebrated when it was published.” Baudorre tries to justify the stance by stating that the book was lauded upon its publication by Aragon and Nizan.220 Jean Relinger’s treatment of Barbusse in the 1994 intellectual biography titled Henri Barbusse: Ecrivain combattant is equally forgiving. Relinger is willing to pardon Barbusse because he fell for the ruses of his Potemkin visits to the USSR: “How could Barbusse not have been seduced by that fascinating country?”221 For Relinger, Barbusse could not help but be impressed by the “tenacious work” and the “surge of enthusiasm” he witnessed in that country.222 More significantly, Relinger’s analysis of Barbusse’s Stalin-era texts overemphasizes a supposed balance and objectivity in Barbusse’s depictions of the Soviet Union. He states, for instance, “Barbusse details numerous difficulties that the new state has seen and still sees.”223 Evoking “difficulties” is a poor defense for Barbusse, however, given that pro-Soviet propaganda often evokes exceptional hardships experienced by the revolutionaries to justify harsh measures put in place to overcome those difficulties. Furthermore, the overwhelming impression that Barbusse’s body of work gives of the Soviet Union is of a budding—and, in certain respects, fully blossomed—utopia worthy of the world’s admiration. Relinger states that Barbusse’s method in depicting the Soviet Union was to give precedence to principles over empirical facts.224 That position is untenable, however, given the vast amount of supposed factual and statistical data Barbusse furnishes his readers about the Soviet Union, its economy, and its people in Staline, Russie, and Voici ce qu’on a fait de la Géorgie. The latter text even inspired a book-length rebuttal, H. Barbusse, les Soviets et la Géorgie by David Charachidzé, who took fundamental issue with Barbusse’s sunny observations about Soviet Georgia, particularly the supposed successes of agrarian reform. He highlights, for instance, poverty, inadequate food supplies, and a lack of sufficient industrial equipment. Also important for our purposes here is that Charachidzé criticizes Barbusse for his basic research methods, arguing that Barbusse only used sources provided to him by the Bolsheviks and that he did not even attempt an investigation of the many layers of Georgian society.225 Charachidzé moreover critiques Barbusse for ignoring an entire body of literature (in French and other European languages)

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about Georgian history and for being heavily biased toward the power structures imposed from Moscow (interviewing jailers rather than prisoners, for instance).226 He writes, “For [Barbusse], veneration for a revolution has turned into absolute subjugation to a government.”227 He also makes clear his disappointment in Barbusse’s transformation, not to mention Stalin’s regime, which he characterizes as deeply corrupt, extremely violent, and oppressive. He writes, “We have seen the author of Le Feu glorify the most widely known militarism and imperialism.”228 Marcel Cachin, who had hailed Géorgie upon its publication as “a book of capital importance” in L’Humanité, was clearly rankled by the rebuttal to Barbusse’s book and devotes a lengthy digression in his notebooks to “this Charachidzé.”229 It is worth pointing out that all of Charachidzé’s criticisms of Géorgie can also apply to Barbusse’s Staline. Relinger cautions us that when we are analyzing Barbusse’s record, we should neither justify nor excuse: “one must simply try to understand.”230 He argues that one cannot evaluate Barbusse’s work without seeing that Stalin’s worst excesses occurred after Barbusse’s death. That is matter for debate, as at least one historian writes that, quantitatively speaking, the deaths that occurred during the collectivization of agriculture rivaled those of the Great Terror.231 Regardless, the commission of greater and more spectacular crimes in the late 1930s would not diminish the criminality of events that transpired before or during the period in which Barbusse wrote his book. Not unlike Baudorre, Relinger tries to justify Barbusse’s commitment to Stalinism through relativism and by lumping him together with all other intellectuals, even those who had written critically about the USSR: “There were no good guys or bad guys, just another point of view.”232 Relinger states that there was not a single writer, including Gide, who presented an “objective” view of the Soviet system.233 Relinger does allow for some criticisms of his subject to stand, including that Barbusse prioritized too much the glorious end over the violent means.234 He also recognizes the problematic positions created by Barbusse’s tendency toward messianism.235 Still, by and large, the impression created by his biography is that he seeks to rationalize (not simply “understand”) Barbusse’s promotion in France of the cult of personality and the Soviet enterprise.

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It is worthy of note that Relinger mentions André Gide in his defense of Barbusse. Indeed, the simple existence of cases like Gide’s challenges the basic premises of those who defend, excuse, or try to “understand” the espousal of Stalin and his rule by Barbusse and many others. Individuals like Gide, who were welcomed in similar Potemkin fashion to the USSR and still retained their artistic and intellectual integrity, serve as a powerful counterargument to the notion that Barbusse could not help but be seduced by what he was shown. Furthermore, the “seduction” that took place in the USSR for Gide, Barbusse, and many others had a material component that was far from negligible. As Gide writes, “I assure you that there is something tragic in my Soviet adventure. As an enthusiast, as a convert, I had visited to admire a new world, and they offered me, in order to seduce me, all the privileges that I loathed in the old world.”236 The prospect of becoming a best-selling and wealthy author was a real one: “The Moscow newspapers told me that in the span of a few months more than 400,000 copies of my books had sold. . . . Had I written a panegyric text on the USSR and Stalin, what a fortune I would have made!”237 Alongside material considerations, there is evidence that Barbusse was complicit in—rather than just helplessly seduced, enticed, or duped by— efforts to craft a positive public image of the Soviet Union at the expense of the truth. Barbusse used an untold number of sources to craft his biography of Stalin. The number remains untold because Barbusse provides no bibliography, a very small number of footnotes, and often quotes his sources without specific attribution. As I have shown elsewhere, he uses his source material in ways that deliberately obfuscate the brutalities of the regime. He made a strategic cut, for instance, from a lengthy transcript of an interview between Stalin and the German journalist and writer Emil Ludwig.238 In a discussion on the Bolsheviks’ battles with counterrevolutionary forces, Barbusse deleted (for obvious reasons) from his rendering of the interview the following statement made by Stalin: “Experience taught us that the only way to cope with such enemies is to adopt a ruthless policy of suppression.”239 In addition, one cannot claim that information about Soviet atrocities and Stalin’s authoritarianism was simply not available in the West in the early 1930s. There were a number of books in circulation in France in that time period that provided information critical of the general secretary and the regime. Among them is Essad Bey’s Staline, published in French translation

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(from the German) in 1931 and the following year in English under the title Stalin: The Career of a Fanatic. One of the first unofficial biographers of Stalin, Bey is accurate in the broad strokes of his description of Stalin’s prerevolutionary activities (including crime and conspiracy) and the overall tenor of his dictatorial rule. He describes Stalin’s humiliating recall at Tsaritsyn during the civil war, as well as the critiques of Stalin attributed to Lenin in the Testament.240 Bey also accurately describes Stalin’s taste for luxury, including his penchant for Rolls-Royce automobiles.241 Also highly noteworthy is Boris Souvarine’s Staline: Aperçu historique du bolchévisme (Stalin: A Critical Survey of Bolshevism). Souvarine, as mentioned earlier, was a founding member of the PCF who was excommunicated in 1924 for deviating from party orthodoxy. Although released three months after Barbusse’s text—and therefore erroneously characterized as a “response” to it—Souvarine’s Staline was a project five years in the making.242 The book covers Stalin’s life and political trajectory, as well as the rise to power of the Bolsheviks. Unlike Barbusse, Souvarine is transparent with his sources: his text is rich with footnotes and contains a very lengthy bibliography. It is clear from just the opening pages that Souvarine provides factbased criticisms of Stalin and the USSR. While Souvarine’s account does downplay aspects of Stalin’s important role alongside Lenin, it is quite accurate regarding the authoritarian nature of Stalin’s rule. Souvarine describes in detail political repression, large-scale deportations, and severe famine in the USSR under Stalin. He is also critical of the gross exaggerations propagated by the Soviet regime around the greatness of its leader. He takes particular issue with the cult of personality, which seemed to have been created out of thin air, alongside the glorious military history of Stalin himself. In contradiction of the new Stalinist official history of the civil war, he writes, “There is nothing about Stalin in the military works, or the historical memoirs and studies on the Russian Civil War. For ten years no Communist author thought it worthwhile to give him any notice.”243 And like Essad Bey, Souvarine describes Lenin’s Testament.244 It is clear from the party’s treatment of Souvarine’s Staline that they viewed it as a threat. Commune, for instance, published an article by Georges Sadoul in which he reviewed both Souvarine’s and Barbusse’s books on Stalin. Given the composition of the executive committee and the editorial board of the journal (which at the time included Rolland, Aragon, and

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Barbusse) and Sadoul’s own fascination with the USSR, the results are predictable.245 Whereas Sadoul describes Barbusse’s text as one that everyone should read for its “considerable substance,” he slams Souvarine’s text for its “monumental fabrications.”246 Sadoul even denigrates Souvarine’s Staline for the qualities that render it so valuable a source today, criticizing the author for having the erudition of a “bookworm.”247 Barbusse, Staline, and the Front Populair e

Given the status of Staline as the Soviet leader’s first official biography, France is not a primary focus of the text. Nevertheless, Barbusse conducts an overview of the contemporary worldwide geopolitical landscape, with particular emphasis on European nations (including France) and their status as potential threats to the USSR, which is depicted as the world’s best hope for peace. Furthermore, throughout the biography, Barbusse intersperses a number of critiques of France, its political situation, its historical and revolutionary legacy, and French nationalism. He describes, for example, the 1789 revolution as “curtailed,” and he sees a corrupt bourgeoisie as its legacy.248 France forms part of a European landscape that is filled with “cardboard republics.”249 Reactionary regimes throughout Europe are disguised by “republican catchwords.”250 Taken together, Barbusse’s critiques of France in Staline indicate that his stance in late 1934 and early 1935 changed little, if at all, when compared to the position he staked out in the 1920s and the early part of the 1930s. This becomes especially clear when comparing Staline to his 1927 essay titled “French Revolution and Russian Revolution.” In that text, which he wrote in his capacity as literary director at L’Humanité, Barbusse puts into sharp contrast the 1789 revolutionary movement with the Paris Commune and above all the Russian Revolution. He writes that 1789 merely resulted in a change of oligarchic control, from the aristocracy to the bourgeoisie, arguing that the proletariat benefited very little from its meaningful contribution to the revolution. And again he asserts that the republic is nothing but empty rhetoric and slogans: “We see above all a change of hands beneath a change of label.”251 Fundamental to Barbusse’s argument about the failure of the French Revolution of 1789 is that incremental reformism results only in failure, a stance he maintained from the early 1920s onward. In ever Manichaean and Leninist fashion, he writes in 1927, “It is counterrevolutionary to be only

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halfway revolutionary. The French Revolution proved that in one sense. The Russian Revolution will prove it in another.”252 The primary difference in Barbusse’s stance in Staline is that his critiques of republican forms of government are updated for the looming threat of fascism in the mid-1930s. In Staline, he writes, “All European and American governments are either fascist or pre-fascist.”253 As we have seen, Barbusse’s critiques of the French republic and social democracy are fundamentally related to his antinationalist stance. And nationalism, Barbusse writes in Staline, is the principal driving force of fascism.254 Such assertions and beliefs are aligned with fundamental precepts of Comintern doctrine from the late 1920s and early 1930s in which use of the label “social-fascist” to refer to Western “bourgeois” social democracies was quite common. Barbusse saw nationalism as being completely incompatible with internationalism. He writes in Staline, “One cannot be nationalist and internationalist at the same time without being dishonest, and this surrender marked the moral decline of the Second International.”255 What is interesting, however, is that since Staline was published in March 1935, it appeared less than a year after the Comintern ordered the PCF to transition to a new United Front (“Front Unique”) policy that would soon lead to the rise of the Front Populaire.256 That change in policy reflected the Soviet view that fascist governments—as opposed to bourgeois democracies—presented the most serious threat to the security of the USSR. In the period 1934–39, this new policy would consist of support for the following: cross-class cooperation with the leaders of the socialist party and other left-leaning parties, reform of the Soviet constitution, the USSR’s diplomatic efforts to engage the West, and Soviet membership in the League of Nations. Party rhetoric around social democrats as “social-fascists” would be buried in favor of collaboration. Most significantly, as seen earlier, Communist patriotism emerged: elements of bourgeois traditions were deemed worthwhile in this new worldview, and the PCF adopted a nationalist line.257 French revolutionary symbols, slogans, imagery, and history—“La Marseillaise,” Bastille Day, the French tricolored flag—would be embraced by the party and instrumentalized in propaganda. During this period, the PCF thus promoted a combination of French nationalism and Stalinist internationalism, similar to what would be advocated quite vigorously during the Cominform era.

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It is also in this context that the Franco-Soviet Mutual Assistance Pact was signed (May 1935) and ratified (February 1936). The pact was aimed at Nazi Germany and specified that in the event of “unprovoked aggression on the part of a European state, the USSR and France will immediately lend each other reciprocal aid and assistance.”258 After subsequent meetings between Stalin and then–foreign minister Pierre Laval, the two sides released a joint communiqué, stating: “Mr. Stalin understands and fully approves the national defense policy pursued by France with the object of maintaining its armed forces at a level consistent with its security requirements.”259 The communiqué was published by L’Humanité and, as Stéphane Courtois and Marc Lazar describe it, Communist posters appeared throughout the country, declaring Staline a raison, “Stalin is right.”260 In supporting the pact, the PCF abandoned its longtime stance against militarism and defense of the (French) fatherland.261 There is thus tension between Barbusse’s viewpoint in Staline and nascent Comintern Front Populaire–era policy. To be sure, Barbusse does present a strong critique of fascism in the text, a stance that was quite a natural fit for him and one that was fundamental to the Front Populaire’s mission. And he did make a few cosmetic efforts in Staline to advocate for the new policy shift of Western engagement, including supporting the USSR’s recent entry into the League of Nations and praising the “Front Unique.”262 Still, these were minor concessions to the shift in policy, and when read in the context of the entire biography, they are overwhelmed by the perspective Barbusse had promoted in the prior decade and a half of his support for the USSR. That is to say, Staline is dominated by his hostility to reformism, openness with the West, French nationalism, and the bourgeois traditions and legacy of 1789. Moreover, despite Stalin’s recent diplomatic engagements, Barbusse continued to depict the USSR as a country hemmed in by enemies, particularly the perfidious Western European states. Thus, from the standpoint of Front Populaire–era policy, Staline was out-of-date shortly after it appeared. That fact did not matter to the PCF and its various media outlets, in which the text was promoted aggressively over the next few months. Aragon’s review of Staline in Monde, which appeared after the Franco-Soviet pact was signed, even praises the text in relation to the new policy of international engagement, evoking the new slogan “Staline a raison” repeatedly. (It is even the title of the

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review.) He furthermore links the text to the new era of working-class political unity, despite the fact that Barbusse’s Staline is fundamentally as sectarian as his prior work. Indeed, Aragon references the huge Front Populaire rally of May 1935, stating, “Henri Barbusse, historiographer of Stalin, translates through his most recent book the force of the masses.”263 Given the fact that that review of Staline appeared in Barbusse’s Monde three months after the book was released (in contrast, reviews appeared in L’Humanité one month after it appeared), it is possible that Aragon’s text was strategically timed in order to recast the Barbusse biography in relation to the burgeoning Front Populaire and the new pact. Furthermore, likely in a corrective to his own book, Barbusse himself wrote a front-page editorial in Monde following the signing of the pact, bearing the title “Which path to follow? The same!”264 He argued for support for the pact and the USSR, justifying the Soviet Union’s new steps toward militarization as a necessary means of preserving socialism in a hostile world. Barbusse’s support for the pact—again, against previous longstanding personal and party principles—foreshadowed the gymnastics PCF officials and intellectuals would have to perform upon the signing of the August 1939 pact of nonaggression between the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany. Further course corrections would come from Barbusse later that year. The first was in a speech at the USSR-sponsored Congrès international des écrivains pour la défense de la culture in July 1935. Barbusse spoke under the rubric “Nation and Culture,” an unlikely slot in conference proceedings for a well-known antinationalist. Barbusse tries to walk a delicate line in the speech, arguing for the flourishing of “national cultures” without the antagonisms that he associates with nationalism.265 Second was the publication of a special issue of Monde to commemorate Bastille Day, the only time in its history the magazine celebrated the national holiday.266 In point of fact, the magazine had previously published articles rejecting the holiday for its jingoistic and bourgeois character.267 In his article in that special issue (“L’Ere du Front populaire” [The era of the Popular Front]), Barbusse speaks of the joy of having contributed to making France “the most menacing barricade in the fight against the enemies of progress and humanity, against fascism.” That comment represents a striking departure from his discourse from 1919 to early 1935, wherein all hope for justice and equality in the world was

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represented solely by the USSR and wherein France and French nationalism represented a threat to that vision. Legacies, Short and Long

Beyond Aragon’s review of Staline in Monde, the biography received substantial positive publicity in a variety of party-aligned outlets, especially L’Humanité and Commune, where it was excerpted, promoted, and glowingly reviewed.268 Furthermore, not three months after the book appeared, Barbusse was fêted in front of eight hundred spectators at the Maison de la Culture. According to an editorial blurb in L’Humanité (titled “Pour Barbusse! Pour Staline!”), speeches were given by likeminded intellectuals (among them Eugène Dabit, René Crevel, VaillantCouturier, Aragon, and Nizan) in praise of Barbusse’s “two masterworks Le Feu and Staline.”269 The numerous tributes in September 1935 marking Barbusse’s death served to prolong the celebrations of his career and the publication of Staline. They also solidified his place in the party’s culture of commemoration. Barbusse’s illness, death, funeral, and various memorial events were granted prominent coverage in L’Humanité from August 24 through mid-September. Barbusse died in Moscow on August 30, and prior to his funeral in Paris, he received the highest state honors in the Soviet Union, all of which was amply covered in L’Humanité.270 The memorial in Moscow was attended by a host of Soviet intellectuals and officials and was truly remarkable for its pomp (masses of people, overflowing bouquets of flowers, banners in praise of Barbusse). The event was filmed, an indicator of its importance for propaganda value.271 Maurice Thorez served as honor guard of Barbusse’s body, and Khrushchev was one of the pallbearers. After that funeral in Moscow, Barbusse’s remains were transported to Paris via the Siberian Express, accompanied by a delegation of officials. Stalin himself issued a statement that read in part: “I share pain with you, on this occasion of the passing of our friend, the friend of the French working class, the noble son of the French people, the friend of the workers of all countries; the tribune of the United Front of workers against imperialist war and fascism, Comrade Henri Barbusse.”272 Crucially, Stalin’s statement casts Barbusse as a model for the new Comintern policy of the United Front, and it underscores both his national and international appeal.

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Figures 1.2 (above), 1.3 (facing, top), and 1.4 (facing, bottom). Images from Barbusse’s memorial service in Moscow. Source: Henri Barbusse, Les Hommes véritables, dir. Jean Lods. Coll. Ciné-Archives, fonds audiovisuel du PCF—Mouvement ouvrier et démocratique.

Barbusse’s Parisian funeral was a grandiose event wherein a significant number of people—estimates range from 100,000 to 300,000—followed his coffin through the streets of the capital to Père-Lachaise cemetery.273 Jean Fréville wrote, “We had never seen such a ceremony since the state funeral of Victor Hugo.”274 The political implications of the moment were not lost: Baudorre refers to the funeral procession as one of the first rallies of the Front Populaire.275 Barbusse also received tributes in Les Cahiers du bolchévisme, Monde, and Commune, and such tributes would continue in the Communist press for many years after his death, updated for current events.276 And he furthermore remained part of the PCF’s set of regular discursive reference points. In 1951, for instance, as part of a monthlong series on the American “occupation” of France, L’Humanité recycled one of Barbusse’s 1919 statements against the potential rise of German militarism. The statement was transformed into a “prophetic” warning against the rise of a resurgent Nazi state, not to mention American military intervention.277 Another example

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is found in the second volume of L’Homme communiste (Communist man, 1953), in which Aragon mentions Barbusse in order to promote his own early commitment to party causes. Describing the 1925 Rif War, Aragon writes, “I signed against the war with Henri Barbusse.”278 It is true that Aragon (along with many others) signed Barbusse’s manifesto against France’s involvement in that war in Morocco.279 But Aragon—as part of his perpetual process of creating myths about himself, even after his rise to prominence—failed to mention his bitter rivalry with Barbusse that did not subside until several years later (when Maurice Thorez personally intervened).280 For instance, in 1929, Aragon referred to Monde as “confusionist garbage,” and the following year, he mocked the magazine’s ambitious executive committee, “which would have us believe that Einstein and Barbusse are in the same class of men.”281 That old rivalry aside, nearly twenty years after his death, an affiliation with the author of Staline—and an inflated one at that—still had the power to confer prestige and legitimacy upon an already famous PCF writer. Such was Barbusse’s reputation in the party. Staline would also have its own lengthy legacy in the French Communist Party. In subsequent retellings of Stalin’s life and accomplishments, the themes and structure of Barbusse’s Staline were repeated and updated to take into account new important events, especially the Second World War. For example, Barbusse is quoted in pamphlets produced for Stalin’s seventieth birthday celebration, including “La Résistance parisienne au Maréchal Staline” (From the Parisian resistance to Marshal Stalin) and “L’Homme que nous aimons le plus.”282 The latter pamphlet, in telling the life story of Stalin, also follows the same basic trajectory as Barbusse’s Staline. One of the most important attributes of Barbusse’s Staline is that it bears striking similarities in both tone and content to the official Short Biography of Stalin, first published in 1939 and then updated after the Second World War.283 The Short Biography, like Staline, recounts Stalin’s early family life and schooling, followed by a description of life in his native region and the rising importance of Marxism. Both texts elaborate on Stalin’s affection for Lenin’s work and writing, his work as a propagandist, his pre-1917 revolutionary activities, and his heroic work in the revolutionary and civil war eras. Just as in Barbusse’s text, Stalin is described in the Short Biography as “the worthy continuer of the cause of Lenin . . . Stalin is the Lenin of today.”284 References to Stalin’s alleged omnipotence and omniscience are

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also found in both books. In the Short Biography, for instance, a Russian folk tale is quoted that states that Stalin “knows all our innermost thoughts; all his life he has cared for us.”285 Both books end with pages on Stalin that praise him in absurdly grandiose terms. It is interesting to note that when Khrushchev denounced Stalin’s cult of personality in the “secret” speech of 1956, he referenced the official Short Biography. Given the substantial similarities between the two texts, including the fact that Khrushchev’s criticism applies quite well, as I have argued, to Barbusse’s work, it is legitimate to read Staline as an early prototype of future official biographies of the general secretary. Also part of the complex legacy of this biography is a sixty-three-page film script written by Barbusse in praise of Stalin. The first draft of Barbusse’s script was translated into Russian and is housed in Russian archives in typed manuscript pages.286 Provisionally titled “The Creators” (“The Builders,” “The Saviors,” and “New Men” were also offered), the film would tell a socialist-realist love story of two people who share the same political worldview and cooperate to solve local problems of social significance, against the backdrop of the rise of Stalin and the Soviet Union in a hostile international context. This “lyrical panorama of Russian history of the past 20–30 years” would serve to complement the official biography of Stalin, touching on many of the same themes, including Stalin’s revolutionary youth, his role as a hero in the civil war, and Trotsky’s ineptitude as a leader of the Red Army.287 Barbusse, who had a longstanding interest in film, signed a contract in 1934 (not long before his death) to complete subsequent drafts of the film script.288 If Barbusse had been able to fulfill his contract, his film (like Staline) would have been a foundational document for Stalin’s cult of personality. Conclusion: Staline in the USSR

Although Staline enjoyed a long discursive legacy in the Stalin cult, the shelf life of Barbusse’s text itself was extremely short in the USSR. From almost the very beginning, the book was a source of consternation, largely due to deviations from politically “correct” practices and doctrine. The June 13, 1935 issue of Monde in which Aragon and Nizan reviewed Staline was banned in the USSR by Glavlit, “the main arm of the Soviet censorship apparatus.”289 It was prohibited for two reasons. First, Nizan mentions the

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fact that just as Stalin serves as a hero to some, Trotsky is a hero for others. Trotsky in particular, Nizan writes, appeals to a certain set of intellectuals who admire him as one of their own. Stalin, in contrast, is described as a man more tied to action and everyday reality, someone deemed less “subtle” by some members of the intelligentsia.290 Second, the portrait of Stalin that appears on the same page as Aragon’s and Nizan’s reviews was deemed “unseemly.”291 Both reasons highlight the enormous sensitivity that existed around depictions of the general secretary. For even though Nizan evokes Trotskyists in negative fashion—arguing that the supporters of Stalin are correct—the fact that he mentioned that some intellectuals thought Stalin was less “subtle” than Trotsky was worthy of censorship. And second, the portrait of Stalin published in Monde contains considerable shadow and does not clearly show the general secretary’s facial characteristics. The unusual drawing stands in sharp contrast to the pictures of Stalin that were typically published in PCF outlets in the same era: youthful and engaged. The censorship of that drawing is typical of Soviet practices under Stalin, wherein unflattering pictures of the dictator were banned.292 Further difficulties emerged when Barbusse’s book appeared in Russia in 1936. As seen earlier, the text’s foreword was written by Aleksei Stetskii, the Kremlin figure who gave Barbusse feedback while the book was in draft form.293 In the foreword, Stetskii gives high praise to Barbusse, underscoring the importance of Le Feu as well as the French writer’s overall commitment to the Communist party, revolutionary literature, and the proletariat. He furthermore states, “Barbusse . . . really managed to rise to the tall order of the task at hand and truly show in bright strokes the image of Stalin, the force of his genius and his workstyle.” Stetskii does offer caveats to his overall glowing assessment, however, including an assertion that “Barbusse did not always have a correct picture of the circumstances and the development of [the party’s] struggle.” In particular, Stetskii writes, Barbusse did not grasp that the party had to struggle with anti-Leninist oppositional groups that came from inside the party. The exact motivations behind the criticism are unclear, but Stetskii’s remarks seem to indicate that party membership does not guarantee immunity from being viewed as oppositionist or antiLeninist.294 And indeed, some loyalists praised by Barbusse in Staline were later deemed enemies of the people, radically accelerating the book’s obsolescence. Medvedev writes, “Within a year the book was removed from all

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Figure 1.5. “Unseemly” portrait of Stalin by Yvette Guibber in Monde (June 13, 1935), banned in the USSR. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Figure 1.6. Stalin, pictured on the front page of L’Humanité (December 21, 1934) on the occasion of his fifty-fifth-birthday celebration. A more characteristic photo of the general secretary. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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libraries because it referred to dozens of Stalin’s ‘comrades-in-arms’ who had been arrested soon after the book appeared.”295 Archival sources indicate that such problems also scuttled a 1948 attempt by the director of Kazakh State Publishers to translate the biography into the Kazakh language. Officials from the Head of Propaganda and Agitation wrote that permission to translate the text would not be granted, since “Henri Barbusse often mentions and quotes such enemies of the people as Yenukidze, Orakhelashvili, Lakoba, Bubnov, Radek, Grinko, and Rykov.”296 Barbusse’s book does indeed mention all of those figures, and in quite positive fashion. For example, Barbusse cites Grigori Fedorovich Grinko in his capacity as People’s Commissar for Financial Affairs. After quoting Grinko’s outline of the high rate of capital reinvestment in USSR industries, Barbusse expresses reverence, calling his words “great words, whose solemnity [majesté] and deep significance can hardly be exaggerated.”297 Grinko, the man who uttered those majestic words, confessed in a March 1938 show trial to being an agent of fascism and a saboteur. According to the trial transcript, he declared himself guilty of “the darkest betrayal of the Party, the fatherland, and Stalin” and was subsequently sentenced to be shot.298 His reaction to the verdict serves as a fitting coda to this analysis of the first official biography of Joseph Stalin: “I will accept the most severe verdict— the supreme penalty—as deserved. I have only one wish: I wish to live through my last days or hours, no matter how few they may be, I wish to live through and die not as an enemy taken prisoner by the Soviet government, but as a citizen of the USSR who has committed the gravest treachery to the fatherland, whom the fatherland has severely punished for this, but who repented.”299 Grinko was just one of Stalin’s millions of victims. His abject plea for clemency underscores what is at stake in analyzing intellectual complicity with authoritarian regimes, not to mention the dangers of the duplicitous discourse promoted by Stalin’s Soviet Union and the PCF. Notes 1. For Barbusse’s first-person account of the parade, see Barbusse, “7 novembre 1934.” L’Humanité published a full-page feature on the event (with numerous photos, including one of Barbusse alongside Stalin and other Soviet officials), “La fête de la victoire.” The description that follows is based on both texts. 2. Barbusse, “7 novembre 1934.” 3. Stetskii, “Foreword.” This foreword to the 1936 Russian edition of Staline is explored in greater detail later in this chapter.

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4. An editorial project titled Lettres de Lénine à sa famille, “presented by Henri Barbusse,” was published posthumously in 1936. 5. Winter, Sites of Memory, 178; Lottman, Left Bank, 48. 6. This chapter is a revision and expansion, based on new research, of my 2013 article on Barbusse’s Staline. See Sobanet, “Henri Barbusse.” Critical commentary on Barbusse’s Staline has been largely superficial and dismissive. Previously, historians have examined Barbusse’s relationship with Stalin and Barbusse’s role in the Stalin cult. See Brandenberger, “Stalin as Symbol”; David-Fox, Showcasing; Davies and Harris, Stalin’s World; Ducoulombier, “Henri Barbusse”; Medvedev, History; Medvedev, “New Pages”; Morgan, International Communism; and Plamper, Stalin Cult. 7. Barbusse, Paroles, 68; Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 66; Baudorre, Barbusse, 108. 8. Barbusse, Paroles, 7–8. 9. Barbusse, Paroles, 7. 10. Barbusse, Paroles, 8. 11. Barbusse, Le Feu, 240; Under Fire, 343. 12. Barbusse, Le Feu, 249; Under Fire, 356. 13. Barbusse, Le Feu, 218; Under Fire, 312. 14. See Baudorre, Barbusse, 116–43 on the period of Barbusse’s life when he composed Le Feu. 15. Barbusse, Le Feu, 11; Under Fire, 2. 16. Barbusse, Le Feu, 247–48; Under Fire, 350–51. 17. Barbusse, Le Feu, 242; Under Fire, 346. 18. Barbusse, Le Feu, 237; Under Fire, 338–39. 19. Barbusse, Le Feu, 241; Under Fire, 345. 20. Barbusse, Le Feu, 247; Under Fire, 354. 21. Barbusse, Le Feu, 244; Under Fire, 349. 22. Barbusse, Le Feu, 245; Under Fire, 349–50. 23. Barbusse, Le Feu, 245; Under Fire, 350. 24. Barbusse, Le Feu, 243–44; Under Fire, 348–49. 25. For more information on the book’s publication history, see Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 70–72; Brosman, Visions of War, 153–54; Winter, Sites of Memory, 180–81. 26. Barbusse’s 1908 novel, L’Enfer (Hell), enjoyed some success, and he was a minor celebrity in literary and journalistic circles before that (Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 28). It was Le Feu that truly made his reputation. 27. See Barbusse, Paroles, 25. 28. Barbusse, Paroles, 27. 29. Barbusse, Paroles, 47. 30. See Barbusse, Paroles, 70, 85, 97; Baudorre, Barbusse, 166. 31. Barbusse, Paroles, 17. 32. Barbusse, Paroles, 49. 33. Barbusse, Paroles, 94, 95. 34. Barbusse, Paroles, 89. 35. Barbusse, Paroles, 139. 36. Barbusse, Paroles, 139.

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37. Baudorre cites Barbusse’s preface to Jacques Sadoul’s Notes sur la révolution bolchévique, written in July 1919, as a text that also marks his transformation (Barbusse, 198–200). 38. Barbusse, Paroles, 149. 39. Barbusse, Lueur, 92. 40. Barbusse, Couteau, 39. 41. Barbusse, Lueur, 78–79. 42. Barbusse, Lueur, 104. 43. Barbusse, Lueur, 104. 44. “Sauvons notre vraie patrie,” L’Humanité, August 27, 1921, 1. 45. As we will see, this latter stance changes with the rise of the Front Populaire. 46. Barbusse, Lueur, 43. 47. Barbusse, Couteau, 46. 48. Barbusse, Couteau, 36. 49. See Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 57; and “Terreur,” 558. 50. “La ligne droite,” L’Humanité, February 20, 1923, 1. 51. “La discipline socialiste: Barbusse et Séverine sont avec le Parti (SFIC),” L’Humanité, January 12, 1921, 1. 52. See Lenin, “The Tasks of the Third International: Ramsay Macdonald on the Third International,” in Collected Works, vol. 29, March–August 1919, 509; “La plus récente interview de Lénine,” L’Humanité, October 23, 1919, 1. 53. “Les portraits de nos militants,” L’Humanité, July 2, 1921, 2. 54. Letter dated July 11, 1922, published in Clarté 19 (August 15, 1922), 433. 55. See Barbusse, Couteau, 5; Le Feu, 126; Under Fire, 174. 56. Barbusse, Couteau, 6. 57. See Baudorre, Barbusse, 197 on the change from L’Ancien Combattant to Le Combattant. For a history of Clarté, see Fourrier, “De Clarté”; Cuenot, Clarté: 1919–1924 and Clarté: 1924–1928; Racine, “Clarté Movement”; and Baudorre, Barbusse, 238–40. 58. See “L’Internationale des Anciens Combattants et des victimes de la guerre,” L’Humanité, November 2, 1921, 1. See also “L’ARAC et les partis,” L’Humanité, May 5, 1923, 1; Barbusse, “Le groupe ‘Clarté,’” L’Humanité, May 10, 1919, 1. 59. Racine, “Clarté Movement,” 196. See also Barbusse, “Le groupe ‘Clarté,’” L’Humanité, May 10, 1919, 1. 60. “Un ‘grand Français’ est mort,” Clarté 49 (December 15, 1923), 4. 61. In the minutes of a February 18, 1926 meeting of the PCF’s politburo, Paul Vaillant-Couturier states, “Barbusse has submitted to party discipline” (Bonnet, Vers l’action politique, 19). 62. Barbusse, “A propos du ‘Barbussisme,’” L’Humanité, November 7, 1925, 1–2. 63. See Loupan and Lorrain, L’Argent de Moscou, 168; Burger-Roussenac, “1932,” 130. 64. Barbusse, “Un nouvel élan,” L’Humanité, April 28, 1926, 1. 65. Morel, Roman insupportable, 97. As late as 1932, Barbusse would continue to argue for the importance of maintaining that façade of independence. See Loupan and Lorrain, L’Argent de Moscou, 171.

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66. Morel, Roman insupportable, 96–97. 67. For more information on the birth of Monde, see Morel, Roman insupportable, 96–97, 173–78. 68. Cœuré and Mazuy, Cousu de Fil rouge, 301. 69. Letter from Barbusse to Paul Nizan (March 16, 1931) in Cohen-Solal, Paul Nizan, 279. 70. On Barbusse’s visit to Russia in 1933 and his visit with Stalin, Cachin writes, “On n’a pas voulu aider Monde d’une manière ostensible. On a dit: peu à peu, faites entrer des écrivains français, allemands, des documents russes; peu à peu qu’une aide matérielle soit apportée; en échange substitution d’une politique différente progressivement appliquée” (Cachin, Carnets, 757). 71. See Barbusse, “Letter from Henri Barbusse to I. V. Stalin on Monde Magazine.” 72. See Burger-Roussenac, “1932”; Loupan and Lorrain, L’Argent de Moscou, 167–89; Baudorre, Barbusse, 312–18; Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 225–59; and Cachin, Carnets, 548–49, 599–600. Rivalries and tensions surfaced at the 1930 Kharkov conference. There was also much controversy stirred up around the content and financial control of Monde, as well as the intellectuals associated with it. Barbusse lost financial control of the magazine for a brief time (in late 1930 and early 1931). 73. Quote is from Kultpropotdel (Culture and propaganda department) of TsK VKP(b) and Henri Barbusse. Baudorre writes—without documentation, attribution, or mentioning specific dates—that Monde was banned in the USSR, apparently for a brief time in 1930 (Barbusse, 317). Ducoulombier also mentions a temporary ban but does not specify dates (“Henri Barbusse,” 9). If there was a ban, it was not permanent, given the fact that at least one future individual issue of Monde was targeted for censorship there in 1935 (as we will see later in this chapter). 74. See Baudorre, Barbusse, 330–59 and Burger-Roussenac, “1932” on the “année charnière” (transitional year) of 1932, when the controversies between Barbusse and the party subsided. 75. Barbusse, Paroles, 13. 76. Barbusse, “Révolutionnaires d’Orient et d’Occident,” 319. 77. Barbusse, “Révolutionnaires d’Orient et d’Occident,” 318. 78. From February to May of 1923, Rolland published three pieces on Gandhi in Europe, which would later be included in his Mahatma Gandhi of 1924 (Starr, Critical Bibliography, 40). 79. Charles Petrasch, “Quand le Mahatma s’explique: un entretien avec Gandhi,” Monde, February 20, 1932, 10–11. See also “A Magic-City Gandhi parle,” Monde, December 12, 1931, 7. 80. See Baudorre, Barbusse, 258 on the image of the prophet in Barbusse’s earlier works, including the novels Clarté, Les Enchaînements, and Les Suppliants. He also wrote a play, Jésus contre Dieu, that appeared only in fragments until it was published in Russian in 1970. See Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 160–62. 81. Barbusse, Jésus, 25; Jesus, 34. 82. Barbusse, Jésus, 201.

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83. Barbusse, Jésus, 64; Jesus, 69. 84. Barbusse, Jésus, 37; Jesus, 44. 85. Barbusse, Jésus, 209; Jesus, 204. 86. Barbusse, Jésus, 239; Jesus, 233. 87. “Le dernier livre de Barbusse: Jésus le prophète de Galilée,” L’Humanité, February 8, 1927, 2. 88. Cachin, Carnets, 476. 89. See S. Oursynovitch, “Ce que les athées marxistes de Russie pensent du [sic] Jésus de Henri Barbusse,” Les Cahiers du bolchévisme 84 (November 15, 1927), 1219–22. 90. Published in the April, May, and June 1927 issues. 91. Vidal, Henri Barbusse, 183; Morel, Roman insupportable, 147; Baudorre, Barbusse, 272. 92. Baudorre, Barbusse, 272. 93. “Barbusse est fêté à Moscou,” L’Humanité, September 21, 1927, 3. 94. See, for example, “Henri Barbusse lance un message de Moscou,” L’Humanité, October 2, 1927, 1. See also “Barbusse à Moscou,” L’Humanité, September 11, 1927, 1. Barbusse’s activities were covered in detail in L’Humanité from September through November 1927. 95. On his visit to the Bolshoi and an equestrian parade, see “La matinée d’Henri Barbusse le 11 septembre 1927,” in Cœuré and Mazuy, Cousu de Fil rouge, 210–11. For more on Barbusse’s goals for the visit, see Baudorre, Barbusse, 273. 96. See “La matinée d’Henri Barbusse le 11 septembre 1927,” in Cœuré and Mazuy, Cousu de Fil rouge, 210. 97. Serge, Mémoires, 696. 98. See Baudorre, Barbusse, 286; Morel, Roman insupportable, 176. He was named, for instance, to the presidium of the Bureau international de littérature prolétarienne (Morel, Roman insupportable, 154). 99. Vidal, Henri Barbusse, 324. 100. Vidal, Henri Barbusse, 324. 101. Vidal, Henri Barbusse, 327. 102. See Dzhugashvili and Barbusse, “Transcript” for the record of their conversation of October 5, 1932. See also Barbusse and Dzhugashvili, “Letter from Henri Barbusse with gratitude.” Three meetings are confirmed in the Melbourne Gateway to Research on Soviet History, http://www.melgrosh.unimelb.edu.au/home-front.php (accessed February 10, 2016). The November 1934 meeting is referenced in their correspondence of October 30, 1934. (See Barbusse and Dzhugashvili, “Response letter from Barbusse”; Dzhugashvili, “I. V. Stalin’s letter.”) See also Barbusse, “Letter from Henri Barbusse to I. V. Stalin on Monde Magazine,” for Barbusse’s November 20, 1929, letter to Stalin. See Ducoulombier, “Henri Barbusse,” and David-Fox, Showcasing, on the September 1927 meeting. 103. Barbusse and Dzhugashvili, “Letter from Henri Barbusse with gratitude.” See Baudorre, Barbusse, 357, 378–79 for more information on Stalin’s influence in establishing the future Amsterdam-Pleyel movement and an international union of writers. 104. Cachin, Carnets, 757; Baudorre, Barbusse, 357.

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105. Vidal, Henri Barbusse, 328. 106. For more information on early, less complete biographical statements and the history of the difficulties of the publication of Stalin’s biography, see Brandenberger, “Stalin as Symbol,” 249–60; Davies and Harris, Stalin’s World, 148–49. 107. Medvedev, History, 817. 108. Medvedev, “New Pages,” 207. 109. Kemp-Welch, Stalin, 228. 110. Brandenberger, “Stalin as Symbol,” 252–57. 111. See Davies and Harris, Stalin’s World, 148–49. They also explore Stalin’s role in the crafting of the History of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks): Short Course (1938) and, later, the Short Biography (Davies and Harris, Stalin’s World, 150–57). 112. See Kultpropotdel (Culture and propaganda department) of TsK VKP(b) and Henri Barbusse. 113. Medvedev, History, 818; Plamper, Stalin Cult, 133; David-Fox, Showcasing, 231–32. Ducoulombier describes the role Alfred Kurella (a German author and Comintern official) played as an intermediary between Barbusse and Soviet authorities (“Henri Barbusse,” 19). 114. Barbusse and Dzhugashvili, “Letter from Henri Barbusse to Wilhelm Münzenberg.” 115. See Pokhitonov, Stepan Ivanovich, ссс, and Henri Barbusse, “Letter of S. Pokhitonov.” 116. See Stetskii and Barbusse, “Letter from A. I. Stetskii.” The letter bears a stamp dated September 29, 1934. In addition to Stetskii’s general critique, the letter contains numerous specific suggestions for edits, many of which were incorporated in the final version. 117. Plamper, Stalin Cult, 37. 118. See the back-page feature, “Avec Staline, nous vaincrons!” L’Humanité, December 30, 1934, 6, and the special section titled “Pour le 55e anniversaire de Staline” in Les Cahiers du bolchévisme, January 1, 1935, 3–25. The birthday was also noted in a front-page article in L’Humanité of December 21, 1934, titled “Le chef du parti bolchévik a 55 ans: ‘Staline, nous sommes fiers d’être tes disciples!’” See also Barbusse, “Staline,” Monde, December 6, 1934, 8–9. 119. Barbusse, “Staline,” Monde, December 6, 1934, 8–9. 120. See Barbusse, “Henri Barbusse’s article ‘Stalin.’” 121. See above references to L’Humanité of December 21 and December 30, 1934, and to Les Cahiers du bolchévisme of January 1, 1935. 122. Brandenberger writes that Beria published “the first major biographical statement on Stalin,” which he states came out “promptly” after Beria delivered a July 1935 address in Tbilisi on Stalin’s revolutionary career (“Stalin as Symbol,” 259). But since Barbusse’s biography was published in France in March 1935, Beria’s book was not the first. Also noteworthy is a more minor text by Nestor Lakoba (whom Barbusse cites as an authority on Stalin’s “grande biographie” [Staline, 30; Stalin, 19]), which appeared in 1934. That text, Stalin i Hashimi, appears in fragmentary form in the BNF’s Barbusse archives as “Staline et Khachim par N. Lacoba” (see Barbusse, Unpublished papers).

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We should also note the 1927 publication of the Granat Encyclopedia, which included biographical material on Stalin written by Ivan Tovstukha. That Tovstukha text appeared as a fourteen-page pamphlet, in large, bold type (Kotkin, Stalin, 660). 123. Medvedev, History, 818; David-Fox, Showcasing, 232. 124. Barbusse, Voici, 127–28. 125. Barbusse, Russie, 15; Russia, 8. 126. Barbusse, Russie, 48; Russia, 37. 127. Barbusse, Russie, 247; Russia, 197. 128. Barbusse, Russie, 254; Russia, 203. 129. Barbusse, Russie, 19; Russia, 11. 130. Barbusse, Russie, 250; Russia, 200. 131. On ordering, see Plantinga, Rhetoric, 133; on omissions, see White, Content, 10; on credibility, see Clews, Communist Propaganda, 8 and Margulies, Pilgrimage, 16; on polarized language, see Clews, Communist Propaganda, 25–26; on slogans, see Labin, Stalin’s Russia, 62; on repetition, see Clews, Communist Propaganda, 8. 132. Quoted in Wolfe, Khrushchev, 88. See note 43 of the introduction. 133. A review of all of the historical and biographical information in Barbusse’s book is beyond the scope of this chapter. Sources consulted include Kotkin, Stalin; Khlevniuk, New Biography; Montefiore, Court and Young Stalin; Tucker, Revolutionary and Power; Medvedev, History and “New Pages”; Wood, Stalin and Stalinism; Kuromiya, Stalin; and McCauley, Stalin and Stalinism. 134. Barbusse, Staline, 5. 135. Barbusse, Staline, 6; Stalin, v. 136. Barbusse, Staline, 6–7; Stalin, vi. 137. Barbusse, Staline, 7. 138. Barbusse, Staline, 8; Stalin, viii. 139. Barbusse, Staline, 9; Stalin, viii. The second quote in this sentence is my translation of Barbusse, Staline, 9. 140. Barbusse, Staline, 9; Stalin, ix. 141. Barbusse, Staline, 10; Stalin, ix. 142. Barbusse, Staline, 10; Stalin, ix. 143. Barbusse, Staline, 18. 144. Barbusse, Staline, 315; Stalin, 278. 145. For the suicide-as-protest argument, see Tucker, Power, 217; Medvedev, History, 299; Kuromiya, Stalin, 108. Khlevniuk argues convincingly that the suicide was not a political gesture, but rather due to marital strife and Nadezhda’s mental health (New Biography, 255). Montefiore’s account bolsters this theory as well (Young Stalin, 362). 146. Barbusse makes no mention that he was born from a different mother. 147. See Khlevniuk, New Biography, 251; Montefiore, Young Stalin, 160–61, 180, 190–93. 148. Kotkin, Stalin, 116; Montefiore, Young Stalin, 194. 149. Montefiore, Young Stalin, 365. 150. Khlevniuk, New Biography, 257–58; Montefiore, Young Stalin, 362–64.

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151. Montefiore, Court, 3. 152. Khlevniuk, New Biography, 191–93. 153. Montefiore, Young Stalin, 352; Montefiore, Court, 178. 154. Labin, Stalin’s Russia, 83. 155. Plamper, Stalin Cult, 123. 156. On the “femme de service,” see Barbusse, Staline, 8. See Barbusse, Stalin, vii for the relevant passage in translation. 157. Davies and Harris, Stalin’s World, 133–47. 158. Barbusse, Staline, 11; Stalin, 1. 159. Barbusse, Staline, 11, 19; Stalin, 1, 8. 160. Barbusse, Staline, 20; Stalin, 9. 161. See, for example, Kotkin, Stalin, 7–28; Khlevniuk, New Biography, 14–20. See also Montefiore’s Young Stalin for an account of Stalin’s pre-October life. 162. Tucker sums up his childhood in one word: “wretched” (Power, 4). On his broken family life, see Wood, Stalin and Stalinism, 3; Kuromiya, Stalin, 1–2; Tucker, Revolutionary, 70; Tucker, Power, 3–4; Medvedev, History, 26. On Stalin’s health (including his limp left arm, conjoined toes, and his smallpox-scarred face), see Wood, Stalin and Stalinism, 12; Kuromiya, Stalin, 3; Tucker, Revolutionary, 71; Medvedev, History, 26–27. See Khlevniuk, New Biography, 190 on smallpox, malaria, juvenile tuberculosis, and his debilitating arm injury. Montefiore in Young Stalin describes his pockmarks (31) and various injuries and accidents (35, 45), as does Kotkin, Stalin, 20–21. 163. Reasons cited are his father’s alcoholism and abusiveness, as well as his mother’s promiscuity. See Kotkin, Stalin, 20; Montefiore, Young Stalin, 19–36; Khlevniuk, New Biography, 12. 164. Khlevniuk, New Biography, 12; Montefiore, Young Stalin, 34, 51; Kotkin, Stalin, 21–23. 165. Khlevniuk, New Biography, 20. 166. Montefiore, Young Stalin, 24; Kotkin, Stalin, 25. Kotkin mentions Stalin’s father’s relative success and his hiring of apprentices (Stalin, 19). Khlevniuk cites evidence that his childhood was comfortable in some ways (New Biography, 12). See Kotkin on Soso’s work as his father’s apprentice in a tannery (Stalin, 22). 167. Barbusse, Staline, 31; Stalin, 20. 168. Barbusse, Staline, 39; Stalin, 27. 169. Khlevniuk, New Biography; Montefiore, Young Stalin; Kotkin, Stalin. 170. See, for example, Montefiore, Young Stalin, 92, 164, 197. 171. See Montefiore, Young Stalin, 83 on the embrace of revolution at the expense of all other priorities and on the underground “world apart” of konspiratsia. See also Kotkin, Stalin, 8–9. 172. Barbusse, Staline, 23; Stalin, 12. 173. Barbusse, Staline, 25; Stalin, 14. 174. Barbusse, Staline, 26; Stalin, 14. 175. Barbusse, Staline, 31; Stalin, 19. 176. Montefiore, Young Stalin, 95.

98 | Generation Stalin 177. Barbusse, Staline, 94. 178. Barbusse, Staline, 77, 83; Stalin, 61, 67. 179. Barbusse, Staline, 77; Stalin, 61. 180. Medvedev, History, 55–56. 181. Barbusse, Staline, 84; Stalin, 68. 182. See Barbusse, Staline, 82–84 and Stalin, 62–65 as compared to Kuromiya, Stalin, 46–47; Medvedev, History, 55–59; Tucker, Revolutionary, 190–96; and Kotkin, Stalin, 307–10. 183. Kuromiya, Stalin, 40. 184. Montefiore, Young Stalin, 154. 185. “Tsaritsyne—1918, Stalingrad—1943: C’est Staline qui a vaincu,” L’Humanité, January 31, 1950, 5. 186. Barbusse, Staline, 317. “Je n’obéis pas à Dieu, je pense la même chose que lui” is Barbusse’s aggrandizing translation of Seneca’s “deo non pareo sed assentior,” the latter half of which is more commonly translated as something along the lines of “Je m’accorde avec lui” (in English “I agree with him” or “I adhere to his will”). 187. Wood, Stalin and Stalinism, 30. There is debate among historians as to Stalin’s role in the creation and propagation of the Lenin cult. Robert Tucker argues that it was Stalin himself who maneuvered to promote a cult of personality around Lenin in order to create fertile ground for the idea that Lenin’s successor would, logically, deserve similar veneration. In this view, Stalin promoted Lenin’s primacy and infallibility (as the representative of the Bolshevik revolutionary ideal) in order to claim similar primacy for himself (Tucker, “Cult,” 352, 358). Nina Tumarkin, for her part, writes, “There is no doubt that Stalin played an important role in the development of the cult of Lenin” (Lenin Lives!, 153). More recently, however, Plamper has argued that Stalin only played a peripheral role in the masterminding of the Lenin cult and that Tucker’s thesis has been disproved (Stalin Cult, 24, 248). 188. Tucker, “Cult,” 364. Tucker notes for instance that Stalin maneuvered to make himself known as a central figure in contemporary Marxist philosophy. Barbusse feeds this myth by claiming that Stalin wrote a number of Marxist classics. 189. Tucker, “Cult,” 364. 190. Barbusse, Staline, 14–16; Stalin, 4–6. 191. Barbusse, Staline, 20. 192. Barbusse, Staline, 9–10. 193. Barbusse, Staline, 43. 194. Barbusse, Staline, 47; Stalin, 33. See Montefiore, Young Stalin, 53, 145. 195. Barbusse, Staline, 9, 42, 320; Stalin, 29. “Do-gooder” and “the Other One” are my translations. 196. Barbusse, Staline, 17; Stalin, 5–6. 197. Barbusse, Staline, 20–21; Stalin, 9–10. 198. Barbusse, Staline, 36; Stalin, 24. 199. Barbusse, Staline, 36; Stalin, 24. 200. Barbusse, Staline, 53–54; Stalin, 39–40.

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201. See Gill, “Soviet Leader Cult.” 202. Barbusse, Staline, 43. 203. Barbusse, Stalin, 30. 204. See, for instance, Khlevniuk, New Biography, 68–73; Service, Biography, 168–96, 208. 205. See Tucker, Revolutionary, 270–76; Medvedev, History, 79–87; Souvarine, Staline, 287–93 and Stalin, 305–12; Montefiore, Court, 35–36; Khlevniuk, New Biography, 71. 206. Quoted in Khlevniuk, New Biography, 71. 207. Kuromiya, Stalin, 59. 208. See Kuromiya, Stalin, 59–62; Kotkin, Stalin, 418–19, 472–73. 209. See Kotkin, Stalin, 418–19; Khlevniuk, New Biography, 73. 210. Medvedev, History, 87. 211. Examples include Bey (Staline, 254–55) and Bajanov, Avec Staline, 41–43. Souvarine also mentions it in his Stalin biography, published shortly after Barbusse’s (Souvarine, Staline, 304–05; Stalin, 321–22.). The fact that Souvarine mentions the Testament shows that information about it was circulating in France at the time of Barbusse’s writing. 212. See “Lénine et l’unité du parti,” Clarté 15 (November 1927), 433. 213. See, for example, Aragon’s “Staline et la France.” 214. Barbusse, Staline, 320; Stalin, 282–83. 215. Tumarkin, Lenin Lives!, 165. 216. Tumarkin, Lenin Lives!, 165. 217. Barbusse, Staline, 317; Stalin, 280. 218. Barbusse, Staline, 318. 219. Field, Three French Writers, 78. 220. Baudorre, Barbusse, 384. 221. Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 209. 222. Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 212. 223. Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 213. 224. Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 210. 225. Charachidzé, H. Barbusse, 3. 226. Charachidzé, H. Barbusse, 3–4. 227. Charachidzé, H. Barbusse, 209. 228. Charachidzé, H. Barbusse, 212. 229. Marcel Cachin, prefatory note to “Le Plan de Cinq Ans par Henri Barbusse,” L’Humanité, May 13, 1929, 4; and Cachin, Carnets, 816. 230. Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 214. 231. Fitzpatrick, Everyday Stalinism, 7. 232. Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 215. 233. Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 222. 234. Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 219. 235. Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 220. 236. Gide, Retouches, 833 (emphasis in original). See Hollander on “techniques of hospitality” during such Potemkin visits (Political Pilgrims, 16–21, 344–99).

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237. Gide, Retouches, 831. 238. See Sobanet, “Henri Barbusse,” for a full treatment of the Ludwig interview. 239. Stalin, Interview with the German Author Emil Ludwig, 7. 240. Bey, Staline, 230, 254–55; Stalin, 275–76, 312–13. 241. Bey, Staline, 277; Stalin, 365. 242. Sadoul in Untitled incorrectly describes it as a response. 243. Souvarine, Staline, 208; Stalin, 222. 244. Souvarine, Staline, 304–5; Stalin, 321–22. 245. See Sadoul, Untitled. For the September 1935 issue, Barbusse, Gide, Gorky, Rolland, and Vaillant-Couturier served on the “comité directeur.” The “comité de rédaction” was comprised of Aragon, Nizan, Pierre Unik, and others. 246. Sadoul, Untitled, 94–95. 247. Sadoul, Untitled, 95. 248. Barbusse, Staline, 101, 282; Stalin, 83, 249. 249. Barbusse, Staline, 130; Stalin, 110. 250. Barbusse, Staline, 306; Stalin, 270. 251. Barbusse, “Révolution.” 252. Barbusse, “Révolution.” 253. Barbusse, Staline, 292; Stalin, 258. 254. Barbusse, Staline, 289; Stalin, 255. 255. Barbusse, Staline, 62; Stalin, 47. 256. See Brower, New Jacobins, 60–68; Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 232. “Front Unique” initially denoted unity of action between socialists and Communists, and the term preceded the “Front Populaire” slogan. The policy was formalized in July 1934, a few months before Barbusse finished the biography. The term “Front Unique” was promoted by the party before it was formalized in Comintern doctrine, especially in relation to the Pleyel conference of 1933 and the fight against fascism. In that context, it denoted a strategy of engagement with socialists “from below,” in other words, directly with socialist workers as opposed to the party leadership. The pact between the PCF and the leadership of the SFIO was signed in July 1934. It was in October 1934 that Thorez called for the creation of a “Popular Front of freedom, work, and peace” (Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 235–36). 257. See the pivotal July 15, 1935 issue of Les Cahiers du bolchévisme, which included articles on the July 14 celebration, the heritage of the 1789 revolution, and patriotism during the revolution. 258. Quote is from Ragsdale, Soviets, 195. On the pact’s aims, see Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 128. 259. English translation is from Brower, New Jacobins, 90. 260. Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 128. 261. Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 128; Brower, New Jacobins, 90. 262. Barbusse, Staline, 279, 306; Stalin, 247, 270. 263. Aragon, “Staline a raison.” 264. Henri Barbusse, “Quel chemin suivre? Le même!” Monde, May 23, 1935, 1–2.

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265. Teroni and Klein, Pour la Défense, 289. 266. See the July 14, 1935 issue of Monde. 267. Articles published near the national holiday in prior years were deeply critical. See for example, “Les fêtes nationales,” Monde, July 13, 1929, 2, and “Quand le peuple prenait la Bastille,” Monde, July 16, 1932, 8–9. 268. See, for instance, the excerpt titled “Staline: Un monde nouveau vu à travers un homme” in L’Humanité, March 3, 1935, 4. Promotions, excerpts, or reviews also appeared in the April 15, 1935; April 23, 1935; April 29, 1935; and May 26, 1935, editions of L’Humanité. Staline was excerpted in the February 1935 issue of Commune (549–60). Eugène Dabit’s “Ma découverte d’Henri Barbusse” appeared in the June 1935 Commune (1142). See also Sadoul, Untitled. 269. “Pour Barbusse! Pour Staline!” L’Humanité, June 1, 1935, 4. 270. Relinger, Henri Barbusse, 208. 271. Footage of the event is included in Lods, Henri Barbusse. See 14:22 to 18:10. 272. L’Humanité, September 3, 1935, 1. 273. The front-page headline of the September 8, 1935 edition of L’Humanité states that 300,000 people followed Barbusse’s coffin through the streets of Paris to PèreLachaise. The official socialist organ Le Populaire de Paris (September 8, 1935, 1) provides a more conservative estimate at 100,000. 274. Duclos and Fréville, Henri Barbusse, 27. 275. Baudorre, Barbusse, 393. 276. The party held, for instance, an event marking the tenth anniversary of Barbusse’s death. See Duclos and Fréville, Henri Barbusse. 277. See “Un avertissement de Barbusse qui reste valable,” L’Humanité, May 19, 1951, 2. 278. Aragon, L’Homme communiste, 454. 279. “Appel aux travailleurs intellectuels,” L’Humanité, July 2, 1925, 1. 280. Aragon, L’Œuvre poétique, 5:407. 281. Aragon, “Monde, samedi 23 novembre,” 33; “Decouverte du nouveau monde,” 30. 282. “La Résistance,” 6; “L’Homme,” 63. 283. The original version of the Short Biography appeared in late 1939 and was assigned a central role in the party catechism by Stalin himself (Brandenberger, “Stalin as Symbol,” 250). The second edition appeared in 1947. That was followed by a slightly revised edition in 1949. Commentary that follows is based on the 1950 English-language edition, issued in 1952, but also applies to the 1939 edition (as translated into English and published in 1940). 284. Alexandrov et al., Joseph Stalin, 203. 285. Alexandrov et al., Joseph Stalin, 206. 286. See Poskrebyshev, “Memo.” 287. See Poskrebyshev, “Memo.” 288. See Baudorre, Barbusse, 308–10 on Barbusse’s interest in film from the late 1920s and 1930s. 289. See Glavlit and Barbusse, “Letter from Glavlit to Stalin.” Description of Glavlit is from Sherry, Discourses, 45. Glavlit’s full name was Main Administration of Literature and Publishing.

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290. See Nizan, “Staline humaniste.” 291. Glavlit and Barbusse, “Letter from Glavlit to Stalin.” The portrait is referred to as “bezobraznyi,” which can also mean ugly. 292. Khlevniuk, New Biography, 176–77 (in a photo spread caption) writes that unflattering portraits of Stalin were not allowed to be published. 293. See Stetskii, “Foreword.” 294. For more on the reception of the biography in the USSR, see David-Fox, Showcasing, 232–34. 295. Medvedev, History, 818. 296. See Ilyichev, ccc, and Barbusse, “Memorandum.” 297. Barbusse, Staline, 228; Stalin, 200. 298. Report of Court Proceedings, 720. See also 718 and 799. 299. Report of Court Proceedings, 721.

TWO

ROMAIN ROLLAND AND THE POLITICS OF TERROR

The publication of André Gide’s Retour de l’URSS (Return from the USSR) in the fall of 1936 was a seismic event. Gide’s fame, his prior deep devotion to what he believed was the mission of the USSR, and the strength of his testimony disavowing his adopted spiritual homeland all combined to render his apostasy especially threatening to the party and particularly noteworthy outside of it. Prior to his visit, Gide had been, like so many of his contemporaries, inspired by what he thought was the USSR’s solidarity with “all suffering peoples.”1 As evidenced by a journal entry from April 1932, his commitment was profound indeed: “In the revolting distress of the contemporary world, the project of the new Russia seems to me to represent salvation. . . . The despicable arguments of her enemies not only fail to convince me, but they outrage me. And if it required my own life to ensure the success of the USSR, I would give it up immediately.”2 Gide’s disappointment was acute, however, upon witnessing the state of Soviet society in 1936. In Retour, he critiques a wide range of phenomena, including substantial inequality and poverty, government-enforced conformity, suppression of independent critical thinking, a striking level of ignorance about the outside world, and the cult of personality around Stalin. “Who shall say what the Soviet Union was to us?” he wrote. “More than a chosen fatherland—an example, a guide. What we were dreaming of, what we barely dared to hope for, but toward which we were straining our will and our strength, was coming into being 103

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there. A land existed where Utopia was in the process of becoming reality.”3 Gide, in the end, was one of many for whom God had failed.4 In the foreword to his Retour, Gide writes that he had composed his text with the intention of speaking the truth in the service of a country he once so admired. He comments on the nature of the often toxic and duplicitous debate about the Soviet Union: “It too often happens that the friends of the Soviet Union refuse to see the bad side, or, at any rate, refuse to admit the bad side; so that too often what is true about the USSR is said with enmity, and what is false with love.”5 He obliquely critiques—without mentioning names—prior witnesses who had not given a fuller picture of Soviet life: “To confine oneself exclusively to praise is a bad way of proving one’s devotion.”6 The reception of Gide’s Retour rendered clear that his text and others like it were far from welcome in circles still supportive of Stalin’s USSR. Among the PCF’s most visible responses to Gide’s book was a letter from Romain Rolland addressed to workers in the Soviet Union and placed on the front page of L’Humanité. Published under the title “The USSR Has Seen Many Others,” the letter is brutal in its assessment of Gide’s book.7 Rolland called Retour de l’URSS, “A mediocre book: shockingly shoddy, superficial, puerile, and contradictory.” He accuses Gide of having allowed enemies of the USSR to exploit his celebrity in their fight against the Soviet Union. Although Rolland’s overall tone is vitriolic, his critiques of Gide’s Retour are very general in nature. In fact, the sole specific criticism Rolland offers of Gide’s book is on the subject of the cult of personality around Stalin— and this despite the fact that Gide focused on a wide range of social and economic issues, putting into question the basic functioning and future of the Soviet experiment. Rather than target his observations about poverty or inequality, for instance, Rolland refutes Gide’s claim that one must lavish obsequious praise upon the general secretary whenever addressing him, using descriptions such as “‘You [vous], leader of the workers,’ or ‘master of the peoples.’”8 Ironically, to support that refutation, Rolland cites Stalin as an authority on the matter, stating that the Soviet leader himself wrote that “modesty is the decoration of the true Bolshevik.” Rolland cites as further proof his own 1935 visit to the USSR and his communications with Stalin. One can, Rolland maintains, simply call Stalin “comrade” and “you” (vous) and dispense with terms of excessive praise. It turns out, however, that Rolland’s rebuttal was a case of protesting too much. His letter revealed the

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enormous sensitivities in the PCF around critiques of Stalin, and it furthermore disguised Rolland’s own privately held reservations about the USSR. For as his personal journals from 1935 reveal, Rolland’s private stance on the Soviet Union was remarkably similar to Gide’s, including on the subject of the veneration of Stalin, which he called “that ridiculous cult” (“ce culte ridicule”).9 Gide was so “pained” by some critiques that he published a short book titled Retouches à mon “Retour de l’URSS” (Amendments to my Return from the USSR, 1937) in order to respond to his detractors.10 This time, he calls out by name those whose testimonies about the USSR are unreliable. He lambastes, for instance, “the Barbusses, the Romain Rollands,” all those writers who, in spite of their alleged devotion to justice and liberty, had been or remained silent about the plight of political prisoners in the Soviet Union.11 Gide’s mention of Barbusse and Rolland underscores their importance to the PCF and how central they were to the debate in France on the USSR, Stalin, and Stalinism. Indeed, Gide’s critique of Barbusse came two years after the latter died, although as we have seen, his reputation and legacy remained intact within the party for many years after his death. Rolland, for his part, was at the height of his prestige within the party. He was, for example, routinely called “our great friend” in the PCF press, to which he contributed considerably, including work as a codirector of the party-line review Commune. Rolland’s prominence and his long history of political engagement simply made him a bigger target for Gide. Referencing the landmark 1914 antiwar essay that had established Rolland’s reputation as a courageous public intellectual, Gide writes in Retouches, “I believe the author of Au-dessus de la mêlée [Above the Battle] would be harsh in his judgment of the aged Rolland.”12 In this chapter, I will trace Romain Rolland’s intellectual trajectory from World War I pacifism through his embrace of Stalinism and his promotion of the cult of personality. As we will see, Rolland’s path to integration into the Soviet orbit was longer and significantly more complex than that of Barbusse. After having explored how Rolland moved from an independent position of pacifist internationalism to dedicated public support of the party, I will study his play Robespierre (1939). That work depicts the final three months of the life of “the Incorruptible,” as the highly controversial and polarizing revolutionary figure is known. I will analyze Robespierre in light

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of Rolland’s activity in service to the PCF. In doing so, I will situate the play into the cultural and political context in which it was written, published, performed, and received. Central to that context is the 1939 celebration of the 150th anniversary of the French Revolution, a national commemoration that was embraced and appropriated by the PCF. This comprehensive study of Robespierre will shed light on the party’s culture of commemoration, its use of French revolutionary history for contemporary political purposes, and the integration of the cult of personality around Stalin into its vision of history. Study of Robespierre allows us to see how the cult of personality manifests itself in allegorical form, with the Terror of the 1790s serving as a means of exploring the Moscow purges and with Robespierre serving as a proxy for Stalin. This analysis will furthermore explore differences between Rolland’s public and private stances on Stalin and Soviet policy in the 1930s, especially with respect to the personality cult, the Moscow purges, and the signing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. Although he retained his status as a fellow traveler and never officially joined the party, Rolland’s public commitment to PCF doctrine for the bulk of the 1930s was largely indistinguishable from that of intellectuals who were party members. Given his voluminous reflections in his journals and correspondence, the case of Romain Rolland presents a unique opportunity to explore the complexity (doubt, hesitation, vacillation, and even hypocrisy) underlying what seemed in public to be profound commitment to the party, the USSR, and Stalin’s leadership. The Gr eat War and the Birth of a Public Intellectual

Romain Rolland was a polymath. He wrote prolifically, across multiple genres and on a striking array of subjects. His novels include two romansfleuve—it was he who coined the term—Jean-Christophe and L’Ame enchantée (The Soul Enchanted).13 He wrote biographical studies of Beethoven, Handel, Michelangelo, Tolstoy, Gandhi, and Péguy. He wrote fifteen plays, including eight on the French revolutionary era, the last of which was Robespierre. He composed essays on politics, literature, music, theater, art history, and mysticism. From the 1880s through his death in December 1944, Rolland kept a personal journal. (The pages number in the thousands, and much of it remains unpublished.) And he made a variety of connections— correspondence, interviews, working relationships, friendships—with a

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wide range of prominent figures, including Tolstoy, Freud, Einstein, Zweig, Strauss, Gide, Gorky, Nehru, Gandhi, and Stalin.14 Rolland received the 1915 Nobel Prize in literature for his first romanfleuve, Jean-Christophe. The citation for the prize states that Rolland was chosen “as a tribute to the lofty idealism of his literary production and to the sympathy and love of truth with which he has described different types of human beings.”15 Although the Nobel committee stated explicitly that Rolland received the award for Jean-Christophe (1904–12), the timing suggests that he was recognized at least in part for his antiwar essays of 1914–15, especially “Au-dessus de la mêlée.” The latter text, written and published in Switzerland in September 1914, was censored in his native and, at that time, highly nationalist France.16 In it, Rolland advocated an abandonment of nationalist hatred, among other notable positions I will discuss in greater detail below. The text, and others that followed, turned the (until-then) largely apolitical Rolland into a controversial figure, regarded by some as a Germanophile and traitor.17 Subsequently, his work continued to be censored in France in 1914 and 1915. The selection of Rolland for the Nobel caused such an uproar that the committee initially decided to delay the award. In the end, they waited until November 1916 to award Rolland the 1915 prize.18 True to the Nobel citation, Rolland’s censored wartime essays— collected in a volume titled Au-dessus de la mêlée—promote the internationalist humanism and pacifism for which he is most remembered today. Those essays are also crucial to understanding Rolland’s political trajectory, as they contain many of the themes and motifs that would form the foundation of his thought to varying degrees for the next several years (some much longer): a strong antiwar stance that rejects imperialism and aggressive forms of nationalism; the importance of freedom of thought; a fascination with the vitality of revolutionary movements in Russia; the need for a transnational entity to promote peace, fraternity, and justice; a view of the ideal intellectual as bearing a deep and “oceanic” connection to the rest of humanity; and a tendency to embrace powerful figureheads. Unlike Barbusse, Rolland was not a combatant in World War I. (His age and health exempted him from mobilization.)19 He therefore was able to spend the war years in Switzerland, writing, corresponding with intellectuals from across Europe, and engaging in activism (including work on behalf

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of prisoners of war and their families).20 The essay “Au-dessus de la mêlée” is typical of Rolland’s mode of antiwar intellectual engagement and of his willingness to voice his conscience in a context unfavorable to his views. He wrote the text while the Battle of the Marne was taking place. That context rendered incendiary Rolland’s critique of a specific form of nationalism— that is, the nationalist sentiment that appears to bestow a divine right to make war on those nations deemed “barbarian.” Rolland asserts that such hatred and the imperialism that can result from it represent distinct dangers. He writes, “Every nation to a greater or less extent has an imperialism of its own, and whether it be military, financial, feudal, republican, social, or intellectual, it is always the octopus sucking the best blood of Europe.”21 Rolland writes that his ultimate goal would be to find a fraternity that exists above the nationalistic fray, to assemble what he calls the “free souls” of the entire world. Therein lies the meaning of the oft-misinterpreted title of his famous essay. (Rolland would later chafe at accusations from Barbusse of living in an “ivory tower.”)22 Indeed, Rolland advocates rising above certain kinds of battles: those that lead to nationalist expansion. He is, however, ready to struggle in service of an internationalism that could unite intellectuals against the atrocities of war. Despite his strong internationalist stance, Rolland still at this time maintained a belief in the greatness of “peoples” around the world, including in his native France. He makes a distinction between the nationalism that demonizes enemies and the nationalist traditions and impulses that he deems noble. The existence of those impulses in French and German contexts can lead to a peaceful international fraternity. He writes, “Love of my country [patrie] does not demand that I shall hate and slay those noble and faithful souls who also love theirs, but rather that I should honor them and seek to unite with them for our common good.”23 In the French case, such nationalist impulses are linked to the traditions of the “Grande République” and the French Revolution. He writes, for instance, “My young compatriots in whom the generation of the heroes of the Revolution lives again—how you are dear to me, you who will die!”24 Rolland’s humanistic patriotism manifests itself strongly in “Jaurès,” the final essay of Au-dessus de la mêlée, first published in July 1915. In that tribute marking the anniversary of the socialist leader’s assassination, Rolland praises Jean Jaurès, stating, “This great European was also a great

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Frenchman.”25 Significantly, moreover, his tribute to Jaurès serves as an example of his tendency to embrace heroes and figureheads. He writes, “Jaurès is a type, almost unique in modern times, of the great political orator who is also a great thinker, and who combines vast culture with penetrating observation, and moral grandeur with energetic activity. We must go back to antiquity to find one who, like him, could . . . leave on all things the impress of his personality, the furrow of his robust labor, the seeds of his progressive mind.”26 Here, Rolland describes Jaurès as having special and near mythical gifts. And patriotism is central to this idealized portrait of Jaurès. The patriotism apparent in this and other early wartime essays by Rolland would go dormant, however, in favor of a more rigorously internationalist perspective. But his tendency to try to find, through political figureheads, solutions to the problem of war and peace would only grow more conspicuous. The Seeker

As the war continued, Rolland’s turn away from patriotism became increasingly pronounced. Like Barbusse, he had a short-lived appreciation for Woodrow Wilson, especially regarding the American president’s support of international and pacifist movements. He expressed admiration for American ideals (especially the stated position for the rights of peoples) and the potential for social and political renewal represented by the United States. He grew disillusioned in early 1917, however, when it became clear the United States would enter the war. That shift was roughly concurrent with a growing fascination with Asian cultures, one that would lead Rolland to attempt to bridge East and West. He envisioned a world in which the Americas, Europe, and the “rejuvenescent civilizations” of India and China would come together as a “universal humanity with a common spiritual treasury.”27 Rolland’s most notable political text in the early post–World War I era was his March 1919 “Déclaration d’Indépendance de l’Esprit” (“Declaration of the Independence of the Mind”). Signed by Barbusse, Einstein, Jean-Richard Bloch, Marcel Martinet, Upton Sinclair, Stefan Zweig, and others, the declaration cements Rolland’s highest priority in this phase of his career: intellectual freedom. It also confirms his abandonment of the principled nationalism that he described in early wartime essays. Significant for our purposes here is a note appended to the “Déclaration” in August 1919,

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in which he states that due to the blockade on Russia (imposed by Western powers during the civil war), the list of signatories does not include a number of “Russian friends.” He writes, “Russian thought is in the vanguard of the thought of the world.”28 In a text published a few months later, Rolland amplified his critique of the blockade and of the bourgeois Western democracies that were leading it. Those oligarchic states, Rolland argues, which once hid behind monarchic privilege, are now masked by their new republican “Idols”: law, fatherland, liberty. He continues, lamenting the treatment of the Bolsheviks, “Every attempt to renew the old and corrupt order will be crushed, as it is with the chaotic and grandiose effort of our Russian brothers today.”29 Soon after, however, Rolland passed through a period of pronounced distanciation from the nascent PCF and the Russian Revolution (and, consequently, Barbusse). He wrote that the free search for truth was impeded by regimes of all kinds: “Clemenceau oppresses it, Lenin oppresses it.”30 Not surprisingly, given its close affiliation with the Third International, Rolland declined to participate in Barbusse’s Clarté group. He also did not take sides in what he would later call the “ungodly struggle” between socialists and the nascent PCF after the Congrès de Tours.31 A famous public quarrel with Barbusse—on the social role and political tactics of public intellectuals— soon followed. Barbusse launched the dispute by singling out “Rollandistes” for their refusal to go beyond simply declaring their intellectual independence. He believed that they lacked what he called a “positive” means of crafting a new world order, a position (he argued) that prevented them from engaging in a meaningful struggle against war. Indeed, the focal point of the quarrel was ultimately the role that violence could play in the creation of a just and peaceful society. Barbusse—who saw himself as representing the Clarté group—articulated a defense of revolutionary and means-to-end violence. Such violence, he argued, would disarm the powerful. He states, “The intervention of violence is nothing but . . . and we weigh our words before we use them, a detail and a temporary one at that.”32 Barbusse, in characteristic fashion, saw the choice between the Rollandistes and the Clartéistes as clear-cut and polarized—a choice between reaction and revolution. Rolland, for his part, mounted a vigorous critique of two notions central to Barbusse’s Leninist discourse: that violence is but a temporary detail

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and that the end can justify the means. Rolland argued that the means are even more important for true progress than whatever end they may serve. He writes that violence leaves indelible traces in the “living organism” and that if the means are violent, the end will be corrupted. He offered a grim prediction for those who achieve victory through violent means. If a group attains power through violence, then might will continue to make right: “No form of government will forever prevent the oppression of the weak by the strong.”33 At fundamental issue in their debate was the state of Russian society in 1921 and 1922. In typically Manichaean fashion, Barbusse spoke of his conviction that principles of socialism represented the “truth,” and he argued that there was no other solution possible to the problem of war and peace.34 Rolland, however, was not receptive to such arguments, despite his earlier expressions of admiration for Russian revolutionary energies. Rolland, in fact, used the debate with Barbusse to articulate his disillusionment with Bolshevik methods. He mounted a critique thereof that is consonant with those leveled at the Soviet Union from the 1920s through the end of the Stalinist era, including Gide’s in 1936 and 1937. Rolland first rejected the “neo-Marxist” doctrine of Communism as having little to do with real progress for humanity.35 He furthermore described the Russian application of Communist doctrine as “stained by wicked and cruel errors.”36 The Bolsheviks, he argued, sacrificed humanity, liberty, and truth in mounting their regime. Far from achieving justice, they have merely installed a police state. He writes, “Militarism, police-related terror, and brutal force are not sanctified by me just because they are the instruments of a Communist dictatorship rather than those of a plutocracy.”37 And just as Gide would maintain in 1936, Rolland writes, “I firmly believe that the greatest service you could render to the Communist cause is not to write an apologia, but rather to proffer candid and honest critiques.”38 Rolland expressed a desire to be revolutionary but wished to remain free in his thinking. He writes, “Party thought, Church thought, caste thought—instruments of all forms of oppression!”39 Rolland’s debate with Barbusse opens a window onto the next major phase of his intellectual trajectory: an embrace of Gandhian “nonresistance,” also known as “nonviolence” and “noncooperation.”40 In rebutting Barbusse, Rolland maintained that such nonresistance, alongside free

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intellectual engagement, represented a pillar of his philosophy of building a new world (his “positive” agenda, in Barbusse’s terms). He argued that Gandhian methods of nonresistance do not constitute not resisting, “for they represent the supreme form of resistance.”41 Rolland’s embrace of Gandhian philosophy would become increasingly pronounced through the mid- to late 1920s. His Mahatma Gandhi (1924), a landmark study of the independence leader’s political career, confirms and elaborates on his interest in nonresistance as a political tool. The first book of what has been called his Indian triptych (he also wrote books on the religious figures Vivekananda and Ramakrishna), Gandhi outlines the methods of nonviolence the Mahatma represented and used in both South Africa and India. Rolland in part uses his study of the Indian independence leader to articulate his own political philosophy. He critiques both the West as well as what he calls the “dictators of Moscow.”42 In decrying the violence sweeping the world, he bemoans the “idolatrous ideology of the Revolution.”43 There is some irony in this, however, given Rolland’s lifelong penchant for embracing figureheads, including Gandhi. Indeed, Rolland takes on religious language to describe his infatuation with Gandhi, whom he dubs a saint, and in whom he sees an “evangelical heart beating under his Hindu Creed.”44 Rolland describes Gandhi as a messiah for India and argues that his nonresistance against violence is the struggle in which antiwar intellectuals should be engaged.45 For it is not merely a battle of passive resistance, Rolland argues, but active resistance strengthened by the forces of love, faith, and sacrifice. Rolland writes that Gandhi’s strength comes from his will, and with the Mahatma’s example and model, it becomes possible for a single individual to defy the whole might of an unjust empire. Rolland saw this as an increasingly important battle to wage, given the worsening international landscape. He writes, “All—be they nationalists, Fascists, Bolshevists, members of the oppressed classes, members of the oppressing classes—claim that they have the right to use force, while refusing this right to others. Half a century ago might dominated right. Today things are far worse. Might is right. Might has devoured right.”46 That statement against the use of violence is in direct opposition to the stance of Barbusse, who, by this time, was officially a member of the PCF.

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Despite such critiques of Bolshevism and Soviet governance, it is important to note that even in this phase of his trajectory, Rolland’s attraction to powerful individuals led him to praise Lenin when he died in early 1924. Rolland explains that it is because of his own spirit of independence that he has such an attraction: “Because I am too much of an individualist and an idealist to adapt to the Marxist credo and its materialist fatalism, I attach an extreme value to great individualities, and I therefore have a keen admiration for Lenin.”47 Still at the height of his Gandhian phase, Rolland states that Lenin is the most powerful European leadership figure in the last century: “Since Napoleon, never has European history seen such steely willpower.”48 That single statement would ultimately be more predictive of Rolland’s politico-literary activity in the late 1920s and the 1930s than would be his substantial work on Gandhi. For despite the fervor with which he espoused the Mahatma in the mid-1920s, world events—combined with his penchant for embracing figureheads— would eventually lead him into the orbit of Lenin’s very powerful successor. From Nonr esistance to Party Discipline

Rolland’s interest and belief in Gandhian ideals endured well into the 1930s, although he came to reexamine the primacy thereof in the struggle against war. In the years 1925 and 1926, Rolland became increasingly alarmed by the rise of fascism in Italy, and his concern was such that he once again found substantial common ground with Barbusse. The two inaugurated in November 1926 the Comité international contre le fascisme, which held its first major meeting in Paris in February of the following year. Rolland’s clear-eyed understanding that fascism represented a grave menace to world peace led him not only closer to Barbusse, but also into the orbit of the PCF and back into the ranks of the supporters of the USSR. Rolland wrote in May of 1927 that he believed that there was a new strength in Communism and that it represented among the “most vigorous battalions of attack” against fascism.49 Even in this phase, however, he remained a critical supporter of the USSR, pointing out its failures, while at the same time underscoring the importance of the Soviet project for humanity’s future. He wrote, for example, “Whatever its errors, its stupidities and often even its crimes, the Russian Revolution represents the greatest, most powerful, and most fertile social enterprise of modern Europe.”50

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A watershed moment for Rolland came in November 1927, not coincidentally around the time of the tenth anniversary of the October Revolution (a time of a noteworthy effort on the part of the Soviet Union to increase or consolidate its influence over many Western intellectuals). As a result of an open correspondence with the Soviet People’s Commissar for Education, Anatoly Lunacharsky (whom he knew as an exile in Switzerland in 1915), Rolland became convinced of a spirit of intellectual debate and openness in the USSR. His favorable impressions were confirmed by testimony written in support of the Soviet Union, especially Guido Miglioli’s Le Village soviétique, a text that promotes and idealizes efforts to remake the Soviet agricultural sector. Rolland’s dramatic shift indeed illustrates the importance and effectiveness of Soviet outreach to foreigners in the 1920s and 1930s. Over the next several years, Rolland’s long-standing devotion to Gandhian principles was melded with an espousal of Communism. As he wrote in 1934, “I dedicated myself to the paradoxical task of marrying water and fire, to reconcile the thought of India and that of Moscow.”51 Indeed, in the early 1930s, Rolland had come to believe that fascism represented such a significant threat that Gandhian nonviolence alone would no longer be sufficient to prevent war. Without renouncing his belief in Gandhian methods, he began to describe them as “experimental” and perhaps not suited to the European context. In the same period, he became increasingly enchanted by the efficacy of Leninist violence. After Hitler came to power, Rolland advocated for a broad united front against fascism, as he viewed that struggle as the primary duty of all antiwar intellectuals. Individual conscientious objectors against violence would save their own souls, but the need for collective, armed action was something Rolland could no longer ignore.52 In the early part of the 1930s, Rolland’s writing begins to show signs of not just alignment with the USSR, but of conformity with Stalinist policy that veers into blind support for the regime. In April 1930, in the pages of Barbusse’s Monde, he called for a truce of all divided parties on the left in order to fight fascism and support “the bastion of the Union of Proletarian Republics.”53 He furthermore labeled as lies critiques of the USSR: all part of a “seedy” nationalist press campaign.54 In 1931, he wrote in support of the Shakhty trial, the notorious 1928 show trial of engineers accused of sabotage and treason. The confessions produced in that context, he argued, proved that the USSR was a “targeted prey” on the world stage.55 He wrote with a

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passionate devotion that he “believed” that the USSR was creating a more just, humane, and fertile society, and that he would defend it “as long as he is still breathing.”56 Also in 1931, he expressed confidence in Soviet leaders, “the Lenins and the Stalins,” to be able to realize the goal of happiness for humanity.57 And, in a striking reversal from his previously held position, the end now justified the means: “The builders had to dirty their hands; we have no right to act like we are disgusted.”58 A few years later, Rolland’s confidence in Soviet leaders would morph into conformity with key discursive elements in the cults of both Lenin and Stalin, as well as the party’s culture of commemoration. In early 1934, for the tenth anniversary of Lenin’s death, Rolland wrote an essay titled “Lenin: Art and Action,” praising in hyperbolic terms Lenin’s revolutionary capacities. Rolland wrote, “All the energies of the mind: art, literature, science, Lenin mobilizes everything for action, all the way down to the elemental currents, to the subconscious depths of being—to dreams.”59 Crucially, this idealized picture of Lenin—inflected with Rollandist oceanic imagery (“the elemental currents”)—is informed and bolstered by Stalin’s commentary on the legendary Bolshevik leader (commentary that takes up about a fifth of the text). Indeed, Stalin’s imprimatur legitimizes this depiction of Lenin: “No one has outdone Stalin in illuminating the characteristic by which Lenin distinguished himself: his perpetual communion with the elemental forces that were manifest in the masses.”60 Such discourse, portraying Stalin as an authority, but not yet as a grandiose figure, is aligned with the Stalin cult as it evolved in France. Idealized discourse around Stalin would soon follow, however, most notably in Rolland’s seminal “Panorama”—the lengthy introduction to his collection of essays Quinze ans de combat—a text in which he looks back at his previous fifteen years of activity as a public intellectual. Written in late 1934 (and published in summer 1935), the text aligns with the nationalist and internationalist discourse of the Front Populaire. Rolland argues that the most significant revolutionary phenomenon since the French Revolution had been fully realized thanks to “strong and wise Stalinist policy.”61 He praises Stalin for his “firm yet subtle hand” and says that under his guidance, the Soviet Union has become more “understanding of the rights of the mind.”62 And it is through the Soviet Union that Rolland finally sees the realization of his long-standing dream of an international of intellectuals,

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although by 1934 he preferred Stalin’s formulation of “the engineers of the soul in the army of all workers.”63 Rolland also expresses openness to the idea that the violence in the USSR is indeed merely temporary, a stage in the progression of the liberation of humanity. The dictatorship of the proletariat, he argues, represents a “fatal and severe” phase of the movement toward radical equality.64 And his once-prized intellectual independence is also sacrificed to Orwellian logic. Only the revolution can preserve independence, he argues, and for the revolution to be victorious, independence must be sacrificed. “In combat, the Revolution must win: it can only do so through strict discipline.”65 In order to save independence, in other words, we must conform. If there were any doubt as to Rolland’s move into the Soviet orbit, he listed in his 1935 “Panorama” the two principal tenets of his thought from 1928 onward: “Defense of the USSR” is listed first, followed by defense of international peace. The once-primary struggles against imperialism and fascism are listed as “counterparts” to those priorities.66 In line with Comintern policy, Rolland also embraced the Soviet Union’s entry into the League of Nations, an organization of which he had been critical as a failure and as the valet of two or three great “patron” states.67 These changes did not go unnoticed: Rolland’s “turnaround” was praised in September 1934 by Soviet functionary Karl Radek as “our greatest victory.”68 The new principles he adopted as part of this turnaround—complete with a reembrace of French revolutionary traditions and the internationalist patriotism of the Front Populaire—would be fundamental to Robespierre and Rolland’s public persona for the remainder of the decade. A Potemkin Visit

It is fitting that Quinze ans de combat, which served in many ways as a declaration of allegiance to the USSR as well as to Stalin as a leader, was released as Rolland was returning from his first and only visit to the Soviet Union.69 The trip, about four weeks long in June and July of 1935, was a crucial moment in Rolland’s political trajectory, as it solidified his position as an illustrious “friend” of the USSR. Rolland’s visit, moreover, came at an important point during Stalin’s rule, just months after the Kirov assassination and on the heels of the signing of the pact of mutual assistance between France and the USSR. The visit was in fact used by the party to promote

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in France the importance of defending the Soviet Union.70 Rolland therefore visited at a moment when the Soviet Union was engaged in a period of openness in international relations and severe political repression within its borders. Happenstance would have it that Barbusse died just a few weeks after Rolland’s return. That fact, combined with the unqualified success— publicly, at least—of his visit, allowed Rolland to slip easily into the role that Barbusse had held for several years: that of the most prominent French intellectual affiliated with the party. The texts published in party organs—especially L’Humanité and Commune—both during and soon after Rolland’s visit tell a seamless story of a hero’s welcome to the USSR. The veteran Bolshevik Nikolai Bukharin, who was among those with whom Rolland spent considerable time during the visit, wrote “Salut à Romain Rolland” to mark the occasion. The text was published both in Russia and France (in Commune). Bukharin placed Rolland into a special category of people: “There are men who seem to incarnate all contemporary culture. . . . They are the apostles and the prophets of their times; the warriors and the champions, the great souls of the era; like the trumpets of the archangels of the Christian fables did with Judgment Day, they announce the anguish and the joy of this fatal moment in history.”71 The absurd level of encomium in Bukharin’s text shows that Rolland was granted his own minor personality cult in the Franco-Soviet orbit. The citizens of the USSR with whom Rolland came in contact treated him in similar fashion: obsequious letters of praise; flowers thrown to him when he attended a play, even during the performance; acclamations from huge crowds on the street.72 If the many letters sent to him by Soviet citizens are a real indicator of his popularity, his novels—especially Jean-Christophe, L’Ame enchantée, and Colas Breugnon—were widely appreciated by the public.73 During his stay at Gorky’s villa outside Moscow (where he spent the bulk of the trip, save a few nights in the capital), there was a near constant stream of visitors, seemingly tailored to Rolland’s interests and designed to underscore the dynamism and vitality of the new Soviet society: writers, musicians, film directors, artists, and female paratroopers and metro workers. Young Soviet composers wrote a symphony just for him.74 Gorky hosted a lavish dinner at his residence during Rolland’s visit, a meal attended by a striking set of Communist leaders, including Genrikh Yagoda (the head of the NKVD), Georgy Dimitrov (Secretary General of

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the Comintern), Lazar Kaganovich (the key functionary and Stalin loyalist), Molotov (the operative who would become head foreign minister shortly before the outbreak of World War II), and Stalin himself. The dinner was actually the second time Rolland had intimate contact with the general secretary, as it followed his nearly two-hour audience with Stalin at the Kremlin. There, Rolland conducted an interview of Stalin that covered a wide range of topics, including sensitive matters like the internal exile of Victor Serge (who was indeed liberated not long after Rolland’s lobbying effort) and the concern on the French left over the new pact between the USSR and France (which was deemed by some, including André Breton, as an endorsement of French militarism and imperialism).75 The meeting was given publicity in both France and Russia, and it was deemed successful by the Soviet leadership circle. However, for reasons unclear, Stalin never granted Rolland permission to publish the text. Rolland himself was satisfied by the interaction but frustrated and flummoxed by the official silence that met his requests to publish the text, which he wanted to place in Commune. In a still-unpublished portion of his journal (but available in BNF archives), Rolland stewed over the official silence, which he referred to as “a grossly impolite muteness.” He wondered if he had somehow alienated Soviet leaders. Rolland writes, “One would think that I caused some disappointment over there, that they were offended. What were they expecting? I did not want to flatter any of the leaders. I did not publish a sensationalist panegyric text. Is that the reason? Or is it simply the deeply ingrained negligence of the Russians, their diseased incapacity to respond to letters? I note that this sort of sulkiness is limited to the political circles in the USSR.”76 The quote is a fascinating one, as it shows Rolland’s awareness of the exact degree to which he had been willing to express—or feign—public support. It moreover shows a critical awareness of the types of narratives that have been released about the Soviet Union and its leadership. Finally, it underscores that party-affiliated intellectuals are informed, one way or another, of what is generally expected of them regarding praise of Soviet leadership. The notable text that Rolland did publish after his visit was titled “Retour de Moscou” (Return from Moscow), which appeared in the October 1935 Commune around the same time he groused in his journal about Stalin and his leadership cadre.77 While not a “sensationalist panegyric text” (like Barbusse’s Russie or Staline), Rolland’s “Retour” is nonetheless typical of

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the pro-Soviet testimonies written in the highly polarized environment of the late 1920s and 1930s. His high praise of Soviet leadership captures the overall tone: “Stalin and his great Bolshevik comrades breathe optimism— admittedly without illusions, but without fear—for they work for the best, the most beautiful, the most resplendent future of all humanity.”78 Rolland’s “Retour” describes the Soviet Union as a successful sociopolitical experiment, a trait it shares with Barbusse’s “panegyric” texts. He writes, “The overriding impression that I am left with after the voyage is the powerful rush of vitality—youthful, overflowing, beaming with the knowledge of its strength, the pride in its successes, the confidence in its faith, its mission, and its leaders—which penetrates and lifts up this immense people, these millions of men and women of the USSR.”79 Rolland’s glowing assessment of the USSR in Commune served as the capstone to his visit, a visit that ultimately served as a propaganda device for French and Russian party-line media (including L’Humanité, Pravda, and Izvestia). The full version of “Retour de Moscou,” which is integrated into a section of Rolland’s journals (unpublished until 1992), tells a different story, almost from the very beginning, however.80 Cut entirely from the Commune version is the text’s first substantive paragraph, in which Rolland acknowledges having met people who were hostile to the regime and that the regime itself is the source of suffering, errors, and injustices that aggrieve those truly devoted to the cause of Communism (including Rolland’s wife and interpreter, Marija Pavlovna, a Russian by birth). Much as Gide would do a year later, Rolland critiques the propaganda efforts in the Soviet Union, and describes the Soviet public as being exposed to systematically distorted news about the world outside the USSR, leading to a complete lack of understanding of the relative, and sometimes lack of, social achievements in the Soviet Union (quality of schools, for example). Crucially, Rolland does not reveal in the Commune version of “Retour” the existence of a highly privileged caste of Soviet officials and luminaries, a topic on which he dwells in his journals. Those individuals enjoy opulent living conditions—including housing, food, and transport, not to mention the power to retain their privileges—that stand in stark contrast to the grossly inadequate standard of living of ordinary citizens. This is significant because those material privileges are fundamentally related to Stalin’s dictatorship and, separately, the efforts by Soviet functionaries to hide its existence: two

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phenomena of which Rolland is quite critical. He suggests that the dictatorship is perhaps more dangerous to the well-being of the USSR than are its enemies. Without labeling it as such, he describes the USSR as a police state. He is critical of the constant surveillance, the swift condemnations of those suspected of crimes, and the “incessant military parades, with the exaltation of the leaders’ effigies.”81 Rolland’s comment on the “leaders’ effigies” is but one of many such remarks found in the full version of “Retour de Moscou” and his journal entries on his visit. He argues that Stalin’s tolerance of the cult of personality is against Leninist principles, which promoted the refusal of the privileges and perquisites of power. Rolland is mystified as to how the cult endures. On the one hand, he wryly notes that Stalin does not share Lenin’s aversion to seeing his own image.82 On the other hand, he tepidly tries to clear Stalin from responsibility, stating, “I have been assured (and I seemed to see for myself) that he pretty much takes on the appearance of being bothered by it.”83 But then why, Rolland asks, does he not just put an end to it? “If it were truly unpleasant for him, it would simply require a word from him, in a speech, to reject this ridiculous cult by mocking it.”84 Rolland here is touching on an important component of the Stalin cult: the leader’s alleged opposition to and grudging acceptance of the people’s veneration for him, which he permits because it is the supposed expression of popular will. Remarkably, however, Rolland finds a way to justify the authoritarian excesses that he witnessed in the USSR. He writes in his journal, “All of this, which one must avow, deplore, change, or eliminate—one can, despite everything, understand it. It’s a state of war. A state of siege.”85 And despite his critique of Stalin’s personality cult and dictatorship, he writes, “Stalinist policy seems to me to be just, healthy, and loyal to the Leninist tradition.”86 He furthermore sketches (again, in his journals) a brief portrait of Stalin, one that is more human to scale than Barbusse’s, but that is generally consonant with it. He remains convinced that the USSR desires peace above all and that its pact with France was necessitated by fascism. In sum, he writes, “For the time being, the result has been achieved. The Soviet general staff has formed a beautiful army of Work—large, robust, disciplined—that increases faith in their mission, action, and leaders.”87 Rolland’s trip to the USSR ultimately served as the basis for his political engagement with the party and his role in the PCF mediasphere through

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Figure 2.1. Rolland and Stalin in Moscow in 1935. Published in Commune to mark Rolland’s seventieth birthday (January 1936). Source: Tamiment Library, New York University. Photo: Justin Marshall.

the signing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of August 1939. He maintained public support for Stalin and Stalinism and functioned as an illustrious friend of the party and the Soviet Union. The celebratory efforts in honor of his seventieth birthday in early 1936 are an indicator of the prestige he held in the party. Among the tributes to Rolland was a full-page appreciation in L’Humanité, complete with words of praise from dozens of writers, including Gide. (The celebration took place before the latter’s visit to the USSR.)88 Also notable was the January issue of Commune, a substantial portion of which was devoted to Rolland’s birthday. The review—in atypical fashion— also published a number of photos in Rolland’s honor, including one of Rolland with Stalin. Central to the celebration was a large jubilee held in Paris at la Mutualité, attended by Aragon, Malraux, and Gide, among many other luminaries. Rolland returned the favor by participating in the PCF’s

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culture of commemoration. He regularly wrote ceremonial statements marking the overture of important party events, as well as anniversaries celebrated on the official PCF calendar. Terror Past and Pr esent

The purges of the mid- and late 1930s in the USSR had a curious impact on Rolland. In the period October to December 1938, Rolland performed a sort of autopsy on the journals of his visit to the Soviet Union, through the lens of the official reports and transcripts produced as a result of the trials in Moscow. From that self-review (which, like the journals, remained unpublished until 1992) emerge key revelations about Rolland’s support for the USSR in the period before the signing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of August 1939. The primary point to be made is that Rolland overwhelmingly accepts the official Soviet version of events. He expresses astonishment that many of the people he had seen in the company of Stalin were “actually” conspirators plotting against the general secretary. That includes both Yagoda and Bukharin, both of whom were executed after the trial of twenty-one in March 1938 (along with Gorky’s longtime secretary Pyotr Kryuchkov, whom Rolland also knew, and Grigori Fedorovich Grinko, as seen in chapter 1). Near the end of his review, Rolland points out that he had written letters to Stalin to plead for clemency on behalf of some of his acquaintances, the most notable being Bukharin, with whom he had established a friendly rapport during his visit. Still, he notes, despite his interventions, “In truth, Stalin must have seen that I had never said a word that could have harmed the cause of the USSR or his cause. But never a word in favor of him either. And yet, I am in favor of him, insofar as I am able to understand and monitor the facts.”89 And Rolland maintained his stance “in favor of him” despite his concern about Bukharin, for whom he said he still retained affection and esteem.90 He furthermore said that he was in favor of Stalin after having stated (again privately in his journals), “It is not Stalin that I defend. It is the USSR. . . . Nothing seems to me more harmful than idolatry directed toward individuals: Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini.”91 That statement, which he made in December 1937 (nearly a year earlier), has been highly touted by literary critics eager to minimize Rolland’s support of Soviet leadership.92 The simple fact is that Rolland expressed support for Stalin in late 1938, after one of the era’s most notorious show trials, one that resulted in death sentences for people he knew.

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Rolland’s reaction to the Bukharin case illuminates his public support for the USSR in the period of the purges and the Great Terror. In March 1937 (over a year before he wrote his autopsy of his visit to the Soviet Union), Rolland noted in his journals that he did not believe in Bukharin’s guilt, despite the campaign against him in the Soviet press.93 Rolland wrote to Stalin in that same month, pleading for clemency for Bukharin in the name of their recently deceased mutual friend Gorky and in the broader interests of the revolution. Despite that attempted intervention, in the very same month, Rolland wrote “Portrait of Gorky,” as a preface to a work by René Plaud, in which he (Rolland) listed the many people he had met at Gorky’s residence. Rolland names Stalin, Molotov, and Kaganovich but makes no mention of Bukharin, with whom he spent considerable time at Gorky’s villa and elsewhere.94 Rolland wrote that portrait of Gorky believing it would be published shortly thereafter. (Plaud appears to have never finished his book; Rolland’s text on Gorky would first appear in Les Lettres françaises in 1948.) In writing that text, Rolland therefore showed his intent to conform in public with the new official version of events—in direct contradiction with his actions in private that same month. Rolland was complicit in the effort to render Bukharin an unperson, erasing him from the record like so many other of Stalin’s enemies of the people. Later that same year, Rolland made a routine statement in the context of the party’s culture of commemoration. The statement was in honor of the twentieth anniversary of October, and it was published in the Moscowbased magazine Littérature internationale (published in English as International Literature). The text is worth quoting at length given its relationship with Robespierre, which Rolland would begin writing just months later. He writes, We too, your brothers in France, we were obliged long ago, as you are now, to fight furiously against a world filled with enemies, both internal and external; and despite the heroism of our great forebears of the Convention, our Revolution, betrayed, mortally wounded, had to stop midway, decapitated of its Robespierre [décapitée de son Robespierre]. You, Soviet comrades, you have taken up our torch, fallen from our hands. By the hands of your great Lenin, he who awakened the fire, the flame of liberty lights the world. The work of the Convention, interrupted, now continues; and the new world that we envisioned is being built by you. Salutations to Stalin, the builder, and to you all, the millions who are building the immense proletarian Union of all races and all nations, free and equal, with the joyous pride of work by all for all!95

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Rolland’s text not only conforms to Front Populaire–era Comintern discourse promoting patriotic internationalism, but also to the cults of Lenin and Stalin. Moreover, it crucially sets up Stalin as a twentieth-century descendant and continuer of the work of Robespierre. As we will see below, that Robespierre-Stalin relationship was promoted by the party in its late 1930s discourse around the French Revolution. It is a relationship that, I argue, serves as the basic conceit of Rolland’s 1939 play on the Incorruptible. Terror on the Stage

Robespierre is the last play Rolland wrote as part of his Theater of the Revolution cycle, a series of eight plays inaugurated with Les Loups (1898), which depicts the 1793 siege of the city of Mainz, Germany. Rolland remarked that his plays could serve as a rendering of “the Iliad of the French people.”96 Rolland’s Revolution cycle covers events from 1774 through 1797, although not by any means exhaustively.97 The bulk of the series—five of the eight plays—treats the years 1793 and 1794. In terms of the chronology of the French Revolution, Robespierre (1939) serves as the sequel to Danton (1900). The four-decade interval between the publication of the two plays is not indicative of a lack of interest in Robespierre on Rolland’s part, however, as he noted over the years his intent to “complete” his cycle with a play on the man he called “the greatest man of our Revolution.”98 Romain Rolland’s Robespierre depicts events that take place between April 5 and July 28 of 1794—on the revolutionary calendar, between 16 Germinal and 10 Thermidor of Year II. Stated otherwise, the action of the play is bookended by the executions of Danton and Robespierre. In twenty-four scenes over three acts (taking place in nineteen different settings), Rolland depicts the decline of Robespierre and the rise of the political forces working against him and his inner circle. Approximately three hundred pages long and containing a number of lengthy monologues, the play lists fortyfive named characters who represent a broad section of French society (including major and minor revolutionary figures, military leaders and soldiers, and ordinary citizens). Due to its length and complexity, Robespierre bears a resemblance to what Musset called “a spectacle in an armchair,” in other words, a play that is better read than performed onstage (and, indeed, it has seldom been performed).99 The play’s stage directions are elaborate

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and even include a cinematic interlude when the stage is taken over by a screen to show scenes from Robespierre’s youth and his earlier revolutionary career, as well as a violent hallucination foretelling the demise of the republic. There are also multiple crowd scenes crucial to the depiction of political power, as the behavior of “the people” serves as a barometer for the fortunes of Robespierre, his allies, and his enemies. The story told in Robespierre is built around verifiable events and phenomena from the last few months of the Terror: the Festival of the Supreme Being, the passage of the law of 22 Prairial, and the fall of the Incorruptible himself. Further verifiable (and historically accurate) elements crucial to the story include Robespierre’s increasing isolation and declining health; his dramatic final speech at the Jacobin Club; his foiled attempt to speak at the Convention on 9 Thermidor; his initial arrest and subsequent release to the seat of the Paris Commune at the Hôtel de Ville; and lastly, his gruesome gunshot wound, final arrest, and execution by guillotine. Robespierre himself is the play’s center of gravity: around the Incorruptible revolve all other characters, including his principal allies (Saint-Just, Le Bas, and Couthon) and rivals (Fouché, Billaud-Varenne, Carnot, Regnault, and Barras). While Robespierre has received little scholarly treatment in the decades since its publication, the critics, historians, and biographers who have commented on the play have been split in their interpretation of its ideological messages and its place in Rolland’s career. Many take cues from Rolland’s preface to the play. Of the play’s characters, he writes, “I did not seek to idealize them. . . . I was myself swept up in the great wave that carries them off. I saw the sincerity of all these men, who exterminate each other, and the terrible destiny of Revolutions. That destiny is not limited to one era; it exists in every era.”100 Among the first scholars to comment on Robespierre was David Hanley who, in a 1977 article, argued that Rolland’s play supports, in a general sense, the “political options” of the general secretary.101 Similarly, Venita Datta (1991) argues that the play “may be viewed as a justification and apology for the Stalin purge trials.”102 A majority of critics, however, have read Robespierre as a critical take on Stalin and Stalinism. Rolland theater specialist Marion Denizot, in a 2013 study, reads the play as an extended reflection on Rolland’s own hesitations and contradictions

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in his judgment of Stalinist dictatorship.103 She sees Robespierre as a manifestation of Rolland’s own distanciation from Stalinist power and indeed echoes his description of the drama as “a fatalistic look at the Revolution and the passions it inspired.”104 She rejects the idea that Rolland can be seen as complicit with Soviet totalitarianism.105 R. A. Francis (1999) interprets Rolland’s Robespierre as “no saint” but still the purest representative of the revolution, who refused the temptations of dictatorship and the cult of personality, to his glory and doom.106 Francis argues that the play’s ultimate message for Rolland’s contemporaries is “that the revolutionary spirit, exploded in Thermidor and paralyzed by Stalin, is not destroyed, but moves on to another place and time.”107 For his part, David Fisher (1988) argues that Robespierre “expressed [Rolland’s] revised perceptions about a revolutionary upheaval that failed to live up to his mythical and humanistic hopes for it.”108 Similar to Denizot, he suggests that the play presented an opportunity for Rolland to address the problem of the “fatality of revolutionary action at a moment of crisis” and also to explore his conscience about his own public silence “in the face of Stalin’s aberrations.”109 Finally, Rolland scholar and biographer Bernard Duchatelet, like Fisher, reads Robespierre as Rolland’s means of exploring his own doubts, passions, and regrets in his pursuit of revolutionary ideals.110 In his 2002 biography of Rolland, Duchatelet claims (without citing documentation) that Rolland himself preferred the interpretation of the critic Benjamin Crémieux, who in 1939 wrote, “[Rolland’s] Robespierre is above all the man who did not want to be Stalin, the man who did not want to be a dictator.”111 Duchatelet maintains this stance despite having edited in 1992 Rolland’s journals from his trip to Moscow in 1935. That volume (Voyage à Moscou) includes Rolland’s lengthy 1937 statement (quoted above) establishing continuity between Robespierre and Stalin. Considering the majority of contemporary scholars interpret Robespierre as a means of critically exploring Stalinism, it is interesting to note that the play was interpreted and promoted in precisely the opposite fashion by Rolland’s PCF and PCF-aligned contemporaries (and more in line with Hanley’s and Datta’s readings). Indeed, Robespierre was integrated into the party’s promotional cycle: it was advertised, excerpted, and favorably reviewed in prominent Communist and Communist-oriented publications.

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Given the sensitivity around depictions of the general secretary and the USSR that were apparent, for example, in the creation and reception of the Barbusse biography and in the excoriation of Gide, one can hardly expect that the party would promote a play it deemed critical of Soviet policy and leadership. Furthermore, the timing of the play’s release—the complete version appeared in print in March 1939—coincided by design with the celebration of the 150th anniversary of 1789.112 That anniversary was observed on a national level, but the PCF promoted itself as the true heir of the French revolutionary tradition and therefore the sole legitimate vehicle for the celebration. The party integrated the sesquicentennial into its commemorative calendar and, in the process, aggressively promoted its own doctrinal version of the history of the revolution. In doing so, the party contributed to the rehabilitation of the memory of Robespierre, who served in important ways as a stand-in for Stalin in party discourse. Rolland’s play chimed with the party’s revisionist revolutionary history and, crucially, the party’s use of that history to promote itself and Soviet policy. Robespierre thereby warranted promotion in the PCF mediasphere as part of the 150th anniversary celebration. The party’s embrace of Rolland’s Robespierre clashes with the dominant tendencies in recent criticism and interpretation of the play. The following analysis aims in part to show how such divergent readings of Rolland’s play are possible. Robespierre does indeed contain artfully ambiguous content regarding abuses of revolutionary power that can be interpreted as critical of Stalin, USSR policy, and Communist political commitment. This is especially so with the cult of personality and the purges of the late 1930s. Nevertheless, I will argue that Rolland’s play should, in the final analysis, be read as a work partial to Stalin, the Soviet Union, and the international Communist movement. Substantial cultural and political contextual information is necessary to perform this reading. I will begin by exploring the overall context of the celebration of 1789 in 1939, with particular emphasis on PCF discourse on the French Revolution. Next, I will examine how Robespierre has been treated, broadly speaking, in historiography, with special attention paid to efforts to rehabilitate his image. Then, I will analyze Rolland’s play, with an emphasis on Robespierre as a figure and the representation of his power as a revolutionary leader. That close analysis of Robespierre will be

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based on the play’s text and paratext, as well as the reception of the play in PCF media. 1789 as Seen from 1939

Memory of the 1939 sesquicentennial celebration of 1789 has been obscured by the grave geopolitical crisis of the late 1930s.113 Already, the commemoration itself was muted in comparison to both the 1889 and the 1989 anniversaries of the revolution. The relatively subdued nature of the 1939 celebration can be traced to a host of factors, including the turbulent international situation, a lack of popular enthusiasm, and lackluster support for the celebration within the government.114 Also notable is the fact that a 150th anniversary celebration is not as momentous as either a centennial or a bicentennial. In sum, as Jean Guéhenno wrote in the summer of 1939, “France is celebrating the 150th anniversary of the Revolution. But it is all happening as if the country is a little ashamed.”115 True to Guéhenno’s observation, the government did indeed scuttle the most ambitious idea floated by the celebration’s organizing committee (of which Rolland was a member).116 As described by Pierre Caron, the director of the National Archives charged with organizing the official national celebration, the plan was to mount a massive international exposition on French revolutionary ideals. That exposition was to become a permanent museum dedicated to the French republic.117 That plan was replaced by a series of major national events marking prominent moments and symbols in revolutionary history, including ceremonies to commemorate the convening of the Estates-General, the anniversary of the creation of the National Assembly, and the anniversary of the tricolored flag. The most notable official event was the Fête de l’Unité nationale on July 14, which involved a military parade on the Champs-Elysées.118 It was not simply national unity that was emphasized in major ceremonies. France’s alliance with Great Britain and the strength of the French Empire—two themes that can be traced to anxieties about Nazi aggression—were both underscored.119 Le Figaro, for instance, referred to the military parade on the Champs-Elysées as “the apotheosis of the French army.”120 The German invasion of Poland, followed by England’s and France’s declarations of war on Germany in early September, resulted in some festivities not taking place. That includes one major event scheduled for September 20, 1939, commemorating the 1792 Battle of Valmy.121

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The large official ceremonies were complemented by a host of smaller official commemorative events in Paris, various departments around France, and the colonies.122 Still, Caron writes that enthusiasm among both the public and French politicians for the major national ceremonies was disappointing.123 Against this lackluster backdrop, however, the sesquicentennial made a notable mark in the PCF mediasphere. As the party’s in-house historian Jean Bruhat noted, “All party policy in this year of 1939 will be dominated by the memory of the French Revolution.”124 The anniversary was eagerly anticipated by the party: it was mentioned as early as August 1937 in Les Cahiers du bolchévisme in an article by Paul Bouthonnier that promoted continuity between the revolutionaries of 1789 and the contemporary PCF. Bouthonnier, who served for many years as a member of the party’s Central Committee, writes, “Today, by defending the freedoms that were won nearly 150 years ago and by spreading the watchwords The Rich Must Pay, Communists remain loyal to the principles of social justice proclaimed by the Great Revolution.”125 Bouthonnier’s assertion shows how contemporary political dogma around the redistribution of wealth provided a lens through which to interpret the legacy of the French Revolution. That is a trend that would be amplified—around many contemporary political concerns—throughout the party mediasphere and in Rolland’s Robespierre. The party used the 150th anniversary for a variety of goals, including pushing for a reunited Front Populaire, promoting continuity between Soviet and French revolutionary traditions, and forwarding its populist stances. The party also melded commemorative notes with criticism of the Munich agreement and the French government’s nonintervention policy in the context of the Spanish Civil War. Both positions were in harmony with Comintern policy and were based in the party’s antifascist message.126 Quotes by Goebells (“The year 1789 will be erased from history”) and Mussolini (“We represent the antithesis of all the supporters of the immortal principles of 1789”) were circulated across party media to emphasize the stakes of the commemoration.127 Furthermore, the threat of fascism was used to highlight both the party’s patriotism and its internationalism. Party officials argued that France would reclaim its rightful place as a great nation by commemorating 1789. In January 1939, for instance, Bouthonnier wrote, “If we want to remain free, if we want our country to take back its place at

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the forefront among other nations, our duty is to glorify the memory of the indestructible work of our forebears.”128 Taken together, the party’s various motives in promoting the celebration served as a means of seeking legitimacy and increased political power via alignment with widely respected French revolutionary ideals. As Bouthonnier argued, the party is “the logical continuer of the immortal tradition created by the French Revolution.”129 Romain Rolland helped disseminate that same message. In a letter composed for the party’s January 1939 national conference (read aloud at the event by PCF general secretary Maurice Thorez), Rolland wrote, “At the beginning of this year that will mark the celebration of the 150th anniversary of the great French Revolution, I address my fraternal greetings to those whom I view as its most authentic heirs.”130 The prominence accorded to the anniversary in that moment was an early indicator of the commemorative efforts that would be promoted in the Communist mediasphere through late August 1939. For several months in 1939, L’Humanité served as a major outlet for event promotion and commemorative articles for the sesquicentennial. The paper, for instance, granted prominent coverage to the large popular march on the fourteenth of July, from the Place de la Bastille to the Place de la Nation. More remarkably, the paper featured—most often on its front page and for a substantial part of the year—a series of stories on major moments, phenomena, and figures in revolutionary history. In doing so, the paper aimed to serve as an important source of history lessons for its readers. And this historiography was tailored for the party line. In that regard, it is important to note that of all the revolutionary figures featured on the front page of L’Humanité—including Emmanuel-Joseph Sieyès, Mirabeau, and Jacques Necker—Robespierre was the only one who appeared multiple times (three in all, his portrait juxtaposed with information describing his revolutionary activity).131 The paper referred to him as “the highest-ranking figure of the French Revolution.”132 Such prominence is consonant with the admiration of Robespierre in Soviet circles going back to the very early years of Bolshevik rule. In 1918, for instance, as part of a new program of “monument propaganda,” Russian authorities (among them Lenin and Stalin) commissioned a statue of Robespierre for the first anniversary of the October Revolution.133 Lenin himself referred to Robespierre as a “Bolshevik avant la lettre.”134

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Figure 2.2. Robespierre, as pictured on the front page of L’Humanité (May 19, 1939), part of a months-long series on French revolutionary history. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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A Malleable Figur e: Robespierr e in Historiogr aphy Robespierre’s legacy, personality, and contribution to the French Revolution have been the subject of vigorous and sometimes highly polarized debate among historians. Marc Bloch’s 1941 plea famously summarized the debates around the revolutionary leader: “Robespierrists, anti-Robespierrists, we’ve had enough. We say, for pity’s sake, simply tell us what Robespierre was really like.”135 Political leanings among some historians have influenced the debate.136 David Jordan writes, “The very ambiguities of his life, complemented by the sparseness of evidence, have made him a malleable historical figure, molded to the changing contours of interpretations of the Revolution itself.”137 He has been likened to notorious figures, including Pol Pot, Hitler, and, yes, Stalin; the party, however, sought to craft such a lineage for opposite reasons. Historians describe the many layers of legend, imagery, and commonplaces that have come to obscure the historical Robespierre.138 Was he, as Peter McPhee asks, the first modern dictator or a principled, self-abnegating visionary, the great revolutionary martyr?139 Marc Belissa and Yannick Bosc contend that, broadly speaking, the French public has an overwhelmingly negative view of Robespierre and that he is most often referred to as either a “dictator” and “tyrant.”140 However contentious the debate around Robespierre himself has been, there is general consensus that the most significant rehabilitative efforts around the Incorruptible occurred in the first half of the twentieth century. François Crouzet describes in broad terms the evolution of the debate among French historians: “In the nineteenth century, when liberalism was dominant, most historians were critical of Robespierre, though a minority, with socialist leanings, held more favorable views. In the twentieth century, as socialism, and especially Marxism-Leninism, came to prevail, many historians became unconditional supporters of L’Incorruptible, to the point of idolatry.”141 Crouzet cites, for example, Jules Michelet, who conceded that Robespierre was a “great man,” but at the same time argued that he was “naturally tyrannical” and that his dictatorship destroyed the republic.142 Michelet, Crouzet writes, “considered that the Revolution came to its end not in Thermidor, but in Germinal, when Robespierre had Hébert and Danton executed.”143 Indeed, some renderings of the revolution—including Rolland’s play—end in Thermidor, the month on the revolutionary calendar

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during which Robespierre and his allies were executed. In Rolland’s case, Thermidor represented the end of not just the revolution, but the republic itself. Choosing an endpoint of the revolution can thus constitute an ideological gesture. Jean Jaurès’s Histoire socialiste de la révolution française (1900–04) represented a decisive step in the rehabilitation of Robespierre.144 But it was above all the work of the left-wing historians Albert Mathiez and Georges Lefebvre that had the most lasting impact on Robespierre’s image in the first decades of the twentieth century.145 Mathiez was especially important, as the founder in 1907 of the Société des Etudes robespierristes and the editor of and frequent contributor to the Société’s journal. Mathiez was writing against the then-mainstream view—a legacy of the late nineteenth century—of Danton as the primary figure and hero of the French Revolution, a position reflected in official monuments. His statue was situated prominently in Paris’s 6th arrondissement as part of the city’s official marking of the 1789 centenary. A primary goal of Mathiez was to upend what he described as the anti-Robespierre “legend”—that is, the prevailing notion that Robespierre was responsible for and defined by the Terror.146 The first authors of that “legend,” writes Mathiez, were those who vanquished him—a view that is widely shared among historians.147 Such anti-Robespierre propaganda was meant to sully his memory. It depicted him, for instance, as a dictator, a pontiff, and a royalist agent.148 Significantly, Mathiez characterizes Robespierre’s death as an injustice: he was made an outlaw and sent to the guillotine “without adjudication” (sans jugement), and that was after his enemies refused to allow him to speak at the Convention.149 Mathiez sought to replace the negative “legend” of Robespierre with a portrayal of the Incorruptible as a sincere, passionate, and devoted revolutionary. Mathiez’s position was that Robespierre integrated lofty moral and social principles into his politics.150 Far from being a murderous tyrant, he sought to minimize repression to strictly necessary instances.151 Robespierre was not a cruel man, but rather was “sweet” and “tender.”152 In the afterword to his play, Rolland acknowledged his debt to “the impassioned archival work of Mathiez and his school of thought” and, as we will see, wrote his play largely in the Mathiez rehabilitative mold.153

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Robespierr e and the PCF The 1939 celebration shows that Robespierre had immense stature in PCF circles, against the backdrop of what had been a largely negative portrayal in French historiography from earlier generations. As Rolland lamented in 1939, “The greatest man of the Revolution still does not have his statue in France.”154 Rolland’s assertion does not account for the bust of Robespierre that was placed in the Hôtel de Ville in the revolutionary leader’s hometown of Arras in 1933. Still, he had a point. To this day, Robespierre does not have a monument dedicated solely to him in the city of Paris, in contrast with Danton, as noted above. Indeed, one must travel to the working-class Parisian suburb of Saint-Denis to find a monument dedicated to Robespierre (a bust erected in 1949, a year of ultraorthodox Stalinism).155 Rolland’s lament was something of a commonplace in PCF discourse on Robespierre. The lack of memorials dedicated to the Incorruptible and the perceived unfairness in representations of him in historiography were rallying cries for the party. Beyond the aforementioned front-page historical features dedicated to Robespierre, the PCF gave favorable coverage in L’Humanité to memorial and rehabilitative efforts, including the renaming of streets, the creation of busts, and so on. Maurice Thorez himself contributed to the effort in March 1939—the same month Rolland’s Robespierre was published—when he made a well-publicized speech in Arras. That speech was reproduced in L’Humanité as part of a special back-page feature on Robespierre.156 Thorez’s speech was translated into English for publication in the July 1939 issue of the Moscow-based International Literature, an indicator of its importance to the worldwide movement. (Rolland’s Robespierre was also excerpted in that same issue.) In his speech, the PCF general secretary called Robespierre “the greatest of our compatriots” and lamented the “vilest slanders” heaped upon him by “all the enemies of progress and justice, past and present.”157 Thorez also decried the lack of memorials dedicated to him and the problematic representation of the Incorruptible in historiography. He states, “We also understand why the bourgeoisie continues to hate the memory of Robespierre, whose life serves as a profound and relevant lesson to our people.”158 Beyond effusive praise for Robespierre and blame cast upon reactionaries and the bourgeoisie, Thorez’s remarks on Robespierre shed light on how the latter was used as a stand-in for Stalin or as a means of justifying Stalinist and

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PCF policy. Thorez casts Robespierre in a mold fit for a PCF ideologue. He argues—as did party propaganda for Stalin—that the Incorruptible wanted, above all, peace. Thorez also links Robespierre to standard party arguments around means-to-end violence: “Robespierre, the man who stood for peace, called for struggle and led the people to victory.”159 Thorez furthermore emphasizes Robespierre’s internationalism (a worldview ascribed to Stalin in party propaganda), arguing that he would have been against the “spirit of capitulation . . . the spirit of Munich.”160 In his most significant parallel with Stalin and Stalinism, Thorez underscores what he describes as Robespierre’s condemnation of capitalist property and his idea of a society that should provide subsistence for all its citizens (through work or welfare). “This principle of Robespierre and the Jacobins,” Thorez asserts, “has since then been written into a constitution, the Stalin Constitution of the Soviet Union.”161 Thorez’s comments on the “Stalin Constitution” refer to the USSR’s 1936 constitution, which was heavily promoted in party discourse as one of Stalin’s signature achievements. As the party’s historian Jean Bruhat notes in his article titled “The Moscow Trial and the French People,” from the March 1938 Cahiers du bolchévisme, “the Stalin Constitution creates the most complete of the democracies,” within the context of a world threatened by fascism.162 The menace of fascism, Bruhat argues, comes not only from outside the USSR, but also from covert, treacherous forces within the Soviet democracy. “Such is the profound explanation (too often forgotten) of the trials that have taken place in Moscow for the past few years.”163 Because of the Franco-Soviet pact of 1935, Bruhat maintains, anti-Soviet spies in the Soviet Union represent a threat to France. Furthermore, he argues, the French people, because of their history, are particularly well situated to grasp how to defeat such a threat. Bruhat makes an extended argument, based on the history of the Jacobins fighting counterrevolutionaries who were once revolutionaries, to justify the use of brutal measures in the context of the struggle against the opposition groups in the USSR. Ex-revolutionaries, like Bukharin and Trotsky, can become traitors, he maintains. “Robespierre and the Jacobins struck down those so-called revolutionaries. They were right to do so.”164 Bruhat justifies the show trials and resulting executions as follows: “The descendants of the French Jacobins know that the French Revolution had its traitors and saboteurs and that it was only to the extent that the revolution slaughtered them that it was victorious. That is why they understand and

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approve the vigilance of the Soviet government.”165 In this line of thinking, Stalin—in the mode of Robespierre—is a man of peace, merely protecting the revolution from counterrevolutionary traitors by executing them. “The punishment of traitors, of spies also constitutes part of this Jacobin heritage,” Bruhat writes.166 As we will see, Romain Rolland’s Robespierre, like Stalin, is very much a man of people and of peace, engaged in a mortal struggle against counterrevolutionaries as the fate of the revolution hangs in the balance. Violence, Martyrdom, and Dictatorship: A Char acter Study

The primary action of Rolland’s Robespierre centers on the Incorruptible falling victim to a conspiracy among fellow French politicians, leading to his execution. The play takes place in the last few months of the period of Robespierre’s “preponderance” in the French government.167 Indeed, at this time, Robespierre was on the Committee of Public Safety, the powerful executive committee of the Convention to which he was elected on July 27, 1793.168 The committee represented the virtual government of France for about a year (the year of the Terror). It was to be a temporary and autocratic form of governance implemented to save the revolution from internal and international threats, by whatever means necessary. Although he never held unquestioned or dictatorial power, Robespierre was an animating presence on the committee, and his election placed him virtually at the center of the revolution.169 The committee was deeply influenced by Robespierre’s absolutist and Manichaean revolutionaries-versus-counterrevolutionaries vision. Jordan observes that terror at this time was an instrument for realizing the republic. He states, “The dreams the revolutionaries inherited from their philosophical predecessors are to be realized with the guillotine.”170 Fittingly, Rolland’s Robespierre begins shortly after the execution of Jacques-René Hébert, an archpopulist leader whose extreme-left faction of Hébertists was threatening an uprising and was deemed counterrevolutionary. Furthermore, during the time frame depicted by the play, roughly two thousand executions took place in Paris—although Rolland’s spectators, as we will see, witness very few of them.171 As the story of Robespierre’s downfall unfolds, Rolland provides, through ample dialogue—among Robespierre, his supporters, and his detractors— much reflection on violence, power, and revolution. Rolland depicts the state

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of political affairs during the Reign of Terror by using concepts and terminology that would have special resonance for a 1930s audience. Some examples include enemies of the people, dictatorship, traitors, political purges, expropriation of the property of oppressors, the collectivization of agriculture, and a struggle against a counterrevolutionary opposition. The international context is apt as well. Meddling from the English and the Germans threatens to restore the monarchy, a clear analogy with two French neighbors criticized in party discourse in the 1930s. And Rolland indeed evokes anachronistically the “Germans”—rather than Prussians or Austrians, for instance—in order to underscore the contemporary Nazi threat for his 1939 audience.172 In short, parallels between the state of the French Revolution in 1794 as portrayed by Rolland and that of the USSR in the late 1930s are simply inescapable. But while the fact of using 1794 as an allegory for the late 1930s is not a matter for debate, the precise meaning of Rolland’s allegorical telling is. As seen earlier, a majority of Rolland scholars have interpreted Robespierre as an exploration of the “fatal” destinies of revolutions; the PCF, on the other hand, viewed the play as an allegory promoting Stalinism. The best means of initiating an analysis of the possibility of such divergent interpretations would be to explore Rolland’s Robespierre himself within the play’s overall political discourse. Spectators get a good sense of his character flaws and strengths, the various compromises he and his allies make to achieve their goals, and how those compromises are interpreted by rivals (who are, in their own right, deeply flawed). Robespierre as depicted by Rolland is a well-intended leader, whose devotion to ideological purity leads him to engage in violent means to work in service of the nation and the revolution. At one point in the play, he declares, “He who is not for the people is the enemy”—a statement that Rolland underscores in a footnote as a direct quote from one of Robespierre’s speeches.173 Robespierre justifies, for example, the execution of Hébert by stating that he demoralized the people. He furthermore maintains that the Jacobins must remove the remaining Hébertist “poison” that has spread among the people—a hint at future use of the guillotine. He states, “We would not be a friend of the people, but rather their enemy, if we did not show them an inflexible rigor in response to their failings in their duties toward the nation.”174 Such a radical viewpoint serves very much as a Rorschach test for spectators. For an audience not aligned with the PCF,

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that position could represent confirmation of the common criticism that Communists are fanatics with “a knife between their teeth,” willing to resort to extreme levels of violence for their cause. For a PCF audience, on the other hand, Robespierre’s espousal of means-to-end violence would not at all be controversial, as it aligns with Leninist-Stalinist discourse that was deeply ingrained into party thought and media. That example of Robespierre’s decision-making process is typical of many instances in the play that, at first glance, can be read differently by individuals of varying ideological persuasions, leading to divergent critical interpretations of the play. Indeed, through the airing of both Robespierre’s hard-line stances and criticism of those stances by his rivals, Rolland portrays the controversy and divisions created by his play’s eponymous character. Scholars who focus on the positions advocated by Robespierre’s rivals thus have ample material to argue that the play represents a critical investigation of Stalinism. Nonetheless, the doctrinal side of Robespierre comes to the fore when those controversies and divisions are analyzed within the discursive context of the entire play. The portrayal, for instance, of the deaths of Camille Desmoulins and Danton—two prominent Jacobins who were victims of revolutionary violence—serves as a case study in Rolland’s legitimizing and justifying Robespierre’s radicalism. In the drama’s opening moments, spectators hear the cries of Danton and Desmoulins as they are carted through the streets of Paris to their execution. Danton calls Robespierre an assassin.175 Desmoulins pleads for mercy, stating, “Save me! I am your friend,” before calling him a butcher.176 Although Robespierre is troubled (particularly by Desmoulins’s cries), he refuses to intervene to save them.177 Their execution appears, initially, to be exclusively Robespierre’s responsibility. Later in the play, however, Robespierre maintains that Desmoulins’s execution was the result of the zeal of the Committees of Public Safety and General Security and was not done at his initiative.178 He furthermore states that politicking forced him to go along with the decision to execute Desmoulins, in order to have the political capital to deal with the grave threat posed to the republic by the Hébertists. The validity of those assertions is confirmed by other members of the Committee of Public Safety.179 Rolland’s Robespierre, therefore, sacrificed his friend—whose marriage he performed and whose child he held in his arms—for the benefit of the republic.180 Robespierre’s

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commitment to the nation therefore renders him a victim, in his own right, of Desmoulins’s execution. Danton’s execution is similarly recast. In the second scene, immediately after Danton is taken to the guillotine, Robespierre’s rivals express relief at the fact that Danton can no longer foment the crowd against them.181 BillaudVarenne furthermore asserts that Danton had been working with the English prime minister William Pitt to restore the monarchy.182 Later, at a pivotal moment near the end of the play, when Robespierre is on the verge of being arrested, his rage is such that he loses his voice, which prompts his adversaries to deride him by stating that he is choking on Danton’s blood. Robespierre cries out in response, “You seek to defend Danton, you cowards, he whom you did not defend!”183 Robespierre is thus again relieved of sole responsibility for the death of another of his fellow revolutionaries. Moreover, whereas spectators see and hear (in grisly detail, according to the stage directions) the beheadings of both Robespierre and his close ally Saint-Just, Rolland spares the audience the sight of Hébert, Danton, and Desmoulins at the guillotine, a gesture that deemphasizes Robespierre as an agent of violence. In fact, the sole executions spectators see are those of Saint-Just and Robespierre, a move that reinforces the antagonistic and violent sides of their rivals as well as the victimhood of the play’s heroes—Robespierre and his allies. Rolland does give spectators a general idea that executions are a matter of routine in mid1794. He nevertheless falls far short of informing them about (let alone showing them) the huge number of executions that took place in this time frame. Rolland’s Robespierre, it is important to note, is not simply a victim or a hero: he is a martyr for the revolution, a characterization that is generally consistent with rehabilitative socialist historiography.184 Moreover, martyrdom is a status that the historical Robespierre ascribed to himself in his speeches.185 That status is reflected in his overall demeanor in Rolland’s play (he is often ill and suffering) and sealed by his arrest and execution. Rolland reinforces Robespierre’s martyrdom by repeatedly casting him in a saintly or Christlike mold. Early in the drama, Robespierre refers to his allies as “the disciples on the night of the Garden of the Olive Trees,” a reference to Christ’s agony in the Garden of Gethsemane before his arrest and crucifixion.186 He intimates that his sacrifice will bring salvation to “my people.” He states, “All the happier, he who can die for your happiness!”187 During his final appearance at the Jacobin Club, a woman cries out to Robespierre,

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calling him “Jesus! Jesus!”188 He furthermore endures a Christlike public suffering on his path to execution. During his arrest, Robespierre is shot in a failed assassination attempt by the gendarme Merda, who is depicted as a crass counterrevolutionary. (Stage directions describe him as “vain,” and he preens and gloats after having fired his gun.) What Rolland does not reveal (in text or paratext) is that it has long been a subject of debate whether Robespierre was shot by a gendarme or attempted suicide just as he was being arrested. Indeed, very recent scholarship on Robespierre shows the source of the gunfire remains unclear.189 Even Mathiez states that “the story of the shot fired by Merda (or Méda) the gendarme is very dubious.”190 Rolland’s choice to depict an assassination attempt emphasizes Robespierre’s victimhood, especially since the shot by Merda results in a grave wound that renders quite visible his suffering. Robespierre lies bleeding and prone in the Pavillon de l’Egalité, where the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen is prominently affixed to the wall, emphasizing that he is dying for the revolutionary cause. There, he is called “the king of the traitors” and is described as “nailed down,” two conspicuous parallels with Christ’s martyrdom.191 The theme of martyrdom is crucial, as it relates directly to the question of dictatorship in Robespierre. At first glance, one might think that worship of Robespierre—and his complicity in that worship—could constitute a critique of the cult of personality. That critique could be read as targeting the cult figures (and their lust for power) as well as the cult worshipers (and their blindness). However, in Rolland’s play, the idea of Robespierre as martyr and object of worship serves as a direct counterweight to the image or perception of the revolutionary leader as a dictator. Indeed, a martyr-tyrant opposition exists thematically throughout the drama. Robespierre himself underscores that opposition, refuting accusations of tyranny by calling himself “a slave of liberty, a martyr of the republic.”192 When it is pointed out at various moments in the drama that Robespierre’s actions and policies could turn him into a dictator, he consistently either dismisses the notion or avoids taking the final steps to mobilize the military to support him in his power struggles. Take, for example, the following sample of dialogue among Robespierre, his rival Billaud-Varenne, and his staunch and sometimes more fanatical ally Saint-Just. This dialogue follows Robespierre’s declaration about the need for rigor in dealing with the Hébertists and their “poison.”

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Saint-Just: It is necessary to dare to save men, despite themselves. To remind them of the need for discipline, I paraded the guillotine before the armies. If one wishes for victory, all of France must become a military camp. Billaud-Varenne: And that would be a military dictatorship! No! . . . As long as I live, a dictator will not be admissible. Robespierre: Who speaks to you of a dictator? We want nothing but the dictatorship of virtue. Corruption is killing us. It has taken hold in the heart of the republican body; it is encrusted at its roots.193

Robespierre’s response is an indicator of his willingness to embrace a very rigorous form of revolutionary “virtue” or purity, as long as it is in service of the republic, the people, and the nation. He describes himself as a mere instrument working in service of the revolution: “We are nothing, and the Revolution is everything.”194 The distinction Robespierre makes between “dictator” and “dictatorship” is an important one for the play’s message. It is a distinction that allows at once for a critique of dictatorial leadership and an espousal of Bolshevik values. In other words, the play can be interpreted to advocate for the dictatorship of the proletariat (via the analogy with “virtue”), as opposed to a regime led by a dictator. Robespierre’s refusal to mount a personal dictatorship, a military dictatorship, or a dictatorship by committee (as suggested at one point by SaintJust) is consistent with his steadfast refusal to break the law, even if it means diminishing his own power and even when his own life is at stake at the end of the play.195 It is in this regard that one can understand Crémieux’s formulation that Rolland’s Robespierre did not want to “be Stalin.” At the same time, however, Robespierre’s desire to remain within the boundaries of the law can be read by a PCF audience as consistent with the official view of the functioning of the Soviet government, which, as seen earlier, had in 1936 adopted Stalin’s new “democratic” constitution. Furthermore, Robespierre’s refusal to become a dictator and the play’s discursive position against tyranny are both consonant with the party’s consistent rejection of critiques of Stalin as a dictator. Robespierre refuses to keep power by any means necessary, and those self-imposed limitations ultimately result in his execution. The killing of Robespierre could be interpreted as a welcome development and a critique of Soviet authorities, given the brutality with which the French (and Soviet) revolutionaries exercised power over their enemies. Bolstering such an interpretation is the fact that Robespierre, as depicted by Rolland, is a

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flawed leader. He is variously critiqued by other characters in the play as wishing to be either a king or a pontiff. He exerts power over the French people and fellow politicians through his speeches, as would a demagogue. He is willing to use the support he garners from the people for his own political leverage. He can be cynical in the use of his enemies, if he believes they can be useful to the republic (“I conserve them”).196 Furthermore, Robespierre’s strict adherence to an ethos of revolutionary purity can be seen as a form of fanaticism. Finally, Robespierre has deep personal shortcomings. He exhibits signs of paranoia, seeing enemies everywhere. His vanity is easily flattered. Moreover, the events of 1794 show that revolutionary political life has exerted a great physical and mental strain on him. As his onetime ally Mathieu Regnault states, “Power that lingers too long poisons judgment.”197 It is clear from the above description that Rolland’s claim in the play’s afterword is accurate: “I held back from idealizing Robespierre.”198 Furthermore, many of Robespierre’s shortcomings can apply to Stalin: his paranoia, his regime’s departure from revered revolutionary principles, and his purging of fellow revolutionaries as enemies of the people. Such parallels clearly create further room for interpretation of this Robespierre as a critical investigation of Stalin’s abuses of power and of the corruption of Bolshevik principles. Again, however, it is crucial to interpret Rolland’s depiction of Robespierre within the broader context of the play. Whereas spectators hear ample critiques of Robespierre and his allies, they never see them engage in deceitful or illegal behavior. They are loyal—to the point of self-sacrifice—to the laws of the republic and to each other. Although their methods may sometimes be depicted as questionable, they are consistently portrayed as acting in the interests of the people, and they have the people’s support until Robespierre is cut off from the public (in violent and unjust fashion) by his enemies at the end of the play. At the same time, his rivals, while often quite perceptive and nuanced in their critiques of Robespierre, are consistently depicted in a negative light. Indeed, despite the many flaws viewers see in Robespierre and his allies, those shortcomings are obscured by the overwhelming treachery of their enemies. Whereas Robespierre exhibits the purest of intentions—his actions show a desire to benefit the nation, the revolution, and the people—his rivals wish to attain power for their own gain. They behave treacherously even among

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themselves. Their discussions and interactions are marked by mutual mistrust, conspiracy, opportunism, and duplicity. Spectators repeatedly see them tell lies in order to further their aims (something that Robespierre and his allies never do). Thus, the manner in which Rolland depicts Robespierre’s rivals undermines their criticism of the Incorruptible. The overall story and discourse of the play, then, advocate for Robespierre and his political program. And, as I argued above, in the context of party discourse in the late 1930s, advocacy for Robespierre constitutes advocacy for Stalin and Stalinism. Crucial to this critical—yet ultimately rehabilitative—picture of Robespierre is that his questionable methods and policies are described as having resulted from difficult circumstances. Robespierre states that circumstances impose a certain order upon leaders and that leaders must react, even if they must deviate from an original course of action. “These are the rings of an implacable destiny that are stretching out. One cannot escape them; and when one sees what this destiny made of us, what it has constrained us to accomplish, one asks oneself, horrified, what it will require of us in the future.”199 The terror is thus a necessary means to an end: “A deplorable necessity,” states Robespierre. He asks his allies “When will circumstances be such that we can put an end to the terror?” (“Quand nous sera-t-il donné de mettre fin à la terreur?”).200 Robespierre’s question (and use of the passive voice in the original French) reduces the Jacobins’ liability in their actions. Couthon, his loyal ally, responds in Barbussian fashion: “It is through terror that one must kill terror.”201 Through such dialogue, Rolland is able to reference the contradictions of Soviet revolutionary politics. While that renders possible an interpretation of Robespierre as a critical exploration of Stalinist terror, such an interpretation is ultimately undermined by circumstances that consistently justify the behavior of Robespierre and his allies. Thus, the most accurate interpretation of Robespierre’s flaws and excesses, I argue, would be that Rolland’s play serves as a means of justifying—not critiquing—Stalin’s exercise of power and the current state of affairs in the Soviet Union, as well as meansto-end violence in general. A constant in party discourse is that, from the beginning, proponents of the Soviet experiment had to resort to problematic measures on a temporary basis to overcome extraordinarily difficult circumstances. This depiction of Robespierre and his allies is consonant with

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those forms of justification. The play therefore can and, ultimately, should be read as a doctrinal Communist work. The Law of 22 Pr airial: R evising a Legacy

The clear-cut split between the pro- and anti-Robespierre groups reinforces Leninist Manichaean thinking. Contributing to this binary opposition is the fact that Robespierre’s decisions and actions, as we have seen, are consistently explained to spectators as being in the best interests of the nation, the people, and the vitality of the revolution. Even Robespierre’s most controversial moves—among them, supporting the law of 22 Prairial—are anodized through relativism, minimalization, or the fact that Robespierre is motivated by core revolutionary principles and remains loved by the people. The law of 22 Prairial (June 10), the goal of which was to terminate counterrevolution, is widely viewed as the most notorious measure of the era. Covered substantially in historiography, the law was even criticized as “atrocious” by Mathiez, Robespierre’s most ardent defender.202 Passed with Robespierre’s support, it reformed “the procedures of the Revolutionary Tribunal, dispensing with evidence and defense, and inaugurated a period during which the terror raced ever more wildly out of control.”203 McPhee notes that the law dramatically expanded the definition of what was counterrevolutionary (including “impairing the energy and the purity of revolutionary and republican principles”). It simultaneously narrowed the range of punishments to one: death.204 And, indeed, from June 10 to July 27, nearly 1,400 people were executed in Paris, a tenfold increase in the number of executions per day compared to the period from March 1793 to June 1794.205 Jordan writes that the measure “announced the final, most murderous spasm of the Terror.”206 For a measure that has taken on such prominence in historiography of the revolution, it is important to note that the controversial law of 22 Prairial is not a major topic in Robespierre. It is generally evoked in oblique fashion—characters refer, for instance, to “the Prairial decrees.”207 It does not appear in dialogue by its full name until the play’s nineteenth scene.208 Such a tactic allows Rolland to downplay whatever negative connotations the full name of the law may evoke in the minds of spectators. It is primarily in a single scene, the play’s ninth, which takes place on 27 Prairial, that criticisms

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of the law of 22 Prairial are aired. For the benefit of readers, but not spectators, Rolland cites the full name of the measure in a footnote at the opening of that scene.209 Various members of the Committees of Public Safety and General Security express outrage at the scope of the measure, referred to in dialogue only as “such a law.”210 Amar (a member of the latter committee) informs the audience of the nature of the law, stating, “And now, he can, if it pleases him, have arrested and condemned, without review, without defenders, whomever he pleases. He has made himself the master of everyone’s liberty.”211 Those officials also rail against Robespierre’s monarchical tendencies for having changed the law without consulting the Committee of Public Safety.212 For instance, Billaud-Varenne states, “We must, we must work in concert to stop this tyrant in his race toward dictatorship!”213 Despite the measure, however, Robespierre continues to have the support of the people. Furthermore, subsequent dialogue reveals that even those complaining about the law (Billaud-Varenne and Barère) supported the measure at the Convention.214 That revelation is part of a consistent tendency on the part of Rolland to undermine the arguments of those who criticize Robespierre. In addition, spectators are shielded from the abuses the law allowed: no reference is made to the massive increase in executions that resulted from the measure. Bolstering my interpretation is the fact that, in the play’s afterword, Rolland glosses over the passage of the law. The closest he comes to referencing it is his description of Robespierre’s isolation and his decision to implement “some of his procedures” without consulting even some of his closest allies.215 In sum, the law of 22 Prairial is minimized in Rolland’s Robespierre compared to its importance in historiography of the revolution and biographies of the Incorruptible. The fact that Rolland does not devote much dramatic or narrative energy to the measure is further evidence that the play seeks to rehabilitate Robespierre’s memory, promoting a PCF-oriented revisionist history. If his goal had been to critique by analogy Stalin’s abuses of power, Rolland would likely have put much greater emphasis on the controversial law of 22 Prairial, but he did not. The End of the R evolution?

The most compelling evidence supporting a doctrinal reading of Robespierre is found in its final scene and its afterword. The stage directions at the

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beginning of the play’s last scene state that just as the curtain rises, Robespierre’s head is to be cut off by guillotine.216 The execution of Saint-Just follows. Mathieu Regnault, who was one of the most moderate voices among Thermidorians, immediately expresses regret. He states, “We did it. All of us . . . we have just committed suicide.”217 That comment is immediately borne out by events, as a large hostile counterrevolutionary crowd (one that includes royalists) rises up against the Jacobins, who are unable to defend themselves without their departed leader. The play ends with those last remaining Jacobins begging for help as a great battle appears to be taking shape. With that, “La Marseillaise” begins to play. In one of the drama’s final lines, Régnault cries out, “Peoples of the world, centuries of the future, come to us, come to us.”218 That plea toward future generations is complemented by stage directions stating that “L’Internationale” should emerge from “La Marseillaise” and then eclipse it: “a powerful Internationale, which, birthed from La Marseillaise, covers it and absorbs it.”219 Thus, the mission of the French Revolution is passed onto succeeding generations. Those closing moments have an important function in the drama’s overall story, discourse, and ideological message. The fact that the Jacobins have imperiled not only themselves but also the revolution renders it clear that killing Robespierre was a grievous error. That outcome solidifies the overall rehabilitative message of the play: whatever his flaws, Robespierre served as a guarantor of the revolution. Furthermore, Rolland uses the final moments of Robespierre to render explicit, through music, the allegorical link between the French Revolution and the contemporary Communist movement. Rolland’s overt musical link between past and present and the depiction of Robespierre’s execution as a mistake render the play’s final moments, I contend, ultimately supportive of Stalin’s revolutionary leadership. Indeed, the play’s concluding moments suggest that Stalin’s leadership—however violent, problematic, or controversial it may be—represents a safeguard for the revolution. In other words, the Soviet Union remains the best hope for the promotion and durability of (stated) Communist values and aims— justice, equality, fraternity, freedom, and the happiness of humankind. The melding together of “L’Internationale” and “La Marseillaise” is furthermore aligned with official PCF discourse in the era of the Front Populaire, promoting patriotic Communist internationalism. As Maurice Thorez stated in a June 1936 speech marking the one hundredth anniversary of the death of

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Claude Joseph Rouget de l’Isle (the composer of “La Marseillaise”), “To the mixed sounds of La Marseillaise and L’Internationale, under the reconciled folds of the tricolored and the red flags, together we will make a free, strong, and happy France!”220 Analysis of Rolland’s afterword, titled “It Is History’s Turn to Speak,” bolsters this reading. The text removes any doubt as to whether he intended Robespierre to be seen as a revolutionary hero. He writes, “It has become completely clear to us today that Robespierre dominated the whole revolution, not only through the integrity of his character, but also through the lucidity of his genius and his inflexible devotion to the cause of the people.”221 Those characteristics, especially the “genius” and the commitment to the cause of the people, align with discourse about Communist revolutionary leadership and, more specifically, Stalin himself. This complements certain characteristics Rolland bestows upon Robespierre over the course of the drama. The Incorruptible is able to see clearly into the intrigues of his enemies and the emotional needs of those close to him.222 As his fiancée, Eléonore Duplay, remarks, “Maximilien understands everything,” a comment that evokes the omniscience regularly granted to Stalin in party propaganda.223 Rolland’s comment that he was mindful of not idealizing Robespierre meshes with his reluctance to write a “sensationalist panegyric text” about the USSR and Stalin. Nevertheless, he does craft a potent allegory in support of the Soviet experiment and its primary cult figure, without whom the revolution is portrayed as doomed. As he argues in the afterword, “After 9 Thermidor, the Revolution is dead: the Thermidorians killed it.”224 Furthermore, Rolland’s decision to refrain from idealizing Robespierre is a tactic commonly used in propaganda: that is, the inclusion of factual information that can—by association or juxtaposition—lend credibility to accompanying falsehoods. Stated otherwise, if Rolland had not humanized Robespierre by giving him flaws, the story would be less credible to the reader or spectator generally familiar with his reputation as a tyrant. A completely sanitized portrayal of the Incorruptible would likely have undermined Rolland’s attempt to rehabilitate his memory, as it would have been more easily recognizable as propaganda. Given the basic alignment of Rolland’s Robespierre with broader rehabilitative efforts around the Incorruptible in the party, it is not surprising

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that the play was received quite favorably within the PCF mediasphere. The play was excerpted in Commune, Europe, and, as seen earlier, the Moscowbased International Literature. It was advertised and positively reviewed in L’Humanité. One favorable Humanité article embraced Rolland’s depiction of Robespierre as the man who dominated the revolution through his genius and integrity. That same article encouraged “comrades” to form collective listening groups to tune into the broadcast of the play on the radio in late July.225 Aragon and Jean-Richard Bloch’s newspaper, Ce Soir, published a brief article on the play’s success in the USSR, including news of its translation and publication by state publishing houses, as well as discussions in Moscow (sponsored by International Literature) on staging the play.226 That article ended with a note encouraging similar discussions on staging Robespierre in France. Claude Morgan in the August 1939 Commune provided the most extended review of Robespierre. Morgan’s piece attacks the Dantonist school of revolutionary history while praising Rolland’s depiction of Robespierre as a savior of a corrupted revolution.227 He laments the hatred the counterrevolutionaries have for Robespierre and reads it as pertinent for the late 1930s: “Such hatred can only be compared to the hatred borne by the Trotskyists toward the great builders of the Soviet Union, Lenin and Stalin.”228 Finally, Morgan rejects as “calumnies” the critiques of Robespierre and Soviet leaders as dictators, a rejection that aligns with party doctrine. Rolland after the Pact

It would be difficult to overstate Rolland’s sense of betrayal upon learning the news of the signing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact in August 1939. In his personal journals, he expresses outrage that the leaders of the Soviet Union, Stalin included, would enter into an agreement with the country that had been the party’s most feared and loathed enemy of the past several years. Although he had previously expressed discontent with Soviet leadership and confusion around Soviet policy, his reaction to the pact was of a different order of magnitude. He wrote, “These days are a series of bad dreams and catastrophes.” He continued: “Stalin and Molotov, shaking hands with the executioners of liberty, the raging mad enemies of Communism. . . . It represents a collapse in the minds of thousands of good people of the world, who love the USSR religiously.”229 Rolland’s anger and dismay would continue

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to grow, as the effects of the then-secret provisions of the pact—that is, the carving up of eastern Europe—began to manifest themselves. He criticized Stalin, even mentioning characteristics that he had been previously willing to overlook, like the repression in the Soviet Union after Kirov’s assassination. He writes, “[Stalin] with his surges of bloodthirsty fury, his cravings for vengeance, which he recognized himself, in front of me, without being too sorry about it.”230 Although he fulminated against the pact and Soviet leaders in his journal and was critical of those, including Aragon, who “absurdly” tried to justify the legitimacy of the agreement, Rolland’s public stance was remarkably tepid.231 When informed that Commune had been suspended by the French government, he advocated in a letter to the review’s editor, Jacques Decour, that it be shut down and furthermore asked for his name to be removed from the review’s executive committee. His letter to Decour makes an unspecific reference to “the division in our ranks” as motivating his decision.232 He confides in his journals that his first draft of the letter to Decour specifically mentioned the pact, but he elected to strike the direct reference.233 Rolland also broke off with the Association des Amis de l’Union Soviétique, but he did so confidentially.234 He informed VOKS that he wished to renounce copyright in the USSR of his works, asking that the transfer of any remaining funds go to Sergei Koudachev, his Russian stepson.235 In his journal, Rolland cited Sergei as a reason for not being more forthright in public about his views. His stepson, after all, was living in Moscow, and Rolland described him as a hostage, the implication being that he would be at risk for reprisal.236 Rolland also stated that he kept his break with the Association des Amis de l’Union Soviétique confidential so that his shift would not be exploited “brutally” by adversaries of the Soviet Union.237 Rolland’s primary public reaction came in the form of a letter to then–prime minister Édouard Daladier that expressed his solidarity with the cause of democracy, in France and worldwide, in the fight against Hitlerian aggression. Although that letter of September 3, 1939 expressed support for France in its struggle, it did not amount to a public repudiation of the USSR, which (as seen above) was described by loyalists as having the most democratic constitution in the world. In the months that followed the signing of the pact, Rolland expressed in his journals further dismay with the “blind” obedience of French

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Communists to Moscow directives. He was in particular appalled by Maurice Thorez’s desertion of the French army and subsequent flight for Moscow, as well as by the PCF’s adoption of the Moscow line, which refrained from critiquing German aggression in the period before the Nazi invasion of the USSR.238 He expresses astonishment that these patriots could submit so completely to “Moscow’s orders.”239 He writes, “I know so well that these men—that this Thorez—are good people, who love their country passionately, who have, for the last three years, praised its patriotic faith and energies, sung La Marseillaise . . . that I am not able to understand such an aberration, such an abdication.”240 Rolland’s profound alienation from the PCF and the “all-consuming imperialism” of the Soviet Union would seem to indicate a permanent break with the Communist sphere.241 This was not the case, however. Romain Rolland’s personal journal indicates that, by the fall of 1944, as the Liberation took hold, his anger toward the party and the USSR had abated. As for his stance against the pact, Rolland wrote in a journal entry of November 9, 1944 that, in the end, he was aligned with Stalin’s supposedly real intent: “I found myself in secret agreement with the intentions of Stalin, who indeed counted on turning against Hitler, when the time was right.”242 It bears mention here that Stalin was completely taken by surprise by the Nazi invasion of the USSR in June 1941 in violation of the pact. Soviet forces were woefully unprepared for the onslaught, so Rolland’s interpretation of the war’s unfolding is a peculiar one. Beyond his personal feelings, after four years of Nazi occupation, and as the party emerged from the underground, Rolland’s relationships with officials in the Soviet government and prominent French Communists (including Aragon and Jacques Duclos) were renewed. It does appear, in the weeks preceding Rolland’s death, that Soviet officials were making an effort to cultivate a rapport with him. An embassy representative brought him greetings from VOKS in early November 1944. Furthermore, Rolland was invited to a celebration of the anniversary of the October Revolution at the Russian embassy in Paris, where he met both the American and Russian ambassadors to France. He was taken to a special room for those interactions, a private salon where the Russian ambassador could confer with “VIPs.”243 As for his relationship with the PCF, Rolland appears to have been impressed by its wartime discipline, organization, and political strength.

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Aragon and party-allied intellectuals worked to ensure Rolland remained in their orbit, amid signs of the latter’s failing health. On November 25, 1944, Les Lettres françaises published a prominent front-page feature on Rolland (juxtaposed with an article critical of Gide’s anti-Sovietism). Aragon sought rights to include Rolland’s Colas Breugnon in the party’s new series of classical literary works. Rolland’s impression was favorable. In one of his final journal entries, just weeks before his death, he states that Aragon “would make an admirable diplomat in the future order of Communism.”244 After Rolland died on December 30, 1944, the party worked to take ownership of his legacy. At his funeral, a banner displaying a hammer and sickle flew above his coffin.245 A few days after his death, Aragon began a campaign to have Rolland’s remains transferred to the Pantheon. He described Rolland as a staunch antifascist and a symbol of a united French nation. Like the Liberation-era events outlined by Rolland in his journal, the Pantheon campaign shows that Rolland’s break with Communist orthodoxy over the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact did not have a significant lasting impact on his relationship with the PCF. Although Aragon’s campaign was unsuccessful, the party’s use of Rolland as a rallying point for French unity is a noteworthy phenomenon and indicative of how his legacy, much like that of Barbusse, would live on in the party in the ensuing years. Aragon was the leading voice keeping his memory alive within the PCF mediasphere, an effort that included a series of seven articles on Rolland published in Les Lettres françaises in mid-1949 with the intent to introduce him to a new generation of readers.246 Like Barbusse, Rolland was integrated into the party’s culture of commemoration, with the five-year anniversary of his death marked by a prominent front-page feature in that same paper.247 Conclusion

Bernard Duchatelet, the Rolland scholar and biographer, maintains that it would be “absurd” to present Rolland as a Stalinist and states that those who “persist” in doing so are “ill informed” or “malicious.”248 Similarly, Marion Denizot defends Rolland’s record against those who try to “reduce” him to an “accomplice” of Soviet totalitarianism.249 Based on the evidence presented here, however, despite his private vacillations, Rolland’s public posture and his political engagement from the early 1930s onward demonstrate otherwise. And despite Rolland’s ephemeral prominence in PCF circles

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after his death, overall—in the broader scope of French literary history— his legacy is significantly diminished, as is evidenced by the failed Pantheon campaign. His legacy, again like that of Barbusse, likely suffered due to his prominent affiliation with the party, the Soviet Union, and especially, Stalin. Maurice Nadeau, for instance, remarked that the centenary of Rolland’s 1866 birth passed almost unobserved in his native France.250 The same can be said of his 150th birthday in 2016. Compared to, say, his rival and contemporary André Gide, memory of Rolland as a writer and public intellectual is significantly atrophied, despite his prodigious activity, his Nobel prize, and his romans-fleuve. Indeed, Gide’s international reputation only benefited from Retour de l’URSS, which is by far the most prominent of Soviet travelogues. Paradoxically, Rolland’s legacy today resides upon his role as a pacifist intellectual during the First World War, with his Stalinist phase— the likely reason for his reduced prominence—largely forgotten or ignored, willfully so in some quarters. Notes 1. Gide, Retour, 751; Return, xv. 2. Gide, Journal, 362 (emphasis added). 3. Gide, Retour, 751. Translation based in part on Bussy’s translation (xiv–xv). 4. Gide’s Retour was adapted for The God That Failed (edited by Crossman), an essay collection on disillusionment with Communism. 5. Gide, Retour, 750; Return, xiv. 6. Gide, Retour 751; Return, xiv. 7. Romain Rolland, “L’URSS en a vu bien d’autres! Une lettre de Romain Rolland,” L’Humanité, January 18, 1937, 1. 8. Gide, Retour, 776. 9. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 228. 10. Gide, Retouches, 805. 11. Gide, Retouches, 837. 12. Gide, Retouches, 805. 13. See Prince, Guide, 34 on Rolland’s coinage of the term for the long-form, multivolume novels. See Starr, Critical Bibliography for detailed information on Rolland’s massive bibliography. 14. For noteworthy previous scholarship on Rolland, see Fisher, Romain Rolland; David-Fox, “The ‘Heroic Life’”; Francis, Romain Rolland; Denizot, Théâtre; Duchatelet, Rolland. 15. See “The Nobel Prize in Literature 1915—Presentation.” 16. Duchatelet, Rolland, 173–74. 17. See Albertini, “Introduction,” 61–62.

Romain Rolland and the Politics of Terror | 153 18. Duchatelet, Rolland, 187, 200; Albertini, “Introduction,” 62. 19. Duchatelet, Rolland, 171; Albertini, “Introduction,” 60. 20. See Duchatelet, Rolland, 174 and Albertini, “Introduction,” 61 on his activism. 21. Rolland, Au-dessus, 33; Above, 50. 22. See Rolland, Textes, 198, 201. 23. Rolland, Au-dessus, 30; Above, 47. 24. Rolland, Au-dessus, 21. 25. Rolland, Au-dessus, 158; Above, 189. 26. Rolland, Au-dessus, 151–52; Above, 181–82. 27. Rolland, Précurseurs, 54; Forerunners, 53. 28. Rolland, Précurseurs, 226; Forerunners, 215. 29. “Resurrection incertaine: Une lettre de Romain Rolland,” L’Humanité, October 26, 1919, 1. 30. Quoted in Duchatelet, Rolland, 227. 31. Rolland, Quinze, xvii. 32. Rolland, Textes, 198. Texts from the debate by both Rolland and Barbusse are collected in Rolland, Textes. 33. Rolland, Textes, 203. 34. Rolland, Textes, 197. 35. Rolland, Textes, 202. 36. Rolland, Textes, 202. 37. Rolland, Textes, 203. 38. Rolland, Textes, 204. 39. Rolland, Textes, 210. 40. Rolland writes that he first was attracted to Gandhi’s thought in 1921 and 1922 (Quinze, lxv–lxvi). There is slippage in Rolland’s terminology around Gandhian ideas of resistance. In 1932, for instance, he advocated use of the term “nonacceptation” to refer to the methods of Gandhists and stated that the term “non-Résistants” was inaccurate (Par la Révolution, 62). He stated he preferred the term “nonacceptation” to “passive resistance” as well (Par la Révolution, 70). He also used the term Ahimsa, denoting the ancient Hindu principle of nonviolence. 41. Rolland, Textes, 213. 42. Rolland, Gandhi, 31. References to Rolland’s Mahatma Gandhi refer to the Groth translation. 43. Rolland, Gandhi, 241. 44. Rolland, Gandhi, 49, 143. 45. Rolland, Gandhi, 239. 46. Rolland, Gandhi, 241–42. 47. Rolland, Quinze, 65. 48. Rolland, Quinze, 65. 49. Rolland, Quinze, lxxiv. 50. Rolland, Quinze, 80. 51. Rolland, Quinze, xxxv.

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52. This evolution can be traced in Rolland, Par la révolution, la paix. See especially 4, 76, 80, 82–89. 53. Rolland, Quinze, 100. 54. Rolland, Quinze, 99. 55. Rolland, Quinze, 121. 56. Rolland, Quinze, 127. 57. Rolland, Quinze, 131. 58. Rolland, Quinze, 130–31. 59. Rolland, Compagnons, 199. 60. Rolland, Compagnons, 209. 61. Rolland, Quinze, xlvi. 62. Rolland, Quinze, xxvii, xxviii. 63. Rolland, Quinze, li. 64. Rolland, Quinze, xxxviii. 65. Rolland, Quinze, xxxviii. 66. Rolland, Quinze, xlvii. 67. See Rolland, Quinze, xxxix; on his prior critical position, see Rolland, Par la Révolution, la paix, 147. 68. Rolland, Quinze, lxxiii. 69. The text was released on July 27, 1935 (Starr, Critical Bibliography, 58). 70. See “Romain Rolland au moment de quitter l’URSS proclame, dans une lettre à Staline la nécessité de la défendre,” L’Humanité, July 22, 1935, 1. 71. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 297. 72. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 136–37. 73. For a selection of letters to Rolland from Soviet citizens, see Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 249–73. 74. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 184. 75. See Breton, “Discours.” Rolland wrote private letters to both Gorky and Stalin to advocate and seek clemency for a handful of people persecuted by the regime. For an overview of his efforts, see Fisher, Romain Rolland, 275–78. His work on behalf of Victor Serge is perhaps the most well known, although his interventions in that case appear to have been motivated by political expediency rather than humanitarian concern. See “Chez Romain Rolland,” L’Humanité, May 26, 1933, 1. 76. Romain Rolland, Journal de Romain Rolland, 57. NAF 26575-76. Entry dated October 10, 1935. The unpublished original French reads: “On dirait que j’ai causé là-bas une déception, qu’on s’est vexé, qu’attendait-on? Je n’ai voulu flatter aucun des chefs. Je n’ai publié aucun panégyrique sensationnel. Est-ce la raison? Ou simplement serait-ce la négligeance invétérée des Russes, leur maladie de ne pas répondre aux lettres? Je note que cette sorte de bouderie est limitée aux cercles politiques de l’URSS.” 77. He also published an article similar in content on the front page of L’Humanité titled “Aux calomniateurs!” on October 23, 1935. 78. Rolland, “Retour de Moscou,” 131.

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79. Rolland, “Retour de Moscou,” 129. 80. See Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 211–23. 81. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 216. 82. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 187. 83. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 228. 84. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 228. 85. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 216. 86. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 222. 87. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 215. 88. See “Hommage à Romain Rolland pour son soixante-dixième anniversaire,” L’Humanité, January 26, 1936, 8. 89. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 290. 90. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 290. 91. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 93. 92. This is especially so with Duchatelet, Rolland, 337–47, who uses the quote as a chapter title in his 2002 biography of Rolland. 93. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 329. 94. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 150–51. 95. Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 337. 96. Rolland, “Préface,” 11. 97. See the helpful chart on Rolland’s cycle of plays in Denizot, Théâtre, 15. 98. Rolland and Mathiez, 373. See also Rolland, “Préface,” 13. 99. See Denizot, Théâtre, 96. The play was performed over two days on French radio in July 1939. It was staged in Leipzig, East Germany, in 1952, and again on French radio in 1995. 100. Rolland, Robespierre, 8. 101. Hanley, “L’Histoire,” 143. Although I agree in part with Hanley’s interpretation, his exploration of the play is brief, and his assessment thereof as Rolland’s sole expression of support for Stalin (143–44) is substantially off the mark. 102. Datta, “Romain Rolland,” 222. 103. Denizot, Théâtre, 105. 104. Denizot, Théâtre, 106. 105. Denizot, Théâtre, 116. 106. Francis, Romain Rolland, 171, 172. 107. Francis, Romain Rolland, 173. 108. Fisher, Romain Rolland, 282. 109. Fisher, Romain Rolland, 282. 110. See Duchatelet, “Romain Rolland et Robespierre.” 111. See Duchatelet, Rolland, 345. See also Crémieux, “Robespierre.” 112. See Moraud, “Robespierre,” 59 as well as “Création de la nouvelle pièce de Romain Rolland Robespierre pour le 150e anniversaire de la révolution,” L’Humanité, July 25, 1939, 3.

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113. Few studies on the commemoration exist. Studies include Caron, “CentCinquantenaire”; Goulemot and Tatin, “Parti communiste”; Hincker, “Lecture”; and, most prominently, Ory, Une nation. 114. This account is based on my own research into 1939 newspapers (Le Figaro, Le Temps, Ce Soir, and L’Humanité) as well as Caron, “Cent-Cinquantenaire”; Goulemot and Tatin, “Parti communiste”; Hincker, “Lecture”; and Ory, Une nation. 115. Guéhenno, “Un inédit.” 116. Rolland, Vézelay, 211. 117. Caron, “Cent-Cinquantenaire,” 99–102. 118. Caron, “Cent-Cinquantenaire,” 105. 119. See coverage in Le Figaro, July 13–16, 1939. 120. See Le Figaro, July 15, 1939, 4. 121. See Caron, “Cent-Cinquantenaire,” 104 and Ory, Une nation, 166 on the cancellation. 122. See Caron, “Cent-Cinquantenaire,” 106–8. Also notable is the ComédieFrançaise’s staging of Romain Rolland’s Jeu de l’amour et de la mort (The Game of Love and Death, 1924), the fifth play in his revolutionary cycle. 123. Caron, “Cent-Cinquantenaire,” 110. 124. Quoted in Ory, Une nation, 184. 125. See Bouthonnier, “La lutte du peuple de France,” 703. 126. See Bouthonnier, “A propos du 150e anniversaire.” 127. Bouthonnier, “A propos du 150e anniversaire,” 62. 128. Bouthonnier, “A propos du 150e anniversaire,” 64. 129. Bouthonnier, “A propos du 150e anniversaire,” 60. 130. “Message de Romain Rolland à la Conférence Nationale,” L’Humanité, January 22, 1939, 2. 131. See coverage in L’Humanité of March 4, May 19, and June 8, 1939. 132. “Figures de la constituante: Robespierre,” L’Humanité, May 19, 1939, 1. 133. Schoenfeld, “Uses of the Past,” 285. 134. Jordan, Career, 2. 135. Quoted in Mantel, “What a Man.” Friguglietti writes, “Two rival traditions developed after 9 Thermidor” (“Rehabilitating Robespierre,” 213). 136. Doyle and Haydon, “Robespierre,” 4. 137. Jordan, “Problem,” 33. 138. Belissa and Bosc, Robespierre, 8–9; McPhee, “Robespierre Problem,” 1–2. 139. McPhee, Robespierre, xvi. 140. Belissa and Bosc, Robespierre, 8. 141. Crouzet, “French Historians,” 255–56. 142. Crouzet, “French Historians,” 258. 143. Crouzet, “French Historians,” 258. 144. See Crouzet, “French Historians,” 265–66. 145. See McPhee, Robespierre, 227; Friguglietti, “Rehabilitating Robespierre,” 212–13; Crouzet, “French Historians,” 265–75.

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146. Mathiez, “Robespierre: L’Histoire,” 10. 147. See Jordan, Career, 14; Jacob, Robespierre, 8–9; Belissa and Bosc, Robespierre, 115–19; McPhee, Liberty, 270–71. 148. Mathiez, “Robespierre: L’Histoire,” 5–7. 149. Mathiez, “Robespierre: L’Histoire,” 5. 150. Mathiez, “Robespierre: L’Histoire,” 24. 151. Mathiez, “Robespierre: L’Histoire,” 26. 152. Mathiez, “Robespierre: L’Histoire,” 24. 153. Rolland, Robespierre, 314. 154. Rolland, Robespierre, 314. 155. Doyle and Haydon, “Robespierre,” 3; McPhee, Robespierre, 227; Jordan, Career, 2. 156. “Robespierre: Grande figure de la révolution française,” L’Humanité, March 10, 1939, 8. 157. Thorez, “Robespierre,” 31. 158. Thorez, “Robespierre,” 36. 159. Thorez, “Robespierre,” 35. 160. Thorez, “Robespierre,” 35. 161. Thorez, “Robespierre,” 33. 162. Bruhat, “Procès,” 1230. 163. Bruhat, “Procès,” 1230. 164. Bruhat, “Procès,” 1240. 165. Bruhat, “Procès,” 1241. 166. Bruhat, “Procès,” 1243. 167. Jordan, Career, 166. 168. Information on the committee is based on Bell, Shadows, 200 and Jordan, Career, 166–74. 169. See Jordan, Career, 70; McPhee, Liberty, 252. 170. Jordan, Career, 174. 171. Doyle, The French Revolution, 56. 172. Rolland, Robespierre, 18. 173. Rolland, Robespierre, 303. 174. Rolland, Robespierre, 23. 175. Rolland, Robespierre, 12. 176. Rolland, Robespierre, 13. 177. Rolland, Robespierre, 12–13. 178. The Committee of General Security was charged with police functions (Jordan, Career, 182). 179. Rolland, Robespierre, 15. 180. Rolland, Robespierre, 64–65. 181. Rolland, Robespierre, 14. 182. Rolland, Robespierre, 16. 183. Rolland, Robespierre, 254. 184. See Crouzet, “French Historians,” 263.

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185. See, for example, Gueniffey, “Robespierre,” 298; McPhee, Liberty, 268. 186. Rolland, Robespierre, 43. 187. Rolland, Robespierre, 123. 188. Rolland, Robespierre, 202. 189. See Scurr, Fatal Purity, 355; McPhee, Robespierre, 219–20; McPhee, Liberty, 269. Scurr favors the attempted-suicide thesis, as does Jordan, Career, 220, 293–94. 190. Mathiez, Fall, 217. 191. Rolland, Robespierre, 292. 192. Rolland, Robespierre, 196. 193. Rolland, Robespierre, 24. 194. Rolland, Robespierre, 29. 195. Rolland, Robespierre, 154. 196. Rolland, Robespierre, 42. 197. Rolland, Robespierre, 103. 198. Rolland, Robespierre, 315. 199. Rolland, Robespierre, 163. 200. Rolland, Robespierre, 63. 201. Rolland, Robespierre, 64. 202. Mathiez, “Robespierre: L’Histoire,” 27. 203. Gueniffey, “Robespierre,” 311. 204. McPhee, Liberty, 264. 205. Jordan, Career, 204; McPhee, “Robespierre Problem,” 8; McPhee, Liberty, 265. 206. Jordan, Career, 203. 207. Rolland, Robespierre, 154, 187. 208. Rolland, Robespierre, 244. 209. Rolland, Robespierre, 128. 210. Rolland, Robespierre, 129. 211. Rolland, Robespierre, 129. 212. Rolland, Robespierre, 129. 213. Rolland, Robespierre, 129. 214. Rolland, Robespierre, 130, 142. 215. Rolland, Robespierre, 316. 216. Rolland, Robespierre, 306. 217. Rolland, Robespierre, 307. 218. Rolland, Robespierre, 309. 219. Rolland, Robespierre, 310. 220. Thorez, “La Marseillaise,” 353. 221. Rolland, Robespierre, 312. 222. Rolland, Robespierre, 64. 223. Rolland, Robespierre, 72. 224. Rolland, Robespierre, 312. 225. “Création de la nouvelle pièce de Romain Rolland Robespierre pour le 150e anniversaire de la révolution,” L’Humanité, July 25, 1939, 3.

Romain Rolland and the Politics of Terror | 159 226. “Le ‘Robespierre’ de M. Romain Rolland en URSS,” Ce Soir, July 18, 1939, 2. 227. Morgan, “Théâtre,” 1078. 228. Morgan, “Théâtre,” 1078–79. 229. Rolland, Vézelay, 248. 230. Rolland, Vézelay, 268. 231. Rolland, Vézelay, 254. 232. Rolland, Vézelay, 281. 233. Rolland, Vézelay, 280–82. 234. Rolland, Vézelay, 255. In English: “The association of the friends of the Soviet Union.” 235. Rolland, Vézelay, 269. 236. Rolland, Vézelay, 274. 237. Rolland, Vézelay, 255. 238. Rolland, Vézelay, 279. Thorez’s desertion will be explored in chapter 4. 239. Rolland, Vézelay, 355. 240. Rolland, Vézelay, 354–55. 241. Rolland, Vézelay, 271. 242. Rolland, Vézelay, 1080. 243. Rolland, Vézelay, 1077. 244. Rolland, Vézelay, 1097. 245. Nadeau, “Rolland,” 218. 246. From April 14 to June 9, 1949. 247. See “Il n’y a qu’un seul Romain Rolland,” Les Lettres françaises, December 29, 1949, 1. 248. In Rolland, Voyage à Moscou, 7. 249. Denizot, Théâtre, 116. Denizot argues for Rolland’s full renouncement of Stalin, quoting private observations in 1940 additions to his Voyage intérieur (296–97) that make no mention of Stalin (94). 250. Nadeau, “Rolland,” 209.

TH R EE

PAUL ELUARD AND STALIN’S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

The events of 1952 make clear that the PCF wanted to claim Victor Hugo as one of its own. The year marked the 150th anniversary of his birth, and the party seized on the opportunity to integrate Hugo into its distinct calendar of anniversaries and commemorations. On February 28, 1952, L’Humanité published a report by Jean Coin, the paper’s permanent Moscow correspondent, proclaiming that the Soviet Union was united in celebration of Hugo’s birthday, from factories to army barracks to libraries to collective farms. The centerpiece of the festivities was a formal celebration on February 27 hosted by the Soviet Peace Committee. That event portrayed Hugo as a still-living witness of a new era of happiness for humankind, an era that (the paper tells its readers) Hugo himself had announced. Underscoring the significance of the event was its location: in the Hall of Columns in Moscow’s Trade Union House. At the very center of the Soviet capital, that white marble hall— which in the past had been used as the House of Receptions for Muscovite nobility—served as the traditional site for mourning Soviet leaders. Notably, it is where Lenin lay in state in 1924 and where Stalin’s open casket would be put on public display just over a year after the Hugo celebration.1 From that Soviet epicenter emanated a massive, coordinated, and international Hugo commemoration, a moment representative of the highly scripted celebrations of the Cominform era. The anniversary, claimed the party, touched the lives of hundreds of millions of people who—from the Renault factory in France to “the immense China of the people”—loved 160

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and celebrated Victor Hugo.2 The Beijing Library featured a prominent exhibit around Hugo, and that event was complemented by official Chinese tributes, new translations of Hugo’s work, and heavy promotion in local newspapers.3 Translations and newspaper tributes also appeared in East Germany, Bulgaria, Romania, and Czechoslovakia. In Budapest, a street was newly named after Hugo, and Georg Lukacs presided over the Hungarian Peace Committee, which organized a host of celebratory events. As was to be expected for this literary giant who had been appropriated by the PCF, a series of party-affiliated events took place in France. These included readings and discussions on Hugo, some led by Aragon, who, for his part, wrote a lengthy article for Figaro Littéraire titled “Hugo, poète réaliste,” which was later published as a short book by the party’s Editions Sociales. PCF periodicals also participated actively with articles, editorials, and features appearing in Les Cahiers du communisme, La Nouvelle Critique, La Pensée, and Les Lettres françaises. On January 24, 1952, the latter arts and literary weekly inaugurated what it called its “Year of Hugo” (Année Hugo) with a front-page article originally published in 1855 by Hugo’s contemporary Auguste Vacquerie, who argued that Hugo did not promote “art for art’s sake,” but rather strove for civilizing, politically engaged, and profoundly social forms of artistic creation. Reminders of the anniversary occurred almost on a daily basis in L’Humanité in late February and March. Incredibly, the paper even featured a forty-one-part series called “Ainsi vécut Victor Hugo” (Thus lived Victor Hugo) from March 5 to April 30. The Communist daily also served as the clearinghouse for statements made by the Comité Victor Hugo, which lamented that Hugo was more celebrated in Russia than he was in his native France. In the eyes of the Cominform-era PCF, American influence was at play in that neglect: “The Marshallized French press . . . reinforces its attacks against the greatest French poet.”4 Such assertions meshed well with the PCF’s discourse deploring American influence in the late 1940s and early 1950s in France. This was particularly the case with what the party saw as a central battleground—the French intellectual sphere—and its principal cause, “all the values that are specifically French.”5 Outraged by what they claimed was a tepid response by the French government to the anniversary, the Comité Victor Hugo called for, among other things, a commemorative postage stamp (the PCF coveted the one created

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in the USSR) and a replacement of the monument at Place Victor Hugo in Paris.6 The original sculpture erected in Hugo’s memory—by Louis-Ernest Barrias, created for the poet’s centenary in 1902—had been melted for its bronze by the Germans during the occupation.7 The party lamented that nothing had been done to replace that statue and decried that the space was used to advertise a Ford automobile, whose presence the party deemed “insulting.” Aragon used the Ford incident to demonize the Atlantic alliance in the early Cold War. He wrote, “Even more arrogant than the iconoclastic Nazi, the Yankee substitutes the machine for the poet.”8 The PCF repeatedly asserted that events in the USSR around the Hugo anniversary were unparalleled. According to L’Humanité, translations of his work were published there in massive numbers, including over three million copies of Les Misérables alone.9 But the centerpiece of the Soviet celebration was the “grandiose evening” on February 27 in Moscow. Attending that event was Jean Hugo, the poet’s great-grandson and the head of the Comité Victor Hugo, as well as Paul Eluard, who made the trip to Moscow for the celebration. That evening’s celebration was far from the only official event Eluard had on his agenda for that trip to the USSR in February and March of 1952. During his stay in Moscow, the poet made seventeen speeches (in French, followed by translations into Russian) honoring Hugo in a variety of predictably Soviet settings, like schools, factories, the Gorky Institute, and so on.10 Participation in Hugo’s anniversary celebration was a natural fit for Eluard, who had long been linked to the nineteenth-century giant by fellow PCF writers. Eluard was seen to be in Hugo’s literary lineage both for the sociopolitical role he adopted (especially post-1942), as well as for his fundamental idea of the figure of the poet as integral to daily life, as opposed to an elite figure, removed from the world, producing art for art’s sake.11 Eluard himself evokes Hugo in a clandestine 1943 text (originally published anonymously) in praise of engaged poets. He writes, “Whitman driven by his people, Hugo calling to arms, Rimbaud absorbed into the Commune, Mayakovsky thrilled, thrilling, it is toward action that poets with great vision are, one day or another, pulled.”12 Eluard’s mixing of Soviet and French intellectual-historical references in that text foreshadowed his 1952 speeches in Moscow in honor of Hugo, in which he praised Hugo alongside Gogol, who was being celebrated at that same time on the centenary of his death.13 Furthermore, as was predictable for Cominform-era

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Figure 3.1. A 1952 Soviet postage stamp picturing Victor Hugo. Photo: Andrew Sobanet.

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PCF-affiliated intellectuals, Eluard made a direct link between his object of praise and cult figures in the USSR: “By celebrating Victor Hugo, the country of Lenin and Stalin holds out its hand, once again, to all those who fight for peace, to the good people of the whole world.”14 Therein lies but one example of Eluard appropriating and mobilizing French intellectual history and French traditions of social justice in the service of the Soviet Union and the broader cause of worldwide Communism. Poetics and Politics

The themes Eluard admired in Hugo’s writing were appreciated by the PCF at large and reflected the values the party regularly ascribed to itself: a revolutionary instinct, pacifism, defense of the oppressed, and social justice for the poor.15 Beyond the sociopolitical, however, there is an even deeper link to Eluard’s worldview, one that he himself highlighted while lauding Hugo in Moscow. In two separate speeches, Eluard described how antitheses constitute the animating principle of Hugo’s work: “Hugo ceaselessly places good and evil in opposition.”16 More descriptively, Eluard noted: “Shadow and light, good and evil, life and death.”17 Such “violent contrasts” are also characteristic of Eluard’s poetry throughout his career, but they become especially interesting after 1947, when those antitheses were politicized and mobilized in the service of Cominform doctrine and were furthermore described in party-line platforms as dialectical in nature, serving as evidence of the poet’s Marxism.18 Just weeks before his trip to Moscow for the Hugo celebration, Eluard outlined his fundamental operating principles as a Cominform-line poet in a talk titled “La Poésie de circonstance” (Poetry of circumstances).19 Published later that year in the hard-line Communist journal La Nouvelle Critique, that essay serves as a sort of keystone in Eluard’s Cold War–era œuvre, as it elucidates his vision of how poetry should express “the real world” (le monde réel), a concept that resonates with the aesthetics and fundamental driving impulses of socialist realism and one that also brings to mind Aragon’s cycle of novels that bears the same name. Eluard, however, takes this concept in a direction different from Aragon and other more orthodox practitioners of socialist realism. Showing lingering traces of surrealist influence in his thinking, Eluard asserts that the world should be expressed in relation to the interior life of the poet, a subjective arena that is

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the product of dreams, truth, and imagination.20 Once the poet’s mind and exterior reality are engaged, he will be able to depict a world transformed, one that would reflect a now-familiar antithetical or dialectical pattern: “He will emerge the victor in inevitable battles between good and evil, between youth and decay, between armed hatred and fecund love.”21 The poet is even involved in the transformation of the world itself, and his work becomes revolutionary. Solidarity serves as the foundation of that revolutionary sense.22 Eluard follows Goethe’s model and argues that “all poems are occasional, the products of circumstance.”23 Except for those poems that are not, he quickly qualifies. Indeed, poetry must not engage with just any contemporary event or phenomenon. Eluard criticizes, for instance, Paul Claudel’s 1948 work, “Saint Michel Archange, patron des parachutistes du corps expéditionnaire d’Indochine,” written in praise of French soldiers in the Indochina War, a conflict highly criticized by the party.24 Contrary to such work, whatever concepts, current events, or figures that are lauded or supported in this model of poetry must enable the poet to inscribe his work in “the arc of human progress.”25 Crucially, the most salient example Eluard provides of his ideal form of poetry would be the poems written in honor of Stalin’s seventieth birthday. He writes, “Those poems . . . could in no way have been written without the perspective that history has given to his life; they have all the density and the human heft of his great existence.”26 As later sections in this chapter will show, Eluard himself participated quite actively in the late1949 celebration of Stalin’s “great existence,” and this comment here made just over two years after the celebration offers some insight into how Eluard viewed—or justified—his own role in promoting the personality cult. There is an East-meets-West cosmopolitanism that also emerges in “La Poésie de circonstance.” It is especially notable that Russian writers (Nikolay Nekrasov and Vladimir Mayakovsky) appear prominently in the essay, alongside canonical Western figures, Baudelaire, Dante, Goethe, Homer, Shakespeare, Whitman, and of course, Hugo. And it is not just in the citing of names that Russian poetics emerge in the essay. Eluard contrasts the West, as the land of the conquests of the atomic bomb, with the East, as a utopia of solidarity, hard work, and plenty, as exemplified by a parable about agricultural productivity he explicates early in the essay. In that parable, from Mikhail Iline’s Les Montagnes et les hommes (Mountains and men), the East represents the land of promise and production, whereas the West

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represents death and destruction.27 Again an antithetical pattern emerges that is suited to Cominform doctrine, and that pattern resurfaces over and over in his poetry from the last decade of his life. Eluard often depicts a universe of darkness that is illuminated by hope, a motif that finds its echo in the Cominform’s vision of a world able to overcome war, oppression, and poverty through justice, solidarity, and peace. The latter forces, represented by the USSR, will bring renewal, happiness, and life. As Eluard wrote for the Hugo festivities, “It is through this fitting celebration of poetry, which is the highest expression of the human soul, that Soviet Russia contributes to the ideal of happiness and beauty, that it contributes to the fight against barbarism.”28 A distinct form of French patriotism, closely hewing to the Thorezian ideal, emerges alongside Eluard’s poetic vision. That worldview has implications for French poetry in particular. For Eluard, “poetry of circumstances” is not just revolutionary; it is republican. Eluard praises “La Marseillaise” for its brilliance, despite what he sees as the mediocrity of its creator, Rouget de Lisle, a man he describes as having no convictions and capable of writing only dull verse. In “La Marseillaise,” Eluard argues that we do not hear the voice of the poet, but rather the voice of his era: “This hymn makes real the  anger and the hope of men, their force, their nobility, and their faith in the future.”29 Rouget de Lisle was animated by the spirit of his time, which Eluard describes as a victory of humankind over a single man. The revolutionary and the republican are merged not just in his evocation of “La Marseillaise” as a poème de circonstance, but also in Eluard’s description of the anonymous republican song “La Carmagnole,” which he sees as another collective hymn or chant (a term Eluard equates with “poème”), in which solidarity plays a key role: What does the republican need? Some courage, some iron, a bit of bread! Some courage to avenge himself Some iron for the outsider And bread for his brothers!30

The violence (i.e., du fer, “some iron”) that is espoused in “La Carmagnole”— a song composed in 1792 and used in French Communist newsreels in the 1930s and 1940s—takes on a specific form for Eluard. Indeed, he writes that French poetry has emerged stronger from the difficulties of the Second

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World War. It has recaptured the “violence” in patriotic sentiments, and has, moreover, sought to engage in combat “against oppression and war.”31 Thus, not unlike Barbusse and Rolland before him, Eluard sees a specific role and sociopolitical function for violence: the pursuit of peace. The end thus justifies the means, a claim long forwarded in Bolshevik discourse and embraced by Stalinist French intellectuals. As in the case of the revolution of 1789 and both “La Marseillaise” and “La Carmagnole,” “defense of peace” (whatever violent form that might take) even creates poetry: “Hymns emerge wherever peace is defended.”32 The link between 1789 and the Second World War emphasizes that the time is ripe, early in the Cold War era, for France to have another popular revolution. The 1789 revolution is cast as the precursor of the proletarian revolution in the twentieth century, a common theme in Bolshevik discourse as well as PCF propaganda from the Front Populaire years through the end of the Stalinist era. French history and long-standing symbols of French patriotism are again mobilized in the service of contemporary politics. Cold Warrior

Eluard’s trips to the Soviet Union fit into the well-worn pattern of intellectuals who had been brought into the orbit of the USSR. He took his first trip in 1950 as a delegate of the Association France-URSS, whose magazine, France-URSS, was a party-line publication that promoted the scientific and technological advances of the USSR, arguing for the superiority of Soviet civilization. As was the case with Barbusse and Rolland, Eluard’s work was massively promoted in the Soviet Union. His poetry was read publicly in libraries, workers’ clubs, and student groups; it was published in compilations and parsed in academic reviews; it appeared in journals and newspapers and even an almanac published in Siberia. One of Eluard’s biographers writes that his Poèmes choisis (Selected poems) sold ten thousand copies in one hour.33 Eluard’s stays in Moscow, which he referred to as “this prestigious capital of hope,” were typical Potemkin visits involving lavish dinners and substantial cultural and artistic fare, including opera, theater, ballet, and visits to museums.34 In an interview published in March 1952 after returning to France from his second trip to the USSR, Eluard expressed amazement at the modernity and pace of Soviet society. He stated, “They are constantly building in Moscow, and the art of construction seems perfectly natural

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there.”35 He also said that he was deeply impressed by the Soviet people’s optimism, happiness, and intellectual curiosity. That second trip, he stated, confirmed the “love at first sight” (coup de foudre) he experienced during his first trip to Moscow.36 Eluard’s trips to the USSR were far from his only political tourism in the postwar era. Indeed, his travels reflect the trajectory of an intellectual deeply involved in current events that were deemed priorities in the Communist sphere. Other notable voyages included trips to Poland for the Wrocław peace conference in 1948; Hungary in 1949 for the centenary of the death of the revolutionary poet Sándor Petőfi; Greece in May–June 1949, where he spent several days with Greek partisans engaged in a bitter civil war; Mexico for a September 1949 conference as the delegate for the Conseil national de la Paix; and Czechoslovakia in April 1950 as an official guest of Klement Gottwald’s government.37 Eluard’s travels served as subject matter for his poetry, a fact unsurprising given his vision of the poet as a figure who should be deeply engaged in the “real world.” The civil war in Greece was of particular import to Eluard and the party. Indeed, Eluard’s work in the Greek context was repeatedly mentioned in internal Soviet documents as a highlight of his biography and his work for the worldwide movement.38 The plight of Greek Communist partisans—fighting against what the party described as a U.S.-backed “monarcho-fascist” army—served as the subject of his poetry and essays in 1944 (“Athena”), 1948 (“La Grèce en tête” [Greece on my mind]), 1949 (Grèce ma rose de raison [Greece, my rose of reason]), and 1952 (“Péri, Zoïa, Beloyannis”). When Communist partisan leader Nikos Beloyannis was executed by the Greek government for treason in March 1952, Eluard’s statement published in L’Humanité was among the most strident of his career: It is necessary for us today to link together, in our hearts, the memory of Beloyannis and his comrades—victims of the American Nazis and their Greek collaborators—and the memory of the French patriots who were victims of the German Nazis and their French collaborators. The crime of Beloyannis, like that of Péri, was to defend his country and to defend peace. Their courage has served and will serve as a model. The echo of the voices of heroes will always move forward, amplified. It rallies all those who are innocent. And that mass of people is invincible. They will triumph over oppression, poverty, and war.39

The statement is typical of the PCF’s Cominform discourse. It conflates American Cold War activity with that of Nazi Germany during the Second

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World War. It therefore, by extension, creates a bridge between the resistance during the occupation of France and globally minded Communist activity in the postwar era. And in classic Eluardian fashion, the statement sees the potential for triumph over difficulty through action and solidarity. Interestingly, in a move that is reflective of a general tendency in Eluard criticism to tone down the more controversial aspects of the poet’s Cominform-era work, the editors of Eluard’s Œuvres complètes in the Pléiade do not cite the above statement when describing the plight of Beloyannis. They instead cite an alternative, unpublished manuscript from the Louis Aragon Collection: At the moment when we are solemnly celebrating the 150th anniversary of the birth of Victor Hugo, it is impossible to not hear, in this Greece of which our great poet so nobly sang, all the voices of France that demand that the lives of Beloyannis and his comrades be spared. Only outsiders could harm them. Greece is the fatherland of heroism. The entire world knows it and loves it. In the name of our love for justice and liberty, in the name of our humanitarian traditions born of Greek traditions, let us save Beloyannis and his comrades. Let us make oppression, cruelty, and the threat of war all take a step backward.40

While substantially less shrill, that statement still is careful to couch the pending execution of Beloyannis in the context of that now-familiar Cominform-era priority, the Hugo commemoration. It is especially revealing that the Pléiade editors unearthed an unpublished document from an Aragon archive, rather than publish a text that formed part of Eluard’s public persona during his lifetime. It is unlikely the editors were unaware of Eluard’s published statement, since it appeared in L’Humanité just days prior to another issue of the paper they cite to document the party’s coverage of Beloyannis’s execution.41 This suggests an effort on the part of the Pléiade editors to obfuscate problematic remarks Eluard made as an engaged public intellectual. Furthermore, to the uninformed reader, the references to Hugo seem ideologically innocent when in reality, as seen earlier, the anniversary celebration formed part of a careful campaign to promote the party’s version of French intellectual history, its values, and its figureheads, using Hugo as a proxy. Beyond writing influenced by his own travels, Eluard’s activity in the Cold War period—as a poet or as a public intellectual—was aligned with fixations concurrently echoed throughout the party press. His July 1951 poem “Message aux délégués du rassemblement pour la paix” (Message to the delegates for the rally for peace), for instance, focused on three hot

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spots the PCF repeatedly evoked in that era: “War on Greece, on Korea, on Indochina.”42 Eluard’s biographer Violaine Vanoyeke states that when Tito broke with the Cominform—a rupture that led to Tito’s demonization in party discourse as a traitor and enemy of the revolution—Eluard removed a signed portrait of the Yugoslav leader from his wall.43 More disturbing is the episode surrounding the Communist journalist and surrealist Záviš Kalandra.44 Founder of a Left Opposition journal in 1936 after his expulsion from the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, Kalandra was arrested as a Trotskyist in 1949 (this after having survived arrest by the Gestapo in 1939 and spending the duration of the Second World War in Nazi camps). In 1950, Kalandra’s case was “piggybacked onto the show trial” of the Czech politician Milada Horáková (falsely accused of treason), which became an “international cause célèbre.”45 André Breton published an open letter to Eluard in Combat, imploring that he come to the aid of Kalandra, with whom they had both worked amicably in the 1930s and who had been condemned to death after supposed “confessions.”46 Eluard is widely cited to have responded, “I have too much to do for the innocent who proclaim their innocence to deal with guilty people who proclaim their guilt.”47 That reaction was published by Pierre Courtade in the June 19–25 edition of Action.48 Kalandra was hanged in Prague on June 27, 1950, not three months after Eluard had visited that city as an official government guest. Milan Kundera would later comment, “I was shocked when, in 1950, the great French Communist poet Paul Eluard publicly approved the hanging of his friend, the Prague writer, Záviš Kalandra.” Kundera continued, stating, “When Brezhnev sends tanks to massacre the Afghans, it is terrible, but it is, so to say, normal—it is to be expected. When a great poet praises an execution, it is a blow that shatters our whole image of the world.”49 Eluard also adopted the party’s domestic causes, like the Henri Martin affair, a case named for a Communist French sailor who had fought in the French Indochina War. Martin became alienated from the war effort and attempted to quit the navy, but his request was denied. Upon his return to France, Martin was arrested (in March 1950), accused of sabotage, and sentenced to five years in prison because he had distributed propaganda in the military. The PCF tried to turn Martin into a sort of latter-day Alfred Dreyfus through a prolonged and intense media campaign. Eluard’s contribution to that effort was his poem “La Confiance d’Henri Martin” (The trust of Henri Martin), told in Martin’s

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first-person voice, describing his imprisonment: “For having simply refused to be silent / For simply being right / In my stance against the war.”50 Eluard, the USSR and Stalin

The Soviet Union represented an ideal for Eluard, just as it did for his PCF peers and contemporaries. The USSR as a beacon of hope and human happiness is a running theme in Eluard’s Cold War–era writing. As he wrote in his 1949 poem “L’URSS seule promesse” (USSR the only promise), Behind us fear hate and death Wither the happiness that we had dreamed But ahead of us in the east the day is born The present holds in its strong hands The seedlings of a life without worry and without limits.51

Those lines correspond with the Soviet Union’s own claims, dating to the 1920s and 1930s, to being a land of happiness and plenty. Eluard is able to transplant that Soviet-style discourse as well as pastoral imagery consistent with Soviet propaganda such that it applies not just to the USSR but also to France and French citizens. His 1947 poem “Strasbourg XIe Congrès” (Strasbourg 11th Congress) serves as a fine example of that elision between the Soviet Union and France. Dedicated to Jeannette Vermeersch, the PCF activist and politician and the wife of General Secretary Maurice Thorez, the poem was originally published in the bulletin of that eleventh national party meeting. Eluard plays on the sexual denotation of the term “congress” and melds images of the crowd with images of happiness, fertility, and bounty. He writes, When it’s a question of so many faces alive And mixed together like seed for nourishing bread For the seed that gushes from the amorous earth I am here seeking life, the life of everyone.52

Such an emphasis on vitality is a staple of Eluard’s poetry from this era. And that quest for vitality is fundamentally linked to Eluard’s rejoining of the PCF in 1942, after his rupture with the party in the early 1930s (which we will explore below). He is quoted in the PCF pamphlet “Pourquoi je suis communiste” (Why I am a Communist): “I joined the Communist Party in the spring of 1942. And because it was the party of France, I thus

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forever committed both my energies and my life.” The statement continues: “I wanted to be with the men of my country who march forward toward liberty, peace, happiness, toward real living.”53 In the hierarchical and centralized universe of the Cominform-era PCF, it was not just the USSR that was at the source of humanity’s vitality and happiness, but also its cult hero Joseph Stalin. Although it is a fact not widely known, Eluard himself is among the most famous writers to have contributed to Stalin’s personality cult, which had its signature moment in Cominform-era France around the Soviet leader’s seventieth birthday celebration in 1949. That moment was a defining one for the postwar PCF, much like the publication of the Barbusse biography was for the interwar PCF. And like Barbusse’s special place in crafting that pillar of the personality cult, Eluard was granted a unique role in this Cominform-era milestone. The 1949 festivities followed the pattern of the culture of commemoration in international Communism in the Stalinist era, the same pattern that was apparent in the 1939 celebration of the 150th anniversary of 1789, as well as the Hugo festivities of 1952. The celebration is especially noteworthy since Stalin’s birthday held a special place in the creation and perpetuation of his cult of personality. As we have seen, there is consensus among historians that the celebration of Stalin’s fiftieth birthday on December 21, 1929 in the Soviet Union marked the inaugural moment of the Stalin cult itself. Those Russian celebrations of Stalin’s fiftieth birthday were dwarfed by the massive festivities for his seventieth, a commemoration that reverberated well beyond Soviet borders. As Roy Medvedev writes, Stalin’s seventieth birthday “was celebrated with unbelievable pomp.”54 Alan Wood notes that the celebration in the USSR involved “extravagant outpourings of official encomia, obsequious greetings, exhibitions, publications, poetry and even prayers.”55 The marking of December 21, 1949 was an international celebration—with events held in Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania, and France— that culminated in a massive jubilee in Moscow. L’Humanité described the event in glowing terms: “The whole city was enraptured. Atop the buildings were millions of little red flags. . . . In the evening, a solemn ceremony took place in the Grand Theater in Stalin’s presence.”56 Plamper writes that, for nearly two years following the birthday, Pravda had a feature called “A Torrent of Greetings,” which included congratulatory telegrams and letters from all over the USSR.57 France had its own heavily orchestrated torrent

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of greetings that reached an apex at a gathering in Paris at la Mutualité on Stalin’s birthday itself. An event parallel to the Moscow jubilee, that French assembly was promoted in part by a blaring headline on the front page of L’Humanité touting the role of the local cult hero and PCF general secretary: “Stalin’s life as an activist will be exalted by Maurice Thorez.”58 In the French context, build-up to the event was initiated in L’Humanité on September 24, 1949, and it continued relentlessly in that newspaper through a daily flow of articles, promotions, and reprinted letters from enamored readers. Much of the promotional material in L’Humanité indeed focused on gifts to the man known as le Maréchal, le Généralissime, le bon papa, l’Oncle Joseph, and le Grand Frère, among other affectionate monikers.59 Alongside the media campaign, 500,000 tracts and 30,000 posters were produced.60 Ten trucks decorated with banners promoting the event collected gifts around the country, covering just under forty-five hundred miles. The approximately four thousand gifts for Stalin came from many quarters, from war widows to politicians to French intellectuals to world-famous artists. Picasso’s Staline à ta santé (Stalin, to your health), for instance, is featured in the film: the ink-on-paper work depicts a wine glass held aloft by a hand, and the title is prominently inscribed onto the work itself. The gifts for Stalin were showcased in an exhibition at the Maison de Metallos, a space controlled by a metallurgists’ union. From the sixth to the fifteenth of December, about 40,000 people visited the exhibit. Despite the vigor of the PCF’s promotions, the celebration and the many gifts produced for it constitute a largely forgotten episode of complicity with authoritarianism on the part of a significant number of French intellectuals and writers. The celebration was documented in a short film titled L’Homme que nous aimons le plus, a work that is emblematic of Stalinist propaganda produced and disseminated in France in the Cominform era. Described in the film’s opening credits as a gift made by technicians, intellectuals, and workers from the French film industry in homage to the Soviet leader, L’Homme que nous aimons le plus played a unique role in the marking of the PCF’s observation of Stalin’s birthday. Surprisingly, the film has fallen into nearly complete oblivion despite the prestigious figure who wrote and narrated its film script: Paul Eluard.61 Although largely forgotten, the film is an important artifact as it serves as a window on the manufacture of the cult of personality around Stalin and

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of its dissemination in France at the height of the PCF’s Stalinist phase— that is, during the early years of postwar reconstruction when Cold War tensions were high. The film was deemed noteworthy by Soviet authorities, as indicated by their highlighting thereof in an internal brief on Eluard’s biography and work history within the PCF.62 L’Homme que nous aimons le plus serves as an interesting successor to Barbusse’s Staline, which as we have seen, should be read within the context of the launch of the Stalin cult in France in late 1934 and early 1935. Both works fit within a context of birthday celebrations for the general secretary. Furthermore, both works were, to varying degrees, collectively produced. Barbusse received guidance from Soviet and Comintern authorities for the Stalin biography, and the timing of its publication and the way in which it was promoted suggest coordination within the PCF. For its part, L’Homme que nous aimons le plus was a product of a well-orchestrated and smoothly running propaganda machine that had the support of a significant number of party intellectuals, writers, and operatives. And when studied in relation to other material produced by the French Communist Party in the Cominform era, it is clear that the film was made in harmony with other products of the personality cult, and specifically those created and distributed in France. In analyzing the film and the cultural context in which it was produced, I will argue that L’Homme que nous aimons le plus—much like Eluard’s Cominform-era poetry—illustrates how French contributions to the Stalin personality cult appropriate specifically French traditions of social justice and revolution in the service of worldwide Communism and, more particularly, Stalin’s consolidation of power. History and Heroism through the Eyes of the PCF

In the years of Stalin’s rule, as we have seen, the marking of milestones and anniversaries on a distinct party calendar played an important role in the enforcement of loyalty and the promotion of the party’s particular vision of history, complete with a set of heroic figures. L’Humanité was a central outlet for the PCF’s promotion of that party calendar, especially with respect to Stalin’s seventieth birthday celebration. But the build-up to December 21 was far from limited to the PCF’s daily paper. Les Cahiers du communisme devoted its December 1949 issue almost entirely to praise of Stalin, complete with a lead article by Thorez, titled “Vive Staline” (Long live Stalin). The first page of that piece was printed alongside a photo of Stalin as generalissimo

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in his dress military uniform with the caption, “Glory and long life to Comrade Stalin.”63 The more highbrow—but no less party-line—arts and literary weekly Les Lettres françaises published André Stil’s short story “Le Cadeau à Staline” (The gift to Stalin), an article by party journalist Pierre Daix, “Le 70e anniversaire de Staline et la littérature” (Stalin’s 70th birthday and literature), and a piece titled “Pour le 70e anniversaire de Staline” (For Stalin’s 70th birthday) by PCF film critic Georges Sadoul on the 1946 Soviet film The Vow, directed by Mikheil Chiaureli.64 Taken together, those texts published in Les Lettres françaises conform to and further propagate important elements of the era’s prevailing French Stalinist discourse. Stalin is at center stage as a heroic and mythical figure, the Soviet people are exceptional in their strength and resolve, and the French masses have a deep appreciation for the Soviet leader and the USSR. Furthermore, “the  war faction directed by Wall Street” and American culture are subject to harsh criticism.65 Substantial complementary material proliferated outside Communist periodicals. Editions Sociales published in November 1949 the late Jean-Richard Bloch’s L’Homme du communisme (The man of Communism), a lengthy speech given by Bloch in 1946, which ends with a toast in large capital letters “to stalin the great.”66 The same publisher also released in French the official Short Biography of Stalin, “in conformity with the revised and corrected text of the second Russian edition . . . established by the Marx-Engels-Lenin Institute.”67 Although that highly laudatory text is dated 1950, it bears the following inscription: “Printed the 21st of December 1949 for the 70th anniversary of the birth of J. Stalin.”68 A variety of booklets and pamphlets also appeared around the same time, including “Hommage à Staline” (Homage to Stalin), the printed version of Thorez’s speech made at la Mutualité on December 21. That “Hommage” came complete with an introductory statement from the Central Committee of the French Communist Party expressing “warm wishes” for Stalin.69 At the back of the pamphlet was a party membership form that declared, “On the occasion of Stalin’s 70th birthday, I send to him my wishes for a long life and good health.”70 Also noteworthy was a booklet produced for the birthday celebration by a resistance group representing the Forces françaises de l’intérieur (FFI) and the Francs-tireurs et partisans français (FTPF). Titled “La Résistance parisienne au Maréchal Staline” (From the Parisian resistance to Marshal Stalin), that booklet contains official-looking portraits of Stalin, as well as a set of articles

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Figure 3.2. Party sign-up sheet published in the pamphlet “Hommage à Staline.” Source: Collection Bibliothèque de documentation internationale contemporaine.

praising him as the primary hero of World War II. Finally, also published for the birthday celebration was a pamphlet titled “L’Homme que nous aimons le plus,” designed to complement the film of the same name. That pamphlet and its contemporary texts are prominently featured in the film. The image of Stalin that emerges from that body of work is consonant with the cult of personality inaugurated in the late 1920s. These texts are, of course, updated for new events and changes in party leadership, not to mention the creation of new enemies of the people and the USSR (especially Tito, the United States, and NATO). Stalin is described as a military genius, not only for his work during the Russian civil war, but above all for his leadership in the Second World War, as the world’s sole bulwark against fascism and Hitler. Indeed, the wartime efforts of England and the United States are minimized or disparaged. But despite his military genius and his prominence on the international stage as a guarantor of peace, Stalin remains as modest as his humble origins, sharing a deep connection with his Soviet comrades. He is cast as Lenin’s faithful disciple, a status that grants him

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Figure 3.3. A sample of publications featured in L’Homme que nous aimons le plus. Source: L’Homme que nous aimons le plus, dir. Victoria Mercanton. Coll. CinéArchives, fonds audiovisuel du PCF—Mouvement ouvrier et démocratique.

legitimacy. Expert in all fields, Stalin is a genius theoretician of Marxism under whose leadership the USSR industrialized at an unprecedented rate and at the same time adopted the most democratic constitution in the world. These texts glorifying Stalin often end with codas filled with hyperbole about the “generalissimo” and the utopian society he built in the USSR. In the case of “L’Homme que nous aimons le plus,” that pamphlet ends with a section titled “L’Humanisme Stalinien” (Stalinist humanism) wherein the Soviet Union is described as a country where human relations have fundamentally shifted: “Man is no longer like a wolf toward his fellow man, but rather a brother-in-arms seeking happiness for all. A new man is appearing.”71 The USSR is a land of plenty and equality (of class, race, and gender), where a broadly educated populace has “conquered happiness.”72 That utopia is put in contrast with the world proposed by the Marshall Plan, one of misery, oppression, perpetual crisis, and violence.73 And a sentiment that

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is reiterated constantly and in many party-affiliated sources from the late 1940s and early 1950s is that French people will never go to war with the Soviet Union. As stated in the FFI-FTPF pamphlet, “Never will French resistance fighters make war on the heroes of Stalingrad!”74 The remarkable consistency of themes found across numerous party organs, publications, and PCF-themed works of art in post-1947 France is an indicator of French Communists writing in the context of the Cominform, the agency of international Communism that set official policy. Cominform doctrine—which for a time was dubbed the Zhdanov line, after Soviet functionary Andrei Zhdanov—viewed the world in two blocs, the mirror image of the blocs familiar to Westerners during the Cold War: the imperialist, antidemocratic West and the anti-imperialist, democratic East.75 Through the Cominform, the Soviet Union, as Ronald Tiersky writes, sought to “rouse the West European populations against development of an Atlantic alliance.”76 Indeed, the United States was regularly demonized in PCF publications as the postwar equivalent of Nazi Germany, serving as a menace to French independence and prosperity, not to mention world peace. Some statements—like warnings about future “Oradours” on a global scale or calls for a “new Liberation” from the Marshall Plan—left implicit the Nazi-American parallel.77 Others were more explicit. To cite just one example, in its July 28, 1949 issue, Les Lettres françaises published an article by Claude Morgan titled “L’Amérique impose aux Français l’étoile jaune” (America requires the yellow star for the French). The alleged transgression was that critic Georges Sadoul had been refused a visa to cross the Allied-occupied zone of Germany to attend a film festival in Czechoslovakia. In line with the article’s shrill headline referencing the Holocaust, Morgan writes, “The Trumanian meaning of liberty unpleasantly recalls that which characterized the Nazis.”78 Eluard as Scr eenwriter

It is in this discursive context that the film L’Homme que nous aimons le plus was created and distributed. Although categorized as a “documentary” at the party-line Karlovy-Vary film festival in Czechoslovakia (where it received a “Mention”), it is comprised of a combination of documentary footage and scripted scenes.79 Its goal appears to be twofold: first, to give the semblance of documenting how French men and women celebrated Stalin’s birthday at the end of 1949, and second, to convince viewers about

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Figure 3.4. Stalin as Maréchal de la Patrie. Source: L’Homme que nous aimons le plus, dir. Victoria Mercanton. Coll. Ciné-Archives, fonds audiovisuel du PCF— Mouvement ouvrier et démocratique.

Stalin’s merits as a leader, one whose values are in harmony with specifically French traditions of social justice. Taken at purely face value, the film depicts a movement steeped in important French historical phenomena, from the 1789 revolution to the resistance. This movement’s hero is even given a French air: Stalin is referred to as “le Maréchal,” and the film showcases that honorific specifically in relation to “la patrie,” the fatherland. Just five years removed from Vichy, that image recalls the massive propaganda and image making centered on Pétain, whose regime promoted its own distorted vision of France. This was also in the same period when Charles de Gaulle was proposing his own unique—and far more noble—sense of eternal France. De Gaulle and Pétain proposed vastly different visions of what constituted an ideal France, and it is clear that the PCF is attempting to insert itself into that same conceptual frame by articulating a specifically Communist vision of French national identity and citizenship, with its own figurehead at the helm.

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Figure 3.5. A truck with the banner stating “Gifts for Stalin’s 70th birthday.” Source: L’Homme que nous aimons le plus, dir. Victoria Mercanton. Coll. Ciné-Archives, fonds audiovisuel du PCF—Mouvement ouvrier et démocratique.

The story the film tells is constructed such that it gently escorts French viewers into the realm of Communist thought, ultimately preparing them for the closing segment, which is a two-minute sampling from Thorez’s lengthy “Hommage à Staline,” delivered in front of what appears to be a massive and enthusiastic audience at la Mutualité on Stalin’s birthday. L’Homme que nous aimons le plus opens with innocuous and pleasant images of the French countryside, through which trucks decorated with banners are seen circulating with the dual goal of disseminating the message about Stalin’s birthday celebration and collecting gifts for the occasion. The opening shots attempt to convey the message that the country’s full attention is devoted to Stalin’s birthday celebration. The pleasant and playful images and sounds that introduce the film are overlaid with narration— written and spoken by Eluard—filled with bromides about France and its goodwill: “This film tells us a story that bestows honor upon France. For the heart of France beats for liberty. And it has never been wrong. Justice

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Figure 3.6. A happy worker emerges from the factory. Source: L’Homme que nous aimons le plus, dir. Victoria Mercanton. Coll. Ciné-Archives, fonds audiovisuel du PCF—Mouvement ouvrier et démocratique.

exalts it. Injustice repulses it.” France’s commitment to justice is juxtaposed immediately with affection for Stalin: “And on the main roads of France, in the cities and the villages, from Auvergne to Brittany, from Provence to Flanders, from Gascony to the Lorraine—it is from everywhere toward Paris that love for Stalin flows.” The film then guides viewers around various sites and spaces (factories, farms, construction sites, meeting and exhibition halls) in an effort to deepen the impression that adulation for Stalin is widespread and sincere, coming from many sources, including miners, factory workers, longshoremen, and people from a variety of racial backgrounds and age groups. This adulation takes on a host of forms, and viewers are given a clear idea of the diversity and sheer quantity of gifts given to le Maréchal Staline. When analyzed closely, the film shows a number of signs of careful narrative construction. Scenes that appear initially to be documentary in nature show subtle signs of staging, like one happy worker emerging from his factory,

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apparently at the end of his shift, who just happens to be walking right in front of a poster bearing Stalin’s image and the same “Vive Staline” slogan seen and heard elsewhere in the film. Other staged scenes—like a scene in which all the men on a construction site take a break to listen to a tribute to Stalin—come complete with dialogue that reinforces major themes of the film (and, by extension, the personality cult). There are even discreet touches like the moment when the soundtrack bridges from the national anthem of the USSR to a worker whistling while crafting a gift for Stalin.80 The film bears not just signs of careful narrative construction. It also has numerous shared characteristics with generic political propaganda, and more specifically, Stalinist propaganda, and more specifically still, Stalinist propaganda produced by French writers and intellectuals. Like many other generic forms and persuasions of propaganda, the film script traffics in hyperbole (“Men must be united, or they will perish”), superlatives (like the title of the film), and absolutes (“We will never go to war against the Soviet Union”). Also relevant, and a feature of propaganda of any sort, is the careful selection of information. Indeed, one does not find—nor would one expect to find here, but it bears mentioning—an honest account of recent Soviet history: the brutalities of forced industrialization, the massive and violent agricultural expropriations, the Great Famine, the political purges. A related feature of propaganda also on display here is the distortion of the historical record to render the subject more heroic. Specifically, figuring prominently in this case is Stalin’s prowess as a military leader. Still another characteristic of political propaganda, Stalinist or otherwise, is a careful balance of truth and fiction, such that there is often some element of credibility to what is recounted. References to commonly known moments and figures in French history—all of which would appeal to a left-of-center audience in 1949 France—are mentioned alongside moments of glowing tribute to Stalin. The French Revolution of 1789 is referenced through a shot of Isidore Pils’s Rouget de Lisle Singing la Marseillaise for the First Time. (The film indicates a reproduction of the painting was offered to Stalin.)81 In case viewers are unfamiliar with that work, the shot is accompanied by a brief audio clip from “La Marseillaise.” The subtext of this gift is that Stalin and republican values are compatible, an idea that plays into the notion that the Bolshevik Revolution is the legitimate and logical continuation of the French Revolution. That gift and that portion of the film

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also correspond neatly with Eluard’s “La Poésie de circonstance” in which he praises “La Marseillaise” and draws parallels between 1789 and the early postwar period. The film links Stalin not just to 1789, but also to the Paris Commune of 1871. This association of the Commune and Soviet Communism is compatible with similar links found in other PCF propaganda outlets. The film’s selective telling of French history also includes a mention of Jaurès’s assassination, illustrating that the memory of the socialist leader remained a site of contestation between socialists and Communists. The film’s most heavily referenced historical event is the Second World War, a fact unsurprising given when L’Homme que nous aimons le plus was produced and the important role of French Communists in the resistance. One activist who is trying to convince an acquaintance to sign his name on a birthday greeting to Stalin states, “Without the victory at Stalingrad, France would have suffered thousands of Oradours. Without the victory at Stalingrad, our village Grigny would still be occupied by the Nazis, as would all of France, as would all of Europe.” Conveniently, as that quote makes clear, the prominence of the Second World War in French memory in 1949 meshes with the cult’s promotion of Stalin as a military hero. Thus, factually accurate references to history—references that are important to a French audience—are mixed in with claims and descriptions of Stalin that exaggerate or quite simply omit the truth about him and the USSR. The combination of historical fact, on the one hand, with lies of omission or outright lies, on the other hand, could prove a potent alchemy for the uninitiated or uninformed viewer. Such a technique would be especially powerful for spectators who have their own viewpoints about French history confirmed and legitimized, as they would be ideal candidates for proselytization. The Stalin who emerges from this film is strikingly similar to the leader found in other PCF propaganda produced for the birthday celebration. He is a teacher and a guide, the man who followed in the footsteps of Lenin but who nonetheless takes the foreground in party imagery and narratives. He is a man of peace, who strives for the joy and happiness of all workers. He is a thinker, dressed as a soldier, whose benevolent reach is global. All of the aforementioned characteristics are consistent with the evolving portrait of the general secretary from the late 1920s through the early 1950s. Despite the consistency across various national Communist parties and the centralized Soviet sources of such imagery, it is crucial to note that this film falls into the

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specifically French lineage of Communist propaganda. This is especially the case with the Barbusse biography, which furnished the basic narrative arc of Stalin’s rise from humble origins to superhuman power, a story line used by party biographers and journalists for decades after its publication. Among the books and pamphlets described above, that basic narrative is followed in the Marx-Engels-Lenin Institute’s new official biography as well as the “L’Homme que nous aimons le plus” pamphlet. The latter pamphlet and the one produced by the FFI-FTPF both quote Barbusse’s biography directly. Elements of the party’s siege mentality, paranoia, and militancy are also apparent. Eluard writes, “The people of our country are neither stupid nor ungrateful. They recognize those who love them, those who help them. They know how to pay their debts.” The subtext of that quote is that French citizens owe their freedom to Stalin, a running theme in the film and other post–World War II PCF material. Further, there is an implication that alliance with the American-led Western bloc would constitute an error, a betrayal, and a form of ingratitude. Such language of indebtedness is also reminiscent of the discourse around national guilt used by Pétain to attempt to retain his hold on the psyche of the French public after the defeat in 1940 and to justify the policies of the National Revolution. As indicated above, the film script, with all of its hallmarks of Stalinist propaganda, was hardly an aberration in Eluard’s postwar œuvre. In crafting this script, Eluard even uses the same line (“And thousands upon thousands of brothers carried Lenin”) he used in his 1949 poem “Joseph Staline,” it too written for the seventieth birthday and published on the front page of L’Humanité on December 8 of that year. That poem, which appeared in Eluard’s collection Hommages, is marked by the pattern of antitheses that is common in the poet’s other work. In this case, however, the optimistic, vibrant, and joyous side of Eluard’s poetic universe is centered on Stalin. He writes, for example, “Thanks to him we live without knowing the autumn / Stalin’s horizon is always in rebirth.”82 Stalin would come to the aid of those who had suffered: “Those healthy faces aged by slavery.”83 Similar to the Stalin found in Barbusse’s biography and the one criticized by Khrushchev in the 1956 secret speech, Eluard’s Stalin has mythical qualities: Stalin in the heart of men is a man In his mortal form with gray hair Burning with a blood-red fire in the vineyard of men Stalin rewards the best of all men.84

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Figure 3.7. Thorez speaks at la Mutualité on December 21, 1949. Source: L’Homme que nous aimons le plus, dir. Victoria Mercanton. Coll. Ciné-Archives, fonds audiovisuel du PCF—Mouvement ouvrier et démocratique.

Indeed, this Stalin is endowed with omnipresence (in the hearts of men) and omniscience (the knowledge to reward the best of all men). Eluard’s contributions to the Stalin cult were written alongside his other work that fed into the PCF’s more minor personality cults. Marcel Cachin, Jacques Duclos, and Maurice Thorez were all venerated figures in PCF discourse, and Eluard paid homage to each of them in his poetry. He wrote his “Au Nom de l’amitié” (In the name of friendship) for Cachin, the party elder and longtime director of L’Humanité. Its first line reads, “Dear Marcel thanks to you I am still young,” evoking the recurring theme of rebirth and the joy of living found in Eluard’s Cold War poetry.85 The poem “A Jacques Duclos” was written for the latter in 1952 when he was incarcerated as a result of protests around General Matthew Ridgway’s arrival in Paris to take over the command of NATO.86 Duclos states that he pinned the text to the wall of his cell, noting that it was pleasant to have Eluard’s company during his imprisonment.87

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Figure 3.8. Thorez and what appear to be party officials at la Mutualité on December 21, 1949. Source: L’Homme que nous aimons le plus, version longue, dir. Victoria Mercanton. Coll. Ciné-Archives, fonds audiovisuel du PCF—Mouvement ouvrier et démocratique.

As for Thorez himself, Eluard praises him as a man of justice and a representative for the people in his poem titled “12e Congrès,” written for the party’s meeting in Gennevilliers in April 1950. One also sees the sentiment, found in other PCF publications, that violence is justifiable. Eluard writes of Thorez, “His violence is born from goodness.”88 And through Thorez, much like through Stalin, happiness and peace are attainable. “His clarity paints for us what is possible / Everything that is possible the happiness / the peace so simple in unity.”89 Such praise of Thorez was hardly an unusual gesture in that context, for in a parallel with the USSR being dubbed “the land of Stalin,” the PCF was often referred to as “the party of Maurice Thorez.” And Eluard’s poetic tributes to Thorez were complemented by a host of personal gifts from the poet to the PCF general secretary. Indeed, archival research reveals that Eluard gave to Thorez a number of books that bore his signature and dedications.90

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Given Eluard’s admiration for Thorez, and the prominent place accorded to the French general secretary in party discourse, it is fitting that L’Homme que nous aimons le plus ends with an excerpt of Thorez’s lengthy speech “Hommage à Staline.” Viewers of the film only see what amounts to a small portion of that speech. Repetition being one of the hallmark formal characteristics of propaganda, the excerpt has a distinct purpose as the film’s capstone. In that speech, one finds again the canonical themes of the Stalin cult. Also included are the common refrains found in party statements from the late 1940s and early 1950s, including the oft-repeated Thorezian maxim, “The people of France will not make, will never make war on the Soviet Union.” Thorez’s speech is regularly punctuated by enthusiastic applause from the large crowd at la Mutualité. The scene’s aesthetics are strikingly Soviet. Thorez is seen standing at a podium decorated with a prominent hammer and sickle, and a large portrait of Stalin hangs behind him. He is flanked on the stage at his right by a large contingent of what appear to be party officials.91 A Symbolic Gestur e

The early Cold War years, particularly before the death of Stalin and during Harry Truman’s presidency, were marked by especially high tensions between East and West. The Moscow-mandated goal of the PCF in the Cominform context was “to prevent American domination of Europe,” which in part “meant hindrance of the Marshall Plan’s implementation, and later, to combat the Truman Doctrine.”92 The French domestic sphere thus served as a proxy fight in the Cold War between capitalism and Communism. The exclusion of the PCF from Paul Ramadier’s government in May 1947 marked the beginning of a period during which, on the level of national politics, the PCF was largely reduced to symbolic actions, like the creation of L’Homme que nous aimons le plus and the aggressive promotion of Stalin’s birthday.93 And it turns out that the film was truly a symbolic gesture, as it was censored by the French government and consequently had a very restricted viewership.94 Adding to the peculiar symbolism of this cinematic gesture is the fact that Stalin’s real birthday is not December 21. Research by historians in the post–Cold War era revealed that the myth around Stalin’s personage extended beyond his personal characteristics as a savior and a war hero, beyond that of the “Man of Steel,” whose

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grandiose self-appointed pseudonym sounded not so coincidentally like “Lenin.” Indeed, for reasons that are unclear, Stalin’s real birthday, December 18, 1878, was jettisoned in favor of December 21, 1879.95 What is clear, however, is that self-designated birthday allowed the general secretary to inaugurate his own personality cult in 1929 with a lavish fiftieth birthday celebration after he had consolidated power in the post-Lenin period. That moment marked the beginning of an era of self-congratulation that lasted into the 1950s. Integral to that effort was praise from Nobel laureates like Romain Rolland and his canonical contemporaries Louis Aragon and Eluard, and their prize-winning antecedent, Henri Barbusse. Those were potent affiliations in a country where, at midcentury, intellectuals were still widely viewed as venerated moral guides. Eluard, Surr ealist and Communist

Eluard’s affiliation with the PCF during World War II and the Cold War was the second time in his life he was a member of the party. The poet’s first party membership dated from 1927 to 1933, during his surrealist phase.96 Eluard’s work in the Cominform era was vastly different from his writing during his first Communist phase, a period in his career that was characterized above all by his loyalty to André Breton, the surrealist “Pope.” Breton’s persistent cageyness regarding becoming a party member and his inability or unwillingness to submit entirely to party orthodoxy appear to have had a major impact on Eluard. In December 1926, for example, when the surrealists were discussing joining the party and whether their attempts to join might be welcomed by PCF leaders, Eluard stated, in categorical terms, that he would feel intellectually “compromised” if he would be allowed to join the party and if, at the same time, Breton were rejected. “When it comes to ideas that are dear to me,” Eluard said, “I cannot understand how I could be admitted and Breton rejected.”97 And indeed, Eluard’s early political trajectory closely followed surrealism’s political evolution from 1924 to 1938, the year of the definitive rupture between Eluard and Breton. The surrealists’ relationship with the party was characterized by persistent friction before, during, and after their years of party membership. Party officials held a dim view of the group, and for their part, the young surrealist intellectuals demonstrated rebelliousness in their political tracts as well as an inability to do pragmatic work for the party.98 Still, despite

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persistent tension between the surrealists and the party, surrealist political tracts and declarations show that there were topics where the ideals and priorities of both groups aligned, especially around anticolonialism, anticlericalism, and, at times, against French nationalism.99 At the end of 1931, for instance, Eluard published his anticlerical and antibourgeois poem “Critique de la poésie” (Critique of poetry) in Le Surréalisme au service de la révolution (Surrealism in service of the revolution). It is a text that is noteworthy for its hard-line stance: “It is understood that I hate the reign of the bourgeois / The reign of the cops and the priests.” Although the harsh tone of that poem is anomalous in Eluard’s work from this phase of his career, it does foreshadow the orthodox revolutionary work he would produce in the Cominform era. In the second volume of L’Homme communiste, which was published just after Eluard’s death, Aragon took note of the importance of “Critique de la poésie” to Eluard, given that the latter included it in nearly all of the many poetry anthologies he assembled.100 Aragon argued that Eluard’s insistence on that poem showed “that within that work were the seeds of a way of thinking that would flourish later on.”101 Among the most noteworthy flash points in the relationship between the party and the surrealists was the 1932 Affaire Aragon, the muchdiscussed scandal around Aragon’s poem “Front Rouge” (“The Red Front”), a text that led to the poet’s indictment on charges of provoking insubordination in the army and inciting murder.102 The poem was deemed a threat by the French government because of its lines calling for the assassination of French political figures, including Léon Blum and Marcel Déat, and other forms of violence against state authority. Eluard signed two collective declarations in this period, which serve as bookends to the Affaire Aragon. The first (titled “L’Affaire Aragon”) was the January 1932 surrealist petition written in support of Aragon. The second, titled “Paillasse!” (Clown!), was published after L’Humanité had announced Aragon’s disavowal of surrealism as counterrevolutionary—and this despite Breton’s and the surrealists’ support for him. “Paillasse!” pledges strong support for the surrealist leader Breton: it praises the “integrity of his revolutionary views” and his “theoretical clairvoyance.”103 Meanwhile, in sharp contrast, the text denounces Aragon (it is he who is the “Clown”) for his “intellectual cowardice,” suggesting that he allied himself with the party for financial reasons.104

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It was also in the context of the Affaire Aragon that Eluard produced one of his most important single-authored texts from this era, his March 1932 declaration titled “Certificat” (Certificate). The text is a highly personal attack on Aragon, critiquing what Eluard perceived as his “careerism” and his lack of political and artistic integrity.105 It is significant that Eluard opens his account of what he saw as Aragon’s treachery with the phrase, “A year ago, he came back from Russia,” implying that it was Soviet influence that played a role in his serial disavowals of his friendships and affiliations, the most notable being surrealism.106 Particularly loathsome for Eluard was the fact that Aragon disavowed Breton at the very moment the latter was still publicly defending him. Eluard ends his condemnation of Aragon with a quote from the surrealist idol, Lautréamont: “Not all the water in the ocean would suffice to wash out one drop of intellectual blood.”107 “Certificat” represents a milestone in Eluard’s political trajectory, as it displays a critical distance from Communist orthodoxy that is totally absent from his Cominform-era work. In the ensuing few years, the political work of the surrealists—with whom Eluard remained aligned—would continue to set them apart from the party. They wrote in support of Trotsky, for instance, long after he had become a pariah in official Communist circles. Moreover, their staunch position against French nationalism was counter to the party’s new embrace of patriotism and national defense in the Front Populaire era.108 Their most notable text of the mid-1930s is their pamphlet “Du Temps que les surréalistes avaient raison” (“On the Time When the Surrealists Were Right”), published in August 1935. While taking on themes that surfaced in previous surrealist brouhahas with the PCF—especially the latter’s suppression of intellectual freedom—that pamphlet takes a harder stance against the party’s ideological positions, its allies, and, especially, its leaders. The surrealists reprise critiques of the idea of “the fatherland” as “a sordid illusion” and describe promotions thereof as being fundamentally counter to their goals and motivations as revolutionaries.109 The text bears a certain finality, especially because the surrealists criticize what they see as counterrevolutionary behavior in the USSR—above all, ideologically conformist behavior among the young. Also, notably, they target Stalin. Indeed, before announcing their formal “disapproval,” they denounce both him and his regime: “The all-powerful leader under whom this regime negated what was and what should have been.”110

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Eluard continued to sign politically engaged declarations and pamphlets that were also cosigned by Breton and other surrealists. His views remained revolutionary in nature, closely related to Marxist ideals, but critical of the party and the USSR. Thus, while against capitalism, nationalism, colonialism, and fascism, the pamphlets also critiqued L’Humanité, Stalin, and Maurice Thorez.111 Among the political tracts, the most striking is the pamphlet titled “Le Procès de Moscou: Appel aux hommes” (The Moscow trials: An appeal to men), which expresses dismay regarding the infamous 1936 show trial in Moscow that resulted in the execution of sixteen men, including “essential artisans of the October Revolution.”112 Eluard also remained active in artistic circles, delivering an address at a surrealist exposition in London in June 1936. Titled “L’Evidence poétique” (Poetic evidence), that address, which represents another milestone in his politico-artistic trajectory, would show that Eluard remained loyal to surrealist artistic priorities, as well as his own longtime poetic principles, especially in support of artistic freedom and internationalist fraternity and solidarity. Although critical of the party, Eluard expressed loyalty to Marxism, citing Engels in calling for “the ruin of the bourgeoisie, the ruin of its wealth and its beauty [which are] subjugated to the ideas of property, family, religion, fatherland.”113 The text furthermore bridges the political and the artistic in classic surrealist fashion. Eluard espouses the figures that surrealists had long held in high esteem: “Real poetry is incorporated in everything that frees mankind from this horrible wealth that has the face of death. It exists just as much in the work of Sade, Marx, or Picasso as it does in the work of Rimbaud, Lautréamont, or Freud.”114 Interestingly, however, counter to this general tendency to remain faithfully in the surrealist orbit, in December 1936, despite having been recently critical of the party in two different contexts, Eluard published—in L’Humanité, no less—“Novembre 1936,” a poem written in support of Spanish republicans. The poem, which can very readily be called a “poem of circumstances,” is preceded by an editorial note stating, “Literary criticism is in general agreement in viewing Paul Eluard as one of the greatest poets of his generation.”115 That rapprochement with the party and its preferred artistic modes was a sign of what was to come for Eluard. Indeed, 1938 would represent a turning point for Eluard. Whereas Breton would move closer to Trotsky, visiting the latter in Mexico and coauthoring a pamphlet with him,

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Eluard published the poem “Les Vainqueurs d’hier périront” (Yesterday’s victors will perish) in the May issue of the party-line Commune, which was directed at the time by Aragon and Romain Rolland and which served as the organ for the Maison de la Culture (which Aragon also directed).116 The publication of the poem in that venue shortly after the Maison had tried to undermine Breton’s visit to Mexico by spreading false rumors about him, led to the rupture between Eluard and Breton.117 Eluard emphasized the definitive nature of that break, lamenting the conformity that Breton was demanding of his affiliates, as if surrealism were “a literary school of thought.”118 The break with Breton represented a seismic shift for Eluard, considering their long shared history and friendship. Breton reported that, at the time of the publication of the poem in Commune, Eluard claimed that his choice of venue did not denote any particular political affiliation.119 Given the history between Aragon and Breton, however, it is difficult to interpret as an innocent gesture Eluard’s decision to publish in an Aragon-controlled venue. Furthermore, the content of “Les Vainqueurs d’hier périront” hints at a penchant toward the PCF’s worldview. Echoing the revolutionary violence evoked in the work’s title, Eluard writes, for instance, “In the land of the masters, fire alone flourishes.”120 The poem was written just after noteworthy advances by Franco in Spain as well as the Nazi annexation of Austria, and that context would explain its dark images of horror and death.121 Despite the bleak tone of the majority of the poem, it nonetheless ends—in classic Eluardian fashion—pointing toward a hopeful future: But our desires are less stabbing in the night Brothers this red star Which despite it all gains ground on horror.122

That final stanza expressing fraternity and the coming victory of “this red star” counters Eluard’s claims that the poem did not signify ideological alignment with the revue. Indeed, the line is a possible nod to “Front Rouge,” wherein Aragon writes, “A star is born on earth,” in reference to either the USSR or the Red Army.123 The genesis of the image aside, the idea of the victory of “this red star” at the very least underscores an important change in Eluard’s position regarding the USSR, two years removed from his signing the declaration criticizing the August 1936 Moscow show trial.

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Eluard would become active in clandestine literary activities during the Nazi occupation period, writing for Les Lettres françaises and working for a time as the literary director of the Editions de Minuit.124 He was also a founding member of the Comité national des écrivains (CNE). He officially rejoined the party (then underground) in 1942, because it was, as quoted earlier, “the party of France.”125 That reasoning marks a profound departure from the antinationalist and antifatherland sentiments expressed in surrealist pamphlets and declarations, cosigned by Eluard, from 1925 to 1936.126 Eluard’s conception of the nation was transformed from a revolutionary vision—untethered to patriotism—into a patriotic, Thorezian-style vision that was party-centric and ultimately party serving. He would also continue to undergo an artistic transformation, writing a number of what can be called “poems of circumstances” in the context of the war. Such engaged poetry represents a continuation of his work on the Spanish Civil War and a departure from Breton’s understanding of that type of poetry as “regressive.”127 Underscoring his separation from Breton’s thinking, Eluard wrote in 1952 that he considered his most famous work, “Liberté,” to be in that subgenre.128 Because of the widely read “Liberté” as well as his work for Les Lettres françaises, the Editions de Minuit, and the CNE, Eluard attained some celebrity after the war.129 The party contributed to that celebrity, and—as was the case with Barbusse and Rolland—Eluard and the party benefited from each other’s prestige, even before the war had ended. One prominent example of that phenomenon would be when Picasso (Eluard’s longtime friend and associate) joined the party; the occasion was marked on the front page of L’Humanité with a photo of the famed artist with Jacques Duclos and Marcel Cachin. Accompanying that photo was a text by Eluard—complete with his distinctive signature—praising the event and its participants. Eluard sounded a populist and patriotic note in lauding both Picasso and the party: “Today I saw Pablo Picasso and Marcel Cachin embrace. And I witnessed Picasso’s nobility of mind and heart when I heard him thanking the French people while joining its greatest party: the party of Fusillés.”130 In a further move away from Breton’s orbit, Eluard reconciled with Aragon in 1943. Their reconciliation was immortalized by Eluard in the November 1949 poem “Les Poètes que j’ai connus” (The poets I have known), written at the height of the Stalinist phase of Eluard, Aragon, and the PCF. Dedicated

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Figure 3.9. L’Humanité of October 5, 1944. Picasso, pictured with Marcel Cachin and Jacques Duclos. The image is juxtaposed with praise from Paul Eluard. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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to party writer and journalist Jean Fréville (the ghostwriter of Maurice Thorez’s autobiography, Fils du peuple), the poem ends with a prose section containing high praise for Aragon. Eluard writes, “Of all the poets I have known, Aragon is the one who was the most right, right when the monsters were wrong—and he was right when I was wrong. He showed me the correct path; and he still shows it today to all those who did not understand that to fight against injustice was to fight for their own lives, for a life that is flowery with hope, and for all the love in the world.”131 The editors of Eluard’s Pléiade volumes, Marcelle Dumas and Lucien Scheler, suggest that that poem can be considered “a definitive disavowal of the famous ‘Certificat’ of 1932, which Aragon had described as ‘atrocious.’”132 Eluard’s Death : The Shaping of a Legacy

The renewed friendship between Aragon and Eluard lasted until the latter’s death on November 18, 1952. Aragon, along with the party politician Laurent Casanova, lionized the deceased poet at his well-attended funeral at Père-Lachaise cemetery. The event took on the guise of so many other Cominform-era events in the Communist mediasphere. Eluard’s death represented an opportunity for the party to attempt to define his legacy and trajectory and also to engage in image making for the party as a whole. Tributes to Eluard were published in late 1952 and early 1953 in the party’s major organs. Articles, features, and, in some cases, Eluard’s works were published in L’Humanité, Les Cahiers du communisme, Les Lettres françaises, La Nouvelle Critique, and La Pensée. Furthermore, the Communist press and affiliated organizations took over, in a very literal way, Eluard’s passing: before the funeral, Eluard’s body lay in state at the headquarters of Les Lettres françaises and also at the CNE’s Maison de la Pensée.133 That gesture was, intentionally or not, aligned with the penchant in Communist circles toward the display of the corpses and death masks of the movement’s great men.134 And it was in the name of the CNE that Aragon and Casanova delivered speeches at his funeral. Like other commemorative events from that era, the party’s tribute to Eluard was international in nature, with statements and homage coming to the PCF from around the world. A special event in Moscow was organized by the Union of Soviet Writers, the Soviet Peace Committee, and the Gorky Institute of World Literature.135

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Eluard’s death was recognized at the highest levels of the PCF through a statement by the party’s Central Committee and politburo that was printed in Les Cahiers du communisme, L’Humanité, and Les Lettres françaises. Signed by chief party figures—Duclos, Lecœur, Cachin, Fajon, and others (Thorez was in the Soviet Union recovering from a stroke)—that statement in many ways represented the tenor and content of the praise Eluard received in various party media outlets. It referred to Eluard as “the glory of France and of the working class” and as “the poet who fought until his last breath for the happiness of mankind, for liberty, for national honor, and for peace.”136 At issue here, as we have seen before in the Hugo commemoration and Stalin’s seventieth birthday celebration, is a specific vision of French nationhood, along with the promotion of other party-line touchstones like happiness, peace, and freedom. Those themes recur consistently throughout the paeans to Eluard, which cast him in the role of someone who fought for the French working class and who, as a Communist, brought prestige to the French nation as a whole, especially during the resistance. As Aragon told a journalist the day Eluard died, “He was a Communist, and he was a Frenchman, and in the face of his death, which for our country represents a national loss, he thus remains the poet of the happiness to come and the symbol of a mankind united against death.”137 In his “Discours funèbre” for Eluard, Aragon made the link between Eluard and France even more fundamental, stating that he was “the man on whose lips a hymn became the very air France would breath.”138 In describing Eluard as both a Frenchman and a Communist and in insisting that the death of a party-line poet represented a significant loss for the nation, the party was attempting to assert itself as central to political and cultural discourse nationwide. This came at a moment when the PCF had already fallen from its highest levels of prestige and power attained immediately after the war. Eluard’s death served as a means of reminding the public about patriotic Communist activity in the resistance and of its stated commitment to social justice. This image making would render Eluard an exemplary Frenchman, who could serve as a model for others in their political thinking. And the party did not let pass an opportunity to use his death as a means of promoting one of its contemporary priorities: the Rosenbergs as they faced the death penalty in the United States on charges of conducting espionage for the Soviet Union. In its commemorative issue for Eluard,

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which is dated two days after his death, Les Lettres françaises published a sidebar titled “La dernière pensée de Paul Eluard” (The last thought of Paul Eluard). The content of the short article consisted of text from a telegram that Eluard’s wife, Dominique, sent to the American Communist singer and actor Paul Robeson. The telegram read, “Paul Eluard died this morning. His final thought was for Rosenberg (sic) for whom he ardently wished for a pardon.”139 The party made a concerted effort through its various outlets to shape Eluard’s legacy. Affiliate organs published overviews of his career accentuating those aspects of his trajectory that were in harmony with contemporary concerns of the PCF. Those overviews consistently elided or glossed over the phase of Eluard’s career when he was in rupture with both Aragon and the party.140 Articles on the life and work of Eluard also represented a chance to criticize enemies of the party, including surrealists, socialists, and any newspaper that deviated from the party’s version of Eluard’s career. It was in La Nouvelle Critique that the most elaborate and combative of the tributes was published, coming in the form of a two-part article by Jacques Dubois titled “La Leçon de Paul Eluard” (The lesson of Paul Eluard). Dubois’s texts share common themes with other tributes, including an effort to underscore the importance of Eluard for French culture at large. He asserts, for instance, that Eluard’s death was “the most serious blow of the axe to the thousand-year-old tree of national poetry since the death of Hugo.”141 The affiliation with Hugo allows Dubois to lash out against the party’s enemies: “Their lives are two vectors going in the same direction: both point toward the future. Hugo had been a monarchist, and he became a republican, he was the herald of the liberty of peoples. Paul Eluard was a surrealist, he became a Communist.”142 Surrealists—here equated with monarchists— are far from the only group targeted by Dubois. Indeed, in the especially pugnacious first part of his tribute, Dubois exhibits the siege mentality that was common in PCF discourse. He spends a good deal of energy attacking periodicals and writers that, in his estimation, misrepresented Eluard’s work.143 It is especially notable that Dubois depicts Eluard’s work as being in line with Marxism and Stalinism, and also as being embraced by important party figures (Thorez, Aragon, and André Stil). Dubois cites Marx at length in analyzing Eluard’s work, describing the latter’s poetry as an expression of Marx’s rejection of mysticism. Dubois cites Stalin several times and claims

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that the following well-known quote from the Soviet leader could be used as an epigraph for Eluard’s body of work: “We must finally understand that of all the valuable forms of capital in the world, the most valuable and decisive capital is people.”144 As a capstone to all of those tributes, in the year after his death, Eluard was featured prominently in Aragon’s second volume of L’Homme communiste, the volume in which Aragon attempts to define the archetypes of this new man, l’homme communiste, for a new era. In including Eluard in this text, he placed him in elite PCF company: the other three sections of the second volume of L’Homme communiste are devoted to Jean-Richard Bloch, Jacques Duclos, and Maurice Thorez. Aragon singles out for special praise Eluard’s work from 1942 to 1952 (his most party-oriented period, in other words). He writes that his work from that era is replete with “key thoughts” and that it is “sparkling with ideas, Communist ideas.”145 Conclusion: Eluard’s Afterlife

Since Eluard’s death and the period of de-Stalinization, some biographers and scholars have engaged in selective image making for the poet, but it is the inverse of what was produced by his party-line contemporaries. Some overviews completely erase or minimize Eluard’s Stalinist phase.146 In their biographical books on Eluard, both Jean-Charles Gateau and Raymond Jean deal with the poet’s phase of “Stalinist blindness,” but both find ways to excuse his political engagement during the early Cold War era.147 Although there is no indication in his Cominform-era work that Eluard expressed misgivings with the party line, Jean states, without any attribution or documentation, “One can, however, think—certain clues, certain private declarations prove it—that Eluard was not always duped by illusions or lies, that he sometimes had the feeling of playing a role that was not always completely good, that the Khrushchev report and the 20th Congress would have affected him—or woken him up—more than others.”148 In a similar vein, Gateau attributes to Eluard’s wife, Dominique, his shocking statement on the eve of Kalandra’s execution (“I have too much to do for the innocent who proclaim their innocence to deal with guilty people who proclaim their guilt”). Gateau writes, “It was she who breathed the formulation to him, as if in summary of a way of thinking to which she did not subscribe.”149 The biographer then rhetorically asks

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how such an “inexcusable sophism” could come from a man who was “fundamentally good.”150 The most significant indicator that Eluard’s Stalinist phase was a matter of embarrassment in the post-Stalin era comes in Robert Valette’s Paul Eluard: Livre d’identité (Identity book), a 1967 work produced in collaboration with members from Eluard’s family and some of his closest associates (Picasso, Valentine Hugo, and René Char, among others). That text is a very valuable source for images and primary documents tracing Eluard’s life and career. At the same time, however, it diminishes the centrality of party-line political work in the last five years of Eluard’s life. Livre d’identité does contain a few references to Eluard’s work in Greece and the Eastern bloc. It also references his affiliation with party figures, like Paul Vaillant-Couturier. Nevertheless, the book—which gives the impression of a complete overview—does not give any indication of how Eluard evolved from an active force in the literary resistance to a celebrated part of a large apparatus affiliated with Moscow and working in support of Stalin. What remains difficult to explain based on published documents is why Eluard affiliated himself with the PCF and the USSR when it had long been clear—at the very least since the purges of the 1930s, against which Eluard signed a declaration—that Stalin’s consolidation of power involved violence on an incredible scale. Moreover, as testimonies continued to emerge from the USSR, from figures like Victor Serge and Victor Kravchenko and through the work of David Rousset, it is especially mystifying that Eluard was able to be so loyal to such a hard-line party. What is clear is that both the Spanish Civil War and the Nazi occupation of France played significant roles in Eluard’s move back toward the party orbit. It is also clear that Eluard enjoyed a measure of celebrity after the war, and the party publicity machine maintained the momentum behind that fame well beyond the occupation period. As Eluard mentions in an enthusiastic letter to his daughter about his experience in Budapest in 1949: “One understands that here, as in all the democratic republics, that life is really beginning to be worth living. . . . Yesterday afternoon, I gave my first talk, spoke on the radio, was at a banquet with writers, and slept. It’s the same every day. Today: a tour of villages. Tomorrow, the Eluard festival; Saturday, museums; Sunday, the countryside.”151 Eluard touches not just on his celebrity in the East and the (Potemkin) visit he was enjoying, but also the view that

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life and vitality—long dearly held notions for him—were more vibrant in Communist countries than in France during the difficult period of postwar reconstruction. Eluard’s death forestalled whatever changes may have come about in his political views after Stalin’s death and, especially, after Khrushchev’s secret speech in 1956. Nevertheless, given how firmly Eluard was embedded in the party mediasphere, it seems likely he would have remained loyal to the party and its doctrine. That stance would have included a reluctant embrace of deStalinization: the process in France was sluggish relative to that in the USSR in the 1950s, and it did not fully take hold in the PCF until the early to mid-1960s. As we will see in the next chapter, if the trajectory of his closest ally, Aragon, is any indication, major changes in the Soviet regime would have had very little effect indeed on Eluard’s allegiance to the PCF. Nonetheless, the effects of de-Stalinization, however tardy, would have been quite profound. Notes 1. “Moscou a honoré le grand poète de la paix,” L’Humanité, February 28, 1952, 1. On Stalin’s funeral, see Khlevniuk, New Biography, 317. On Lenin’s, see Tumarkin, Lenin Lives!, 134–43. 2. “Victor Hugo célébré à Moscou,” L’Humanité, February 28, 1952, 8. 3. Meiying, “Voice of Justice,” 24. 4. “Les amis de Victor Hugo et ses ennemis,” L’Humanité, March 1, 1952, 7. 5. Louis Daquin, “Les Lettres françaises—Tous les arts—L’Ecran français,” L’Humanité, March 28, 1952, 5. 6. On the stamp, see “Victor Hugo célébré à Moscou,” L’Humanité, February 28, 1952, 8. For party demands, see “Le comité Victor-Hugo demande une série de mesures pour le cent cinquantenaire,” L’Humanité, March 27, 1952, 6. 7. For a description of the monument, see Michalski, Public Monuments, 37–39. See also “Pour la restauration de la statue de Victor Hugo,” L’Humanité, March 3, 1952, 8. Aragon writes in Avez-vous lu Victor Hugo? that the statue was removed by the Germans in 1941; Michalski writes that it was in 1942. 8. Aragon, Avez-vous lu Victor Hugo, 15. 9. “Victor Hugo dignement célébré en URSS,” L’Humanité, February 18, 1952, 6. 10. Vanoyeke, Paul Eluard, 373. 11. See, for example, Claude Roy, “Paul Eluard avec la Grèce en armes,” in Les Lettres françaises, June 23, 1949, 1. 12. Eluard, “Préface,” 854. 13. Eluard, “Victor Hugo,” 928. 14. Eluard, “Hugo, poète vulgaire,” 924. 15. Eluard, “Hugo, poète vulgaire,” 921.

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16. Eluard, “Hugo, poète vulgaire,” 924. 17. Eluard, “Victor Hugo,” 928. 18. Eluard, “Victor Hugo,” 928. On claims that Eluard was Marxist, see, for example, Dubois, “La Leçon de Paul Eluard (fin),” 111–15. 19. “Occasional Poetry” could be an alternative translation. 20. A brief overview of his surrealist phase will follow later in this chapter. 21. Eluard, “La Poésie de circonstance,” 936. 22. Eluard, “La Poésie de circonstance,” 937. 23. “Tout poème est de circonstance.” Translation of Goethe’s maxim is from Weinberger, Collected Poems, 637. 24. Eluard, “La Poésie de circonstance,” 940. Claudel’s title in translation would be “Saint Michael the Archangel, patron of the parachutists of the Indochina expeditionary corps.” 25. Eluard, “La Poésie de circonstance,” 942. 26. Eluard, “La Poésie de circonstance,” 940. 27. See Eluard, “La Poésie de circonstance,” 937–39. 28. Eluard, “Hugo, poète vulgaire,” 921. 29. Eluard, “La Poésie de circonstance,” 943. 30. Eluard, “La Poésie de circonstance,” 943. It appears that Eluard quotes the version of “La Carmagnole” cited by Baudelaire in Réflexions sur quelques-uns de mes contemporains. In French, it is as follows: “Que faut-il au républicain? / Du cœur, du fer, un peu de pain! / Du cœur pour se venger / Du fer pour l’étranger / Et du pain pour ses frères!” 31. Eluard, “La Poésie de circonstance,” 944. 32. Eluard, “La Poésie de circonstance,” 944. 33. Vanoyeke, Paul Eluard, 355. 34. Eluard, “La Poésie de circonstance,” 920; Jean, Paul Eluard, 358; Vanoyeke, Paul Eluard, 356. 35. Remedy, “Une interview,” 1. 36. Remedy, “Une interview,” 1. 37. Information on Eluard’s trip to Czechoslovakia is from Sayer, Prague, 410. 38. See Eluard, Papers of Paul Eluard. 39. “Le crime d’Athènes,” L’Humanité, March 31, 1952, 3. I will include the original French for documentary purposes here: “Il nous faut aujourd’hui joindre en notre cœur le souvenir de Beloyannis et de ses compagnons, victimes des nazis américains et de leurs collaborateurs grecs, à celui des patriotes français victimes des nazis allemands et de leurs collaborateurs français. Le crime de Beloyannis, comme celui de Péri, a été de défendre son pays et la paix. Leur courage a servi et servira d’exemple. L’écho de la voix des héros va toujours s’amplifiant. Elle rallie tous les innocents. Et leur masse est invincible. Elle triomphera de l’oppression, de la misère et de la guerre.” 40. Eluard, Œuvres, vol. 2, 1185–86. The tendency to tone down the controversial aspects of Eluard’s political stances will be explored in the final sections of this chapter. 41. Specifically, the April 3, 1952, edition of the paper. See Eluard, Œuvres, vol. 2, 1185. 42. Eluard, “Message,” 647.

202 | Generation Stalin 43. Vanoyeke, Paul Eluard, 340. 44. This account of the Eluard-Kalandra saga is based largely on Sayer, Prague, 409–10 and Breton, Free Rein, 230–31. 45. Sayer, Prague, 410. 46. See Breton, Œuvres, vol. 3, 896–98 and Breton, Free Rein, 229–31. 47. Quoted in Vanoyeke, Paul Eluard, 359. “J’ai trop à faire pour les innocents qui clament leur innocence pour m’occuper des coupables qui clament leur culpabilité.” 48. See Vanoyeke, Paul Eluard, 359; Breton, Œuvres, vol. 3, 898; Sayer, Prague, 411. 49. Interview with Olga Carlisle, 1985. http://www.kundera.de/english/Info-Point/ Interview_Carlisle/interview_carlisle.html. Accessed July 18, 2014. 50. Eluard, “Confiance,” 655. 51. Eluard, “L’URSS,” 359. 52. Eluard, “Strasbourg,” 224. 53. “Pourquoi je suis communiste,” 19. 54. Medvedev, History, 819. 55. Wood, Stalin and Stalinism, 65. 56. “Dans Moscou en liesse et dans le monde entier les peuples ont fêté hier le 70e anniversaire de Staline,” L’Humanité, December 22, 1949, 1. See Plamper, Stalin Cult, 75 on the list of countries that held events. 57. Plamper, Stalin Cult, 78. 58. “Ce soir, à 20h. à la Mutualité, hommage du peuple de Paris,” L’Humanité, December 21, 1949, 1. 59. “Marshal,” “Generalissimo,” “the good daddy,” “Uncle Joseph,” “Big Brother.” 60. Statistics from Jean Chaintron’s testimony (in Jeannelle, “Le PCF”). Chaintron, a Central Committee member, was charged as event organizer. 61. This chapter represents an expansion and revision of my article on the film. See Sobanet, “L’Homme.” Other scholarship includes Chevrier, who provides a lengthy description of the content of the film, including an analysis thereof from what he describes as an historical-psychological perspective (“L’Homme,” 59), and Gallinari, who provides a short summary of the film (Communistes, 143, 145). For the birthday itself, see Robrieux, Histoire 1945–1972, who briefly describes the event (267–70). Goulemot does a thorough job of analyzing coverage in L’Humanité (Pour l’Amour, 57–116). Jeannelle’s “Le PCF,” which contains Chaintron’s testimony is very valuable. Two versions of the film are currently available: one just over eighteen minutes long and another that is approximately twenty-one minutes long (found by Ciné-Archives in 2015). The two versions are essentially the same, although a few notable differences exist. The longer version contains a slightly prolonged opening sequence, has longer shots of party leaders visiting an exhibition of gifts for Stalin, and shows an enthusiastic crowd at la Mutualité singing “L’Internationale” (under the direction of Roger Désormière) in honor of Stalin’s birthday. The longer version of the film also shows a banner reading “gloire immortelle au guide du mouvement ouvrier international” (Immortal glory to the guide of the international workers’ movement) at that same gathering at la Mutualité. The most significant difference between the two versions is that the longer film contains words in praise

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of party veteran André Marty, who, after the original film had been made, was excluded from the PCF (see Pennetier, “Marty”). It is therefore highly likely that the cuts to the film—which resulted in the creation of the “version courte”—were made after Marty’s January 1953 eviction. Ciné-Archives lists 1949 as the date the film was created, however, for both the long and short versions. It is because of that “official” date provided by Ciné-Archives that I have listed 1949 as the date of origin of both versions of the film. For more information, see Mercanton, L’Homme que nous aimons le plus, version longue. Unless otherwise noted, commentary on the film here applies to both films. 62. See Eluard, Papers of Paul Eluard. RGASPI f. 495, op. 270, d. 273, l. 10. 63. Les Cahiers du communisme, December 1949, 1450. 64. The title in French is Le Serment. 65. Daix, “Le 70e Anniversaire de Staline et la littérature,” 5. 66. Bloch, L’Homme, 63. 67. Alexandrov et al., Biographie, 4. 68. Alexandrov et al., Biographie, 127. 69. “Hommage à Staline,” 5. 70. “Hommage à Staline,” 31. 71. “L’Homme que nous aimons le plus,” 62. 72. This refers to the title of an article from the December 1949 Cahiers du Communisme, “Comment ils ont conquis le bonheur,” by André Marty. 73. “L’Homme que nous aimons le plus,” 62. 74. “La Résistance parisienne au Maréchal Staline,” 28. 75. Tiersky, French Communism, 163–64. 76. Tiersky, French Communism, 163. 77. See Carrel, “Pour une nouvelle Libération” on the “new Liberation.” A frontpage article of Les Lettres françaises (June 9, 1949) warned of the threat of “De nouveaux Oradour [sic] à l’échelle du monde.” “Oradour” is shorthand for Oradour-sur-Glane, the site of a gratuitous Nazi massacre in June 1944. 78. Morgan, “L’Amérique.” 79. On the festival, see “Le cinéma du camp de la paix,” L’Humanité-Dimanche, August 6, 1950, 5. 80. See 11:51 in Mercanton, L’Homme que nous aimons le plus, version courte. 81. Thanks to Guy Spielmann for his help in identifying this painting. 82. Eluard, “Joseph Staline,” 351. 83. Eluard, “Joseph Staline,” 351. 84. Eluard, “Joseph Staline,” 351–52. 85. Eluard, “Au Nom de l’amitié,” 357. 86. Robrieux, Histoire 1945–1972, 300–305. 87. See Eluard, Œuvres, vol. 2, 1188. 88. Eluard, “12e Congrès,” 353. 89. Eluard, “12e Congrès,” 353. 90. Many such gifts from Eluard are available and searchable at the Fonds ThorezVermeersch. See http://www.fonds-thorez.ivry94.fr. Accessed August 17, 2017.

204 | Generation Stalin 91. As mentioned, the banner that hangs above the stage is visible only in the longer version of the film. 92. Tiersky, French Communism, 164. 93. See Tiersky, French Communism, 156–60 on the party’s overall condition at this point in its history, particularly its being limited to symbolic actions. 94. The Ciné-Archives website states, “Ce film, interdit par la censure, n’obtint pas de visa (commercial ou non-commercial).” See also Gallinari, Communistes, 169, 171. Gallinari surmises that the film was shown at the PCF’s Twelfth Congress in April 1950 (174). Gallinari also states that it was shown in the winter of 1950 as part of a tour of private screenings organized by the Fédération du Nord (178). 95. McCauley, Stalin and Stalinism, 93; Kotkin, Stalin, 742. 96. For the 1927 start date, see Breton, Œuvres, vol. 1, 1717. For the 1933 end date, see Nadeau, Histoire, 158; Polizzotti, Revolution, 389. 97. Bonnet, Adhérer, 112. 98. As Marcel Cachin stated in 1926, “What I have read by the young people of the surrealist school does not lead me to believe that they have profoundly proletarian sentiments” (Bonnet, Vers l’Action politique, 20). In the Second Manifeste du surréalisme, Breton describes his notorious discomfort with placing party pragmatism over ideology. He writes that he was simply incapable of providing a statistical report—devoid of ideology—on Italian industry for the Communist cell of French gas workers to which he had been assigned (796). 99. See “Ne visitez pas l’Exposition Coloniale” in Pierre, Tracts, 194–95 and “Au Feu” in Pierre, Tracts, 196. 100. Eluard, “Critique,” 404; Aragon, L’Homme communiste, 330. 101. Aragon, L’Homme communiste, 331. 102. Lewis, Politics of Surrealism, 107–8. For a treatment of the Affaire, see Nadeau, Histoire, 143–49; Lewis, Politics of Surrealism, 97–118. 103. Char et al., “Paillasse!” 227. 104. Char et al., “Paillasse!” 228. 105. Eluard, “Certificat,” 834. 106. Eluard, “Certificat,” 834. 107. Eluard, “Certificat,” 835. Translation of Lautréamont is from Flam, Matisse on Art, 13. 108. See, for instance, “La Planète sans visa” in Pierre, Tracts, 268–69. 109. Breton et al., “Du Temps que les surréalistes avaient raison,” 468. 110. Breton et al., “Du Temps que les surréalistes avaient raison,” 471. 111. See “Contre attaque: Union de lutte intellectuelle révolutionnaire,” in Pierre, Tracts, 281–84 and “Travailleurs vous êtes trahis” in Pierre, Tracts, 299–300. 112. “Le Procès de Moscou,” 304. The group included Zinoviev and Kamenev. This pamphlet dates from August–September 1936 (Pierre, Tracts, 509). 113. Eluard, “L’Evidence poétique,” 520. 114. Eluard, “L’Evidence poétique,” 521. 115. See “Novembre 1936,” L’Humanité, December 17, 1936, 8.

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116. See Eluard, Œuvres, vol. 1, 1537. See also Commune 57 (May 1938): 1054–55. The poem itself is dated April 14, 1938. 117. See Brower, New Jacobins, 38; Breton, Œuvres, vol. 3, 522; Durozoi, Surréalisme, 63; Lewis, Politics of Surrealism, 150; Eluard, Œuvres, vol. 1, 1537. The friendship between Eluard and Breton from 1925 to 1938 was reportedly exceptional in nature (Breton, Œuvres, vol. 3, 1312). In the timeline of the Œuvres complètes, Pléiade editors state that Eluard came to disapprove of Breton, who had made contact with Trotsky and founded the Fédération internationale de l’art révolutionnaire indépendent (Eluard, Œuvres, vol. 1, lxx). 118. Eluard, Œuvres, vol. 1, 1538; Valette, Eluard, 163. 119. Breton, Œuvres, vol. 3, 552. 120. Eluard, “Les Vainqueurs d’hier périront,” 877. 121. Gateau, Frère, 252. 122. Eluard, “Les Vainqueurs d’hier périront,” 878. 123. Aragon, “Front Rouge,” 501; “The Red Front,” 41. 124. Forest, Aragon, 513. 125. Gateau’s chronology suggests he joined in 1943 (Frère, 279). 126. See, for instance, “Lettre ouverte à Paul Claudel” (1925), “La Révolution d’abord et toujours!” (1925), and “Travailleurs, vous êtes trahis!” (1936). 127. Breton, “Misère,” 218. 128. Eluard, “La Poésie de circonstance,” 941. The same can be said of much of Eluard’s other resistance poetry, including “La Dernière Nuit” as well as a host of poems from the collections Poésie et vérité and Au Rendez-vous allemand. 129. See Gateau, Frère, 290; Eluard, Œuvres, vol. 1, 1608–9. 130. “Promesse inouie,” L’Humanité, October 5, 1944, 1. 131. Eluard, “Les Poètes,” 371. 132. See Eluard, Œuvres, vol. 2, 1132. 133. On the role of Les Lettres françaises, see “Obsèques solennelles de Paul Eluard,” L’Humanité, November 21, 1952, 1; “Pour Paul Eluard,” Les Lettres françaises, November 20–27, 1952, 5. On the Maison de la Pensée, see Aragon, L’Homme communiste, 360; Forest, Aragon, 548. 134. Lenin’s corpse is on display in the mausoleum in Red Square, as was Stalin’s from 1953 to 1961. Stalin also kept a plaster death mask of Lenin in his Kremlin office (Khlevniuk, New Biography, 2). 135. See Jean Coin, “L’adieu de Moscou à Paul Eluard,” L’Humanité, November 28, 1952, 2. Les Lettres françaises published a very large number of tributes from individuals and organizations around the world. See Les Lettres françaises, November 20–27, 1952, 1–2, and November 27–December 4, 1952, 3. 136. See “L’Adieu du Comité Central du Parti Communiste Français à Paul Eluard,” Les Cahiers du communisme, December 1952, 1156. 137. See Aragon, “Paul,” Les Lettres françaises, November 20–27, 1952, 2. 138. Aragon, L’Homme communiste, 387. 139. See Les Lettres françaises, November 20–27, 1952, 1.

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140. See Marcenac, “La vie”; Dubois, “La Leçon de Paul Eluard (fin)”; “Paul Eluard notre camarade est mort.” 141. Dubois, “La Leçon de Paul Eluard,” 68. 142. Dubois, “La Leçon de Paul Eluard,” 68. 143. These include Le Figaro, Franc-Tireur, and Le Populaire. Eluard was described as being “above all” surrealist or mainly concerned with depictions of love. 144. Dubois, “La Leçon de Paul Eluard (fin),” 119. 145. Aragon, L’Homme communiste, 326 (emphasis in original). 146. See Nugent, Paul Eluard, for an example of a treatment of Eluard’s life and career without a reference to Stalinism. See Gateau, “Paul Eluard,” for an example of minimization. 147. Jean, Paul Eluard, 119–20. 148. Jean, Paul Eluard, 120. 149. Gateau, Frère, 349. 150. Gateau, Frère, 349. 151. Quoted in Valette, Eluard, 222.

FOU R

LOUIS ARAGON AND THE GREAT PATRIOTIC WAR

“I will join, even if Breton is rejected.”1 So said Louis Aragon when faced with the possibility that his friend and fellow surrealist might be refused membership to the French Communist Party. That comment differs sharply from the more loyal and tempered stance Paul Eluard took at that same December 1926 meeting held by surrealists to help determine their approach to party affiliation. Eluard expressed solidarity with Breton’s thought and, as we saw in the previous chapter, could not envision joining the party if the surrealist leader were refused admittance. The contrast in those stances underscores the difference between Eluard’s and Aragon’s approaches to political action at that point in their careers. Whereas Eluard followed Breton’s circuitous path both in and out of the party for over a decade, returning to the fold on his own in 1942, Aragon joined the party in 1927, left his longtime surrealist friends behind in 1932, and remained a loyal and highly active party member until his death a half century later. Aragon’s deep dedication to the PCF and the USSR should not come as a surprise, as it was characteristic of his many engagements over the course of his long life. Indeed, Aragon risked his life as a medic on the front lines during World War I, in particular on August 6, 1918, when he was buried alive three separate times in battle as a result of numerous artillery shell explosions. He received a military citation for coming to the aid of the wounded that same day and was awarded the croix de guerre.2 Aragon served courageously again in 1940, witnessing and weathering catastrophic situations during the 207

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German invasion of May–June, including the evacuation at Dunkirk, an event that deeply marked him and found expression in his poetry and narrative fiction. During the Nazi occupation of France, Aragon distinguished himself—at great peril—as a highly active leader of the intellectual resistance. He was instrumental in the birth of the clandestine Les Lettres françaises as well as the creation and development of the Comité national des écrivains.3 Aragon was decorated for his military service in World War II, and his verse was cited in a 1943 speech by Charles de Gaulle, who is said to have stated upon meeting the poet for the first time in September 1944, “Ah! There you are.”4 Aragon’s dedication to France was on display at various points in his career as a writer, especially from the mid-1930s through the 1950s, when he often wrote passionately about his country, its cultural heritage, and its literary and artistic traditions. Aragon’s deep commitment to so many of his endeavors can be summed up in a remark he made about the military honors he received for valor in the Second World War: “Shouldn’t one always be the best laborer?”5 Not unlike Victor Hugo, a figure for whom he expressed much admiration, Aragon was nothing short of a giant in his era, for the sheer breadth and quantity of his writing, for his deep engagement in the political events and debates during his lifetime, and for his commitment to the fusion of ideology and aesthetics. Aragon was central to party intellectual life for the lion’s share of the Stalinist era. The discourse he adopted in the early 1930s and employed through the early to mid-1950s, as well as the political positions he maintained at crucial moments in the histories of the USSR and the French Communist Party, show deep dedication to the Soviet Union, Stalin, and the various Communist leadership cults. The evolution of Aragon’s discourse in the period of de-Stalinization is also revelatory, for his reflections on—and revisions of—his past orthodoxy put into stark relief his devotion to the party and its figures during the Stalinist era. Furthermore, the manner in which Aragon depicted the French nation, French cultural heritage, and French patriotism largely evolved in relation to party policy. Aragon’s poetry, criticism, and narrative fiction gave voice to the mixture of French nationalism and Communist internationalism promoted in official party discourse during the Thorezian era. This is especially the case in his most ambitious novel, Les Communistes (1949–51; 1966), the primary focus of this chapter.

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A Lifetime Commitment In recent years, Aragon has been the subject of massive biographies, the sheer scope of which underscore their subject’s important contribution to French literature and political culture, not to mention the complexity of his ideological and personal trajectories.6 It is impossible to provide, in a single book chapter, a detailed and comprehensive treatment of Aragon’s many contributions to letters and politics. It is, however, necessary to contextualize Les Communistes in the broad arc of his professional and personal narrative, one that is rich with important events (spanning over half of the twentieth century) that resulted from Aragon’s deep engagement in politico-literary affairs alongside noteworthy party figures and intellectuals. Stalin and the USSR figured prominently in Aragon’s writing for over three decades. He promoted the Soviet Union as a new dawn for all of humanity—with Stalin as leader and guide—at crucial moments in its history, including during the first Five-Year Plan, the years immediately prior to World War II (including during the Great Terror of 1937–38), and the early Cold War. From 1927 until his death in 1982, Aragon remained steadfast in his party allegiance, despite events that led to the defection of many other intellectuals and writers worldwide. Indeed, just from the mid-1930s through the mid-1950s, noteworthy events and phenomena included the Moscow show trials, the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of 1939, political repression in the Eastern bloc of the early Cold War, the sprawling growth of the Gulag network, state antisemitism in the USSR in the late 1940s and early 1950s, and the Soviet invasion of Hungary in 1956. Aragon was even named a member of the Central Committee of the PCF (first a deputy member in 1950, followed by tenured membership in 1954).7 Furthermore, in addition to producing a number of noteworthy works of fiction and poetry (much of which was in promotion of the cause), Aragon was deeply involved in the Communist mediasphere, especially in the Stalinist era. He worked as the director or codirector of three party-affiliated publications—Commune, Ce Soir, and Les Lettres françaises. He contributed a very large number of articles, editorials, poems, and essays to those publications, and his work also often appeared in other party-line outlets, including La Nouvelle Critique and L’Humanité. (He even served for a brief time as literary director of the latter.) Aragon also had close relationships with figures central to the French Communist Party, including Paul Vaillant-Couturier, Jacques Duclos, and,

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especially, Maurice Thorez. Aragon paid tribute to each of those men in his work, and (as we will see later) Thorez’s worldview had a significant influence on his politics and aesthetics. At the same time, it was not at all the case that Aragon’s relationship with the party was uniformly harmonious during his more than half century as a member. There were moments of petty scandal and friction between him and party authorities. Among the most famous intraparty imbroglios would be the one around Aragon’s publishing in Les Lettres françaises Picasso’s modernist portrait of Stalin on the occasion of the latter’s death. That boyish-looking portrait—which did not showcase a reassuring and traditionalist vision of Stalin as a great leader—was criticized by those party members who promoted “ouvriérisme,” that is to say, dogmatic artistic and literary forms that would appeal and speak to the working class, as opposed to bourgeois individualists.8 Late in life, Aragon claimed that he had been privately harboring misgivings with the Soviet regime as early as 1930 despite his public promotions of the party line.9 He is said to have been profoundly disturbed by the widespread persecution of Jews in the USSR in 1952–53.10 But despite that reported private reaction, he continued to toe the party line in relation to Soviet exceptionalism, the Stalin cult, and the importance of the “friendship” between the French people and the USSR.11 There are indications of an evolution in his stance in his 1956 autobiographical Le Roman inachevé, published after (but composed before) the Soviet invasion of Hungary in November of that year. That text, as we will see later in this chapter, foreshadowed more clearly identifiable changes in Aragon’s stance in the 1966 revision of Les Communistes. Significantly, it was also not until 1966 that Aragon’s publicly expressed views on world affairs were in marked disagreement with Soviet positions: in that year, he expressed public support for freedom of expression for Soviet writers facing persecution by Brezhnev’s regime. Two years later, Aragon took a position against the Soviet repression of the liberalization movement in Czechoslovakia (the Prague Spring). It was the latter position that most measurably affected Aragon’s life and work, as it led to the cancellation of nearly all Eastern bloc subscriptions to Les Lettres françaises in 1969, a move that was the principal factor in the shuttering of that publication, which he directed from 1953 to its demise in 1972.12

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It is important to note, however, that despite being out of step with Moscow, Aragon’s stances in favor of intellectual freedom in the USSR and reform in Czechoslovakia were in conformity with official PCF positions. Furthermore, even when he was at odds with party authorities, as he was in the kerfuffle around Stalin’s portrait in Les Lettres françaises, his work was not significantly removed from the official line. Indeed, accompanying Picasso’s nontraditional portrait of Stalin in Les Lettres françaises was Aragon’s long article written in homage of the Soviet leader. Titled “Staline et la France” (Stalin and France), that piece reprises, in highly orthodox fashion, major themes of the Stalin cult. As he had done before, Aragon describes Stalin as a military hero, a genius political visionary, a champion of socialism in one country, and the savior of France. He writes, “France owes its existence as a nation to Stalin.”13 Furthermore, Aragon (again, as he had done in the past) rails against the current enemies of and perceived threats to the PCF and the worldwide movement: in 1953, these were Tito, Trotskyists, and the Atlantic alliance. Even after public disputes with either PCF or Soviet authorities, Aragon remained an important figure in the party and continued to be celebrated in the USSR. In 1977, on the occasion of the sixtieth anniversary of the October Revolution in Moscow, he was awarded the Order of Friendship of Peoples, his third decoration from the USSR. (Previously, he had received the Lenin Prize and the Order of the October Revolution.)14 In 1979, he gave to the party the famous painting by Marcel Duchamp La Joconde à moustache, the parodic rendering of Mona Lisa, also known as L.H.O.O.Q. On that occasion, Aragon stated to party chief Georges Marchais, “This painting represents a significant period in my life. It is that which I wished to give you as a gift for the party.”15 Fittingly, after Aragon died in 1982, Marchais described him as “one of the best of us, in his steady loyalty to this party.”16 Ar agon’s Militant Voice

Aragon’s loyalty to the party and its figureheads manifested itself in different forms over the course of the Stalinist era. In the early 1930s, he composed some of his most provocative and pugnacious work in praise of the Soviet Union and in critique of the West and French nationalism. His notorious early forays into revolutionary-themed provocation embraced the endjustifies-the-means mentality that the party and its allies likewise promoted.

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In the 1930 poem “Front Rouge” for instance, he writes, “The blue eyes of the Revolution / shine with a necessary cruelty.”17 In that same phase, Aragon described Western society as corrupted by greed, imperialism, patriotism, colonialism, and clericalism. France and the “social-fascist” French government were among his favorite targets.18 For instance, alongside advocating for the revolution in “Front Rouge,” he called for the destruction of symbols of the fatherland and its power: “Proletariat / let thy fury sweep the Elysée . . . Some day thou wilt blow up the Arc de Triomphe / Proletariat know thy force.”19 His 1931 poem “Prélude aux temps des cerises” (Prelude to cherry blossom time) contains not only praise for the ruthless Soviet secret police apparatus—the GPU—but also calls for the downfall of powerful Frenchmen and, again, the destruction of republican symbols, including “La Marseillaise.” He also targeted that anthem in “Réponse aux Jacobins” (Response to the Jacobins), a poem that advocates for the rise of the revolutionary song “L’Internationale” in its place. “Réponse aux Jacobins” is included in the collection Hourra l’Oural (Hurrah, the Urals, 1934), which was written after a 1932 Potemkin visit during which Aragon had been invited to take part in a “brigade” of international writers to bear witness to the industrial and social achievements of Stalin’s first Five-Year Plan.20 It is clear from several of the collection’s poems how enraptured Aragon had become with the burgeoning modernity presented to him in that context. His knowledge that the growth of that society involved purges of “saboteurs” or “wreckers” did not diminish his enthusiasm—far from it. During their 1930 visit to the Soviet Union, Aragon and his fellow surrealist Georges Sadoul prepared a joint statement for Russian radio that read in part, “We salute the admirable work of public health conducted by the GPU! We align ourselves with Soviet workers to demand that the saboteurs be gunned down.”21 For Aragon, witnessing Soviet society in the midst of a rapid transformation—marked by what seemed to be a previously unimaginable scale of industrial production— was magical and intoxicating. “The future that is being built here,” he writes, “has the properties of a liqueur.”22 Significantly, Hourra l’Oural ends with a “salutation” to the Bolshevik party and “its chief, Comrade Stalin.”23 It bears pointing out that the spectacle mounted for Aragon and his fellow writers occurred when Soviet industrial productivity was already falling woefully short of the unachievable goals of Stalin’s first Five-Year Plan,

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which resulted in ruinous waste and inefficiencies. Aragon’s visit was also concurrent with the Great Famine of the early 1930s, which was a direct result of Stalin’s policies of industrialization and collectivization and which resulted in millions of deaths and untold suffering, including epidemics and cannibalism. And in addition to the famine, from 1930 to 1932, hundreds of thousands of “saboteurs,” “wreckers,” and “kulaks” were shot or imprisoned in camps, and millions more were sent into exile.24 It is also necessary to point out the important shifts in party politics that were occurring in the PCF in the early 1930s, concurrent with Aragon’s visits to the USSR and his publication of Hourra l’Oural and other party-line texts. It was in the very early 1930s when the Comintern, at Stalin’s orders, asserted control over all Communist parties, requiring that each party be placed under the control of one individual who would report directly to the vozhd’. This resulted in a restructuring of the PCF’s ruling faction under Maurice Thorez. Party discipline—enforced by the Comintern—became much more rigid in this time period, requiring allegiance to Stalin, in the form of support for his initiatives and methods, including accelerated industrialization, forced collectivization, and government by terror.25 Aragon’s poetry in that time period is in alignment with the Comintern’s hard-line policy and procedures. Furthermore, Hourra l’Oural, in its critique of “La Marseillaise” (as seen above), is consonant with the PCF’s pre–Front Populaire rejection of French patriotism and French revolutionary traditions. The fundamental character of Aragon’s expressions of support for the USSR and Stalin did not change over the course of the 1930s and beyond. For instance, in Commune, Aragon published articles in support of Stalin and official Soviet policy on matters of significant import, including the 1936 Soviet constitution and the purges. In promoting what was known as the “Stalin Constitution,” Aragon conformed to a key point in the mythology around the general secretary. In line with other party publications, Aragon heralded that constitution as a sign of a new era in history: “In the immense wealth of human culture, is this text not in first place? Ahead of the majestic works of the imagination—above Shakespeare, Rimbaud, Goethe, Pushkin—this resplendent text, written with the suffering, the work, and the joys of 160 million men, with Bolshevik genius, the wisdom of the Party and its leader, Comrade Stalin, a philosopher in the tradition of Marx.”26 Nearly a year later, Aragon published a piece in Commune titled

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“Vérités élémentaires” (Basic truths) that lashes out at critics of the Soviet Union—including André Gide, Roland Dorgelès, Panaït Istrati, and Victor Serge—claiming that they were funded by and writing in support of the Gestapo.27 Furthermore, in that piece published during the period of the Moscow purges, Aragon asserts that those who advocate for the innocence of “saboteurs” (including Georgy Pyatakov, Karl Radek, and the once-powerful veteran Bolshevik Grigory Zinoviev—all victims of Stalin) are doing work in support of Hitler.28 Aragon moreover claimed that “some intellectuals from my country” threatened the Soviet Union, which he described as “this new world . . . radiating . . . growing ceaselessly in its fruits and its flowers, its youth and its schools, its science and its construction.”29 Aragon’s article is consistent with Stalinist discourse and policy in the Soviet Union around a fifth column of “Hitlerite fascism” that needed to be eliminated to secure the homeland.30 Furthermore, Aragon’s description of Stalin is exactly in line with the leader described in the Barbusse biography and elsewhere in the canon of the personality cult: “This new world has brought to the command post a man who has constantly expressed its hopes and its courage. A man at the ship’s helm who has constantly defended the new heritage of the Revolution against saboteurs, spies, traitors, and the inept. The leader and the guide of the millions of builders of socialism, Stalin.”31 That 1937 description chimes with Aragon’s journalism and poetry from early 1953, wherein one again finds depictions of the Soviet Union as a superior civilization with a messianic leader at the helm.32 Aragon was similarly consistent in his embrace of the concept and modalities of socialist realism. The new literary mode was promoted by Soviet cultural and political authorities in the early 1930s. Under Stalin, the “creative intelligentsia” was called on to depict a reality that was idealized, “correct,” and “socialist,” rather than objective.33 Socialist realism would not necessarily depict the world as it is, but as it should be. Such works would distract the masses from daily hardship and promote the party and state above self-interest.34 The new revolutionary reality—said the party line—was in the process of becoming on one-sixth of the world’s surface. And that profound sociopolitical transformation was described in Communist outlets as significant for all humankind.35 In “D’Alfred de Vigny à Avdéenko: Les écrivains dans les soviets,” for instance, Aragon wrote, “We are at a moment in the history of humanity that resembles in some ways the evolution from

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ape to man.”36 He continued, stating, “We are at the moment of evolution from the man of a class-based society—the man from an era of exploitation of man by man—to the man of a society without classes.”37 “Reeducated” writers in this context were given a new mission: to express and celebrate the “becoming” of this proletarian world and “the advent of this new man.”38 Aragon embraced the Stalinist formulation of the role of the writer as the “engineer of the soul” and argued that the “genius” of that expression touched on what had always been the fundamental mission of writers: the transformation of minds. Over the next two decades—in his novels, journalism, and essays on art and literature—Aragon continued to hone and put into practice his vision of socialist realism. In a June 1950 essay titled “Le Roman et ses critiques” (The novel and its critics), Aragon gave a cogent definition of the socialistrealist mode of representation: “scrupulous and scientific observation of reality, followed by the infusion of the constructivist spirit of socialism into the material obtained by such observation; otherwise stated, revolutionary romanticism.”39 In other words, socialist realism is a mixture of, on the one hand, Balzacian realist representation and, on the other hand, revolutionary ideology (which he calls “lyricism” in other contexts). That understanding of socialist realism was profoundly influential for Aragon’s narrative fiction. Aragon argued that the novel could serve a specific purpose in promoting ideology and could prepare readers for other types of more directed reading (history, political works, and so on). Socialist-realist novels should be stimulating and entertaining, while expressing the revolution in progress: “Stories that are alive and capable of playing their role in the struggle between the old and the new, between what is coming to life and what is wasting away.”40 Instead of being arid and thesis-driven, novels should be “weapons for our battle,” especially in an era of a broad diffusion of “detective novels, gangster stories, [and] Reader’s Digest,” not to mention “the invasion of American literature and existentialist novels.”41 Thus, from the early 1930s through the mid-1950s, Aragon was consistent in his support for Stalin, the USSR, and the regime’s favored method and form of literary representation. In contrast with that consistency, Aragon’s political stance regarding the French nation and symbols of French patriotism would be fundamentally transformed as the Front Populaire movement took shape and as the Thorezian line evolved. Indeed, by the mid-1940s,

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patriotism and the preservation of the French nation and its symbols had become central to Aragon’s discourse around Communism and the mission of the PCF. This was due to Thorez’s influence as well as the broader events of the Second World War, not to mention Aragon’s own experience in the war and the resistance. He promoted, for example, a sense of party-dedicated nationalism in one of his most famous poems, “Du Poète à son parti” (From the poet to his party, 1944), which emphasizes a fusion of history, narrative, memory, and patriotic pride—with “the party” being central to that fusion. Aragon writes, My party gave back to me my eyes and my memory ... My party gave back to me a feeling of the epic ... My party gave back to me the colors of France.42

The notion that the party gave the poet his eyes and his memory corresponds with the party’s promotion of its vision of history both national and international, with its distinctive set of pivotal dates and great men. The linking of the party and “a feeling of the epic” has special resonance at this phase of Aragon’s career, as he was about to embark on Les Communistes, which constitutes his ambitious attempt at an epic grassroots war saga. And his inclusion in the poem of traditionalist French epic imagery (“the colors of France”) and figures (“I see Joan racing past and Roland sounding the horn”) is in harmony with the view of French patriotic symbols promoted by Maurice Thorez. Crucially, just as in Thorez’s political writings, those symbols are recast in a specific Communist light. For the poet is taught a lesson by the party about a fundamental truth: “That my blood is so red and my heart is so French.”43 The poet is a French Communist patriot. Aragon’s use of Thorezian imagery in that poem is far from an isolated occurrence in his œuvre. Indeed, Aragon credited Thorez in L’Homme communiste with his move from a phony revolutionary (read: surrealist) orbit to an authentic one.44 He writes, “The voice of Thorez gave us the strength and courage to criticize our old and new idols, all the vestiges of that bourgeois anarchism that we harbored within us, and that grotesquely disguised itself in revolutionary rags.”45 Aragon’s new, authentic revolutionary posture would be centered on the nation and Thorez’s vision of “the grandeur

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of France.”46 That embrace of patriotism would come with advocacy for not just Stalin’s international leadership, but also Thorez’s pragmatic political guidance in the domestic sphere. Aragon dubbed Thorez, for instance, a “real organizer of the nation,” a “professor of national energy,” and “a real hero” who incarnates the strength, wisdom, and destiny of those he represents, more so than did Roland and Napoleon in their respective eras.47 Like Stalin, Thorez will defend the French nation and its heritage. He writes that Thorez constitutes “the hope of a threatened France, the man who incarnates the survival, the permanence of our fatherland.”48 Aragon’s descriptions of Thorez and his priorities were in line with the French general secretary’s own political writing. The French Communist Party that Thorez envisioned was the “continuer of France,” in other words, the heir of a specific cultural heritage, one that emphasized France’s revolutionary traditions, particularly regarding justice and citizens’ rights. Thorez envisioned humanity on a long march toward emancipation, and he advocated that the Communist Party be seen as the contemporary manifestation of political forces and ideals that animated the revolution of 1789 and the Paris Commune. After the Second World War, Thorez integrated the resistance into his timeline of humanity’s quest for freedom, describing it as a popular insurrection that led to the 1944 Liberation. The intellectual sphere was as important to Thorez as the political. In 1950, for example, he wrote, “We are aware of defending . . . the cause of France, a country we wish to wrest from economic, political, and intellectual decline, so that she may radiate with a new brilliance around the world.”49 He had special esteem for Aragon: in a June 1945 party report, Thorez referred to Aragon as “the poet of the fatherland,” a characterization unimaginable in the early 1930s.50 Five years later, in advocating for politically engaged, socialist-realist art that would uplift and educate the people “in the great French tradition,” Thorez singled out above all Aragon’s Les Communistes.51 Le Roman de Fr ance

Aragon’s massive, multivolume Les Communistes is a chronicle of the Phony War, the Nazi invasion of Belgium and France, the exodus, and the evacuation of French and British forces from Dunkirk. It is a story that moves inexorably forward, given the author’s adherence to the timeline of the war. The telling of the war found in Les Communistes is one that, due to its length,

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gives the reader an impression of a slow, steady passage of time and that moreover allows for the inclusion of a great deal of historical and cultural minutiae. Aragon’s use of the long-form novel stands in stark contrast, for instance, to the approach taken by Romain Rolland in L’Ame enchantée. Rolland’s roman-fleuve covers, in approximately fifteen hundred pages, about thirty years in the life of a single family. For his part, Aragon treats, in about the same number of pages (thirteen hundred in the Pléiade—other editions are about two thousand pages long), the experience of more than two hundred characters over the course of about seventeen months.52 While the length of the novel is both impressive and daunting, Aragon’s initial project was even more ambitious.53 Dubbed “Le Roman de France” (The novel of France), Les Communistes was originally conceived as a telling of the war from 1939 to 1945, covering the Phony War, the invasion, the Nazi occupation, and the resistance.54 If Aragon had kept the same narrative pace, the fully realized novel would have been about fifty-five hundred pages long. Renouncing the project in 1951, Aragon ended the story of Les Communistes on June 9, 1940, just days before the Nazis arrived in Paris and tantalizingly close to Charles de Gaulle’s “Appeal of 18 June,” not to mention the signing of the armistice. Indeed, the novel bears a decidedly anticlimactic ending for a work of such epic proportions: in the last line, the narrator tells us the Germans have just arrived at Mantes—hardly a watershed moment in the war.55 With that unsatisfying ending, Aragon also put to rest the Monde réel cycle (the Real World cycle, of which Les Communistes is the fifth novel), a series of texts he initiated in 1933 with Les Cloches de Bâle (The Bells of Basel). But despite the fact that he abandoned the project, Aragon produced vast amounts of material, some fictional and some documentary, a great deal of which sheds light on the function and mechanics of partisan literature and on the role of French Communist writers in the Stalinist era. In his glowing review of Les Communistes published in L’Humanité in October 1951, Pierre Gamarra writes, “When Aragon dismantles the mechanisms of betrayal and the abandonment of real national defense, and when he shows how the defense of the abandoned fatherland was taken up and by which hands, he speaks for the 1940s as well as the present.”56 Gamarra’s subsequent comments on this work of “genius” make it clear that he reads Les Communistes as an antiwar novel, “a work of peace.” To be sure, Aragon’s vivid depictions of the horrors of war amount to a warning against a repeat

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of such hostilities in the context of the Cold War. But Gamarra’s observation that Aragon speaks for the present era is worthy of further examination and interpretation beyond questions of war and peace, especially in the context of the orthodox French Communist universe of 1949–51. Indeed Les Communistes represents a chance for Aragon to recast the history of the war to appeal to specific Communist party obsessions in the era of the Cominform. Thus despite the linear (and predictable) nature of the macro narrative of the Phony War and French military debacle, Les Communistes is no ordinary war chronicle. This history is the Communists’ history, and it represents an opportunity for revisionism for Aragon, not just from the vantage point of 1949–51, but also 1966, when he set out to rewrite “from end to end, from bottom to top” the novel for republication in the forty-two-volume collection of his and Elsa Triolet’s work (Œuvres romanesques croisées).57 The modifications—subtle at times, others less so—were important enough to Aragon that he reportedly ordered the pulping of the earlier editions of Les Communistes upon publication of this “definitive” 1966 version.58 I must note, however, that as fundamental as Aragon may have believed these changes were, the novel was not really rewritten “from bottom to top” in 1966. Aragon’s edits do not fundamentally change the overall ideological thrust of the novel, nor its basic storyline. Nevertheless, in some cases, the changes do shed light on shifts in the depiction of the Communist universe from one period (high Stalinism in the early Cold War) to the next (a decade after Khrushchev’s “secret speech”) and thereby represent another site of interest for our purposes here. Given the broad commonalities shared by both versions, unless otherwise specified, my analysis of Les Communistes applies to both versions: the 1949–51 edition, as well as the 1966 iteration.59 Although Les Communistes is a telling of the events of February 1939 to June 1940, it is constructed to teach specific lessons to readers about the present-day context of the early Cold War era. In this analysis, I will therefore read this novel as a product of the Cominform. I will argue that Aragon uses the Second World War as a narrative vehicle to define what it is to be a loyal French Communist militant in the Cold War era, especially in the context of the PCF’s status as an opposition party in French politics, dedicated to Cominform orthodoxy. In the first section of this analysis of Les Communistes, I will provide a brief overview of the text as a history-driven narrative in which the development of characters serves both didactic and diegetic

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functions. In the second section, I will analyze the discursive function of a Communist-centered Second World War narrative in a Cold War–era context. The third section will focus on Aragon’s modes of narration and how the narrative voice shifts from the 1949–51 version to the 1966 text. That shift represents the most important change made by Aragon: his formal choices reveal his intent with his novel, both as a propaganda tool in 1949–51 and as a testimonial and confessional instrument in 1966. In the fourth and final section, I will argue that the novel promotes a very specific form of loyalty to France and Communism, taking into account subtle changes between the 1949–51 edition and 1966 edition, as well as important commonalities shared by the two editions. A call to arms as much as it is a revision of history, Les Communistes serves as a prime example of how the novel can be put in the service of a political movement. Promoting a distinct politico-moral value system—specific definitions of justice, good French citizenship, and loyalty to one’s fellow citizens—Aragon embraces the role of party propagandist in 1949–51, a role made all the more transparent by changes he made in the post-Stalinist political environment of the mid-1960s. A Gr assroots War Epic

Characters in Les Communistes are fundamental to the novel’s political and didactic functions. It must be said, however, that the narrative is above all driven by the timeline of the war, and that the fictional characters and real historical actors depicted in the text have little or no initiative in the events that take place. This is especially the case with France’s military and political leaders, who are portrayed as corrupt, feckless, and ill prepared for the challenge before them. The war simply happens to this broad cast of characters, their mostly inconsequential actions occurring alongside massive historical forces that are impervious to change. Characters are largely seen reacting to events, rather than creating their own destinies. That fact is understandable, given that Aragon could not alter the most fundamental elements of the war—the story of the war—and retain credibility.60 Discourse is another matter, however, and Aragon’s crafting of specific character types aids him in the telling of a discursively pro-Communist war story. He works within the constraints of the war’s timeline by populating his novel with an unusually large number of characters, from a broad variety of walks

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of life (politicians, businessmen, miners, factory workers, soldiers, children, the elderly—the list goes on and on) and a wide spectrum of ideological viewpoints. New characters are introduced throughout the novel, even in its final volume (an indicator of Aragon’s intent to continue the story beyond early June 1940). Characters are introduced with such frequency (especially early in the text) that the progression of the story’s timeline becomes sluggish, as one might expect of such an usually long novel covering a mere seventeen months. Furthermore, the plot of the novel, such as it exists, does so by dint of character development—therein lies the diegetic function of the characters. Most of that character development is of a political nature. Aragon’s character-filled storytelling strategy led critic Lucille Becker to remark in her reading of Les Communistes that “none of the characters is dealt with in depth.”61 Becker is correct in that the novel’s large number of characters forces the author to spread narrative focus quite broadly, across many contexts and situations. Nevertheless, a close, sustained reading of the text reveals that there are indeed a number of characters who are developed in substantial depth, including Jean de Moncey and Cécile d’Aigrefeuille, both of whom experience a slow political, moral, and intellectual awakening over the course of the novel. Jean de Moncey is a budding young Communist whose wartime experience (as we will see later) bears important similarities with Aragon’s. Cécile d’Aigrefeuille marries into—and eventually becomes alienated from—the Wisner family, a wealthy industrialist clan that serves as a fictional stand-in for the Renaults. Cécile’s husband, Fred Wisner, serves as a means of showcasing the right-wing milieu of his family, where his politics are taken as a given: “He participated in Action Française, like everyone else, without excess: it made him seem like a reasonable man.”62 Also important is Raoul Blanchard, a doctrinaire Communist who serves as Aragon’s mouthpiece for party policy and as a model of a highly dedicated working-class soldier and political militant. Another well-developed character is Armand Barbentane who, like Blanchard, serves as a model of Communist political commitment, although of a different kind. His age—he is forty-four years old at the beginning of the war—places him squarely in the same generation as a number of well-known Communist and fellow-traveling intellectuals. His early intellectual and personal history bears similarities not just to Aragon’s real-life experiences, but also in many ways to those of Barbusse, Eluard, and Rolland: admirer of Jaurès,

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avid reader of Zola, decorated World War I veteran, active member of ARAC, and editor at L’Humanité.63 Aragon’s basic crafting of protagonists and antagonists is fundamentally related to his philo-Communist telling of the war. Not surprisingly, characters allied with the Communist party (or leaning in that direction) serve as the novel’s protagonists. Communists themselves are depicted as a persecuted minority on the right side of history. They have a strong allegiance to and respect for party leaders and the party line. They understand the importance of militant activities, like producing and disseminating party literature. Both fellow travelers and Communists are often portrayed in Les Communistes as possessing an evolving or already strong sense of solidarity, ethics, and social justice. The novel is constructed such that morally upstanding Communists are the victims of misguided, corrupt, or abusive French government policy. Thus, sympathy for many of the Communist characters grows as the war wears on and as they show more and more courage. Ill treatment of those characters is meant to inflame the emotions of the reader in favor of Communists and their cause. In that regard, the novel uses a common propaganda tactic: it seeks to elicit a visceral reaction over a political issue. If Aragon had finished the novel, one can imagine that those same Communist protagonists would have become active resistance fighters, thereby rendering them all the more heroic to a postwar audience.64 As one would expect, Aragon uses both story and discourse to render antagonistic those characters on the right wing of the political spectrum, especially the activist extreme right. Their status as antagonists is accentuated as the story of the war progresses and as some of them appear prepared to align themselves with the German invaders. Contrary to the justiceseeking protagonists, many of those right-wing characters are endowed with unseemly morals and even engage in criminal activity. In addition to activity that is overtly criminal, readers also see the corrupt confluence of French military, commercial, and political power at social gatherings that are dominated by right-leaning characters. Through the Wisners (the family of powerful industrialists), Aragon depicts collusion between business and the French government. It is more often than not the case in Les Communistes that the wealthy are affiliated with right-wing political forces. The opulence and stability of their surroundings contrast strikingly with

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the scenes that depict the exodus, the war, factory conditions, and mines, where Communist and left-leaning characters are predominant. Characterization moreover serves as a site of tension between fiction and documentation in Les Communistes. The novel is not only populated by many dozens of fictional characters: also present are a large number of historical actors who contribute to the documentary effect of the text.65 Indeed, a broad selection of individuals from the French government and military appear with great frequency, especially in the final stages of the novel, when the military and political catastrophe of May–June 1940 is portrayed. To name just the most prominent, Reynaud, Daladier, Mandel, Weygand, Gamelin, and Pétain all make appearances in Les Communistes. A great many of the scenes in which they appear depict a French government and French army in disarray at the highest levels. Misguided priorities, careerism, and old grudges mar the performance of French leaders at the height of the military crisis. In many instances, Aragon bases scenes in the novel—particularly those dealing with high-level military and ministerial politicking—on personal and historical accounts. Many of those scenes are accurate representations of historical events, again adding to the documentary effect of the novel. And much like with the creation of antagonistic fictional characters, Aragon portrays many of these historical figures in a negative light. Weygand and Gamelin, in particular, are singled out for their ineffectiveness as military leaders. Conversely, another set of real-life figures serve as protagonists: PCF militants, officials, and intellectuals. These Communists are individuals whose names would have been known to readers of the party press in 1949–51. To name just a few who either appear as characters or whose names are mentioned in the novel: Maurice Thorez, Jacques Duclos, Marcel Cachin, Jean-Richard Bloch, Danielle Casanova, Jeannette Vermeersch, and Jacques Solomon. Not surprisingly, Thorez in particular plays an important role, as we will see later in this chapter. World War Two Viewed through the Iron Curtain

From the vantage point of 1948, when Aragon had begun to write in earnest Les Communistes, 1939–45 was far from the only context that could have furnished fertile ground for a story of Communist militants facing pivotal historical events.66 Aragon could just as well have crafted a chronicle of France in the early post–World War II era, in the mode of André Stil’s Premier Choc

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trilogy: the story of a country “occupied” by the American army and in the grips of an economically trying reconstruction. Given the possibility of presenting a direct literary critique of the contemporary French government’s Atlantic tilt, why did Aragon choose the Second World War as a vehicle for his “Novel of France”? The answer to that question lies largely in the fact that the novel was written at the very beginning of the Cold War, during a period of new and deepening ideological retrenchment and suspicion. Les Communistes should be read as a weapon in this battle, as “a masterful instrument of propaganda” in the words of literary critic André Rousseaux.67 Indeed, this long narrative about the “Dark Years,” told from a philo-Communist perspective, represents an opportunity to showcase the most glorious and heroic moments of the French Communist Party’s first thirty years of existence. This is especially the case with Aragon’s original concept of a chronicle of the entire war, up to the beginning of 1945, a moment when the PCF was highly popular and influential, due mainly to its activity in the resistance. Even in its unfinished state, Aragon is still able to portray many instances of heroic behavior on the part of Communists. Readers see Communist soldiers, like Raoul Blanchard, fight loyally in the French army and also witness the birth of a resistance movement in isolated Communist cells. Les Communistes thus underscores memories of a past more distant than 1947, when the party had been shunted from power by the Ramadier government. It encourages its Communist readers of 1949–51 to take a longer view of history, beyond their state as an oppositionist party focused largely on protesting the new Atlantic orientation of French foreign and domestic policy. Beyond the bravery and sacrifice of the French Communist resistance, the World War II context allows Aragon to revisit the destruction and chaos wrought by the war’s aggressors. Hitler’s Germany, Mussolini’s Italy, and their allies-in-waiting in France were easy targets for scoring political points and seducing readers in early postwar France. Indeed, the novel’s staunch antifascist message is morally beyond reproach, given the extent of Nazi atrocities and Vichy’s collaboration with Germany. Les Communistes contains many graphic descriptions of the horrors inflicted upon French civilians by the Nazi invasion. And on a few occasions spread throughout the book, characters on the right and extreme right reveal their antisemitic

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tendencies. It is therefore likely that Aragon was setting up future story lines about the persecution of Jews.68 Aragon’s decision to use the Second World War as subject matter is also consonant with material in the French Communist press from the late 1940s and early 1950s. Readers of L’Humanité, Les Cahiers du communisme, Les Lettres françaises, and various party pamphlets were frequently reminded of all manner of Nazi atrocities, including repeated references to Mont Valérien (a site in the western suburbs of Paris used by the Nazis for executions) and the Oradour-sur-Glane massacre. In its masthead, for instance, Les Lettres françaises pays homage to its founder Jacques Decour “fusillé par les Nazis” (gunned down by the Nazis). Communist militant Danielle Casanova, who died of typhus at Auschwitz in 1943, also gets frequent mention in L’Humanité. She is often treated (as seen in this book’s introduction) as a contemporary Joan of Arc–type figure. References to World War II not only allow the PCF to portray its members as heroic in war, but also as victims of injustice in the postwar. That two-pronged approach, which Aragon also promotes in Les Communistes, is on full display in an article by Marcel Cachin, published in the December 1950 issue of Les Cahiers du communisme. In that article, titled “La grandeur de l’homme communiste” (The grandeur of Communist man), Cachin writes, In the aftermath of the Second World War, the authorities representing all the parties of the French Resistance were unanimous in recognizing the exemplary conduct of Communists during the immense conflict. They glorified the self-sacrifice of Party militants who died by the tens of thousands for the salvation of the fatherland, which they saw as one and the same as the salvation of the people. . . . One of the scandals of the present day is that people who once bowed before the sacrifice of Communists now intend to exclude them from the fatherland. . . . The Gaullists . . . are calling for the banning of our Party.69

Cachin’s observations echo with striking precision the underlying messages in Les Communistes: that the PCF is heroic, patriotic, and motivated by justice; that its wartime heroism needs to be properly remembered; and that the party has been betrayed by the French government. Cachin’s commentary is also typical in that the French Communist Party and its members frequently describe themselves as under siege from ever-present “enemies,” a characteristic shared by their Russian Bolshevik counterparts. That strain of the party’s discourse surfaces in Les Communistes through the persecution of Aragon’s protagonists. After the signing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop

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Pact, their party was banned from public life, and per the Sérol decree, clandestine party activity could be punishable by death.70 The fact that the novel’s band of loyal Communists is able to persevere through an exceptionally trying period serves as a didactic model for militants in the comparatively mild political setting of 1949–51. The novel’s antifascist telling of the Second World War has a subtext that resonates within the two-bloc vision of party propaganda in the early Cold War. In the PCF’s Cominform-era discourse, as we have seen, the United States is frequently depicted as an imperialist fascist power, and parallels between Nazis and Americans abound. Events from World War II therefore serve a distinct purpose in that discursive environment: critiques of Nazi Germany and fascism serve as warnings about the United States’ expansion of its sphere of influence. To take one example, the NATO agreement, signed in April 1949, was a source of great consternation for the PCF. Indeed, it was largely depicted by the French Communist press as an act of war. The PCF liberally used imagery and events from the Second World War to convey its displeasure with the pact. The signing of the treaty was likened to “a new Montoire,” in reference to the site of the notorious handshake between Pétain and Hitler.71 One editorial headline—in reference to the placement of the occupied zone of France on German time—screamed, “My village on American time? NO!”72 The treaty itself was referred to as “the American Diktat.”73 As elements of the pact were being implemented in subsequent years, the party kept making parallels with World War II. Eisenhower, on mission to Paris to set up NATO’s European command, is referred to as a “gauleiter,” the term used by the German army for governors of regions under Nazi control.74 The American and French governments were also seen as complicit in restoring German military power, in resuscitating the Wehrmacht.75 And, in an obvious parallel with the Nazis, the American army deployed in France is described as an occupying presence. Indeed, from April 30 through the end of May 1951, L’Humanité ran a daily special section called “The Grand Investigation of L’Humanité into the American Occupation in France.” One article in the series states, “The Americans love our sweet France, just like the Germans loved it.”76 Given this broad discursive tendency to liken the United States to Nazi Germany, Aragon’s depiction of the violence inflicted on French civilians by fascist powers takes on a special currency and distinct political resonance in the early Cold War era.

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It does not help the case of the United States—neutral for the duration of the timeline of Les Communistes—that its very few appearances in the novel are utterly unhelpful for France as Nazi aggression runs unchecked and as the French military and humanitarian crisis deepens. Beyond the bravery of the French Communist branch of the resistance and the evils of fascism (both German and, in the subtext, imperialist American), the context of 1939–45 also would allow for reminders of the Soviet Union’s wartime successes. Given the novel’s June 1940 endpoint, though, the presence of the Soviet Union in Les Communistes is limited. With respect to France’s wartime interests, the major USSR action in 1939– 40 was the signing of the August 1939 Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of nonaggression between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union.77 The pact was followed by the September 28 signing of the German-Soviet Boundary and Friendship Treaty. Supporting the pact and the new Soviet line represented a major shift in thinking for the PCF, which had, prior to the agreement, been one of the sole political forces in France pushing for a broad alliance against fascism, a reflection of the Thorezian ethos of reconciling nationalist unity and support for international Communism.78 The longstanding struggle against Hitler was abandoned for the fight against “imperialist” war and for peace.79 The pact episode represented a great fault line in French politics, for PCF support of the agreement was seen in France as a treasonous act.80 The French government almost immediately began a campaign of repression against the party: L’Humanité and Aragon’s Ce Soir were seized, and party meetings were banned.81 The party and all Comintern-affiliated organizations were dissolved.82 All party activity was eventually declared illegal.83 On April 10, 1940, the French government declared that all Communist activity (as seen earlier, the Sérol decree, named after the socialist minister of justice, Albert Sérol) could be punishable by death.84 Violence against the PCF flared up during this time period: the newspaper Action Française called for Aragon’s execution (“twelve bullets in the skin”) after the latter’s August 23 editorial in Ce Soir that justified the pact on grounds of defense of the USSR.85 The reaction to the pact, both within and outside the Communist party, is central to book 1 of Les Communistes.86 The episode primarily serves as a means of depicting the destructive political tensions in Third Republic France. Communist protagonists support the pact, and Aragon uses them

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to delineate various reasons to justify it, despite the PCF’s longstanding position against Hitler and the rise of fascism. One orthodox Communist character, for instance, claims that the pact will preserve the “conquests of the [Russian] Revolution” and therefore it is truly in the long-term interests of the French people.87 The agreement is a source of tension between socialists and Communists—tension that surfaces throughout the novel, especially in the 1949–1951 edition—each accusing the other of believing only what their respective leaders, Léon Blum and Maurice Thorez, tell them to believe.88 In the original version of the novel, a character named Patrice Orfilat, widely accepted to be a fictionalized stand-in for Paul Nizan, abandons the PCF as a result of the pact and attempts to get a job working for the French government. In the 1966 edition, Aragon deleted all references to Orfilat—depicted as a coward and traitor—as part of what he claimed was an effort to render the novel more inclusive. Aragon wrote that in doing those revisions, he sought to “re-establish French unity, with a diverse set of men and a diverse set of classes, against betrayal and foreign invasion.”89 The way Aragon tells the story, the domestic political tensions that result from the pact ultimately render secondary the agreement itself, not to mention many of its real geopolitical outcomes, including the partitioning of Poland by Germany and the USSR, as well as the Soviet annexation of the Baltic states. For instance, one mention of Soviet territorial takeover in the East is described as a tactic to limit Hitler’s influence.90 Aragon furthermore renders a very philo-Soviet version of the USSR’s invasion of Finland, a country defined by the pact’s secret provisions as within the Soviet sphere of influence.91 The unprovoked Soviet invasion of then-neutral Finland in November 1939 set off a brutal five-month conflict, known as the Winter War, that resulted in the death of nearly 25,000 Finns and 130,000 Red Army troops.92 Worldwide opinion turned against the USSR as a result of the invasion, which resulted in the expulsion of the Soviet Union from the League of Nations in December 1939. The conflict, during which the Finns proved remarkably resilient, was ended by a March 1940 treaty between Moscow and Helsinki that resulted in significant Finnish territorial concessions to the USSR that displaced over 11 percent of Finland’s population.93 In Les Communistes, the Winter War and its repercussions are largely depicted through the ideological prism of the PCF and are ultimately misrepresented by Aragon. The expulsion of the USSR from the League of

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Nations is mentioned but is not depicted as a significant blot on the USSR’s record. Rather, it is largely portrayed as indicative of the weakness of the league itself.94 The Winter War meanwhile serves as a means of criticizing French military ineffectiveness. Indeed, the French begin preparations to enter into the conflict on the Finnish side, but those preparations ultimately lead nowhere. Meanwhile, French soldiers are forced to spend their time digging trenches and later filling them up again for lack of better work to do.95 Moreover, the terms of the ceasefire in the war are portrayed as surprisingly kind to the Finnish: “People are stunned by the moderate terms given to the Finns by the victorious Russians. . . . It’s like peace.”96 In reality, that “peace” for Finland was marked by continued Soviet insistence upon new concessions after the signing of the treaty. As the historian John Wuorinen states, “The new exactions were revealed by a lengthening list of demands relating to certain aspects of Finland’s foreign policy and internal affairs and new economic and other concessions for the Soviets. They showed that Moscow considered Finnish sovereignty and security as concepts subject to Soviet interpretation and caprice.”97 The Winter War is thus effectively whitewashed by Aragon, who through his rendering gives the reader a positive impression of the USSR’s international record. Notably, Aragon’s treatment of the Russo-Finnish conflict, as well as his overall depiction of the French Communists, were very well received in the Soviet Union. Two Russian reviews of Les Communistes highlighted the episode, with one stating, “Step by step, Aragon pours light on the road of high treason France’s rulers have taken. . . . Instead of restraining the fascist aggressor, they nurtured their plans to attack the Soviet Union through Transcaucasia or Finland.”98 In the final analysis, Aragon’s depiction of the pact allows him to turn the entire episode on its head. Indeed, a moment that led to significant Soviet aggression in the East is used primarily to initiate and reinforce the theme of the victimization of French Communists. Aragon depicts the banning of L’Humanité, the beating of Communist militants in the street, and the political process that excludes them from power and ultimately renders illegal PCF activity. In other words, as Aragon depicts it, the PCF—Hitler’s most natural enemy in France—is forced underground by an inept and corrupt French government. This treatment is rendered even more ironic by the fact that there is no comparable governmental persecution of extreme rightwing elements in France. The representation of the pact in Les Communistes

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reflects the postwar position adopted by Thorez who stated in his report to the tenth PCF congress in 1945, “Yes, it was a drôle de guerre! Instead of attacking Hitler, they attacked the French people, the working class, and the honest and decent militants of the great French Communist Party.”99 The entire pact episode sets the tone for Communist activity for the remainder of the novel, creating a model for postwar partisans in opposition to the French government. PCF members in Les Communistes adopt the mentality and maneuvers of a clandestine political movement, determined to move forward with their mission despite extremely difficult circumstances. Aragon’s treatment of the USSR as a positive force on the international stage is complemented by his insertion of an episode around the sale of Soviet planes to France much later in the novel. While France’s military situation grows increasingly desperate in May 1940, it indeed appears as if the USSR is willing to sell much-needed planes to the French army, while the British withhold their aerial resources, and the Americans are mired in neutrality.100 Some members of the French government see that transaction (which never came to fruition) as a way of showing that France is “ready to resume traditional relations between [itself] and Russia.”101 The notion of a “traditional” relationship between France and Russia has special resonance during the Cold War, as does the sale of Soviet planes while Anglo-American allies stand idly by. The inclusion of that would-be transaction in the novel is ultimately an anti-NATO gesture by Aragon, one that was not lost on the party press. On June 3, 1951, L’Humanité ran a prominent article detailing Aragon’s “revelations” in Les Communistes around the plane episode, arguing that renewed ties between France and Russia could put an end to America’s militant posture and its “occupation” of France.102 Aragon’s inclusion of the Soviet plane story in Les Communistes also reinforces a comment made much earlier in the novel by the Communist Lucien Cesbron, who states, “The shared interests of the Soviet Union and France are a geographic fact.”103 The alleged existence of that geographic “fact” necessarily puts into question the concept of an Atlantic alliance, which is based on a very different idea of geography. And Aragon tries to further convince readers of the validity of this supposedly natural relationship by having Thomas Watrin, one of the novel’s few non-Communist protagonists, put faith in this alliance. “Like many French citizens, Watrin could not give up entirely on this traditional alliance that geography seems to justify.” Watrin

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knows instinctively that “the agreement signed with Germany cannot hold for long, and when it fails, we will again have the support of the Russians.”104 Aragon’s philo-Soviet telling of the war is limited by the novel’s ending on June 9, 1940. That endpoint prevents him from making reference to the Battle of Stalingrad, the Soviet Union’s most glorious moment of the war, a battle that looms large in the French Communist imagination. For the PCF, Stalingrad is the central point of reference for the liberation of France, without which there would have been “thousands” of Oradours. Furthermore, if the novel had ended in January 1945, Aragon could have also referenced the liberation of Auschwitz by the Soviet army. At the same time, however, the early endpoint is convenient for this Communist retelling of the war. One wonders how Aragon would have dealt with the American-led D-Day invasion on June 6, 1944. Also given Charles de Gaulle’s virtual absence from the novel (his name appears twice), a matter of curiosity would be how Aragon would have treated the “Appeal of 18 June,” the Gaullist side of the French resistance, and de Gaulle and Churchill’s alliance in London.105 Ultimately, despite the fact that Aragon left unrealized his retelling of the Second World War, the choice of that historical context was a rhetorically and strategically brilliant one. It allowed him to touch on vital elements of Cominform-era propaganda and policies and to attempt to reawaken in his readers fond memories of Communist heroism during the war. As we will see in the next section, there are formal aspects of Les Communistes that reinforce the thematic content of Aragon’s philo-Communist chronicle. This historical novel has an important documentary component that aids Aragon in promoting this pro-Soviet version of events as a factual one. And edits Aragon made to Les Communistes for the 1966 edition bolster the testimonial and documentary value of this war novel. Moreover, those edits, which were meant to temper the more shrill aspects of the text, have the paradoxical effect of putting into stark relief the Stalinist stance Aragon held in 1949–1951. Modes of Narr ation: A Historical Novel Turned Testimony

The choice of the historical novel is one that allows Aragon a great deal of narrative flexibility, in terms of the didactic and ideological functions of the text. That form allows the author the freedom to invent fictional characters and to select and depict historical moments according to the designs of his

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story. The fictional narrative is deeply integrated into the broader, actualitybased story line of the war in which real historical actors play a prominent role, and much documentary detail is verifiable and accurate. The strong documentary slant of Les Communistes has led to complaints from literary critics. David Caute, for instance, writes that the “interminable text” is “not really a novel,” but rather “a panoramic tract giving the effect of an aggregate of newspaper reports and editorials copied out on a Chinese scroll.”106 It is true that the documentary impulse of a smattering of the 112 chapters is such that political, tactical, or geographic detail almost fully eclipses the fictional characters invented by Aragon.107 Such chapters are so full of verifiable information that they indeed resemble reportage. Still, chapters of that nature are in a small minority, and Les Communistes must be read as a novel. At the same time, the reading of this novel must take into account the strong presence of historical minutiae that so bothers Caute. Indeed, the truth claims of the text go beyond traditional realist fiction, in part due to the text’s socialist-realist tendencies but mainly because of the unusually high volume of verifiable information included in the story. Thus, the contract between text and reader is not simply as straightforward as, say, that of a Balzacian realist novel. And while the text cannot be referred to as documentary fiction or autofiction—both of those narrative modalities deliberately obfuscate the line between fiction and autobiography—it does at times bear an overt and authentic testimonial impulse. Further complicating matters is the fact that the overtly testimonial passages were not in the original 1949–51 version of the book. The “definitive” text therefore demands a very particular type of reading, one that takes into account its fictional and documentary aspects, as well as the testimonial facet that was grafted onto the text in 1966. The reading that follows is of the “definitive” version of Les Communistes, and I will underscore Aragon’s changes from the 1949–51 version when pertinent. The status of Les Communistes as a work of fiction is proclaimed not just in its bande d’annonce, “The Novel of France.” It is also manifested through a variety of signposts of fictionality, including the invention of fictional characters and events, the ability of the narrator to recount in detail the thoughts of fictional and nonfictional characters, and direct claims to fictional status made by the narrator, who appears as a “je” (I) on rare occasion.108 While, for the most part, the appearances of the narrator’s “I” are unremarkable,

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study of those appearances permits a delineation of the generic subtleties of Les Communistes. Indeed, the appearances of that narrator become increasingly noteworthy as the novel progresses, and they ultimately contribute to the text’s testimonial impulse. The presence of a self-conscious first-person narrator therefore ultimately complements the documentary effect created by the author’s impressive reconstruction of the timeline of the war. The documentary effect of the novel encourages readers to interpret the events in the novel as having a strong relationship with history. And, by extension, readers are encouraged to conclude that this story, with its philo-Soviet bent, is a legitimate telling of the war. The initial appearances of Aragon’s first-person narrator are largely banal in nature, but the self-consciousness of that narrator foreshadows the testimonial interventions later in the novel. The narrator’s initial use of the first-person singular is found early in the novel, in an ordinary description of an Alpine army regiment: “mobilized men, I no longer know from what groups.”109 There, the use of the unidentifiable “I” suggests that the narrator is groping for verifiable documentary information about the army unit but is unable to retrieve it. A more forceful appearance of this still unidentifiable first-person narrator occurs much later, near the end of book 4, when a sleepy Raoul Blanchard is isolated from the rest of his division and finds himself in the middle of the Belgian city of Nivelles as it is bombed on May 14, 1940. “I swear to you,” states the narrator after the bombing commences, “that Raoul is no longer sleepy.”110 In that case, the self-conscious narrator is describing a real historical event, the bombing of Nivelles. A later instance of self-conscious narration (without the use of a first-person pronoun) provides a hint to readers that even subtle details of the story are based in recorded history. In describing a brutal battle in La Horgne, France, the narrator states, “It is here that, in the rear of the village, that Colonel Marc gives the final orders. From what is known [A ce qu’on sait], the Algerians that were able to reach that spot [in the rear of the village] were able to do so thanks to the diversion created by 50 men, guided by their colonel, Burnol. Colonel Burnol died.”111 The key words in that passage are “A ce qu’on sait,” or “from what is known,” which are meant to signal to the reader that the narrator is striving for accuracy and that the narrative supposedly only relates what can be reliably confirmed, based on limited information.

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That style of reportage foreshadows perhaps the most noteworthy appearance of this still unidentifiable first-person narrator, which occurs after a historically accurate description of a gratuitous atrocity committed by the SS. In that scene, which takes place near the end of May 1940, groups of civilian men are forced to march from Libercourt and Oignies to Courrières (about three and a half and two and a half miles, respectively), where they dig their own graves in a rose garden and are then savagely beaten and gunned down. “After that, there are no more roses.” The narrator continues, “I only know four of their names, Georges Mullen, Eugène Wasson, Aristide Olivier, office workers in the mines of Oignies, and Alfred Stanczyk, a Polish agriculture worker, who worked in the mill in Oignies. . . . Those men there, they didn’t see Courrières burn.”112 The names and events are all sourced in documented history of the war.113 In that instance, therefore, the appearance of the unidentifiable and anonymous first-person narrator underscores the historical importance of the scene and the documentary and memorial function of the novel. The documentary nature of that scene in Courrières is striking, and the use of the first-person narration makes it all the more so. Such narrative interventions, when coupled with the substantial use of verifiable information about people, places, and events elsewhere in the novel, are designed to create an air of historical realism, with the likely goal of making this version of history (with its substantial philo-Communist bias) more plausible, thereby rendering the novel a more effective propaganda instrument. Subsequent shifts in narration bolster this reading of those first-person interventions. Indeed, in the fifth and final volume of the 1966 version of Les Communistes, Aragon introduces a few very tardy interventions from a narrator who is overtly autobiographical in nature and whose embittered and exhausted voice (as we will see below) closely resembles the one found in the novel’s afterword, “La Fin du Monde réel” (The end of the Real World), also composed in 1966.114 The identity of the first-person narrator of Les Communistes is signaled very late in the text to be the book’s author. This amounts to something of a genre shift from a historical novel to a testimonial novel, and it is worth examining closely. The first direct and clearly identifiable appearance of the narrator-author figure occurs in conjunction with a scene that takes place on May 28, 1940 (just eighty pages before the novel’s end) involving three real-life historical

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figures: Jacques Solomon, a physicist, active PCF member, and resistance fighter, who was killed by the Nazis in 1942; Georges Politzer, a Communist philosopher who would also later be a Nazi victim; and Anatole de Monzie, then minister of transportation. In that scene, Solomon is summoned by de Monzie to perform a special back-channel communication between the French government and Politzer, who is currently mobilized at the Ecole Militaire. Politzer is allegedly in touch with the party’s inner circle, which is in hiding and has been for several months, the party having been outlawed and subject to harassment and persecution by the state. The nature of the communication would be to get a sense, through Politzer, of the mood of the working classes vis-à-vis a prolonged war, given France’s gloomy military situation and the defeatism in some official quarters. As de Monzie states, “Marshal Pétain believes the game is over.”115 De Monzie wants to know whether the French government would be able to count on the support of the working classes to continue the fight. Despite being wary of the assignment and promising nothing to the minister, Solomon quickly decides that it is worthwhile to deliver the message to Politzer. His actions are depicted as courageous and ultimately patriotic, for he acts in the best interests of the defense of France. The narrator then comments, I am telling this as I am able. . . . I knew the story in its broad strokes, from what Politzer had told me in 1941, during a trip we took to Paris, Elsa and I. These few words, in the first version of Les Communistes, I elaborated on them, depicting a dialogue between the real minister [de Monzie] and a fictional character [Philippe Bormann], who was based in large part on Solomon, without however being him. But time has passed, and I have reworked this book. I only left in the imaginary outline of a real conversation. I gave to Solomon, to my comrade Solomon, gunned down in May 1942 at Mont Valérien, this minute in his life, this strange minute in history.116

The narrator therefore identifies himself as the author of Les Communistes, as a “comrade” of Solomon and Politzer, and also places himself in the company of “Elsa,” whom we can very reasonably presume to be Elsa Triolet, Aragon’s wife. The factual information Aragon provides in the above passage is correct: Jacques Solomon—along with Georges Politzer, Jacques Decour and others—was gunned down by the Nazis in May 1942 at Mont Valérien. Aragon testifies again to the factual validity of the scene in his afterword.117

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The first-person passage cited above and the scene it describes serve multiple purposes. First, the scene is representative of and contributes to the depiction of Communist militants in the novel as courageous, active, and patriotic. In the Thorezian mold, they are loyal to both France and Communism. Second, the passage allows Aragon to align his narrator clearly and unambiguously with the Communists. Given the number of Communist protagonists, not to mention the repeated use of the term “the party” to refer, without explanation, to the PCF, that political alignment is already clear at this point in the novel, but such use of the first-person confirms and bolsters it. Third, the portrayal of de Monzie is representative of and contributes to Aragon’s portrayal of the French government in May–June 1940 as desperate, defeatist, and hypocritical in its treatment of Communists. Fourth, the scene allows Aragon to memorialize his fallen comrade, as he does with many other individuals who died during the war (like those gunned down in the Courrières rose garden). Such memorialization is typical of party publications (novels and press alike), which regularly promote the party’s calendar of important anniversaries and commemorations. The Solomon-Monzie scene and the testimonial passage following it also serve as examples of important changes Aragon made for the 1966 version of Les Communistes. In the 1949–51 version (as the 1966 narrator-author states), a fictional character, Philippe Bormann, is in the place of Solomon (a character “who was based in large part on Solomon, without however being him”).118 Aragon’s lionizing of Jacques Solomon and his insertion of his own voice more directly into the 1966 version of the novel enhance the testimonial and documentary aspects of Les Communistes. Furthermore, Aragon’s decision to open that passage with “I am telling this as I am able” evokes the difficulties (emotional and factual) in sharing the story of Solomon and in bearing witness to his life and death, as well as to heroic acts of party militants. The tone of the passage, especially in its first and final sentences, is uncharacteristically poetic for Les Communistes, and it reveals the author’s complicated reaction to reading his own text some fifteen years after he wrote it. Aragon reprises that poetic, first-person narration and the role as a reader of his own text toward the end of the novel in another testimonial passage, which is, in my view, the most remarkable segment of the entire multivolume novel: the evacuation at Dunkirk as told in the definitive edition. That

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segment is a meditation on Aragon’s own experience at Dunkirk, which he, in 1966, inserts immediately before the 1949–51 description of his fictional characters’ evacuation from that same city. In a reflection reminiscent of other true-to-life narratives of World War II, particularly those dealing with the Holocaust, Aragon opens the scene by putting into question his capacity to remember or represent—to himself and others—what he saw. He writes, “He who saw in Dunkirk, what would from then on be called ‘Dunkirk’ . . . how could he hold onto a rational image of it?”119 That theme of the unrepresentability of a limit experience continues throughout the passage, and Aragon interrogates his readers in a way unlike at any other prior moment in the book. He writes, “How do you expect me, how, to rip from the back of my eyes the memories of that revolting vision?”120 He states that words are “always meager” and sees attempts at representation as laughable, like trying to represent hell to the already damned.121 The narrator says he has reread the account of the fictional Jean de Moncey confronting the disaster in Dunkirk (from the 1949–51 version, which immediately follows the testimonial passage). His reaction to that text is a shrug of the shoulders.122 The narrator-author’s own fiction, in other words, is just as inadequate, perhaps even more so, than his attempt at telling an autobiographical version of his experience in Dunkirk. Aragon’s struggle, in 1966, to portray what he saw in Dunkirk is ultimately resolved through a depiction of a sixteenth-century painting, what he refers to as “someone else’s nightmare.”123 Aragon tells the reader that Pieter Bruegel the Elder, in his painting The Triumph of Death, prophesied his experience in Dunkirk. He writes, “That image that he left us, I swear to God that it is the photograph of Dunkirk.”124 That painting is indeed a nightmarish depiction of human suffering, in which a mass of humanity is subject to various forms of execution and postmortem indignity. The section of the painting highlighted by Aragon (“the ‘detail’ on top”) shows skeletons executing men on a distant coastline smoldering with fire and destruction against a reddish-orange sky. Aragon imbues the painting with even more personal and testimonial meaning by noting that it was completed by the artist when he was the same age as Aragon in Dunkirk (forty-one years old). Aragon ends the passage with a meditation that evokes the possibility that he, as a person and a writer, did not survive Dunkirk. He writes, “There were so many reasons to die in Dunkirk, so little chance that we would come back,

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Figure 4.1. The Triumph of Death by Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Described by Aragon as the “photograph” of the Dunkirk evacuation.

myself and Jean de Moncey, whom I didn’t even dream of giving birth to one day.”125 The existence of that main character, Jean de Moncey (a young soldier and budding Communist), is even more contingent than that of the author who gave birth to him, and the value of the novel is further put into question. This testimonial “eruption,” as critic Luc Vigier aptly described it, is striking.126 Different from any other intervention in the text, it underscores the importance of all of Aragon’s narrator’s self-conscious reflections in Les Communistes. It is crucial to emphasize that the first-person narrator who is clearly identifiable as Aragon only appears in the 1966 version, lending a testimonial quality to the definitive version that the 1949–51 edition lacks. One possible explanation for this is that as the postwar period wore on, testimonies (of all sorts, but particularly of the war) became increasingly fashionable and commonplace, and it is conceivable that Aragon was reacting, consciously or not, to that trend. To use Annette Wieviorka’s formulation, the “Era of the Witness” matured from 1949 to 1966, and so evolved Aragon as a writer.127

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Another possible interpretation, and one I prefer, is that Aragon inserts his own personal Dunkirk narrative as a way of deflecting political criticism of his text (and other controversial portions of his body of work) in the era of de-Stalinization. From the vantage point of 1966, the Stalinist period of French Communism, especially the years from 1947 to 1953, is a shocking and shameful one, mainly due to the lockstep adherence of the PCF to many elements of Cominform doctrine, in a context of increasing political repression in the USSR and across Eastern Europe. And Aragon played a crucial, even central, role in promoting and disseminating USSR-directed policy in France in this same era—policy that many of his contemporaries saw for what it was as it emerged, and without the benefit of hindsight. I would argue that Aragon’s forthright insertion of his own voice in this passage, combined with his interrogation of his readers, is tantamount to fending off judgments of his ideological stances from the Stalinist era. It is a way of, if not apologizing for the stances he took at the time, then at least of offering a possible explanation for his state of mind in 1949–51. Aragon’s integration of his own voice into this novel—a novel that rigorously supports Communism in the Stalinist era—is like an inverted version of the embrace of Communism found at the end of Barbusse’s Le Feu, which comes after hundreds of pages of violent and futile trench warfare, often told in the style of reportage (and with an appearance of an anonymous first-person narrator). Unlike the narrator of Le Feu, Aragon’s narrator-author figure appears to regret his pro-Communist stance. Aragon writes, “Maybe we never came back from Dunkirk, and our lives were lived by ghosts in our place, skeletons disguised as us, wrapped up in shrouds, unmoved by everything, and crossing over, with a jeer from hell, the world of visible things.”128 Aragon’s dramatic suggestion that the experience effectively may have killed the person he was before the war, can and, I would argue, should be read as a 1966 expression of regret for the political stances he so fervently promoted early in the postwar era. That reading is bolstered by Aragon’s next significant testimonial intervention, which is permeated by the same sense of regret and a hesitant but irresistible desire to revisit old ideas. That passage is inserted in the book’s epilogue, just a few pages after the autobiographical telling of Dunkirk. It marks a return of the same testimonial voice, and the narrator-author figure again examines himself as a person, a writer, and as a reader of his own writing. He opens the passage by criticizing Jean de Moncey’s obsessive rereading

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of a cherished letter from his beloved Cécile Wisner (née d’Aigrefeuille): “What is this man thinking, this man who has escaped from hell, endlessly re-reading this worn out sheet of paper from his pocket, where words are already becoming unclear, just like Cécile’s destiny.”129 This criticism of Jean de Moncey is interesting, as he is one of the two characters in the novel (along with Armand Barbentane) whose wartime experience is based in large part on Aragon’s. Furthermore, the 1966 Aragon feels a close familial affiliation to Jean de Moncey, to whom he has “given birth.” Here, the narrator-author refers to Jean as “my son” and aligns Jean’s reading of that faded love letter with his reading of his old book, Les Communistes.130 The narrator-author states, “I myself have re-read this book, a little bit like a forgotten letter in an old jacket. . . . Time has since passed, for us all. . . . Nothing, of course, resembles that which we were intending to accomplish. Not even this novel, because it is a novel, which I dreamed of continuing and which I abandoned like a naked child at a fountain.”131 As is the case with his shrug of the shoulders after rereading Jean’s experience in Dunkirk, the narrator-author denigrates his own novel, this time as something left behind in an old jacket, and he distances himself from it. The “nudity” of his “child” can be interpreted as the orthodox political stance (“that which we were intending to accomplish”) that is laid bare in the 1949–51 edition, a stance that (as we will see below) is softened in the 1966 version. The narrator-author again interrogates his readers and himself, asking about this abandonment, “But am I the guilty one? Or maybe I just did not want to watch Jean and Cécile age. It is enough for me, believe me, to have my own wrinkles, those on my face, and those on my ideas.”132 The reader is again placed in an antagonistic position: someone who needs convincing (“believe me”) and who may see the narrator-author as culpable. The narrator-author hints to his readers about the distanciation he feels from his artifact (a novel, he insists), as he describes the “wrinkles” on his ideas, their age, their decay. The oldness of his ideas could mean those from 1949–51 or those he has in 1966. The ambiguity, deliberate or not, is telling. Aragon is ambivalent about putting into question his own work: if Les Communistes is a mere novel (i.e., not the telling of his own experience), then why insert an authorial and personal voice into it more forcefully? The narrator-author figure continues his regret-filled dirge, meditating about what readers would have encountered had he not abandoned the

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book. Here again, it is not certain whether he is talking about the horrors of the war or about the crimes of Stalin and Communism: “Maybe I took pity on you, as much as on them [Jean and Cécile], leaving you at this dark hour in June 1940, where maybe you can still believe in a faraway light, and no doubt, you need it. You would have gained nothing from following me, from suffering from this ever-deepening wound. This is I, this is we, the people from a certain era, and I wish that you would forget us and not think too much about our misfortunes.”133 Much as he does at Dunkirk, the narratorauthor figure self-immolates, this time in the minds of his readers in the form of forgetting. Again the reader is put in the position of a critic, someone who requires convincing and someone before whom the narrator appears ashamed. “Ah, leave me alone,” the narrator opens the final paragraph of this testimonial intervention. He continues, “Don’t lecture me, don’t tell me ‘What kind of behavior is this?’ You have told me that my whole life. I know. I’m tired of it. Tired, like I was, arriving at Dunkirk.”134 The narrator-author figure then describes “enthusiasm” (political or otherwise) as something that is ephemeral: “Hope weathers transport very poorly. It weathers time even worse.”135 In other words, the enthusiasm for the budding revolution that the socialist-realist novel was to depict (in the form of the rise and glory of the Communist resistance) is vanished. The narrator tells his readers to imagine whatever end they want for these characters, Jean and Cécile: “Pick whatever destiny you want for them.”136 He, for one, has given up. My readings of these two sections as a revision of a Stalinist political stance, and as the expressions of an exhausted and regret-filled narratorauthor figure, are bolstered by the content of the novel’s postface (the afterword, also written in 1966). While that afterword is titled “La Fin du Monde réel” (The end of the Real World), it would be more accurately described as “The end of Les Communistes.” Indeed, the vast majority of the reflections the author provides on his Monde réel cycle center on Les Communistes and his process of rewriting that novel. Aragon (and here the voice is unambiguously that of the author) continues the process of establishing distance between himself and Les Communistes: “I find myself today facing a series of books bearing my name; I have re-read them after several years and I am judging them critically.”137 Aragon maintains and even underscores the antagonistic relationship with the reader that surfaces in Les Communistes. He encourages a reading of his writing contextualized in history: “I do not

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believe that people can understand anything about me, if they fail to place a date on my thoughts or on my writing.”138 While dates do indeed assist in interpreting Aragon’s work (as this chapter shows), Aragon then essentially tells readers that they cannot accurately interpret his text, for they must take into account what he did not write: If then, one day, someone, in some extraordinary circumstance, takes it upon himself to place Les Communistes, and he who wrote it, in the context of the three years it took to write it, it will be necessary to strive to imagine, in the margin of the events, the private side of my life, without which one can only have a false image of me. This side of my life, which I call private—although it is simply the other side [le revers] of a public existence—is what happened inside me, during those years of which we still know but a few things, for it takes a long time for things to settle in order to see clear water.139

Aragon is effectively making the case that the meaning of his text is unknowable: for it is impossible to have access to the private side of his life that coexisted with recorded history of the era. Furthermore, Aragon claims that whatever was written in his text is distinct from what he kept private, “the other side [le revers] of a public existence.” He later seems to suggest that that private side was quite different from his public persona. He does so by noting that he belongs to a category of people who “believed”: “who, their whole lives, believed desperately.”140 In describing his belief system during the period in which he wrote Les Communistes, he states, “I was the prey, all at once, of the certainty that was my life and of an awful doubt, which came to me from I do not know where. It is that contradiction that made me write.”141 It is important to point out that nothing of that contradiction between certainty and doubt appears in Aragon’s original version of Les Communistes. And yet readers are encouraged to believe that the regret and contradictions he expresses in 1966 were there all along in the Stalinist era, despite his fervent and tireless activity in service of the party, its symbols, and its figureheads. While the truth about Aragon’s assertion is as unknowable as his inner life, what we can confirm is that the defensiveness vis-à-vis the reader and the regret that permeate his testimonial passages in Les Communistes also mark the postface. Aragon again intimates that the war left him permanently scarred, if not dead. He again uses that experience as a rhetorical tool to place the postwar reader in a position of inferiority. He writes, “For my part, I am indeed convinced that it is not in the ashes of time, but in the

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dangerous flames of the moment itself that are born valid images of man. He who has the audacity to drag them out from there must terribly burn his hands, be disfigured by it, perish from it.”142 The truth is therefore better attained through lived experience (“the dangerous flames of the moment”), as opposed to after the fact, in “the ashes of time.” For readings done after the fact will be as deformed as the author: “the images of us will be false, mutilated.”143 The striking similarity of Aragon’s reflections in the postface confirm and bolster my reading of the 1966 Dunkirk edit. The presence of this same voice moreover allows us to confirm the shift in genre from historical novel to testimonial novel. That genre shift is ultimately the most significant of any of the changes Aragon made from the 1949–51 version to the 1966 definitive edition. It is also clear that the genre change underscores the important ideological shifts experienced by the author, as he attempted in 1966 to moderate and modulate his original novel away from its orthodox Cominform roots. As we will see in the chapter’s concluding section, that modulation proved a difficult task indeed. The Party of Thor ez

Aragon asserts in “La fin du Monde réel: Postface” that he made three categories of changes when reworking the novel: stylistic changes (verb tenses, structural changes, and the like), deletions of certain characters, and those changes that can be categorized under “the spirit of responsibility.”144 Most pertinent for our purposes here are the latter two categories, because they are fundamentally interrelated and also because they both affect the ideological remolding of Les Communistes. Some substantive changes do indeed alter select political messages of the novel. For instance, Aragon modifies two scenes found in the 1949–51 edition, both of which signal his promotion of Stalin’s cult of personality in the Cominform era. In both of those scenes, Communist protagonists express veneration for the official history of the Bolshevik party, L’Histoire du PC (b) de l’URSS, a supposed masterwork of Marxism. That text, known also as the Short Course, was something of a fetish object for the PCF, one that was the subject of much publicity in the party press in the Comintern and Cominform eras.145 In one scene, Aragon deletes a conversation between two Communist militants in which they offer praise for the book, which they describe as rumored to have been

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authored by Stalin.146 In the second scene, Aragon inserts a new comment from the narrator, “Faith is beautiful” (“C’est beau la confiance”), into the 1966 edition, reflecting on one character’s unquestioning belief in the Short Course.147 “With a book like this,” the character states, “you always understand what’s going on.”148 Read within the context of the entire definitive edition, the comment from the narrator, “C’est beau la confiance,” can be interpreted as a lament for a bygone faith. The Short Course was, in fact, produced with Stalin’s active participation, but it represented a significant falsification and rewriting of the party’s history.149 Stalin’s recent biographer Oleg Khlevniuk writes, “Appearing in 1938 at the height of the Great Terror, this work proclaimed Stalin to be equal to Lenin as a leader of Bolshevism and the revolution. Utter fictions were inserted into many episodes of Bolshevik history.”150 Aragon deemed the changes he made around that history text in Les Communistes significant enough to warrant mention in the 1966 postface, in which he describes how the Short Course has been discredited in the USSR as “a veritable prayer book for the ‘cult of personality.’”151 Aragon’s modifications related to that Marxist history text therefore alter the Stalinist content of Les Communistes. Still, despite Aragon’s new stance critical of Stalinist orthodoxy in the postface, his acknowledgment of the cult does not represent a departure from the party line—far from it, given how far along de-Stalinization was in the USSR and within the PCF by 1966. Indeed, Aragon’s tendency to march in step with party policy is quite apparent in his need to explain, in the postface, the change to his novel by underscoring the fact that the book had already been discredited in the post-Stalin Soviet Union. Aragon also attempted to promote in the 1966 version of Les Communistes a more inclusive depiction of France, one that is less divisive and more unifying.152 That goal, as we have seen, can certainly explain the absence of Patrice Orfilat, the ex-Communist turned traitor, from the 1966 edition. The tendency toward French unity can also be sensed in Aragon’s decision to change his fundamental way of making reference to the PCF. Aragon’s “le Parti” from 1949–51 becomes the less provincial, less dogmatic, and less absolutist “le parti” in the 1966 version. Similarly, some sectarian critiques of the socialist party are deleted. For example, Aragon deletes the narrator’s comments alleging that the socialists (“Blum and company”) and their newspaper, Le Populaire, are hoping for a military alliance between Hitler

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and Stalin so the arrests of Communists can continue.153 He also strikes a very explicit reminder that the decree allowing for the death penalty for Communist activity was signed by socialist minister Albert Sérol.154 Such antisocialist sentiment was common in party propaganda from the Cominform era. The hostile obituary of Blum published in L’Humanité on March 31, 1950, the day after he died, is a fine example.155 Blamed for the “schism” at the Congrès de Tours, Blum (“who came to socialism fairly late”) is seen as complicit in the “over-exploitation” of workers and in the degradation of their living conditions. Worse, he is said to have promoted the destruction of the “cadres of the Communist Party.” Given that toxic discursive environment, it is no surprise that echoes of such rhetoric are found in Les Communistes and that in 1966, at some distance from the era, Aragon tempered the tone of his novel. While they result in the softening of some aspects of the political message of Les Communistes, the overall impact of such changes is decidedly mixed. First of all, the paradox of these deletions is that they underscore, rather than obfuscate, Aragon’s ideological intent in drafting the 1949–51 version of Les Communistes. The modifications therefore achieve precisely the opposite of Aragon’s intentions in 1966. The changes draw attention to some of the most radical political aspects of the text, highlighting in a number of cases precisely how much Aragon conformed to Cominform-era orthodoxy and how much that adherence proved bothersome to him in 1966. Second, the 1966 version in its depiction of the party and the basic philo-Communist telling of the war is not fundamentally different from the 1949–51 version. The major exception to this, as I have argued, is the insertion of the testimonial passages toward the end of the novel, passages that underscore the author’s and the PCF’s acceptance of the de-Stalinization process. But in terms of the overall portrayal of the PCF—its value system, its priorities, its rivalries, its obsessions—little changes. While certain aspects of the novel are softened—the rivalry between socialists and Communists, the notion of a party under siege that is ruthless with its enemies, the tendency toward creating cults of personality—one still gets a strong sense of all of those elements in the definitive version. It is clear from conversations among characters, for instance, that Stalin is viewed as the worldwide leader of Communists. Although the outpouring of testimony found in the novel’s final chapters is noteworthy, the changes are relatively insignificant when

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compared to the scope of the remainder of the story. And it is not just a question of length: as I argued above, the very frame chosen for the telling of this tale was specifically crafted for Cominform propaganda of late-1940s and early-1950s France, as was the polarized set of characters that populate the novel. Aragon’s propagandistic methods were too fundamental to the telling of this story to be altered by a “rewrite.” As Corinne Grenouillet states in her study of the reception of Les Communistes, “It is still the same novel.”156 The novel’s unshakeable core Cominform values can be seen in its representation of the role of Maurice Thorez. The novel’s relentless focus on defining what it is to be a good French Communist contributes to a heightened presence of PCF leaders in the text, relative to the presence of Soviet leaders. While Stalin holds his place as the global Communist leader in Les Communistes, Thorez is a much more important figure, especially in the 1949–51 version of the text, from which Aragon deleted a few sycophantic references related to the French general secretary. A sample deletion would be praise for the way Thorez signs his name when he dedicates his books: “his handwriting is very clear, with straight lines, without any of the effects used by many when they sign a book.”157 Irrespective of such changes— that deleted observation was meant to show Thorez’s sincerity and dependability—Thorez still plays an important role in the minds of party members in the 1966 version of the novel. More often than not referred to by his first name, “Maurice” serves as a model Communist and patriot. He is revered by Communists for his leadership and wisdom: one Communist protagonist even names his newborn baby “Maurice.”158 Veneration for Thorez is such that comrades know that he was born not far from the city of Lens in Pas-de-Calais, which was then known as coal-mining country.159 In a likely homage to Thorez, that part of northern France (known to be “all red”) serves as a site of brief narrative respite from the war on May 19, 1940, when Raoul Blanchard and Jean de Moncey’s unit circulates near the French general secretary’s birthplace.160 There, Aragon attempts to make clear to the reader that the PCF is the only remaining bright spot for the future of France, which has suffered incredible hardship and destruction in a very brief time. In point of fact, Raoul Blanchard, who had himself endured a rare moment of hopelessness when he had “forgotten the party a little,” finds a miracle of sorts amid all the destruction in the form of a sighting of the words “Long Live Thorez” scrawled on a wall in

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Méricourt, just a few miles from Lens.161 That graffiti, as well as the brief peaceful foray into mining country, would have special resonance for the PCF in 1951, as Thorez was, at the time of the publication of this fifth installment of the novel (in May of that year), recovering in the USSR from the stroke he suffered several months prior. Aragon conducted research for that portion of Les Communistes in January and February 1951. The 1950 stroke and Thorez’s recovery were widely publicized in the party press, and given the PCF’s tendency to harmonize its publications, “Long Live Thorez” seems to be an attempt to wish the stricken leader well.162 It is important to note that despite being depicted as a model patriot by Aragon (and also very widely in the party press), Thorez was not in France during the party’s glorious years as a force in the resistance. Indeed, after a very brief mobilization, Thorez—possibly at the direction of Communist authorities—abandoned his unit on October 3, 1939, and fled to Belgium. Not long after, with fake identity papers and a Soviet passport, he left for Moscow, where he arrived on November 8, 1939.163 Thorez would remain in the USSR until November 1944. This did not, in the eyes of PCF loyalists, make him a deserter. As Thorez himself stated in an interview conducted on October 20, 1940, and published internationally: “The sell-out press says I am a deserter. I would have been a deserter if I had not done what was necessary to stay at my post in the class-based war that the people of France must wage against warmongers, fascists, and capitalist exploiters.”164 It was not simply the allegedly corrupt media that found Thorez’s departure problematic. In November 1939, he was found guilty of desertion by a French military tribunal and was hit with a sentence of six years in prison, along with the seizure of his possessions. Furthermore, in February 1940, he was stripped of his French nationality in part because of his “total submission to the leaders of the USSR.”165 Thorez would be pardoned by Charles de Gaulle in 1944. Aragon uses Les Communistes as an opportunity to defend Thorez’s wartime absence and to show perpetual PCF loyalty to the general secretary. The Communist protagonist Cesbron parrots Thorez’s self-defense, central to which is the idea of Maurice as a different type of French patriot. Thorez is not a deserter, Cesbron maintains; he simply is faithful to a different idea of being of service to France and the French people.166 It is an idea of commitment that reveals a deep respect for a certain kind of justice. Thorez is “the

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man who brought to the working class a just understanding of the nation, an understanding of the fatherland itself, one that had become obscured.”167 Ever committed to the French national interest, Thorez (in Les Communistes) is described as adamant that other mobilized French Communists remain at their posts in the French army.168 In spite of the general secretary’s conspicuous absence, the novel is clearly, from a discursive point of view, pro-Thorez. Indeed, his absence is only bothersome to those rightwing characters (like Wisner, the industrialist) who are against the party and are consequently the novel’s antagonists.169 Given the importance accorded to Thorez in Aragon’s nonfiction (especially in L’Homme communiste), the French general secretary’s presence as a positive force in Les Communistes is unsurprising. Also perhaps unsurprising is the similarity between Thorez’s official interpretation of the period of 1939–40 and Aragon’s depiction thereof in his “Roman de France.” In a report to the tenth congress of the PCF in June 1945, Thorez articulates the basic outline of the war as depicted by Aragon. Among many other similarities, the report asserts the following: the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact did not represent Soviet collusion with the Nazis; the invasion of Finland was justified; the pact was simply used as a pretext to marginalize and disempower Communists; and Thorez’s departure for the USSR in 1939 was necessary for the survival of the PCF and the fight against Hitler.170 What is remarkable, however, in Thorez’s report is that it gives an idea of how Aragon may have finished Les Communistes had he not abandoned the project in 1951. Thorez’s overarching war narrative is that the German occupiers and their Vichy accomplices were in a struggle against the French people, whose insurrection eventually led to liberation. He writes, “Once again, it is the people who saved France.”171 Along the way, Thorez proffers a detailed critique of the National Revolution, Pétain’s seizure of power, and Vichy’s economic and political collaboration with Germany. He also argues that the French resistance was above all inspired, energized, and aided by the heroic struggle of the Soviet Union against Hitler. Given the similarities between Thorez’s and Aragon’s renderings of 1939–40, the above outline of the ensuing years of the war constitutes a plausible scenario for the manner in which Aragon might have completed Les Communistes. But that is only conjecture. What is certain is that Aragon remained highly dedicated to the party and even helped mentor and promote the

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work of young Communist intellectuals, like André Stil, the winner of the Stalin Prize for literature in 1952. And Aragon’s fidelity to Maurice Thorez as a person, to “National-Thorezism,” and to the Thorez cult of personality represents par excellence the Gallicized version of Stalinism that reached its apogee in France from the mid-1930s through the early 1950s. Notes 1. Bonnet, Adhérer, 113. 2. Aragon, Lettres à André Breton, 166; Aragon, Œuvres poètiques complètes (OPC), vol. 1, liii, 1191; Forest, Aragon, 121. 3. On his role arguing for and in helping assemble the intellectuals who founded the Comité national des écrivains and its organ, Les Lettres françaises, see Forest, Aragon, 493 as well as Aragon, OPC, vol. 1, xciv. On his leadership role in the intellectual resistance in the southern zone, see Forest, Aragon, 512–14. 4. “Ah! vous voilà, vous.” Aragon, OPC, vol. 1, ci; Forest, Aragon, 534. 5. From a letter to Jean-Richard Bloch dated November 1940. Quoted in Aragon, Œuvres romanesques complètes (ORC), vol. 2, xlix. 6. Philippe Forest’s (2015) is over eight hundred pages long, and Pierre Juquin’s (2012–13) is nearly double that length. 7. Membre suppléant and then membre titulaire. 8. For a treatment of the aftermath of the Picasso portrait, see Fougeron, “Une ‘Affaire’ politique.” Daix argues that such moments were symptomatic of underlying tensions between Aragon and some elements of PCF leadership, who merely tolerated the writer due to his celebrity as an intellectual résistant. See Forest, Aragon, 560, 626; Daix, Les Lettres françaises, 207–8. 9. In “Une Préface morcelée” (147–48), he describes how Le Roman inachevé (1956) represented his first exploration of the unpleasant realities he saw in the USSR in 1930. 10. See Daix, Aragon, 454–55. 11. See, for instance, Aragon, “Salut au romancier de l’amitié franco-soviétique”; L’Homme communiste (“Il revient” [475–79]); “Staline et la France.” 12. Forest, Aragon, 775; Aragon, ORC, vol. 5, lxvi. 13. Aragon, “Staline et la France,” 2. 14. Forest, Aragon, 803. 15. Quoted in Aragon, OPC, vol. 2, xxxiii. 16. Quoted in Forest, Aragon, 825. 17. Aragon, “Front Rouge,” 499; “The Red Front,” 39. 18. Aragon, OPC, vol. 1, 645. 19. Aragon, “Front Rouge,” 496; “The Red Front,” 37. 20. See Barbarant in Aragon, OPC, vol. 1, 1381. 21. Thirion, Révolutionnaires, 299–300; Forest, Aragon, 343. See also Sadoul, Aragon, 12 on how the visit made a mark on them both. 22. In “Valse du Tcheliabtraktrostroï” in Hourra l’Oural, 556.

250 | Generation Stalin 23. In “L’An quinze de la Révolution” in Hourra l’Oural, 597. 24. Khlevniuk, New Biography, 116. For additional information on the first Five-Year Plan, collectivization, and the Great Famine, see Khlevniuk, New Biography, 116–19. 25. Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 106–7. 26. Aragon, “La Dernière Leçon de Gorki,” 1446. 27. Aragon, “Vérités élémentaires,” 804. 28. Aragon, “Vérités élémentaires,” 805. 29. Aragon, “Vérités élémentaires,” 806. 30. Khlevniuk, New Biography, 153–56. 31. Aragon, “Vérités élémentaires,” 806. Aragon wrote in 1975 that it is not without shame that he reads this text. See Aragon, L’Œuvre poétique, vol. 7, 297. 32. See Aragon, “Salut au romancier de l’amitié franco-soviétique”; L’Homme communiste (“Il revient” [475–79]); “Staline et la France.” 33. Khlevniuk, New Biography, 96. 34. Khlevniuk, New Biography, 96. 35. See, for instance, Aragon’s “Hugo, poète réaliste.” 36. Aragon, “D’Alfred de Vigny à Avdéenko,” 8. The title in English would be “From Alfred de Vigny to Avdéenko: Writers in the Soviets.” 37. Aragon, “D’Alfred de Vigny à Avdéenko,” 8. 38. Aragon, “D’Alfred de Vigny à Avdéenko,” 13. 39. Aragon, “Le Roman et les critiques,” 81. 40. Aragon, “Le Roman et les critiques,” 89. 41. Aragon, “Le Roman et les critiques,” 77. 42. Aragon, “Du Poète à son parti,” 1031. 43. Aragon, “Du Poète à son parti,” 1031. 44. Aragon, in the years after the rupture, remained critical of the surrealists as decadent products of capitalism and imperialism. See, for example, Aragon, “D’Alfred de Vigny à Avdéenko,” 15–18; “Message au Congrès des John Reed Clubs,” 54; “Hugo, poète réaliste,” 81. 45. Aragon, L’Homme communiste, 215. 46. Aragon, L’Homme communiste, 223. 47. Aragon, L’Homme communiste, 427, 431, 447. 48. Aragon, L’Homme communiste, 458. 49. Thorez, “Nous sommes,” 508. 50. Thorez, Politique de grandeur, 356. 51. Thorez, “Nous sommes,” 507. 52. See, for example, the four-volume edition by Editeurs Français Réunis (1967). On the number of characters, see Aragon, “Les Communistes à la Grange-aux-Belles,” 84. 53. The length of Les Communistes has likely contributed to the fact that the corpus of critical work on the novel is relatively small. Noteworthy scholarship on Les Communistes includes the superb editorial work and analysis conducted by Daniel Bougnoux et al. for the Pléiade editions of Aragon’s Œuvres romanesques complètes; Grenouillet, Lecteurs; Kimyongür, Memory and Politics.

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54. On the dates and original structure, see Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 623. “Le Roman de France” was the first bande d’annonce for Les Communistes (OPC, vol. 1, cxii). 55. Aragon added to the 1966 version the desultory final sentence, “Les Allemands sont à Mantes” (Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 613). 56. See Pierre Gamarra, “Les Communistes d’Aragon,” L’Humanité, October 12, 1951. The review was written upon the publication of the fifth “fascicule” (which covers May 1940). 57. Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 622. 58. Aragon, ORC, vol. 3, 1478. 59. This study is based on the Pléiade edition of Aragon’s Œuvres romanesques complètes (ORC), vols. 3 (2003) and 4 (2008). That edition contains the 1966 “definitive” version with endnotes detailing changes from the 1949–1951 edition. 60. Nevertheless, Aragon does invent some stories that he fits within the broad timeline of the war. 61. Becker, Louis Aragon, 69. 62. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 570. 63. See Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 710, 713, 734. 64. This is especially the case with Raoul Blanchard and Armand Barbentane. 65. On the documentary effect, see Sobanet, Jail Sentences. 66. Bougnoux accurately notes that “the main subject of Les Communistes can be summarized in one crucial question . . . how to situate oneself in history?” (Aragon, ORC, vol. 3, xviii). Bougnoux surmises that Aragon began writing Les Communistes in early 1945 (Aragon, ORC, vol. 3, xxxiii). Aragon claimed that he began the work in April 1944 “just after Stalingrad” when it was clear to him that the war was nearly over (“Les Communistes à la Grange-aux-Belles,” 82). But the Battle of Stalingrad ended in February 1943, so Aragon’s proposed timeline, which he may have claimed for dramatic political effect, is problematic. Even if Aragon made earlier attempts at writing this text, Les Communistes was largely written between 1948 and 1951. 67. Aragon, ORC, vol. 3, xiv. 68. This is the case with Commandant Müller, Fred Wisner, and Gaëtan le Bozec, characters whose story lines may have been further developed had Aragon completed the project. 69. Cachin, “La Grandeur,” 69. 70. Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 176. 71. “Décisions des 3 à Washington, un nouveau Montoire,” L’Humanité, April 9, 1949, 1. 72. André Carrel, “Mon village à l’heure américaine? Non!” L’Humanité, March 19, 1949, 1. 73. “A la veille de la signature à Washington du pacte Atlantique: Le diktat américain instrument de guerre et d’agression est dénoncé devant les peuples par le gouvernement de l’URSS,” L’Humanité, April 2, 1949, 1. 74. “Les hommes de la guerre: le feld-marshal Eisenhower,” L’Humanité, January 5, 1951, 3.

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75. “Les mineurs débrayent pour leurs revendications et contre la reconstitution de la Wehrmacht,” L’Humanité, January 3, 1951, 1. 76. “Ils installent la mort américaine au cœur de la France,” L’Humanité, May 8, 1951, 1. 77. Information that follows on the pact comes largely from Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 171–76 and Tiersky, French Communism, 96–111. 78. Tiersky, French Communism, 97. According to Khlevniuk, Soviet foreign affairs commissar Maksim Litvinov had staked his reputation on building cohesion among anti-Hitler forces (New Biography, 164). He was replaced with Molotov in May 1939. The PCF policy was therefore in accordance with the line pushed by Litvinov. 79. Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 172. 80. Tiersky, French Communism, 99. 81. Tiersky, French Communism, 100. 82. Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 173. 83. Tiersky, French Communism, 101. 84. Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 176. See also Estier, “Sérol.” 85. See “Les traîtres,” Action Française, August 24, 1939, 4. 86. Book 1 of Les Communistes, according to the structure of the 1966 edition. 87. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 654. 88. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 632. 89. Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 635. 90. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 864. 91. The secret provisions were created at Stalin’s insistence (Khlevniuk, New Biography, 166). For details on the pact and its results, see Wuorinen, History of Finland, 344–47; Upton, Finland, 22–24; Khlevniuk, New Biography, 162–74. 92. Khlevniuk, New Biography, 172–73. 93. Roberts, Stalin’s Wars, 50; Khlevniuk, New Biography, 172–73; Wuorinen, History of Finland, 361. 94. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 1042, 1208. 95. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 1180. 96. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 1201. 97. Wuorinen, History of Finland, 362. 98. See Aragon, Papers of Louis Aragon. 99. Thorez, Politique de grandeur, 287. Drôle de guerre is the French expression for “Phony War.” It translates as “strange war.” 100. See Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 422, 454, 455, 502; Cot, “A propos d’une Mission”; Eychart, “L’Affaire.” See also, “En mai 1940, L’URSS était prête à envoyer des avions à la France envahie,” L’Humanité, June 3, 1951, 8. 101. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 454. See Cot, “A propos d’une Mission” and Eychart, “L’Affaire” on the failed transaction. 102. See “En mai 1940, L’URSS était prête à envoyer des avions à la France envahie,” L’Humanité, June 3, 1951, 8.

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103. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 865. Bougnoux et al. state that Cesbron is a possible fictional stand-in for the journalist Etienne Fajon (in Aragon, ORC, vol. 3, 1560). 104. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 1246. 105. De Gaulle is first mentioned in relation to his ideas about a mechanized army (Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 1220), and later he is seen listening to Weygand’s concerns about whether he can maintain order after a military defeat (Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 611) . 106. Caute, Communism, 333. 107. Tally is based on the “definitive” 1966 text and does not include the epilogue. 108. “Signposts of fictionality” is from Cohn, Distinction of Fiction. 109. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 628. 110. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 245. 111. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 299. 112. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 503. 113. As noted by Bougnoux in the Pléiade edition’s notes, the anecdote and the four names are found in a history volume about the invasion. See Aragon, ORC, vol. 4, 1481. 114. The interventions are found in Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 533, 573–75, 586–87, 611. 115. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 532. 116. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 533. 117. See Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 631. 118. Beyond the name change, Solomon is more heroic and more decisive than the Bormann from the 1949–51 edition of Les Communistes. Bormann has to ask another militant’s opinion before taking action, whereas Solomon goes directly to find Politzer. Given the information provided by Aragon, it is impossible to tell whether the real Jacques Solomon behaved more like the 1949–51 Bormann or the 1966 Solomon. 119. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 573. 120. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 573. 121. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 574. 122. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 574. 123. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 574. 124. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 574 (emphasis in original). 125. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 575. 126. Vigier quoted in Aragon, ORC, vol. 4, 1494. 127. Wieviorka, “Witness,” 386. 128. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 575. 129. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 586. 130. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 586. 131. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 586. 132. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 586. 133. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 586. 134. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 587.

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135. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 587. 136. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 587. 137. Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 617. 138. Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 624. 139. Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 624. 140. Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 625 (emphasis in original). 141. Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 626. 142. Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 627. 143. Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 627. 144. Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 627. See Grenouillet, Lecteurs, 289–92 for a chart tracing structural changes and the deletion of characters. 145. In 1939, for example, L’Humanité ran a promotion campaign regularly touting on the paper’s front page how many copies of the book had sold. In January 1949, Les Cahiers du communisme devoted two articles to the book: François Billoux’s “Une œuvre classique du communisme scientifique: l’Histoire du PC (b) de l’URSS” and Pierre Doize’s “Ce que m’a appris l’Histoire du PC (b).” 146. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 56–57, 1396. 147. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 131. 148. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 131. 149. Service, Stalin, 361–62; Khlevniuk, New Biography, 95. 150. Khlevniuk, New Biography, 95. 151. Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 632. 152. Aragon, “La Fin du Monde réel,” 635, 637. 153. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 912, 1584. 154. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 51, 1395. 155. “Léon Blum est mort,” L’Humanité, March 31, 1950, 1–2. 156. Grenouillet, Lecteurs, 9. 157. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 1621. 158. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 79. 159. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 79. 160. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 385. 161. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 418. 162. See Aragon, ORC, vol. 4, xxxv, for the dates of Aragon’s research for this section of the novel. 163. Aragon, ORC, vol. 2, xliv; Courtois and Lazar, Histoire, 174; Robrieux, Histoire 1920–1945, 517; Sirot, Maurice Thorez, 280; Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 314, 319, 321. Those accounts differ on aspects of his departure: the specific source of the order to leave his unit (be it the PCF, the Comintern, or Stalin himself), how he left, his desire to leave, and the dates of his departure and arrival. Courtois and Lazar write that Thorez was “kidnapped” by a Communist “commando” and forced to desert. Their account differs sharply from Wieviorka’s. I have furnished the dates provided by Wieviorka. Dates in other accounts differ marginally. 164. See Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 1576.

Louis Aragon and the Great Patriotic War 165. See Wieviorka, Maurice et Jeannette, 314–15. 166. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 863. 167. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 863. 168. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 3, 863. 169. Aragon, Les Communistes, in ORC, vol. 4, 331. 170. See Thorez, Politique de grandeur, 283, 284, 287, 288. 171. Thorez, Politique de grandeur, 304.

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CONCLUSION

Since Vladimir Putin came to power in 1999, Stalin’s image has seen a rehabilitation in Russia.1 In early 2017, the Levada Center released a poll indicating that 46 percent of those surveyed had a positive attitude toward Stalin, meaning they indicated respect, sympathy, or admiration for the dictator. That figure is up 8 percent compared to 2001. Perhaps even more remarkable is that another Levada Center poll (from June 2017) revealed that a plurality of Russians (38 percent) consider Stalin the “most outstanding person” in world history (Putin and the renowned poet Alexander Pushkin tied for second at 34 percent).2 This pronounced and increasing appreciation for Stalin is taking place in a country whose government has been credibly labeled an autocracy, a kleptocracy, a “hybrid regime” of democracy and dictatorship, a flat-out dictatorship, and a “mafia state”—that is, one that functions like an organized crime family, engaging in targeted coercion, exploitation, and murder as needed.3 In his recent Nothing Is True and Everything Is Possible—a book that takes its title from a well-known passage in Hannah Arendt’s The Origins of Totalitarianism—Peter Pomerantsev describes the contemporary Russian political system as one that uses democratic rhetoric for undemocratic intent.4 He sees ominous signs throughout Russian society, even in contemporary architecture in Moscow, where, as he contends, new skyscrapers increasingly recall the “Gotham-gothic turrets of Stalin architecture.”5 He writes, “Long before the city’s political scientists started shouting that the Kremlin was 256

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building a new dictatorship, the architects were whispering: ‘Look at this new architecture, it dreams of Stalin. Be warned, the evil Empire is back.’”6 In this ideological environment, Stalin is viewed by many as a leader who was stable, a manager who had to make sacrifices in the name of efficacy.7 Journalists in contemporary Russia attribute Stalin’s rise in the polls to the fact that a large majority of Russian citizens use television as their primary source of information. And on Russian TV—which is dominated by channels controlled by or connected to the state—Stalin is most of all discussed in relation to his role in the “Great Patriotic War.”8 At the same time, Russian television, as one commentator recently asserted, “says nothing” about atrocities from the Stalinist era, including the Great Famine of the early 1930s and the political purges.9 Similar critiques have been made about contemporary Russian school textbooks, which, despite cursory references to his abuse of human rights, celebrate Stalin as a great leader. The Russian government has, moreover, generously sponsored Stalinist image-making efforts, including the fabrication of busts and the staging of socialist-realist art exhibits depicting Stalin as generalissimo.10 These and other efforts serve a contemporary political purpose. As Alec Luhn writes, “Stalin’s legacy has become a tacit justification as the Putin government has strengthened its own grip on power. Under Stalin, ‘order’ and national prestige trumped human rights or civil liberties.” Such a mentality is corrosive for the rights of individuals. In his 2016 book, The Less You Know, the Better You Sleep, prominent Putin critic David Satter contends that the current Russian government’s most distinguishing characteristic is its “disregard for the value of the individual by comparison with the perceived requirements of the state.”11 In 2014, Satter became the first American reporter to be barred from entry into Russia since the fall of the Soviet Union.12 Not incidentally, in January 2017, a planned talk by Satter at the prestigious Paris School of International Affairs (Sciences Po) was canceled because of—according to Satter and others—fear of reprisals by the Russian government. (The school has academic exchange agreements with Russian universities.)13 In the context of this rising wave of popularity for Stalin as a historical figure, the Russian Communist Party, in June 2016, embarked on a rebranding campaign to attract young supporters. Integral to the effort was a series of images that promoted updated depictions of three of the

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party’s traditional heroes: Marx, Lenin, and Stalin. In one image, Lenin is depicted hunched over and typing on a bright red laptop, and in another, he is rendered as a young, goatee-wearing hipster. Stalin is shown vaping on a red e-cigarette-style pipe, rather than smoking his traditional one. The website of RT—the Kremlin-funded international news organization (formerly known as Russia Today)—granted the Russian Communist Party’s rebranding effort positive coverage, calling the new Lenin “sexy.”14 The favorable reception is not surprising, as RT has been widely and credibly criticized as a modern propaganda outlet, an integral part of a Russian network that relies on bots, trolls, and social media to spread disinformation in a broader effort to destabilize the West, sow distrust in democratic institutions, and support Russia’s domestic interests.15 Russian efforts in 2016 and 2017 to conduct influence campaigns in Western elections (including in the United States, the Netherlands, and France) have been well documented and widely decried.16 Part of the broader Russian disinformation and propaganda network is Sputnik, a state-funded internet news agency that has websites in a number of languages, including French and English (the latter being its “international” version). In the last few years, both the international and French versions of Sputnik have contributed to the Russian state’s overall effort to recast Stalin and Stalinism in a more favorable light. These articles entail revisions of history that range from the subtle to the outright shocking. For example, in response to the erecting of a monument in the United States to the Holodomor (the Ukrainian name for the Great Famine), Sputnik International published an article in August 2015 titled “Holodomor Hoax: Joseph Stalin’s Crime That Never Took Place.” The article claimed the “socalled Ukrainian Holodomor” was one of the twentieth century’s “most famous myths and vitriolic pieces of anti-Soviet propaganda.” The piece argues (falsely) that the famine was the result of natural forces, rather than an outgrowth of Stalin’s brutal collectivization policies.17 While the article acknowledges the existence of a famine in the early 1930s, it is the headline that has the most impact: a crime that never took place. That same month, Sputnik International published a piece called “Who Controls the Past Controls the Future: Why Does West Hate Stalin?” A few months later, the website tried a different approach with an article called “There’s Something about Stalin: Why West Still Reveres the Soviet Leader.” That latter

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title—with a reference to the comedy There’s Something about Mary—is typical of Sputnik: a cross between BuzzFeed and Pravda. Another noteworthy instance of historical revisionism was an article of August 2015 in Sputnik International that revisits the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, erroneously casting it as a necessary deed that allowed the USSR to “accumulate its resources in the face of an inevitable invasion from the West.”18 That article makes the ludicrous claim that when the USSR was “moving into the territories of ‘Poland’” (note the quotation marks) in September 1939, Poland did not exist since the Nazis had already invaded it. Lest we think articles in Sputnik are sideshows and that the absurdities have no consequence, in September 2016, Russia’s Supreme Court—in direct contradiction with historical reality—ruled that the USSR did not invade Poland. In the process, the court upheld the conviction of a Russian blogger who had reposted an article describing the Soviet invasion.19 It is important to underscore that the Soviet invasion of Poland was a direct result of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, which served as a means of allowing the USSR and Nazi Germany to split up territory in eastern Europe. Furthermore, Stalin, as is well known, was surprised by and unprepared for the Nazi invasion of June 1941, despite spurious claims that the Soviets long expected to be invaded and that the pact served mainly as a means of buying time to prepare for war.20 This contemporary Russian fixation on the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact chimes with a similar fixation within the PCF, one that lasted for many years after the agreement was signed, as seen in my treatment of Les Communistes in chapter 4. Indeed, Aragon’s massive multivolume novel is a very belabored attempt to demonstrate the high level of patriotism among French Communists before and after the signing of the pact. In the lead-up to the French presidential election of 2017, Sputnik France consistently provided Front National leader Marine Le Pen with favorable coverage, a fact not surprising given her steadfast support for Putin’s 2014 invasion of Crimea. Le Pen is part of an international cohort of authoritarian and xenophobic far-right politicians and leaders—widely referred to as “populists”—who have received support from the Kremlin, a group that includes Donald Trump in the United States and Geert Wilders in the Netherlands. During the presidential election campaign, Le Pen pledged to recognize Crimea as part of Russia if elected.21 The Front National party

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also received loans from Russian banks, loans that were widely rumored to have been linked to Le Pen’s support for the invasion of Crimea.22 Moreover, stories frequently appeared in Sputnik (as well as on the RT website) that showed alignment between Le Pen’s positions and Russia’s interests. In early 2017, for instance, Sputnik France ran a story based on Le Pen’s assertion that it is fraudulent (“une grosse arnaque,” as she stated) to call Russia a menace.23 This new Franco-Russian connection through nationalist authoritarian politics serves as the twenty-first-century answer to the Franco-Soviet link that existed within the Comintern and the Cominform. As Le Pen herself stated during a March 2017 visit to Moscow, “We have always believed that Russia and France need to maintain and develop the ties that have bound us for a long time.”24 Stalin thus haunts the Russian political landscape as well as the international one, by way of Putin’s assertion of Russian power around the globe—power that is bolstered domestically via associations with a not-too-distant Soviet past. This is not to say that Russia represents a new superpower. (Its GDP is roughly one-eighth the size of that of the United States.) But given its possession of a vast arsenal of nuclear weapons and its recent efforts to influence elections in multiple democratic states, Putin’s country is more than just a “regional power” (in Barack Obama’s infelicitous 2014 formulation). Against this backdrop, a recent study conducted by the Victims of Communism Memorial Foundation and YouGov found that one-third of millennials in the United States believe that George W. Bush was responsible for more deaths than Joseph Stalin.25 It is thus clear that contemporary perceptions of Stalin are in flux and lack a solid grounding in history. There is therefore a need for broader dissemination of facts about his regime and the Soviet Union before, during, and after his rule. This book represents a contribution to that much-needed effort. By understanding the ways in which French Stalinist discourse was formulated during pivotal decades in the twentieth century, one can get a better understanding of how strains of Stalinism resurface in the contemporary context. Moreover, understanding the manner in which French intellectuals at midcentury betrayed one of their core missions— that of being secular moral guides for the French and even international audience—sheds light on how individuals can be complicit with authoritarian movements in a host of contexts (past, present, and international). This

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is especially important in the early twenty-first-century context wherein there has been a recent, sharp rise in authoritarianism around the world, including the United States, Hungary, Poland, Egypt, Turkey, and the Philippines. Furthermore, the echo chamber created by the PCF is a phenomenon that finds parallels well beyond mid-twentieth-century France. Indeed, the French Communist Party’s mediasphere has a powerful equivalent in today’s partisan media and social media environments, both of which have contributed to acute polarization as well as the rapid and global spread of new forms of propaganda, often described under the frequently misused and too general term “fake news.” This new context—of rising authoritarianism, political polarization, and an increasing prevalence of propaganda— bears a close relationship with the political and intellectual environment explored in this study. So it is true, as we saw in this book’s introduction: one cannot understand the twentieth century without understanding Stalin. But understanding Stalin and Stalinism also helps us understand the twenty-first century in ways that would have been unimaginable in the early post–Cold War period. September 28, 2017 Notes 1. See Luhn, “Stalin, Russia’s New Hero”; Rosenberg, “A new poll”; Taylor, “Positive Views of Stalin.” 2. See Filipov, “For Russians.” 3. See Gessen, “Putin”; Kasparov, Winter Is Coming, xi. 4. Arendt, Origins of Totalitarianism, 382; Pomerantsev, Nothing Is True, 65. 5. Pomerantsev, Nothing Is True, 105. 6. Pomerantsev, Nothing Is True, 105. 7. Pomerantsev, Nothing Is True, 66. 8. On state control of television, see Ioffe, “Russia’s Latest Protests”; “Russia Profile.” 9. See Rosenberg, “A new poll.” 10. See Luhn, “Stalin, Russia’s New Hero” on textbooks and exhibits. 11. Satter, The Less You Know, 170. 12. See Seddon, “Russia Expels American Journalist.” 13. See Aveline, “One of France’s.” See Satter, The Less You Know, 1–39 for a persuasive argument regarding the use of state-sponsored domestic terrorism (which served as pretext for the second Chechen war) to ensure a smooth transition of power between Yeltsin and Putin in 1999. 14. See “Sexy Lenin & E-smoking Stalin.”

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15. See Erlanger, “Russia’s RT Network”; “Background.” Bots are applications that perform strategically timed automated tasks, and trolls (in this context) are computer operatives who act in support of a specific cause. 16. See Higgins, “Fake News”; Blood, “Is Social Media Empowering”; Valentini, “Macron Says”; “Background.” As of this writing (September 2017), the full extent to which the Russian government meddled in the 2016 election in the United States remains unclear. It has, however, been established that the Russian government conducted an extensive influence campaign. Moreover, Russian hacking of election-related systems, services, and databases did indeed occur. See Perlroth et al., “Russian Election Hacking Efforts” for additional information. It furthermore remains unclear the full extent to which the campaign of then-candidate Donald Trump was receptive to or complicit in Russian efforts to influence the outcome of the election. 17. See Blinova, “Holodomor Hoax.” 18. See Blinova, “Untold Story.” 19. See Coynash, “Russia’s Supreme Court.” On the pact, see Khlevniuk, New Biography, 165–66. 20. Khlevniuk, New Biography, 198–206. 21. See “Marine Le Pen prête.” 22. See Samuel, “Marine Le Pen’s Links.” 23. See “Marine Le Pen: ‘Mener.’” 24. See Gaffey, “Marine Le Pen Calls.” After Le Pen lost the election to Emmanuel Macron, Sputnik France continued to give her favorable coverage, while at the same time publishing stories critical of the new French president and underscoring low voter turnout. See, for example, “La France a choisi ‘cinq ans d’échec de plus’”; “Le Pen ne gagne pas cette élection, mais le succès est au rendez-vous”; Sapir, “Emmanuel Macron.” 25. See “New Report.”

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I N DEX

Page numbers followed by f indicate a figure. Action Française newspaper, 227 Alliluyeva, Nadezhda, 65, 96n145 L’Ame enchantée (Rolland), 106, 117, 218 Amsterdam-Pleyel movement, 53, 57, 94n103, 100n256 L’Ancien Combattant, 50 Aragon, Louis, 3–5, 14, 27–29, 31–32, 121, 207–49; allegiance to the PCF of, 207, 209–11, 249nn8–9; autobiographical work of, 210; on Barbusse’s work, 28, 75, 81–83, 86–88; biographical scholarship on, 33, 209; Ce Soir newspaper of, 148, 209, 227; Commune journal and, 192, 209, 213–14; death and legacy of, 209; de-Stalinization period of, 32, 208, 210, 241–49; Eluard and, 189–90, 192–95, 196; fame and reputation of, 208, 211; fusion of poetry and politics by, 27–28; heroes of, 208; L’Homme communiste of, 86, 189, 198, 216–17; on Hugo, 161–62; indictment and Affaire Aragon of, 189–90; Les Lettres françaises and, 208–9; military service of, 207–8, 216, 237; on the MolotovRibbentrop Pact, 149, 227–30; Monde réel cycle of, 218, 241–43; revolutionary and patriotic works of, 211–17; Rolland and, 150–51; socialist realism and, 164, 214–15,

232; surrealist movement and, 27, 207; on Thorez, 198, 209–10, 216–17, 223; visits to the USSR by, 212–13, 249n9. See also Les Communistes Arendt, Hannah, 256 al-Assad, Bashar, 8 Association des Amis de l’Union Soviétique, 149 Association France-URSS, 167 Association Républicaine des Anciens Combattants (ARAC), 50, 222 Atlantic alliance. See NATO Au-dessus de la mêlée (Rolland), 107–9 “Au Nom de l’amitié” (Eluard), 185 Au Rendez-vouz allemand (Eluard), 205n128 Balzac, Honoré de, 26–27 Barbusse, Henri, 1, 3–5, 27–30, 40–56; antiwar writing of, 6, 27, 41, 43–45, 49, 76, 83, 88, 91n26; Aragon’s writing on, 28, 75, 81–83, 86; biographies of, 74–77; biography of Stalin by, 6, 14, 28, 29–30, 35n39, 41–42, 56–90, 91n6, 174, 184; death and funeral of, 28, 53, 74, 76, 83–84, 85f, 101n273; debates with Rolland of, 109–12; depictions of the USSR by, 46–49, 57, 60–62, 67–68, 75–77, 81; fame and reputation

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Index

Barbusse (cont.) of, 49–53, 74–79, 91n26, 101n276, 105; film script by, 87; heroes of, 30, 44–45, 53–56; honors and awards of, 6, 27, 83–86, 94n98; military service of, 42–43; Monde magazine of, 26, 28–29, 51–53, 56–57, 82, 92n65; PCF membership of, 49, 51; posthumous publications of, 91n4; radical writings of, 45–49, 74; on Trotsky, 72–73; visits to the USSR by, 56–57, 75, 77, 90n1. See also Le Feu; Staline: Un monde nouveau vu à travers un homme Barère, Bertrand, 145 Barjavel, René, 32 Barrès, Maurice, 32 Barrias, Louis-Ernest, 162 Bastille Day, 17, 18, 22, 38n94, 80, 82 Baudelaire, Charles, 165, 201n30 Baudorre, Philippe, 74–75, 93n73 Beaumarchais, Pierre, 27 Becker, Lucille, 221 Belissa, Marc, 132 Beloyannis, Nikos, 167–68 Beria, Lavrentii Pavlovich, 60, 95n122 Bey, Essad, 77–78 Billaud-Varenne, Jean-Nicolas, 139–41, 145 Bloch, Jean-Richard, 34n9, 109, 148, 175, 198, 223 Bloch, Marc, 132 Blum, Léon, 19, 189, 228, 244–45 Bosc, Yannick, 132 Bougnoux, Daniel, et al., 250n53, 251n66, 253n113 Bouthonnier, Paul, 129–30 Brandenberger, David, 58, 95n122 Brasillach, Robert, 32 Breton, André, 4–5, 118, 170, 188–93; Eluard and, 191–93, 205n117, 207; surrealist movement and, 204n98, 207 Brezhnev, Leonid, 170 Bruegel the Elder, Pieter, 237, 238f Bruhat, Jean, 135–36 Bukharin, Nikolai, 117, 122–23, 135 Bulgakov, Mikhail, 58 Burrin, Philippe, 20 Bush, George W., 260 La Butte Rouge, 49

Cachin, Marcel, 12, 25, 34n9, 185, 223; on Barbusse, 52, 55, 57, 76; on Communist heroism, 225; on Eluard, 196; on enemies of the people, 49; with Picasso, 193, 194f; on surrealism, 204n98 “Le Cadeau à Staline” (Stil), 175 Les Cahiers du bolchévisme/communisme, 11–14, 36n41, 59–60, 254n145; on the anniversary of the French Revolution, 129; on Barbusse, 55; on the Cold War, 225; on Stalin’s seventieth birthday, 174–75 Camélinat, Zéphirin, 23 “La Carmagnole,” 166–67, 201n30 Caron, Pierre, 128–29 Casanova, Danielle, 24, 223, 225 Casanova, Laurent, 195 Caute, David, 232 Les Caves du Vatican (Gide), 20 Céline, Louis-Ferdinand, 32 “Certificat” (Eluard), 190, 195 Ce Soir newspaper, 29, 148, 209, 227 Char, René, 199 Charachidzé, David, 75–76 Châteaubriant, Alphonse de, 32 Chekhov, Anton, 27 Chevrier, Guy, 202n61 Chiaureli, Mikhail, 175 Clarté magazine, 50, 110; “Lenin’s Testament” in, 72; Trotskyist views of, 29, 55–56 Claudel, Paul, 165, 201n24 Les Cloches de Bâle (Aragon), 218 Coin, Jean, 160 Colas Breugnon (Rolland), 117, 151 Cold War, 4, 13–14, 32, 187–88, 209, 219–31; Cominform policies of, 31–32, 37n60, 60, 160, 164–74, 178, 187–88, 219, 231; as context for Aragon’s Les Communistes, 209, 219–20, 223–31, 239, 251n66; Eastern Europe in, 209, 210–11; Eluard’s views on, 167–71; enemies of the people in, 19–20; Greek civil war of, 167–70, 201nn39–40; Stalin cult of personality and, 174; Western policies and alliances of, 2, 14, 161, 177–78, 185, 187, 203n77, 211, 224, 226–27 collective memory, 18–23, 37n65 Le Combattant, 50

Index | La Comédie humaine (Balzac), 26 Comité international contre le fascisme, 113 Comité national des écrivains (CNE), 193, 195, 208 commemorative culture, 23–26, 34n12, 38n84, 38n94, 106, 121–24, 134–36, 151; Barbusse’s heroes and, 30, 44–45, 53–56; of the Cominform era, 31, 60, 160, 164, 172, 174, 178; display of corpses and death masks in, 160, 195, 205n134; Eluard’s participation in, 2, 31, 165, 171–85; French Revolution in, 30, 106, 127–50, 217; Joan of Arc in, 17, 23–24, 225; Nikolai Gogol in, 27, 162; Rolland’s heroes and, 109, 112–13, 115; Stalin’s seventieth birthday in, 1–2, 12, 12f, 14, 31, 165, 172–85, 202n61; tributes to Aragon in, 211; tributes to Barbusse, 83–84, 85f; tributes to Eluard in, 195–200; tributes to Rolland in, 151; Victor Hugo in, 23, 26–27, 84, 160–66, 169, 172. See also cults of personality; Stalin’s birthday celebrations Commune journal, 28–29, 78–79, 149; Aragon’s contributions to, 192, 209, 213–14; Rolland’s “Retour de Moscou” in, 118–20 Communism, 4. See also French Communist Party; Russian Communist Party; Soviet Union; Third International Les Communistes (Aragon), 32, 208–9, 217–49; afterword of, 234, 241–44; antifascist message of, 224–27; Aragon’s revisionism in, 219–20, 241–46; character development in, 219–23; Cold War context of, 209, 219–20, 223–31, 239, 251n66; critical reviews of, 218, 221, 224, 232, 238; discontinuation of, 218, 231, 248, 251n55; on Dunkirk, 236–41; evolution from first to second version of, 32, 210, 218–20, 228, 232–34, 236–46, 251n59; historical figures in, 223, 234–36, 253n105, 253n118; longform narrative approach of, 217–18; on loyalty to France and Communism, 220, 246, 259; PCF promotion of, 254n145; scholarship on, 250n53; shifting narrative voice of and testimonials of, 220, 231–43, 245–46, 253n118; on the Soviet Union,

287

227–31; Soviet views on, 229; on Thorez, 246–49 “La Confiance d’Henri Martin” (Eluard), 170–71 Congrès de Tours, 20, 245 Congrès international des écrivains pour la défense de la culture, 53, 82 Corneille, Pierre, 27 Courtade, Pierre, 170 Courtois, Stéphane, 254n163 Le Couteau entre les dents (Barbusse), 46–49 “The Creators” (Barbusse), 87 Crémieux, Benjamin, 126, 141 Crevel, René, 83 “Critique de la poésie” (Eluard), 189 Crouzet, François, 132–33 cults of personality, 6–15, 15–20, 34n12, 36n50; of Barbusse, 28; historical antecedents of, 7–8, 35n30, 35n38; Khrushchev’s critique of, 13–14, 36n43, 63, 87, 198, 200; of Lenin, 6, 60, 70–73, 98n187, 110–11, 113, 115; of Pétain, 15–17, 36n50, 179, 184; in Putin’s Russia, 5–6, 8–9, 34n15, 256–57, 260; of Thorez, 25–26, 38n100, 185–87, 246–49. See also commemorative culture; Stalin’s cult of personality Dabit, Eugène, 83 Daix, Pierre, 20, 34n9, 175, 249n8 Daladier, Édouard, 149 “D’Alfred de Vigny à Avdéenko: Les écrivains dans les soviets” (Aragon), 214–15 Dante, 165 Danton (Rolland), 124 Danton, Georges, 124, 132–34, 138–39 Datta, Venita, 23, 38n94, 125 Davies, Sarah, 58, 66 Déat, Marcel, 189 “Déclaration d’Indépendance de l’Esprit” (Rolland), 109–10 Decour, Jacques, 149, 225 de Gaulle, Charles, 1–2; “Appeal of 18 June” of, 218, 231; Aragon and, 208, 247; government-in-exile of, 18; in Les Communistes, 231, 253n105; patriotic ideal of France of, 179; resistance movement of, 24, 231 Denizot, Marion, 125–26, 151, 159n249

288 | Index “La Dernière Nuit” (Eluard), 205n128 Desmoulins, Camille, 138–39 Des principes du Léninisme (Stalin), 24 de-Stalinization, 13, 30; Aragon’s evolution in, 32, 208, 210, 241–49; Khrushchev’s contributions to, 13–14, 36n43, 63, 87, 198, 200; of the PCF, 4, 25, 32, 34n12, 198–200 Dimitrov, Georgy, 117–18 “Discours funèbre” (Aragon), 196 Djugashvili, Josef Vissarionovich, 26. See also Stalin, Joseph Dorgelès, Roland, 214 “12e Congrès” (Eluard), 186 Drieu la Rochelle, Pierre, 32 Dubois, Jacques, 197–98, 206n143 Duchamp, Marcel, 211 Duchatelet, Bernard, 126, 151 Duclos, Jacques, 34n9, 185, 198, 209–10, 223; on Eluard, 196; on PCF resistance during World War II, 23; Picasso and, 193, 194f Dumas, Marcelle, 195 Duplay, Eléonore, 147 “Du Temps que les surréalistes avaient raison” pamphlet, 190–91 Editions de Minuit, 193 Editions Sociales, 161, 175 Einstein, Albert, 52, 86, 107, 109 Eisenhower, Dwight D., 226 Eluard, Dominique, 197, 198 Eluard, Paul, 2–5, 31, 162–200; affiliation with the PCF of, 171–72, 188–95, 199–200, 205n128; Aragon and, 189–90, 193–95; biographical scholarship on, 170, 198–200; Breton and, 191–93, 205n117, 207; Cold War-era views of, 167–71, 201nn39–40; death and legacy of, 195– 200, 205n135, 206n143; fame of, 193; French patriotism of, 166–67; on Hugo, 162–66; occupation-era publishing of, 29; on PCF heroes, 185; Pléiade volumes of, 195; politically engaged poetry of, 162–67, 193, 205n128; on the role of violence, 166– 67; surrealist movement and, 27, 188–93, 197; on Thorez, 185–87; on USSR vitality, 171–72; visits to the USSR by, 162, 167–68; wartime poetry of, 193; works for Stalin’s

seventieth birthday by, 2, 31, 165, 172–85, 202n61 L’Enfer (Barbusse), 91n26 Engels, Friedrich, 14, 25, 26 Europe review, 29 “L’Evidence poétique” (Eluard), 191 Fajon, Etienne, 196 fascism. See Italian fascism; Nazi Germany Le Feu (Barbusse), 6, 49, 76, 83, 88, 91n26; antiwar themes of, 43–45; awards received for, 27, 41; narrator of, 239 Feuchtwanger, Lion, 57, 58 Field, Frank, 74 Fils du peuple (Thorez), 25–26, 195 “La fin du Monde réel: Postface” (Aragon), 234, 241–44 Fisher, David, 126 Flaubert, Gustave, 27 Foreign Affairs, 49 Fougeron, André, 34n9 Fourrier, Marcel, 50 France-URSS publication, 167 Francis, R. A., 126 the francisque, 16–17 Franco, Francisco, 192 Franco-Soviet Mutual Assistance Pact, 81–82, 116–18, 135, 260 French Communist Party (PCF): Aragon’s allegiance to, 207, 209–11, 249nn8–9; Bolshevik discourse of, 9, 26, 33n2, 167; Comintern policies and, 213; deStalinization of, 4, 25, 32, 34n12, 198–200, 244; dual ideals of, 2, 15, 17–23, 36n58, 41–42, 80, 100n257, 127, 146–47, 190, 193, 196, 208, 217; Eluard’s affiliation with, 171–72, 188–95, 199–200, 205n128; on enemies of the people, 19–20, 37n72; founding of, 4, 20; Front Populaire and, 81–83, 100n256, 215–17; L’Histoire du PC (b) de l’URSS and, 243–44; minor personality cults of, 185; on NATO and American “occupation,” 2, 14, 161, 177–78, 185, 187, 203n77, 211, 224, 226–27; official banning of, 225–27, 229, 235, 245; propaganda of, 2–6, 25–33, 261; publications of, 9–14, 25–29, 36n41; relationship with de Gaulle

Index | of, 37n68; relationship with socialists of, 17, 36nn57–58, 228, 244–45; size of, 37n60; Stalin’s seventieth birthday and, 165, 172–85, 202n61; surrealist movement and, 4–5, 188–93, 197, 204n98, 205n117, 207, 216, 250n44; women’s role in, 34n9; World War II resistance and, 23, 24, 169, 178–79, 183, 196, 216–18, 222–27, 235, 241; writers and intellectuals associated with, 3–4, 17, 26–29, 34n9, 39nn118–19, 106, 171–72. See also commemorative culture; mediasphere of the PCF; Stalin’s cult of personality; Thorez, Maurice French Revolution, 17, 22; anthems and poetry of, 146–47, 166–67, 182–83, 201n30, 212–13; Barbusse on, 45, 79–80; Bastille Day and, 22; Committee of Public Safety of, 136, 138, 145; enemies of the people and, 19; Jacobins of, 19, 22, 23, 37n72, 125, 135–39, 143, 146; PCF celebrations of, 30, 106, 127–31, 217; Reign of Terror of, 30–31, 106, 123–24, 125, 133, 137–50; Rolland’s Robespierre and, 30–31, 105–6, 116, 123–48, 155n99; Rolland’s Theater of the Revolution cycle on, 124 “French Revolution and Russian Revolution” (Barbusse), 79–80 Freud, Sigmund, 107 Fréville, Jean, 27, 34n9, 84, 195 Front National, 259–60 Front Populaire movement, 3–5, 18–19, 34n8, 42, 115, 129, 167; Comintern’s United Front policy and, 17, 80–81, 83, 100n256, 124; Congrès international des écrivains pour la défense de la culture and, 53, 82; ideal of Frenchness of, 21, 190, 215–17; PCF and, 81–83, 100n256; Stalin cult and, 59–60 “Front Rouge” (Aragon), 189, 192, 212 Gallinari, Pauline, 202n61, 204n94 Gamarra, Pierre, 218–19 Gamelin, Maurice, 223 Gandhi, Mohandas, 30, 53–54, 93n78, 107, 111–14, 153n40 Gateau, Jean-Charles, 198–99 Gaullists, 1, 19, 24, 231

289

German-Soviet Boundary and Friendship Treaty, 227 Germany. See Nazi Germany Gide, André, 3, 58, 76–77; critiques of the USSR by, 20, 103–5, 111, 119, 127, 152, 152n4, 214; reputation and legacy of, 152; on Rolland, 121 “The Gift to Stalin” (Stil), 14 The God That Failed (ed. Crossman), 152n4 Goebells, Joseph, 129 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 165 Gogol, Nikolai, 27, 162 Gorky, Maxim, 49, 52, 57–58, 107, 117, 123 Gottwald, Klement, 167 Goulemot, Jean Marie, 34n12, 35n39 Granat Encyclopedia, 95–96n122 Greek civil war, 167–70, 201nn39–40 Grenier, Fernand, 34n9 Grenouillet, Corinne, 246 Grinko, Grigori Fedorovich, 90, 122 Guéhenno, Jean, 128 Guibber, Yvette, 89f Hanley, David, 125, 155n101 Harris, James, 58, 66 H. Barbusse, les Soviets et la Géorgie (Charachidzé), 75–76 Hébert, Jacques-René, 132, 136–40 Henri Barbusse: Écrivain combattant (Relinger), 75–77 Henri Barbusse: Soldat de la paix (Vidal), 74 heroes. See commemorative culture; cults of personality L’Histoire du PC (b) de l’URSS, 243–44 Histoire socialiste de la révolution française (Jaurès), 133 Hitler, Adolf, 8, 15–16, 114, 122, 226. See also Nazi Germany Holodomor, 258 Homer, 165 “Hommage à Staline” (Thorez), 175, 176f, 180, 187 L’Homme communiste (Aragon), 86, 189, 198, 216–17 L’Homme du communisme (Bloch), 175 L’Homme que nous aimons le plus (Eluard), 2, 31, 86, 173–87, 202n61; Eluard’s script for,

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L’Homme que nous aimons le plus (cont.) 178–87; exaggerated depictions of Stalin in, 183–85; French ideals in, 31, 179–84; official censorship of, 187, 204n94; still photos from, 177f, 179–81f, 185–86f; versions of, 202n61 “L’Homme que nous aimons le plus” pamphlet, 176–78, 184 Horáková, Milada, 170 Hourra l’Oural (Aragon), 62, 212–13 Hugo, Jean, 162 Hugo, Valentine, 199 Hugo, Victor, 23, 84, 208; anniversary celebration of, 160–66, 169, 172; Eluard’s writings on, 162–66; monuments to, 162, 200n7; Stalin’s preference for, 26–27; translated works of, 161, 162 “Hugo, poète réaliste” (Aragon), 161 L’Humanité newspaper, 9, 14, 42; Aragon’s work for, 209; on Barbusse’s work, 74; on Blum’s legacy, 245; Cold War content of, 225–27; on the French Revolution, 130, 131f; official banning of, 227, 229; on Stalin’s birthday celebrations, 10–12f, 59, 60, 172–74; on Victor Hugo’s anniversary celebration, 160–62; writers for, 28–29 Hussein, Saddam, 8 Iline, Mikhail, 165–66 intellectuals. See writers and intellectuals “L’Internationale,” 146–47, 202n61, 212 L’Internationale des Anciens Combattants (IAC), 50 L’Internationale newspaper, 49 International Literature magazine, 123, 134 Istrati, Panaït, 214 Italian fascism, 20, 113. See also Mussolini, Benito “It’s History’s Turn to Speak” (Rolland), 147 “J’accuse!” (Zola), 44, 46, 47f Jackson, Julian, 36n50 “A Jacques Duclos” (Eluard), 185 Jaurès, Jean, 23–24, 49, 108–9, 133 “Jaurès” (Rolland), 108–9 Jean, Raymond, 198–99 Jean-Christophe (Rolland), 106–7, 117

Jésus (Barbusse), 54–56 Jésus contre Dieu (Barbusse), 93n80 Jesus of Nazareth, 30, 54–55 Jeu de l’amour et de la mort (Rolland), 156n122 Joan of Arc, 17, 23–24, 225 La Joconde à moustache (Duchamp), 211 Jordan, David, 132 “Joseph Staline” (Eluard), 184–85 Joseph Stalin: A Short Biography (Alexandrov et al.), 69, 86–87, 101n273, 176 Les Judas de Jésus (Barbusse), 54–55 Kaganovitch, Lazar, 58, 118, 123 Kalandra, Záviš, 170, 198 Kamenev, Lev, 204n112 Kanapa, Jean, 34n9 Katyn Forest Massacre, 13 Kemp-Welch, A., 58 Khlevniuk, Oleg, 244, 252n78 Khrushchev, Nikita: at Barbusse’s funeral, 83; critiques of the Stalin cult by, 13–14, 36n43, 63, 87, 198, 200 Kim dynasty of North Korea, 8 Kirov, Sergey, 58, 116, 149 Koudachev, Sergei, 149 Kravchenko, Victor, 199 Kriegel, Annie, 9, 17 Kryuchkov, Pyotr, 122 Kundera, Milan, 170 Kurella, Alfred, 95n113 Kuromiya, Hiroaki, 4, 69–70 Lakoba, Nestor, 95n122 Lautréamont, 190 Lavabre, Marie-Claire, 21, 37n65 Laval, Pierre, 81 Lazar, Marc, 254n163 leader cults. See cults of personality League of Nations: Barbusse’s views of, 45, 48; USSR and, 80–81, 116, 228–29 Lecœur, Auguste, 196 Lefebvre, Georges, 133 Lenin, Vladimir, 7, 14, 30, 176; Barbusse’s promotion of, 48–50, 53–55, 60–61, 70–73, 110–11; commemorative milestones of, 24, 25; in contemporary Russia, 258; cult

Index | of personality of, 6, 60, 70–73, 110–11, 115; on enemies of the people, 19–20, 37n72; Marxist writings of, 26; Rolland’s praise of, 113; tomb of, 21, 40 “Lenin: Art and Action” (Rolland), 115 “Lenin’s Testament,” 72, 78, 99n211 Le Pen, Marine, 259–60, 262n24 The Less You Know, the Better You Sleep (Satter), 257 Lettres de Lénine à sa famille (Barbusse), 91n4 Les Lettres françaises, 20, 29, 151, 205n135; Aragon’s work for, 208–10; closure of, 210; Cold War content of, 225; Eluard’s contributions to, 193; Picasso’s portrait of Stalin in, 210, 249n8; on Stalin’s seventieth birthday celebrations, 175–78; “Year of Hugo” of, 161 “Liberté” (Eluard), 27, 193 lieux de mémoire, 18–23, 37n65 “La Ligne droite” (Barbusse), 51 Litvinov, Maksim, 252n78 Louis XIV, King of France, 7 Les Loups (Rolland), 124 Ludwig, Emil, 57, 77 Lueur dans l’abîme (Barbusse), 46–48 Lukacs, Georg, 161 Lunacharsky, Anatoly, 51, 114 Macron, Emmanuel, 262n24 Mahatma Gandhi (Rolland), 93n78, 112 Malraux, André, 3, 121 Mao Zedong, 8 Marat, Jean-Paul, 7 Marchais, Georges, 211 “La Marseillaise,” 146–47, 166–67, 182–83, 212–13 Marshall Plan, 14, 177–78, 187 Martin, Henri, 170–71 Martinet, Marcel, 109 Marty, André, 202n61 Marx, Karl, 14, 25, 26, 258 Mathiez, Albert, 133, 140, 144 Maupassant, Guy de, 27 Maurras, Charles, 32 Mayakovsky, Vladimir, 162, 165 McPhee, Peter, 132, 144

291

mediasphere of the PCF, 2–6, 25–33, 34n12, 261; on Aragon’s Les Communistes, 254n145; Barbusse’s contributions to, 49–53; on Barbusse’s Staline, 81–82, 83; during the Cold War, 178, 225–27; on the French Revolution, 129–30, 131f; narrative techniques of, 29; periodicals aligned with, 49–50; on Robespierre, 134–36; Rolland’s contributions to, 117–22; on Rolland’s Robespierre, 126–28, 148; Stalin cult and propaganda in, 6, 9–15, 29–33, 35n38, 36n41, 36n46, 59–60, 182–85; on Stalin’s seventieth birthday celebrations, 172–78. See also Les Cahiers du bolchévisme/ communisme; L’Humanité newspaper Medvedev, Roy, 58, 69, 72, 172 Mémoires d’un révolutionnaire (Serge), 56 “Message aux délégués du rassemblement pour la paix” (Eluard), 169–70 Michelet, Jean, 132 Miglioli, Guido, 114 Mirabeau, Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, 130 Les Misérables (Hugo), 162 Molière, 27 Molotov, Vyacheslav, 118, 123, 252n78 Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, 4, 13, 15, 23, 32, 82, 148–51, 209; in Aragon’s Les Communistes, 227–30; banning of PCF and, 225–27; contemporary revisionism of, 259; GermanSoviet Boundary and Friendship Treaty and, 227; secret provisions on Eastern Europe in, 149, 228, 252n91, 259 Monde magazine, 26, 28–29, 56–57; on Barbusse’s Staline, 82, 87–88; political stance of, 51–53, 92n65, 93nn72–73; Stalin’s cult of personality in, 59, 60 Monde réel cycle (Aragon), 37n65, 218, 241– 43. See also Les Communistes Les Montagnes et les hommes (Iline), 165–66 Montefiore, Simon Sebag, 69 Montherlant, Henry de, 32 Mont Valérien, 225, 235 Monzie, Anatole de, 234–36 Morgan, Claude, 148, 178 Münzenberg, Willi, 58 Musset, Alfred de, 124 Mussolini, Benito, 8, 20, 122, 129

292

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Nadeau, Maurice, 152 Napoleon Bonaparte, 7 Napoleon III (Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte), 8 national identity, 17–23, 37n65 NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization), 2, 14, 185, 211, 226–27 Naville, Pierre, 55 Nazi Germany, 4, 20, 128, 137; annexation of Austria by, 192; Franco-Soviet Mutual Assistance Pact and, 81–82, 116–18, 135; German-Soviet Boundary and Friendship Treaty and, 227; invasion of Poland by, 128, 259; invasion of USSR by, 150; Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of, 4, 13, 15, 23, 32, 82, 148–51, 209, 225–30, 252n91. See also Hitler, Adolf; World War II Necker, Jacques, 130 Nehru, Jawaharlal, 107 Nekrasov, Nikolay, 165 Nizan, Paul, 3, 75, 83, 87–88, 228 NKVD (People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs), 13 Nobel Prize, 27, 107, 188 Notes sur la révolution bolchévique (Sadoul), 92n37 Nothing Is True and Everything Is Possible (Pomerantsev), 256–57 “Nous accusons!” (Barbusse), 46, 47f Nous continuons la France film, 21 La Nouvelle Critique, 209 “Novembre 1936” (Eluard), 191 Obama, Barack, 260 October Revolution of 1917, 21, 24, 40, 59, 114, 150 Œuvres complètes (Eluard), 168, 205n117 Œuvres romanesque croisées (Aragon and Triolet), 219, 250n53 One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (Solzhenitsyn), 34n12 On the History of the Bolshevik Organizations in Transcaucasia (Beria), 60, 95n122 Oradour-sur-Glane massacre, 183, 203n77, 225, 231 The Origins of Totalitarianism (Arendt), 256 “Panorama” (Rolland), 115–16

Paris Commune of 1871, 21–23, 37n79, 79, 183, 217 Parti Communiste Français (PCF). See French Communist Party Paul Eluard: Livre d’identité (Valette), 199 Pavlovna, Marija, 119 PCF. See French Communist Party People’s Republic of China, 24 personality cults. See cults of personality Pétain, Philippe, 5, 19–20, 223, 226; cult of personality of, 15–17, 36n50; vision of France of, 179, 184 Petőfi, Sándor, 167 Picasso, Pablo, 173, 193, 194f, 199, 210, 249n8 Pils, Isidore, 182 Plamper, Jan, 6, 8, 35n30, 59, 66, 172 Plaud, René, 123 Poèmes choisis (Eluard), 167 “La Poésie de circonstance” (Eluard), 164–67, 183 Poésie et vérité (Eluard), 205n128 “Les Poètes que j’ai connus” (Eluard), 193–95 Politzer, Georges, 235, 253n118 Pol Pot, 132 Pomerantsev, Peter, 256–57 Le Populaire newspaper, 244 “Portrait of Gorky” (Rolland), 123 Potemkin visits, 75, 77, 99n236, 116–22, 167–68, 199, 212 “Pour le 70e anniversaire de Staline” (Sadoul), 175 “Pourquoi je suis communiste” (PCF), 171–72 Prague Spring, 210–11 Le Premier choc (Stil), 14, 223–24 “Le Procès de Moscou: Appel aux hommes” pamphlet, 190–91, 204n112 propaganda. See mediasphere of the PCF Pushkin, Alexander, 256 Putin, Vladimir: cult of personality of, 5–6, 8–9, 34n15, 256, 260, 261n13; populist politics of, 259–60 Pyatakov, Georgy, 214 Quinze ans de combat (Rolland), 115–16

Index | Rabelais, François, 27 Racine, Jean, 27 Radek, Karl, 116, 214 Ramadier, Paul, 187 Rees, E. Arfon, 8 Régnault, Mathieu, 142, 146 Relinger, Jean, 75–77 Renan, Ernest, 18 “Réponse aux Jacobins” (Aragon), 212 “La Résistance parisienne au Maréchal Staline” (FFI and FTPF), 175–78, 184 Retouches à mon “Retour de l’URSS” (Gide), 105 Retour de l’URSS (Gide), 20, 103–5, 152, 152n4 “Retour de Moscou” (Rolland), 118–20 Ridgway, Matthew, 185 Rif War, 17, 86 Rimbaud, Arthur, 162 Robeson, Paul, 197 Robespierre (Rolland), 30–31, 105–6, 116, 123–48; afterword to, 147; allegorical link with Communism of, 146–48; dramatic action in, 136–46; performances of, 155n99; political and cultural context of, 106, 127–50; promotion and reviews of, 126–27, 148; scholarly views on, 125–26, 155n101 Robespierre, Maximilien de, 7, 19, 23; assassination attempt on, 139; debates over legacy of, 132–33, 147–48; execution of, 124–25, 133; law of 22 Prairial of, 144–45; monuments to, 134; PCF and Soviet celebration of, 130, 131f, 134–36, 145–50; as proxy for Stalin, 106, 124, 127, 134–36, 141 Rochet, Waldeck, 34n13 Rolland, Romain, 1, 3–5, 27–31, 104–52; Aragon and, 150–51; biographical scholarship on, 33, 126, 151–52, 159n249; on Clarté, 50, 110–11; Commune of, 192; death and legacy of, 151–52; debates with Barbusse of, 109–12; fame and influence of, 105, 121; on the French Revolution, 130; on Gandhi’s nonviolent methods, 54, 93n78, 111–14, 153n40; Gide’s critique of, 105; on Gide’s Retour de l’URSS, 104–5; heroes and mythic figures of, 109, 112–13,

293

115; honors and awards of, 27, 107, 121–22; meetings with Stalin of, 57, 104, 118, 121f, 154n75; Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact and, 148–51; pacifist essays of, 107–9, 152; Robespierre play of, 30–31, 105–6, 116, 123–48, 155n99; romans-fleuve of, 107–8, 117, 151–52, 152n13, 218; on Stalin and the USSR, 113–52; Theater of the Revolution cycle of, 124, 156n122; visit to the USSR by, 104–5, 116–22 “Roman de France” (Aragon), 248 Roman-gazeta periodical, 60 Le Roman inachevé (Aragon), 210, 249n9 Rosenberg, Julius and Ethel, 196–97 Rouget de Lisle, Claude Joseph, 147, 166 Rouget de Lisle Singing la Marseillaise for the First Time (Pils), 182 Rousseaux, André, 224 Rousset, David, 20, 199 RT, 258 Russia: contemporary political system of, 256–57; domestic terrorism of, 261n13; invasion of Crimea by, 259–60; populist support of, 259–60; Putin’s cult of personality in, 5–6, 8–9, 34n15, 260; Sputnik propaganda network of, 258–60, 262n24; Stalin’s reputation in, 256–61; state-controlled media of, 257–58; Western election meddling by, 258–60, 262nn15–16, 262n24 Russian Communist Party, 257–58 Russian Revolution, 67, 182–83; Barbusse’s views of, 46, 48, 79–80; October Revolution of, 21, 24, 38n84, 40, 59, 114, 150; Rolland’s views on, 113–14; Stalin’s role in, 69–70, 78; Western blockade and, 110. See also Soviet Union Russie (Barbusse), 61–62, 75 Sadoul, Georges, 34n9, 78–79, 92n37, 175, 178, 212 Saint-Just, Louis Antoine de, 23, 139–41, 146 Sartre, Jean-Paul, 3 Satter, David, 257, 261n13 Scheler, Lucien, 195 Second Manifeste du surréalisme (Breton), 204n98

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Index

Section Française de l’Internationale Ouvrière (SFIO), 51; antimilitarist ideals of, 42–43; PCF relationship with, 17, 36nn57–58, 100n256, 228, 244–45. See also Front Populaire movement Semaine sanglante, 21 “Le 70e anniversaire de Staline et la littérature” (Daix), 175 Serge, Victor, 56, 118, 154n75, 199, 214 Sérol, Albert, 227, 245 Sérol decree, 225–27 Shakespeare, William, 165 Short Course, 243–44 Sieyès, Emmanuel-Joseph, 130 Sinclair, Upton, 52, 109 socialist realism, 164, 214–15, 232. See also Les Communistes socialists. See Front Populaire movement; Section Française de l’Internationale Ouvrière (SFIO) Solomon, Jacques, 223, 235–36, 253n118 Solzhenitsyn, Alexander, 34n12 Souvarine, Boris, 20, 78–79, 99n211 Soviet Union, 4; Aragon’s writing on, 62; Barbusse’s depictions of, 46–49, 48, 57, 60–62, 67–68, 75–77, 81; Cominform era of, 31–32, 37n60, 60, 160, 164–74, 178, 187–88, 203n77, 219, 231, 243–45; Comintern policies of, 2, 17, 19, 37n60, 42, 80–81, 93, 100n256, 124, 213; commemoration of Victor Hugo in, 160–64; Constitution of 1936 of, 135, 209; de-Stalinization process in, 13, 30, 198, 244; Eluard’s depictions of, 167–68, 171–72; Franco-Soviet Mutual Assistance Pact of, 81–82, 116–18, 135, 260; geopolitical landscape of, 79–83; German invasion of, 150, 259; GermanSoviet Boundary and Friendship Treaty and, 227; Great Famine of, 15, 36n47, 213, 258; Great Terror of, 4, 65, 76, 106, 122–23, 143–44, 209; invasion of Finland and Winter War of, 32, 228–29; invasion of Hungary by, 209, 210; invasion of Poland by, 13, 259; League of Nations and, 80–81, 116, 228–29; Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of, 4, 13, 15, 23, 32, 82, 148–51, 209, 225–30, 252n91; Moscow show trial of 1936 in,

190–92, 204n112, 214; naming traditions of, 25–26; NKVD of, 13; party-controlled media and propaganda of, 35n20, 171; political purges and prisons of, 20, 31, 36n48, 90, 106, 122–24, 209, 213; postwar antisemitism in, 209, 210; Potemkin visits to, 75, 77, 99n236, 116–22, 167–68, 199, 212; privileged party leaders of, 119–20; racial distinction in, 61; Rolland’s depictions of, 113–51; Shakhty trial of, 114; socialist realism of, 164, 214–15; Stalin’s domestic policies in, 14–15, 32, 62, 67, 76, 78, 182, 212–13; Tito’s break with, 170; Trotskyist Left Opposition in, 55–56, 58, 67, 88; Western engagement of, 15. See also Cold War; Russian Revolution; World War II Spanish Civil War, 4–5, 129, 191–92, 193, 199 Sputnik news agency, 258–59, 262n24 Stalin, Joseph, 4, 64–74; affectionate nicknames for, 173; Bey’s biography of, 77–78; childhood of, 66–67, 97n162, 97n166; death of, 2, 210; domestic policies of, 14–15, 32, 212–13; interviews with Western writers of, 57, 118, 154n75; marriage and family life of, 64–66, 96nn145–46; Marxist writings of, 24, 26; name change/pseudonym of, 26, 188; Picasso’s portrait of, 210, 249n8; real birthday of, 188; in the Revolution and Civil War, 69–70, 78; Short Biography of, 69, 86–87, 101n273, 175; Souvarine’s biography of, 78–79, 99n211; violent tendencies of, 68–69; writers preferred by, 26–27. See also Stalin’s cult of personality Staline (Stalin: The Career of a Fanatic) (Bey), 77–78 Staline: Aperçu historique du bolchévisme (Souvarine), 78–79 Staline à ta santé (Picasso), 173 “Staline et la France” (Aragon), 211 Staline: Un monde nouveau vu à travers un homme (Barbusse), 6, 29–30, 35n39, 41–42, 56–90, 91n6; Aragon’s review of, 28, 81–82, 87–88; depictions of the USSR in, 75–76, 81; exaggerated depictions of Stalin in, 30, 62–70, 74, 184; on the

Index | geopolitical landscape, 79–83; impact on Barbusse’s reputation of, 74–79; interviews with Stalin for, 57; legacy in France of, 86–87; legacy in the USSR of, 30, 42, 69, 87–90; promotion of, 81–82, 83; publication of, 60–61; source materials for, 30, 58–59, 75–78, 95n122; on Stalin’s bond with Lenin, 60, 70–73, 98nn187–88; Stetskii’s review of, 59, 88–90, 95n113; translations of, 60, 90 Stalin i Hashimi (Lakoba), 95n122 Stalin Prize for literature, 14, 27, 249 Stalin’s birthday celebrations, 6, 9–14, 34n12, 188; fiftieth in 1929, 6, 9, 10–11f, 13, 172, 188; fifty-fifth in 1934, 9, 11–13, 59, 60, 89f, 95n118; sixtieth in 1939, 13; seventieth in 1949, 1–2, 12, 12f, 14, 31, 165, 172–85, 202n61; international participation in, 172–73 Stalin’s cult of personality, 1–15, 23, 260–61; Aragon’s contributions to, 208–49; Cold War and, 174, 187–88; commemorative celebrations in, 6, 9–14, 24, 25, 31, 34n12, 59–60, 89f, 95n118, 165, 172–85; in contemporary Russia, 256–61; critiques of, 13–14, 20, 36n43, 63, 78–79, 87, 104–5; exaggerated depictions of Stalin in, 1–2, 23, 30, 62–70, 74, 183–84, 213–14; origins in 1929 of, 6, 11–15, 35n39, 59–60, 172, 188; in the PCF mediasphere, 2–6, 9–15, 25–33, 34n12; re-run in Putin’s Russia of, 5–6, 8–9; Short Course on Marxism and, 243–44; Stalin’s alleged opposition to, 120; in the USSR, 6, 9, 13, 35n20, 35n22, 120; visual and descriptive portrayals in, 6, 9–15, 35n38, 36n41, 36n46, 88, 89f, 174–75, 210. See also Aragon, Louis; Barbusse, Henri; deStalinization; Eluard, Paul; Rolland, Romain Stetskii, Aleksei, 41, 59, 88–89, 95n113 Stil, André, 14, 27, 34n9, 175, 223–24, 249 “Strasbourg XIe Congrès” (Eluard), 171 Strauss, Leo, 107 Surkov, Vladislav, 9 surrealist movement, 2, 4–5, 27, 197; Aragon and, 27, 207, 216, 265n44; Breton and,

295

204n98, 207; Eluard and, 27, 188–93, 197; Trotsky and, 190, 191, 205n117. See also Aragon, Louis; Breton, André; Eluard, Paul Svanidze, Ekaterine “Kato,” 65 Theater of the Revolution cycle (Rolland), 124 Third International, 20, 22, 26, 29, 51, 110 Third Republic of France, 23–24, 38n94 Thorez, Maurice, 25, 29, 34n9, 171, 196; on Aragon, 217; Aragon’s writing on, 198, 209–10, 216–17, 223, 246–49; autobiography of, 25, 27, 195; on the banned PCF, 230; cult of personality of, 25–26, 34n12, 38n100, 185–87, 246–49; dual political loyalties of, 18–19, 37n70, 166, 193, 215–17, 227; on the Front Populaire, 100n256; leadership of the PCF by, 5, 34n13, 83, 186, 213; national unity policy of, 17; on Robespierre, 134–35; on Rouget de Lisle, 146–47; at Stalin’s seventieth birthday celebrations, 173–75, 180, 185f, 187; wartime absence of, 150, 247–48, 254n163; on wartime France, 248; writers preferred by, 27 Tiersky, Ronald, 34n12, 178 Tito, 170, 211 Tolstoy, Leo, 107 Torez (Chystyakove, Ukraine), 25–26 Tovstukha, Ivan, 95–96n122 Les Travailleurs de la mer (Hugo), 27 Triolet, Elsa, 34n9, 219, 235 The Triumph of Death (Bruegel the Elder), 237, 238f Trotsky, Leon, 20, 56, 70; Barbusse’s views on, 72–73, 87; surrealist support for, 190, 191, 205n117 Trotskyists, 19–20, 29, 52, 170, 211; on “Lenin’s Testament,” 72; in the USSR, 55–56, 58, 67, 88 Truesdell, Matthew, 8 Truman, Harry, 187 Truman Doctrine, 187 Trump, Donald, 259, 262n16 Tucker, Robert, 70, 97n162, 98nn187–88 Tumarkin, Nina, 7, 73, 98n187

296

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Index

Une politique de grandeur française (PCF/ Thorez), 18 United Front. See Front Populaire movement L’Universe concentrationnaire (Rousset), 20 “L’URSS seule promesse” (Eluard), 171–78 USSR. See Soviet Union Vacquerie, Auguste, 161 Vaillant-Couturier, Paul, 18, 34n9, 83, 199, 209–10 “Les Vainqueurs d’hier périront” (Eluard), 191–92 Valette, Robert, 199 Vanoyeke, Violaine, 170 “Vérités élémentaires” (Aragon), 214 Vermeersch, Jeannette, 34n9, 171, 223 Vichy France, 16–20, 24, 36n50. See also World War II Vidal, Annette, 57–58, 74 Vigier, Luc, 238 Le Village soviétique (Miglioli), 114 “Vive Staline” (Thorez), 174–75 Voici ce qu’on a fait de la Géorgie (Barbusse), 57, 60–61, 75–76 La Voix des Femmes, 49 VOKS, 52, 149–50 Voltaire, 27 The Vow (Chiaureli), 175 Washington, George, 7 Wells, H. G., 57 Weygand, Maxime, 223, 253n105 Whitman, Walt, 162, 165 Wieviorka, Annette, 38n100, 238, 254n163 Wilders, Geert, 259 Wilson, Woodrow, 30, 45, 48, 53, 109 Wood, Alan, 70, 172 World War I, 67; antiwar movement of, 4; Aragon’s service in, 207; Barbusse service

in, 42–43; Barbusse’s writing on, 6, 27, 41, 43–46; Rolland’s pacifist essays on, 107–9, 152 World War II, 23, 128, 166–67; in Aragon’s Les Communistes, 32, 208–9, 217–49; Aragon’s service in, 207–8, 237; Battle of Stalingrad of, 231, 251n66; de Gaulle’s “Appeal of 18 June” of, 218, 231; evacuation of Dunkirk of, 236–41; French Communist resistance in, 23, 24, 169, 178–79, 183, 196, 216–18, 222–27, 235, 241; Gaullist resistance in, 24, 231; German invasion of France of, 207–8, 218; German invasion of USSR in, 150, 259; German occupation of France in, 4, 15–16, 150, 193, 199, 208; Liberation of France in, 150; Phony War of, 217–19; Stalin as hero of, 1–2, 23, 70, 183–84, 257; Vichy regime of, 16–20, 24, 36n50 writers and intellectuals, 5–6, 39nn118–19, 90, 173–74, 182–85; Comité national des écrivains of, 193, 195; Front Populaire and, 53, 82; PCF and, 3–4, 17, 26–29, 34n9, 106, 171–72; as secular moral guides, 5, 188. See also Aragon, Louis; Barbusse, Henri; Eluard, Paul; Rolland, Romain; Stalin’s cult of personality Wrocław Peace Conference of 1948, 167 Wuorinen, John, 229 Wurmser, André, 34n9 Yagoda, Genrikh, 117, 122 Yeltsin, Boris, 261n13 Zhdanov, Andrei, 178 Zinoviev, Grigory, 56, 204n112, 214 Zola, Emile, 1, 17, 27, 44, 46, 47f Zweig, Stefan, 107, 109

ANDREW SOBANET teaches French literature, film, and culture at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. He is author of Jail Sentences: Representing Prison in Twentieth-Century French Fiction and Associate Editor of Contemporary French Civilization.