Mechanisms of Power in the Soviet Union 0312230893, 9780312230890

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Mechanisms

o f Power i n t h e Soviet U n i o n

Also by Niels Erik Rosenfeldt KNOWLEDGE AND POWER: The Role of Stalin's Secret Chancellery i n the Soviet System of Government THE NERVE CENTER OF STALIN’S RULE STALIN'S SECRET CHANCELLERY AND THE COMINTERN STALIN’S SPECIAL DEPARTMENTS

Also by Bent [ensen T H E BEAR A N D T H E HARE: The Soviet U n i o n a n d Denmark, 1945—1965

DENMARK AND THE RUSSIAN QUESTION, 1917—1924 THE FASCINATION OF STALINISM AND THE DANISH LEFT INTELLECTUALS THE LONG LIBERATION: Bornholm Occupied and Liberated, 1945—1946 THE SOVIET UNION AND DENMARK SINCE WORLD WAR TWO THE STALIN REVOLUTION THE VOICE OF SAKHAROV

Also by Erik Kulavig PROPAGANDA AND EVERYDAY LIFE IN RUSSIA, 1924—36 RUSSIAN NATIONALISM, 1986—92 SOVIET CIVILIZATION BETWEEN PAST AND PRESENT (co-editor with Mette Bryld) THIRTEEN STORIES ABOUT DISOBEDIENT RUSSIANS: Public Dissent under Khrushchev,

1953—64

Mechanisms the Soviet

of Power Union

Edited by Niels Erik Rosenfeldt Associate Professor Institute of European Studies University of Copenhagen Denmark

Bent J e n s e n Professor Department of Russian a n d East European Studies University of Odense Denmark

and

Erik Kulavig Associate Professor Head of the Department of Russian and East European Studies University of Odense Denmark

Foreword by Robert C. Tucker

in

a

First published i n Great Britain 2000 by

MACMILLAN PRESS LTD Houndmills. Basingstoke. Hampshire RG21 6XS and London Companies and representatives throughout the world

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 0—333—77139—7 hardcover ISBN 0—333—77140—0 paperback

”

First published i n the United States ofAmerica 2000 by

ST. MARTIN’S PRESS, INC., Scholarly and Reference Division. I75 Fifth Avenue. New York. N Y . l 0 0 l 0

ISBN 0—3 I 2—23089—3 Library o f Congress Cataloging—in-Publication Data Mechanisms o f power i n the Soviet Union p. cm. This book is based on the papers presented at the Conference "Mechanisms of Power“. which took place i n Copenhagen from 29 April to 1 May I998. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0—312—23089—3 (cloth) I . Power (Social sciences)—Soviet Union—Congresses. 2. Soviet U n i o n — P o l i t i c s

and government—Congresses. 3. Soviet Union—Foreign relations—Congresses. l . Rosenfeldt. Niels Erik. l l . Jensen. Bent. 1938— l l l . Kulavig. Erik. lV. Conference "Mechanisms of Power" (I988 : Copenhagen. Denmark) HN530.Z9 P66 2000 303.3'0947—dc21 99—053109

Editorial matter and selection © Niels Erik Rosenfeldt. Bent Jensen and Erik Kulavig 2000 Chapters l—l2 © Macmillan Press Ltd 2000 Foreword © Robert C. Tucker 2000 A l l rights reserved. N o reproduction. copy or transmission o f this publication may be made without written permission.

N o paragraph o f this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or i n accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road. London W l P OLP. Any person who does any unauthorised act i n relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The authors have asserted their rights to be identified as the authors o f this work i n accordance with the Copyright. Designs and Patents Act I988. This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. l098765432l 09 08 07 06

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Printed and bound i n Great Britain by Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham, Wiltshire

Contents

Foreword by Robert C . Tucker Preface Notes

vii ix

o n the Contributors

PART I THE SYSTEM: STRUCTURE AND FUNCTION 1

The Soviet M e c h a n i s m o f Power a n d t h e Fall o f t h e Soviet U n i o n Graeme G i l l

The Strength and Weakness of Stalin’s Power Irina V. Pavlova The Importance of t h e Secret Apparatus of t h e Soviet Commu n i st Party during t h e Stalin Era Niels Erik Rosenfeldt The Moscow Headquarters of t h e Comintern: Departments, Leading Organs, Soviet Influence a n d Decision Making Peter Huber The Soviet Intelligence Services and th e Government: Information a n d Military-Political Decisions from t h e 19205 to t h e Early 19505 Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov

The Transformation of the Policy of Extraordinary Measures into a Permanent System of Government Gennady A. Bordiougov

PART II

23

40

71

101

122

FOREIGN POLICY: ASPECTS OF DECISION MAKING AND COMMUNICATION

7

The Making of Propaganda Concerning USSR Foreign Policy, 1939—41 Vladimir Aleksandrovich Nevezhin

145

vi

Contents

8

The USSR’s Decision to Begin the ’Winter War’, 1939—40 Vladimir N. Baryshnikov

9

Room for Discussion: the Correspondence of Narkomindel and the Soviet Embassy in Denmark

163

173

Rikke Haue

1 0 Soviet Remote Control: the Island of Bornholm as a Relay Station i n Soviet—Danish Relations, 1945—71

192

Bent Jensen

11

Making Foreign Policy under Stalin: the Case of Korea Kathryn Weathersby

224

1 2 The Soviet Union and the Origins of the Warsaw Pact in 1955 241 Vojtech Mastny Index

267

Foreword Robert C . Tucker Mechanisms of Power in the Soviet Union grew out of a n international conference held i n Copenhagen in 1998 under the leadership of Professor Niels Erik Rosenfeldt at the University of Copenhagen, and Professors Bent Jensen and Erik Kulavig from the University of Southern Denmark at Odense. Twelve of the papers presented by scholars from Russia, Western Europe, Australia and the United States of America have been selected and edited for this book. Rarely has a collection of historical essays had such topical relevance. For it appears at a time when, for lack of effective mechanisms of power, the post-Soviet Russian Federation, although possessed of an enormous bureaucracy, is i n virtual collapse. The strong centralized form of statehood that existed in Tsarist Russia and again under Soviet Communist rule in the twentieth century is no more, and in 1998 the country is in a state of semi-anarchy, with the danger of a full-scale takeover of political power by criminal bands. Russians characterize the situation as one of bespredel, meaning total lawlessness when, as it were, anything goes. Others speak o f a smutnoe vremya, a Time of Troubles, recalling the break-

down of statehood that occurred soon after the end of the original Rurikid Russian dynasty with the death i n 1598 of the sole surviving son of Ivan the Terrible. Some who lived through the breakdown of Russian statehood following the end of the Romanov dynasty with the abdication of Tsar Nicholas II in 1917 also spoke of a Time of Troubles. The present such period, we may add, was presaged by the end of the Leninist ideological dynasty with the expulsion from the Kremlin in late 1 9 9 1 o f the last o f the Soviet rulers, Mikhail Gorbachev, and the abolition

of the Soviet Union as a state formation. A basic contention of all the contributions to the collection is that the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) became the lynchpin of the system, its tentacles firmly tying all parts of the diverse country and its burgeoning politico-administrative structure into the one integrated and disciplined apparatus. In other words, the CPSU became the core of statehood itself i n the Party—state system. Hence the banning of the CPSU, the decrees by Boris Yeltsin of August and November 1991 disbanding its leadership structures and taking over its property, necessarily deprived the post-Soviet Russian Federation of a functioning state system, except i n so far as authority could for a time be exercised by such vii

viii

Foreword

newly created institutions as the Presidential Administration, which took over the offices of the former CPSU Central Committee and sought to take over its power-wielding role. After the CPSU a n d t h e Soviet U n i o n c a m e t o a n e n d i n 1991—92, t h e

Central Committee’s offices at No. 4, Old Square became the offices of Yeltsin’s Presidential Administration. It is testimony to the persistence of the political culture of Soviet Russia that the Presidential Administration, and not the government of the Russian Federation, became the postSoviet centre of political authority i n Russia. However, for lack of the kinds of mechanisms of power that functioned under Soviet rule, the post-Soviet Russian state is extremely weak notwithstanding its possession of a massive bureaucracy. How so? An answer t o this question is implicit i n the above-noted proposition of contributors to this symposium that the Communist Party transformed itself into th e core mechanism of Soviet Russian stateh o o d . To t h i s , however,

i t n e e d s t o be added that i n one important

respect the CPSU retained the character of a political party: it possessed a mass membership that eventually totalled many millions of people, a n d they included all the members of the Soviet bureaucratic stratum, the nomenklatura. And as Party members, all the Soviet regime’s officials spent their entire working lives under threat of expulsion from Party membership should they disobey rules a n d orders that came from higher u p . That, i n turn, meant the loss of the life of privilege that they came to enjoy under Stalinism. Due to Party membership and the threat to their whole way o f life t h a t i t s l o s s would e n t a i l , they were, o n t h e whole,

controllable by higher authority. We may observe, then, that Party membership itself was a vitally important mechanism of power i n the Soviet Union, and its disappearance after 1991 helps to explain why the present-day Russian Presidential Administration an d government possess the appearance rather than the reality of political power. All of which shows how the historical studies by the contributors to this volume are essential to our deeper comprehension of twentiethcentury Russia. They are a pioneering collective effort to clarify i n depth how Russia was ruled from Lenin to Gorbachev. Princeton University

Preface

This book is based on the papers presented at the conference ‘Mechanisms of Power’ which took place i n Copenhagen from 29 April to 1 May 1998. The conference was hosted by the research network ’Chance a nd Continuity i n Russia, the Baltic Countries an d Eastern Europe' which is sponsored by the Danish Research Council of the Humanities. Translations from Russian into English have been done by Sally Laird, who has also edited all the chapters. Steven Sampson has translated Niels Erik Rosenfeldt’s chapter. Thanks t o Birgitta R o s e n d a l , Department

o f Slavonic S t u d i e s , Odense

University, for typing and editing the chapters.

Notes on the Contributors

Vladimir N . Baryshnikov is Assistant Professor at the Department of History, St Petersburg State University, and a member of the Russian Military-Historical Academy and the Russian Council of World War II Problems. He is currently researching the history of Northern Europe, the history of the Second World War and the Cold War, and has published three books on aspects of Soviet—Finnish relations.

Gennady A. Bordiougov (1954) is Assistant Professor at Moscow State University, Editor-in-Chief of the programme ‘AIRO-XX' and observer at Radio ‘Russia’. H i s publications

include

(together

with V. A. Kozlov)

History and Conjuncture: Subjective Notes on the History of Soviet Society ( 1 9 9 2 ) and (together with A. I. Ushakov) White Cause: Ideology, Foundation, Regimes ( 1 9 9 8 ) , and h e i s editor o f The Unknown Alexander Bogdanov (1994—5), Nikilaj Bukharin’s Prison Manuscripts ( 1 9 9 6 ) , Historical Studies in Russia: New Tendencies ( 1 9 9 6 ) , (together with Bernd Bonwetsch and Norman Naimark) Sowjetische Politik in der SBC 1945—9 ( 1 9 9 8 ) , and National Histories in the Post-Soviet States ( 1 9 9 9 ) .

Graeme Gill is Professor of Government and Public Administration a t the University of Sydney. His main interests lie in Russian, Soviet and post-communist politics, in which fields he has published nine books and more than fifty journal articles. H e is a Fellow of the Academy of Social Sciences i n Australia. Rikke Haue graduated in Russian and Eastern European area studies from Odense a n d Aarhus universities in 1995, and currently she is a graduate student at the Department of Slavonic Studies at Odense University. She is working on a project on perceptions of the Soviet Foreign Ministry of Denmark in the 19305.

Peter Huber (1954) is Professor at the University of Basel. His publications include Relations between Socialists and Communists in Switzerland ( 1 9 8 6 ) and Stalins Schatten in die Schweiz,

Schweizer Kommunisten in Mos-

cow: Gefangene und Verteidiger der Komintem (1994). He participated in the research project ‘The Spanish Civil War and Switzerland' (1996—9), and since 1994 he has worked on a biographical dictionary of the Comintern.

Notes o n the Contributors

xi

He is currently participating i n a three-year research project financed by the Volkswagen Foundation, entitled ’Biografisches Handbuch des internationalen Kommunismus’. Bent Jensen

( 1 9 3 6 ) i s Professor a t Odense

University,

Denmark.

He

studied history and Russian at the universities of Aarhus and Copenhagen. His publications include Denmark and the Russian Question, 1917— 1924 ( 1 9 7 9 ) , The Stalin Revolution ( 1 9 8 2 ) , The Voice of Sakharov ( 1 9 8 3 ) , The Fascination of Stalinism a n d the Danish Left Intellectuals ( 1 9 8 4 ) , The Soviet Union a n d Denmark since World War Two ( 1 9 8 7 ) and The Long Liberation:

Bomholm Occupied and Liberated, 1945—1946 (1996). Vojtech Mastny is Senior Research Scholar at the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars in Washington. He has been Professor of History and International Relations at Columbia University, University of Illinois, Boston University, and the Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies in Bologna. His publications include Russia’s Road to the Cold War (1996), The Cold War and Soviet Insecurity ( 1 9 9 7 ) , and The Helsinki Process

a n d the Reintegration of Europe. H e was

NATO’s first Manfred Woerner Fellow and he currently directs the project on the parallel history of NATO and the Warsaw Pact, based at the National Security Archive in Washington. Vladimir Aleksandrovich Nevezhin is Senior Researcher at the Russian Academy of Sciences, Institute of Russian History. His publications include The Syndrome of Offensive War: Soviet Propaganda on the Threshold of “Holy War’, 1939—41 (1997). Irina V. Pavlova is Senior Researcher at th e Institute of History of the Siberian Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences. She is the author of ninety scholarly works, including Stalinism — The Making of the Mechanism of Power (1993). Her current research is on social and political aspects of the history of Soviet Russia.

Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov is Senior Researcher at the Institute o f Universal History, Russian Academy o f Sciences, Moscow. H e was

Fulbright Scholar-in-Residence at Spalding University, Louisville, KY, and Harris-Stowe State College, St Louis, M O , i n 1998—9. H i s current interests

include Soviet and US foreign policy, 1917—50; the history of the Soviet intelligence community, 1953.

1918—53; Soviet—US Relations from

1917 to

xii

Notes on the Contributors

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt is Associate Professor at the Institute of East European Studies, University of Copenhagen, and Member of the Board, Danish Institute of International Affairs. Among his publications are Knowledge and Power: The Role of Stalin’s Secret Chancellery in the Soviet System of Government (1978), Stalinstyrets Nervecenter (1980), Stalin’s Special Departments ( 1 9 8 9 ) , a n d Stalin’s Secret Chancellery a n d the Comintern ( 1 9 9 1 ) . H e h a s contributed to Politikens Verdenshistorie a n d Politikens

Ruslandshistorie and to numerous other publications, especially within t h e field of Soviet history and contemporary Russian politics. Kathryn Weathersby is a n independent scholar based i n Washington, DC. Since 1991 she h a s conducted extensive research i n Moscow archives on Soviet policy towards Korea during the Stalin era an d has published translations of and commentaries on key Russian documents on the Korean War i n t h e Bulletin of the Cold War International History Project. Other publications include ’Stalin, Mao a n d the End of t h e Korean War’, i n Odd Arne Westad (ed.), Brothers in Arms: The Rise a n d Fall of the SimSoviet Alliance ( 1 9 9 8 ) and ’Soviet A i m s i n Korea a n d t h e O r i g i n s o f t h e

Korean War, 1945—1950’, Working Paper No. 8 of the Cold War International History Project.

Part I

The System: Structure

and

Function

1 The Soviet Mechanism of Power and the Fall of the Soviet Union Graeme Gill

The fall of the Soviet Union i n 1 9 9 1 represents not just the rejection of socialist ideals i n the form in which they were realized i n the USSR, but the collapse of the mechanism of power that was at the heart of the Soviet system. That collapse was due not only to the mistakes of Mikhail Gorbachev or to the drive for independence on the part of some republican élites, but was in significant measure a result of the inherent tensions to be found within the Soviet mechanism of power. Those tensions were present from the time that mechanism was constructed, and despite a series of attempts to resolve them i n the five and a half decades that followed their emergence, none was successful. The term ‘mechanism of power’ refers here to the political institutions, processes and patterns of action that emerged in the young Soviet state to structure the exercise of power. This mechanism therefore consisted of a combination

o f formal institutions and norms, and informal conven-

tions and patterns of action which, together, constituted the infrastructure of power in the USSR. The balance between these different elements, institutions,

norms, conventions

and patterns o f action was not static

over time but changed in significant ways. However, as the argument which follows will show, these changes did not affect two basic characteristics of this mechanism of power, the weakness of the formal institutions and the tension between different elements. The principal task of this mechanism was the exercise of control, while the essence of this was the projection of power throughout society. Power projection is a central aspect of the activities of all state structures; indeed, a state that was unable to project its power would be unlikely to retain its position for long. But what is important for our purposes is the way i n which that power can be projected. One theorist has distinguished between two different types of power, infrastructural and

4

Graeme Gill

despotic.1 Infrastructural power is the capacity of th e state regularly a nd consistently to have its orders carried out i n t h e society. It is able to d o this because it has penetrated civil society, established regularized patterns of control and interaction with civil society actors, a nd ha s a stable continuing presence within that society. In short, it h as an infrastructure which embeds the state firmly within t h e society. Despotic power does not have this regularized character. It refers t o the exercise of power over society, through extraordinary methods rather than routine channels. It is the sort of power which has not been negotiated with society as a whole through the latter’s acceptance of the continuing presence of state institutions within itself. The exercise of despotic power tends to be both short-term and episodic while infrastructural power is more regularized a n d continuing. For any state structure seeking t o exercise stable control over the society a n d territory over which it rules, the strengthening of infrastructural power a n d t h e weakening of despotic power would be a sensible course. The reverse situation, where despotic power overshadows infrastructural power, is a recipe for th e weakness of continuing central control and the consequent relative independence of lower level officials.

The emergence of the Soviet mechanism of power The Soviet power mechanism was built at th e t i m e of the massive upheavals i n the Soviet Union at the end of the 19205—early 19305 when Stalin pushed through his programme of social and economic transformation under the aegis of the First Five Year Plan, and was rounded out with the terror of the latter half of the 19305. This does not mean that the new politico-administrative structure that emerged a t this time had no links with what h a d gone before. The mechanism of power that emerged i n the 19303 was clearly built upon aspects of the regime that had emerged i n the early years of Soviet power: th e closing-off of democracy in the party and country, the generation of a sense of insecurity i n the regime and of the omnipresence of enemies, the development of centralizing organs in the form of the Politburo, Orgburo and Secretariat, the growth of a personnel system based on appointment and formalized with the creation of the nomenklatura in June 1 9 2 3 and the growth of a leader cult as a form of legitimation, all provided significant building blocks for the Soviet power mechanism that was to emerge under Stalin. But these building blocks did no more than provide the potential for what was to come. It needed the hand of Stalin to turn that potential into the mechanism of Soviet power that dominated the system by the end of the 19305. The story of the construction of that mechanism has been told

Mechanism of Power and the Fall of the Soviet Union 5

i n many places and will not be repeated here.2 What we are interested i n is the form that mechanism took, and th e tensions t h a t emerged within it. The mechanism of power that emerged i n the Soviet U nion i n the 19305 involved the creation of a new type of politico-administrative structure. This was formally an organizationally-integrated system i n w h i c h a l l spheres o f life, p o l i t i c a l , e c o n o m i c , social a n d cultural, were

tied together by organizational bonds. As a result, n o sector of life was independent, with all subject to control by central authorities. This structure was, i n principle, totalist, with all of t h e key questions and issues reduced to matters of administration an d management; independent forces, be they market o r social i n origin, were subordinated to political imperatives. A combination of hierarchy a n d discipline were to lock all of these diverse parts into th e o n e overriding structure wherein power would reside. The mechanism whereby this sort of totalist control was t o be realized was the interlocking structure of th e Soviet party-state. The central element of this structure was the Communist Party. Throughout the 19305, th e Party grew dramatically: membership increased from 1 , 6 7 7 , 9 1 0 i n 1 9 3 0 t o 3 , 8 7 2 , 4 6 5 a t t h e e n d of 1 9 4 0 3

while the number of Primary Party Organizations (PPOs) increased from 54,000 i n mid-1930 to 113,060 i n 1939.4 This expansion i n the Party was meant to result i n th e extension of a Party presence i n t o all spheres of life. The Party was to be the lynchpin of the system, its tentacles firmly tying all parts of the diverse country and its burgeoning politico-administrative structure into the o n e integrated and disciplined apparatus. The principles of democratic centralism, which had since the beginning of the 19205 emphasized centralism over democracy, were meant to ensure that Party discipline could be exercised by the centre over the extremities of this structure with a minimum of fuss and effort. To this end the Party had seen a strengthening of its central organs during the 19205. The formal establishment of the Politburo i n 1919 marked the institutional recognition of the way in which effective decision-making power was being concentrated i n a comparatively few Party leaders at the top of the Party structure, while the creation of the Secretariat of the Central Committee and Orgburo at the same time provided that leadership with institutional mechanisms for the implementation of its policies within the Party (and through that the wider) structure. However, the model of a smoothly efficient hierarchical structure was a myth; infrastructural power remained weak. From the outset, the emergent Soviet politico-administrative structure was plagued with problems. The structure of organizational controls was

6

Graeme Gill

insufficiently developed to be able to ensure close continuing monitoring of the activities of Party bodies lower i n the hierarchy. The communications network was primitive throughout much of the country, with some rural areas in contact with Party organizations in nearby towns only through the irregular Visits of Party instructors and plenipotentiaries. The telephone and telegraph systems did not serve large areas of the country, while the absence of surfaced roads rendered many areas effectively isolated. This meant that local officials often had to struggle on with only intermittent direction from the centre. The maintenance of power i n the localities was thus often much more a function of the drive and initiative of local officials than it was of influence flowing remorselessly out from the Moscow centre. Furthermore, the central institutions were finding it difficult to cope. The effectiveness of the Politburo as a decision-making organ was hampered by the factional conflict that was a feature of élite relations throughout the 19205, while both Orgburo and Secretariat found themselves swamped by the task they confronted. They had great difficulty in creating routinized office procedures during this time, a problem exacerbated by the reorganizations of the Orgburo and Secretariat in 1921, 1924 and 1930, and of the nomenklatura i n 1925. These central staffing bodies were unable to establish a comprehensive and accurate central register of Party workers. This was i n part due to the problems lower level Party organizations had in keeping accurate membership records, but nor was it helped by the enormous flux in Party membership; not only did the Party expand significantly during the 19205, but between 1919 and 1930 i n every year except 1 9 2 3 there was a Party campaign being waged involving the checking of Party membership and the expulsion of those found wanting. These pressures increased during the 19305. The dramatic expansion of the Party during that decade, and the extension of its reach into the countryside with collectivization, compounded the difficulties the centre had in monitoring developments at local levels. Although the communications network may have improved with the industrialization of the 19305, it could not keep pace with the needs the centre had to maintain supervision over the vast range of politico-administrative bodies that developed at this time. These problems were exacerbated by the continuing fluidity regarding personnel. The increase in Party membership during the 19305 has already been noted, but it must be recognized that this took place against a background of almost continuous forced effluxion from the Party: the purge of 1933—34, the 1935 verification of Party cards, the 1 9 3 6 exchange of Party documents, and the

Mechanism of Power and the Fall of the Soviet Union 7

1936—38 terror, all resulted i n significant membership change and therefore in continuing pressure on Party record-keepers. Further reorganizations at the centre i n 1934 and 1939 did not assist this process of attempting to get an adequate central membership record. The essence of the problem was that the politico-administrative structure was unable to secure for the centre the sort of continuing capacity for the monitoring of developments at lower levels. Certainly there were hierarchies of accountability within the Party, reflected i n the notion of regular reporting to superiors about the local organizations’ activities. A control apparatus was developed to provide the sort of verification of the implementation of central decisions that the centre demanded. The security apparatus was a potential weapon that could be used to assert central control. And there was the personnel mechanism, embedded i n the principles of the nomenklatura and residing i n the Orgburo and Secretariat. But all of these suffered from a basic flaw that stemmed from the incentive structure built into the system. The incentive structure i n the Soviet hierarchy encouraged lower level leaders to mislead their superiors. Lower level officials were i n a very difficult position. The policies of massive change introduced at the end of the 19203 caused widespread hardship within a population which already was characterized by significant elements who were opposed to the Bolsheviks. Those officials had to implement the policies and maintain regime control in an atmosphere that was frequently more hostile than supportive. Of course there were also significant elements i n local populations which would have supported th e changes and would therefore have lent support to those officials, but the legacy of a sense of popular hostility stemming from the periods of war communism and New Economic Policy (NEP, 1921—8) continued strongly during the 19303. But what complicated this situation for local officials was the nature of the demands coming from above. I n the period prior to the war, but especially during the time of great change during the 19303, the centre continually made heavy demands upon lower level officials. High levels of performance were expected in realizing the plans and directives that issued from the centre. The most famous instance of this was the highly exaggerated target levels of the agricultural collectivization campaign i n late 1929 an d early 1930, but this was simply one case of a general phenomenon. The centre demanded that its officials carry out its directives. However, those directives were often impossible to fulfil. The levels of economic production demanded,

for example,

often

exceeded

that which

was possible i n

existing circumstances. Targets frequently were impossible to achieve.

8

Graeme Gill

Furthermore i n m a n y cases, the instructions given were ambiguous, h a d mutually inconsistent elements, o r were s o vague as t o be susceptible to various interpretations. Alongside this combination of high d e m a n d s a n d often uncertain criteria about how those d e m a n d s could be met was a n ambiguous attitude regarding formal rules a n d regulations. The Soviet system was characterized by a plethora of rules, regulations, directives, decrees a n d instructions. Many of these were uncoordinated a n d could be i n conflict with each other, thereby giving little effective guidance. More importantly, t h e approach t o such rules a n d regulations was essentially contingent, i n t h e sense t h a t if there was conflict between following those rules and achieving plan targets, t h e latter was t h e preferred o p t i o n . Officials could not protect themselves against criticism for failure to achieve what was expected of t h e m by pointing to their adhere n c e t o official rules a n d regulations. High demands, unclear criteria and t h e lack of a firmly entrenched normative regulative milieu constituted a n uncertain policy—making sphere for officials. This was rendered even more uncertain, a n d dangerous, by t h e heavy penalties that were seen t o apply t o those w h o failed t o satisfy central expectations. Officials whose performance was judged t o be unsatisfactory were likely to lose their jobs, face demotion, and perhaps i n the latter part of the decade, even lose their lives. The costs of perceived failure were therefore very high. One consequence of this was the imperative to ensure that the picture the centre ha d was that performance was satisfactory. This resulted i n local officials engaging i n a wide range of informal measures designed to boost th e performance of their particular region and, by implication, themselves. The acquisition o f extra (outside p l a n ) resources t o boost production

was one c o m m o n

strategy. But also important was misreporting to the centre. Exaggeration and distortion of performance and achievement were common, as reports to the centre consistently tried to put the best possible face upon reality. Throughout the 19305 this was a continuing strategy used

by lower level officials.5 But t h i s situation o f high demands, unclear criteria for fulfilment, l a c k

of protection and heavy penalties also contributed to the development of a crucial feature of the Soviet mechanism of power, the primacy of the personalist principle. From the earliest years of Soviet rule, there had been a tendency i n the building of political authority at all levels of the structure to rely upon personal connections, acquaintances and allies. The most obvious instances of t h i s occurred a t the élite levels, where

historians have for long concentrated upon the shifting factional alignments that structured élite political debate during the first decade and a

Mechanism of Power and the Fall of the Soviet Union 9

half of the Soviet regime’s life. But this practice of reliance upon personal c o n n e c t i o n s was even m o r e marked at lower levels o f t h e structure,

where it effectively became institutionalized as the principal means of structuring local politics. The main vehicle w i t h i n which the personalist principle of organization was embedded was the so-called ‘family groups’.6 These were locally-based groupings, usually centred o n the local Party leader and including the principal organizational notables i n the district; among those who could be included were senior party figures, the leaders of the local soviet, the head of the security apparatus, local editors and the bosses of the chief production units (factories or farms). Some of these people were appointed to their positions because of prior association with the Party secretary, but even those w ho did not have such links, usually soon developed a close working relationship with that secretary and the other members of the group. The dominance of local administration by such groups was encouraged by two factors. First, given the problems confronted by local administrators, the underdeveloped state of the bureaucratic apparatus, the high expectations from above and the potential penalties for failure, working with people one knew and trusted was a logical response. Personal connections were a way of limiting reliance on the inefficient structure, and thereby potentially of increasing the likelihood of decisions being implemented. Second, if despite this, local performance did not meet central expectations, and local failures h a d therefore to be concealed from t h e centre,

the existence of an unofficial local network of leaders would facilitate this. If such a network remained solid and could control the upward information flow, the chances of poor local performance being reported to the centre were reduced. The generation of family groups was thus a realistic response t o t h e situation local officials found themselves i n ; i t

promised a means of overcoming some of the difficulties they faced in meeting expectations from above, as well as a way potentially of avoiding the consequences of perceived failure. A second aspect of the personalist principle related to the link between the different levels of the Soviet mechanism of power. Many students have pointed to the importance within the Soviet structure of chains of patrons and clients. The notion of the ‘circular flow of power’, which has been used to explain the rise of Stalin,7 has at its heart a conception of patron—client relations, while the nomenklatura system was a perfect instrument for the construction and strengthening of such relationships. I n practice, what this meant was that political leaders at each level looked to people higher up the structure for support and protection. But such considerations rested less o n policy views than on personal

10

Graeme Gill

contacts and loyalties; the currency of the patron—client tie was personal association and the aim mutual benefit. Such personal ties were crucial i n the structuring of political life. The personalist principle was therefore central to the way the mechanism of power functioned. It shaped administrative processes at respective levels of the structure and moulded relations between those different levels. The importance of this principle for our purposes is the effect it had on the overall functioning of the mechanism of power i n the USSR. The weakness of the infrastructural power of the politico-administrative apparatus8 and the heightened levels of uncertainty officials faced as a result of the successive campaigns of the 19305, strengthened the personalist principle as individuals sought to bolster their personal positions. However, this strengthening of the personalist principle was matched by opposing pressures within the politico-administrative structure. These were pressures for the strengthening and routinization of organizational norms. This took t h e form of pressure for the official rules, regulations a nd procedures to be strengthened and for officials to abide by them. Calls for official organs to meet at the regular intervals specified in formal documents, for the implementation of decisions and the verification of such implemetation to be conducted through the channels established to achieve these ends, for full reports to be submitted on time and to the proper authorities, and for officials to structure their behaviour according to the rules were the sorts of demands reflecting these pressures. The central organs’ continuing attempts to regularize the personnel system were clear instances of such pressures. The essence of these pressures was that the formal provisions whereby the structure was meant to function should have normative authority and should actually determine how it functioned. The source of these pressures was the organizational structure itself. Those parts of the structure whose role it was to supervise the essential house-keeping functions of the organization (for example, the Orgburo and Secretariat, Central Control Commission) were important sources of such pressures. But so too was the basic structure itself. The different parts of the organizational structure, through their existence and functioning, generated pressures for the institutionalization of political life on the basis of their organizational norms; pressures for regular meetings and procedures and the routine flow of business, for the conduct of politico-administrative affairs through proper bureaucratic chann e l s and i n accord with bureaucratic norms, were the inevitable result o f

the organizational structure’s operation. The tension between the personalist principle and pressures for organizational norms was a major factor structuring the way i n which the

Mechanism of Power and the Fall of the Soviet Union 1 1

mechanism of power functioned. It created an ambiguity within the structure's operating regime by complicating the questions of authority and functioning; which should be more important in the definition of politico-administrative life, personalist principle or organizational norms? I n principle, there could be n o compromise between these. If the personalist principle was supreme, what was important was the decisions of the key individuals rather than the Views of collective Party—state bodies; if organizational

norms were supreme, t h e behaviour

of individuals should be subordinated to them. However, i n practice what was achieved was a messy combination of personalist principles and organizational norms. The danger of having this sort of combination is that the whole structure could become bogged down in an impasse. There was also the likelihood that this would be a real barrier to the effective exercise of central control. During the Stalin period the tension between personalist principle and organizational norms was ameliorated by a combination of three factors: (a)

The generation

of a s e n s e o f enthusiasm

and commitment

which

carried all the politically active along and papered over the contradiction. The source of this enthusiasm and commitment was the ideology and the sense of building a new world that was implicit in Stalin’s ‘revolution from above’. The widespread enthusiasm for the Soviet experiment reflected in the mobilization of the early 19305 and the conviction that what they were doing was right, injected a fervour and willingness to sacrifice which meant that the tensions within the politico-administrative structure were less significant. They could be overcome by the force of popular effort and popular will. (b) The presence of extra-bureaucratic or organizational threat in the form of the terror. With the unrolling of the terror in 1936-38, the different elements of the mechanism of power (Party, state, trade unions, military) were subjected to purging by one component of that mechanism, the security apparatus. These individual components were thus purged from outside their own boundaries. When the terror had finished, its legacy remained both in the form of the strengthened position of the security apparatus vis-a-vis the other institutions, and of the collective memory of the terror with the implication that it could be repeated. The Leningrad Affair and the ‘Doctors’ Plot’ at the end of Stalin’s rule were potent reminders of t h i s . Thus what the 1936—8 terror did was t o institutionalize

terror,

or the possibility of it, into the system. This notion of external

12

(c)

Graeme Gill

threat encouraged officials to strive to function effectively and thereby to overcome the effects of the tension between personalist principle and organizational norms. Stalin’s personal dominance. The projection of Stalin as the supreme leader whose word was law an d whose judgement was infallible established a fixed point of authority a nd direction whose existence cut through the confusion caused by the personalist principle—organizational norms tension. When Stalin spoke, there could be n o ambiguity about the source of direction (although there could be differences over what h e meant), while his position of dominance constituted a n affirmation of the primacy of personalism over organizational norms. This was reinforced by the practical dominance h e exercised, personally at the centre a nd through his own private apparatus throughout the system,9 and was strengthened by t h e cult.

These three factors were all intrinsic parts of the Stalinist regime as it functioned i n the latter stages of the 19305 and much of the 19405. But while they may have ameliorated the effects of the tension between personalist principle and organizational norms, they could not eliminate it.

Modification of the mechanism of power When Stalin died, the Soviet mechanism of power faced a crisis. The three factors which had ameliorated th e tension within the system’s operating regime now ceased to function. The enthusiasm an d commitment that had been evident i n the 19305 had dissipated under the hardship of the war and the economic rebuilding that followed. The perception that the people were building a bright new society was replaced by a sense of the humdrum as revolutionary transformation gave way to routine administration. The notion of external threat to officials was removed with the arrest of Beria and downgrading of the security apparatus following Stalin’s death, and by the reduction i n pressure introduced by the new regime. The death of Stalin added to the public reaffirmation of the principles of collective leadership by the new Soviet leaders by removing from the structure the position of dominant leader. The disappearance of these three factors left the tension i n the system’s operating regime unresolved. The personalist basis of power continued to structure political life at all levels of the hierarchy, but the pressures for a strengthening of organizational norms also continued to operate.

Mechanism of Power and the Fall of the Soviet Union 1 3

Indeed, the latter seemed significantly to be strengthened by the rhetorical emphasis given by t h e initial post-Stalin leaders to the notion of collective leadership a n d to the greater regularity of meetings of official organizations and bodies; the policy of de-Stalinization provided a further stimulus t o this. With these affirmations of th e importance of a shift away from t h e primacy of a n individual leader an d of the regularity of functioning of political institutions, along with t h e shift from revolutionary transformation to routine administration, conditions seemed to favour the strengthening of organizational norms a n d thereby of infrastructural power. However, i n practice this did not happen. The principal reason for the failure of organizational norms to be strengthened is to be found i n the modus operandi of t he new Soviet leader Khrushchev. Two aspects of this are important. First, Khrushchev’s leadership style and many of his actions undercut organizational norms a n d strengthened t h e personalist principle. An important part of this leadership style was t h e lack of concern Khrushchev showed for the integrity and coherence of leading political institutions. This is clearly reflected i n his attempts to circumvent th e Party Presidium a n d thereby get around opposition he faced within that body. He sought to d o this by publicly announcing policy before it was discussed by this body, as i n the

cases of the

Seven

Year P l a n a n d

the

Central

A s i a n Bureau,

announced respectively i n January 1959 an d October 1962. He also appealed over the head of t h e Presidium to the Central Committee, and although this may formally have been consistent with t h e Party’s Rules, it clearly breached a long-standing convention of Party life. The most important instance of this was t h e case of the anti-Party group i n 1957. With regard to the Central Committee, at times Khrushchev flooded its meetings with ‘specialized experts’ who were not Committee members, thereby eroding the power and prestige of the institution i n the eyes of its members, a n d opened its deliberations u p to public scrutiny by publishing its proceedings. I n addition, Khrushchev became increasingly reliant upon a circle of advisers drawn from areas other than the apex of the party leadership, with his son-in-law Adzhubei as the most egregious example, who could be seen to be displacing Party leaders from their proper roles. This sort of pattern is consistent with the way i n which Khrushchev was able t o project a n image of himself as the dominant figure i n the Soviet leadership. Indeed, this was more than image, as Khrushchev did become at least the first among equals. By establishing a position of personal primacy, Khrushchev was able to trample over the principles of collective leadership, a n d thereby reconfirm the importance of the personalist principle i n Soviet politics.

14

Graeme Gill

Khrushchev was also insensitive to the institutional integrity and prerogatives of bodies below the national level. The tendency to seek the answer to problems by reorganizing institutional structures, reflected most clearly i n the establishment of the sovnarkhozy in 1957 and the bifurcation of the Party apparatus in 1962, illustrates an attitude which saw institutional boundaries and capacities as less important than the resolution of short-term policy issues. While this judgement may have been correct in principle, in practice it both alienated many who worked i n those structures and was a positive statement of the lower priority placed on organizational norms and institutional structures. This reinforced the same message as had applied earlier, that formal bureaucratic procedures and structures were less important than the achievement of policy goals. This sort of insensitivity to the integrity and coherence of the component parts of the mechanism of power can only have undermined the development of organizational norms. The second aspect of Khrushchev’s modus operandi was that, after reducing the sense of threat to lower level officials by reining in the security apparatus, he reintroduced that threat in other ways. The principal means of doing this was through the exercise of an intrusive personnel policy. Under Khrushchev the powers of appointment and dismissal were used actively both to punish opponents and reward supporters, and more generally to shuffle regional Party leaders around. Levels of turnover were high.10 The problem for regional leaders was that such moves were not always related to performance, with the result that they were unable to defend themselves from this by performing well at their jobs. To many of them, the personnel moves appeared arbitrary, and therefore were impossible to take rational action against. This personnel pressure was also reflected in Khrushchev’s frequent criticism of the performance of lower level officials. At times he was unrestrained i n his criticism of the way i n which they sought to deceive the centre, were dishonest, were tolerant of shortcomings and failures, and were guilty of localism.11 The sense of threat was also revived by Khrushchev’s emphasis upon popular participation i n the political process, a form of involvement which was explicitly associated with keeping a check on the abuses of officials. By emphasizing the role the general populace could play in such bodies as the soviets and trade u n i o n s , and even i n the Party, Khrushchev

opened

officials u p to popular scrutiny and denied them a special role i n the regime’s decision making. The possibility of coming under popular criticism increased the complexity of their lives and raised the levels of uncertainty. While the threat to local officials may not have been of the same severity as it had been under Stalin, it was nevertheless real.

Mechanism of Power and the Fall of the Soviet Union 1 5

Khrushchev thus undercut the pressure for a strengthening of organizational norms. Through his modus operandi he provided a perfect model of the leader who was willing to ignore and override institutional provisions that were inconvenient. His personal style ensured that the primacy of the personalist principle over organizational norms was maintained. This was reinforced by the effect of his sponsorship of a mounting threat against officials. Under such circumstances, there was little officials could do to defend themselves except confirm the salience of family group control. While their local cliques could not prevent the centre from making personnel changes at the local level, they could at least continue to help to cover up poor performance (as the famous case of Ryazan i n 195912 showed) and possibly to control the activity of those mobilized to participate in the political organs. As under Stalin, the threat from without encouraged family group activity, and thereby strengthened the salience of the personalist principle in the structuring of political life below the national level. Thus despite the improvements in technology and communications that occurred during Khrushchev’s rule and the lack of the sort of mass disruptions of the 19305, the process of the strengthening of infrastructual power through the development of organizational norms was undercut by the reaffirmation of the personalist principle as a result of Khrushchev’s actions at the centre and the strengthening of defensive family groups at lower levels. I n the period following Khrushchev’s ouster, under Brezhnev, and in part in response to the personalist role of Khrushchev, formal organizational norms appeared to be strengthened. There were three major elements in this development. First, the greater regularity with which official bodies met. Under Brezhnev, the official timetables whereby political bodies were meant t o meet were on the whole adhered t o . This regularity and predictability engendered a greater sense of stability and of routine functioning into the political structure, and thereby created a perfect situation within which organizational norms could develop a real normative quality. If the system is functioning i n a regular fashion, without the disruption caused by the independent activity of individual political figures, it is easier for its organizational principles to settle into a constant pattern and thereby t o become more widely accepted as the norm. Second, the reaffirmation of the principle of collective leadership, i n both rhetoric and reality. Like the post-Stalin leadership, that of Brezhnev openly affirmed its commitment to collectivism and opposition t o the primacy of a single leader, but unlike its forebear, the post-Khrushchev élite took some concrete steps to try to prevent one of its number

16

Graeme Gill

from becoming dominant over the others.13 Although these measures had some early success, it is clear t h a t by t h e mid-19705 Brezhnev ha d been able t o raise himself above his colleagues i n t o a position of primacy. But h e never became t h e dominant — an d domineering — leader that Stalin and Khrushchev h a d been. This was i n part d u e t o the consensual decision-making style that t h e oligarchy adopted. Emphasis was placed upon the achievement of consensus o n issues, not only among t h e members of t h e immediate political elite, but among all major interests i n t h e society involved i n t h e particular area of policy.14 This approach, which involved t h e seeking-out of views of interested parties before a decision was made,15 inevitably led t o a system of brokering a nd compromise, w h i c h was inconsistent with th e style of operation of a dominant leader. So although Brezhnev was th e most powerful individual i n a leadership position, t h e style of leadership remained consensual rather t h a n personalist. This reinforced th e importance of th e formal organizations of t h e regime, as t h e right of collective organs to make decisions was not usurped, a n d thereby strengthened institutional coherence a n d integrity at t h e expense of personality politics. Third, regularization of th e personnel system. The implementation of a policy of ‘stability of cadres’ constituted a commitment to move away from t h e sort of arbitrariness that was evident i n the personnel policy of Khrushchev. I n practice, stability of cadres m e a n t that the centre would operate a non-intrusive personnel policy, and effectively guaranteed officials prolonged (in many cases even lifetime) tenure of their posts, virtually regardless of performance. By removing the Khrushchevian arbitrariness, this policy created the conditions within which a n increasingly routinized a n d regularized personnel system could develop. The regularization of personnel matters i n this way, o r at least the operation of a less intrusive personnel policy, also removed the sense of threat lower level officials h a d experienced under Khrushchev. As a result of these policies, t h e regularization of bureaucratic functioning and the stability of personnel, favourable conditions were created for the growth and strengthening of organizational norms. The longer these policies lasted, the stronger the pressures for the strengtheni n g of organizational norms should have been. However, i n practice, the growth of such pressures was counteracted by the further entrenchment of t h e personalist principle below the national level. The operation of a non-intrusive personnel policy and the effect of the policy of ‘trust i n cadres’ (which was the underpinning of ‘stability of cadres’) was to leave lower level officials substantially alone to run their regions. Without the fear of arbitrary removal o r the consequences of poor performance, local

Mechanism of Power a n d the Fall of the Soviet Union 1 7

officials were able t o structure their political lives with comparative freed o m . For many, the easiest a n d most effective way of doing this was continued reliance upon family group control of local political machines. This was often not a n individual decision by local Party leaders, but a simple acceptance of t h e culture of political life a t this level; this is how it h a d functioned i n the past a n d , without a concerted effort t o prevent i t , i t w o u l d c o n t i n u e i n t h e future. The effects o f t h e e a r l i e r

development of this pattern of functioning were evident i n its consolida— t i o n i n the absence of any attempt t o check its advance from t h e centre. ‘6 As family group control a t lower levels was consolidated as the Brezhnev period wore on, the capacity of t h e centre t o steer t h e political apparatus was reduced. A non-instrusive personnel policy and a consensual decision-making style i n which all interests were accommodated left t h e centre with little capacity t o give decisive instructions a n d ensure t h a t they were obeyed. As a result, t h e major means left t o t h e Brezhnev centre for guiding events a t lower levels was t o appeal t o t h e self-interest o f l o w e r level officials. A t t h e r h e t o r i c a l l e v e l , t h e d i s c u s s i o n s o f ‘ d e v e l -

oped socialism’ a n d improved standards of living were part of this. But, more importantly, t h e growth of corruption a n d of high standards of living o n t h e part of officials, a n d official tolerance of this represent t h e centre’s recognition t h a t it could d o little t o combat t h e reality of personalized power throughout the major nodes of the system. I n this sense, although there m a y have been a strengthening of organizational norms a t the official level, at t h e practical level th e effect of these was often undercut by t h e continuing primacy of personalism, an d now it was a personalism tainted with corruption.

The collapse of the mechanism of power? The centre’s inability t o exercise effective leadership a n d control over the Soviet mechanism of power, t h e weakness of infrastructural power, h a d become crucial by t h e mid-19805 because of t h e economic crisis that Soviet society experienced. It may be that a politico-administrative structure that had merely to preside over th e continuation of existing policies a n d processes could afford t o lack th e central drive and capacity for direction that characterized th e Soviet mechanism of power, but when a significant change of policy was needed, such a weakness was crucial. It was clear by t h e mid-19805, at least to some elements i n Soviet leading circles, t h a t if the system was to survive, important change was necessary. It also soon became clear t h a t part of t h e problem lay i n the structure of t h e mechanism of power itself.

18

Graeme Gill

As part of the general reform process of the perestroika (‘restructuring’) period, Gorbachev sought t o restore the capacity of the centre to steer the politico-administrative apparatus. There were two main ways i n which he sought to achieve this. First, the revival of enthusiasm for and commitment t o the reform/reconstruction of the Soviet system. Initially his approach to reform was informed by his assumption that all that was required was a change in the psychology of officials. The problems of stagnation could be overcome by a heightened work ethic and a more demanding approach to their jobs on the part both of Party and state officials and of the populace more generally. The demand that officials in particular become more honest about their performance and creative i n the fulfilment of their tasks was premised on the assumption that the structure was basically healthy and the difficult economic situation could be overcome through the so-called activation of the human factor. The basis of this attempt to stimulate enthusiasm and commitment was essentially the same as that which had applied during the Stalin period: ideology. For Gorbachev, the aim was the revival of sociali s m , j u s t a s for Stalin it was the creation o f the socialist future. However,

it soon became clear that the attempt to generate enthusiasm was unable to bring about the sorts of improvement in economic performance that were required. Structural change was necessary. Recognition of the need for this type of change did not mean that the generation of enthusiasm and commitment were no longer seen as being required. Rather the emphasis now shifted principally onto the populace at large rather than officials. This shift was linked to the second way in which Gorbachev sought to restore the centre's capacity to direct. The central aspect of this was the way i n which Gorbachev promoted a sense of uncertainty among lower level officials. Part of the way in which he did this was traditional. As Stalin had done, Gorbachev was very critical of the poor performance of many lower level officials.17 Early i n his tenure as General Secretary Gorbachev criticized the way i n which many local officials were behaving, including the way i n which personnel policy was based on ‘personal loyalty, servility and protectionism’.18 Over succeeding years, Gorbachev maintained his criticism of lower level officials, with official criticism becoming increasingly sharp in late 1986— early 1987.19 This theme was taken up i n the official press and became a major feature of political life into 1988. During his first three years i n office, Gorbachev explicitly attacked lower level officials in language that was even more threatening than that of Khrushchev had been. This criticism was given teeth by the significant levels of removal of officials during this period; by mid-1988, 1 1 of the 1 4 republican first secretaries

Mechanism of Power and the Fall of the Soviet Union 1 9

had been replaced since Gorbachev came to power, while the levels of

turnover of lower level officials was also high.20 The criticism emanating from the centre was reinforced by the effects of one of the principal elements of Gorbachev’s reformist programme, glasnost (‘openness’). This emerged as an important theme in Soviet political life i n the second half of 1986, in the wake of the Chernobyl nuclear accident. Following this disaster, Gorbachev and his supporters encouraged the press to become more open and critical, including of officials who did not perform satisfactorily. Indeed, glasnost was initially seen, i n part, as a means of keeping a check on lower level performance. As the general programme of change became increasingly radical, the levels and range of criticism i n the media rose, bringing even greater pressure to bear on officials. This pressure took a n institutional form with the policy of democratization. This policy, although blunted in its initial stages by opposition at all levels of the structure, constituted a potent and direct threat to the continued dominance of their affairs by local officials. By making them subject to competitive election and by abolishing the nomenklatura,21 democratization sought to rework the way in which the organizational principles of the system functioned, and to remove the basis upon which the local power of individual officials rested. This was the most potent attack on the personalist principle that had been seen during Soviet times. It was also a powerful attempt to strengthen the authority of organizational norms, albeit norms which were being conceived differently from how they h ad been understood prior to Gorbachev.22 The effect of this was reinforced by the changes to the state structure introduced at the XIX Conference i n mid-1988 which established a n alternative structure of power to the Party—state apparatus which had dominated since 1917. This new structure of popularly elected soviets threatened the arena within which personalist power was embedded. The creation of a n executive presidency, and the associated decline i n importance of the Politburo i n the last years of Soviet power, was a clear reflection of the potential for sidelining that Gorbachev's changes involved for the traditional Soviet mechanism of power. If this attack had been pressed t o its conclusion, it would have completely recast the power mechanism within the Soviet system. It would have eliminated the personalist principle, at least in the form i n which it had hitherto functioned, and would have changed fundamentally the organizational norms whereby that mechanism actually operated. However, those changes were not allowed to run their course. Those forces which had been unleashed by the radicalization of glasnost and the reforms to the political structure — principally nationalist movements

20

Graeme Gill

a n d republican state élites but also a variety of civil society organizations — escaped control a n d drove the agenda i n a n increasingly radical direction. Conservative opponents of reform became alarmed a t this, with a section ultimately resorting t o a coup attempt to prevent t h e realization of their worst fears. Faced with these threats, the power mechanism collapsed. The organizational norms embedded i n it were insufficiently robust to be able t o accommodate th e changes required, while the personalist principle was the direct antithesis of th e aims of t h e reform programme. As a result, neither of these two aspects of the traditional Soviet mechanism of power could sustain th e reform programme. Divided i n this way, t h e official structure was unable to sustain t h e pressure, an d collapsed. However, t h e collapse of that structure does not m e a n that all aspects of it disappeared. Although the personalist principle was embedded i n it, t h a t principle, resting as it did upon t h e imperatives arising from the demands of local administration a n d th e uncertainty stemming from above, retained relevance i n th e eyes of many officials i n the early days of the post-Soviet period. So although th e formal structure may have collapsed, i n many parts of Russia a n d the former u n io n the personalist principle h a s continued t o structure local political affairs. The essential dualism of t h e Soviet mechanism of power, characterized by the tension between organizational norms an d th e personalist principle, has been a n important feature of the Soviet mechanism of power from the t i m e that mechanism reached its developed form a t t h e e n d of the 19305. The problem is that the tensions a n d ambiguities created by this, while kept i n check under Stalin through his personal dominance, the terror and popular enthusiasm, posed a severe constraint upon the capacity of the system t o stabilize itself once those factors disappeared. This instability was obscured throughout the long Brezhnev period by the soporific nature of the regime a n d its refusal to take seriously the problems that were accumulating. By the t i m e Gorbachev came t o power, the accumulated policy problems increased the difficulties created by this tension. Radical reform was needed, but the structure itself was antithetical t o such a step a n d ensured that when real attempts were made to bring about change, those attempts were thwarted. This does not m e a n that t h e system was necessarily incapable of reform, but the successful implementation of change was very difficult because of the nature of t h e mechanism of power.

Mechanism of Power and the Fall of the Soviet Union

21

Notes

1. Michael Mann, ‘The Autonomous Power of the State: its Origins, Mechanisms a n d Results’, i n J o h n A. H a l l ( e d . ) , States in History (Oxford: Blackwell, 1 9 8 6 ) p . 113. F o r a more extended d i s c u s s i o n t h a n that t o be found here, s e e Graeme

Gill and Roderic Pitty, Power in the Party: The Organization of Power and CentralRepublican Relations in the CPSU (London: Macmillan, 1997), Chapter 1 . . This has been recounted and analysed i n many places. For my interpretation, which underpins much of the first part of this paper, see Graeme Gill, The Origins of the Stalinist Political System (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). T. H. Rigby, Communist Party Membership in the USSR, 1917—1967 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1 9 6 8 ) p . 5 2 . The actual fl o w o f members i n t o

the Party was much greater than these figures suggest, due to the loss of Party members as a result of successive campaigns i n the mid-19305 and the terror later i n that decade. XVII s’ezd vsesoiuznoi kommunisticheskoi partii (b) 26 yanvaria—10 fevralya 1934g.

Stenograficheskii

otchet (Moscow, 1 9 3 4 ) p . 5 5 5 ; XVIII s’ezd

kommunisticheskoi partii (19) 10-21 cow, 1939) p. 29. . For frequent

vsesoiuznoi

marta 1939g. Stenograficheskii 0tchet (Mos-

reports, a n d c r i t i c i s m , o f t h i s , s e e t h e i s s u e s o f Partiinoe stroi-

tel’stvo during the 19305. F o r d i s c u s s i o n s o f t h i s , see G i l l , Origins.

For the original explanation i n these terms, see Roberet V. Daniels, ‘Stalin’s Rise t o Dictatorship, 1922—29’, i n A l e x a n d e r D a l l i n a n d A l a n F. Westin ( e d s ) , Politics in the Soviet Union: 7 Cases (New York: Harcourt, Brace 81 World, 1 9 6 6 )

pp. 1—38. . For example, see t h e continuing central complaints about the inadequacy of the lower level implementation of central decisions i n Partiinoe Stroitel’stvo during the 19305. . O n this latter, see Niels Erik Rosenfeldt, Knowledge and Power: The Role of Stalin’s Secret Chancellery in the Soviet System of Government (Copenhagen: Rosenkilde 81 Bagger, 1978) and N. E. Rosenfeldt, Stalin’s Secret Departments: A Comparative Analysis of Key Sources (Copenhagen: University of Copenhagen, 1989). 10. For some comparative figures with the Brezhnev era, see Gill and Pitty, Power in the Party, p. 126. 11. For a discussion of this, see Gill and Pitty, Power in the Party, pp. 102-14. 12. Although ultimately, of course, this was uncovered. O n Ryazan see Pravda, 7 January, 1 3 and 1 4 February, 2 July 1959. 13. For a contemporary discussion of these measures, which included the separat i o n of the offices of Party leader and prime minister, the balancing of appointments, the restrictions o n the opportunity t o use patronage (’stability of cadres’ — see below), see T. H. Rigby, ’The Soviet Leadership: Towards a SelfStabilizing Oligarchy?’, Soviet Studies, XXII, 2 (October 1970) p p . 167-91. 14. This is the basis for one scholar’s description of the Brezhnev regime as corporatist. See Valerie Bunce, ‘The Political Economy of the Brezhnev Era: t h e Rise a n d Fall o f Corporatism’, British Journal of Political Science,

13, 2 (1983)

pp. 129—58. O n the decision-making style, see Erik Hoffman, ‘Changing Soviet

2 2 Graeme Gill Perspectives o n Leadership and Administration’, i n Stephen F. Cohen, Alexander Rabinowitch and Robert Sharlet (eds), The Soviet Union since Stalin (London: Macmillan, 1980) pp. 71—92. 15. Although there were exceptions to this, e.g., the invasion of Afghanistan. 16. For a view that the party had broken into regional fiefdoms over which the centre could exercise little control, s e e Yu. Davydov, ’Totalitarizm i totalitar-

naia byurokratiia’, Nauka i zhizn’, 8 (1989) pp. 44—51. 17. In this he was picking up where Andropov had left off. See Gill and Pitty, Power in the Party, pp. 127—9. 18. M. S. Gorbachev, ‘O sovyve ocherednogo XXVII s’ezda KPCC i zadachakh, svyazannykh s ego podgotovkoi i provedeniem’, Pravda, 2 4 April 1985. 19. Gorbachev’s speech to the January 1987 C C plenum was particularly import a n t i n this regard. M. S. Gorbachev, ‘O perestroike I kadrovoi politike’ Pravda, 2 8 January 1987. Also see Gill and Pitty, Power in the Party, pp. 129—32. 20. For some figures, see Gill and Pitty, Power in the Party, p. 132. 21. O n the abolition o f t h e nomenklatura, see Pravda, 1 5 October 1 9 8 9 a n d Izvestiia T5.K. KPSS, 1 1 (1989) p. 4. 22. Put simplistically, this was a n attempt t o promote the democratic over the centralist principle i n the Party’s formal organizational principle.

2 The Strength and Weakness of Stalin’s Power Irina V. Pavlova

Introduction

Two distinct trends can be discerned i n current scholarly assessments of Stalin’s power. The first is represented in works by Western ‘revisionist’ historians, who o n the b a s i s o f Soviet archival documents

o f the 1 9 3 0 5 ,

which provide ample evidence of the disorder, criminality and arbitrariness rampant among the local authorities at th e time, have concluded that Stalin’s power was in fact quite weak.1 The second is manifested i n the growing tendency i n Russia today to support the idea of a strong state a n d to regard precisely t h e Stalinist type of rule as a guarantee of the state’s strength and the stability of the social order. Both trends provide convincing evidence that, despite the abundance of literature on Stalin i n the West, and nowadays i n Russia, the mechanism of Stalin’s rule h a s not s o far been properly understood. This is a key problem i n Soviet history, not only because state power traditionally h a s b e e n , a n d remains, the decisive factor i n Russia’s histor-

ical development, but also because there has been nothing in the country’s history comparable to Stalin’s all-embracing and all-penetrating power. Based on the worst traditions of Russian statehood stemming from Ivan the Terrible and Peter I, the Stalinist regime was created under the specific conditions of the twentieth century, having at its disposal advanced military technology and modern means of communications which dramatically increased its influence. Fully established in the 1 9 3 0 5 , t h i s power structure continued

t o exist, w i t h certain modifi-

cations, throughout the era of communism i n the USSR and Eastern Europe. Its basic characteristics are moreover discernible i n Russia’s political order today, despite the outwardly democratic forms of the postCommunist system. 23

24

Irina V. Pavlova

However, the Stalinist regime has been extremely difficult to study, since for many decades the real mechanism of command was carefully concealed by demagogy about ‘Soviet power’, ‘the dictatorship of the proletariat’ and the ‘power of the people’. The nature of the regime gradually became apparent to the Russian public after August 1991, when the dissolution of the Soviet political system also resulted i n the collapse of the actual power structure — the Communist Party. This collapse exposed with merciless clarity the fact that the Communist Party of the Soviet Union was not in reality a political party, in the sense of an organization of like-minded people with specific political objectives. This description could be applied only to its administrative apparatus, which was also the central institution of State power and the pivot of the whole political system. Once this pivot had been removed, the Communist Party collapsed like a house of cards. It was only then that selected ciphered telegrams, previously sent out by the Central Committee apparatus to the local Party organs, were openly published in the Russian press. At the sessions of the Constitutional Court i n the summer of 1992, devoted to consideration of the constitutionality of the decrees by the Russian President prohibiting the Soviet and Russian Communist Parties and the very legality of these organizations, materials from the ‘special file’ (osobaya papka), where the most secret Party documents were kept, were likewise openly presented for the first time. I n fact, it is only since then that Russian historians have been able to embark on a genuinely scholarly study of the mechanism of political power in the USSR, based on secret documents from the Party administration. Previously, all documents stamped ‘secret’, ‘strictly secret’, ‘with cipher status’ and particularly ‘for the special file’, were not made available to researchers, since the employees i n the Party archives adhered strictly to the ‘Regulations on the Archival Deposits of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union’, which were periodically approved by the Central Committee Secretariat. Huge quantities of secret documents were also kept i n the State archives. The separate archives of the KGB and MVD (Ministry of the Interior) were totally inaccessible to historians. This provides the main explanation for the fact that there have not so far been many works i n Russian historiography dealing with the question of the real mechanisms of Communist rule.2 For the same reason, few Western historians have yet dealt with this problem. Among the historians who have found the key to understanding the mechanism of Stalin’s power, A. G. Avtorkhanov, R. C. Tucker, John Loewenhardt and N. E. Rosenfeldt should especially

be mentioned.3

Strength and Weakness 0f Stalin ’5 Power 25

The Party vs the state The establishment of the mechanism o f Communist rule, and the trans-

formation of the Party into the central institution of power, did not occur immediately after the Bolshevik takeover in October 1917. This process lasted several years. The decisive step i n the concentration of power in the hands of the ruling clique was the separation from the Party’s Central Committee of three permanently acting bodies, the Politburo, the Organization Bureau and the Central Committeee Secretariat,

carried out in accordance with a decision taken at the V111 Communist Party Congress in March 1919. However, this was during the Civil War, and at that time the Party’s main objective was simply to retain power and conquer Russia. In practice, the job of Party building was therefore relegated to the background, even though a great deal of attention was paid to it, especially during the summer of 1918. In line with the transition to peaceful development, the question of strengthening the Party apparatus and establishing a well-functioning system of interaction with the Party structures at the local level became, however, of primary importance, the more so as there had been no direct contact between the Central Committeee and many local organizations prior to the V111 Party Congress. Created in the absence of a common, Russia-wide plan, local Party organizations were highly diverse i n structure. By the end of 1919, no two Party committees in the country were alike.4 After the V111 Congress, however, the process of shaping and unifying the Party apparatus i n the localities was gradually accelerated. Although, during the first five years after the Bolshevik upheaval, the political system was characterized by a marked duality, with the soviets on the one hand and the Party committees on the other, the tendency to shift power from the soviets and their executive committees to the Party committees became more and more obvious. This tendency gave rise to growing concern. According to the Central Committee report on the period from March 1921 to March 1922, it was ‘already sufficiently evident that the Party organization was muscling in on the Soviet apparatus and that Party work was absorbing Soviet work’.5 It should be noted that Lenin also had a foreboding of the disastrous consequences of this development when he wrote that ‘our policy and administrative action rest upon the fact that the entire avantgarde is connected with the whole proletariat and the peasant masses. If somebody forgets about these small wheels and is attracted only by high-handed administrative action, then

there’ll be trouble ahead’.6

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Irina V. Pavlova

The problem was clearly stated by L. D. Trotskii in his letter to the members of the Politburo written on 10 March 1922 during the preparations for the XI Party Congress. ‘One of the most important problems both for the Party itself and for the work of the Soviets’, he wrote,

is the relationship between the Party and the state a p p a r a t u s . . . Without the liberation of the Party as a party from the functions of direct administration and management, one cannot clear the Party from bureaucratism and the economy from slackness. This is the main question. When problems about the sowing campaign in the provinces and the leasing or non-leasing of a plant, are decided in passing at meetings of a provincial Party committee, we are embarking on a disastrous ‘policy’. And the situation is by no means better in the district or central c o m m i t t e e s . . . .7 H e e d was taken o f Trotskii’s letter. O n 2 3 March 1 9 2 2 , i n h i s letter t o

Central Committee Secretary Vyacheslav Molotov, and later at the Congress itself, Lenin pointed out the urgency of taking action to make the Soviet Constitution work again. The problem was likewise addressed by M. I. Kalinin and A. S. Enukidze, Chairman and Secretary of the Central Executive Committee. The need to strengthen the authority of the Council of People’s Commissars and the Central Executive Committee was emphasized. Sessions of the Commitee should from then on be convened not just occasionally but a t least once every three months and for up to two weeks ’in order t o treat the main legislative questions and to systematically control the work of the commissariats and the Council of People’s Commissars’. It was envisaged that the appropriate resolution would be passed i n December 1922, at the X AllRussian Congress of Soviets, which was to deal with the problem of demarcating the functions of the Party and soviet organs. However, the point concerning ‘Soviet construction’ was removed from the agenda of

the Congress.8 The Party vs the ruling clique By that time, another trend had already become apparent. Changes taking place at the top of the Party played a decisive role in this. The principal position in the so-called collective leadership, which was initiated i n 1 9 2 1 and took form after Lenin’s first stroke (25 May 1922), was occupied by the ‘troika’: Zinov’ev, Stalin and Kamenev, who were

Strength and Weakness 0f Stalin ’5 Power 2 7

supported by the majority of the Politburo. All key questions were i n fact decided by this troika; they were only formally confirmed by the Politburo i n the presence of Trotskii. As the members of the troika was principally concerned with maintaining power at any price rather than with rational problem-solving, they were naturally motivated to adopt authoritarian methods and a policy of ‘Party dictatorship’. Lenin was certainly a dictator, but despite his frequent declarations t o the contrary, there existed no dictatorship of the Party as such. Under Lenin, ‘the dictatorship of the Party’ was a dictatorship of personalities. It is hard to imagine anyone else at the time taking the place of Lenin i n the Council of People’s Commissars, of Dzerzhinskii i n the All-Russian Cheka, or of Trotskii in the Revolutionary Military Council, to name but a few. Later, under conditions of genuine ‘Party dictatorship’, personality was no longer of such importance. Everything was determined by position within the hierarchy of the Party apparatus. The post conferred exalted rank o n the person, not vice versa. ‘No one is indispensable’, Stalin used to say. The development of this system was conditioned by a deliberate policy on the part of the post-Leninist leadership, the daily work of the Central Committee Secretariat headed by Stalin as General Secretary, Stalin’s special personnel policy, his desire for personal power and his methods of achieving it: plotting and intrigue, the forming of disguised political groups, blackmail and sheer repression. This policy, secretly put into practice in 1922—23, amounts in fact to the real reform of Party—state relations. One of Stalin’s secretaries at the t i m e , A. M . Nazaretyan, h a s left h i s accounts o f events. I n a letter t o G . K.

Ordzhonikidze (written no later than 9 August 1922), he said: ‘Now the work of the Central Committee has been changed substantially. What we found here was undescribably bad. And what understanding of the Central Committee apparatus did we have i n the localities? Now everything

has been totally reshuffled’.9 The main purpose of this reform was to establish a dictatorship of a small circle of Party leaders, who relied on the apparatus and used it to communicate directives to local Party committees. This put an end to the former model of rule: leaders — platforms — masses, and resulted i n Lenin and Trotskii being ousted from the supreme leadership. The new way of organizing political power represented a real dictatorship of the Party, but all power was concentrated i n the hands of a few individuals at the very top. The hierarchy of Party committees, with secretaries appointed ‘from above’, now became the backbone of the Soviet political system.

28

Irina V. Pavlova

The nomenklatura system At the end of December 1922, instead of preparing the item on the demarcation of functions between Party and Soviet organs for the agenda of the X All-Russian Congress of Soviets, the Central Committee Secretariat held a meeting of the secretaries and heads of department from regional and provincial Party committees who came to Moscow to attend the Congress. The meeting supported and confirmed a decree which entitled the Central Committee to register and allocate Party employees on a Russia-wide basis and made the Orgburo and the Central Committee Secretariat responsible for all major appointments.10 I n this way, the Central Committee Secretariat and the appointed secretaries were linked by a system of mutual protection. I n 1923 the institution of name:chenstvo, appointment from above, developed into an all-embracing system. Moreover, the individuals now admitted to the Party apparatus were all carefully selected on the basis of ‘political criteria’ and were therefore prepared to pursue the general line of the Party to the e n d . A Central Committee decision dated 8 November 1 9 2 3 directly required the Party’s Registration and Allocation Department (Uchraspred) to implement a ‘systematic examination of leading top figures', to be carried out, in the first place, with respect to posts registered i n the nomenk-

latura which was approved by the Orgbur on 12 October 1923.11 As A. Zimin has noted, it is here for the first time — and moreover in a published Central Committee document — that one comes across the term ‘nomenklatura’, which has had such a bad reputation i n Soviet history.12 Based on the model of the Party committees’ registration and allocation departments, analogous offices (at first organization departments and later registration and allocation departments as well) were created in all state organs and a register of senior officials was organized. I n this way, a strict system of registration and allocation of Communist top officials in state agencies was established. All these officials were appointed from above by agreement with the Central Committee Secretariat and the State security service OGPU. By the late 19305, the Central Committee Cadres Directorate, the head of which was G. M. Malenkov, covered not only the Party organizations' own personnel, but also staff members in all branches of the national economy, from the military industry to the municipal services, as well as officials i n all Soviet, planning and punitive organs, in the press and publishing houses, in education and research institutions, and i n all Komsomol and trade union organizations. The nomenklatura workers of these institutions and organizations were registered in the Cadres Direc-

Strength and Weakness of Stalin’s Power 29

torate, and data concerning them were kept i n the Directorate’s special archive for personnel matters.13 People who had not been duly ‘verified’ would simply not be included i n the nomenklatura.

The clandestine core of the new ‘Party state’ The second aspect of the policy of ‘Party dictatorship’ pursued i n 1922—3 was the elevation of the Party committees above the soviets, which meant in effect the end of soviet power. Stalin formally included the soviets i n his system of power, but i n practice they played no real part in the regime. The administrative functions of the soviets were transferred first to their executive committees (ispolkomy), then to the presidiums of these committees, and finally the presidiums themselves were rendered subordinate to the Party committees, becoming little more than their ‘shadow’. From the mid-19205, the Politburo not only led the general work of all the central state institutions (the Council of People’s Commissars, the Council o f Labour and Defence, the Presidium of the Central Executive

Committee, Gosplan, and so on); it also approved their individual directives. O n the other hand, it was made mandatory to implement the Party’s own decisions ‘by the Soviet line’, that is, i n the name of the soviets and not of the Party. This practice was consolidated by a Politburo

directive of 15 October 1925.14 The duality that characterized the political system during Lenin’s time evaporated as a result of the policy of ‘Party dictatorship’. The joint rule of Party and state was replaced by a new ‘Party state,’ i n so far as the state functions were taken over by the illegal anti-constitutional system of Party organs, which now became the basic structure of power. The nature of this power, which was never established legally (until 1 9 3 6 the Party was not referred to in the Soviet Constitution), made it necessary to use conspiratorial methods. So the mechanism by which the supreme Party organs communicated with the local apparatus was secret and clandestine. All correspondence was highly classified. Decisions by the Party leadership, stamped ‘secret’ or ‘strictly secret’, began their descent down the hierarchy from the Central Committee Secretariat and continued through the special channels of the secret power infrastructure. The Central Committee Secretariat itself originally had a ‘Secret Directive Subdepartment’ (sekretno-direktivnaya chast’) which was established in 1920, and within whose competence lay not only the registration of all secret papers sent to the Central Committee, but also office work regarding the implementation of decisions by the Politburo, the Orgburo and the Central Commitee plenums, communications

30

Irina V. Pavlova

with foreign underground parties as well as all kinds of cipher work: preparing and distributing the Party codes, ciphering and deciphering

of telegrams, and so on.15 O n the basis of an Orgburo directive dated 1 2 September 1921, this unit was reorganized as a separate department, the ‘Bureau of the Central Committee Secretariat’ (for a short period of time called the ‘Secret Department’ as well), which handled the secret office work for the supreme Party organs and received all classified information from the local Party organizations. After having been dealt with, the materials were stored in the archive of the Bureau of the Central Committee Secretariat. This special Secret Archive, which was separated from the general archives of the Central Committee Secretariat, held all classified documents. I n the ‘Regulations concerning the Unified System of Management, Registration Work and Archives of the Central Committee Secretariat’, dated 1 June 1 9 2 3 , which

envisaged periodic delivery, between Party congresses, of files held in the archives of the Central Committee Secretariat to the Central Archives (later renamed the Central Party Archives of the Institute of Marxism— Leninism), there was a very important note: the special Secret Archive was not to be handed over.16 From 1926, this Secret Archive was part of the Central Committee’s Secret Department (Sekretnyi otdel). Between 1934 and Stalin’s death i n 1953 it was included in the Special Sector (Osobyi sektor) of the Central Committee,

and subsequently subordinated

to the Central Committee’s General Department (Obshchii otdel). V. I. Boldin, head of the General Department during perestroika, has described how, i n this archive, ‘a separate unit was handling documents from the so-called “special file” and materials kept i n sealed files since the 19305’.17 Today, this Secret Archive forms the basis of the Archives of the President of the Russian Federation. I n the opinion of N. E. Rosenfeldt, the Special Sector constituted the real power centre of the Soviet system in the 19305.This ‘sector’, hidden from public View and rarely mentioned in the sources, was the most important service organ for the supreme Party leadership. It took charge of security affairs and secret communications. It was also closely connected to — and would gradually become nearly identical with — Stalin’s own ‘personal secretariat’. A characteristic expression of this symbiosis was the fact that Stalin’s long-time private secretary, Aleksandr Poskrebyshev, simultaneously served as chief of the Osobyi sektor. In the regions, according to Rosenfeldt, an analogous role was performed by the local secret departments and special sectors. A Soviet émigré quoted by Rosenfeldt has characterized this entire system as the ‘true Soviet Union’ and

Strength and Weakness 0f Stalin ’5 Power 3 1

the ‘real motor’ behind all Party, state and trade union activity. Against this background, Rosenfeldt also points out that many Western historians have either tended to ignore the problem of the secret departments and special sectors altogether, or attached no great importance to them. The evidence on Stalin’s special power apparatus has even been belittled

as ‘hot air’.18 The problems concerning the actual functioning of this system have still not been solved, either by Western or by Russian historians, particularly as regards the 19305; both the meaning of many of Stalin’s actions (the Great Terror) and their substance (preparations for war) remain obscure.

The system of information

control

However, it i s now evident that, by establishing total control over infor-

mation and surrounding himself by devoted people, Stalin was able to transform the Central Committee Secretariat from a purely technical organ serving the Politburo and the Orgburo into his private Chancellery. Not only were basic political questions, submitted to sessions o f the Politburo

and

the Orgburo,

decided

there i n advance;

all contacts with local Party organs also had to pass through this institution. Analogous to the Bureau of the Central Committee Secretariat, secret directive subdepartments were established i n the local party apparatus. These subdepartments had the job of receiving directives from higher Party organs. O n 30 August 1922, immediately after the X11 Party conference, the Central Committee Secretariat approved a n ‘Instruction on the Procedure for Keeping and Transferring Secret Documents’, making it obligatory for all central and local institutions to concentrate classified office work i n ‘secret subdepartments, especially created for this purpose and consisting of one or several persons, exclusively members of the Russian Communist Party’. At the same time responsibility for controlling and supervising the sending and keeping of secret documents was

placed on the OGPU.19 In 1926, in line with changes in the administrative offices of the supreme Party organs, the secret directive subdepartments were transformed into secret departments, and i n 1934 into special sectors. I n the 19305, the heads of the special sectors of the territorial committees (kraikomy), provincial committees (obkomy) and the central committees of the national republics were directly subordinate to the head of the supreme Special Sector of the All-Union Central Committee i n Moscow, while at the same time playing the role of secret

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Irina V. Pavlova

informers vis-a-vis the local leadership. All of these activities, of course, were kept strictly secret. The clandestine communication between higher and lower organs went both ways. Thus, from February 1922, it became regular practice for the secretaries of the local Party committees to send secret letters to the ruling clique, as well as numerous reports, minutes of meetings and so on, which were likewise registered a s secret documents. As a former employee of the central Party administration, L. A. Onikov has noted, ‘absolute, total secrecy was the basic principle of Stalin’s way of organizing the Party apparatus’. Secrecy was maintained i n every dimension — ‘top-down’ (from the district committee to the rank and file), ‘down-top’ (from the local executive Party organs to those at the higher levels), and ‘horizontal’ (from equal to equal). This system of secrecy allowed many aspects of the work of the apparatus to be hidden

even from the ‘apparatchiki’ themselves.20 L. A. Onikov rightly emphasizes that the secrecy rules constituted an entire system, a n integrated combination of elements, which were systematically linked to each other. This system was characterized by hypercentralization, one-man management (edinonachalie) and a rigid chain of command and subordination from top to bottom, maintained partly by conviction and partly by fear. However, Onikov is mistaken i n asserting (in 1990 as well as i n 1996) that Stalin implemented his ‘perestroika’ only at the XVII Party Congress in 1934. I n fact, it was carried out much earlier, in 1922—23, and involved not only the Party apparatus, but also the apparatus of all state organs, starting with the executive committees of the soviets. Since the beginning of the 19303 there existed ‘secret subdepartments’ - or ‘secret departments’, ‘secret sectors’ or ‘special (sub)departments’ — in all Soviet institutions, even in the political departments of the Machine

and Tractor Stations (MTS).21 From that time

onwards the staff of these secret and special (sub)departments also included officials in charge of preparing the annual mobilization plans

in case of war.22 Whereas, before 1 9 1 7 , only a limited number o f state documents

were

registered a s secret, in the Soviet period conspiracy became the general rule. The Communist leaders acted to the very end under conditions of the strictest secrecy, concealing their policies not only from the people but also from their own party. Elements of secret administration could be observed i n the Central Committee’s relations with local Party organs even in the first years of Soviet power. But it was only after Stalin became General Secretary of the Party in 1922 and a number of specific and purposive measures were carried out that secrecy materialized in an

Strength and Weakness ofStalin’s Power 3 3

all-embracing and well-regulated system and thus became a basic principle of Communist rule. On 30 November 1922 the Orgburo approved the rules for storing secret documents. From that time onwards the circle of people who were entitled to receive extracts from the minutes of the Central Committee and the local Party committees, as well as specific directives from the Secretaries of these committees, was determined by one of the Secretaries of the Central Committee or of the local committee i n question. These extracts were addressed personally to the individuals designated. Henceforward the text of the Orgburo directive of 3 0 November 1922 was typed o n the back of each document issued by the supreme organs of

the Party, as a reminder that the secrecy rules must be strictly observed.23 O n 1 9 August 1924 a Central Committee plenum approved ‘Rules for Handling Secret Documents of the Central Committee of the Russian Communist Party’. The Rules were sent as a secret circular, dated 5 September 1924 and signed by Stalin, to all Central Committee members a n d candidates, a n d to members o f t h e Central Control Commission, t h e

Central Auditing Commission, the national central committees and the committees of the territorial, regional and provincial Party organizations.24 According to this circular, the following Central Committee documents were to be considered konspirativnye (the italics are mine — I. P.): minutes of Central Committee plenums and sessions of the Politburo, t h e Orgburo a n d t h e Central Committee Secretariat, a s w e l l a s a l l other materials and documents (extracts from decrees, and s o o n ) , i s s u e d

by the Central Committee and classified as ‘strictly secret’. The list of persons who were to receive these documents was drawn u p by the Central Committee Secretariat. It was also emphasized i n the ‘Rules’ that ‘a Comrade receiving clandestine (konspirativnye) documents may neither pass them on to other people, nor acquaint anyone with their content if no special proviso has been made to this effect by the Secretariat of the Central Committee. Copying of the documents listed or extracts from them is absolutely forbidden’. After August 1924 the rules for handling secret materials which were typed o n the back of all ‘conspiratorial’ documents issued by the Central Committee, were not only based o n the Orgburo directive of 30 November 1 9 2 2 , referred to above, but also o n t h a t o f t h e Central Committee

plenum of 1 9 August 1924. Over the following years these ‘Rules’ were periodically revised but, i n essence, they remained unchanged throughout the entire period of Communist rule. Eloquent testimony to this can be found in the strictly secret ‘Instruction on Work with Secret Documents in the Apparatus of

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Irina V. Pavlova

the Central Committee of the Soviet Communist Party’ approved by the

Central Committee Secretariat on 12 February 1980.25 At an early stage, the OGPU began to function as the secret police of the Party apparatus. All classified correspondence of the Party and state organs could be sent only by the ‘field courier service' of the OGPUNKVD. The scale of this service’s activities is witnessed by the fact that, from 1 9 3 0 onwards, it covered all regions in the country as a consequence of ‘the growing pace of Socialist construction’.26 I n addition, the Special Department (Spetsial’nyi otdel) of the OGPU-NKVD had the task of supervising the selection of staff members of the secret departments as well as the secret code work and office work within these departments.

Secrecy and centralized decision-making The core of Stalinist power was concealed beneath several layers. First, like all normal countries based on the rule of law and with a genuine civil society, the USSR — the country of classical Stalinism — had a political party and its own parliament: the Supreme Soviet. Besides, local soviets existed at all levels (from the republics to village settlements); elections were held, soviet and Party congresses were convened, and numerous meetings of Party, Komsomol and trade union organizations took place. However, all of this was pure fakery, an attempt to instil in people the illusion that they were participating in political life and to present t o the world a picture of a country dedicated to the building of Socialism. As early as the 19205 both the Party itself and all other institutions had been deprived of any real autonomy i n making decisions at their congresses and conferences. All such decisions were agreed i n advance with the Party’s Central Committee.

At the same t i m e , however, the illusion

was created of ordinary people actively participating i n the political life of the country, a n illusion that was constantly reinforced by a concentrated, ideocratic propaganda effort. The propaganda was conducted not only through the mass media, which were under the direct control of the Party leadership, but also through schools, the army, the Komsomol and the system of higher education. The second layer of power consisted in the Party—state bureaucracy, which in its own name faithfully carried out the directives of the supreme Party leadership. Neither the regional Party committees, nor the central committees i n the national republics, had any real independence. Through a Central Committee circular of November 1922, signed by Molotov and Kaganovich, a strict new rule was introduced: Party

Strength and Weakness of Stalin ’5 Power 3 5

bureaus and central committees in the national republics were from then on allowed to issue only interpretative supplements t o All-Union Central Committee circulars, but not to make any changes with respect to their substance.” From the early 19305 onwards it became obligatory for all decisions by the Central Committee and the Council of People’s Commissars (in this form practically all orders of the Centre were transmitted to the localities), as well as for urgent coded telegrams of the series ‘G’, to be implemented without delay. Like the Party directives, almost all decrees of the state organs classified as ‘secret’ o r ‘strictly secret’ were passed down the hierarchy through the relevant ‘secret subdepartments’. This all-enveloping secrecy concealed the real originators of the decisions, hushed up their incompetence and, i n effect, exempted them from any control and freed them from all responsibility. The officially-recognized but i n fact unconstitutional supreme power i n the USSR was vested i n the leading organs of the Party apparatus — the Politburo, the Orgburo and the Central Committee Secretariat. According to the Constitution, as we know, supreme power belonged to the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet (until 1 9 3 6 the Central Executive Committee), but in practice this was completely ignored. I n the 1930s, the Politburo did not confine itself to deciding principal political and socioeconomic matters; it aimed at controlling the situation in the country down to the slightest detail. At its meetings, decisions were made even on such questions as ‘The prices of vegetables i n various cities of the USSR’, ‘The programme for champagne production. . . ’, ‘The castration of surplus bulls in collective and state farms’, ‘Seeds for collective farms’ and ‘The opening of the new Gastronom food stores’.28 Directives belonging to a higher category of secrecy (principally concerning questions of foreign policy, the development of the military industry and political repressions) were not recorded in the minutes of the ordinary Politburo sessions, but kept and transmitted as ‘special file’ materials. This practice obtained not only within the Party organs, but

also in all state institutions, both at the centre and in the localities.29 Communist power was characterized by the fact that it never disclosed the rationale behind its most fundamental decisions. This concealment of motive was entirely deliberate. Party and state officials acted in accordance with a Politburo decision dated 1 2 April 1923, the gist of which was that ‘in laying extraordinarily secret matters before the Politburo, the People’s Commissariats (the Commissariat of Foreign Affairs, the Commissariat of Military Affairs, the OGPU and others) should not give reasons for their proposals in writing, but introduce their

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Irina V. Pavlova

recommendations through preliminary confidential agreement (sgovor)

with the Central Committee Secretariat’.30 In most cases such key decisions, affecting the fate of the entire country, were taken not at meetings of the Politburo and other supreme Party organs but by a narrow circle of Party leaders. Ultra-secret decisions were adopted and passed on purely by word of mouth. Outwardly, this decision-making process would appear t o resemble that i n Western countries. This, i n any case, is the view taken b y ] . Arch Getty: ‘Thus, as we now know, formal meetings were replaced by short, focused gatherings i n Stalin’s o r Molotov’s office. This trend toward complexity and narrowing of the decision-making circle is not limited to Stalinism. I n non-coalition governments, very few decisions are taken by the entire assembled cabinet and i n many c a s e s (like the U S cabinet)

the body as a whole takes on more symbolic functions’.31 The nature of political practice within the USSR, however, was fundamentally different. All government actions i n the West are carried out within a constitutional and legal framework. The law is seen as the people’s birthright; Violations of it by government generally end i n scandal. I n Russia, by contrast, not only the narrow circle of Party leaders, but the Politburo a s a whole, acted outside the Constitution

and

formal legislation; like the Mafia they invented their own laws. Under Stalin it was out of the question that society could exert any control over government. The official behaviour of th e Party leadership was just a facade behind which the real history of the country covertly evolved: the preparations for the establishment of the USSR, the crushing of the Party opposition i n the 19205, the implementation of forced collectivization and — to quote N. Valentinov - Stalin’s ’drunken superindustrializa-

tion’,3‘2 the creation of a military industry, the planning of the Great Terror, the pact with Hitler, t h e ‘ s e a m y s i d e ’ o f the Great Patriotic War,

the special circumstances connected with the construction of ‘Socialism’ and the development of an atomic bomb — and even Stalin’s own death, one of the great enigmas of Soviet history.

The strength and weakness of Stalin’s power The mechanism of Stalin’s power is extremely difficult to study in an objective and scholarly way not only because of its secret and conspiratorial nature, but also because the workings of power were inextricably linked with the actions and behaviour of ordinary people. I n the absence of a genuine civil society, the ‘people’ could be manipulated at will. Having set out t o achieve his grandiose plan of social and economic

Strength and Weakness 0f Stalin ’5 Power 3 7

transformation, Stalin counted on the most proletarianized strata of society, regarding them both as a source of support and as an object of ideological manipulation, and promoting people from these strata to all levels of the Party and state hierarchy. As a result, Stalin not only succeeded i n engineering the so-called socialist transformation ‘from above’, but also in mobilizing the masses by the false idea of building Socialism i n o n e country. The masses i n this way became accomplices in his policies. A form of power which is able to carry through so vast a transformation, ‘moving’ millions of people from their homes, forcing them to change their traditional way of life and determining from above both their life-style and values, cannot be considered ‘weak’. This conclusion is i n no way contradicted by the abundant evidence of the lamentable disorder that surrounded Stalin’s exercise of power. Chaos and disorder — a direct consequence of the social and economic transformation effected by the Stalinist leadership — d id indeed disturb t h e regime. But they were considered infinitely less harmful than any form of organized resistance, and had therefore only to be kept within certain limits. This policy of keeping disorder ‘within limits’, while at the same time constantly stimulating chaos through repression, i n fact demonstrates t h e strength of the regime and clearly reflects Stalin’s strategy and tactics i n maintaining political domination: he not only allowed the social energy of the masses to be dispersed i n t h e everyday struggle for existence but also choked it completely by political repression. Moreover, chaos and disorder served to camouflage the true character of Stalin’s policy and power, and indeed continue to serve that purpose today. The abundant evidence of disorder i n th e official documents of the 19305 has till now distracted the attention of researchers and hampered our understanding of the underlying motives behind the regime’s political actions. Chaos and disorder could be observed also i n the work of the special secret offices. But even this should not be taken as evidence of Stalin’s weakness — as it is, for example, by Graeme Gill, who writes:

Although Stalin had a significant personal political apparatus from an early stage in the life of the Soviet regime, the capacity of this organization to exercise control throughout the system has often been seriously overestimated. The organizational mechanisms through which it functioned at the centre were much more haphazard and slipshod than smoothly efficient, while the tentacles it spread into the localities did not bind local leaders inalienably to the side of the

38

Irina V. Pavlova

General Secretary... . Stalin . . . was not able to build up an extensive, smoothly organized and disciplined political machine that would obey his will. . . . This meant that the degree of control which Stalin was able to exercise prior to the Terror was significantly less than many of those who support an unalloyed personal responsibility

line of argument would have us believe.33 However, the strength of Stalin’s power lay not in the organizational efficiency and discipline of the political machine, but in its potential to act and in particular in the far-reaching consequences of these actions. The real weakness of Stalin's power has been revealed in recent years as it has become possible to View the system in a broad historical perspective. The influence of the scientific-technical revolution, together with even a small degree of ‘openness' in the dissemination of information, proved disastrous for the regime, making obvious not only the extremely low cultural level of those who held power, but also the regime’s inability to organize anything resembling a normal life for its citizens. The task of realizing the special ‘underground’ character of Stalin’s power, however, constitutes to this very day a serious challenge both for the research community and for society as a whole. Notes

1 . See, for instance: Sheila Fitzpatrick, J. Arch Getty, Roberta T. Manning, Gabor T. Rittersporn, Robert W. Thurston,

Lynn V i o l a , David R. Shearer.

2. Yu. S. Aksenov, ‘Apogei stalinizma: poslevoennaya piramida vlasti’ in Voprosy historii KPSS, 1 1 ( 1 9 9 0 ) ; T. P. Korzhikhina

a n d Yu. Yu. Figatner, ’Sovetskaya

nomenklatura: stanovlenie, mekhanizmy deistviya’, i n Voprosy istorii, 7 (1993); I. V. Pavlova, Stalinizm: stanovlenie mekhanizma vlasti (Novosibirsk, 1993); Yu. N. Zhukov, ’Bor’ba za vlast’ v rukovodstve SSSR v 1945—1952 godakh’, i n Voprosy istorii, 1 (1995); I. N. Il’ina, ‘Parnomenklatur: formy i metody sekretnogo kholodnaya

rukovodstva’, i n V. S. Lel’chuka a n d E. I . Pivovara (eds), SSSR i voina, (Moscow, 1 9 9 5 ) ; O . V. Khlevnyuk, Politburo. Mechanizmy

politicheskoi vlasti v 1930—e gody (Moscow, 1996); L. I. Gintsberg, ‘Po stranitsam ‘osobykh papok’ Politburo CK VKB (b)’, i n Voprosy istorii, 8 (1996). 3 . A . G . Avtokhanov, Proiskhozhdenie partokratii (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1973) (enlarged e d i t i o n : t . 1 , 1 9 8 1 ; t . 2 , 1 9 8 3 ) ; A . G . Avtorkhanov, Tekhnologiya vlasti (Munich, 1 9 5 9 , repr. Moscow, 1 9 9 1 ) ; Robert C . Tucker, Stalin in Power: The Revolution from Above, 1928—1941 (New York, London, 1990); John Lowenhardt, The Soviet Politburo (Edinburgh, 1 9 8 2 ) ; Niels Erik Rosenfeldt,

Knowledge and Power: The Role of Stalin’s Secret Chancellery in the Soviet System of Government (Copenhagen, 1978) a n d Stalin’s Special Departments (Copenhagen, 1989). 4 . Izvestiya

CK RKP(b), 2 4 ( 1 9 2 0 ) , p p . 5 a n d 2 5 ( 1 9 2 0 ) p . 5 .

Strength and Weakness of Stalin ’5 Power 3 9 Izvestiya CK RKP(b), 4 ( 1 9 2 2 ) , p . 1 3 . V. I., L e n i n , Polnoe sobranie Sochinenii (Moscow, 1 9 6 4 ) , v o l . 4 5 , p . 1 0 7 . Rossiiskii Tsentr Khraneniya i izucheniya Dokumentov Noveishei I s t o r i i . , f. 2 , o p . 25, d . 1 1 6 4 , 1 . 1 . V. I. L e n i n , o p . cit., v o l . 4 5 , p p . 6 1 , 512—30; N . S. Simonov, ‘Reforma P o l i t i -

cheskogo stroya: zamisly i realnost’ 1921—1923 gg. ’, i n Voprosy istorii, 1 (1991). Bol’shevistskoe rukovodstvo: Perepiska, 1912—1927 (Moscow, 1996), p. 263. . Uchet i raspredelenie rabotnikov. K soveshshaniyu sekretarei i zav. Orgotdelami gubkomov (Po materialam ucheMo-raspredelite’nogo

11. 12. 13. 14.

otdela CK) (Moscow, 1 9 2 3 ) .

Izvestiya CK RKP(b), 1 (1924), pp. 64—5. A. Z i m i n , Istoki Stalinizma, 1918—1923 (Paris, 1 9 8 4 ) , p . 2 6 9 .

RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, op. 3, d . 1008, 11. 29-30. Pis’ma I. V. Stalina V. M. Molotovu 1925—1936 33. Sbomik dokumentov (Moscow, 1995), p. 37. 15. Izvestiya 2 3 (1920), p. 3. 16. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, op. 84, d . 488, 1. 62 ob. 17. V. I., B o l d i n , Krushenie pedestala: Shtrikhi k portretu M. S. Gorbacheva (Moscow, 1995), p. 256. 18. Rosenfeldt, Stalin’s Special Departments, pp. 9, 19, 79. 19. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 84, d . 696, 1 . 100. 20. Pravda, December 4 ( 1 9 9 0 ) . 21. GANO (Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Novosibirskoi o b l a s t i ) , f . 3 , o p . 2 , d . 5 3 7 , 1 . 1 . 22. Ibid., f. 47, o p . 1, d . 1224, 1 . 6. 23. Ibid., f. P-l, op. 2, d . 241, 1 . 4. 24. The text signed by Stalin was published by I. Pavlova; the text by A. Andreev was published by V. Lebedev i n Istochnik, 5—6 (1993). 25. L. Onikov, KPSS — anatomiya raspada (Moscow, 1996), pp. 177—96. 26. GANO, f. 47, op. 1, d.1224, 1. 10; f. 911, o p . 1, d . 271, 1. 320. 27. Ibid., f. P-l, o p . 2, d . 238, 1. 32. 28. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, op. 3, d . 974, 1. 6; d . 1003, 1 . 59, 1. 23, 55, d . 1011, 1. 14 . See, for example, the following catalogues of documents: ‘Osobaya papka I. V. Stalina 1944—1953’ (Moscow, 1994); ‘Osobaya papka V. M. Molotova, 1944—1956’ (Moscow, 1994); ‘Osobaya papka N. S. Khrushcheva. 1956—1959’ (Moscow, 1 9 9 5 ) .

30. Istochnik, 5—6 ( 1 9 5 3 ) . 31. Review by J. Arch Getty of Derek Watson, Molotov and Soviet Government: Sovnarkom, 1930—1940 (New York, 1 9 9 6 ) , i n Slavic Review, 2 , v o l . 2 ( 1 9 9 7 ) ,

pp. 371—2. 32. N . V. Valentinov, Nasledniki Lenina (New York, 1 9 9 0 ) . 33. Graeme G i l l , Stalinism (Oxford, 1 9 9 0 ) , p . 6 5 .

3 The Importance of the Secret Apparatus of the Soviet Communist Party during the Stalin Era Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

O l d vs new

evidence

The aim of this chapter is to assess the importance of the special secret office i n the Stalinist party apparatus, referred to at different times as the Central Committee’s Secret Department (Sekretnyi otdel TsK), the Bureau o f the Central Committee

Secretariat (Byuro Sekretariata

TsK) a n d the

Central Committee’s Special Sector (Osobyi sektor TsK). This assessment is based upon (a) my own previous investigations, (b) other scholars’ investigations, including those which have most recently come to light, (c) documentary evidence from the Russian archives which has become available during the 19905, and ((1) new or hitherto unused or insufficiently utilized narrative acounts by people claiming to possess significant information. It should be emphasized at the outset that many of the relevant documents remain inaccessible while other material has been available to only a few especially privileged scholars. Considerations of access aside, it would certainly be naive to believe that the existing archival evidence i n itself will provide an adequate and unambiguous answer to all our questions and that it can be used without being interpreted i n the light of information from other categories of source material. It also goes without saying that the new or hitherto unused narrative accounts should not simply be accepted at face value but must be subjected to normal source-critical evaluation. Nevertheless, sufficient archival and narrative material has emerged i n the 19905 to enable u s to take research a step further and to make a meaningful comparison between the evidence used i n the past (the Smolensk Archives, open Soviet sources, émigré reports, a nd so on) and the newly discovered material. 40

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

Essential

41

characteristics

The importance of the special secret apparatus can be assessed according to various benchmarks: its basic functions its structure and size its various ramifications its place i n the overall bureaucratic system its relationship to other Party and State bureaucracies.

Beyond this, an evaluation of the role of this special office must also depend upon how the Stalinist system and the political decision-making process are regarded in general. The first Western scholars who dealt (very briefly) with the Secret Department and the Special Sector tended to believe that the sphere of responsibility of this department/sector embraced only the connections between the central Party apparatus and the secret

police.1 However,

research

carried out, for example,

by Leonard

Schapiro,

Robert C. Tucker and the present author i n the 19705 demonstrated that the Secret Department/Special Sector functioned as the central Chancellery of the supreme Party leadership; that it was ‘a little gear box through which the massive machinery of Soviet r u l e . . . w a s operated’ (Tucker); that i t serviced the Politburo, the Organization Bureau and t h e Central Committee Secretariat; a n d that i t i n c l u d e d a code office

and a secret archive (Schapiro, Rosenfeldt). These Western researchers also concluded that the special secret apparatus was closely connected to, and for all practical purposes gradually became identical with, Stalin’s personal secretariat. Some minor differences of interpretation existed, however. Whereas Leonard Schapiro, for example, treated the ‘Secret Department’ and the ‘Special Sector’ as two different designations of the same phenomenon, the present author concluded that the Special Sector (which emerged officially i n 1934) was a more ‘exclusive’, that is, more clandestine, more isolated and more Stalinized organ than the Secret Department of the 19205 and early 19305. It was also argued — contrary to Schapiro — that the total fusion between the personal secretariat and the Secret Department did not occur immediately following the appointment of Stalin as Secretary General i n 1922, but only in step with the Stalinization of Soviet society generally.3

42

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

Irrespective of these differences, the operational tasks of the special secret apparatus could be identified as: (a) control of secret communication, (b) the storing o f classified documents,

(c) accumulation

o f import-

ant information, and (d) administration and analytical work for leading political decision makers, not least Stalin himself. I n short, the special secret office was (or gradually became) the most important ‘filter’ between the top leadership and the other parts of the Soviet system, and its functions i n many respects parallelled or overshadowed the

‘normal’ Party and State organs.4 An additional point was that control of secret communication by the Communist leadership was greatly facilitated by th e establishment of a network of secret and special sections at the lower levels of the Party and throughout the State bureaucracy.5

The scholarly debate While this interpretation was accepted by many Western scholars at the time, the so-called ‘revisionist’ school of the 19805 and 19905 took up a rather critical and ironic atttitude to those researchers who attached great importance to the special secret apparatus. The revisionists’ critical comments,

however, were seldom based o n a systematic analysis o f the

evidence of the secret apparatus itself, but derived more from their general View of the Stalinist system and from their inclination to downgrade the role of Stalin in the decision-making process. Their logic basically seems to have been as follows: Stalin was not as important as ‘traditionalist’ historians have tended to believe; consequently, the Chancellery which assisted him must also have been of only minor significance.6 The evidence that became available in the 19908 h as failed to put an end t o this discussion. Several new investigations have demonstrated that Stalin did i n fact play an extremely important role i n Soviet political life, that h e constantly strove for an unprecedented degree of centralization, that all key initiatives or major decisions gradually came to lie with him, and that the official decision-making organs of the Party and State eventually lost their influence as collective bodies and in fact ceased functioning i n any normal sense of the word, giving way to informal meetings between Stalin and a small and constantly changing coterie of other leading politicians and bureaucrats. Basically, the new evidence thus appears to

support the traditionalist View.7 Of course, not every political idea and proposal emanated from Stalin himself, and not every initiative worked out the way Stalin wanted.

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

43

Many of his moves were unquestionably counter-productive; h e could not control every step of his fellow citizens; the central bureaucracies were not particularly efficient and fought constantly for their own institutional interests; the political process was marked by ‘family circles’ and informal personal connections; and the relationship between centre and periphery left much to be desired. These circumstances have repeatedly been emphasized by the revisionists. However, the serious representatives of the traditionalist interpretation of Stalinism never maintained that Stalin controlled everything; they only contended that his striving towards maximum centralization was a n essential characteristic of the Soviet system at the time, and that this striving should therefore be attributed high explanatory value i n any analysis of the development

of the Stalinist system.8 There is also the question of how to define ‘control’. Stalin did not control everything i n the sense of his having been able to create a rational and well-functioning political-economic system and to ensure that every citizen displayed the desired pattern of behaviour. But i n terms of pure power preservation h e did in fact acquire a high degree of control, in so far as he was capable of eliminating all threats to his political position and of plunging society into a series of radical and dramatic upheavals without being stopped by efficient opposition. Seen from this point of View, control and chaos should not be treated as mutually exclusive phenomena. It would certainly be premature to rule out the hypothesis that Stalin in critical situations quite consciously chose to create a certain amount of political chaos precisely i n order to cement his own position of power, o r that he at least accepted some chaos a nd disorganization as the necessary price of achieving other, more import-

ant goals.9 The revisionists' investigations indeed underline one central point: the more evidence we accumulate about the Stalinist system, the more complex, many-faceted and contradictory the system appears. However, complexities and contradictions characterize any developed society studied by historians; they are certainly not a unique trait of Stalin's political system. While some researchers may need to be reminded of this self-evident fact, the reminder itself should not be regarded as an important breakthrough i n our understanding of the nature of Stalinism. If the new archival material thus seems to substantiate the traditionalist, Stalin-orientated interpretation, at least in its more sophisticated and balanced forms, there is also every reason to take an interest in the central administrative

basis o f Stalin's decisions and actions, t h a t i s t o

say, the Party’s secret Chancellery.

44

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

This topic has been touched upon by various scholars during the 1 9 9 0 5 , but with different r e s u l t s .

The work of Irina Pavlova, for example, lends substantial support to the view that the secret Chancellery was a vital part of the central bureaucracy, i n so far as she stresses both the importance of secrecy i n itself in the Stalinist system, and the significance of the administrative organs that controlled the secret communication processes and rendered direct assistance to the central political leadership. Yoram Gorlizki’s study of the final days of the Special Sector i n 1 9 5 3 likewise tally well — apart from

minor details — with previous research in the field.10 However, i t h a s a l s o b e e n asserted that the treatment

o f the secret

apparatus by the author of this paper has been marked by ‘wild conject u r e s ’ . Ironically, the originators o f t h i s criticism claim to be able t o

refute the alleged conjectures by referring to the fact that the secret Chancellery not only serviced Stalin personally but also assisted the Politburo, the Organization Bureau, the Party Secretariat and the Central Committee, i n other words precisely what has been emphasized both by the present author and by Leonard Schapiro as early as the mid-19705. Nor have the critics observed that I expressly distinguish between Stalin’s personal secretariat and the Secret Department of the 19203, while also stressing the close connections between the two institutions. One of the key conclusions in earlier investigations is exactly that Stalin’s possibilities of control over communication were greatly facilitated by the fact that some of his most prominent assistants were i n continual charge of a n administrative apparatus that serviced the official decision-making

organs of the Party.11 Concerning the current research situation as regards the secret Party Chancellery of the Stalin era, two general conclusions can thus be drawn: (a) there i s still ample room for discussion and disagreement, (b) some o f

the scholars who have produced — often very useful — studies of the newly-available archival evidence possess quite insufficient knowledge of previous research i n the field, or a rather limited ability to reproduce this research in a loyal and serious way. Evidence

about

the basic

structure

The next question which must be addressed is whether the new specific evidence about the secret Chancellery confirms, complements or invalidates the picture drawn i n the past. The results of earlier investigations concerning the structure of the secret apparatus i n the 19205 must be regarded as basically corroborated

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

45

today. The apparatus consisted of a Politburo secretariat, an Organization Bureau secretariat, a n d a ‘ B u r e a u ’ (that is, a n administrative

service

organ) of the Central Committee Secretariat, apart from the previouslymentioned

code office and secret archive. I n t h i s c a s e , o l d and new

sources speak the same language.12 The archival evidence reveals that i n different periods of time there also existed a technical Chancellery or staff, a secret mailroom (sekretnaya ekspeditsiya) and a special office that controlled th e return of classified documents to the secret apparatus. These sections have not been identi-

fied in the investigations of the 19705 and the 19805.13 Both the old and the newly-discovered evidence indicates that the Bureau of the Central Committee Secretariat at a relatively early stage acquired a superior position in relation to th e other sections of the secret apparatus. I n fact, it can now be established that the entire secret apparatus was referred to simply a s the ‘Bureau of the Central Committee Secretariat’ i n official sources between

1 9 2 1 a n d 1 9 2 6 , whereas t h i s

same apparatus was called the ‘Secret Department’ both before and

after this period.14 Also confirmed is the fact that Stalin’s personal assistants (pomoshchniki) were attached to the secret apparatus i n two different capacities. As a group they made up a section i n the Bureau of the Central Committee Secretariat together with the assistants to th e other Central Committee

Secretaries. At the s a m e t i m e , however, Stalin’s m o s t promi-

nent assistants continously occupied the commanding heights i n the entire secret apparatus from 1 9 2 2 until the end of the Stalin era. For example,

Stalin’s first assistants i n the 1 9 2 0 5 , A. M . Nazaretyan,

I. P.

Tovstukha and L. Z. Mekhlis, were chief or deputy chief of the Secret Department/Bureau of the Central Committee Secretariat between 1 9 2 2 and 1930, while A. N. Poskrebyshev, Stalin’s leading assistant from around

1 9 3 0 until a few months

before Stalin d i e d i n March 1 9 5 3 ,

headed the Secret Department i n the early 19305 and its successor, the Special Sector, from 1934 to the winter of 1952/53.15 It is still not possible to determine the precise difference between t h e Secret Department/Bureau of the Central Committee Secretariat of the 19205 and early 19305 on the one hand and the Special Sector of the 19305, 19405 and early 19505 on the other. The available archival evidence, however, supports the thesis that the Special Sector was a ‘more exclusive’ or ‘more clandestine’ apparatus than the old Secret Department. To judge from what we now know, the Special Sector concentrated on Politburo affairs (primarily those belonging to the highest classification category, ‘osobaya papka’, o r ‘special dossier’) and various

46

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

other top secret matters such as control of cadres i n the Party apparatus and certain aspects of communication security. The core of the Special Sector thus seems to have been the former Politburo secretariat and certain security-related functions which existed within the framework of the old Secret Department. As Stalin bore general responsibility for the work of the Politburo and for the Special Sector itself, it is reasonable t o conclude that his personal secretariat also played a dominant role in — and actually now became identical with — the Special Sector. Further evidence of Stalin’s domination is that this new sector probably did not include the assistants to the other Central Committee Secretaries.16 There are also indications that the Special Sector apparatus was located i n the Kremlin, whereas the main address of the Secret Department had b e e n ‘ N o . 4 , Old Square’, the H Q o f t h e ordinary Central Committee

apparatus. When the Special Sector was officially established i n 1934, part of the former Secret Department seems to have remained i n Old Square, at least for some time. The Organization Bureau and the Central Committee Secretariat were now serviced by the so-called ‘technical secretariat of the Organization Bureau’ which was subordinated to the ‘Administrative Directorate’ (Upravlenie delami) and does not — contrary to earlier interpretations — seem to have been directly included i n the Special Sector. The work of the ‘technical secretariat’ was taken over by the Party’s General Department (Obshchii otdel) after the XIX Party Congress in October 1952, when the Organization Bureau was abolished. I n the following months the General Department took on a large number of officials from other Central Committee departments, including the Special Sector, and also from the apparatus of the Council of Ministers. The sharply reduced Special Sector lived on as a service organ for the Party Presidium (the former Politburo) until shortly after Stalin’s death o n 5

March, 1953, when it was replaced by a ‘chancellery’ (kantselyariya) of the Presidium, consisting of 24 senior executives and 1 2 technical staff members, and headed by Malenkov’s chief assistant D. N. Sukhanov. It can thus be established that the phasing out of Stalin’s special power apparatus began at least several months before the dictator died. Not very suprisingly, this tendency was strengthened i n the following period. On 1 8 March, for instance, i t was decided that three o f the five sections o f t h e

old Special Sector were t o be transferred to the General Department. The functions o f these sections are unknown,

but i t can be established that

the General Department now included the Party’s code office.17 The swift demolishing of the Special Sector and the parallel build-up of a large General Department provide confirmation of the fact that the sector had been an exclusive and important instrument in the hands of

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

47

the dictator and that it had covered a wide range of activities. I n an earlier work, the present author argued that the Special Sector may have been originally more focused o n security and police affairs than the Secret Department of the 19205 and early 19305, and that it may have had its administrative origin i n a special security section within the Secret Department. I n the light of what we know now, this interpretation requires some refinement. The work of the Politbureau and Stalin’s personal secretariat — and with that the Special Sector — certainly embraced other important and top secret government affairs. O n the other hand, everything indicates that matters of police, security and purges actually came to dominate the work of the Politbureau during the second half of the 19305. We also have testimony to the effect that the Special Sector’s administrative offices were more directly controlled by the OGPU and NKVD t h a n , for instance, i t s predecessor i n the m i d - 1 9 2 0 5 , the Bureau o f

the Central Committee Secretariat. Finally, if th e secret Party apparatus is defined to embrace not only the Special Sector itself, but also various affiliated departments, t h e emphasis on police work and security matters

becomes all the more striking.18 The ramifications of the secret apparatus The Secret Department/Bureau of the Central Committee Secretariat/ Special Sector actually seems to have h ad several ramifications and closely-connected sister departments. There has long existed substantial evidence to t h e effect that the security service’s Special Department (Spetsial’nyi otdel pri OGPU/Spetsial’nyi otdel NK VD), which was responsible for secret communication, storing of classified documents, internal code work and the breaking of foreign ciphered cables, actually functioned as part of t h e secret Party apparatus. This interpretation has been further strengthened i n recent years. Archival documents clearly demonstrate how closely the Special Department of the OGPU worked together with the Party’s Secret Department i n many concrete cases during the 19205. Whereas it was previously assumed that the OGPU Special Department was mainly responsible for secret communication and security control within the State i n s t i t u t i o n s , i t can now b e established t h a t t h i s

department was deeply involved i n Party affairs as well. We also now know that the Special Department continued to exist — albeit under new names and i n reorganized form — until 1949, when the entire apparatus for secret communication and code work was officially transferred from the security service MGB to the central Party apparatus, and acquired the designation ‘Main Special Services Directorate of the Central Committee’

48

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

(Glavnoe upravlenie spetssluzhb TsK). A former employee of this directorate, M . S. Dokuchaev,

describes i t a s a n ‘information

centre’ that pre-

pared extremely secret documents for Stalin, Molotov, Malenkov, Beria and the General Staff, especially in the domain of foreign affairs. I n another narrative source, it is maintained that the Special Services Directorate formulated the codes both for the Party and State organs within the Soviet Union and for foreign Communist Parties.19 This information is important not only because it enhances our understanding of the mechanisms of the combined Party and State network for secret communication. It also demonstrates that there existed — at least within certain periods of time — various extraordinarily secret structures within the central Party apparatus which complemented and supported the Secret Department/Special Sector and which were not mentioned i n any open and official source during the entire Soviet era. Moreover, there i s considerable evidence to indicate that the OGPU-

NKVD Special Department/the Central Committee’s Special Services Directorate did not operate alone. Certain narrative accounts, for example, have given the impression that several other top secret departments within the security service (the ‘First Special Department’, the ‘Second Special Department’, the ‘First Department’,

that is, the department

for the protection

o f Stalin and

other Soviet leaders, and so on) were deeply integrated into the Party’s clandestine apparatus. While it is still difficult to establish the exact relationship between the Party apparatus and these departments, the very existence of a ‘First Special Department’, a ‘Second Special Department’ and so forth in the 19305 has now been confirmed by archival sources. It is equally clear that the new data about the departments’ main functions are essentially consistent with the émigré reports. Hence, there is a certain basis for assuming that the statements about the close rela-

tionship to the secret Party apparatus are no less reliable.20 I n several émigré reports it is further asserted that the Communist Party had its own Special Department (Spetsial’nyi otdel). From this point of View, it is most interesting that Dmitrii Volkogonov, investigating archival material from the 19305, refers to a ‘Central Committee Special Department’ (Spetsial’nyi otdel TsK) and maintains that this department bore general responsibility for the activities of the security service and issued extremely detailed directives to the various NKVD departments,

concerning,

for instance, the assassination o f Trotskii.21

The Party may even have had yet another ‘Special’ or ‘Extraordinary’ Department, that is, an Osobyi otdel, responsible for military and mobilization affairs, but here the source material remains scanty. It is evident,

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

49

however,that questions of mobilization made u p a recurrent theme o n the Politburo agenda during the first half of the 19305; that several other Party departments, including the Organization Bureau secretariat, frequently dealt with such matters; and that mobilization was one of the main preoccupations of the special departments i n all major Soviet

bureaucracies and large enterprises.22 I n a d d i t i o n , several narrative accounts refer t o t h e existence within t h e

Communist Party apparatus of a ‘Secret Political’ (or just ‘Political’) Department of State SeCurity (Sekretno-politicheskii/Politicheskii otdel gosudarstvennoi bezopasnosti) and a parallel ‘Secret Political’ or ‘Special’ Commission of State Security (Sekretno-politicheskaya/Osobaya/Spetsial’naya komissiya gosudarstvennoi bezopasnosti), which are asserted to have planned and implemented the Great Purge of the 19305.23 The present author was previously inclined to believe that the various narrative accounts concerning a ‘Special Department’, a ‘Secret Political Department’, etcetera, within the Communist Party apparatus simply reflected rumours of the Party’s Special Sector and that the terminological confusion called into question the general credibility of the sources.24 However, s o m e o f the information

from these narrative accounts h a s

now been corroborated by archival evidence, to judge from Volkogonov’s investigations. To be sure, n o references i n official documents have been found (at least not by the present author) concerning the ‘Secret Political Department’ and the parallel ‘Secret Political Commission’. But a n overview of the total amount of relevant narrative accounts reveals that the department and/or the commission are mentioned in a considerable number of sources. It is quite unlikely that all these accounts have been influenced by each other. The evidence thus indicates that our conclusions i n this field of research are based on several independent sources

containing essentially the same information.” Moreover, t h e most detailed émigré report on th e department’s and commission’s work includes a description of the preparation and implementation of the Great Purge which can be compared with new archival evidence concerning the purge process i n general. Although it is impossible to subject all relevant data to such a comparison, the overall result of a comparative analysis cannot but endow this émigré report with a

high degree of credibility.26 It should also be noted that the secret communication network of the Communist International (the ‘Department of International Communication’, later the ‘Special Service’ and the ‘First Department’) was not abolished i n the wake of the formal dissolution of the Comintern i n 1 9 4 3 but was transferred to the Soviet Communist Party under the

50

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

bland designation ‘Institute No. 100’. This is especially interesting in the present context because, judging from the interpretation offered by the Russian scholar G. M. Adibekov, the anonymous ‘institute’ was not integrated into the ordinary Central Committee apparatus, but was subordinated directly to the supreme leadership of the Party as part of the new ‘Department of International Information’. The same fate is stated to have occurred t o other sections o f the former Comintern

HQ. If Adibe-

kov’s interpretation is correct, the Department of International Information, including Institute No. 100, must have been administratively connected to the Party’s Special Sector — on a par with the other top secret security, communication and police departments mentioned above.27 Finally, there is t h e question of the ‘Information Bureau’ o r the ‘Bureau of International

Information’, which i s mentioned

i n several narrative

accounts and which according to these accounts was headed by various of Stalin’s assistants and functioned as th e secret Party apparatus’ special

office for Comintern and foreign policy matters.28 The existence of such a bureau is now beyond doubt. It can also be established that t h e first chief o f t h e Information

Bureau, Elena Stasova,

did indeed bear the title of ‘assistant’ (pomoshchnik) and that she worked for the Party’s Secret Department in the late 19205. O n e of her tasks was t o collect information

about international

affairs, for instance from t h e

foreign press, a n d to present relevant documents concerning Comintern

matters to Stalin himself.29 A certain change seems t o have taken place during the years 1932—34. Stasova’s office was transformed

into, o r replaced by, a new ‘ B u r e a u o f

International Information’ under the leadership of Karl Radek. It is difficult to decipher the meaning an d depth of this change, but to judge from the available archival material the weight may have shifted somewhat from Comintern affairs to ordinary foreign policy matters. I n any case, Radek’s bureau, like its predecessor, was not supposed to operate ‘officially’ and its activities were defined as ‘secret work’ — to quote a highly classified Politburo decision. Various precautions had therefore t o be taken i n order to conceal its very existence from unauthorized eyes and to obscure the source of its financial means and its network of collabora-

tors.3O To conclude: all evidence indicates that the Party’s secret apparatus in its totality comprised a considerable number of departments, directorates, bureau, and so on which centred around the Secret Department/ Special Sector and whose activities were never mentioned i n open sources and consequently were known only to a narrow circle of leading politicians and top bureaucrats. Of course, this makes it somewhat diffi-

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

51

cult to give an absolutely precise definition of the central secret Party apparatus. On the other hand, the identification of these supporting departments and so on, of which some — a s we shall see — had a quite comprehensive staff, cannot but underscore still further the overall importance of the secret Party apparatus both to the Soviet political system in general and to Stalin himself.

The size of the secret apparatus The question of the size of the secret apparatus can now be elucidated in some detail. Several official sources indicate that the central staff of the secret apparatus consisted of approximately 100 persons throughout the 19205, even though it had a far more modest start i n 1 9 2 0 and certain fluctuations may have taken place later o n . As the number of functionaries i n the total Central Committee apparatus (including the Organization and Instruction Department, the Personnel Allocation Department, the Department of Culture and Propaganda, the Department of Agitation and Mass Campaigns and the Administrative Directorate) was only 375 i n 1930, the relative position of the secret apparatus seems to have been

quite strong.31 The ramifications of the secret apparatus, however, may have been even larger. I n a report of the activities of the Secret Department as early as 1921, it is thus stated that the total number of collaborators (sotrudniki) had been between 6 9 4 and 9 9 4 people i n the preceding period of time. This information can be subjected to several interpretations. The most probable today is that these very high figures included the representatives of the Secret Department i n other Party and (possibly) State offices. On the one hand, then, we should not believe that the central staff comprised almost 1000 members i n 1921. O n the other, the importance of the Secret Department is in fact underscored if there are reasons to assume that it had established a network of special envoys or that it controlled certain categories of employees i n other parts of the

bureaucracy even before Stalin became Secretary General of the Party.32 The exact size of the Special Sector is still a matter of conjecture. We know, however, that i t was divided i n t o a t least five subsections i n the

19305, and that the parallel service organ, the ‘technical secretariat of the Organization Bureau’, had 1 3 3 employees i n 1948. It is also evident that the Special Sector’s successor, the General Department, acquired a staff of at least several hundred functionaries as a result of the above-mentioned reorganizations i n the period around Stalin’s death i n 1953. Some decades later, the General Department consisted of ten different sections.33

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

52

To this can be added the available data about the various supporting departments. It has now been established that the OGPU/NKVD Special Department (Spetsial’nyi otdel) had 100 employees i n 1934 and that its successor had grown to 683 staff members i n 1942,that is, seven years before it was directly and officially integrated into the central Party apparatus as the ‘Main Special Services Directorate of the Central Com-

mittee’.34 We have no information about the size of the Party’s own Special Department (Spetsial’nyi otdel TsK). However, if Volkogonov’s interpretation is accepted (that this department gave very detailed instructions to the NKVD in all relevant spheres of activity), the staff must have been quite large. According to émigré reports, the ‘Secret Political Department’ coordinated the work of all Party organs involved i n the Great Purge and had at its disposal a n executive organ in the form of a ‘special purge sector’ within the framework of the NKVD. This special sector is said to have had a staff of 1 5 0 members in addition to the purely technical-administrative employees. The staff was divided into subsections for all those sectors — agriculture, heavy industry, light industry, transport, and so on — which would be devastated by the Great Purge. However, this information is

still unconfirmed by accessible archival evidence.35 O n the other h a n d , i t h a s now b e e n established that the ‘ I n s t i t u t e N o . t h e former secret communication network o f t h e Comintern, was

100’,

assigned a staff of 1 6 8 members in 1943/44. The entire Department of International

Information,

that is, the core o f the o l d Comintern

Head-

quarters, of which ‘Institute No. 100’ was now a part, had more than a

thousand staff members.36 Even though t h e data are still incomplete and some of the abovementioned departments were attached to the Secret Department/Special Sector for only certain periods of time, it cannot be doubted that the total secret apparatus i n the broad sense of the term was a quite extensive institution. Conversely, the ‘Bureau o f International

Information’, considering its

important functions, seems to have had a surprisingly small central staff. Apart from the bureau chief and his two deputies (plus an unspecified number of technical office workers) it has been possible to identify only four s e n i o r members i n 1 9 3 4 . As we shall see later, however, t h i s bureau

not only had a network of agents operating abroad, but was also authorized to utilize the work of the employees i n many other Soviet institu-

tions.37

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

53

The role of the secret apparatus The nominal size of the secret apparatus and its various ramifications is of course not i n itself sufficient evidence of its important role i n the Soviet political system. The staff of the largest Central Committee departm e n t , t h e ‘Administrative Directorate’ (Upravlenie delami), for instance,

included many purely technical workers such as guards and supply service employees who should certainly not be regarded as bureaucratic, let alone political heavyweights. As i n most other institutions, the staff of the secret apparatus itself also embraced dozens of ordinary office

clerks, typists, stenographers, and so on.38 Information about the size of the secret Party apparatus must therefore be set alongside available data not only about its overall spheres of responsibility, but also concerning its more specific modes of operation. The secret apparatus can be analysed from two main perspectives: (a) its functions as a purely administrative and basically passive instrument i n the hands of the political leadership, and (b) its capacity to influence the viewpoints a n d information level of the central decision makers. First of all, it should be noted that th e secret apparatus appears to have been superior to other Soviet institutions i n terms of general efficiency. Several contemporary sources emphasize that it was the most important part of the Central Commitee apparatus and that its office work was better organized and its staff members more qualified than elsewhere i n the bureaucratic system. We also learn that all the employees had been very carefully screened and that they were distinguished by high Party seniority and a n exceptional stability of employment. The attempt to attract the most brilliant people manifested itself in various privileges and higher salaries, compared to similar job functions i n other institutions.39 I n addition t o t h e s e statements from official Soviet sources, we have

several émigré reports that particularly emphasize the high quality of the work of the OGPU Special Department.40 Yet efficiency and administrative skills were only one aspect. The fact that secrecy permeated the Soviet system from a rather early stage, and that the administration operated according to a strictly applied ‘need-toknow’ principle, could not but further strengthen the role of the central secret apparatus. Numerous departments and institutions i n the Party and State bureaucracy dealt with classified material even in the 19205. However, the Party’s secret apparatus, together with the OGPU/NKVD Special Department, bore ultimate responsibility for handling classified documents i n all these departments and institutions. The supreme secret apparatus not only forwarded the general rules within this sphere of

54

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

activity; it also controlled whether these rules were observed by the other bureaucracies. As a consequence, its representatives were empowered to inspect the most sensitive archives and offices throughout the Soviet system, just as the central apparatus had the job of ‘clearing’ all those bureaucrats who had access to secret documents, such as the personal

assistants to the various Bolshevik leaders.41 Moreover, highly classified documents were permanently stored i n the secret apparatus itself. Other Central Committee departments could request such documents if they needed them for their daily work, but the documents had to be returned to the secret apparatus within a certain period of time. I n the same way, the top secret letters distributed by the Party headquarters to bureaucratic organs at the lower levels of the system had to be sent back to the central secret apparatus without a copy being left with

the original recipient.42 To this can be added that all major institutions in the Soviet system regularly reported to the central secret apparatus about the general state of affairs within their own sphere of responsibility, and that the secret apparatus also had the job of controlling how specific decisions by the Party leadership were implemented throughout the local bureaucracies.43 To sum u p : (a) judging from the security and secrecy procedures, only the central secret apparatus had the right to know ‘everything’; (b) this apparatus i n fact received communications from all corners of the Soviet system; (c) the total sum of communications appears to have comprised not only general reports from the institutions themselves, but also the results of the secret apparatus’ own inspection and control operations. For those who wanted maximum information about all aspects of a specific case on the political agenda, o r about the political and economic situation i n its totality, the secret apparatus must have been by far the best place to visit. To cope with these large amounts of information, a certain division of labour was necessary. The employees of the secret apparatus not only occupied different positions i n the administrative hierarchy (chief of the Politburo secretariat, chief o f t h e Organization

Bureau secretariat, assis-

tant to one of the Central Committee Secretaries, and so on); they also specialized in particular categories of political, economic, social, organizational and administrative problems (foreign policy, agrarian affairs,

secret police matters, party organization, and so forth).44 As we have already seen, Stalin’s personal assistants played an especially prominent role i n this context, i n so far as — apart from servicing the Secretary General — they headed the entire secret apparatus and

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

55

therefore bore ultimate responsibility for all the individual sections of this apparatus. To this can be added various pieces of information from the 19205. All top secret letters and coded messages to the Party headquarters, for instance, h a d t o be be sent (or returned) directly t o Stalin’s

first assistant i n person. Besides, there was a marked difference between the specializations of Stalin’s assistants and those of the assistants to the other Central Committee Secretaries. While Stalin’s assistants mainly covered matters of State (foreign policy, economic policy, and so on), the other groups of assistants were occupied primarily with internal Party affairs (organizational questions, propaganda, etcetera).45 I n sum: Stalin’s personal assistants not only exercised administrative control of the entire secret apparatus and the handling of the most clandestine documents; they also managed precisely those areas of administration that paralleled ordinary government functions. We must therefore conclude that the secret Party apparatus i n general, and the group of personal assistants i n particular, played a n important role i n helping Stalin gradually to dominate the entire political life of the Soviet state. As t o the exact functions o f the assistants, however, there i s

still room for discussion.

Technical-administrative work?

service or analytical-consultative

Two former employees of the secret apparatus in the 19203, Boris Bazhanov and A. P. Balashov, treat this question very differently. I n Bazhanov’s memoirs it is strongly emphasized that the leading staff members spoke with a good deal of weight in their deliberations with the Secretary General, whereas Balashov is very eager to minimize their importance and to criticize his former colleague Bazhanov. Neither of these witnesses should be accepted a priori, however. I n fact there is some reason to believe that both give a rather one-sided or perhaps even misleading description of the actual state of affairs. We must therefore discuss what we can deduce from other sources.46 The documentary evidence mentioned above indicates that the assistants not only collected but also selected, summarized and compressed the information that was to be presented to Stalin. The Secretary General could not read every relevant document himself. Some sort of ’filtering’ had to take place, especially as the decision-making process became more and more centralized and even minor questions had to be resolved at the highest level. This must have given the most prominent assistants both a considerable knowledge of specific areas of administration and a certain

56

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

opportunity to edit the material that served as the basis of Stalin’s

decisions.47 It goes without saying that not all assistants were ‘experts’ i n the sense of having received professional training or an advanced education within their particular field of operation. But this is the case in any large bureaucracy. It is not necessary t o have studied marine biology in order to make a career in the Ministry of Fisheries or to aspire to the post of Minister. The central question is whether you are regarded as an experienced administrator and/or a shrewd politician. And several of Stalin’s assistants clearly deserved that title. People like I. P. Tovstukha and A. N. Poskrebyshev were certainly not just lower-ranking clerks. It is equally evident that the leading assistants’ fields of experience comprised more than routine office work. Tovstukha, for example, played a prominent role i n developing the official doctrine of Leninism and Stalinism. He contributed to the editing of Lenin’s collected works and was the author of the first Stalin biography of 1927.48 The secret apparatus’ various supporting departments, bureaus, and so on, likewise seem to have been engaged i n various kinds of analytical work concerning both operative and long-term strategic problems. Considering, for instance, that the Central Committee Special Department (Spetsial’nyi otdel TsK) issued very detailed directives to the NKVD, it must be assumed that this department also collected extensive information about security-related matters and subjected this information to systematic examination before the individual directives were drawn u p . The most telling example, however, is the work of the secret ‘Informat i o n B u r e a u ’ , o r the ‘Bureau o f International

Information’.

First of all, it should be noted that this bureau was headed by a number of very experienced Comintern and foreign policy figures, among them Elena Stasova, Karl Radek, A. D . Tivel’ (former secretary to Comintern’s

first president Grigorii Zinov’ev) and L. A. Borovich (a prominent military intelligence officer). Moreover, the staff comprised several experts i n the more ‘scholarly’ sense of the word, such as E. M. Zhukov, an Asia specialist, and the economist M. F. Ioel’son whose field of research was ‘British financial capital’. Perhaps still more interesting is the fact that the Bureau of International Information maintained close contacts with various Soviet news agencies and research institutions, especially with TASS, and with Jeno Varga’s Institute of World Economy and World Politics, and that the Bureau even seems to have b e e n authorized

to

utilize officials from any Soviet institution dealing with the outside world. An important point here is that these officials were not always told that they were actually carrying out assignments for Stalin’s Bureau

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

57

of International Information. Finally, the documentary evidence clearly demonstrates that the staff of the secret bureau received direct orders to concentrate on especially urgent problems of foreign policy, to collect, summarize and verify information ‘from all channels i n our institutions’, and to report every day to the supreme leadership.49 The secret Party apparatus was thus not only responsible for placing documents i n the right folders and other kinds of purely technical office work. Staff members also provided decision makers with systematic briefings and with experts’ reports on key policy areas. While the scope of this activity cannot yet be mapped in detail, it is important to note that other Soviet bureaucracies,

such a s the intelligence services, seem mainly to

have supplied Stalin with raw data and concrete facts, rather than with in-depth evaluations and policy recommendations, simply because the Secretary General wanted to reserve the ultimate analysis for himself.50 Considering the strict secrecy rules and the widely used need-to-know principle, it can be assumed that all the information channels met only at the very top, that is, i n the secret apparatus. As Stalin could not cope with the entire sum of analytical work personally, there are two possible conclusions: (a) very few analyses based on material from all information channels were in fact carried out, o r (b) Stalin relied heavily on his personal secretariat and the rest of the secret apparatus. I n other words, concrete evidence as well as simple logic supports the idea that the secret apparatus was both a n important administrative instrument and a central think tank for the supreme leadership. This is not to say that staff members were able to force an opinion on Stalin that he would otherwise not have held. The point is merely that they were in a better position than most others to exert a certain influence upon the perceptions of Stalin and his closest henchmen by filtering and interpreting the available information and by presenting their views to the supreme leadership prior to the final decisions. Of course, the assistants did not rule the country. But they were instrumental in setting the political course before the official decision-making bodies became

involved.51

Implementation

control

The problem of influence can also be Viewed from another perspective. The secret apparatus not only contributed to laying the foundation for political decision-making. As we have seen, it was also in charge of the subsequent implementation of the leadership’s decisions. This responsibility entailed two kinds of activities: (a) the presentation of the

58

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

formal decisions to the relevant authorities, and (b) the monitoring of how these authorities carried out the decisions i n practice.52 To the degree that the representatives of the secret apparatus made themselves known to people in other bureaucracies, they must have been able to act with great authority simply because they were regarded as Stalin’s spokesmen or watchdogs. They not only had the opportunity to expound and interpret the intentions of Stalin and thus acquire the role of prophets or oracles, but they could also be expected to report directly to the dictator about all kinds of mistakes, defects or political deviations in the various Party and State institutions. Apart from the known representatives of Stalin, such as his leading personal assistants, the secret apparatus seems to have had an army of anonymous informers, or rather, informers who were known only i n another capacity. Attached to the Bureau of International Information, for instance, there existed a group of so-called ‘special correspondents’. The job of these people, whose appointment was confirmed by Stalin personally, was to travel abroad and report to the Party leadership about the activities of Soviet institutions on foreign soil. I n order to conceal their real identity they worked officially as journalists and had their operations financed from an account in the Commissariat of Finance belonging to the newspaper Izvestiya. It goes without saying that these ‘correspondents’ could not refer to Stalin’s authority in their dealings with other people, as they were not allowed to disclose their special relationship with the dictator. As a power resource, however, they must have been just as important as the official representatives of Stalin, considering that they were entrusted with channelling information directly

to the Secretary General without the knowledge of those around them.53 Although it cannot yet be established to what degree other parts of the secret apparatus used similar methods, information about the ‘special correspondents’ must be regarded as an important clue to our understanding of the clandestine power mechanisms in the Stalinist system. I n this context, it should also be remembered that the ‘especially trusted’ assistants to the leading Soviet politicians and bureaucrats, that is to say, the assistants who were empowered to receive and handle highly classified documents addressed to their chiefs, were cleared and ‘verified’ by the secret Party apparatus and by the OGPU Special Department. These assistants evidently took up a significant position i n the secret communication system i n so far as they were responsible for the security of the most important correspondence and had excellent opportunities to check the activities of their superiors within the most sensitive areas of administration.

At the

same

time,

their

own

careers and

welfare

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

59

depended upon how their work was evaluated by the secret Party apparatus and by the OGPU Special Department. Against this background, it must at least be considered a well-founded hypothesis that these ‘especially trusted’ assistants were extremely eager to report to the central secret offices on any real or imagined irregularity committed by their

own chiefs.54 The malfunctions of the system A final question, of course, must be how well all these bureaucratic mechanisms functioned i n practice. It is obvious that political decisions are not always implemented as intended, and there is indeed a m p l e reason to assume that the implementation process i n the Soviet system was extremely thorny. A great deal of the archival evidence that h a s emerged i n the 19905 actually concerns failures and deficiences i n the

various administrative apparatuses.55 However, i t should also be borne i n m i n d t h a t t h e archival evidence

consists largely of reports by people who were i n charge of checking the work of others, and thus had a personal and professional interest i n disclosing as many irregularities as possible i n order to justify their existence and avoid being themselves denounced for lack of ‘Vigilance’. While it is obvious that formal rules or idealized descriptions i n official publications cannot be regarded as a n adequate reflection of reality, it is just as evident that criticism by professional controllers may be too strongly focused on the negative factors to be considered fully representative of the overall state of affairs. It is also important to distinguish between general administrative rationalization and pure power preservation. I n Stalin’s mind, the value of control did not necessarily consist merely i n the opportunity for detecting and correcting specific bureaucratic failures, but also — and perhaps more so — i n the possibility of threatening any Soviet citizen with arbitrary ‘disclosure’ and punishment. From this point of View, a report on the system’s inefficiency can, paradoxically, be regarded as a quite efficient m e a n s i n the h a n d s of the dictator, t h a t i s t o say, a m e a n s

of intimidating the bureaucrats. Stalin was not able to enforce a thorough and consistent implementation of every political decision, but h e certainly had a decisive influence upon the destiny of those people accused of not having implemented his plans. Another relevant question concerns the consequences of the various bureaucratic failures. The controllers frequently discovered that various classified documents had been seen by unauthorized persons or had not

6O Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

been returned by the recipient to the secret apparatus in Moscow.56 I n such cases, however, the damage done to Stalin’s power machine seems to have been rather limited. As the system was constructed, there was certainly no possibility that the ‘disclosed secrets' could circulate freely i n the bureaucracy or among the population as a whole. Hence, overall information control was only marginally affected by such defects. The need-to-know principle still served its general purpose. Moreover, from a pure power perspective, the possible negative consequences of individual security failures must have been totally overshadowed by the fact that the all-embracing secrecy regime allowed the representatives of Stalin's special apparatus to inspect the most important offices in every major Party and State bureaucracy. The secrecy system should not only be seen as a means of concealing sensitive information; just as importantly it helped legitimize the establishment of a tightly meshed system of personnel control. I n the words of former Party functionary Leon Onikov: even members of the Party’s Central Committee were from the mid-19205 subjected to ‘a hail of sudden control measures’ with the declared aim of assuring their absolute com-

pliance with the rules of secrecy.57 More serious than the above-mentioned

deficiencies was, first, that

much information from the localities reached the political top only in a rather distorted and diluted form and, second, that the amount

of

accumulated information was so immense that it must have been difficult or even impossible to go into detail i n every case in the central offices.58 This could not but reduce the quality of the decision-making. However, it did not diminish the relative superiority of Stalin’s central apparatus in terms of information resources and information control, bearing in mind that the other major bureaucracies suffered from precisely the same communication problems. As already mentioned, there is every reason to assume that all the various channels of information converged only in the secret apparatus, and that great weight was attached in this apparatus to hiring the most efficient and qualified people. I n spite of all the difficulties, the secret office thus seems t o have been in a better position than most other staffs to accumulate and compare information from every relevant channel and to draw an overall picture of the political situation.

Concluding remarks The newly available archival material has confirmed the basic elements in the picture of the secret apparatus drawn in the past. To be sure, this

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

61

archival evidence is still incomplete. But it can nevertheless serve two equally important purposes. First, the evidence can be used to verify specific historical data and produce relevant new information. Second, it can be compared with various émigré and other narrative accounts in order to evaluate the general credibility of these accounts. It goes without saying that if the outcome of such an evaluation is positive concerning those data that can be compared and confirmed, there are grounds for believing that the source i n question is also reliable a s regards other bits of information which cannot yet be verified by means of archival evidence. The documentary material that has become accessible during the 19903 must therefore also give rise to a renewed interest i n the most important narrative accounts. A n evaluation o f t h e total amount o f available evidence — old a n d new,

documentary and narrative - can lead only to the conclusion that the secret Party apparatus played a crucial role in the communication and security system; that it was an important means of information and personnel control; and that it also performed significant analytical tasks for the supreme leadership. Although it may not have been totally stalinized until the 19305, it should nevertheless be emphasized that Stalin’s personal assistants were i n charge of the entire secret apparatus as early as 1922. This apparatus could not provide Stalin with all the information he ‘needed to know’ i n order to conduct a rational policy. However, i n the struggle for power and communication control it certainly gave him an initial advantage over any possible political rival. Notes

1 . Leonard Schapiro, The Communist Party of the Soviet Union, 2nd edn (Fakenham 1 9 7 0 ) , p p . 3 1 9 , 4 5 3 . Merle Fainsod, How Russia is Ruled, rev. edn (Cambridge,

Mass, 1970), p. 194. 2. Leonard Schapiro, ‘The General Department of the C C of the CPSU', Survey, v o l . 2 1 , n o . 3 ( 1 9 7 5 ) , p p . 53—66. Robert C . Tucker, Stalin as Revolutionary, 1879—

1929: A Study in History and Personality (London, 1972), p. 294. Robert C. Tucker, The Soviet Political Mind: Stalinism and Post-Stalin Change, rev. edn (London, 1972), pp. 182, 217—18. Niels Erik Rosenfeldt, Knowledge and Power: The Role of Stalin’s Secret Chancellery in the Soviet System of Government (Copenhagen, 1 9 7 8 ) , p p . 3 8 , 46—7, 5 1 - 6 2 , 86—7, 91—2. .4;

3. Rosenfeldt, Knowledge and Power, pp. 53—4,109—10, 117. . Ibid., pp. 30—128, esp. pp. 118—23. 5 . Ibid., p p . 53, 73, 8 4 . Niels Erik Rosenfeldt, Stalinstyrets nervecenter: Nye studieri kildeme til det sovjetiske kommunistpartis hemmelige kancelli (Copenhagen, 1980), p p . 48—9, 99. Niels Erik Rosenfeldt, Stalin’s Special Departments: A Comparative Analysis of Key Sources (Copenhagen, 1989), passim. Niels Erik Rosenfeldt,

62

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt ‘ S t a l i n i s m a s a System o f C o m m u n i c a t i o n ’ ,

i n J o h n W. Strong ( e d . ) , Essays o n

Revolutionary Culture and Stalinism (Columbus, Ohio, 1989), pp. 139—65, esp. pp.161—62. . Rosenfeldt, Stalin‘s Special Departments, p. 79. . S e e , for example, Lars T. Lih e t a l . , ( e d s ) , Stalin’s Letters to Molotov (New Haven,

1995), esp. pp. vii—xii (Foreword by Robert C. Tucker) and p p . 1—63 (Introduction by Lars T. Lih). E. A. Rees, Stalinism and Soviet Rail Transport, 1928—41 (London, 1995), pp. 212—27, (‘Conclusion’), esp. pp. 215—17. E. A. Rees, ‘Stalin, the Politburo and Rail Transport Policy’, i n Julian Cooper, Maureen Perrie and E. A. Rees (eds), Soviet History, 1917—53: Essays in Honour of R. W. Davies (London, 1995), pp. 104—33, esp. p p . 110—13. Oleg Khlevnyuk, ‘The Objectives of the Great Terror, 1 9 3 7—1938’, i n Soviet History: Essays in Honour of R. W. Davies, pp. 158—76, esp. pp. 165—7. Oleg Khlevnyuk, Politbyuro: Mekhanizmy politicheskoi vlasti v 30-e gody (Moscow, 1996), p . 118 (French edition: Oleg Khlevniouk, Le cercle du Kremlin: Staline et le Bureau politique dans les années 30. Les ieux du pouvoir, Paris, 1 9 9 6 ) . Boris A . Starkov, ‘The Trial that

was Not Held’, Europe-Asia Studies, vol. 46, n o . 8, pp. 1297—1315, esp. p. 1300. . See, for example, the discussion of these and other important distinctions i n Bent Jensen, ‘Forsvar for e t foraldet begreb. O m totalitarisme-begrebet, dets brugere, kritikere og Sovjetunionen’, Bidrag till Oststatsforskningen, i n Contributions to Soviet and East European Research, vol. 9, n o . 4 (1981) (Uppsala, 1982), pp. 1—57, esp. pp. 43, 45—6. See also Tucker, Soviet Political Mind, pp. 182—83, and Robert Conquest, ‘Reluctant Converts: How the Revisionists are Slowly Coming Round to the Truth about Stalin’, i n Times Literary Supplement, 1 1 Feb. 1994, pp. 7—9, esp. p. 8 . Compare the discussion i n Graeme Gill, Stalinism (London, 1 9 9 0 ) , p p . 63—6. p p . 212—27; E. A. . S e e , for example, Rees, Stalinism a n d Soviet R a i l Transport, Rees and D . H . Watson, ‘Politburo a n d Sovnarkom’, i n E. A . Rees ( e d . ) , Deci-

sion-Making in the Stalinist Command Economy, 1932—37 (London, 1997), pp. 9— 31, esp. p. 28. 10. I r i n a Pavlova, Stalinizm: Stanovlenie mekhanizma vlasti (Novosibirsk, 1 9 9 3 ) , esp. p p . 82, 84-96, 122—41. Criticizing the wording of the émigré historian A. Avtorkhanov,

however,

Irina Pavlova also contends

that S t a l i n ’ s a s s i s t a n t s

did not direct (napravlyat’) the domestic and foreign policy of the Soviet Union but were subordinated t o the real mafia structures of the Soviet political system, headed by the country’s top mafia boss Iosif Stalin. (Pavlova, p. 134). See also p. 1 5 and p. 2 3 (n. 51) below. Yoram Gorlizki, ‘Party Revivalism and the Death of Stalin’, i n Slavic Review, vol. 54, Number 1, (Spring 1995), pp. 1—22, esp. pp. 12—13, 17. See also Ronald Grigor Suny, ‘Stalin and Stalinism’, i n I a n Kershaw a n d Moshe Lewin (eds), Stalinism and Nazism: Dictatorships

in

Comparison (Cambridge, Mass: 1997), pp. 26—52, esp. pp. 32—3; and Graeme Gill, The Origins of the Stalinist Political System (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 162, 166, 235, 237, 241, 294—95. 11. Jana, Howlett, Oleg Khlevnyuk, Lyudmila Kosheleva and Larisa Rogovaya, ‘The CPSU’s Top Bodies under Stalin: Their Operational Records and Structure of Command’, The Stalin-Era Research and Archives Project, Working Paper No. 1, University of Toronto, 1996, p. 18. Oleg Khlevnyuk, Lyudmila Kocheleva, Jana Howlett and Larissa Rogovaya, ‘Les sources archivistiques des organes

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era 63

dirigeants du PC(b)R’, Communisme, nos 42, 43, 44, (1995) pp. 15—34,esp. p.30. 12. RTsKhIDNI,for example,f.17,op.84,d.316,1.1—7,16,20;f.17,op.84,d.74, l. 2, 30; f. 17, op. 86, d. 74, l. 2; f. 17, op. 84, d. 696, l. 25, 30. Rosenfeldt,

Knowledge and Power,pp.5 1—2,57—8.Rosenfeldt,Stalinstyrets nervecenter,p.36. Khlevnyuk,Politbyuro,pp.65—6.‘Pravyashchaya partiya ostavalas’podpolnoi’, Istochnik 5/6(1993), pp. 88—95,esp. p.94. Howlett et al.,‘The CPSU’s Top Bodies’, pp. 17—18. Suny, ‘Stalin and Stalinism’ pp. 32—3. Some minor terminological changesseem to have occurred during the 19205. 13. RTsKHIDNI,f.17,op.85,d.544,l.696,705; f.17,op.85,d.539,1.83—86;f.17, op.84,d.316,1.28—9;f.17,op.84,d.317,l.6; f.17,op.85,d.539,1.1-7, 12—13. Howlett et al.,‘The CPSU’s Top Bodies’, pp. 17—18.‘Pravyashchaya partiya’, p.94. 14. RTsKHIDNI, f. 17, op. 84, d. 316, l.20. Pavlova,Stalinizm, pp. 135—6. Rosenfeldt,Knowledge and Power, p.26.Rosenfeldt,Stalinstyrets nervecenter, pp.12— 33. In certain sources from the early 19205,a distinction is made between the ‘Bureau of the Central Committee Secretariat’and the‘Secret Department’. 15. TsPA (microfilm),d. 558, op. dokumentov I.V.Stalina(op. 1) nos 2766, 3150, 4900.For a short period of time in 1934,the Special Sector was headed by another Stalin assistant,B.A.Dvinskii.Pavlova,Stalinizm,pp.135—7(Pavlova mentions Nazaretyan,Tovstukha and Poskrebyshev but not Mekhlis).Khlevnyuk, Politbyuro, pp. 65—66, 275. Suny,‘Station and Stalinism’, pp. 32—3. Rosenfeldt,Knowledge and Power, pp. 103—6, 177—97. Rosenfeldt,Stalinstyrets

nervecenter, pp. 48—9. Rosenfeldt,‘The Origins and Development of Stalin’s Secret Chancellery’, p.317. As mentioned below,the assistants to the other Central Committee Secretaries(as opposed to Stalin’s) may have been separated from the Special Sector in the 19305.Compare StalinskoePolitbyuro v30-e gody.Sbomik dokumentov(Moscow, 1995),pp.29—30. 16. Stalinskoe politbyuro, p.27. Khlevnyuk,Politbyuro, p.66. Howlett et al.,‘The CPSU’s Top Bodies’, p.20. Leon Onikov,KPSS:Anatomiya raspada(Moscow, 1996),p.47.The Special Sector may also have included the personal secretariatsoftheother Politburo members.See note17 below.Compare theimportant but unpublished narrative report ‘Organizatsiya i funktsiya Osobogo sektora TsK VKP/b’(The Special Sector of the Central Commitee of the Soviet Communist Party — Organization and Function)in the Library of Congress, Washington,DC. This report states(p. 1) that the Special Sector in administrative terms was not subordinated to the Party’s Central Committee,and that it therefore did not enter into theordinary Central Committee apparatus. As a consequence,Party members employed in the Special Sector were organized as a separate unit. 17. Stalinskoe politbyuro, pp.29—30. Niels Erik Rosenfeldt,‘The Consistory of the Communist Church: The Origins and Developments of Stalin’s Secret Chancellery’, Russian History/Histoire russe, pts 2—3,(1982) pp. 308-24,esp. p. 318. Howlett et al.,‘The CPSU’s Top Bodies’, pp. 20—1. Gorlizki,‘Party Revivalism’,pp.11—18.Rosenfeldt,Stalin’sSecret Chancellery and the Comintem, p.82. A n archive and a service organ for the Politburo probably existed in the Kremlin as early as the mid-19205. According to some testimonies,Stalin’s

64

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

secretariat was moved to the Kremlin i n the early 19305 while the Organization Bureau and the Central Committee Secretariat were transferred to the same place i n 1937. Irrespective of where the ‘technical secretariat of the Organization Bureau’ might have been situated and to which department it was formally subordinated, it appears still to have formed a n integral part of the secret Party apparatus i n the broad sense of the term. The technical secretariat was supervised by the former deputy chief of the Secret Department,

Ya. E. Brezanovskii

(who

now

became

head o f the Administrative

Directorate). It communicated with the special sectors of the local Party apparatus, and it contributed also to controlling these sectors. However, its work was restricted to the secret correspondence of the Organization Bureau and the Central Committee Secretariat and to the monitoring of the implementation of these two bodies’ decisions. I n other words, its sphere of responsibility seems to have been a mirror image of the supreme Special Sector, albeit at a lower level, i.e. excluding the Politburo’s own communication. (Rosenfeldt, ‘The Consistory of the Communist Church’, p. 318; Rosenfeldt, ‘Stalini s m ’ , p . 1 5 5 ; Howlett e t a l . , ‘The CPSU’s Top Bodies’, p . 2 1 ; and note 4 3 below).

Referring to Stalin’s Kremlin secretariat, the dictator’s former interpreter V. M. Berezhkov also states that the other Politburo members had offices i n the Kremlin in addition to the staff i n the People’s Commissariats they headed. His information appears to concern the 19405. (See Valentin M. Berezhkov, At Stalin’s Side: His Interpreter’s Memoirs from the October Revolution to the Fall of the Dictator (New York, 1994), p. 203). Stalin’s secretariat may have been officially renamed the ‘Chancellery of the Secretary General’ i n the mid-19305. (Istochnik, 4 , 1 9 9 3 , p . 5 ; Rosenfeldt, Stalin’s

Secret

Chancellery

and the Comintem,

p. 82). As pointed out by Yoram Gorlizki, his findings concerning the Special Sector i n the last months of the Stalinist era appear to confirm the conclusions by the present author that ‘Stalin’s old security apparatus (osobyi sektor and okhrana together) was beginning to give at the seams’. (Gorlizki, ‘Party Revivalism’, p. 13; Rosenfeldt, Knowledge and Power, p. 196). I n View of our present knowledge, however, the designation ‘security apparatus’ should be replaced by a somewhat broader term that also reflects the general Chancellery functions of the Special Sector. The weakening of the Special Sector and the strengthening of the General Department is seen by Gorlizki a s ‘a transition from a service bureacracy subject to a single person to an informational environment i n which strategic intelligence might be meted out more equally among the oligarchs’ (Gorlizki, p . 13). 18. Oleg Khlevnyuk, ‘The Objectives of the Great Terror, 1937—1938’, in Soviet History, 1917—53: Essays in Honour of R. W. Davies, p p . 158—76, esp. pp. 158, 165—6. Onikov,

KPSS (see note 1 6 above), p . 4 7 . Rosenfeldt,

Knowledge

and

Power, p p . 102-6. Rosenfeldt, Stalinstyrets nervecenter, p . 104. 19. Rosenfeldt, Knowledge and Power, p p . 79—82. Rosenfeldt, Stalin’s Special Departments, pp. 47—50, 96—7. Stalinskoe politbyuro, pp. 75—7. Pavlova, Stalinizm, pp. 91—5, 231ff. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, op. 3, d . 633, 1. 14—15; f. 17, o p . 85, d . 544, l. 607, 609, 650, 666; f. 17, op. 86, d . 72, l. 31; f. 17, op. 84, d . 944—45, 1. 295; f. 1 7 , o p . 8 4 , d . 1 0 0 4 , l . 1 1 6 , 1 2 4 . M . S . Dokuchaev,

Moskva. Kreml. Okhrana

(Moscow, 1995), p p . 16—17 and back cover. Peter Deriabin and Frank Gibney, The Secret World (Garden City, 1959), p p . 95—6. Lubyanka: VChK-OGPU-NKVD-

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

65

NKGB-MVD-KGB 1917—1960. Spravochnik (Moscow, 1997), pp. 11, 12, 18, 20, 24, 26, 29, 34, 35, 38, 73, 127, 282. The ’Main Special Services Directorate’ was returned from the Party apparatus to the security service (now under Beria) immediately after Stalin’s death. See Lubyanka, p. 127. It is also important t o bear in m i n d that the central secret Party apparatus and the OGPU Special Department jointly controlled the network of secret sections i n the local Party organizations and the various State institutions, and that all clandestine (konspirativnye) Party directives were channelled through this network. I n several earlier works, the present author h a s shown that secret departments and subdepartments were to be found i n numerous State institutions and a t least some Party organizations i n the second half of the 19205. (Rosenfeldt, Stalin’s Special Departments, pp. 3— 3 6 ; Rosenfeldt, Stalinstyrets nervecenter, p . 4 8 , Rosenfeldt, ‘ S t a l i n i s m a s a Sys-

tem of Communication’, p. 161). Investigations by Irina Pavlova, however, have now revealed that the order to establish such departments/subdepartments w a s i s s u e d a s early a s 1 9 2 2 (Pavlova, Stalinizm, p . 8 6 ) .

20. Rosenfeldt, Stalin’s Special Departments, p p . 50—9. Rosenfeldt, Knowledge a n d Power, pp. 82—3. Lubyanka, pp. 19, 20, 24—5, 29, 126—8, 247, 250—1, 263—8, 281—2. 21. Rosenfeldt, Stalin’s Special Departments, p p . 60—1, 100—1. Volkogonov, D m i t r i i , Trotskii. Politicheskii portret, kniga 2 (Moscow, 1992), p p . 305—6. Until the relevant documents

become accessible t o a l l historians, we have t o b a s e o u r

conclusions on Volkogonov’s findings. Theoretically, h e may of course have confused the ‘Central Committee’s Special Department’ (Spetsial’nyi otdel) with the Party’s Special Sector (Osobyi sektor). Georgii K. Georgievskii, Sekretnye otdely v pravitelstvennykh, partiinykh, khozyaistvennykh i obshchestvennykh organizatsiyakh (unpublished manuscript), Series 2 1 6 , Box 275—6/11, The Boris Nicolaevsky Collection, The Hoover I n s t i t u t i o n o n War, Revolution a n d Peace, Stanford University, p . 9 0 . I. Almazov ( m i s c e l l a n e o u s manuscripts), Box 233, The B o r i s Nicolaevsky Collection, The Hoover Institution o n War, Revolution and Peace, e s p . Letter

from Chekadov and Almazov. 22. Georgievskii, Sekretrye otdely, pp. 85—6. Gennadii Bordiougov, ‘Decision Making Processes i n Soviet Foreign Policy during the 19305’, paper, 1 0 t h Internat i o n a l Colloquium, 24—25 October 1997, Russia in the Age of Wars (1914—45). p . 1 2 . RTsKhIDNI, f. 1 7 , o p . 162, d . 1 1 , l . 5 2 ; f. 1 7 , o p . Toward a New Paradigm,

86, d . 72, l. 35; f. 17, o p . 162, d . 7 , ] . 112; f. 17, o p . 120, d . 47, 1. 2—13, 34—37; f. 1 7 , o p . 8 6 , d . 7 2 , l . 3 1 ; f . 1 7 , o p . 8 5 , d . 5 3 9 , 1. 1 1 . Rosenfeldt, Special

Depart-

ments, passim. 23. Rosenfeldt, Knowledge and Power, p p . 110—11 . Robert C. Tucker, Stalin in Power: The Revolution from Above, 1928—1941(New York, 1990), pp. 310—11. A. Tikhomirov (ed.), Na sluzhbe u Stalina: Ispoved’ chekista (unpublished manuscript, Columbia University Library), pp. 57—8. I am grateful to Robert C . Tucker for having provided me with a copy of this manuscript. Boris Nicolaevsky, Power a n d the Soviet Elite (New York, 1965), p p . 9 3 , 9 4 , 109, 1 5 5 , 206—7, 2 6 4 . V. I. manuscript), Series 214, Box 2 7 4 , Series 214, (unpublished Skorodumov Folder 1—5, The Boris Nicolaevsky Collection, Hoover Institution o n War,

Revolution and Peace, Stanford University. A. Avtorkhanov, Tekhnologiya

66

24. 25. 26.

27. 28.

29.

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt vlasti, 2nd edn (Frankfurt am Main, 1976), pp. 403—6. Alexander Uralov (Avtorkhanov), The Reign of Stalin (Westport, 1953),pp.29—33. Rosenfeldt, Special Departments, pp.60—1 and 100—1. See note 23 above. Tikhomirov, Na sluzhbe u Stalina, passim. Khlevnyuk, ‘The Objectives of the Great Terror’, passim. ‘Upravlenie gosudarstvennym terrorom’, Svobodnaya mysl’, 7—8,1994,pp.123—7,esp.pp.125—7.‘Vstrechnye plany po unichtozheniyu u sobstvennogo naroda’, Moskovskie novosti, n o . 25, 2 1 J u n e 1992. G. M. Adibekov, ‘Komintern posle formalnogo rospuska (1943—1944 gg.)’, Voprosy istorii, 8 (1997),pp. 28—41,esp. p. 32. Rosenfeldt, Knowledge and Power,pp. 135-6.Rosenfeldt, Stalin’s Secret Chancellery and the Comintem: Evidence about the Organizational Patterns (Copenhagen, 1991), pp. 48—59 and 100—9. RTsKHIDNI, f. 17, o p . 84, d . 696;f. 17,o p . 84,d . 945,1. 4; f. 17,o p . 85, d . 544, 1. 388,390,391,392,456,480,568,571,588,589,590,593,632,658.TsPA (microfilm), f . 558, o p . 1, d . 5263. Compare t h e statement i n Pierre d e Villemarest, GRU: L e plus secret des services sovietiques, 1918—88 (Paris, 1988), p . 121,

according to which the liaison between military intelligence and ‘le bureau specialisé du Comité central’ was maintained by Stasova. 30. RTKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 162, d . 9, 1. 143; f. 17, d . 15, l. 61; d . 12, l. 143. Bordiougov, ‘Decision Making Process’ (paper), p p . 11—12. An international information ‘group’ in the Special Sector which primarily serviced the Comint e r n , a n d might have been t h e direct successor t o Stasova’s office, seems t o

have been liquidated in 1934.This indicates that Radek’s ‘Bureau of International Information’ from then o n covered both foreign policy and Comintern affairs. 31. RTsKHIDNI, f. 17,o p . 84,d . 316,1. 6—7;f. 17,o p . 85, d . 539,1. 83—6;f. 17,o p . 8 5 , d . 544, l . 696. Rosenfeldt, Knowledge

a n d Power,

p . 4 7 . Rosenfeldt, ‘The

Consistory of the Communist Church’, p. 311. Khlevnyuk, Politbyuro, p. 66. Howlett et al.,‘The CPSU’s Top Bodies’ p. 17. 32. Rosenfeldt, Knowledge and Power, p. 56. Rosenfeldt, Stalinstyrets nervecenter, pp. 35—6 (with a slightly different interpretation). Compare ‘Pravyashchaia partiya’, p. 92. 33. Gorlizki, ‘Party Revivalism’, pp. 12—13.Khlevnyuk et al.,‘Les sources archivist i q u e s ’ , p . 3 2 . Onikov, KPSS (see note 16 above), p p . 202—3. Rosenfeldt, Stalin

styrets nervecenter, p. 51. 34. Lubyanka, pp. 12,282. 35. Tikhomirov, Na sluzhbe u Stalina, p. 57. Tucker, Stalin in Power, pp. 310—11. 36. G . M . Adibekov, et a l . ( e d s ) , Organizatsionnaya stmktura Kominterna, 1919—1943 (Moscow, 1997),pp. 232—40,esp. p. 234. 37. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17,o p . 114,d . 568,l. 65; f. 17,o p . 162,d . 12,1. 143. 38. Rosenfeldt, Stalinstyrets nervecenter, pp. 25, 38—9. 39. Rosenfeldt, Knowledge and Power, pp. 46 and 57. Rosenfeldt, Stalinstyrets nervecenter, p p . 40—1.Rosenfeldt, ‘The Consistory of the Communist Church’, pp. 313—16. Khlevnyuk, Politbyuro, pp. 66—7. Stalinskoe politbyuro v 30-e gody. Sbornik dokumentov, p. 27—29. Howlett et al., ‘The CPSU’s Top Bodies’, p. 18. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 8 5 , d . 544, 1. 696. Compare a l s o S. V. Yakushev, ‘Tsen-

tralnyi partiinyi arkhiv v 30—e gody’, i n Voprosy istorii, 4—5(1991), p p . 25—33, esp. p. 25.

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era 67 40. Rosenfeldt, Knowledge and Power, p.79. 41. Ibid.,pp.78—9.RTsKhIDNI,f.17,op.84,d.944,1.294—5;op.85,d.616, 1.1—5; f.17, op. 85, d. 634, l.2, 15, 28; f.17, op. 86, d. 72, l.17. Stalinskoe politbyuro,

pp.73—82.Onikov,KPSS(see note 16 above), p.28. 42. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, op. 86, d. 72, l. 17, 31-8; f. 17, op. 86, d. 614, l. 17. ‘Pravyashchaya partiya’, p.92.Stalinskoe politbyuro, pp.74,76. 43. RTsKhIDNI,for example,f.17,op.84;Op.855;op.86,passim.Howlett et al., ‘The CPSU’s Top Bodies’, p. 18.Stalinskoe politbyuro, pp. 84—5. V. I. Boldin, Krushenie p’edestala.Strikhi k portretu M.S.Gorbachova(Moscow, 1995),p.256. Boldin was Gorbachev’schief of staff and headed the successor organ ofthe Special Sector,the Party’s’General Department’(Obshchii otdel). According to his evidence,from the mid-19205 a huge archive was being built up in the Kremlin with the special task of servicing the Politburo. All documents concerning the work of the supreme Party and State leadership was concentrated in this archive, including minutes from Central Committee meetings and Party congresses, working papers and protocols from Politburo meetings, numerous

information materials from ministries,directorates,research insti-

tutions,local Party commitees and the security service, official letters from the Ministries ofInternal Affairs,Foreign Affairs and Defence and the General Staff plus — finally — personal papers of many Soviet leaders and prominent foreign communists. Compare the description given by the former Party functionary Leon Onikov regarding the‘General Department’in the Khrushchev and Brezhnev era:‘Absolutely all information without exception coming in from all spheres of activity in the society, via every Central Committee department,was concentrated in the General Department.This department accordingly processed and transformed the material and presented it to the supreme leadership ofthe Soviet Communist Party,the Secretary General,the members of the Politburo and the Central Committee Secretaries’(Onikov, KPSS (see note 16 above),p. 36). 44. RTsKhIDNI, f.17,op. 84, d. 316. Pavlova,Stalinizm, pp. 136—7.

45. RTsKhIDNI,f.17,op.84,d.316,l.38.Pavlova,Stalinizm, p. 137.’Pravyashchaya partiya’, pp.92—3. 46. Rosenfeldt,Knowledge and Power, pp. 21—2, 40—1, 52, 133, 167, 172, 182, 203. Rosenfeldt,Stalinstyrets nervecenter, pp. 84, 94. Rosenfeldt,Stalin’s Secret Chan-

cellery and the Comintem, pp.81—2.Pavlova,Stalinizm, p.92. ’Staraya ploshchad’,4 (20-e gody)’;Polis,1991, no. 1.

47. Compare the statement from the XXIII Party Congress in 1924:‘It had to be admitted that the Politbureau treated a relatively large number of cases and that quantitatively and qualitatively its amazing contribution would not have been possible without a preliminary sifting of the case material, unless the necessary material was being furnished by someone beforehand’(quoted in Rosenfeldt,Knowledgeand Power,p.57).Of the recommendations putforward by the most important Central Committee departments to the Organization Bureau and the Central Committee Secretariat in 1923,only 5 per cent were rejected or altered significantly by these two bodies. It thus seems that the Administration,on the whole,had its way and that the Politburo was about to suffer the same fate as the Organization Bureau and the Central Committee Secretariat(ibid., pp.57—8). 48. Rosenfeldt,Knowledge and Power,p.151.

68

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt

49. RTsKhIDNl, f. 1 7 , o p . 162, d . 1 2 , l . 1 4 3 . Rosenfeldt, Stalin’s Secret Chancellery and the Comintern, pp. 46—64, 99-110. Bordiougov, ‘Decision Making Processes’ (paper), pp. 11—12. Compare the unpublished narrative account ‘Organizatsiya i funktsiya Osobogo sektora TsK VKP/B’ (The Special Sector of the Central Committee of the Soviet Communist Party — Organization and Function) i n the Library of Congress, Washington, DC. It is asserted here that the Special Sector used to contact specific employees in, for example, the Commissariat/Ministry of Foreign Affairs and request them to produce alternative analyses of foreign policy issues on the agenda of the Politburo. These analyses could later be compared with the Ministry’s official report t o the Politburo concerning the same problem. The fate of the Bureau of International Information is difficult to trace after the purge of Radek i n 1936. But it appears to have retained its superior position i n relation to the Commissariat of Foreign Affairs. Possible members of its staff i n the late 19305 are the historian Petr Pospelov and the diplomat Arkadii Sobolev. It has also been asserted that Maksim Litvinov was transferred to this office after his dismissal as Commissar of Foreign Affairs i n 1939. (Rosenfeldt, Stalin’s Secret

Chancellery and the Comintern,

p p . 6 6 , 1 0 3 , 107;

Arkadii Vaksberg, Hotel Lux. Les partis freres a u service de l’Internationale communiste (Paris, 1993), p . 2 3 8 ) . The above-mentioned

Department

of Interna-

tional Information which emerged i n 1943 a n d comprised t h e central sections o f t h e former Comintern

HQ— a n d which seems t o have b e e n subordinated

to

the supreme Party leadership a n d not to t h e ordinary Central Committee apparatus — may have taken over certain functions from the old Bureau. But we know now that a separate Bureau of International Information was still i n existence i n the post-war years. Among the tasks of this bureau was the issuing of a special, strictly secret bulletin concerning questions of foreign policy, for instance the situation i n Turkey and Greece i n 1946—7. Besides, foreign policy matters were probably dealt with i n other sections of the secret Party apparatus as well. (See, for instance, A. Ulunyan, ‘Gretsiya i Turtsiya: Vzglyad iz apparata TsK VKP (b)/KPSS, 1946—1958 gg., K postanovke problema’, i n Stalin i kholodnaya voina (Moscow, 1997), p p . 23—43, e s p . p p . 2 9 , 3 6 , 40, 4 1 , 4 3 ; a n d J e l e n a Subkowa, ‘Kaderpolitik u n d Séiuberingen i n d e r KPdSU, 1945—1953’, i n Herman Weber a n d Ulrich M a h l e r t ( e d s ) , Terror: Stalinistische Parteisa'uberun-

gen, 1936—1953 (Paderborn, 1998) pp. 187—281, esp. p. 247). 50. Organy gosudarstvennoi bezopasnosti SSSR v Velikoi Otechestvennoi voine. Sbomik dokumentov. Tom 1. Nakanune. Kniga pervaya (noyabr’ 1938 g.—dekabr’1940 g.), (Moscow, 1995) p. viii. L. A. Bezymenskii, ’Sovetskaya razvedka pered voiny’, i n Voprosy istorii, 9 (1996), pp. 78—90, esp. pp. 84—5. Compare Pavel Sudoplatov, Special Tasks: The Memoirs of an Unwanted Witness — a Soviet Spymaster (London, 1994), p . 2 2 8 .

51. Stressing that Stalin’s assistants did not direct Soviet domestic a n d foreign policy, Pavlova nevertheless concludes that Politburo and Organization Bureau matters were actually predetermined i n Stalin’s personal Chancellery and that this Chancellery soon became the political ‘kitchen’ of the regime. (Pavlova, Stalinizm, p p . 134—7; see a l s o note 1 0 above). T h i s i s a subtle but

important distinction which should be considered i n every discussion about the core of the Stalinist system. Even though the assistants could not decide

The Secret Apparatus during the Stalin Era

69

o n their own, their work laid the foundation for Stalin’s decisions and helped him determine to what degree h e should follow suggestions and advice from other leading Bolsheviks such as Molotov, Beria, etc. (whose information level i n all probability was also strongly influenced by the ’filtering' of the secret Party apparatus). Compare the subsequent assertion by Nikita Khrushchev that all information was carefully selected, limited and weighed before it w a s passed o n t o t h e Politburo (Strobe Talbott ( e d . ) , Khrushchev Remembers,

vol. 1 (Harmondsworth, 1997) p . 156). It might be argued that the brunt of the analytical work was borne by the various commissions attached to the Politburo. But, first, the members of these commissions were often Soviet top leaders, including Stalin, who cannot be supposed to have carried out the collection and processing of information themselves. Second, commissions attached to the Politburo must have been serviced by the same office that assisted the Politburo itself, i.e. the Secret Department/Special Sector. Third, there seems to have been a drastic decrease i n the number of commissions i n t h e second

h a l f o f t h e 1 9 3 0 s . (Onikov, KPSS (see note 1 6 above), p . 4 3 ;

Khlevnyuk, Politbyuro, pp. 250—1.) Several researchers contend that the Politburo was overshadowed by the Council of People’s Commissars from around the e n d of the 19305 (e.g. Khlevnyuk, Politbyuro, pp. 250—1). There is n o doubt that the Politburo ceased functioning as a collective body a t that time. But this is not the same as saying that the role of the Special Sector was reduced accordingly. Even though the Special Sector was formally a Party organ, i n practice it was superior to both the ordinary Party and t h e ordinary State administration. Besides, Stalin seems to have decided quite arbitrarily whether a political order should be issued i n the name of the Politburo, the Council of People’s Commissars, a n d so o n . The number of orders coming from a specific institution, therefore, need not reflect the actual decision-making process. There is n o doubt that the Special Sector continued to be the final repository of highly classified m a t e r i a l , concerning,

for i n s t a n c e , t h e Katyn m a s s a c r e o r t h e s e c u r i t y service

i n general, and there is also testimony to the effect that (together with the apparatus of the Council of People’s Commissars) it serviced the supreme political organ during the Second World War, the State Defence Committee. I n 1947 it was simply decided that all matters concerning foreign policy, foreign trade, State security, monetary and currency policy plus major cases from the Ministry of Defence should be ‘concentrated’ i n the Politburo. As a consequence, questions regarding the security service MGB had to be presented directly to the Politburo, whereas the not quite so important Ministry o f I n t e r n a l Affairs (MVD) reported t o t h e C o u n c i l o f M i n i s t e r s (albeit u n d e r

the general supervision of the Politburo). From 1950, however, the Council of Ministers — i n the shape of the newly created Bureau of its Presidium — was again authorized to consider n o t only ’urgent’ but also ’secret’ matters (comprising — according to the historian Yu. N. Zhukov — foreign policy, foreign trade, State security, defence and the military industry). This may have had a n impact o n t h e secret Party apparatus. As we have seen already, there is much to indicate that the Special Sector was markedly weakened during the final phase of Stalin’s rule (see pp. 44-5). O n the other hand, i t should also be remembered that major intelligence apparatuses were transferred from the Comintern and the security service to the central Party apparatus i n 1 9 4 3 and

7O Niels Erik Rosenfeldt 1949, and that Stalin’s leading personal assistant, Aleksandr Poskrebyshev, continued as chief of the Special Sector until winter 1952/53 without occupying a similar post i n the government administration. (Karyn. Plenniki neob’yavlennoi voiny (Moscow: 1997), p . 391; ‘1951-i: TsK VKP/b i MGB’, Svobodnaya mysl, n o . 1, 1996, pp. 90—3;‘Neopublikovannoe interv’yu nachal’nika tyla Krasnoi armii v 1941—1945 gg. generala armii A.V. Khrulev’, Novaya i noveishaya istoriya, 2 (1995), pp. 65—78, esp. p. 75; A. Kokurin and N. Petrov, ’MGB. Struktura, funktsii, kadry (1946—1953)’, Svobodnaya mysl’, 1 1 (noyabr’ 1997), pp. 109—21, esp. p. 113; Dmitrii Volkogonov, Lenin: Politicheskii portret, 2 ( M o s c o w , 1994), p . 107; M o s h e Lewin, ‘ S t a l i n i n t h e Mirror o f t h e O t h e r ’ , i n

Ian Kershaw and Moshe Lewin (eds), Stalinism and Nazism, pp. 107—34, esp. p. 129; Yu. N . Zhukov, ‘Bor’ba za vlast’ V rukovodstve

SSSR v 1945—1952 godakh’,

i n Voprosy istorii, 1 (1995), pp. 23—39, esp. pp. 35—6). 52. RTsKhIDNI, f. 1 7 , o p . 8 4 , d . 316, l . 2 0 . Howlett e t a l . , ’The CPSU’s Top B o d i e s ’ p. 18. Dmitrii Volkogonov, Sem’ vozhdei, vol. 1 (Moscow 1995), p. 269. Stalinskoe politbyuro, p p . 83—5. The Secret Department was responsible for: (a) reporting every tenth day to the Party leadership o n the implementation of the Politburo decisions, and (b) the specific techniques of implementation control. 53. RTsKhIDNI, f . 1 7 , o p . 162, d . 1 2 , 1. 1 4 3 . Bordiougov, ‘Decision Making Processes’ (paper), p. 11. 54. RTsKhIDNI, f. 1 7 , o p . 8 5 , d . 6 1 4 , 1 . 68; f . 1 7 , o p . 855, l . 98ff; f. 1 7 , o p . 8 5 , d . 616, l. 29. Stalinskoe politbyuro, pp. 75, 77. Compare Onikov, KPSS (see note 1 6 above), pp. 28, 47. 55. Howlett et al., ‘The CPSU’s Top Bodies’, p. 20. 56. RTsKhIDNI, f. 1 7 , o p . 8 4 , d . 697, l . 3 3 4 ; f . 1 7 , o p . 8 4 , d . 9 4 4 , l . 1 9 . Howlett e t a l . , ‘The CPSU’s

Top Bodies’, p . 2 0 .

57. Onikov, KPSS (see note 1 6 above), p . 2 8 . 58. Rosenfeldt, ’ S t a l i n i s m a s a System o f Communication’,

p p . 142, 1 4 7 , 150, 1 5 9 .

4 The Moscow Headquarters of the Comintern: Departments, Leading Organs, Soviet Influence and Decision Making Peter Huber

The Comintern stood at the meeting point of two systems: on the one hand Soviet society with the Party running the state, and on the other the Western societies with their various traditions. Most Comintern researchers have started by studying their national Communist Party and only later examined the Comintern as a world-wide organization with its headquarters i n Moscow. Research into the Comintern suffers because most of the historians examining it are not themselves sovietologists. It is rare for research results to be compared, although this would be of enormous advantage to research on the Comintern as such. I n the present paper we shall outline some of the shifts i n responsibility which took place within the Comintern Centre and draw attention t o certain organs which worked clandestinely and which were in many cases imposed on the Comintern from outside - that is, by the Soviet Party or security organs.

Shifting power upwards From the very beginning the Comintern was conceived as a centralist organization. But it would be wrong to believe that this urge towards centralization existed only i n the Russian Communist Party. After the collapse of the Second International at the beginning of the First World War, the overwhelming majority of Western revolutionary movements which joined the Comintern from 1919 onwards also believed that a future International had to be centralist. They had before them, as an awful warning, the federalist Second International, a conglomeration of national Parties without a strong centre, which had proved unable to prevent the First World War. Even critics of Bolshevik domestic policy, such as Rosa Luxemburg, thought i n terms of a new International with a 71

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strong centre, able to formulate resolutions which would be binding o n the national Parties.1 However, roughly between 1919 and 1 9 2 3 the practical realization of this basic consensus met with opposition. Various national Parties failed to implement resolutions passed by the Comintern’s two highest organs: the World Congress and — between the Congresses — the IKKI (Executive Committee of the Communist International). This hidden resistance to relinquishing responsibility t o the centre expressed itself in various ways:2 0

critics o f t h e 2 1 Conditions o f A d m i s s i o n ( 1 9 2 0 ) were allowed t o stay

in the Party 0 the National Party Congress was held immediately before the World Congress and anticipated its resolutions delegates arrived at the World Congress with imperative mandates o the Party Congress decided on the country’s representative i n the IKKI. This mode of procedure was put an end to at the 1 9 2 2 and 1924 World Congresses. Resistance was at its fiercest among the Norwegian delegates. It is one of history’s ironies that, of all people, Hugo Eberlein, who i n 1919 had spoken out against the founding of a new International, enumerated the new rules on behalf of the IKKI and had them accepted

by the delegates:3 from now o n IKKI resolutions were to be binding on all Parties 0 National Congresses were to be held after the World Congress countries’ representatives i n the IKKI were to be elected by the World Congress. This upward shift of power went hand i n hand with an effective loss of power on the part of the widely accessible World Congresses, which took place at longer and longer intervals. Plenary sessions of the IKKI also took place less often, the last being held in 1933. 4 At first sight it might seem as if a power vacuum now existed. That this was not the case was known even before the opening of the Moscow archives. The IKKI, most of whose members were active i n the national

sections and rarely came to Moscow, delegated its business to the IKKI Secretariat, which, i n i t s turn, created the Politsecretariat i n 1 9 2 9 . This

concentration of power at the centre was accompanied by the build-up of an extensive auxiliary apparatus (departments, national secretariats), which assembled information on the national sections to pass on to

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73

the leading organs, and was simultaneously obliged to implement the leading organs’ resolutions i n the national Parties.5 Now that the archives have been opened we have, for the first time, information on the number of IKKI employees involved:6 1926: 346 employees 1932: 473 employees 1941: 429 employees

Shifts of power to unofficial and secret organs Even in the early phases of the Comintern, Western Party leaders had noted the shifting of decision making from Comintern organs to Russian structures. After breaking away from the Comintern, ‘renegades’ such as Paul Levi and Boris Souvarine related how they had been ‘worked o n ’ i n Moscow by Russian Party comrades, and how influential decisions were made behind closed doors.7 However, it would be wrong to interpret this Russian influence — at least at t h i s early stage - a s a conscious attempt to

subjugate the Parties i n the West and make them mere instruments of Soviet power. As the provisional seat of the Comintern, Russia possessed only a relative majority in the IKKI. Since most Western IKKI members came to Moscow only periodically, IKKI business was decided by the Russian comrades — in cooperation with a few exiled Western Party leaders such a s Bela Kun and Karl Radek. It seems that the Russian IKKI members living i n Moscow more or less slipped into this role and, so to speak, made a virtue of necessity. The incomplete IKKI, hardly able to function, complained over and over again about the unwillingness of the elected Western IKKI members to stay permanently in Moscow and work

with them there.8 After Lenin’s political withdrawal (1923) and the eruption of the internal struggle i n the Russian Party, Russian influence on the fate of the Western Parties assumed new dimensions. The so-called ‘troika’ of Zinovev, Kamenev and Stalin carried the Party struggle into the leading organs of the Western Parties and attracted new — though frequently changing — groups within the leadership of those parties, who entered into alliances with the victorious majority of the Soviet Communist

Party.9 Even before the archives were opened, researchers such as Milos Héjek were able to prove that from 1924 to 1 9 2 6 the composition of the various Central Committees,

and the changes that took place within them, were

decided directly in Moscow by commissions of the World Congress or the

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Plenum.10 There is no easy answer as to why the majority of the Western Communists bowed to Moscow’s dictat, o r rather to Moscow’s ‘suggestions’, instead of aligning themselves with the opposition. Straightforward explanations that put this down to cynicism, or to conviction, do not go far enough. Undoubtedly an important role was played by the enormous prestige of the VKP, which encouraged other parties to follow

its line.11 I n January 1 9 2 6 the role of the Russian party in the Comintern was restructured. Strategic questions of Comintern policy were no longer decided i n the VKP’s Politburo but i n the newly-created ‘Delegation of the Russian Communist Party’, whence they were passed on to the IKKI Presidium as unanimous decisions. Thus the ‘Russian Delegation’, which was not provided for i n any statute, arose as part of the intraparty power struggle i n the VKP. The Russian historian A. Vatlin has examined the minutes of this Delegation for the years 1926 to 1930. Although all its resolutions started with the words ‘We suggest to the IKKI Presidium. . .’, they carried the force of authority. This was well understood by all C P representatives in Moscow, who, i n particularly important

cases, directed their pleas and complaints to the Delegation.12 The Delegation examined the annual expenses of the Comintern Sections, which then had to be approved as the Comintern’s annual budget by the VKP’s Politburo. Since 0 . A. Pyatnitskii not only presided over the IKKI budget commission, but was also a member of the Delegation, it was easy for him to convert the Russian ‘suggestions’ into Comintern resolut i o n s . I n November 1 9 2 6 — i n line with ancient Russian tradition, a n d i n

order specifically to isolate Zinovev — the Delegation created the ‘Bureau of the Delegation’, run for all practical purposes solely by Stalin, Bukharin and Pyatnitskii. During the 7th IKKI plenary session (November—December 1926) Stalin and Bukharin were empowered to ‘decide all urgent questions themselves’. The Delegation also passed a resolution concerning the creation of new Comintern organs, such as the Politsecretariat ( 1 9 2 6 ) , and determined

how it was to b e staffed.13

Vatlin comes to the conclusion that, as of 1929, the Delegation was really indistinguishable from Stalin’s Secretariat. Also significant is the sudden cessation in summer 1930 of the Russian delegation’s minutes, deposited i n the Comintern archives. Very probably written evidence concerning Stalin’s Comintern policy was from then on kept in Stalin’s Secretariat archives, to which researchers can gain access only with

difficulty.14 I n March

1 9 2 9 , Clara Zetkin, i n a letter to J u l e s Humbert-Droz,

remarked bitterly that ‘from a living political body the Comintern has

The Moscow Headquarters of the Comintem

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turned into a dead mechanism capable only of swallowing orders i n

Russian and pouring them out in different languages’.15 Traces of a ‘Special Department’, staffing decisions and Cadre Department At the beginning of the 19305 worries about the political reliability of the IKKI staff became a central issue. Comrade S. A. Zirotinskii, Deputy Head of the OMS (‘Otdel mezhdunarodnykh svyazei’) and head of the ‘Confidential Instructors Sub-Department’, told the ‘Minor Commission’ t o be on the lookout for ‘penetration of the IKKI apparatus by foreign and even hostile elements’. Until 1931 the Minor Commission (or the Standing Commission) and the Politcommission, which had dealt with a d m i n i s trative matters o n behalf o f t h e Politsecretariat since autumn 1929, had

the exclusive authority to employ new staff. I n 1931 these bodies divided up the responsibilities among themselves as follows: ‘The Politcommission will appoint politically responsible staff (heads of the Regional Secretariats and Departments and their deputies, editors and responsible editorial secretaries for the periodicals, an d instructors). The Standing Commission will appoint referees, heads of technical departments, Regional Secretariat and Department secretaries, translators and trainees’.16 The following example proves that not all requests put forward by a head of department (in this case M. E. Kreps) and by a n IKKI Secretary (in this case 0 . Kuusinen) received the necessary support: ‘Proposal by Comrade Kreps and Comrade Kuusinen to employ (female) Comrade Girich as editorial secretary for the periodical Under the Banner 0f Marxism and t o find her somewhere

t o live has b e e n refused, a s Comrade Girich i s

not suitable for this post’.17 I n autumn 1931, under a new ruling, there abruptly appeared two further bodies, the Organization Department’s Cadre Section and the ‘Sub-Department of Confidential Labour Service’, which i n summer 1 9 3 2 would combine to form the Cadre Department. They were closely linked with the VKP and the OGPU and it was their job to look closely into the past lives of applicants recommended by the Politcommission o r the Minor Commission. These links with the OGPU were not a dead letter, as is shown by correspondence found in the personal file of a Swiss applicant, Berta Zimmermann, in which Comrade Zirotinskii makes the following request to Comrade A. R. Formayster (Formajster) of the ‘Special Department of the OGPU’: ‘In View of her application to work for the OMS, we request an investigation of Comrade Zimmermann. Enclosures: two applications and photos’.18

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The reorganization in 1936 of the OMS — now called the SS (‘Sluzhba svyazei’) — also affected the forms which Comintern staff had to hand in when applying for an extension of their residence permits. The SS forms contained ten questions. At the bottom was printed: ‘This questionnaire must be filled i n by the relevant member of the Cadre Department o r the Secret Department. Point 7 will be filled in by the 88’. As far as we know this is the first recorded mention of a ‘Secret Department’ and it gives rise to certain questions. Was this ‘Secret Department’ a newly-created post in the Comintern Central Office, set up to supplement the Cadre Department’s work of registration and to link it to the NKVD.719 A document from the the personal file of a Dutchman, Wim Rutgers, proves that there existed at the time a ‘secret section’ for gathering information about staff members in Soviet firms — and i n the Comintern Cadre Department a s well. A report by Ya. M. Zysman also indicates the existence of a secret post within the SS o r the Comintern for keeping an eye on staff. I n 1 9 3 6 Zysman investigated an employee of the OMS/SS, S. Bamatter, and admitted: ‘Miiller and I rather think that there is a certain connection between the collapse of our ciphering and Bamatter. But so far we have no definite evidence that would pin it on h i m . The case must be carefully examined. There is a file about Bamatter i n the Special Department.’20 Perhaps the three posts mentioned (the ‘Secret Department’, the ‘Secret Section’, and the ‘Special Department’) prove the existence of the ‘Special Department’ whose existence Niels E. Rosenfeldt has long suspected, and which, originating i n the VKP, managed to worm its way into the OMS/SS and indeed the entire Comintern Central Office in Mos-

cow.21 I n the staff plan for 1932 we find for the first time a reference to a ‘Special Department’:

Members of the ‘Special Department’ (1932):22 Kraevskii, A. (Pole), H e a d

Chernomordik, M. B. (Russian), Deputy Zirotinskii, S. A. (Russian), Deputy Berti, S. (Austrian), Instructor Chembrovskii (Russian), Instructor Dobroselskaya (Russian), Instructor

Kovalskaya (Russian), Instructor Melnikova (Russian), Instructor

Volinskaya (Russian), Spokeswoman Zdanovich,

V. (Russian), Secretary

The Moscow Headquarters of the Comintern 77

By the summer of that year this department would join the Organization Department’s Cadre Section to form the Cadre Department. The Cadre Department, set up on the Russian pattern, put an end to the existing structure for appointing personnel, split as it was between the Minor Commission, the Standing Commission and the Politcommission. The files of the Minor Commission fade out in 1933 and the Standing Commission’s in February 1934.After this simplification the Politcommission decided on all personnel applications submitted to them, after approval by the Cadre Department, by Heads of Departments and the Regional Secretariats, while the Administrative Department was responsible for

employing technicians.23 The Comintern Cadre Department, later so powerful, developed in 1932 out of the Organization Department’s ‘Cadre Sector’, headed by the Russian Ya. Ya. Tsirul, and subsequently became independent. We now know that the Cadre Department officially started work in June 1932. It drew up personal dossiers not only on Comintern staff but also on émigrés working in firms or universities. These cadre dossiers — especially those drawn up before 1932 — include entry and exit formalities, letters of recommendation for employment, and correspondence relating to the person’s possible membership of the VKP. From 1933 onwards, as part of the periodic surveillance and ‘purging’ of Comintern staff, these dossiers focused on the political curriculum of the person concerned; émigrés under investigation were obliged, among other things, to confess their ‘vacillations’. During the Great Terror the Cadre Department became infamous for its ability to bring about the downfall of almost any émigré, using the documents and denunciations it had gathered. These personal dossiers formed the political basis for the interrogations carried out by the IKKI commissions

and the NKVD.24 Officially the Cadre Department did not exist as an independent organ of the Comintern Central Office in Moscow and was never mentioned i n any official publications. A concrete indication of this technique of concealment dates from December 1933. At the time of the 13th IKKI Plenum the Pole Krayevskii was the Department’s spokesman.25 In this capacity he delivered a report to the Plenum, but his speech is recorded only in the internal unpublished minutes. Contrary to general practice, moreover, the speech is available only i n the original Russian. Now that the archives have been opened we have more precise information about the leaders of the Cadre Department, the heads of the various sections and the staff who worked there for varying lengths of time.

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(1932—43)26 The Leaders of the Cadre Department Kraevskii, A. (1886—1937), Pole, Party member since 1904, leader from

1932 to July 1936. Chernomordik,

M . B. (1898—1937), Russian, Party member since 1917,

leader up to December 1936. Alikhanov,

G . S. (1897—1938), Armenian,

Party member

since 1914,

leader up to May 1937. Damyanov, G . P. (‘Belov’, 1892-1958), Bulgarian, leader u p t o January 1938 and from 1942 to 1943. Andreev, M . Z. (1888—?), Russian, leader from April 1938 t o January 1939. Gulyaev, L. A. (1901—?),Russian, Party member since 1925, leader from

May 1939 to October 1941. Vilkov, K. V. (1905—?), Russian, Party member since 1925, l e a d e r from 1942 t o 1943 i n Ufa.

Nothing was previously known about the Department’s composition. It appears that it was reorganized after the 7th World Congress (1935)into

the following subdivisions:27 Secretariat Section for Section for Section for Section for TOTAL:

leading Party cadres the preparation of cadres international apparatuses registration and verification

5 25 4 5 8 47

I n February 1936 the IKKI Secretariat issued ‘Regulations concerning the Cadre Department’. Four specialist groups were set u p . ‘Cadre spokesm e n ’ for the individual parties or language areas were introduced. They were directly answerable to the head of the Department. I n addition, a ‘Section for Preparing Cadres’ was established, catered for by the Comintern’s international cadre schools, i n particular the International Lenin i s t School (MLS) and t h e Communist

University for Western National

Minorities (KUNMZ). Another specialist group had world-wide responsibility for subordinate international and mass organizations (for example Red Aid, MOPR ‘Mezhdunarodnaya organizatsiya pomoshchi bortsam revolyutsii’) and for political emigration to the Soviet Union. Finally there was also a group with responsibility for the ‘Special Schools’, mean-

ing the military and counter-espionage schools.28

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79

After its first reorganization in February 1936, which was approved by the IKKI Secretariat, further changes were made to the Department in April 1938. Cadre leader M. Z. Andreev presented the IKKI Secretariat with a plan for dividing it into five sections with a total staff of 64.

Subdivision of the Cadre Department (1938):29 Secretariat Section 1: Outlawed foreign fraternal parties Section 2: Legal fraternal parties Section 3: Eastern fraternal parties Section 4: Intelligence (informatsiya) Section 5: Choosing and supervising the IKKI’s cadres TOTAL:

16 15 15 9 5 4 64

The Cadre Department was housed i n Rooms 2 5 to 4 8 o n the second floor of the new Comintern building i n the Moscow suburb of Rostokino. Almost all members of the Cadre Department were Russian. The few non-Russian staff, such as the Pole Kraevskii, the Bulgarian S. Blagoyeva a n d the two Germans Grete Wilde (‘Mertens’) a n d Georg Briickmann (‘A.

Miiller’), had lived i n the Soviet Union for years and been specially trained. There is significant continuity between this Department and the Organization Department and Special Department of the early thirties. Cadre leaders Kraevskii, Chernomordik and Alikhanov, deputy leader Tsirul and ‘spokeswoman’ Blagoyeva all knew each other from

the Organization Department.3O Since records were also kept about the Cadre Department’s staff, their personal dossiers also provide information on their early life. None of the Russians had had any experience i n the Western labour movement. They had been promoted to work i n an international organization after careers i n the VKP, the army o r the economy; hardly any spoke a foreign language. I. P. Podlepich and N. N. Kondratenko came from careers in agriculture. The number of people working i n the Cadre Department grew steadily

and dropped only slightly after the outbreak of the Second World War:31 1932: 1 3 1935: 4 7 1938: 64 1939: 5 0 1940: 4 3 1941: 4 8

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The following is an outline of the Cadre Department two months before Hitler’s sudden attack. After the evacuation of Moscow and the removal of staff to Ufa i n November 1941, only a reduced group with cadre leader Damyanov

(‘Belov’) remained in Moscow.

Subdivisions of the Cadre Department (March 1941):32 Office (Gulyaev, Damyanov,

Vilkov)

8

Central European countries (Forsterling) Romance countries (Blagoyeva) Balkan Countries (Chervenkov) Anglo-American countries (Volkov)

South American countries (Badalyan) Scandinavian countries (Moltke) Eastern countries (Ezan)

Colonial countries (Kozlov)

TOTAL:

00

q}.

Personnel (Ivanova) Staff Archives (Shilova) Youth Cadres (Rebrov) Inter-Brigade Archives (D’Onofrio)

Cadre leader Alikhanov, the father of Elena Bonner, played a special role i n 1937, the height of the Terror, when he had to head the Department for some months after the arrest o f the first two cadre leaders, Kraevskii

and Chernomordik.33 Starting in December 1936, Alikhanov and F. S. Kotelnikov,

the Secretary o f the VKP Committee

i n the IKKI, had t o

‘study material concerning the composition of the Party organization for the period 1923—24 and its resolutions in reply to questions from the Trotskyist opposition.’ Kotelnikov, as the IKKI staff’s leading Party representative, had demanded help after the first show trial in order to purge the IKKI apparatus of suspects.34 I n spring 1937 members of the IKKI staff — among them the Swiss woman Berta Zimmermann, leader of the OMS Courier Service in the Comintern Central Office — were denounced to cadre leader Alikhanov. Alikhanov maintained contact with the two NKVD staff members, L. M. Polyachek and Kornilyev; he received their queries and kept them informed about staff suspects. Like his two predecessors, Alikhanov was arrested and shot in February 1938. The rapidity of his fall as cadre leader, and as persecutor of suspected opponents from the twenties, is a classic illustration of how terror destroys its own

perpetrators.35

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81

The Cadre Department files make it possible to reconstruct the Department’s links to other Soviet organs. Areas of responsibility overlapped i n such a way that the Cadre Department was a n important link in the chain-mail of repression. As the repository of all confessions about ‘deviations’ it played into the hands of the NKVD and the VKP. Applications by Comintern staff to join the VKP created a lot of work for the Cadre Department. This ‘transfer’ to the VKP was generally the first hurdle foreign communists had to overcome after their arrival. At the beginning of 1933 the whole procedure was tightened up, as the central Party authorities of the VKP i n Moscow had ordered a purge (‘chistka’) of the entire Party. Officially this was aimed at non-working-class and passive elements, careerists and those who had not respected Party discipline. Communists wanting to change to membership of the VKP needed a letter of recommendation from the Cadre Department and the IKKI CP representative. A special Transfer Commission within the Central Committee

o f t h e VKP, headed by Aliev, gathered information

about the applicant from the Party Secretary a t his or her place of employment. This procedure, which involved intensive correspondence, could last for months. The Cadre Department passed o n any queries o r complaints

t o the VKP’s Transfer

Commission

which,

i n turn,

was

snowed under with applications and distrusted foreign communists.36 I n 1938 the Cadre Department also received queries concerning CP staff members from the ‘Secret Sections’ o f several firms. Thus, for example, o n e Comrade Andrianov, head o f the ‘Secret Section’ o f t h e ‘M010-

tov’ firm, asked the Cadre Department for the following information: ‘The Secret Section of the Molotov firm urgently needs personal information about Rutgers and — if such exist — compromising details about him.

Citizen Rutgers is teaching physics in our firm’s education section.’37 The Cadre Department also had newly-appointed Comintern staff discreetly shadowed. I n June 1936 deputy cadre leader Chernomordik instructed an NKVD officer, S. G. Gendin, to keep an eye on Anna Mayer, who had just started work i n the Secretariat of the Communist Youth International.38 It is less surprising to find this behaviour in the case of appointm e n t s t o the subversive Department

for International

Liaison ( O M S ) .

The Cadre Department’s dossiers were also used to file information sent to the Department by Western CP intelligence services. For its part the Cadre Department sent the foreign C P intelligence services damning information about renegade communists or those under suspicion. As an example of the flow of information into the Cadre Department, we can cite a letter sent to Moscow by a certain ‘Hans’, who was a representative of the German Communist Party in Prague: ‘1 request you to tell our

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friends there that a certain Rita Wats is working i n the Berlin Trade Mission. She lives with Walter Nettelbeck, the leader of Berlin’s Trotskyist group, and is herself a very active member of the Trotskyists.’ This information from Prague was passed on t o G. Briickmann, the German Communist Party’s ‘leading spokesman’ in the Cadre Department. This denunciation from Prague of Rita Wats preceded the arrest in 1937 of he r

brother André Wats, who was living in Moscow.39 A similar deadly toing and froing happened i n the case of Raoul Laszlo, a Soviet functionary of Hungarian origin, who had fled to Switzerland i n 1934. The KPD Intelligence Service managed to break into his apartment and confiscate his correspondence. The KPD Intelligence Service sent the documents, among them an address book with his Soviet contacts, to the Cadre Department. There the case was i n the hands of G. Wilde, assistant

to the German cadre leader Briickmann.40 In the meantime Laszlo had written a book frankly describing his stay i n the Soviet Union from 1931 to 1934. Since Laszlo h a d come to Moscow in 1 9 3 1 from France Via Switzerland — with a letter of recommendation from Maurice Thorez — the Comintern sent the following request t o the Secretariat of the Communist Party of France: ‘It would be interesting if you would look into his [Laszlo’s] contacts i n France and let u s know who they were.’ There is also a note to the effect that the Cadre Department instructed Marcel Cachin, member of the IKKI Presidium, to reprimand Thorez as follows: ‘The PCF (French Communist Party), i n a letter dated 8.10.1931 and signed by Thorez, recommended

that Raoul Laszlo, Hungarian, be allowed t o trans-

fer to the VKP. H e has written an anti-Soviet book. He is running a largescale campaign against the Soviet Union i n the “New York Chronicle".

He is an international spy, a Trotskyist.’41 As a third and final example of this international exchange of intelligence between the apparatuses of the Western CPs and the Cadre Department, t h e case o f Raymond

Kamerzin can b e cited. Kamerzin, a Swiss

Young Communist, had spent the year 1936 studying at the MLS i n Moscow. However, soon after his return to Switzerland h e was suspected by the Communist Party of Switzerland of working in secret for a n anticommunist organization. While h e was fighting as a volunteer i n the Spanish Civil War, Karl Hofmaier, the Swiss C P Organization Secretary, denounced him to the Comintern Intelligence Service i n Spain. Hofmaier sent the following request to Maurice Tréand, the PCP cadre leader i n Paris: ‘Enclosed you will find the photo and biography of Kamerzin Raymond [. . .] Please pass on this communication to our Spanish friends.’ Tréand sent the information to the Intelligence Service i n Spain and a copy to the Cadre Department i n Moscow. Jules Humbert-

The Moscow Headquarters of the Comintern

83

Droz wrote to Dimitrov: ‘ H e (Kamerzin) h i m s e l f suggested [. . .] going t o

Spain. We agreed and passed on our suspicions to Spain’s CP. Spain’s CP Cadre Department says he fought bravely in Spain. However, he is under

surveillance.’42 Internal Party investigations and purges The ‘Party Organization of the VKP (b) for IKKI Staff’ played a central role i n the continuous political supervision of Comintern employees. While the Cadre Department preferred to stay i n the background and have scarcely any contact with IKKI employees, those responsible for them i n the Party Organization had to force through acceptance of the general line at meetings. One of the responsibilities of the ‘Party Organizers’ i n the individual departments of the IKKI apparatus was to discover staff members who had developed doubts and to make them speak out at meetings. These lowest members of the supervisory network were also the recipients of observations made by zealous Party members. The Party Organizer passed these ‘upwards’, that is to F. S. Kotelnikov, the Secretary of the Party Organization for IKKI Staff. According to F. I. Firsov, at the time of the Terror the membership of the ‘Party Organization of the

CPSU for IKKI Staff’ dwindled from 394 to 171.43 As of December 1936, in order better to support the search for alleged enemies of the Party, the leaders of the Party Organization arranged for the setting u p of a Special Commission. With the blessing of a n alarmed Party meeting, the Organization was commissioned to collect material about ’deviations’ by the Party collective, starting from the year 1923. G. Z . Alikhanov,

the new leader o f the Cadre Department,

was made a

member of this three-man Special Commission, responsible for networking with the Cadre Department’s personnel archives. Until his arrest i n May 1937, Alikhanov searched diligently through the personnel records of the Comintern Centre. His opinion carried considerable weight i n the selection of potential ‘victims’. I n the opening months of 1937 he was the collecting point for information emanating from the Party Organization, t h e International Control C o m m i s s i o n ( I C C ) o f the Comintern,

the

Party agencies i n the IKKI, the Transfer Commission of the VKP (b) and a n NKVD body.44 However, this last-mentioned organ was allowed to proceed independently. Little was previously known about th e overlap between the NKVD and the Comintern Centre. The NKVD obtained information about ‘weak spots’ in the IKKI apparatus from Alikhanov. I n turn Alikhanov, on his own initiative, sought incriminating information on IKKI staff from the

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NKVD. Now we have proof from the personal dossiers of arrested communists that there was a considerable overlap between the IKKI apparatus and the NKVD. Alikhanov’s contacts i n the NKVD body devoted to the Comintern were L. M. Polyachek and Kornilev. I n 1 9 3 7—8 the NKVD officer Polyachek possessed considerable freedom of choice i n his selection of future ‘Victims’ who had been caught in the spotlight of internal IKKI investigations. I n the course of 1938 — particularly after the fall of N. I. Ezhov — Soviet Party leaders were at some pains to prevent ‘excesses’ and to restrain NKVD officers who were acting too independently. Through their interference i n the Comintern, L. M. Polyachek, D. Z. Apresyan and A. I. Lanfang were themselves sucked into the maelstrom of repression. The three NKVD officers were accused i n particular of having made arrests without the public prosecutor’s permission. According to the charges levelled against him i n 1939, Polyachek had even

tortured to death the imprisoned ICC chairman, Jan Anvelt.45 The NKVD destroyed not only loyal Party Comintern staff but also overzealous fellow agents. I n 1936—7 the I C C chairman, J . Anvelt, and h i s instructor, I C C referee

P. Timm, provided further points of contact with the NKVD. As the ICC records i n the Comintern

archives are closed to researchers, for the t i m e

being we cannot throw any light on the role they played in selecting the

‘victims’ or formulating the charges and the eventual judgement.46 Abridged reports on the political reliability of the Foreign Apparatus passed through the hands of the two IKKI Secretaries, G. M. Dimitrov a nd D. Z. Manuilskii, who both carried on an intensive correspondence with NKVD organs. Dimitrov’s occasional interventions with the public prosecutor — especially from 1938 onwards — cannot i n any way alter his prime responsibility for the process of ‘purging’ the Comintern apparatus. By publicly praising Stalin’s regime, the hero of the Leipzig Reichstag fire trial legitimized the Terror i n the Soviet Union.47 Manuilskii, a Ukrainian, acted a s a connection

between the leaders o f the Comintern

and those in power i n the Soviet Union. All sorts of ‘investigators’ — for instance the Cadre Department, the ICC and the Party Organization of the CPSU for IKKI Staff — kept him informed of their progress on various fronts. Together with the OMS leader M. A. Trilisser (‘Moskvin’) and the I C C chairman J . Anvelt, Manuilskii was a member o f several a d hoc IKKI

commissions, formed to keep a wary eye on communists who were under suspicion. From the written sources available to u s it is not possible to determine whether Manuilskii really had complete freedom of access to Stalin’s Secretariat and pulled the strings to decide which Comintern

employees were to be arrested.48

The Moscow Headquarters of the Comintern

85

We consider the expressions ‘network of repression’ or ‘structure of repression’ to be suitable descriptions of the channels connecting the Comintern Centre with Russian Party structures an d the NKVD. It is already possible to discern a hard core of Comintern functionaries with connections to the NKVD (Polyachek, Kornilev). Despite the risk of drawing hasty conclusions before being in possession of a n overview, we shall venture to name some functionaries of the Comintern repression network whose word carried considerable weight i n the selection of victims and the preparation of charges during 1936—38: D. Z. Manuilskii (IKKI Secretariat), M . A. Trilisser (OMS), and J . Anvelt (ICC), plus M . B. Chernomordik, G . Z. Alikhanov a n d G . P. Damyanov (’Belov’) from the

Cadre Department. The subdivision

and the Heads of the Central

Office in

Moscow

An atmosphere of secrecy has always surrounded the structure of the Central Office of the Comintern and its foreign links. While the Comintern programme and statutes were discussed, altered and published at several congresses, we have hitherto known little about the construction and staffing of t h e Central Office i n Moscow. The elected functionaries of certain top groupings (the Executive Committee, Presidium, Secretariat, International

Control

Commission)

were somewhat

familiar because

they were regularly mentioned i n the Comintern press after the congresses and plenary sessions.49 Before th e Moscow Archives were opened, our other principal source was memoirs. The newly available material has given u s deeper insights. A new and expanded Biographical Dictionary of International Communism, compiled by an international team of specialists, will shortly be available.50 We are not concerned here with auxiliary and sub-organizations of the Comintern

(KIM, Profintern, M O P R , Mezrabpom,

Krestintern, Sportin-

tern and so forth ) which also had a small apparatus in Moscow. Nor will we deal here with linking organizations abroad which provided a front (the West European Office, Caribbean Office, South American Office, Far East Office a n d s o o n ) .

There was no progress i n the subdivision and extension of the apparatus until 1923, after the 4th World Congress. The increasing division of responsibilities within the — until then — provisional Moscow apparatus, a n d the adoption o f VKP (b) methods, c a m e a s a result o f political defeats

i n the West.51 These set-backs i n the West lent strength to the arguments of those i n the Comintern who blamed the débacle on lack of discipline,

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Peter Huber

organization and the existing division of responsibility. Up to 1926 the departments, with their specific responsibilities, were the apparatus’ centre of gravity: Organization Department (1923—35). Head: 0 . Pyatnitskii, from 1928 B. A. Vasilev. Up to 1 9 2 6 this, together with the Agitprop Department, the Information Department and the OMS, was the heart of the apparatus. I n December 1926 the Presidium gave it the following responsibilities: ‘As the Org-Bureau has been disbanded, the Organization Department will have to deal with the C P representatives’ organizational reports and papers and with the reports made by their representatives on the organizational work of the communist group-

ings in the international mass organizations.’52 Between 1933 and 1935 the Department, with a staff of only seven, was called ’The Department for building u p the Party’. OMS (1921—35). Heads: Pyatnitskii, P. A. Vompe, A. E. Abramovich

(‘Albrecht’), from 1927 A. L. Abramov.53 Although the OMS was an IKKI department, and was represented by Abramov i n the IKKI’s leadi ng organs from 1927 onwards, the OMS is not mentioned in either the budget or the personnel plans of the IKKI. Remarks about the OMS were not entered i n the minutes of the regular consultations on departmental problems, held i n the IKKI Central Office. I n 1 9 2 6 the Moscow Central Office of the OMS had a staff of 33. In 1936 it was restructured, penetrated by the NKVD, an d renamed ‘sluzhba svyazei’ (SS), a n d i n 1 9 4 2 ’First D e p a r t m e n t ’ . H e a d : B. N . Melnikov (‘Miiller’, 1 9 3 7 ) , M . A. Trilisser (‘Moskvin’, 1 9 3 8 ) , G . M . Dimitrov ( 1 9 3 8 ) , K. P.

Sucharev

(1939—41),

Agitprop

Department

M. 1. Morozov (1920—33).

(1942—43).54

Heads:

B. Kun

(until

1925),

P.

Togliatti (1926), J. Pogany (1926—27), A. N. Slepkov (1928), D. Petrovskii (1928—29), 8.1. Gopner (1930—33). I t comprised three sub-

departments: a) Agitation b) Propaganda

c) Press.55 I n 1933 the Agitprop Department divided into the a) ‘Commission for Popularizing Socialist Construction i n the USSR’, headed by I. I. Chernin, retaining a staff of only six. This was dissolved i n 1935.

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87

b) ‘Commission for the Struggle against War, Fascism and Social Democracy’, headed by B. Kun, retaining a staff of only six.

Dissolved in 1935.56 Department for Propaganda and Mass Organizations (1935—9). Head: K. Gottwald. I n summer 1936 this Department was given a new dimension a n d renamed ‘Department for Propaganda and Press’. Heads: P. Togliatti (1936—37), D . Manuilskii (1938—1939). I. I. Chernin

(1936)

headed the press section and H. Remmele (1936) the propaganda

section.57 Department for Propaganda (1939—43). Head: M. T. Yovchuk. Subdivided into the ‘Editing a n d Publishing Section’ an d the ‘Library’; i n

1941 a total staff of 23.58 Department for Press and Agitation (1939—43). Head: B. Geminder (‘Fried r i c h ’ ) with a staff o f 3 9 ( 1 9 4 1 ) . Subdivided i n t o :

a) ‘Press Section and Telegraph Agency’, Head: F. Glaubauf. Staff of 12. b ) ‘Information Section’, H e a d : S. Nogradi ( ‘ K e l l e r m a n n ’ ) . Staff o f

13. c) ‘Photo Service’, Head: F. Apelt (‘Becker’). Staff of 4.

d) ‘Radio Section’, Head: H. Wehner (‘Funk’). Staff of 5.59 Information Department (1924—9). Heads: E. Woog

(‘Stirner’, 1924),

Pogany (‘Pepper’, 1 9 2 5 ) , Humbert-Droz ( 1 9 2 6 ) , B. Schubin ( 1 9 2 6 ) , C h . Wurm (1928—29). T h i s Department had a double responsibility:

to inform the CI’s leading organs about the work of the sections and, simultaneously, to keep the sections informed about discussions within th e IKKI apparatus. I n 1926 it had a staff of 33, mostly ‘national reporters’. It was dissolved i n 1929 as part of the strengthening of the Regional Secretariats (Léindersekretariate).60

East Department (1920—6). Heads: G. I. Safarov, S. Katayama, F. F. Raskolnikov

(‘Petrov’). I n 1925—26, shortly

before

its dissolution

and transformation into the East Regional Secretariat, it had a staff

of 15.61 Publishing Department (1921—35).

H e a d : M . E. Kreps (1922—35). 1 9 3 1 :

staff of 15, 1935: downgraded to a section (staff of 16) of the ‘Depart-

ment for Propaganda and Mass Organizations’.62

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Peter Huber

Translation Department (1921-35). H e a d s : G . M . Gerisch (1928—29), J . W. Schwarzstein (1930—31), A. A. Brigader (1932—33), F. W. Wendt (1933), Menkis (1934), Wyburg (1935). I n 1932 i t had a staff o f 7 1 .

For part of the time it was united with the Bureau of the Secretariat and the Publishing Department. From 1935 it was called the ‘Translation Bureau’ (staff of 62),from 1941 the ‘Translation Section’ (staff of

50).63 Women’s Department (1920—35). H e a d s (all w o m e n ) : C . Zetkin (1920— 1929), E. M . Kasparova (1922), V. A. Moirova (1930—1931), H . Overlach (1931—1932), K. I. Kirsanova (1933—1935). A l s o known a s t h e

International Women’s Secretariat. I n 1932 it was staffed by seven women; three were left by 1934. At the end of 1935 it was evidently

dissolved and not replaced.64 Department for Work in Rural Areas (1931—5). H e a d : V. Kolarov, 1932: a

staff of three. I n 1935 it was evidently dissolved and not replaced. The more important ‘International Agrarian Institute’ (MAI) does not appear in the IKKI budget because it was financed by the Soviet

State.65 Department for Cooperatives (1921—35). H e a d s : J . Crémet (1928-29), N . L. Meshcheryakov (1929-30), H . Oswald (1932—33). I n 1926 a staff o f

eight and in 1932, nine. I n 1935 it was evidently dissolved and not

replaced.66 Department for Building up the Party (1933—5). Head: M. Heimo, G. Alikhanov. Remains of the liquidated Organization Department with a staff of seven, whose responsibilities were taken over by the Cadre

Department in 1935.67 Special Department (?—1932). Head: W. (V?). Kraevskii. I n 1932 it had a

staff of eight, which was taken over by the Cadre Department.68 Cadre Department (1932—43). Head: W. Kraevskii, M. Chernomordik (1936), G . Alikhanov (1937), G . P. Damyanov (‘Belov’, 1937), M . Z. Andreev (1938),P. V. Gulyaev (1939-43), K. F. Vilkov (1942—44 i n U f a ) .

I n summer 1932 this Department absorbed the Organization Department’s Cadre Section, the Special Department and in 1935 the ‘Department for Building up the Party’. I n 1934 it had a staff of 13,

in 1935,31, in 1938, 64 and in 1941,48.69

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89

Administrative Department (1920—41). Heads: M . M . Kivilovich (1925— 2 7 ) , I. Ya. Koganitsky (1928—30),Frido(1931),V. K. Sander (1932—33),G . J. Brandt (1936), Samsonov (1936—37), Detkov (1938), G . I. Dimitrov (1939—40),T. I. Pisarenko (1941),I. A. Morozov and M . I. Kuzmin (1942—

43). Administration to maintain and guard the IKKI building and look

after the staff. In 1932it had a staff of 58 and by 1941 as many as 191!70 International Control Commission (1921—43). Heads: C. Zetkin, P. Stucka, Ya. Anvelt, W. Florin. For 1932 the IKKI budget lists a staff of three, for 1935 eight and for 1941 seven. Between 1924 and the beginning of the first show trial in 1936 the ICC dealt with 1114

cases, 231 of them in 1935.71

Transference of responsibility to the Regional Secretariats (Landersekretariate),

1926—35

The Regional Secretariats, which represented various national groupings, existed as of March 1926 and complemented the work of the three most important departments, which also maintained direct contact with the communist parties abroad: the Organization Department, the Agitprop Department and the Information Department. The Regional Secretariats were introduced to lessen the workload of the 13 IKKI Secretaries and free them from personally heading certain national sections. The Regional Secretariats were given the following responsibilities: ‘To keep i n touch regularly and systematically with every aspect of political life in its group of countries and the work of the sections there, to prepare these sections’ questions for those charged with making decisions within the IKKI, immediately to carry out the decisions thus made and to report on the

correct implementation of these decisions.’72 The inevitable result of the existence of several IKKI organs to deal with identical aspects of a country’s section was tension and the paralysing of the apparatus. I n 1927 the German Alfred Kurella summed up his complaints to the ’Commission for Reorganizing the IKKI Apparatus’ in the following words: ‘An endless pathway lined with responsible offices, which every initiative or problem has t o call at; departments which, o n the one hand, duplicate each other a n d , o n the other hand, compete with each other; a s a result, a lot o f

unnecessary work and a lot of important matters which are never dealt with.’73 At regular intervals the Regional Secretariats had to report to the Politsecretariat, letting it know to what extent the CPs for which they were responsible had carried out IKKI resolutions. They were supported

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Peter Huber

i n this task by the instructors of the ‘West European Bureau’ (WEB) i n Berlin, which, with t h e h e l p o f the OMS, saw t o it that t h e instructors’

reports reached the Comintern Central Office i n Moscow. Because of the increase i n their supervisory tasks, staff numbers at the Regional Secretariats rose continuously. The 1931 budget catered for 70 Regional Secretariat staff members.74 As late as 1932, a person responsible directly to the Cadre Department was seconded to every Regional Secretariat, to link the Secretariats with the Cadre Section i n the ‘Organization Department’ and with the ‘Special Department’. This was a realm i n which the areas of influence of the OGPU and th e Comintern overlapped. One of the responsibilities of the Cadre Department’s representative i n the Regional Secretariats was to support the fraternal parties ‘in the question of getting to know the leading cadres of our enemies, particularly i n the social democracy and other ‘labour’ parties’. But the Cadre’s man (Cadre Department’s representative) was also expected to see that all was as it should be in the rank a n d file of the fraternal parties themselves: ‘To participate i n judging measures and working out suggestions for fighting provocation, for purging the Party rank and file of foreign and inimical elements and of bourgeois agents within the Party.’75

Politsecretariat, Politcommission and Standing Commission I n addition to the Regional Secretariats, the 1926 reorganization also introduced three new leading structures and got rid of two old ones: the Secretariat and the Orgbureau. As of 1926 the new Secretariat was known as the Politsecretariat , but i n effect had only changed its n a m e . However, the new Politsecretariat was accompanied by two — as of 1929 three — new organs, whose responsibilities we will attempt to describe below. The organs i n question were the newly-created Standing Commission, t h e Minor C o m m i s s i o n ( a l s o known a s the Little Commission) a n d

the Politsecretariat’s Politcommission.76 The Politsecretariat comprised between 1 1 and 1 9 Secretaries, who held a session once a week. Each was responsible for a Regional Secretariat, a Comintern department or a Comintern mass organization. According to the minutes, the sessions usually took place ‘in comrade Pyatnitskii’s private office’. He belonged to the Politsecretariat without interruption

(1926—1935). The Politsecretariat’s ‘open sessions’, which

were attended by up to 3 0 Comintern cadres, had to be held in ‘the IKKI’s meeting room’.77 The Politsecretariat discussed and ratified Regional Secretariat resolutions which it considered important. Besides supervising the work of the Regional Secretariats, the Politsecretariat also devoted

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91

itself to keeping up with the general political situation: thus i n September 1 9 3 3 it reserved two whole sessions for ‘exchanging views o n the

character of the Spanish Revolution’.78 As of September 1929 there had been, i n addition to the Politsecretariat, another organ which dealt to a certain extent with the same questions as the Politsecretariat: the Politcommission of the Politsecretariat. Drafts emanating from the Regional Secretariats which were found fault with by the Politsecretariat had subsequently to be passed, with their amendments, by the Politcommission. We can only guess at the exact division of responsibilities between the two leading organs, which both held three sessions per month i n 1934. As far as personnel was concerned they overlapped, so that the Politcommission as such — at least until 1933 — was represented at each session by only about half as many participants as the Politsecretariat. The two Russians, Pyatnitskii and Manuilskii, belonged to both organs.79 As of 1931 the Politcommission had also had the last word concerning the hiring and firing of a certain category of IKKI staff. This transference of responsibility affected the Standing Commission, which brings u s to the third leading organ, which was

dissolved as early as 1934.80 The Standing Commission was established i n March 1926 by the IKKI Secretariat. Its minutes are a mine of information for anyone researching the Comintern’s staffing, wages, appointed emissaries, administration of buildings (Hotel ‘Lux’ et cetera), social privileges and much more. The Standing Commission’s minutes resemble the minutes of the Minor Commission

which,

between

1 9 2 6 a n d 1 9 3 5 , covered t h e s a m e con-

fidential area. Even the staffing of the Standing Commission differed only slightly from that of the Minor Commission. Both held sessions every seven to ten days. Some of the regular participants represented the most widely varying sections of th e Comintern apparatus; those concerned with underground work abroad o r the supervision of the Comintern staff. Among them were Pyatnitskii (OMS), B. A. Vasilev (Organization

Department),

Ya. Abramov

( O M S ) , Angaretis ( I C C ) a n d

Ya. Ya. Tsirul (Cadre Section of the Organization Department). The areas of responsibility of the Standing Commission and the Minor Commission were so close that their minutes were even mixed up when they were classified i n t h e archives.81

Overlapping leading organs, 1919-35 Sessions of the IKKI members and Presidium were held rarely and were mainly concerned with a general political survey of the situation; until

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Peter Huber

1926 the Secretariat and the Orgbureau were i n charge of leadership. I n 1925 a discussion was started in the IKKI Secretariat concerning diversification of the main organs of leadership. As so often, the Secretariat set up a commission consisting ‘of Comrades Pyatnitskii, Kuusinen and Heimo, i n order t o consider, with staff from the various departments,

the various questions concerning faults and difficulties in their work and how matters can be improved’.82 As we have seen, the discussions resulted in the concentration of the Regional Secretariats according to geographical/cultural considerations and i n the splitting up of the top levels concerned with day—to-day political leadership. As of 1926 the Secretariat created — partly from its own ranks and always with the approval of the Presidium — numerous additional leading organs, whose staff and responsibilities both overlapped. This urge to organize may have originated in the painful realization that the revolutionary breakthrough i n the West had failed. Subconsciously the belief that revolution could be ’magicked’ into being by specialization within the leadership apparatus and by discipline may also have played a role. It is possible that the realization within the CPs and the IKKI apparatus of Western society’s ’temporary stabilization’, and the belief that revolution could still be brought about, misled the IKKI’s top organs into thinking that only a ’perfected’ leadership apparatus could influence the flow of history i n the direction of World Revolution. There was also a highly political element, the fight against ‘Trotskyism’ i n the VKP (b), which led to the Comintern cadres' belief that the only way forward for the Comintern was subordination to the VKP and absorption of the Soviet experience. Only future research based on intensive study of the files will reveal why, in 1925—26, the leading organs decided on a reorganization which was to lead to a ‘session inflation’ in the years to come. We have listed below the various leading organs which constantly got in each other’s way, especially between 1 9 2 6 and 1935: Orgbureau

(1921—6).

In 1925 the

Bureau was given

the following

responsibilities: ‘In addition to the most important questions affecting the CPs, the Orgbureau is to discuss the most important organizational questions affecting the IKKI apparatus. The three functional departments (Org, Inform, Agitprop) are to deliver a report every three months and submit a working plan for the next three months.’83 IKKI Secretariat (1919-26).

T h i s was the executive organ o f the IKKI, the

Presidium and the Orbureau and had the following responsibilities:

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93

(a) Preparing the questions to be put to the decision-making organs

of the IKKI (IKKI Presidium).84 (b) Carrying out the resolutions passed by these organs. (c) Permanent supervision to check that the resolutions were put into effect by both the IKKI apparatus and the individual sections.

(d) Leading the IKKI apparatus i n accordance with the resolutions passed by the Presidium and the Org-Bureau. Politsecretariat (1926—35): cf. section above. Politcommission of the Politsecretariat (1929—35): cf. section above. Minor Commission (1926-35).

Founded i n accordance with a resolution

passed by the Presidium in December 1926: ‘The Political Secretariat is to select from among its members a Minor Commission to concern itself with underground activities and important administrative mat-

ters.’85 Standing Commission (1926—34): dealt with ‘absolutely confidential’ questions on behalf of the Presidium, the Orgbureau and the IKKI Secretariat. cf. section above. Bureau of the Secretariat, Chancellory Ofl‘ice (1924—41). Heads: M. Heimo (1925—31), G. M. Gerisch (1932—37), A. P. Sergeev (1937—41). Minutes, dispatches, archives. I n 1 9 3 2 it had a staff of 28 and still retained 1 1 in 1 9 3 5 (without dispatch and archives), while i n 1 9 4 1 i t h a d 3 5 (without

archives).86 Strengthened

IKKI Secretariats

(1935—41)

The reorganization which took place i n autumn 1935 centred around getting rid of the Regional Secretariats, increasing th e staff of the ten IKKI Secretariats a n d stressing the importance of th e Cadre Department, which also supervised, and, if necessary, substituted the cadres of the fraternal parties. This new division of responsibilities represented a considerable break i n Comintern

tradition, which, by and large, was based

o n the 1926 restructuring. The resolution behind the changes and the outline of the new apparatus were published recently.87 Did the 1935 restructuring offer the fraternal parties more autonomy or in any way relax the monolithic structure inside the Comintern? At

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present the only indication of this consists i n two letters written by Dimitrov to Stalin in October 1934, months before the reorganization. Dimitrov complained about the slowness of the Moscow apparatus and put the case for staff reductions combined with the transference abroad — that is, t o the fraternal parties — o f certain responsibilities.88 However, t h e

dissolution of the West European Bureau (WEB) i n Berlin, explicitly mentioned i n the reorganization resolution, only ratified what was, i n any case, a fait accompli resulting from Hitler’s coming to power. The leaderships of the various CPs n o longer dared to protest against Moscow’s resolutions, so that an advance checkpoint like the WEB had lost its function. The unconditional support, for instance, for the hunting down of ‘Trotskyists’ in the Soviet Union and abroad proves that, after years of political abjuration rituals, the leadership apparatus i n the various countries was no longer capable of even the slightest independence. It does not appear that the abrupt reconstruction of autumn 1935, and in particular the dissolution of the Regional Secretariats, had anything to do with political differences of opinion or rivalry among different sections of the apparatus. Even though, in the wake of the restructuring, certain leading figures ( 0 . A. Pyatnitskii, V. G. Knorin, B. Kun, A. L. Abramov) left and were later liquidated, on the whole the reasons for the reconstruction were probably purely practical. As far as we can see at present, during the internal discussions preceding the restructuring n o

factors emerged which would indicate differing political concepts.89 Almost without exception the new structures given to its Moscow apparatus by the Secretariat in 1935 remained in force until the beginning of the Second World War. I n 1938 K. Gottwald took over from P. Togliatti (who was sent to Spain) the responsibilities for the Central European

countries

a n d from

M . A. Trilisser (who was arrested) the

responsibilities for the Polish-Baltic countries. André Marty, chief of the Interbrigades i n Spain, passed responsibility for the Anglo-American countries

t o Kuusinen

until 1 9 3 9 . I n 1 9 3 9 Dolores Ibarruri and J o s é

Diaz were coopted onto the Secretariat, which closed the gap caused by Trilisser's arrest and the return home of Van-Min (until then responsible

for Latin America).90 I n conclusion, let u s take a look at the national origins of the wartime employees of the IKKI apparatus. More than 9 5 per cent of the 1 5 9 employees of the technical-operative service (’First Department’, formerly OMS) and of the Administrative Department were Russians. This is not very surprising in the case of the Administrative Department, which was reponsible for various matters concerning daily life (cleaners and kitchen staff), and as early as the twenties employed Russians almost

The Moscow Headquarters of the Comintern

95

exclusively. The OMS, on the other hand,employed a high percentage of foreigners until the middle of the thirties. These fell victim to the Terror and were replaced by ‘more reliable’ Russians.91 Twenty-five per cent of the 1 9 9 more political employees came from Germany and Austria. The Russians, with 20 per cent, formed the second largest group. This is followed, with 8 per cent each, by the Spanish and Czechoslovakians, who had found a refuge i n the Moscow apparatus as

of 1938—9.92 Notes

1. See H e r m a n n

Weber, Die Kommunistische Internationale: Eine Dokumentation (Hanover, 1 9 6 6 ) , p p . 9 — 1 6 ; J a k o v Drabkin, ‘The I d e a o f t h e World Revolution

and its Transformations’, i n M. Narinsky and Jurgen Rojahn (eds), Centre and Periphery: The History of the Comintern in the Light of New Documents (Amsterd a m , 1996), pp. 46-54. . See t h e complaint by Hugo Eberlein o n behalf of the IKKI i n Protokoll des Vierten Weltkongresses der Komintern: Petrograd—Moskau vom 5. Nov. bis 5. Dez. 1922 (Hamburg, 1923), pp. 803—13. . Ibid. See also Piatnitsky’s report i n Protokoll Fiinfter Kongress der Komintern ( H a m b u r g , 1 9 2 4 ) , v o l . 2 , p p . 9 8 2 - 7 ; E i n h a r t Lorenz, Norwegische

Arbeiterbewe-

gang and Kommunistische Internationale 1919—1930: Untersuchung zur Politik der norwegischen Sektion der Kommunistischen Internationale (Oslo, 1978), pp. 378—382. . See Statutes of the Comintern i n Thesen and Resolutionen des V. Weltkongresses der Komintern. Moskau, vom 1 7 . [uni bis 8. luli 1 9 2 4 (Hamburg, 1 9 2 4 ) , p p . 83-8.

. See survey of the congresses a n d plenary sessions i n Vilém Kahan, Bibliography of the Communist International, 1919—1979 (Leiden, 1990), pp. 11—31. . Peter Huber, ‘Der Moskauer Apparat der Komintern: Geschaftsleitung, Personalentscheide

u n d Mitarbeiterbestand’,

[ahrbuch

fiir historische Kommunismus-

forschung (Berlin, 1995), pp. 140—50. . Alexander

Vatlin

and

Markus

Wehner,

‘Genosse

Thomas

und

die

Geheimtatigkeit der Komintern i n Deutschland 1919—1925’, Internationale Wissenschaftliche Korrespondenz zur Geschichte der deutschen Arbeiterbewegung (IWK), 1 ( 1 9 9 4 ) , p p . 1—19; P a u l Levi, Unser Weg ( B e r l i n , 1 9 2 1 ) ; J e a n - L o u i s Panné, Boris Souvarine: L e premier désenchanté du communisme (Paris, 1 9 9 3 ) ,

pp. 115—49. . S e e , for example, Tatigkeitsbericht der Exekutive der Kommunistischen Internation-

ale, February/November 1926 (Hamburg, 1926), pp. 9-11. . For the German Communist Party see: Hermann Weber, Die Wandlung des deutschen Kommunismus: Die Stalinisierung der KPD in der Weimarer Republik (Frankfurt a . M . , 1 9 6 9 ) , p p . 53—185. See a l s o Pierre Broué, Histoire de l’Intema-

tionale communiste, 1919—1943 (Paris, 1997), p p . 367—406. 10. Milos Héjek, ’Die Beziehungen zwischen der Komintern u n d der bolschewist i s c h e n Partei i n d e n J a h r e n 1919—1929', lahrbuch

musforschung (Berlin, 1995), pp. 63-99.

fiir historische Kommunis-

96

Peter Huber

11. Cf. Brigitte Studer, ‘Zwischen Zwang und Eigeninteresse. Die Komintem der Dreissiger Jahre a l s Machtsystem

u n d Sinnhorizont’,

Traverse, 3 (1995), p p .

46—60. 12. Alexandr Vatlin, ‘Die Russische Delegation i n der Komintern: Machtzentrum d e s internationalen

Kommunismus

zwischen Sinowjew u n d S t a l i n ’ , [ahrbuch

fiir historische Kommunismusforschung (Berlin, 1993),pp. 82—99. 13. I b i d . See a l s o Fridrich Firsov, ’Mechanism o f Power Realization i n the Comint e r n ’ , i n Fondation J u l e s Humbert-Droz:

Centenaire [ales

Humbert-Droz:

Collo-

que sur l’Intemationale communiste, La Chaux-de-Fonds 25—28 septembre 1991. Actes (La Chaux-de-Fonds, 1992),pp. 449-66. 14. A. Vatlin, ‘ D i e Russische Delegation’, p . 9 9 . Cf. Markus Wehner, ‘Archivreform bei leeren Kassen. Einige Anmerkungen zur politischen und 6konomischen Situation der russischen Archive’, Osteuropa. Zeitschrift fiir Gegenwartsfragen des Ostens, 2 (1994),p p . 105—22. 15. Zetkin to Humbert-Droz, 29 March 1929,i n Casto del Amo/Bernhard Bayerlein (ed.), Archives de lules Humbert-Droz. Les partis communistes des pays latins et l’Internationale

communiste dans les années 1928—1932

(Dordrecht,

1988), p .

165. 16. Standing Commission m i n u t e s 3 January 1931, i n Russian Center o f Conservation and Study of Records for Modern History, Moscow [hereafter, RTsKhIDNI], 495/7/16. Letter from Zirotinsky, 24 September 1930, RTsKhIDNI, 495/7/ 15. 17. Standing Commission minutes RTsKhIDNI, 495/7/ 19. 18. Letter from Zirotinsky, 20 August 1931; cf. also letter from Zirotinsky, 8 September

1931, RTsKhIDNI, cadre

file B. Z i m m e r m a n n .

Resolution

on

employment i n the apparatus, 7 October 1931,RTsKhIDNI, 495/20/764. 19. ’Questionnaire’, 21 November 1936, RTsKhIDNI, cadre file B. Zimmermann. 20. ‘Personal description’, quoted i n certificate, signed Zysman, 26 February 1939; cadre file S . Bamatter; Andrianov t o Cadre D e p t . , 3 November

1938, cadre file

W. Rutgers, all RTsKhIDNI. 21. Niels Erik Rosenfeldt, Stalin’s Secret Chancellery and the Comintem. Evidence about the Organizational

Patterns (Copenhagen,

1991).

22. Personnel plan, 8 May 1932, i n RTsKhIDNI, 495/7/21. 23. Cf. P. Huber, ‘The Cadre Department, the OMS a n d the Dimitrov and Manuilsky Secretariats during the Phase of Terror’, i n M. Narinsky and Jiirgen Rojahn (eds), Centre and Periphery: The History of the Comintem in the Light of New Documents (Amsterdam,

1996), p p . 122—45.

23. For the alternating game played by the Cadre Department and the NKVD cf. P. Huber, ‘Berta Zimmermann — eine Schweizer Kommunistin i m Geheimapparat der Komintern’, Iahrbuch fiir Historische Kommunismusforschung (Berlin, 1993),p p . 261—75. 24. For the alternating game played by the Cadre Department and the NKVD cf. P. Huber, ’Berta Zimmermann — eine Schweizer Kommunistin i m Geheimapparat der Komintern’, [ahrbuch fiir Historische Kommunismusforschung (Berlin, 1993), pp. 261—75. 25. M i n u t e s o f t h e 1 3 t h IKKI Plenum, RTsKhIDNI, 495/171. 26. Cf. P. Huber, Stalins Schatten in die Schweiz: Schweizer Kommunisten in Moskau: Verteidiger and Gefangene der Komintem (Ziirich, 1994),p. 24. 27. ‘IKKI Secretariat resolution’, 2 October 1935, RTsKhIDNI, 495/20/810.

The Moscow Headquarters of the Comintern

97

28. ‘Bestimmungen iiber die Kaderabteilung’ (‘Regulations concerning the Cadre Department’), 7 March 1936,RTsKhIDNI, 495/20/811. First published i n The International Newsletter of Historical Studies on Comintem, Communism and Stalinism, vol. 1 (1993/1994),n o . 3/4,pp.30—33. 29. Andreev t o Secretariat, 2 2 April 1938, RTsKhIDNI, 495/20/812. 30. Minutes Org. Dept., 1 2 July 1931;1 2 November 1931, RTsKhIDNI, 495/25/ 172; minutes Org. Dept, 5 September 1933 a n d 1 3 September 1933, RTsKhIDNI, 495/25/227. 31. More information i n Huber, ‘Der Moskauer Apparat der Komintern’. 32. RTsKhIDNI, 495/18/1330. 33. Bonner wrote: ‘I was born i n 1923. My father, Guervork Alikhanov, chief of the section of the Comintern cadres, member of t h e Bolshevik party since 1 9 1 7, was arrested i n May 1937,as a traitor to the country, and posthumously rehabilitated i n 1954. My mother, Ruth Grigorievna Bonner, member of the Soviet C P since 1924,was also arrested i n 1937 as a member of the family of a traitor to the country and rehabilitated i n 1954’. Cf. Elena Bonner, Un exil partagé (Paris, 1986),p.45. 34. The correspondence is preserved i n the collection ‘VKP Party Committee i n t h e IKKI’, RTsKhIDNI, 561/1/329 a n d 561/1/369. The Russian h i s t o r i a n F. I. Firsov h a s now been able t o have a look a t t h i s c o l l e c t i o n . See F. I. Firsov, ‘ D i e

Séuberungen i m Apparat der Komintern’, i n H. Weber and D. Staritz (eds), Kommunisten verfolgen Kommunisten: Stalinistischer Terror and Sduberungen in den kommunistischen Parteien Europas seit den dreissiger

[ahren ( B e r l i n , 1993),

pp. 37—51. 35. Reinhard Muller, ‘ F l u c h t o h n e Ausweg’, i n Exil, n o . 2 (1990), p p . 76—95; R. Muller, ‘Permanenter Verdacht u n d Zivilhinrichtung. Zur Genesis der Parteisauberungen

i n d e r KPD’, i n Weber a n d Staritz (eds), Kommunisten verfolgen

Kommunisten, pp. 243—63. 36. P. Huber and B. H. Bayerlein, ‘Begegnungen u n d Erfahrungen von Schweizer Kommunisten m i t den totalitaren Strukturen wahrend des stalinschen Terrors’, Schweizerische Zeitschrift flir Geschichte, 43 (1993), pp. 61—98. 37. 3 November 1938,RTsKhIDNI, Cadre file W. Rutgers. 38. Chernomordik t o G e n d i n , 2 6 J u n e 1936, RTsKhIDNI, Cadre file A . Mayer. 39. Report from Prague, 5 March 1935, RTsKhIDNI, Cadre file A . Wats. 40. More o n R. Laszlo (1902—40) i n Peter Huber a n d H a n s Schafranek, ‘ S t a l i n i s tische Provokationen gegen Kritiker der Moskauer Schauprozesse’, i n W. Neugebauer (ed.), Von der Utopie zum Terror. Stalinismus—Analysen (Vienna, 1994), pp. 97—134. 41. Note, 5 February 1937; letter to PCF, 3 November 1936; Report ‘The case of Laszlo, Trotskyist a n d agent of the Anti-Comintern’, signed G. Wilde, 3 1 January 1937, RTsKhIDNI, Cadre file Laszlo.

42. Humbert-Droz t o Dimitrov, 20 August 1938, RTsKhIDNI, 495/ 74/561; Hofmai e r t o Tréand, 19 February 1938, RTsKhIDNI, Cadre file Kamerzin. Kamerzin’s

trail disappears in Spain — ‘missing, believed dead'. More i n P. Huber, Stalins Schatten, pp. 341. 43. Firsov, ‘Die sauberungen i m Apparat der Komintern’, p. 50. 44. See Huber, Stalins Schatten, pp. 368—9. 45. Ibid., p. 370. 46. Ibid., pp. 34—7.

98

Peter Huber

47. D i m i t r o v t o Ezhov (with attached list), 1 6 J u n e 1 9 3 8 ; D i m i t r o v t o F r i n o v s k i i , 2 6 January 1938, RTsKhIDNI, 495/ 73/60. 48. W. M i e l e n z t o Moskvin a n d M a n u i l s k i i , 6 J u l y 1936; Anvelt t o M a n u i l s k i i a n d Dimitrov,

1 0 August 1936, a n d G . Stibi t o M a n u i l s k i i , 3 November

1936,

RTsKhIDNI, 495/10a/391, 395, 430. 49. Former standard works a r e : J a n e Degras, The Communist International, 1919— 1943,

3 vols ( L o n d o n , 1 9 5 6 / 1 9 6 0 / 1971); Branko Lazitch, Biographical Diction-

ary of the Comintern (Stanford, 1986); Frantisek Svatek, ‘Gli organi dirigenti dell’Internazionale communista: loro sviluppo e compositione (1919—1943)’, Movimento operaio e socialista, n o . 1—3 (1977); V i l e m Kahan, ‘The C o m m u n i s t I n t e r n a t i o n a l , 1919—1943: t h e Personnel o f i t s highest Bodies’, International Review of Social History, X X I (1976), p p . 151—87; V i l e m Kahan, ’A Contribution

to t h e Identification of the Pseudonyms used i n the Minutes a n d Reports of t h e Communist International’, International Review of Social History, XXIII (1978), pp. 177-92. 50. Cf. our announcements i n Internationale Wissenschaftliche Korrespondez, 2/ 1994 a n d 3/1996, as well as P. Huber and B.H. Bayerlein, ‘Biographisches Handbuch zur Geschichte der Komintern. Personen, Apparate und Strukturen i m internationalen

Kommunismus

1919—1945’, lahrbuch fiir Historische Kom-

munismusforschung (1998). A smaller project limited t o the French-speaking countries is directed by M. M. Narinsky and J. Gotovitch. Cf. José Gotovitch a n d Claude Pennetier, ‘Dictionnaire biographique des Kominterniens (Belgiq u e , France, Luxembourg,

Suisse)’, The International

Newsletter

of Historical

Studies on Comintern, Communism and Stalinism, No. 5 / 6 (1994—95), pp. 155—6. 51. Cf. Aldo Agosti, ‘World Revolution and the World Party for the Revolution’, contribution a t the International Scientific Conference ‘The History of t h e Comintern i n the Light of New Documents’, Moscow, 20—22 October 1994. 52. Presidium r e s o l u t i o n , 20 December 1 9 2 6 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 4 6 / 9 . 53. M i n u t e s o f M i n o r C o m m i s s i o n , 1 6 April 1 9 2 6 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 6 / 1 . Obituary o f P. A . Vompe i n Internationale Presse-Korrespondenz, 1 2 0 (1925).

54. Figures from RTsKhIDNI, 495/46/7, ‘Ergebnisse der Reorganisation’ [undated, May 1926]. O n the demise of the OMS i n 1935 cf. Huber, Stalins Schatten, pp. 29—37. 55. Minutes of ‘Kommission zur Verbesserung der Arbeit des Apparates’, 1 2 November, 1926, RTsKhIDNI, 495/46/3. 56. P o l i t c o m m i s s i o n resolution, 1 5 September 1933, RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 4 / 2 6 1 . 57. ’Reorganisierung der Abteilung fiir Propaganda u n d Massenorganisationen’, 9 July 1936, RTsKhIDNI, 495/18/1099. 58. Personnel p l a n , 1 8 March 1941, RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 1 8 / 1 3 3 0 . 59. Ibid. 60. M i n u t e s ‘ I n f o r m a t i o n s b e r a t u n g ’ , 5 November 1925, RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 4 6 / 3 . ’Propositions e n liaison avec la liquidation de la section d’information’, 1 1 October

1 9 2 9 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 2 0 / 7 6 3 . I n h e r m e m o i r s

A. K u u s i n e n a l s o

mentions Gusev as Head of Department for 1924. We found n o documentary evidence o f t h i s . Cf. A i n o K u u s i n e n , Quand Dieu renverse son ange (Paris, 1974),

p. 41. 61. List [ u n d a t e d ] , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 1 9 / 3 9 8 a . M i n u t e s , N o . 2 o f t h e Reorganization Commission

[undated, March 1 9 2 6 ] , R C C h I D N I , 4 9 5 / 4 6 / 7 . Katayama i s

mentioned by F. Svatek. Cf. Svatek, ’Gli organi dirigenti dell’Internazionale

The Moscow Headquarters of the Comintern

99

communista’, pp. 311—12. O n Safarov’s election cf. Comintern Secretariat (ed.), Bericht iiber die Tdtigkeit des Prc'isidiums und der Exekutive der Komintem (Hamburg, 1922), p. 73. 62. Personnel P l a n , 8 J a n u a r y 1 9 3 1 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 7 / 1 6 . M i n u t e s , Secretariat, 2 October 1935, RTsKhIDNI, 495/ 1 8 / 1020. 63. I b i d . ; Personnel P l a n , 1 8 March 1 9 4 1 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 1 8 / 1 3 3 0 . 64. Personnel Plan 1 9 3 2 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 7 / 2 1 . M i n u t e s , Staff C o m m i s s i o n , 8 December 1 9 3 4 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 7 / 3 8 . M i n u t e s , Secretariat, 2 October 1 9 3 5 ,

RTsKhIDNI, 495/ 1 8 / 1020. 65. Personnel P l a n 1 9 3 2 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 7 / 2 1 . 66. Ibid., ‘Ergebnisse der Reorganisation’ [undated, May 1926], RCChIDNI, 495/ 46/7. 67. M i n u t e s , Personnel C o m m i s s i o n , 8 December 1 9 3 4 , R C C h I D N I , 4 9 5 / 7 / 3 8 . 68. P e r s o n n e l P l a n 1 9 3 2 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 7 / 2 1 . 69. Huber, Stalins Schatteni, pp. 20-8; Bernhard H. Bayerlein, ‘Vom Geflecht des Terrors zum Kartell d e s Todes? Erste Einblicke i n d i e M e c h a n i s m e n u n d Strukturen von Komintern u n d KPdSU’, i n Weber a n d Staritz ( e d s ) , Kommunisten

verfolgen Kommunisten, pp. 103—4. 70. Structure a n d Staffing, 8 February 1 9 3 6 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 1 8 / 1 0 7 5 . More information i n Huber, ‘Der Moskauer Apparat der Komintern’ p p . 140—50. 71. ‘Uber die Arbeit der IKK’, 9 July 1936, RTsKhIDNI, 495/ 1 8 /1099. O n the ICC cf. B. H. Bayerlein, ‘Vorzeichen des Terrors und der Moskauer Prozesse: Die Internationale

Kontrollkommission’,

i n Fondation J u l e s Humbert-Droz

(ed.),

Centenaire [ules Humbert-Droz, p p . 531—56 72. Cf. ‘Satzungen fiir das EKKI, seine Organe und seinen Apparat’, [undated 1926], RTsKhIDNI, 495/19/398a. 73. Cf. ‘ M e m o r a n d u m ’ , 8 December 1 9 2 7 . 74. Estimate 1931, RTsKhIDNI, 495/18/869. 75. ‘Instruktion fiber die Tatigkeit cler Kaderleiter i n den Landersekretariaten’, 1 7 April 1932, RTsKhIDNI, 495/20/764. 76. See Peter Huber, ‘Les organes dirigeants du Komintern: u n chantier perman e n t ’ , i n Serge Wolikow

( e d . ) , Une histoire en revolution? D u bon usage

des

archives, de Moscou et d’ailleurs (Dijon, 1996), pp. 211—6. 77. M i n u t e s , 2 9 January 1 9 3 3 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 3 / 3 5 5 ; m i n u t e s , 9 February 1 9 3 3 , RTsKhIDNI, 495/3/359. 78. M i n u t e s , 9 September 1 9 3 3 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 3 / 3 8 9 ; m i n u t e s , 2 1 September 1933, RTsKhIDNI, 495/3/ 390, minutes, 1 1 February 1935, RTsKhIDNI, 495/3/ 432. 79. Minutes, 4 September 1 9 2 9 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 4 / 1 ; m i n u t e s , 1 1 March 1 9 3 5 , RTsKhIDNI, 495/4/388. 80. Minutes, 3 January 1 9 3 1 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 1 8 / 8 6 9 . 81. The files i n t h e RTsKhIDNI headed ’ M i n o r C o m m i s s i o n ’ ( 4 9 5 / 6 ) also c o n t a i n m i n u t e s o f t h e ‘ S t a n d i n g C o m m i s s i o n ’ , which, however, are deposited i n 4 9 5 /

7. Examples for their responsibilities i n Minutes, 1 3 January 1933, RTsKhIDNI, 82. 83. 84. 85.

4 9 5 / 7 / 2 5 ; m i n u t e s , 2 4 J u n e 1 9 2 7 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 7 / 3 . Minutes ‘Informationsberatung’, 5 November 1 9 2 5 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 4 6 / 3 . ‘ M e m o r a n d u m o n t h e Reorganization’, RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 4 6 / 5 . ‘ R e g u l a t i o n s for t h e IKKI’, RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 4 6 / 1 0 . R e s o l u t i o n 1 2 December 1 9 2 6 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 4 6 / 9 .

100

Peter Huber

8 6 . Personnel P l a n , 1 9 3 2 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 7 / 2 1 ; M i n u t e s , Secretariat, 2 October 1 9 3 5 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 1 8 / 1 0 2 0 ; Personnel p l a n , 1 8 March 1 9 4 1 , RTsKhIDNI,

495/18/1330. 87. Cf. P. Huber, ‘L’appareil du Komintern 1926—1935: premier apercu’, Communisme, No. 40—1 (1994/1995), pp. 9—35; excerpts i n B. Studer, Un parti sous influence: Le Parti communiste suisse, une section du Komintem, 1931—1939 (Laus a n n e , 1 9 9 4 ) , p p . 161—3, a n d B. Studer, ‘La reorganisation

du CE de l’IC en

octobre 1935. Extraits traduits du proces-verbal du secretariat du CE de l’IC sur la réorganisation’, The International Newsletter of Historical Studies on Comintern, Communism a n d Stalinism, 3 / 4 ( 1 9 9 4 ) , p p . 25—29.

88. D i m i t r o v t o S t a l i n , 6 . October 1 9 3 4 , RTsKhIDNI, 4 9 5 / 7 3 / 1 ; C f . a l s o F. Firsov, ‘Stalin u n d die Komintern', i n Institut fiir Geschichte der Arbeiterbewegung ( e d . ) , Die Komintem und Stalin. Sowjetische Historiker zur Geschichte der Kommun-

istischen Internationale (Berlin, 1990) pp. 110—15. 89. Cf. G . Adibekov a n d E. Shakhnazarova, ‘Reconstructions o f t h e Comintern Organizational Structure’, i n Narinsky and Rojahn (eds), Centre and Periphery, pp.65—73. 90. For all the organizational changes inside the apparatus see G. M. Adibekov, E. N. Shakhnazarova and K. K. Shirinia, Organizatsionnaya struktura kominterna, 1919—1943 (Moscow, 1997). Neglecting all that has been published about this subject, the three authors had free access t o all the files of t h e Comintern archives, even those closed t o scholars (Cadre department, Party organization o f t h e V K P i n t h e IKKI, Administrative d e p a r t m e n t , Secretariat o f Dimitrov, Manuilskii and Piatnitskii). 91. More information i n Huber, ’ D e r M o s k a u e r Apparat d e r K o m i n t e r n ’ ,

pp. 140—50. 92. Ibid. Very little has been published about the Comintern i n the wartime period. Cf. N. Lededeva a n d M. Narinsky, ‘Dissolution of the Comintern i n 1943’, i n Narinsky a n d Rojahn (eds), Centre and Periphery, pp. 153—62; K. McDermott and J. Agnew, The Comintern: A History of International Communism from Lenin to Stalin (Basingstoke, 1996), pp. 192—211.

5 The Soviet Intelligence Services and the Government: Information and Military—Political Decisions from the 19205 to the Early 19505 Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov

Introduction

Psychologically the Bolsheviks were always ready for war. From the very first days of the Party’s existence they had prepared it for the forthcoming ‘class struggle’ through which the Party would attain political power. If the principal enemy — the bourgeoisie — was not prepared to yield this power t o them by peaceful means, the Bolsheviks reckoned o n seizing it through civil war, no matter what sacrifices this would involve. Proceeding from this logic, the inevitability of military confrontation with the hostile capitalist world — regarded by the Bolsheviks as another form of class war — became axiomatic for the top leadership of th e Russian Communist Party and the Soviet government from the moment they came to power. A new war, i n their View, would arise either as part of a worldwide, o r Europe-wide,

revolution,

or as a consequence

o f t h e armed

intervention of t h e imperialist governments, o r as a combination of intervention and revolutionary struggle. The events of 1918—21 — th e armed intervention of Russia’s former allies i n the political processes and conflicts occurring there, and the Civil War, i n which the opponents of Bolshevik rule made use of active support from abroad — only served t o reinforce this postulate i n the consciousness of t h e Soviet leadership. Both the aims of their opponents — the destruction of the Bolshevik government and the restoration i n Russia of the pre-revolutionary social-political system — and the nature of the approaching war were quite clear to t h e m . The only questions that remained unclear were who would initiate military action and when, what form any eventual anti-Soviet coalition would take, whether the opposition would succeed i n forming such a coalition, and the possible scenarios for further intervention from outside. Answering these 101

1 0 2 Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov

questions was the task of the Soviet intelligence services: the Intelligence Directorate of the Red Army (RU), the Foreign Department of the Secret Police (INO OGPU), the Department of International Communications o f the Comintern (OMS) (later called t h e Coordination Service o f t h e Secretariat o f t h e IKKI, o r SSS), a n d , by t h e e n d o f the 1 9 3 0 5 , t h e I n t e l l i -

gence Directorate of the People’s Commissariat of the Navy (RU NK VMF). The aim of this paper is to examine how the information collected by these organs influenced the military and political decisions taken, and whether the decisions taken by the Soviet military-political leadership were always based on the information provided to them by Soviet intelligence and diplomacy. The work is founded on the study and analysis of formerly secret documents that became accessible i n 1990—97: documents of the various intelligence departments of the army, the navy, the secret police and the Comintern;

t h e Politburo o f t h e Communist

Party; t h e Soviet People’s

Commissariats (SNK); the various organs and departments of the General Staff of the Red Army and other Soviet organizations, now deposited i n the Russian State Military Archive (RGVA), the Russian State Archive of the Navy (RGA VMF) i n St. Petersburg, the Russian Centre for the Preservation and Study of Contemporary Historical Documents (RTsKhIDNI), the Foreign Policy Archive of the Russian Federation (AVP RF), the Russian State Economic Archive (RGAE), the State Archive o f t h e

Russian Federation (GARF), an d the Russian Foreign History Archive (RZIA), which has now become a part of the GARF. A number of documents from American archives have also been used: the Manuscript Department of the US Library of Congress and the National Archive, the Archive of the US National Security Agency, and the Harry Truman Library, as well as memoirs and notes of participants in, and contemporary observers of, the events i n question, an d research by Russian, American, British, German, French and other historians.

Emergence, evolution and structures of the Soviet intelligence system and how information was received The first Soviet intelligence service, created already at the beginning of the Civil War, in November 1918, was the Intelligence Directorate of the Red Army (RU), which by the en d of the war had turned into a powerful organization whose tasks involved obtaining military, political and economic information both about the White organizations opposing the Red Army, and about foreign states hostile t o Soviet Russia. Despite

Soviet Intelligence Services and the Government

103

serious losses during t h e Soviet—Polish war of 1920,1 th e RU by the end of that war was able rapidly t o revive its network of agents i n the border districts of Poland2 and by mid-1922 t o create legal ‘military-naval agencies’ i n Great Britain, Germany and Finland.3 A year later, residencies had a l s o b e e n e s t a b l i s h e d i n t h e Baltic states, France, Romania, Czechoslovak i a , Italy, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Turkey, I r a n , C h i n a a n d Japan.4 From

1925 illegal sections of the RU began working i n the USA.5 Thus within just five years the Intelligence Directorate managed to secure for itself a n extensive intelligence network on the territory of practically all the countries bordering the USSR, and a reasonably good position (both as a ‘legal’ and a n illegal entity) i n all the great powers. As of 20 December

1924, the total staff of the RU numbered 91 persons.6 Following the RU, which was established o n 20 December 1920 as a result of the Politburo’s dissatisfaction with the work of the RU during the war with Poland, the Foreign Department of the OGPU (INO) started creating its own residencies in the same countries. Initially its m a i n tasks were the exposure and disruption of counter-revolutionary organizations and groups among the Russian émigré population, the struggle against foreign intelligence agencies operating outside the USSR, and political intelligence, guaranteeing th e security of Soviet institutions abroad — i n other words, its function was primarily that of external counter-intelligence.7 Soon, however, the INO began rapidly to extend its sphere of acitivities and to engage i n military, economic and scientific-technical intelligence.8 And whereas i n 1 9 2 2 the staff of the lNO i n Moscow numbered 7 0 persons, eight years later there were 60 members of staff working i n its central apparatus, while a further 62 were working i n

residencies abroad.9 With regard to Comintern activities, the main tasks of the OMS were controlling the activities of the leaders of foreign communist parties, securing permanent and reliable contacts between them and the Executive Committee of the Comintern (IKKI), and procuring literature and financial means necessary for the activities of these parties. At t h e same time the OMS carried out the functions of political intelligence, regularly informing the leaders of the IKKI about the situation within the communist movement, the current economic and political situation of foreign countries, and the outlook for their development. Representatives of the Department were also engaged i n the selection and initial investigation of members of the local communist parties for subsequent recruitment to the RU and INO; i n obtaining false foreign passports and other documents necessary for their activity; i n the training of wireless operators for their ‘communications points’, and so o n . In 1921 the OMS had at its

104 Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov

disposal four such residencies in Russia and at least nine i n foreign countries, and i n the period 1924—35 there were such points in Riga, Reval, Berlin, Stettin, Antwerp, Stockholm, Constantinople, Vienna, Varna, O s l o , Paris, Hamburg, Amsterdam, Shanghai, H a n o i , New York

and Singapore. After the National Socialists came to power in Germany the two points i n this country were for obvious reasons closed.10 During the first half of 1 9 2 0 all three Soviet special agencies worked i n close contact with one another, and quite often a ‘representative’ — resident — of one of the agencies i n one o r other country would direct the activities of t h e two other services. It was also common practice throughout this period for agents to be transferred from one agency to another. There was particularly close cooperation during the 19205 and 19305 between the RU a nd the OMS: many agents who subsequently became well known began their careers on the staff of the OMS (Richard Sorge, Alfred Krauz, Werner Rakov, S e m e n Firin, Mechislav Loganovskii,

Ignace Reiss/Poretskii and many others were for a number of years

employed by the OMS).11 The relations between the RU and the INO were from the beginning a great deal more complex. The leadership of the Cheka and its successors made its first attempt to ‘swallow’ the RU i n 1920, immediately after the conclusion of t h e war with Poland. Similar attempts were made repeatedly throughout the 19205 and 19305, right up to 1937, when with the outbreak of the Great Terror the RU was placed under the executive control of the Main Directorate of State Security (GUGB), and an officer of the latter organization, Senior Major S. G. Gendin, became its head. True, the RU regained its independence shortly after Gendin’s arrest and execution in 1938. Nevertheless, rivalry and profound mutual distrust characterized the relations between the two agencies throughout the

USSR’s existence.12 Common to all the Soviet intelligence agencies throughout the history of their activities was the parallel existence of two structures — the ‘legal’ and illegal residencies, functioning independently of one another and maintaining independent relations with Moscow. The ‘legal’ representatives o f the RU, INO and OMS (military, naval and a i r force attachés, t h e i r

assistants and secretaries, as well as their colleagues and rivals from the INO and the OMS, working under cover of their official duties as councillors, cultural attachés, and employees of USSR trade delegations) enjoyed all the privileges of ordinary diplomats and were protected by

diplomatic immunity.13 Much more complicated and insecure was the position of intelligence agency employees working abroad illegally, either under cover of Soviet

Soviet Intelligence Services and the Government

105

institutions with n o diplomatic status (for example as representatives of the Red Cross, the press agency TASS, and Soviet trade companies — Arkos

(London), Amtorg (New York) and so on),14 or under the pretence of being citizens of other countries, and working under the cover of various trading institutions or i n one or other profession. Apart from the legal and illegal residencies set u p i n all those countries with which the USSR had diplomatic relations, Soviet intelligence received a good deal of valuable information without coming into direct contact with its sources. By the m id 19305 Soviet radio intelligence, consisting of a constantly widening network of radio stations (mostly belonging to the RU) set u p to ‘shadow’ and intercept other signals, together with the decoding sections of the intelligence departments of internal military districts, and the Special Department of the OGPU (later the GUGB/NKVD) — the main centre for ‘cracking’ foreign ciphers and codes both for its own institution, and for the military — had turned into one of the central and most significant sources of intelligence information on a great range of questions. When the Special Department, established i n 1921, began its activites, the telegram and radio messages

intercepted and deciphered numbered several thousands,15 but by the mid-19305 this number had multiplied several times over. Thus, during the period 1935—38 the overall quantity of radio messages intercepted and decoded by subdepartments of RU radio intelligence alone had grown by 250 per cent: from 150,000 to 363,000.16 It is not known how many telegraphic and radio messages were deciphered during the same period by GUGB specialists — to t h i s day secret documents of the Main Directorate, relating to radio intelligence and the work of the Special Department, have not been released. It should also be borne i n mind that i n the late 19303 yet another, similar service — the Radio Intelligence Section of the RU VMF — had been added to the existing radio intelligence of the RU and the GUGB NKVD, and rapidly developed its own quite powerful network of radio stations.17 A good deal of valuable information also came to the INC (and via the INO to the corresponding services of the Red Army and the USSR Navy) from subdepartments of the GUGB NKVD engaged i n ‘bugging’ the buildings of the various diplomatic missions and the apartments of foreign diplomats working i n Moscow. From the early 19205 right up to the collapse of the USSR, the counter-intelligence and intelligence structures of the Ministry of Internal Affairs used this means in order to obtain the information they needed. During the Second World War such ‘bugging’ operations, and the tape-recording of conversations among American and British diplomats, were also carried out outside Soviet territory —

1 0 6 Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov

i n Tehran and Potsdam. The Yalta conference, involving the leaders of the three allied nations, was of course no exception.18 Through the infiltration of officers and counter-intelligence agents into foreign e m b a s s i e s and other institutions, t h e NKVD/NKGB was able t o monitor

the behaviour, contacts and conversations of all foreigners working i n the USSR o r Visiting it o n official missions — for the employees of this agency, it was simply unthinkable to let anything or anyone escape their

control.19 Information and documents gathered by the means described above were put at the disposal of the Information and Statistics Department (later called the Information Department) of the RU, and corresponding subdivisions of the INO and the PU NK VMF (Political Department of the Ministry of the Navy), where they were filed systematically, checked and analysed. The intelligence material contained i n them was presented i n an impersonal form i n the various publications of the intelligence services: i n daily, weekly and bi-weekly summaries, or in special reports devoted to analysing one or other particular problem or country, or t o questions concerning the armed forces, military technology, economics, concrete problems i n world policy, and so o n . Apart from these periodical publications, the Intelligence Directorate of the Red Army regularly published special surveys on particular themes; collections of materials devoted to countries potentially hostile t o the USSR; monographs concerning various problems of military technique, the military personnel of foreign countries, military economics, or the transport infrastructure of foreign countries; articles translated into Russian from the military press of the great powers, the works of foreign military specialists, and so

on,20 as well as maps showing theatres of military action, topological and hydrological descriptions of the territories of neighbouring states, and much else besides. Documents obtained by the residencies — once they had been checked for authenticity — together with intelligence summaries of the kind outlined above, were distributed to ‘consumers' according to established lists involving different categories of secrecy. The circle of addressees was extremely limited: documents and intelligence summaries of the highest category of secrecy, for example, were sent to the People’s C o m m i s s a r i a t o f Defence o f t h e USSR; t o members o f the Polit-

buro who dealt with the armed forces, the defence industry and the intelligence services; to the commanding officers of military districts close to the borders of the USSR (if the content of the summary bore some direct relation to the district i n question), and to the Chief of General Staff of the Red Army and his deputies i n the various branches of the armed forces.21 Summaries an d materials of a less secret nature

Soviet Intelligence Services and the Government

107

were distributed to the Intelligence Departments of th e various military districts a n d formations; t o the Commissariats concerned with t h e m a n -

ufacture of arms and ammunitions; to military academies, and so o n . The original or t h e first copy of a given document, or Copy n o . 1 of any top secret intelligence summary, was sent to Stalin, and subsequent copies to top officials i n the People’s Commissariat of Defence and the General Staff and members of the Politburo, i n accordance with a firmly established hierarchy within the Soviet political and military leadership. The practice, established i n th e 19205, of acquainting th e higher echelons of the Party and government leadership of the USSR with intelligence materials had several serious defects. Doubting the professionalism and loyalty of t h e intelligence agents, Stalin and — following his lead — a number of other top political and military leaders of th e USSR (Molotov, Voroshilov, Yagoda, Beria and others) often requested th e directors of the RU, INC and other intelligence agencies to provide th e originals of the documents they had received, and the reports from the residencies, and almost totally ignored the overviews and analytical summaries prepared by the special services. This practice greatly hindered the creation and development of the departments concerned with analysing the information received, and the preparation of analytical materials: notes, prognoses and so o n . In INO, i n particular, the information analysis department did not properly exist until 1943:the most interesting and important documents were simply picked out from those received and sent directly to Stalin, Molotov and others at the top of the hierarchy.22 Below, we will examine the ways i n which the top leadership of the USSR made use of the information received. How

information

was u s e d

Iosif Stalin began quite early on — around mid-1922 — to take an interest i n intelligence information. It is in documents dating from this year that h e is first mentioned among those people to whom reports from the intelligence services were sent.23 The future ‘great leader of all times and peoples’ and Supreme Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces of the USSR very soon realized that intelligence information concerning events and developments outside the Soviet Union could also be used very effectively i n solving internal political problems, while privileged access to such information would greatly strengthen the influence and political positions of those few who were entitled to use i t . A good example of the use of such information, or rather the lack of it, was the strident propaganda campaign which sought to inculcate i n the Party leadership, and

1 0 8 Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov

i n the population of the USSR, the belief that the Soviet Union might literally at any moment be subjected to an attack by ‘imperialist aggressors’ — a campaign which was launched in the late 19205, and which subsequently become known as the ‘war scare of 1927’. Documents of the RU, the INC a n d the Politburo contain n o indication that the leaders

of the USSR themselves had any genuine foreboding of a military threat. O n t h e contrary, since the winter o f 1924—25, relations with two of the

Soviet Union’s most likely opponents — Poland and Romania24 — had improved to such an extent that the political and military leaders of the USSR, and members o f t h e Politburo, considered it possible to give

up using so-called ‘active intelligence’ — actions on the borders of these states by ‘diversionary and military sabotage groups’ — used by the Intelligence Directorate during the period 1921—24 to destabilize the political and military situation i n the Eastern border provinces of Poland and in Bessarabia.25 According to the testimony of People’s Commissar of Foreign Affairs G. V. Chicherin, the stirring up of a n atmosphere of military hysteria served the twin aim of creating in the country conditions favourable for the crushing of the internal Party opposition, above all

the supporters of Lev Trotskii.26 Analysis of the substance of the decisions taken by the Politburo between 1 9 2 8 a n d 1930, a n d o f documents

o f the RU, I N C and OMS

relating to this period, rules out that the political and military leadership of the USSR entertained any serious fear of a major conflict, during this time, either on the western or the eastern borders of the country.27 The rearmament of the Red Army which took place i n the late 19ZOs—early 19303 was dictated not so much by fears of any approaching war against the Soviet Union, as by a clear realization of the low level of its technical equipment compared with the armed forces of the European great powers, Japan or the United States, and the real possibility of hastening this rearmament through military cooperation with Germany and Italy and the purchase of arms in other countries, o r the acquistion of such arms through military espionage28 (which, incidentally, was possible to carry out only i n peacetime conditions). Meanwhile it continued to be drilled into the population that ‘the workers’ an d peasants’ state’ might suffer a n attack/intervention at any time, and if the intelligence services were unable to provide any proof of this, they could simply invent it or ‘knock it out’ of the oppositionists or ‘saboteurs’ arrested by the OGPU.29 Comparing the information which the top leadership of the USSR received from the various intelligence agencies from the 19303 to the early 19505, and t h e military-political decisions taken during this period, one can, I believe, distinguish among the latter three main types:

Soviet Intelligence Services and the Government 1 0 9

(1) decisions taken on the basis of all existing information, and taking into account the realistic possibilities of the Red Army and the Soviet U n i o n a s a whole; (2) decisions taken i n the absence o f sufficient inform-

ation and/or on the basis of contradictory reports received by the Kremlin, and (3) decisions taken contrary to the information provided by the intelligence services. To the first category belong, i n my view, the various decisions carried out between 1 9 3 2 and 1 9 4 1 and directed towards strengthening t h e eastern borders o f the Soviet U n i o n ; t h e decision t o sign a neutrality

pact with Japan i n April 1941; the positions elaborated by the Soviet leadership during the Allies’ conferences i n Tehran, Yalta and Potsdam; the decisions to withdraw Soviet troops from Denmark, Norway and Iran (1945—46), the decision i n 1 9 4 7 t o lift pressure o n Turkey, t h e a i m o f

which had been to secure a revision of the status of th e Black Sea and the Mediterranean, and the sudden rejection i n June 1947 of the idea that the USSR, Poland and Czechoslovakia should participate i n the programme of European economic reconstruction (the Marshall Plan). To the second category belong those decisions connected with the reaction of the Soviet leadership to the military treaties concluded between Germany and Japan following the signing of the Anti-Comintern Pact, and t o the nature o f the Italian—German—Japanese pact o f 1 9 4 0 ,

as well as the decision taken i n the autumn of 1939 to attack Finland. In the third category one must include the decision taken by Stalin not to carry out large-scale mobilization of the Red Army and not to put the troops deployed in the western and southwestern military districts i n a state of top combat alert right up to 19—21 June 1941; and his refusal to sanction a series of proposals made by the General Staff of the Red Army to move troops to the front lines according to th e existing plan for the defence of the USSR’s western borders. To this category, too, belongs Stalin’s decision to carry out an offensive i n the areas of Khark’kov, Izyum and Barvenkov i n the spring of 1942: a decision which had catastrophic consequences, and which was taken despite information i n Stalin’s possession about the plans of the German high command, and against the advice of many Soviet military leaders. Here we will look at some of the decisions mentioned above. USSR—Japan

Despite the fact that the contents of the famous Tanaka Memorandum — the ‘Memorandum concerning the Basis for a Positive Policy i n Manchuria and Mongolia’, presented to the Emperor of Japan by the Japanese Prime Minister and the Foreign Minister, General Tanaka, o n 2 5 J u n e

1 1 0 Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov

1927, and calling for the launch of a war against the USSR and the occupation of a considerable swathe of territory in the Far East and Siberia — were well known i n Moscow soon after the Memorandum had

been presented,30 the Soviet leadership , right up to the Japanese occupat i o n o f Manchuria

i n the autumn

o f 1931, did not believe t h a t Japan’s

policy constituted a serious threat to the USSR. The position taken by Tokyo during the Soviet—Chinese conflict concerning the Chinese—Eastern railway (KVZhD), was considered by the leaders o f the RU t o be quite

‘restrained’; Japan was not once mentioned i n the documents of the

OMS as being a likely opponent of the USSR.31 The situation changed fundamentally after the occupation of Manchuria and the creation of the puppet state of Manchukuo: judging from the information at the disposal of the command of the Separate Far Eastern Army of the Red Banner (OKDVA) i n autumn 1933,Japan could launch a sudden attack on the Primor and Priamur regions in the

quite near future.32 Similar information was constantly presented throughout the 19305 and the early 19405, and, even though armed conflict had not i n fact occurred around Lake Khazan and i n the area around

t h e River Khalkin-Gol

(Nomonkhan)

i n 1938—39, there

was

enough such information to prompt Moscow to take the measures it did during this period to strengthen its Far Eastern and Siberian borders. The residencies i n Tokyo, Shanghai, Harbin a n d Seoul, and t h e radio

intelligence services of the Far Eastern Army and the Pacific Navy, furnished the Kremlin with a reasonable quantity of information concerning the possibilities and plans of the Japanese armed forces even during t h e years of the Great Terror, when the flow of information from other parts of the world was considerably reduced.33 Based on this comprehensive information, t h e manoeuvres of the Soviet leadership i n 1938—39, and especially the signing of the Matsuoka—Molotov pact in April 1941, proved quite successful i n safeguarding the USSR from the need to engage i n war on two fronts. The RU and the INO acquitted themselves well i n answering the crucial question facing the Kremlin i n the summer and autumn of that year: would Japan enter the Soviet—German war or not ?34 I n the years that followed, right up to the point when the Soviet Union declared war i n the Pacific, both the main branches of Soviet intelligence continued to work quite actively i n Tokyo, Harbin and other cities in Japan and Manchuria: t h e arrest of th e group around Rikhard Sorge — the most productive Soviet agent i n Japan from 1935 to 1941 — did not put a n end to the flow of Vital information t o Moscow from the Asiatic

empire.35

Soviet Intelligence Services and the Government

111

USSR—USA

Another instance i n which the intelligence services helped t o secure sound decisions is provided by the activities of the Soviet special services i n the USA. Judging from the information available to this author, the RU, INC and the RU VMF had never before i n their history, nor i n any other country, worked on such a scale, or so productively, as they did i n the United States during and immediately after the war. A few figures may give some indication of the scope of their work. At the end of 1940 the personnel of the Intelligence Department i n Moscow numbered 464 officers and generals and 135 civilian employees. By the start of the war there were also some 1000 officers and agents of the RU working outside the USSR, half of whom were doing so illegally.36 The personnel of the INO at the end of 1 9 3 8 numbered 210 senior employees, a figure which rose t o 695 by mid-1940. Within the Soviet Union itself there were 242 intelligence officers, controlling around 600 sources and agents.37 A further 566 ‘were sent abroad to do illegal work’, and 1240 ’agent-informers were recruited’ i n the period between June

1941 and November 1944.38 Even taking into account inevitable losses (particularly heavy i n Germany and German-occupied territories), it is obvious that t h e apparatus of Soviet intelligence not only did not diminish during the war, but grew significantly. Its growth was especially marked i n the USA, which became the USSR’s main ally from 1941 to 1945, and at the same time its most important source of political, military and scientific-technical information. The author’s analysis of 1 2 3 2 decoded radio messages sent by the residencies of the RU, INO/PGU and RU N K VMF from New York, Washington,

S a n Francisco a n d Seattle, a n d

received by these agencies i n Moscow, indicates that, according t o incomplete figures (not all radio messages were intercepted, of these not all were deciphered, and fewer still have been released by the National Security Agency of the USA, which carried out the ‘Venona’ project), i n t h e period from 16 November 1945 to 21 February 1946 there were at least 42—63 officers or operatives of the INO/PGU working o n the territory of the USA, controlling at least 548 agents and sources. During the same period military intelligence i n the USA had at its disposal (both i n ‘legal’ and illegal residencies) approximately 49 officers and 3 3

agents.39 Peter Wright — a senior officer in the British counter-intelligence service M15 — has put the figure even higher, noting i n his memoirs that cryptographers and analysts engaged i n the ‘Venona’ project had come to the conlusion that of th e 1200 code-names used i n Soviet intelligence services radio traffic coming from th e United States, ‘over

1 1 2 Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov

800’ belonged to ‘Soviet agents’, recruited either during the Second World War, or shortly afterwards.40 However great the success of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), and other US counter-intelligence agencies, i n unmasking and neutralizing , during the period 1945—53, several dozen — and possibly more — Soviet ’moles’ and officers in ‘legal’

residencies, who were subsequently expelled from the country,41 a sufficient number of operative officers and agents nevertheless remained at the disposal of the GRU, PGU and RU VMF to guarantee the Kremlin essential and up-to-date information. Information received from the United States on a very wide range of military, diplomatic, economic and scientific-technical questions enabled the political leadership of the USSR, both during the war and i n the years that followed, to take a number of crucial decisions that played a key role i n polarizing the world and determining the nature of Soviet—American relations. This information enabled Stalin and his circle to make a sober evaluation of the relative strengths and potentials of the USSR and the USA, to form a realistic picture of the current situation and to avoid excessive risks of military confrontation with the United States (particularly important i n the first years after the war and at the beginning of the Cold War that followed), as well as to achieve a number of the military and foreign policy goals which th e Soviet Union had set itself during this period, including the creation of its own nuclear capacity — and to avoid the risk of having to use that capacity. The role of the intelligence agencies in the history of the Soviet Union’s nuclear weapons industry is yet to be studied, but there is no doubt that information obtained by the RU/GRU in the years 1942—49 on research i n the field of nuclear energy, and reports o n scientific and tecnhological advances m a d e i n the USA, Great Britain and Canada i n the course o f

developing and producing the first American prototypes of the atom bomb, significantly reduced the period needed for researching, testing and putting t o military use both the Soviet atom bomb and, subse-

quently, the hydrogen bomb.42 The scope of the operations carried out by the Soviet intelligence services i n the first post-war years against the United States, both on US territory and i n Canada, Western Europe (especially Germany and Austria) and the Far East, profoundly worried the Truman administration and drove the American authorities to take a number of urgent countermeasures. I n particular, soon after the war the command of the US armed forces in Europe, disturbed by the increased activity of the Soviet intelligence services i n the countries of Central and Western Europe, set up — in addition to the existing training school for counter-intelligence agents

Soviet Intelligence Services and the Government

113

and military police i n Fort Riley, Kansas — a similar school i n the remote

spot of Oberammergau, Bavaria.“ An interesting feature of the post-war period was the direct inclusion o f some o f the Central Committee

structures i n t h e collection, treatment

and analysis of political information received from abroad. The Department of International Information attached to the Central Committee of the Communist Party, created following the abolition of the Comintern (together with its subsiduary institution, Scientific Research Institute N o .

100 (OMI and NII-100), not only maintained permanent links with the leadership of foreign communist parties, from which they received information of various kinds, but procured such information themselves via Soviet diplomats and journalists working i n various countries throughout the world, and, most importantly, interpreted and summarized the information they received from all these sources (including the intelligence agencies) for the higher echelons of the Soviet leadership,

beginning, naturally, with Stalin.44 However, the ‘Great Leader’ hardly needed reminding that ‘ . . . t h e United States has become a centre of world reaction and anti-Soviet acitivity’, or that its government was conducting a n imperialist policy and ‘supporting th e intrigues of world reaction and the instigators of a new world war’.45 Already by the beginning of 1945 Stalin had come to the conclusion that the USSR’s chief ally now would very soon become its principal enemy.46 Conclusions

It is never easy to trace the factors influencing the political or military decision-making process; aside from both the objective factors — the places and times at which decisions were taken, th e information at the disposal of those taking them, and the views, preferences, prejudices and so on of those involved — there are a number of profoundly subjective and individual factors. Various chance circumstances are bound to influence the process: the degree t o which those involved are acquainted with or have assimilated the given information, their trust or otherwise i n the institutions and individuals who have provided it, and the extent to which the information provided corresponds with the conception of a problem or a process formed by those taking the decision i n question. It is doubly difficult to understand the process by which the Soviet leadership arrived at many of their crucial decisions: neither Stalin, nor the other leaders of the USSR from the 19205 to t h e early 19505, left for posterity their diaries or notes reflecting their own View of a given problem, or the profoundly personal impressions and feelings which

114

Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov

they must have experienced when faced with the need to take this o r that decision. These people trusted no one — at times, it seems, they did not even trust themselves. Stalin and Molotov were generally sceptical towards the activities of the secret agents. There is ample evidence to show that they did not

greatly trust their reports.47 However, they could not manage without them. Their relationship with the intelligence agencies was changeable. I n the pre-war period, preferring to receive information from many sources, they prevented the various Soviet intelligence services from amalgamating their efforts and instead encouraged rivalry between them,

while at the s a m e time, i n effect, forbidding

t h e intelligence

agencies from giving the leadership of the country anything beyond ‘raw’ data. The lessons of the Second World War — in particular the period 1941—42, when the absence of synthesizing or analytical materials, and the simple ignoring of intelligence information, brought the USSR to the brink of catastrophe — were to some extent learned by Stalin, Molotov and their circle. However, the attempt to set up an Information Committee (KI) — a Soviet version of the USA’s Central intelligence Agency, or Nazi Germany’s Chief Department of Imperial Security (Reich Sicherheits Hauptamt) — was doomed to failure from the start. The Soviet intelligence agencies — the RU/GRU and INO/PGU - had for too long been used to working separately, to competing with and mistrusting one another, to be able to develop any constructive cooperation within the framework of the K1. The fact that, under the conditions prevailing from 1 9 2 1 to 1953, they were nevertheless able to guarantee the Soviet leadership a reasonable quantity of reliable information, testifies more to the high degree of professionalism among t he Soviet special services, than to the Soviet leaders’ attitude towards them — just as the decisions taken o n the basis of their information testify to the high quality of the information provided. Notes

1. In t h e course of 1920 t h e RU lost several dozen of its personnel i n Poland, and i n 1921 ‘around 100’. See A. Ya. Zeibot, Chief of the Red Army intelligence Directorate to E. M. Sklyanskii, Deputy Chairman of the Revolutionary Military C o u n c i l (Revvoensovet), 20 A p r i l 1 9 2 3 : RGVA, f . 3 3 9 8 8 , o p . 2 , d . 5 2 9 , l . 8 5 3 .

2. Weekly operational intelligence report issued by t h e Headquarters of t h e Red Army o n information received from 1 4 t o 20 October 1921: RGVA, f. 33988, o p . 1, d . 422, 1. 157—8. 3 . Decree o f t h e SNK RSFSR ( G o v e r n m e n t

of the Russian Republic), no. 21849, 21

August 1922: RGVA, f. 33988, o p . 2, d . 520, l. 306.

Soviet Intelligence Services and the Government

115

. Monthly report of the Intelligence Division of the Directorate of the l s t Deputy Chief of Staff of the Red Army, n o . 1, 1 January 1924, military and economic

s e c t i o n : RGVA, f. 3 3 9 8 8 , o p . 2, d . 520, 1. 7—55.

. See Report o n the work of t h e Information and Statistics Department of t h e Red Army Intelligence Directorate for the operational year 1924—25: RGVA, f. 4, o p . 2, d . 8 3 , l . 5 3 . See Decree o f t h e PVS o f t h e U S S R n o . 1573/257

o f 20

December

1924:

Appendix: Staff of the Red Army Intelligence Directorate: RGVA, f. 4 , o p . 2, d . 5,l . 57. S e e Ocherki istorii Rossiiskoi Vneshnei razvedki (OIRVR). V 6 tt. (Moscow, 1995—?),v o l . 2, 1917-1933 (Moscow, 1996), p p . 10—11; I. S . U n s h l i k h t , Deputy C h a i r m a n o f t h e G P U a n d M . Trilisser, C h i e f o f t h e I N O O G P U t o I. V. S t a l i n

(copy t o L. D. Trotskii), 2 August, 1922: RGVA, f. 33988,o p . 2 , d . 532,l. 433. See OIRVR, v o l . 2, pp. 14—15. Ibid., p. 11. . See Doklad Ispolkoma II Kongressu Kominterna. iyul’-avgust 1920 3. (Moscow, 1934), p . 595; RTsKhIDNI, f. 495, o p . 2 , d . 6 , 1. 2 0 (reverse s i d e ) . For further

details see G . M . Adibekov, E. N . Shakhnazarova and K. K. Shirinya, Organizatsionnaya struktura Kominterna, 1919—1943

(Moscow, 1997) p p . 25—6, 48—50

74—5,115—17,128,159—61. 11. See Minutes of Sessions of the Politburo of the Central Committee of the VKP (b), n o . 43, point 24; n o . 4 6 , point 28; n o . 4 8 , point 29, 3January—12 February 1925, ’Concerning Comrade V o l o d ’ k a ’ : RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 162, d . 2 , l . 5 5 , 6 2 , 7 2 ; E. Poretski, Tainyi agent Dzerzhinskogo Washi) (Moscow, 1996), p p . 6 6 , 7 2 , 77—8, 83—4; G . Agabekov, Sekretnyi terror. Zapiski razvedchika (Moscow,

1996), pp. 186—8; A. Kolpakidi, ‘Ignas Reiss i ego soratniki', i n Poretski, o p . cit., pp. 337—43,381. 12. O n t h e attempts of t h e OGPU t o absorb the RU i n mid-1923, see I. S. Unshlikht, Deputy Chairman of t h e OGPU; G . G . Yagoda, Deputy Head of the Secret Operative Directorate; M . A. Trilisser t o E. M . Sklyanskii, Deputy Chairman of the Revolutionary Military Council of the USSR (copy to A. Ya. Zeibot, Head of t h e Red Army Intelligence Directorate), 10 July 1923; and A. Ya. Zeibot to I. S. Unshlikht, 9 May 1923. For further details o n other attempts,

s e e B . Starkov, Tragediya sovetskoi voennoi razvedki; V. Krivitskii, Ya

byl agentom Stalina. Zapiski sovetskogo razvedchika (Moscow, 1991), pp. 10, 13, 36—7,44—5.O n the attempt to achieve a broader coordination of the work of t h e RU a n d t h e I N O , see M i n u t e s o f Politburo S e s s i o n N o . 7 , p o i n t s 229/213,

‘Questions Concerning the IV Directorate of t h e Red Army’, 25 May 1934: RGVA, f. 33988, o p . 2, d . 529, 1. 561—2; RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 162, d . 16, 1. 64—6. 13. S e e M i n u t e s o f Politburo S e s s i o n , N o . 1 1 , p o i n t D . , ‘ O n t h e i n c i d e n t w i t h Kobetskii’, 17 July 1924; No. 8, point 1—D‘ O n the coding of correspondence’ (Note

1 ) , 5 November

1925: RTsKhIDNI,

f. 1 7 , o p . 162, d . 2, l . 1 0 , 193;

Regulations concerning the NKVT (People's Commissariat for Foreign Trade), Department of Special Orders from Abroad, 11 March 1925: RGAE, f. 413, o p . 2, d . 1306, 1. 49—50; A . Ya. Zeibot t o E. M . Sklyanskii, 2 0 April 1923:

RGVA, f. 33988,o p . 2,d . 529,1. 583—4. 14. Minutes of Politburo Session, N o . 102, point 1, ‘ O n England’, 13 May 1927 (on measures taken i n connection

w i t h t h e raid o n Arkos — V. P.); extract from

1 1 6 Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov Minute n o . 115, p. 6: ‘Report of the Commission headed by Comrade Molotov’ (concerning the work of OMS representatives i n Berlin, Vienna, Stockh o l m , Shanghai a n d s o o n — V. P.), 7 J u l y 1 9 2 7 ; M i n u t e n o . 1 3 2 , p o i n t s 6 8 / 4 5 ,

’Comrade Voroshilov’s proposal' (concerning the commissioning of RU officers u n d e r cover o f Amtorg a n d trade delegations i n B e r l i n , Paris, London, Tokyo, Warsaw, M i l a n a n d s o o n — V. P.), 8 March 1 9 3 8 : RTsKhIDNI, F. 1 7 , o p .

162, d . 5, 1. 8; d . 5, 1. 61—2; (1. 14, l. 81. 15. B a s e d o n G . Bokii, C h i e f o f t h e C O O G P U (Special Division o f O G P U ) , t o L. Trotskii; A. Gusev, Deputy Chief of the C O OGPU, t o L. Trotskii, 1 2 November 1922—31 December

1 9 2 3 ; n o . 95—24056: RGVA, f. 3 3 9 8 8 , o p . 2 , d . 5 3 2 , 1.

1—941. Altogether during this period (according to incomplete data) 2387 messages from 1 2 countries were decoded. 16. See A. Orlov, Deputy Chief of the RU, t o B. M. Shaposhnikov, Chief of Staff of t h e Red Army, 9 February 1 9 3 9 : RGVA, f . 7 , o p . 1 5 , d . 5 3 , l . 1 6 .

17. Nefelov, Deputy Chief of the Intelligence Directorate, Soviet Navy; Acting Chief, Radio Intelligence Department, RU VMF t o the Chiefs of Intelligence D i v i s i o n s o f t h e Northern Fleet, t h e Pacific Fleet a n d t h e B a l t i c Fleet, 3 1 March 1 9 3 8 ; I. Olenev, C h i e f o f t h e 2 n d Division, l s t Directorate o f the Navy (VMF), t o S. Margitskii, C h i e f o f t h e 4 t h D i v i s i o n o f t h e l s t Directorate, 2 9 August 1 9 4 0 ; Frumkin, C h i e f o f t h e l s t D i v i s i o n o f t h e l s t Directorate o f t h e VMF

reports o n the need for radio apparatus for 1941, 29 August 1940: RCA VMF, f. r-2045, o p . 1, d . 1, 1. 1—3, 4—6, 7—9, 222—8. 18. W. Averell H a r r i m a n . Conversation w i t h George A n d r e i c h i n , Moscow, 3 0 October 1945: Papers of W. Averell Harriman. Special File: Public Service, World War 11, 1941—49, Moscow Files, B o x 1 8 3 , Chrono

File: 2 7 September—

3 1 October, 1945. Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, Washington, D C . (hereafter cited a s RWAH, B o x . . . ) . T h e c o n t e n t s

o f t h i s recorded c o n -

versation indicate that the American diplomats i n Moscow knew that the US Embassy was bugged; L. Beria t o I. V. Stalin, 27 January 1945: GARF, f. 9401, o p . 2 , d . 9 4 , 1. 16—18. See a l s o S. Beria, Moi otets - Lavrentii Beria (Moscow,

1994), pp. 232, 234—5, 245—7 (concerning operations to bug and record conversations during the Tehran, Yalta and Postdam conferences). 19. See George F. Kennan, Counsellor t o t h e Secretary of State (Byrnes). Memorandum: Security Measures Concerning Employment of Alien Personnel, 2 8 J u n e 1 9 4 5 : RWAH, Box 1 8 0 , Library o f Congress, Manuscript

D i v i s i o n ; C . A.

Bohlen, Witness to History, 1929—1969 (New York, 1973), p. 20. A clear example of the all-pervasive shadowing of foreign diplomats and the bugging of their conversations is given by the actions undertaken by the NKVD/NKGB during the visit t o the USSR of US Vice-President Henry A. Wallace. See V. N. Merkulov, People’s Commissar of State Security of t h e USSR , to A. Ya. Vyshinskii, Deputy Foreign Minister of the USSR, 2 6 May 1944; Nikishev, Chief of the Dal’stroi (Department o f Construction i n t h e F a r East) o f t h e NKVD, t o L. Beria, People’s C o m m i s s a r o f I n t e r n a l Affairs o f t h e USSR, 3 1 M a y 1 9 4 4 ; N i k i s h e v t o L. Beria, 3 J u n e 1 9 4 4 : AVP RF, f. 0 1 2 9 , o p . 2 8 , papka 1 5 8 , d . 3 2 ,

l. 92; GARF, f. 9401, o p . 2, d . 65, l. 166, 191—3. 20. See Report o n the work of the Information and Statistics Division of the Red Army Intelligence Directorate for the operational year 1924—25; regulations concerning the Red Army Intelligence Directorate, Section IV: Concerning the Information and Statistics Divsion, 2 7 April 1925; work plan of the Red Army

Soviet Intelligence Services and the Government

117

Intelligence Directorate for the operational year 1925—26,7 October 1925; work plan for the IV Red Army Directorate for the operational year 1927—28, 17 October 1927: RGVA, f.4,o p . 2,d.83, 1.1—12,28—40;(1. 5,1.26—7;d.83,1. 40—57;f.33988,o p . 1,d.620,1.177—80. 21. The information notes circulated by t h e People’s Commissar of State Security, V. N . Merkulov, offer typical examples of the way i n which intelligence information was disseminated i n the late 1930s/ear1y 19405.See V. N . Merkulov t o I.V. S t a l i n a n d V. M . Molotov, 1 1 March 1 9 4 1 ;V. N . Merkulov t o Central Committee o f t h e V K P ( b ) , SNK a n d NKVD SSSR, 10 April 1941; S . Stepashin,

Sekrety Gitlera na stole u Stalina. Razvedka i kontmzzvedka 0 podgotovke germansk0i agressii protiv SSSR. Mart-iyun’ 1941g.Dokumenty iz tsentml’nogo arkhiva FSB Rossii (Moscow, 1995), pp. 23—8. See also Special Report by the Red Army Intelligence Directorate t o t h e People’s Commissar of the USSR Navy (VMF SSSR), M. P. Frinovskii, 20 September r-1678,o p . 1 c , (1. 47, 1. 7—106.

1938—16

March 1 9 3 9 : RGA VMF, f.

22. See P. Sudoplatov, Razvedka iKremI’. Zapiski nezehlatel’nogo svidetelya (Moscow, 1996), p. 1 4 8 ; N . S. Leonov, Likholet’ie (Moscow, 1995), p p . 120—2.

23. A s far a s t h e author h a s b e e n able t o ascertain, t h e first document addressed t o Stalin containing intelligence information was a report by the directors of the OGPU, dated August 1922, concerning the activities of their agents i n disbanding General P. N . Wrangel’s armies i n the Balkans. See: I.S.Unshlikht a n d M. Trilisser t o I.V. S t a l i n , 2 August 1922: RGVA, f. 3 3 9 8 8 , o p . 2, d. 5 3 2 , 1.

433. 2 4 . For 15 years, from 1921 t o 1936,Poland and Romania were regarded by Soviet intelligence and by the military—political leadership of t h e USSR as among their m a i n enemies i n the European military arena; Poland, indeed, as a n ally of Nazi Germany, was considered a n enemy right u p to 1939.See S. S. Kamenev, Commander-in-Chief of All the Armed Forces of the Republic, and P. P. Lebedev, Chief of Staff of the Revolutionary Military Council, to the Commander of the Western Front and the Commander of troops i n Ukraine, 13 February 1923;A. M . Nikonov, Assistant Chief of the RU and Chief of the 3rd Division, ‘ R e s u l t s , content a n d methods

o f studies o f foreign states’. Theses o f

the Report t o the Chiefs of the Intelligence Divisions of the Military Districts, 18 April 1927; Budushchaya voina. Voenno-issledovatel’skii trud, sostavlennyi IV Upravleniem Shtaba RKKA (Moscow, 1928); M i n u t e s o f Politburo S e s s i o n , N o . 7 8 , p o i n t 229/213, ‘Questions c o n c e r n i n g t h e IV Directorate o f t h e Red Army

(RKKA)’, 25 May 1934; M . N . Tukhachevskii, Deputy Minister (People’s Comm i s s a r ) o f Defence o f t h e U S S R t o K . E. Voroshilov. Note, 5 February 1935; I. P. Uborevich, C o m m a n d e r o f t h e Belorussian Military District t o K . E. Voroshilov, 1 9 February 1935: RGVA, f.33988, op. 2, d. 520, 1. 743; op. 1,d. 7 0 , 1.24—5,

27—8;op.2,d.682,1.25—8,35—42;f.33987,o p . 3,d.400,1.226—36;d.279,1. 124—26; RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 162,d. 16, l . 6 5 . 2 5 . Minutes of Politburo Session, no.50, p. 26, appendix: ‘Draft Resolution of the Commission of the Politburo o n the Question of Active Intelligence’, passed 2 5 February 1925; no. 5 4 , p o i n t 12, note 1, Resolution o f the C o m m i s s i o n

of

the Politburo ‘ O n Work i n Bessarabia’, passed 26 March 1925: RTsKhIDNI, f. 17. o p . 162,d.2,1. 79—81,94—5. 26. See M . Geller and A. Nekrich, Utopiya u vlasti. Istoriya Sovetskogo Soyuza c 1917 g. d0 nashikh dnei, 2 n d revised e d n (London, 1986), p . 228.

118

Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov

27. See Minutes o f Politburo Session, n o s 4—57 , 5 January—31 December 1928; n o s 58—112, 3 January—30 December 1929; nos 113—17, 2 January—15 February 1930; n o s 1—22, 1 August 1930—7 January 1 9 3 1 : RTsKhIDNI, f. 1 7 , o p . 162, d . 6 , 1. 1-172; (1. 7 , ] . 7—185; (1. 8 , 1. 2—38; (1. 8 , 1. 41—80; (1. 9 , 1. 1—112. S u m m a r i e s n o s

2—6 of materials received by the Secretariat of the Chairman of the RVS (Revolutionary Military Council) of the USSR from 9 October to 1 9 November 1 9 2 8 (via t h e N K I D , OGPU, a n d t h e I V Directorate): RGVA, f. 3 3 9 8 7 , o p . 1 , d .

671, 1. 28—43, 84—126,149-62, 177-84, 194—8. 28. M i n u t e s o f Politburo S e s s i o n , n o . 1 2 , p o i n t 7 5 / 4 3 , ‘ O n Comrade Budnyak’s Commission’, 8 March 1932; n o . 4, point 1/11, ‘The export-import plan for the 4th quarter of 1929/1930 and the l s t quarter of 1930/ 1931’; n o . 42, point 4 1 / 1 6 , ’ O n a i r manoeuvres i n Italy’, 8 J u n e 1 9 3 1 : RTsKhIDNI, f . 1 7 , o p . 162, d . 1 2 , l . 4 ; d . 8 , 1. 10—11; (I. 1 0 , l . 80; Summary o f t h e journey t o t h e United

States of America by the Chief of the Military-Technical Directorate of the Red Army, Comrade Khalenskii, dated summer 1928; ’On the question of processing of materials o n foreign weapons a n d Military Technology’, Report by the C h i e f o f Military Technology

Division o f t h e RU, RGVA, f. 33988, o p . 1 , d . 6 3 7 ,

1. 2—17. Import plan of the People’s Commissariat of the USSR Navy for 1929—30, dated 1929: RGVA, f. 33988, o p . 1, d . 627, 1. 2—17; (I. 620, 1. 23-4; (1. 638, 1. 239—41. 29. A Politburo resolution of 2 6 October 1930 declared that it was ‘. . .essential immediately to bring the united counterrevolutionary centre t o court, and raised as the central issue the testimony of t h e saboteurs concerning their plans for preparing and provoking intervention’. Minutes of Politbureau Session, n o . 13, point 17, ’On the use of the saboteurs’ testimony concerning intervention’

(Comrade S t a l i n ) , 2 5 October 1 9 3 0 : , f. 1 7 , o p . 162, d . 9 , l . 5 3 . 3 0 .

For a more detailed account of the operations connected with the receipt of t h e text o f t h e m e m o r a n d u m ,

s e e : OIRVR, v o l . 2 , p p . 2 5 2 - 7 . The document

was obtained almost simultaneously by two residencies of the INO — i n Harbin and Seoul (the respective directors of which were G. Ya. Karin and I. A. Chichaev).

30. For a more detailed account of the operations connected with the receipt of the text of the memorandum, see: OIRVR, vol. 2, pp. 252—7. The document was obtained almost simultaneously by two residencies of the INO — i n Harbin and Seoul (the respective directors of which were G. Ya. Karin and I. A. Chichaev).

31. See Budushchaya voina. . .,] 35—42; Intelligence Summary, Red Army Directorate IV (Intelligence), n o . 36863, 1 9 J u l y 1929; Intelligence Summary (hereafter cited as RS) of the RU, n o . 18, 7 August 1929; RGVA, f. 33988, o p . 2, d . 682, 1. 35—42; f . 3 3 9 8 9 , o p . 1 , d . 7 6 , l . 3 , 4 2 . A m o n g documents

o f t h e O M S , see, for

example: Brief note ’On the tasks and forms of active cooperation by the USSR with neighbouring Western countries i n the event of war’, dated approximately m i d - 1 9 3 1 : , f. 4 9 5 , o p . 1 0 a , (1. 480, 1. 1—45.

32. See M. V. Sangurskii, Chief of Staff of the OKDVA (Separate Far Eastern Army o f t h e Red B a n n e r ) t o Ya. K. Berzin, 3 September 1 9 3 3 : RGVA, f. 40442, o p . 1 ,

d . 1266, l. 1; see also OIRVR, vol. 2, pp. 259—61. 33. S e e OIRVR, v o l . 3 , 1933—41 (Moscow, 1 9 9 7 ) , p p . 208—10; A . Orlov t o Colonel Ivanov, C h i e f o f t h e l s t (Operational) D i v i s i o n of t h e General Staff o f the Red Army. RS o n t h e F a r East, n o . 2 4 8 , 3 0 December 1938; A . Orlov t o Ivanov, n o .

Soviet Intelligence Services and the Government

119

477054,15 January 1939.Summary of the movements of Japanese troops,15 J a n u a r y 1 9 3 9 ; Khabazov, C h i e f o f t h e 2nd Division o f t h e RU t o B . M . S h a -

poshnikov, n o . 480175,15 November 1938. Report (spravka): O n the possibilities for the mobilization and deployment of the Japanese Army; Report o n t h e campaign o f 1939 i n t h e Khalkin-Gol District: RGVA, f. 37977, o p . 1 , d. 9 8 , 1. 1—3, 48—53, 7 3 , 74—80, 81—4; f. 32113, o p . 1 , d . 2 , 1. 3—13. S e e a l s o Nefedov

and V.Yakuntskii t o the Chief of the Intelligence Division (R0) of the Pacific Fleet, n o . 487167, 3 1 March 1939. Tasks o f t h e 4 t h Coastal Radio Detachment

for 1938; Intelligence Division of the Ministry (People’s Commissariat) of the Navy. Note o n the structure, numerical strength and bases of the naval forces o f J a p a n a s o f 1 M a y 1939: R G A VMF, f. r-2045,o p . 1 , d . 1 , 1. 4—6; (1. 1 5 , l . 1—

210. 34. O n the activities of Rikhard Sorge’s group during t h i s period, see F. Dikin, and G. Storry, Delo Rikharda Zorge (Moscow, 1996), pp. 230—63;C h . A.Willoughby, op. cit., pp. 104—17. O n the information collected by the residencies of the INO i n the summer and autumn of 1941,see V.N. Karpov, ’Pozitsiya Yaponii v otnoshenii SSSR v 1941 g. Po materialam Arkhiva Sluzhby Vneshnei Razvedki Rossiiskoi Federatsii’, i n Novaya i noveishaya istoriya, 1 (1996), pp. 93—103; OIRVR, vol. 3 , pp. 212—13. 3 5 . S e e , for example, Tokyo t o Moscow, n o . 867, 24 November 1943; n o . 997, 2 5 November

1944; Harbin t o Moscow, n o . 316, 2 9 November

1943; n o . 7 2 , 1 6

March 1944:Venona Documents, 5 t h Rel., v o l . 1 , National Security Agency, Ft. George G. Meade, M D , October 1996.

36. See Plan of the organization of the Red Army Intelligence Directorate, n o . 02390: RGVA,

f. 40442, o p . 2 , d . 183, l . 5 ; A . G . Pavlov, ’Voennaya

razvedka

SSSR v 1941—1945 gg.’, i n Novaya i noveishaya istoriya, 2 (1995), p. 27. 3 7 . See: OIRVR, vol. 3 , pp. 12—13,17—18. 3 8 . L . P. Beria, V. N . Merkulov t o I.V. S t a l i n , n o . 1186, 4 November 1944: GARF, f. 9401,o p . 2 , d . 6 7 , l . 275. 3 9 . Based o n Venona D o c u m e n t s . l s t — S t h R e l . , J u n e 1 9 9 5 — O c t o b e r 1996. M G B and GRU Messages, 16 November 1941—21 February 1946, passim. The n u m ber of RU and RU VMF personnel and agents combined. 4 0 . P.Wright, Spy Catcher: The Candid Autobiography of a Senior Intelligence Ofi‘icer (New York, 1987),p.182. 4 1 . For further d e t a i l s see: R . J . Lamphere, a n d T. S h a c h t m a n , The FBI—KGB War: A Special Agent Story (New York, 1986), pp. 39, 80. In testimony given to the FBI, Elizabeth Bentley, a n agent-liaison officer of the INO, who broke away from Soviet intelligence i n August 1945, named ’over 80 individuals as agents or sources of information, and reported that 12 government agencies and institutions’ were the sources of the information which she passed o n to the NKGB during t h e war years. For further details of the activities of Soviet intelligence i n the USA from 1945 to 1953, see V. V. Poznyakov, ’Tainaya voina Iosifa Stalina: sovetskie rasvedyvatel’nye sluzhby v Soedinennykh Shtatakh nakan u n e i v nachale kholodnoi voiny’, i n A. O . Chuboryan and N . I. Yegorova, Stalin i kholodnaya voina (Moscow, 1998), pp. 146—68. 4 2 . See, for example, the evaluation by the ‘Centre’ of information passed o n by Klaus Fuchs i n spring 1945: Moscow t o New York, n o . 349, 10 April 1945: Venona D o c s . , 3 r d . Rel.; I.V. Kurchatov t o V. S . Abakumov, M i n i s t e r o f S t a t e Security o f t h e USSR, 3 1 December 1946. Quoted from: V. Chikov, K G B

1 2 0 Vladimir Vladimirovich Poznyakov

Dossier n o . 13676. Nelegaly. V 2—kh chastyakh. Ch. 1, Operatsiya ’Enormous’ (Moscow, 1996), p . 479.

43. See ‘Soviet Espionage i n Canada', i n Soviet Union, prepared by the Intelligence Division, WDGS, War Department, Washington, DC, 1947, p. 96. Papers of Harry S. Truman. President Secretary File: Foreign Relations. Box 188.Harry S. Truman

Library, Independence,

M O ; ’American

Relations with t h e Soviet

Union. A Report to the President by the Special Counsel t o the President’, 24 September, 1946, p p . 63—7. Papers of Harry S. Truman. Clark Gifford Papers. Subject File: United Nations, Box 15, HSTL. The following facts testify to the strengthening of the FBI and the extension of its role i n counterrevolutionary operations: whereas a t the end of the Second World War the percentage of agents i n New York engaged i n working against Soviet intelligence did not exceed five o r six, and the inspectors coordinating this work i n Washington numbered only seven, by the late 1940s the latter had been increased to 50, while the number of agents had also multiplied. See R. J. Lamphere and T. Schachtman, op. cit, pp. 20, 75—6. For further details of the school a t Oberammergau, s e e J o s e p h T. Kendrick, Consulate G e n e r a l , t o Charles W. Thayer, American C o n s u l G e n e r a l , M u n i c h , 5 January, 1 9 5 3 .

Command and Staff Orientation Course, USAREUR Intelligence and Military Police School, Oberammergau. Department of State Decimal File, Doc. 761.00/ 1.553. Box 3805. Record Group 59. National Archives. Washington, DC. By late 1945 US Army Counter-intelligence had begun to keep permanent watch o n representatives of the Soviet Special Services and t o conduct operations against them. See P. M. Fitin, Chief of the Ist Directorate of the NKGB SSSR to L. Beria. Special reports nos 1332 and 1364, 28 November a n d 8 December 1 9 4 5 : GARF, f . 9 4 0 1 , o p . 2 , d . 1 0 5 , 1. 221—2, 354—5.

44. O n the liquidation of the Comintern and the reorganization of its structures, see L. I. Il’ichev, Chief o f t h e R U t o G . Dimitrov, 1 8 J u n e 1 9 4 3 ; Report by t h e C h i e f o f t h e l s t Division o f t h e IKKI, I. Morozov t o G . Dimitrov, 1 4 M a y 1 9 4 3 :

G. Dimitrov t o A. S. Shcherbakov, Secretary of the Central Committee of the VKP (b), 1 4 J u l y 1943, Structure a n d Personnel o f t h e N I I - 1 0 0 . D a t e d Septem-

ber 1943, f. 495, o p . 73, d . 175, 1. 13—17; (I. 182, 1. 16—27; 28, 29—33; G. M. Adibekov,

E. N . Shakhnazarov

a n d K. K. S h i r i n y a , 71; op. cit., p p . 228—41.

Concerning the activities of the OMI, see A. Panyushkin, Deputy Director of t h e Division o f Foreign Policy o f t h e Central Committee o f t h e V K P (b) (new n a m e : O M I ) t o A. A . Zhdanov a n d A . A . Kuznetsov, Secretaries o f t h e Central

Committee, 10 April 1947. Recording of a conversation with Morris Childs, member of the National Council of the Communist Party of the USA; V. P. Vronskii, CC Division of Foreign Policy (OVP), to V. V. Moshetov, Deputy Director of the OVP, dated December 1947. Note of information (concerning a commission

t o go t o t h e USA — V. P.); M . A . Suslov, H e a d o f t h e O V P t o A . A .

Kuznetsov, dated 1947 (accompanying note and ‘Directory of leading government figures i n the United States of America’, published by the OVP): f. 17, op. 128, d . 1128, 1. 60—8; 263—75; (1. 229, l. 1, 2—288. 45. V. P. Vronskii to V. V. Moshetov, dated December 1947; Directory of leading individuals i n government i n the United States of America, p. 48; f. 17, o p . 128, d . 1128, l. 275; d . 229, l. 49. 46. I n a conversation with G. Dimitrov i n January 1945 Stalin emphasized: ‘The crisis of capitalism is evident i n the division of the capitalists into two factions

Soviet Intelligence Services and the Government — o n e fascist, t h e other democratic. The a l l i a n c e between

121

ourselves a n d t h e

democratic faction of the capitalists succeeded because the latter had a n interest i n preventing Hitler’s d o m i n a t i o n . . . A t present we are with one faction against the other, but i n the future we will be against t h i s faction of the capitalists as well'. Cited i n M . M . Narinskii, Sovetskaya vneshenyaya politika i proiskhozhdenie ’kholodnoi voiny’: Sovetksaya vneshnyaya politika v retrospektive, 1917—91 (Moscow, 1 9 9 3 ) , p . 122. See also F. Chuev, Sto corok besed s Molotovym. Iz dnevnika F. Chueva (Mosocw, 1 9 9 1 ) , p . 9 0 . 4 7 . S e e P. Sudoplatov, op. cit., p . 1 4 8 ; F. Chuev op. cit., p . 3 1 ; G . K. Zhukov,

Vospominaniya i razmyshleniya (Moscow, 1970), p. 239; V. Novobranets, ‘Nakanune voiny', i n Znamya, 6 (June 1 9 9 0 ) , p p . 170—1; V. Nikol'skii, Akvarium-Z (Moscow, 1 9 9 7 ) , p p . 1 2 5 - 6 .

6 The Transformation of the Policy of Extraordinary Measures into a Permanent System of Government Gennady A. Bordiougov

It was the political élite of the Tsarist era that back i n the last century — i n August 1881 — first legally formulated the phenomenon of ‘special rule’ i n Russia. It provided for the possibility of declaring a state of emergency, t o be characterized either as one of Strengthened Security or of Extraordinary Security.1 At that time there was an ideological basis for the policy of extraordinary measures — the necessity of forcibly suppressing i n the Russian empire sociopolitical or interethnic conflicts kindled by the various revolutionary or nationalist movements. At the very beginning of the twentieth century the regime of extraordinary measures extended to more than a third of the population of Russia; between 1905 and 1907 the Tsarist government declared a situation of Strengthened or Extraordinary Security in 60 provinces and regions, while i n 2 5 provinces and regions martial law was introduced. The introduction of ‘special regimes’ could not but have an influence upon the traditions of maintaining public order in Russia. A special conference, convened to examine these exceptional statutes, concluded: The population, failing t o see th e application of normal laws and encountering measures not arising from the meaning of these general laws, but from powers afforded by exceptional rules, has ceased to be conscious of their exceptional nature; the population has lost its sense of legality, and at the same time has been infected by dissatisfaction with tyranny and by a spirit of opposition.2

Despite the promises of the Bolsheviks to repeal these special or exceptional laws, the distressing experience resulting from their application was immeasurably aggravated by the tragic events of the revolution of 1 9 17 and by the Civil War. The ideological screen for the Bolshevik use of 122

The Policy of Extraordinary Measures

123

extraordinary measures was neatly captured i n a statement by Feliks Dzerzhinskii, who o n 7 December 1917 assumed the post of Chairman of the All-Russian Extraordinary Commission (VChK), set up to fight counter-revolution and sabotage: Don’t imagine that I am seeking forms of revolutionary justice; justice is not what we need right now. Now we have a struggle — chest to chest, a struggle not for life, but for death — the question is whose! I propose, I demand the organization of revolutionary reprisals against

the agents of counterrevolution.3 The Stalinist ’revolution from above’ of the 19305 elevated these extraordinary measures to a permanent system of government. Soviet Russia and its political élite found it easier to grasp and absorb the routine of prohibitions and threats, commands and repressions, terror and Violence, than to go through the tortuous process of cultivating democratic principles of government. And each time those i n power were unable to keep within the limits envisaged by the policy of selected extraordinary measures. With unfailing consistency the policy was transformed into one of ’chrezvychaishchina’ — that is, into an institutionalized and systematized state of emergency — in order to hold on to power at any price. The main criteria defining this transformation are the resort to mass terror as a form of rule; the subordination of the regular organs of government

to those exercising extraordinary,

punitive

o r repressive

powers; trial by extrajudicial procedures, and the designation of a part of society as ‘enemies of the people’. The present chapter examines the ideological formulation of this process at a critical juncture, the end of the 19203—beginning of the 19305, that is to say, the period i n which the policy of NEP (New Economic Policy, 1921—8) was overthrown i n favour of the Stalinist ‘revolution from above’.4 It is extremely important to understand i n what way and by what means the Leninist principles embodied i n the NEP were revised and replaced by a purely Stalinist understanding of the course to be taken i n advancing the country further and strengthening the new, post-Leninist regime.

Reconstruction

of NEP

I n December 1927, at its XV congress, the ruling party adopted a programme concerning the smooth ‘reconstruction' of the NEP. This programme envisaged the involvement of peasants in cooperative

1 2 4 Gennady A. Bordiougov

production on a scale realistic for that time, and was orientated towards a gradual, balanced, carefully considered tempo for industrial modernization, the strengthening of ties between city and countryside and, most important,

the retention, t o quite a considerable

extent, o f individual

peasant ownership as the basis for the development of the agrarian sector

of the economy and the market.5 At the same time the resolutions adopted by the Congress permit us to judge quite precisely the serious ideological changes that had occurred in the position of the ruling party. If the idea of socialism, as a system of civilized cooperatives, survived in the resolutions of the Congress, it was present only in an extremely reduced and stunted form. I n one of the principal documents, ‘Concerning Directives on the Drawing up of a Five-Year Plan for the Economy’, repeated mention was made of the need to overcome the anarchy of the NEP market and to set up a stricter framework for its operation. In general the market was seen in a very negative light; indeed it figured in the document only in one capacity, as the private market.6 The market was seen as a capitalist leftover, an attribute of capitalism as such, and was judged accordingly. Moreover, the process of overcoming the anarchy of the market was seen, in the long run, in terms of transforming the system of government regulation of the market into ‘an apparatus for the socialist distribution

of goods’.7 The redefinition of socialism implicitly adopted at the Congress strengthened the orientation towards strict centralization and a strictly regulated economic system. It might be said that the ideological shift towards the idea of ‘state socialism’ had begun, but it was still envisaged at this stage as existing within the context of the market, which for doctrinal reasons naturally aroused hostility.

The grain procurement crisis These ideological manoeuvres were soon transferred to the practical plane with the occurrence of the grain procurement crisis at the end of 1927—beginning of 1928. The immediate cause of the crisis had been mistakes i n the economic administration, in particular the reduction of government

grain prices a t the beginning of the procurement

campaign.

I n the winter of 1927/28 the largest granaries effectively ceased selling grain to the cooperation and to state purchasers. Hoping for more favourable market circumstances, and more advantageous conditions for selling, the ‘middle peasants’ too began hoarding grain. The main point, however,

was that both concrete tactical mistakes, and a funda-

The Policy of Extraordinary Measures 125

mental strategic miscalculation, came together i n the procurement crisis of 1927/28. Analysing the causes of the crisis in retrospect, Nikolai Bukharin came to the conclusion that the grain problem had already been neglected in the period from 1925 to 1927. The country’s leadership, including the General Secretary o f the Communist

Party, Iosif Stalin, had ‘for s o m e

period of time failed to take heed of the state of affairs with regard to grain, a n d for some time carried o n with the process of industrialization,

which was financed by foreign currency reserves and taxes.’ Instead of paying attention, during the previous years, to the situation of the grain sector and achieving a significant increase in the rate of construction, on a firm basis, i n o n e t o three years’ time, the leadership ran into inevitable difficulties, Bukharin observed. These difficulties

became even more evident when the very sources on which we had been relying for some time were exhausted an d we all realized that we could no longer continue o n that basis. This moment coincided with our greatest problems. But once things had worked out in that way, once these difficulties had become an objective fact, we ended up i n the first round of extraordinary measures.8

From the very beginning a certain group within the leadership was inclined to see the outbreak of th e grain procurement crisis i n war-like terms, as a fresh attack o n socialism by petty bourgeois elements, as a ’kulak strike’, a n attempt to push apart the limits i n which the dictatorship of the proletariat had placed capitalist elements, although i n actual fact it was the market that resisted the grain procurements. All the evidence suggests that the Party leadership did not initially intend to apply the extraordinary measures over a long period. Exiled i n Alma Ata, Lev Trotskii saw these measures generally as ’a crutch for Rykov’s policies’.9 Very probably, this was the View of all the members of the Poliburo, who unanimously supported the extraordinary measures at a meeting o n 6 January 1928. At that moment the Party leaders simply failed to see any other solution. All other alternatives for overcoming the problem were rejected. The extraordinary measures undertaken in the winter of 1928 proved completely ineffective. I n the summer of that year the government was forced to spend its mobilization reserves and purchase grain abroad. Six months earlier such measures would have been sufficient to put out the crisis and buy time for a serious review of policy. But the resort to extraordinary measures set i n motion the machine of Chrezvychaishchina

1 2 6 Gennady A. Bordiougov

and for the first time since the end of the Civil War the system of forcible purchasing of grain was reinstated. That section of society whose existence depended on the NEP, and who regarded it as the only possible normal form of economic and political life, was hit particularly hard by this policy. These people were distinguished by their inner orientation, their political and sociopsychological outlook. Some of them were ossified, bureaucratized chinovniki, resistant to change of any kind; others were principled supporters of the NEP, while yet others favoured organic economic growth rather than the various zigzags of the left. I n the eyes of the leadership they constituted a force for historic inertia, and as such became the butt of the extraordinary measures. Their active or passive resistance forced the Party leaders from time to time to demand ideological controls and a purge of the Party organization. However, millions of non-Party people had spontaneously formed their own ideology, one remote from complex Party doctrine. It was expressed i n the question: who is responsible for the fact that a year ago everything was more or less all right, while now everything is bad and unbearable? The Communists, the Komsomol, the Jews — such was one answer given by these despairing and embittered people. Others blamed the ‘would-be bourgeoisie’, or the kulaks.10 The search for ‘enemies’, the attempt to personify the guilty, became a kind of safety-valve through which mass dissatisfication, both among city workers and among the rural poor, could be expressed. The ‘Shakhtii

case’

The Shakhtii case, dubbed by Stalin ‘the economic counter-revolution’,1I became the mechanism through which this question, matured in the minds o f millions, took form. The ‘case’ arose i n March 1 9 2 8 , and the

trial took place in May that year, that is to say, during the period when mass discontent and bitterness at the extraordinary measures had swollen into open indignation. The ‘Shakhtii case’ was quite obviously fabricated, but its significance lay in the fact that it gave rise to the theory of ‘wrecking’. This theory allowed the Party to point the finger at ‘concrete wrongdoers’ and deflect mass dissatisfaction away from the Party leaders. The reaction to the ‘Shakhtii case’ in the consciousness of the masses was quite simple. Statements of the following kind, made by peasants and workers in relation to the Shakhtii specialists, can be found i n numerous political summaries and research surveys issued by the OGPU: ‘The bullet was too good for them, they should have been sent to the crematorium

alive.’12

The Policy of Extraordinary Measures

127

Support for t h e Shakhtii trial and the inferences drawn about the ‘wreckers’ remained a stable sociopsychological phenomenon over a period of several months. Against the background of growing economic problems, extraordinary measures, queues and strikes, practically no one expressed any doubt or scepticism concerning the judicial correctness of the trial i n the ‘Shakhtii case’. O n the contrary, among the lower strata of the proletariat the conclusions of the trial were taken to savage extremes: What should be done? That’s for the Party Central Committee, our guide, to answer. Probably we should take u p our knives and bullets again and get rid of all these famous doctors and generals, those that

are still alive.13 Thus i n the spring of 1928 this growing social aggression was offered a personal target: the ‘wreckers’. But the first target had already been named inJanuary, when blame was laid on the kulaks who had organized the ‘grain strike’. In this way a specific ideological and sociopsychological mood was created, which to some extent filtered into the Party’s ranks as well. Attempts were made to overcome the reluctance among many Communists to ‘activate’, i n carrying out the extraordinary measures, Party ‘radicals’, who at the slightest difficulty would pose the

question: ‘Isn’t there a Shakhtii plot here?’14 — a reluctance that was put down to degeneration and demoralization among the Party ranks. But if facts of this kind were occasionally made known to the whole country, the political struggle which occurred among the Party leadership i n March 1928 was carefully concealed from the rest of society. Disagreements within the élite Bukharin, i n particular, characterized the external a n d internal situation

of the country as ‘Very grave’. The programme of the XV Congress of the Communist Party was effectively torn apart by the crisis. Bukharin did not admit this directly, but his view was made evident in his demand for a new ‘overall plan’ and the admission that the Party leadership had behaved worse than ‘superempiricists of the crudest kind’.15 The failure, or at any rate partial failure, of the programme of the XV Congress — instead of the smooth ‘reconstruction’ of the NEP, the country had been dragged into crisis — was also obvious to Stalin. But he did not share the forebodings that the extraordinary measures would inevitably lead to civil war. By contrast, Bukharin considered his main task to be that of proving the real danger of civil war and the need for urgent and public repeal of the extraordinary measures.16 The anti-crisis programme of the

128

Gennady A. Bordiougov

‘right faction’, set out at a key moment in the plenum of the Central Committee in July 1928, was quite simple: the repeal of the extraordinary measures, a n increase in the purchase price of grain, the abolition of

the ration system, differentiated taxes, and so on.17 I n the key speech to the plenum, delivered on the Politburo’s orders by Anastas Mikoyan, it was emphasized that the Party had no intention of transforming the temporary extraordinary measures into a permanent policy, since this would threaten the alliance of peasants and workers, the stability of the dictatorship of the proletariat and socialist construction.18 With regard to the extraordinary measures even Lazar Kaganovich declared: ‘They must not be brought into the s y s t e m . . . It is all the more necessary to declare a decisive struggle against a n ideology that wants to

legitimize distortions'.19 Nevertheless

Aleksei Rykov observed,

first, that Kaganovich,

in his

speech, had identified administrative with economic measures, proof of which could be found in the restriction of the law of value i n Soviet society and in the fact that bourgeois economy was perceived a s the opposite of the Soviet economic system, and, second, that he had called for effort to be put into denouncing ‘distortions', rather than into considering the further application of the extraordinary measures themselves, or into analysing the actual results of the grain procurement campaign.20 I n a word, the plenum left a wide margin for very different interpretations of official policy. It is not accidental that members of the Central Committee repeatedly asked for clarification: to be precise, ‘what was the strike about?’ The extreme left faction found the answer in the situation of the collective farms, the extreme ‘right’ in the thesis ‘look to the market’,21 still others i n the development of individual peasant ownership. Under these conditions it was extremely difficult to imagine precisely how, and under what slogans, the next grain procurement campaign of 1928/9 would be conducted. It was all the more difficult to predict the further course of events because the July plenum had seen the emergence of a faction that was far to the left of Stalin. The position of this faction was expressed, in particular, by several secretaries from regional committees: ‘Our task is not to stamp out the hatred of the poor towards the kulak, but to

organize it'.22 Vyacheslav Molotov also attempted to give a theoretical foundation to the events of the winter and spring of 1928. He accused those who forgot about the real class basis of the crisis of committing a sin against Marxism23 Thus there formed within the Central Committee a group that was orientated towards the use of very harsh anti-NEP measures. And

The Policy of Extraordinary Measures 1 2 9

although Stalin himself took a more moderate position, h e made a number of theoretical and political gestures towards the new left. This appeal to the far left was manifest, for example, in the theory of ‘tribute’, that is, an additional tax which he proposed should be imposed on the peasants, and which the state would need to levy o n a temporary basis i n order to preserve and develop further the present tempo of industrial development.24 The following pronouncement was typical of Stalin’s utterances at the plenum: Our policy is not a policy of inflaming the class struggle. . . but that is not to say that the class struggle has been abandoned or that it — this very same class struggle — will not become more acute.25 It is also worth pointing out that the views of those who were actually further to the right than the ‘right faction’ made little impact o n the plenum. Nikolai Osinskii and Grigorii Sokol’nikov spoke out i n favour of sharply decreasing the ‘pumping’ of resources from the countryside into the industrial sector, and argued for equality between city and country—

side.26 To a far greater extent than the ‘official right faction’, the supporters of these Views were i n fact prepared to see an extension of the NEP. Bukharin’s group found itself i n a complicated position. They were not in favour of a n unlimited extension of the NEP, and saw dangers i n the country’s being ‘agrarianized’, but at the same time they regarded the resort to extraordinary measures as completely unacceptable. To retreat, o r to attack and escalate the conflict to th e point of civil war — that was the dilemma that confronted Bukharin and like-minded supporters such as Rykov and Mikhail Tomskii. I n essence not only Stalin, but Bukharin’s group ended by taking a position of ‘unprincipled centrism’ (Trotskii’s expression), and the resolutions of the plenum were a n obvious case of ‘rotten’ political compromise. I n fact this gave much greater opportunity for Stalin’s extraordinary tactical improvisations than did the strategic proposals of the ‘right faction’. Their in-between stance placed Bukharin, Rykov and Tomskii in a complicated position. They could only hope that their middle way would yield practical results. Stalin, on the other hand, had created political instruments which strengthened his position irrespective of the subsequent course of events. Bukharin, Rykov and Tomskii had fought a battle for the ‘general line’ of the Party, or, as they put it, for an adequate interpretation of this line. If one is to believe their subsequent statements, the Bukharinites consciously avoided a struggle for power.27 As a result, they lacked sufficient political leverage to improvise,

1 3 0 Gennady A. Bordiougov

o r to take strategic decisions, at the point where their new anti-crisis programme collapsed. Moreover, the inclusion of Stalin’s supporters o n the editorial boards of Pravda and Bolshevik meant that the Bukharinites’ scope for influence on the Party through the central ideological channels was narrowed. Only two months after the July plenum, the consequences arising from the new wave of extraordinary measures forced Bukharin once again to speak out on the strategic aspects of the policy. I n a n article entitled ‘An Economist’s Notes’, published i n Pravda i n September 1928, he gave, in cautious terms, his analysis of these alarming phenomena. He raised the point that the position with regard to gold was alarming, that the country had no reserves, that the grain situation was at a standstill, or even deteriorating, that industrialization was going at too fast a pace and that it was this which had caused the ever greater tendency towards

the use of extraordinary measures.28 This publication naturally displeased Stalin’s group; however, the Politburo, having discussed the question, took a somewhat evasive stance, noting only that Bukharin

had raised a number of controversial points.29 But on the basis of this thoroughly liberal resolution a campaign of extremely harsh ‘criticisms’ was unleashed. Bukharin would later express his bewilderment: I had warned that the position with regard to gold was alarming a nd raised the question of reserves — this was mocked. I said that the grain situation was at a standstill, or even going backwards. This was declared to be panic and cowardice. I warned that it was unwise to hand out funds if there were n o . . .building materials. . . l was said to be an opponent of industrialization, of the state farms and collective farms, and a right deviationist. I was slandered anonymously i n

dozens of articles throughout the press.. . . 30 The attack was not originally unleashed directly on Bukharin. Stalin’s team preferred at first to invent a number of doubtful theories, and then proceed to condemn them for this ‘doubtfulness’, without directly naming Bukharin. I n September 1928 Valer’ian Kuibyshev, developing the ideas that Stalin had put forward at the July plenum, tried to offer a theoretical basis for the thesis concerning the escalation of the class struggle.31 Emel’yan Yaroslavskii went so far as to ascribe t o his opponents a ‘theory of concessions’. I n his View, this alleged theory amounted i n essence to the idea that the middle peasant would find it advantageous to move closer to the kulak because this would guarantee him

concessions on the part of the Party, the soviets, and the proletariat.32

The Policy of Extraordinary Measures 1 3 ]

Criticizing the ‘theory of concessions’, Yaroslavskii declared: ‘The NEP

must not be represented as a policy of concessions’.33 A so-called ‘theory of demands and possibilities’ was also created. The author of this theory was declared to be Mikhail Frumkin, who not long before, at the July plenum, had already been nailed as a ‘right deviationist’. Frumkin’s attempt, i n drawing u p a budget for the Supreme Council of the National Economy for 1928/29, to work on the basis of real possibilities and to avoid demagogic promises to give the working masses a great array of material benefits, was declared to be Virtually ‘antiproletarian’ i n its assumptions, and to amount to a call for the agrarianization of the country.34 I n their rebuke to Frumkin the supporters of the ‘third revolution’ wrote that the point was not to achieve a ‘bookkeeper’s balance’ in the budget, but to draw it up ‘with a plus on the side

of socialism’.35 Behind this critical passage lay a conception of socialism as a monolithic structure, and the ‘plus for socialism’ meant state control of the entire economy of the country. Frumkin’s ‘bookkeeper’s balance’, on the other hand, actually represented an attempt to preserve a multi-layered society as the basis for economic growth. O n the political front, according to Frumkin’s opponents, the ‘plus for socialism’ would be guaranteed not through ‘achieving a balance’ but through the class struggle and the ‘seizure’ of other funds. Buried within these prolonged scholastic debates were genuine contradictions i n the country’s economic policy. The opposition may have grasped these contradictions better than the Bukharinites and Stalinists. I n an anonymous letter to Ivan Smirnov, dated 2 1 October 1928 (and probably written by Karl Radek), the problem was analysed directly i n class terms and the complexity of the situation revealed: The growing economic demands of the country are not being met by the socialist path. But neither are we permitting an outlet for them through capitalism. That is why a crisis has arisen at both extremes: the peasant is rioting because there is much too little room for capitalism: the worker is dissatisfied because there is much too little socia-

lism. These two sources of the political crisis are interwoven.36 Nevertheless, there is reason to believe that not only Bukharin and his supporters, but even certain members of Stalin’s camp, were seeking some form of political equilibrium. An editorial entitled ‘The Processes of Collectivization and the Danger from the Right’, published in Pravda o n 1 4 November 1928, proceeded, after criticizing those who supported

1 3 2 Gennady A. Bordiougov

‘an extension of the NEP’ and the preservation of a market balance, to discuss new conditions for achieving this balance: namely, the creation of a mobile state-cooperative grain fund, without which it would be impossible to safeguard against a repeat of the ‘grain strikes’. Significantly, the creation of this fund, and the development of collective and state farm production, was still bound up with the necessity of being able freely to manoeuvre agricultural products o n the market, and at the same time of consolidating the state’s leading role i n ‘market relations with the

peasant’.37 This article appeared the day before the start of the November 1928 plenum of the Central Committee, at a moment of acute conflict i n the Politburo about the formulation of a resolution concerning the planning of the new round of grain procurements, the aims thereof and the target figures involved. Bukharin foresaw a recurrence of th e same problems unless emphasis were put on political-economic peace with the middle peasant. Since Stalin’s stance o n the matter remained as yet undefined, h e was determined to find a compromise. The concluding resolutions thus failed to yield any clear political picture. The final resolution of these contradictions was once again indefinitely postponed. All this provided fresh fuel for arbitrary interpretations of the political line, both by the various representatives of the Party leadership, and by workers on the ground. For example, Rykov was unable to hear out i n silence the new theories concerning the escalation of the class struggle. Delivering a sharp rebuff to Stanislav Kosior, who had maintained that resistance on the part of the class enemies of socialism was bound t o be aggravated, Rykov recalled his earlier dispute on this question with Grigorii Zinov’ev and Lev Kamenev: Dear friends, take this thought of yours further to its logical conclusion. If the class struggle is bound constantly to e s c a l a t e . . . t h i s amounts to nothing less than a justification for the ideology that the building of socialism is i m p o s s i b l e . . . T h e only correct view is that which maintains that the further we go i n building socialism, the more reduced the class basis for those who support the restoration of capitalism will be, and the fewer class contradictions there will be.38

Stalin’s team could not keep quiet either. O n 2 5 November 1 9 2 8 the newspaper Ekonomicheskaya Zhizn’ found it necessary to remind ‘the rightists’ of the ‘ABC of Leninism': ‘The question as to what form will prevail comes down to the question as to the tempo of the attack by the proletarian commanding heights on capitalist elements and on the petty

The Policy of Extraordinary Measures 1 3 3

and ultra-petty peasant economy.’39 This ultra-left interpretation of the plenum’s resolutions, which placed the production of petty goods by the peasantry on a par with ‘capitalist elements’, made Bukharin extremely indignant. He took this position to be an ideological screen for the policy of extraordinary measures. Lenin had never uttered a word about an attack by the commanding heights o n the petty or ultra-petty peasant economy. These enthusiasts for the ‘third revolution’ left Rykov bewildered too. ‘Breast-beating’ and ‘blather’ were the terms he used to describe, i n particular, an article i n Pravda on 4 November 1928, i n which ‘ t h e capacity for aktivnost’ (‘activeness’) a n d spontaneous

action

among the masses’ was named as the Party’s main resource i n finding a

solution to the crisis.40 I n December 1 9 2 8 the country once again found itself in a grave crisis over grain. Serious difficulties arose with regard t o foreign payments. One consequence of this was the introduction of bread rations and a reduction in imports. The production programme was put i n jeopardy. All this meant a new stage i n the intra-Party dispute among the leadership. There were a number of significant indications testifying to the fact that, after the first wave of extraordinary measures, the supporters of the NEP tradition had realized that the policy of chrezvychaishchina had gained a momentum of its own. Without expressing their protest openly, they began to ‘soften’ the policy of extraordinary measures. Finally even Rykov, i n November 1 9 2 8 , criticized a certain ‘right deviation’, making,

however, the reservation that this faction should be dealt with not by

exclusion from the Party, but through ideological struggle.41 Among the Party rank and file this ‘right deviation’ was generally treated as something dreamed u p by Moscow: the general attitude was that there were n o such ‘deviations’ on the ground. Thus calls for engagement i n a struggle against these ‘right-wing deviationists’ did not at first achieve the desired effect. All that i n fact remained of this ‘right-wing deviation’ was a certain psychology of ‘peace and quiet’, o n which Mikhail Kalinin offered some profound reflections at the XVI Party conference. As an example h e quoted an economist who considered all Party and professional campaigns a waste of time: ‘What’s all this twaddle about: wealth is growing and being created before my very eyes — not academic socialism, but real,

material socialism/4’2 This position, i n Kalinin’s opinion, had led to the effacement of the ‘revolutionary essence’ and to a disregard of ‘communist obligations’.43 He was even ready to admit that among the ‘right-wingers’ there might be idealistic people, who would die for the sake of Soviet power, but their

1 3 4 Gennady A. Bordiougov

better personal qualities only served to hide from ordinary comrades their harmful political outlook. This outlook itself ‘represents the kind of p o i s o n . . . t h a t works imperceptibly, and which gradually, drop by drop, is absorbed by the communist. Thanks to the hugely concealed nature of this process, there are significantly more cadres representing

this rightist outlook than it would seem’.44 As Kalinin knew very well, since January

1 9 2 9 , these ‘idealistic’, if

short-sighted people, had been vehemently attacked behind the closed doors of the Politburo. The new campaign had been preceded by repressions against the Trotskyists and the decision to exile Trotskii himself (on 1 2 February 1929 he left for Constantinople on the steamer Il’ich). The Trotskyists had ceased to exist as a significant political factor. The influence of the Zinov’ev and Kamenev factions from the former united opposition was in practice also reduced to nil. Bukharin meanwhile had been engaged i n reworking the anti-crisis programme due to be presented at the plenum of the Central Committee planned for January 1929. I n a statement dated 3 0 January Bukharin and his fellow signatories Rykov and Tomskii pointed out the ever greater discrepancy in the decisions taken by the Party and i n their practical implementation. One of the main reasons for this, in their View, lay i n the personal stance of Stalin himself, i n the special position he occupied and in his abuse of the extraordinary power at his disposal.“’5 On 9 February 1929 the Bukharinites came out with a second statement. Why had Stalin found it necessary to change the Leninist idea of ‘alliance’ with the peasants into the idea of ‘tribute’ from them? What had been the purpose of this ideological disorientation of the Party?"‘6 Deepening their analysis of the symptoms of crisis in the NEP economy, Bukharin, Rykov and Tomskii now pointed not only to errors, in relation to prices, arising from particular circumstances, but added that during the past few years both industrial and non-industrial construction in the country had proceeded on the basis of printing money and spending the country’s gold and foreign currency reserves, while the growth-rate in the grain sector had been insufficient. As a result clear signs of inflation had appeared and grave economic problems had arisen. The ‘alliance’ of city and countryside was now under threat and there was a danger that

industrialization would fail.47 Open critique of Stalin’s concept I n April 1929, at a Plenum of the Central Committee, Bukharin for the first time severely criticized the Stalinist concept of the escalation of class struggle i n step with the country’s success in building socialism. He

The Policy of Extraordinary Measures 135

emphasized that the system of chrezvychaishchina had been presented at the plenum i n July 1928 as a betrayal of Leninism, and condemned it accordingly. Now, as a result of the efforts of the Stalinist group, a different attitude towards the extraordinary measures could be discerned: namely, that these measures served to ‘rally’ the Party; that they set the apparatus i n motion, and that they supposedly ‘united’ all the different strata of the rural population i n the struggle against the kulak. I n Bukharin’s view, the introduction of extraordinary measures was based on a theoretical assumption — the idea of the escalation of the class struggle — which mixed together two completely different things: the acknowledged temporary aggravation of the class struggle during a particular stage (the country was going through just such a stage at present), and the general course of the country’s development. This assumption elevated the very fact of the present escalation into some inevitable law of development. This ‘strange theory’ led to the conclusion that the further the country progressed i n building socialism, the more problems would accumulate, the more intense would the class struggle become, and at the very gates of socialism, apparently, there would be n o other option than to ‘declare civil war’, o r ‘perish from hunger and give up the ghost’. Bukharin was convinced that ‘the extraordinary measures, a s a system, exclude t h e NEP’.48

Rykov added, furthermore, that: With the protracted, systematic application of extraordinary measures a specific ideology will inevitably be created, elevating these measures t o a ‘law’ of our development; and these measures will entail a whole series of new phenomena i n the realm of commodity circulation, supplies, the organization of trade an d so o n . One thing will lead to

another.49 The Bukharinites’ proposed alternative to th e ‘extraordinary ideological confusion’ included the following points: the purchase of grain from abroad, the maintenance of revolutionary legality, regulation by means of prices, increased output of the means of agricultural production, and a flexible policy on taxation. However, this programme was not approved — first and foremost because of the political position taken by Stalin, who was able to guarantee for himself the support of a majority of the Central Committee. The proposals put forward by Bukharin’s group were regarded as a retreat which carried no serious guarantees for the future. This gave a pretext for a serious ideological change within the Central Committee. It was announced that the choice lay not between the

1 3 6 Gennady A. Bordiougov

import of grain from abroad and the use of extraordinary measures, but between the import of grain and the achievement of industrialization. For a majority in the Party leadership, of course, industrialization was the first priority - the keystone of their ideology. The substitution of one concept for another, i n effect equating chrezvychaishchina with industrialization, took the ground away from under Bukharin’s other proposals, including his principled insistence that revolutionary legality be observed. I n essence, the extraordinary measures were given ideological legitimation. Given the situation in the late 19ZOs—early 19305, two alternative forms of development were theoretically possible. One lay i n the direction of a form of ‘state socialism’ that would function within the framework of the market and not exclude individual peasant ownership, or, i n that sense, a pluralist economy; the other lay i n the direction of extreme ‘state socialism’, with the market ‘switched off’, and the peasants stimulated into production by force. Very probably, Stalin felt that these questions could no longer be left unanswered, nor could h e continue to take an undefined stance as far as doctrine was concerned. Thus i n the spring of 1929 serious doctrinal changes were made i n the position of the Stalin group. Extraordinary measures are given ideological legitimation: the end of Bukharin Stalin attributed t o Lenin the absurd notion that the peasantry represented ‘the last capitalist class’.50 Now he set out to show that there were two aspects to the NEP: the controlling role of the state and freedom of private trade. The first regulator was, i n his opinion, more important than the second. As R. W. Davies writes, this came close to accepting Preobrazhenskii’s conception of two regulators — the law of socialist

accumulation and the law of value — which were mutually hostile.51 Only the political (‘Trotskyist’) context of Preobrazhenskii’s doctrine prevented it from being used directly (later Stalin would work out his own ‘theory’ to this effect). Strictly speaking, however, the conception of the two regulators provided no justification for the argument that collectivization was the essential cure for the grain procurement problem. It was in April 1929 that the departure from NEP reformism in favour of ‘revolutionary’ methods, presented as part of the struggle for ‘the socialist content of the October Revolution’, was actually declared:

It is only through struggle — as was emphasized at the XVI Party conference — that the question whether the October Revolution will

turn into a genuinely socialist revolution will be decided.52

The Policy of Extraordinary Measures 1 3 7

At this conference the ‘doctrine of class peace’, propagated by the Bukharinites on the basis of Lenin’s work,was rejected i n favour of the theory of the escalation of class struggle.53 Henceforth, it was maintained, economic development should be run o n the principles of ‘attack and onslaught’, relying on class consciousness and the use of force. By the autumn of 1929 an acceleration in the tempo of grain procurements had been combined with attacks o n the market, and the rejection of any ‘weakness of will or spinelessness’ i n carrying out ‘decisive’ repressions. The complete

isolation of Bukharin’s group,

moreover,

was achieved

through the repudiation of all his articles and speeches. A n article o f Bukharin’s, published i n Pravda o n 2 0 J u n e 1 9 2 9 u n d e r t h e

title ‘The Theory of “Organized Mismanagement”’, caused a particular explosion of displeasure on the part of Stalin and the Politburo. I n the article, the leader of Bolshevist reform drew bold parallels between the evolution of the capitalist and Soviet economies i n the post-war period. He argued that state capitalism i n the advanced countries related to state capitalism during the period 1914—18 in the same way that the present structure of the socialist economy i n the USSR related to ‘war communism’. Extending this analogy, Bukharin drew attention to new tendencies within Western state capitalism which had arisen through the normal development of the capitalist system. The whole logic of his argument led to the conclusion that the Soviet economy, following the socialist path, should likewise be allowed to develop ‘organically’, like a normal system. There was a certain resemblance in the problems encountered globally, he argued. Both i n Russia and in the West questions of bureaucracy, ‘centralization versus decentralization’, and the role of the ‘apparatus’ had arisen. I n effect, Bukharin was attempting i n veiled terms to provide an ideological argument for ‘normal state socialism’, as opposed to the ‘extraordinary’ form which the country had adopted by the e nd of 1927. Bukharin’s sharp criticisms were unmistakably directed against the very system of chrezvychaishchina, and the rampant growth of the bureaucratic machine which was carrying out the repressive measures involved. Through his comparisons he at once criticized the contemporary Soviet structure, and set limits to its return to the system of ‘war communism’. Practically every letter in the correspondence between Stalin and Molotov i n the period from July to November 1929 contains some cynical reference to Bukharin. True, Stalin sometimes seems to play the hypocrite to himself, portraying his own irreproachable morality, forgetting for a moment the unworthy methods of battle, and demonstrating a ‘righteous anger’ against his opponent. I n a note to Molotov on 2 1 August 1929 Stalin lamented:

1 3 8 Gennady A. Bordiougov

You’re right in saying that Bukharin is sliding downhill. It’s sad, but that’s the fact. I suppose it must be ‘fate’. The only strange thing is that he hopes to cheat the Party with his petty swindler’s manoeuvres. A typical case of a cross between a spineless, barren intellectual i n politics and a Constitutional Democrat lawyer. . . . 54 ‘To hell with him’, the General Secretary significantly concluded this routine epistle. By November 1929 the question of the ‘right faction’ had already been decided. Stalin seems finally to have made up his mind at the beginning of 1929, when he wrote to Molotov: ‘We’ll have to reckon

with Bukharin leaving the Politburo’.55 The November plenum was notable not only for the fact that its participants finished off the ’right wing’ and excluded Bukharin from the Poliburo, and not only for the fact that they i n essence gave a vote of confidence to Stalin and to his course of political and economic chrezvychaishchina, which was to culminate eventually i n the Great Terror. Speeches were also made at the plenum, calling for caution in the process of collectivization. Alongside the political complacency expressed i n such statements as ‘Our big collective farms are in essence future agri-

cultural factories of an industrial type’,56 Grigorii Petrovskii struck a note of political sobriety. He did not conceal his alarm, for instance, at the situation in Ukraine, at a time when peasants were writing to their acquaintances and relatives saying: ‘I went to the collective, sold my cow, sold my house and so on’.57 Syrtsov likewise spoke of the prospect of ‘a whole series of dangers and failures’, and considered illusory the notion that a turning-point in the collective farm movement had already

been achieved.58 The new leaders, who had made their careers on criticism of the ‘rightists’ and on the policy of extraordinary measures, in practice took on the role of counterweight to the ‘revolution from above’, or at any rate to its most extreme manifestations. All of this meant that there was still a certain source of nourishment for the ideas of the ‘rightists’. Not surprisingly, in November—December 1929 a powerful ideological salvo was delivered against Bukharin’s fundamental theoretical principles. I n effect all his published speeches and articles from 1928 to 1929 were subjected to retrospective criticism. If one sets aside the demagogy and falsifications, these published attacks amounted to the final discrediting of the

a i m s and

values o f Bolshevist reform,

which

consisted,

as

Robert Tucker has correctly noted, in gradualism, the attempt to preserve civil peace, and the rejection of the tendency towards a ‘third revolution’.59

The Policy of Extraordinary Measures 1 3 9

Bukharin’s economic programme also came under attack. In a long article entitled ‘Accumulation and Reserves (a Response to Comrade Bukharin’s “Economist’s Notes”)’, published i n the journal Bol’shevik, S. Bessonov set out his Views. I n contrast to the ‘peaceful’ programme advocated by Bukharin, he argued for ‘an aggressive programme of radical change i n the relations between light and heavy industry i n favour of

the latter’.60 In essence Bessonov’s theoretical reflections amounted to the View that economics should be subjugated to politics.61 One of the key conclusions of the ‘theoretical’ investigations undertaken by the supporters of Stalin’s policy had certainly been to erase the border between theory and ideology. I n December 1929, at a conference of Marxist agrarians, Stalin had called directly for the subjugation of theory to practice. H e interpreted this ‘subjugation’ very idiosyncratically, reducing the role of theory to equipping practical workers with the ability to find the right direction, with ‘clarity of perspective . . . and faith

in the victory of our cause’.62 Thus instead of serving a prognostic purpose as a guide to policy, theory was given a purely ideological function. Henceforth theory would have to illuminate all the twists and turns in Stalin’s policy i n a spirit that was ‘advantageous’ to the leader. Mikoyan spoke in roughly the same terms at a plenum of the Central Committee in November 1929, when he said it was wrong blindly to believe i n everything that scholars said, for there were sciences and sciences, and ‘economic science and statistics cannot be neutral and ‘objective’ over

the question of class struggle’.63 At the beginning of December 1929, reporting to Molotov on successes i n the development of the collective farm system, Stalin did not conceal his triumph: ‘Our right-wingers’ eyes will pop out with surprise’.64 Indeed, the battle against the Bukharinites had initiated a critical phase i n the ‘revolution from above’, which was to bring the country to the brink of catastrophe. Conclusions

The political struggle of the 19205 and 19305 so radically changed the nature of intraparty relations, ‘freeing’ the Party from the last ‘remnants’ of internal democracy, that it can justifiably be considered ‘a quiet political revolution’. The price of this ‘creeping revolution’, which i n the final analysis broke the back of the Leninist old guard as the officially dissenting opposition, was extremely high. The ideological battle during this period turned into a fierce skirmish between the representatives of NEP—style Bolshevist reformism on the one hand and, on the other, the

1 4 0 Gennady A. Bordiougov

supporters of the ’third revolution' and of a streamlined, industrial leap forward based on the forcible, quasi-socialist transformation of the countryside. Leaving to one side the naive ‘Stalinocentrism’ characteristic of a certain strand in sovietology, with its tendency to run together things that are incompatible (for example, A. Avtorkhanov’s assertion that there existed a comprehensive Stalinist plan conceived in the spirit of communist doctrine, and his thesis that Stalinist policy was entirely subjugated to the struggle for power, and that Stalin had nothing but scorn for

Marxist-Leninist dogma65), authors such as Avtorkhanov have nevertheless made one true observation: the intraparty ideological struggle in the period we have examined had an immeasurably greater impact on the fate of ordinary people than all the previous political upheavals put together. If, up to this time, the intraparty struggle had done little damage to the interests of ordinary people (both the Stalinists and the Bukharinites claimed to be waging this struggle i n the interests of these people — through the preservation of the NEP and the rejection of ‘force’), now the entire fate of the class which made up 80 per cent of the population — namely, the peasantry — was being decided.66 Not only the Party, but the entire country would be forced both to accept in silence the routine shifts in the leadership, and to experience for themselves all the consequences of the radical new course, and i n the last analysis decide its fate. Thus one can hardly agree with the judgement widespread in our historiography, which in effect attributes all subsequent events to the skirmish among a relatively narrow group of Party oligarchs.67 Precisely the point is that the struggle at the summit, which to begin with resembled a battle with a shadow — the mythical bugbear of the ‘right deviation’ — very soon involved the entire country. This happened to a large degree as a result of the ideological manipulations examined i n this article, which contributed to the establishment of harsh control over the attitudes and behaviour of millions of people. Notes

1. For a more detailed account of the ‘Decree o n Measures to Preserve Government Order a n d Social Calm’, see: Polnoe sobranie zakonov Rossiiskoi imperii (St Petersburg, 1912), vol. 1, Appendix 1 to Article 1 (note 2). 2 . Quoted

from V. A . G e s s e n , Uchebnik administrativnogo

prava (Moscow, 1 9 1 6 ) ,

p. 116. 3. Quoted from V. D. Bonch-Bruevich, Na boevykh postakh fevral’skoi i oktyabr’skoi revolyutsii (Moscow, 1932), pp. 51—2.

The Policy of Extraordinary Measures 1 4 1 . For more details on the political and economic aspects, see Gennady A. Bordiougov, ’The Policy and Regime of Extraordinary Measures i n Russia under Lenin and S t a l i n ’ , i n Europe-Asia Studies, v o l . 4 7 , 4 ( 1 9 9 5 ) , p p . 615—32,

and G. A. Bordyugov and V. A. Kozlov, Istoriya i kon’yunktura. Sub’ektivnye zametki 0b istorii sovetskogo

obshchestva (Moscow, 1 9 9 2 ) , p p . 57—113, 144—89.

. KPSS v resolyutsiyakh i resheniyakh s’ezdov, konferentsii i plenumov (Moscow, 1 9 8 4 ) , v o l . 4 , p p . 270—85.

. Ibid., pp. 274—5, 285. Ibid., p. 285. N. I. Bukharin, Problemy teorii i praktiki sotsializma (Moscow, 1989), pp. 276—7. Rossiiskii Tsentr Khraneniya i Izucheniya Dokumentov Noveishei Istorii (The Russian Centre for the Preservation and Study of Documents of Contemporary History, hereafter cited a s RTsKhIDNI), f . 3 2 5 , o p . 1 , d . 3 6 6 , 1. 2 .

. Ibid., f. 17, op. 85, d.307,1.16. u A group of engineers were accused of sabotage. m I b i d . , o p . 8 5 , d . 3 1 8 , l . 4 6 . o p . 2 , d . 3 5 4 , vypusk 2 . , l . 2 3 . n Ibid., 1. 53. m Ibid., (1. 307, 1. 45. w Bukharin, Problemy teorii i praktiki sotsializma, p. 299. m RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 2, d . 726, 1. 78. u Ibid., d . 375, vypusk 2, 1. 19. m Ibid., 1. 7. m Ibid., 1. 31. m Ibid., 1. 39. n Ibid., 1. 29. m. Ibid., 11. 81, 90. B. Ibid., 1. 128. M. I. V. Stalin, Sochineniya, v o l . 1 1 , p . 1 5 9 . 5. Ibid. %. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, op. 2, d . 375, vypusk 2, 11. 28—30, 32, 51, 99. y . Ibid., d . 726, 1. 94. m. N. I. Bukharin, Izbrannye proizvedeniya (Moscow, 1988), pp. 391—418. m. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 2, d . 726, 1. 97. w. Ibid., 1. 78. M. See Pravda, 2 5 September 1928. n. See Rabochaya Moskva, 1 7 September 1928. .mm M. See Torgovo-promyshlennaya gazeta, 1 6 and 2 1 October 1928. 5. Ibid. w. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, op. 71, d . 108, l. 136. M. Pravda, 1 4 November, 1 9 2 8 . m. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, op. 2, d . 397, vypusk 1, l. 141. w. Ekonomicheskaya zhizn’, 25 November 1928. m. A. I. Rykov, Industrializatsiya i khleb. Doklad na sobranii aktiva Leningradskoi partiinoi organizatsii 30 noyabrya 1928 3. (Moscow, Leningrad, 1928), p. 57. 41. Ibid., pp. 65-6. 42. XVI konferentsiya Vsesoyuznoi Kommunisticheskoi partii (bol’shevikov). Stenografisheskii otchet (Moscow, Leningrad, 1 9 2 9 ) , p . 1 4 4 .

43. Ibid.

142 Gennady A. Bordiougov 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51.

Ibid., p p . 1 4 4 , 1 4 5 .

RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, op. 2, d. 726, 11. 80-1. Ibid., 1. 87. Ibid., 1. 91. Bukharin, Problemy teorii i praktiki sotsializma, p. 289. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, op. 2, d. 417, l. 86. Stalin, Sochineniya, vol. 1 2 , p . 4 0 .

R. W. Davies, The Industrialisation of Soviet Russia, vol. 3: The Soviet Economy in Turmoil, 1929—1930 (London, 1 9 8 9 ) , p . 1 5 4 .

52. XVI konferentsiya Vsesoyuznoi Kommum'sticheskoi partii (bol’shevikov). p. 159. 53. Ibid., p. 144. 54. Pis’ma I.V. Stalina V.M. Molotovu. 1925—1936 33. Sbomik dokumentov (Moscow, 1995), p. 146. 55. Ibid., p. 168. 56. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, op. 2, d. 441, vypusk 1, 1. 75. 57. Ibid., 1. 32. 58. Ibid., 1. 68. 59. Robert Tucker, Stalin: Put’ k vlasti. 1879—1929 (Moscow, 1 9 9 0 ) , p . 3 6 2 . 60. Bol’shevik, 20 (1929), p. 51. 61. Ibid., p. 47. 62. Stalin, Sochineniya, v o l . 1 2 , p . 1 4 2 . 63. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, op. 2, d. 441, vypusk 1, l. 57. 64. Pis’ma I.V. Stalina V.M. Molotovu, p. 170. 65. See A. Avtorkhanov, Proiskhozhdenie partokratii, v o l . 2 : TsK i Stalin, 2nd e d n (Frankfurt a m Main, 1983), pp. 384—5. 66. Ibid., p. 385. 67. See, for example, D . Shelestov, Vremya Alekseya Rykova (Moscow, 1 9 9 0 ) , pp. 266—7.

Part 11

Foreign Policy: Aspects of Decision Making and Communication

7 The Making of Propaganda Concerning USSR Foreign Policy, 1939—41 Vladimir Aleksandrovich Nevezhin

Introduction

The comprehensive study of the nature and content of Soviet propaganda during the first years of the Second World War is of particular importance, since propaganda constituted a key component in the political system of the USSR. Its principal purpose was the inculcation in social consciousness of certain foreign policy stereotypes and beliefs concerning the national state interests, or geopolitical interests, of the USSR at a t i m e when, t o quote V. M . Molotov, t h e Soviet U n i o n found

itself on the threshold of a ‘holy war’.1 The theme is relevant for the further reason that an analysis of the propaganda i n question enables u s to reconstruct the Stalinist ‘scenario’ for the USSR’s involvement i n the Second World War, for a key part of that scenario was the thorough securing of the USSR’s foreign policy initiatives through the involvement of huge contingents of the Red Army. The present article attempts to throw light on the specific nature of the propaganda campaign surrounding Stalin's best-known initiatives — those that had the greatest resonance i n the international arena: the rapprochement with Germany that followed the pact of 2 3 August 1939 and Germany’s so-called ‘march of liberation' into Poland in September 1939. I n addition, this article will briefly outline my interpretation of the practical measures undertaken i n May—June 1941 to prepare the Soviet Union ideologically for the offensive war — an interpretation that is treated in more detail in my monograph on the subject.2

The propaganda machine By the end of the 19305 an important step i n the evolution of the whole system of Party political propaganda, functioning within the framework 145

146

Vladimir Aleksandrovich Nevezhin

of the Stalinist regime, had been completed. I n this sphere the dictatorship of the ruling Communist Party held virtually complete sway. A clear ideological expression of this dictatorship is offered by the History of the All-Union Communist Party (of Bolsheviks): A Short Course (1938), written with Stalin’s active participation. Bolshevist propaganda was carried out on the basis of the indications given by Stalin in this text, which became the foundation for the conduct of all kinds of ideological campaigns connected both with events inside the country, and with the USSR’s various foreign policy initiatives. Similar indications were to be found in the speeches made by the leader to his propagandists, at the congresses of the Communist Party and at meetings of its Central Committee. Stalin’s interventions and speeches were immediately taken u p as weapons in propaganda work, and quotations from them repeatedly brought into methodological materials intended for ‘warriors on the ideological front’. The correct choice and strategic appointment of cadres played a considerable role i n the achievement of ideological control throughout the country. Enjoying as h e did virtually unlimited power in the country, Stalin made his closest ‘companions-in-arms’ the conduits for his ideas i n the ideological sphere as well. From the late 19305 until 1941 political propaganda was under the joint control of A. A. Andreev and A. A. Zhdanov, and subsequently under A. S. Shcherbakov, A. A. Zhdanov and G . M. Malenkov. The general conduct of Party political work i n military organizations and units was led by t h e Political Department of the Workers’ a nd Peasants’ Red Army (PURKKA), established i n 1 9 2 9 . The PURKKA func-

tioned as the military department of the Central Committee. On 29 July 1940 the PURKKA was renamed the Central Department of Political Propaganda of the Red Army (GUPPKA). From 6 January 1 9 3 8 until 6 September 1940 the head of the PURRKA was L. Z. Mekhlis, who from 1922 to 1927 had worked i n the secretariat of the General Secretary and was close to Stalin. Zhdanov, Shcherbakov and Mekhlis belonged to the ‘first echelon’ and represented the top leadership i n the propaganda sphere of the Central Committee. By contrast, the middle and lower links i n the chain were represented by younger functionaries promoted by Stalin (vydvizhentsy). These ‘new m e n ’ were brought in as replacements for the ‘old guard’ against whom Stalin had for a number of years waged an exhausting war. Among them was G. F. Aleksandrov (on 6 September 1940 he became Head of the Directorate of Propaganda and Agitation of the Central

Propaganda Concerning Foreign Policy, 1939—41 1 4 7

Committee), and A. I. Zaporozhets (who replaced Mekhlis in the post of Head of the GUPPKA on 7 October 1940). Assessing the results of the development of the information—propaganda structure at a plenum of the Central Committee i n February 1937, A. A. Zhdanov with some justification emphasized that: ‘We have unique possibilities. Everything is i n our hands: the radio, the cinema, the press’.3 Corresponding structures (the Directorate of Propaganda and Agitation o f the Central

Committee

(UPA) and the M a i n Directorate

for

Censorship, Glavlit) had been created for the maintenance of ideological control over the country’s press and publications. The censorship carried out by Glavlit was directed at establishing a new mythology i n social consciousness. These structures became an important lever i n the ideological preparation for changes i n domestic and foreign policy. The Soviet leadership’s initiatives, in both domestic and, more especially, foreign policy, enjoyed the full support of the Executive Committee

of

the

Communist

International

(IKKI). The

most

important

resolutions adopted by the Comintern were agreed with Molotov and Zhdanov, but could not be put into effect without confirmation from S t a l i n . The Executive Committee,

Presidium and Secretariat o f the Com-

munist International carried out a great deal of propaganda work. This was accomplished i n the case of the IKKI through its main theoretical organ — the journal Communist International. The political system created by Stalin was based o n discipline, fear and incentives. The Stalinist regime combined the application of its powerful levers — the punitive apparatus (NKVD) and the ramifying system of political-ideological control over the intelligentsia (the UPA and various government institutions and public organizations) - with the use of various incentives. The ‘top echelon’ — the leading figures connected with the organization of propaganda i n the USSR — demonstrated their devotion to the regime through their intimacy with Stalin. Extra proof could be provided by their partiality (though its degree varied i n each case) to the use of mass repressions in the country. The representatives of the ‘second echelon’ — the ‘middle rung’ functionaries — expressed their devotion i n the hope of inclusion i n the ‘iron ring’ of the ‘nomenklatura’, opportunities for which had been created by the ‘purge’ of their predecessors. The ‘local cadres’ of propagandists, political agitators and censors, possessing little by way of education or professional experience, represented the mainstay of the regime, for it was from precisely this group that the middle rung of the propaganda apparatus was recruited.

148

Vladimir Aleksandrovich Nevezhin

Since Stalin and his ‘ideologues’ maintained absolute control over the propaganda sphere, all political-ideological campaigns, in which propaganda was given the decisive role, were launched immediately after the chief had pronounced his decision in a given area - a decision that was ‘echoed’ by his closest confederates. This system created certain conditions for the stable functioning of the Party propaganda machine. But this stability would be severely tried, and the reliability and loyalty of the cadres subjected to a particularly difficult test, by the period of rapprochement with Nazi Germany, which was accompanied by fluctuations in the USSR leadership’s conduct of foreign policy and a shift in the accompanying ideological slogans.

The Soviet—German pact Reports and articles in the main Soviet newspapers about the signing of the pact with Germany on 2 3 August 1939, together with the speeches made on the subject by Molotov, showed a high degree of ‘ideological mimicry’ of the regime, and signalled the launch i n the USSR of a propaganda campaign that would reflect the spirit of the pact itself. The Bolshevist leaders armed themselves with the concept of a budding ‘friendship’ with the Nazi Reich. The very day after the signing of the pact, an editorial i n Pravda observed that the differences in ideology and political system between the two governments that had signed the treaty should not, and could not, present a n obstacle to the establishment of ‘neighbourly relations’ between them. ‘The friendship of the peoples of the USSR and Germany, driven into a dead end by the efforts of our e n e m i e s . . . f r o m now on’, the article emphasized, ‘ should be given the necessary conditions i n which to develop and

flourish’.4 A week later, speaking at a special session of the USSR Supreme Soviet (31 August 1939), Molotov made transparent reference to the need to put a n end to anti-fascist and anti-German propaganda, noting that there were ‘certain short-sighted people’ i n the USSR who appeared to have got

too carried away by such propaganda.5 Molotov’s speeches ‘gave voice’ to the main points i n the reorientation of Soviet propaganda which took place after the pact with Germany and the Agreement on Friendship and Borders signed o n 28 September 1939. The former anti-fascist line and the open propaganda campaign against the Nazis were now to be rejected. But the new course of rapprochement and even ‘friendship’ with Nazi Germany, officially declared by the Bolshevist leadership, did not meet with a positive response on the part

Propaganda Concerning Foreign Policy, 1939—41 149

of the public. It was not accidental that a new popular term arose i n this connection, referring to the Nazis as ‘our sworn friends’. Meanwhile, for those involved i n Party propaganda work, the period of rapprochement with Germany became a real test, fraught with danger and unpredictable consequences. Complete bewilderment reigned among representatives of the Red Army command involved in propaganda. The confusion was evident i n such typical statements as ‘Now one n o longer knows what to write or how to write: we were educated i n an anti-fascist spirit, and now it’s the other way round’, or ‘We mustn’t conduct agitation and propaganda against fascism, because our government doesn’t have any disagreement with the fascists.’ Stalin himself then gave a n exhaustive answer to the question of ‘what and how to write’. He abruptly put a stop to attempts by the editors of the newspaper Krasnaya zvezda to include information o n Germany that differed

from the official new line, a n d i n a conversation

with Mekhlis

made it clear that the publication of materials critical of fascism should immediately be stopped. The conviction spread that ‘it would not be necessary to fight against Germany’. On the orders of the Central Committee and the PURKKA, ‘explanatory’ work was done on people who continued to maintain a contrary point of view, after which ‘they recog-

nized their errors’.6 Mekhlis, i n a sense, had been ‘lucky’, for other people who played a less significant role than the head of the PURRKA, and who did not of course have the opportunity to be guided directly by Stalin’s pronouncements, became thoroughly confused. Thus those working i n the central media, and i n various propaganda institutions and organizations, found themselves in an extremely ambiguous position. Here the offices of Glavlit came to the rescue. After the signing of the Molotov—Ribbentrop pact even the main organ of the Central Committee, the journal Bol’shevik, was forced to correct part of one edition because of ‘inaccurate’ information i n some of its material concerning the mutual relations between Germany and the USSR. Books containing outspoken criticisms of fascism were likewise withdrawn.7 The journalist D. F. Kraminov, who worked at that time for the newspaper Izvestiya, recalls how the pact with Germany was taken as a radical about-turn i n Soviet foreign policy. It plunged everyone into a state of bewilderment: all one could do was spread one’s hands and shrug one’s shoulders.

Kraminov

himself,

who

had

been

ordered

on

24

August 1939 to prepare a draft editorial on the pact for publication i n Izvestiya, d i d not know what t o write, since h i s own attitude remained

anti-fascist.8

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Vladimir Aleksandrovich Nevezhin

Under these circumstances, those working for the Central Department for the Control of Repertoire and Performances (GURK) and the State Arts Committee,

a s well a s the leaders o f the Union o f Soviet Writers and

the editors of the literary journals, were forced to make strategic adaptations to the new situation. Any attempt to present, in an artistic work, material involving even a hypothetical armed conflict between the USSR and Germany, was henceforth banned.9 I n a speech on Soviet foreign policy given at a session of the USSR Supreme Soviet on 1 August 1940, Molotov declared: ‘Underlying the present neighbourly and friendly state of Soviet—German relations are not merely passing considerations of strategy, but the profound state

interests both of the USSR and of Germany’.10 August—September 1940 brought the first anniversaries of the signing of the Soviet—German pact and of the Agreement on Friendship and Borders. These occasions were marked by a series of publications in the Soviet press. I n June 1940 the Deputy Director of the Institute of World Economics and World Politics at the USSR Academy of Sciences, A. F. Bordadyn, was commissioned to write an article on the German economy, but was warned that ‘nothing negative must be written about

Germany, for we are approaching the anniversary of the pact’.11 Soon afterwards the article in question, which ignored the weaknesses of the German economy, was published,12 and the journal Politucheba krasnoarmeitsa (Political Studies for the Red Army Soldier), t h e organ o f the

GUPPKA, included it i n a list of articles recommended for study i n political education classes in countries bordering on the USSR.13 Thus the political advantages gained by the 1939 pacts with Germany were clouded by the ideological costs and contradictions involved. The official line, which was periodically ‘given voice’ i n Molotov’s speeches, afforded little hope of ironing out these contradictions. Following as they did on several years of intensive campaigning against fascism, and offered, moreover, against the background of Germany’s increasing aggression i n Europe, these speeches, aimed at cultivating ‘friendship’ with the Nazis o f the Third Reich, were a source o f bewilderment irritation.

and

Under these circumstances any change in the official line, any return by the Stalinist leadership to the ‘correct’ course of anti-fascism, was regarded as the most realistic and, above all, the most desirable outcome of events. I n order to satisfy the expectation among a majority of the population of a further change i n propaganda, the Stalinist leadership was naturally anxious, immediately after the pact with Germany had been signed, to present incontrovertible proof of the advan-

Propaganda Concerning Foreign Policy, 1 939—41 151

tages that would accrue to the USSR through friendship with Germany, and thus proceeded to undertake its ‘marches of liberation’, which were accompanied by a powerful and aggressive campaign of propaganda. A special point i n the secret protocol, signed by Molotov and Ribbentrop alongside the pact of 23 August 1939, established the intention of both signatories ‘by mutual agreement to solve the question of the very existence of an independent Polish state’.14 Following Germany’s attack on Poland on 1 September 1939, the USSR began preparing to appropriate its own ‘sphere of interest’ at the expense of Polish territories. These preparations involved all sorts of diplomatic, political, military and propaganda measures. The USSR’s intervention

i n Poland

The decision to begin preparations for the USSR’s military intervention in Poland was taken on 6 September, and some three million troops were

immediately mobilized.15 Simultaneously, and in great secrecy, the necessary cadres and technical facilities were prepared for conducting an agitation and propaganda campaign among the troops of the potential enemy (Poland) and the population of the West Ukrainian and West Belorussian territories which were the target of the subsequent ‘march of liberation’ by the Red Army. Front-line units, t o whom t h i s task was eventually allotted, were set u p .

I n the newly-established field headquarters of the Ukrainian and Belorussian fronts (both fronts were established on 11 September, and the military units placed under their command began military action against Poland on 17 September) analogous propaganda departments were created, each consisting of seven officers (a director and six translators). Editorial boards for the planned publications of these departments (initially i n Ukrainian and Belorussian) had been established in advance, each consisting of 25 staff members. O n the basis of a directive of the PURKKA of 5 September 1939, they were deployed on a wartime basis. Within the first ten days of September the necessary typefaces and printing equipment had been provided for the ’railway presses’, and special carriages provided for the accommodation of the editors. Publications of newspapers in Ukrainian and Belorussian, aimed at enemy troops and the local population, began as soon as the Red Army had launched its

offensive against Poland.16 On the night of 7—8 September 1939 Stalin had a prolonged discussion with the General Secretary of t h e IKKI, G . Dimitrov, at which Molotov,

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Vladimir Aleksandrovich Nevezhin

Zhdanov and the Central Committee representative to the IKKI, D. Z. Manuil’skii, were also present. Stalin, in particular, expressed his View that Poland was bound to lose its battle against Germany, and that this could only be to the USSR’s advantage. Poland, he explained to his companions-in-arms, had previously had a ‘national’ government, and revolutionaries had therefore ‘protected it against division and enslavem e n t ’ . Now,

i n September 1 9 3 9 , Stalin continued,

Poland was a fascist

state which was persecuting ‘Ukrainians, Belorussians and so on’. Stalin then pronounced his incontrovertible verdict: ‘The destruction of this state under present conditions would simply mean one fewer bourgeois

fascist statel’.17 It was probably i n the course of this discussion at the Kremlin on the night of 7—8 September that Zhdanov, one of those present, was commissioned to write a n article for Pravda which would serve as a decisive manifesto for the launch of an open anti-Polish propaganda campaign. At the suggestion of the Poliburo, it was specifically to Zhdanov that notes concerning the political structure of Poland, hastily gathered and collated by officials in the ministries of internal and foreign affairs (NKVD and NKID), were sent. Based o n t h i s information,

Zhdanov’s

article — which

was written

around the second week of September — was titled ‘Why Poland is Under-

going Military Attack’.18 In complete accordance with Stalin’s pronouncements, and using the information on Poland presented to him by the NKVD and NKID, Zhdanov labelled Poland ‘a landowningbourgeois state of a semi-fascist type’, i n which Poles themselves constituted only some 60 per cent of the population, while the rest was made up o f ethnic minorities — Ukrainians, Belorussians, Jews, Germans and s o

o n . I n the first draft of the article the number of Ukrainians and Belorussians was said to be in the order of ‘10 million’. But Zhdanov slightly reworked the text. A surviving manuscript of the article, annotated ‘Comrade Stalin’s copy’, suggests that the final version was completed

with Stalin’s assistance.19 On 1 4 September 1939 the reworked text of Zhdanov’s article was published, unsigned and under a new title (‘On the Internal Reasons for the Military Strike against Poland’), in Pravda. The article expressed satisfaction at the fact that ‘the Polish government (had) proved incapable’ and had ‘begun to fall apart’ after its first military defeats. But nothing at all was said about the overwhelming superiority of the German army which had invaded Polish territory. As Alexander Werth later pointed out, Pravda’s leader ‘argued that the Polish army had practically

not fought a t all’ (Werth’s italics — V. N.).20

Propaganda Concerning Foreign Policy, 1939—41 153

At the same time, the ethnic policy of the Polish government, with regard chiefly to the Ukrainians and Belorussians, was declared to be virtually the main reason for the military attack against Poland. Zhdanov did not shy from resorting to an extremely unflattering comparison: the policy of the Polish government with regard to Western Ukraine and Western Belorussia, which had allegedly been turned into colonies and deprived of all rights, i n no way differed from ‘the oppressive policy of Russian tsarism’. Thus, i n accordance with the political line set out by Stalin on the eve of the Red Army’s ‘march of liberation’ into Western Ukraine and Western Belorussia, the propaganda was aimed at creating an ambivalent image of Poland: on the one hand there was the hostile, reactionary Polish government, on the other the Russians’ ‘blood brothers’, the Belorussians and Ukrainians, groaning under the yoke and impatiently awaiting their liberation at the hands of the USSR and the Red Army. The political department of the Red Army attached great importance to the study of the above-mentioned article. O n 15 September, in a directive addressed to the political organs of the six military districts where large-scale educational meetings were held, Mekhlis ordered the Pravda leader to be placed ’in all district, army and division newspapers’, and to be republished as a separate bulletin where no such newspapers existed. Furthermore, i t was essential that m a s s education be conducted

on the basis of the article ‘ O n the Internal Reasons for the Military Strike against Poland’, and that it should be made available to every commander, political worker and Red Army soldier for the purposes of political information. Political workers and army commanders aimed ‘to explain the situation of the Belorussian and Ukrainian peasantry in the landowners’ Poland’, using press materials about peasant ’actions and uprisings’. But their main task consisted in proving that ‘the national yoke has led Poland to military defeat’. It was recommended to those carrying out this educational work that the position of Ukrainians and Russians living in the Ukrainian and Belorussian republics of the USSR should be compared with the position of these nations in Poland, and that ‘the flourishing state of Ukrainian and Belorussian literature, journalism and art’ on Soviet territory be emphasized. According to a directive issued by the PURKKA on 15 September, lectures based on the themes dealt with i n the above-mentioned Pravda leader (the ethnic composition of Poland, the national yoke, the methods used by the ruling circles in Poland to maintain their power, and hence the reasons for launching a military attack against the country) should be conducted for the benefit of the army’s military and political leaders.21

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Vladimir Aleksandrovich Nevezhin

Following the publication of Zhdanov’s article on 1 4 September 1939, a major campaign to discredit the present Polish state, formed as a result of the 1919 Treaty of Versailles, was unleashed in the Soviet press. I n essence the campaign called into question the very right to sovereignty of post-Versailles Poland, whose structure of government had allegedly been built on ‘plunder, seizure and robbery’. The prevailing picture conveyed by numerous articles o n the state of Poland was one of economic exploitation, poverty, unemployment, and economic decline. Particular attention was paid in this Bolshevist propaganda to proving the connection between the oppressed condition of the Ukrainian and Belorussian peoples and the economic backwardness of these national minorities. I n sum, this unhappy picture of the situation in the Polish part of Western Ukraine and Western Belorussia was used to arouse among the Soviet population feelings of solidarity with their ‘blood brothers, the

Ukrainians and Belorussians’.22 The Red Army’s attack o n Poland, or, a s Molotov dubbed it, ‘ t h e Soviet

Union’s military intervention’23 began early in the morning of 17 September 1939. O n the same day Molotov broadcast on radio a speech addressed to the citizens of the USSR. The speech emphasized in particular that Poland had proved its internal bankruptcy, that its government’s present whereabouts was unknown, that former Soviet—Polish agreements had been forfeited, and that the USSR ‘had extended a helping hand to its Ukrainian and Belorussian brothers living i n Poland’. But attention was also drawn to other circumstances. Following the partial call-up in six military disctricts, the Red Army had been strongly reinforced and would be able ‘to carry out with honour its worthy mission’. Finally, confidence was expressed that the Red Army would show ’its military might, consciousness and discipline, that new victories would be achieved in carrying out this task, and that it would cover itself ‘in

heroism and glory’.24 The main tenets of Molotov’s speech immediately became part of the propaganda effort among the military units and divisions of the Red Army which had crossed the border into Poland on 1 7 September 1939, and were recommended for study alongside the Pravda editorial of 1 4 September. The PURKKA issued a special directive, ‘ O n the Study of the Speech by the Head of the Soviet Government, Comrade V. M. Molotov’, proposing that the text of this speech be published in all mass-circulation district and divisional newspapers, and decreeing moreover that at meetings of personnel resolutions should be passed ’approving the Government’s measures and expressing r e a d i n e s s . . . t o carry out any military commission by the Party and government’.

Propaganda Concerning Foreign Policy, 1939—41 155

I n the directives issued by the Red Army the march of liberation was dubbed ‘a just revolutionary war’. The task of the Red Army units which had crossed the Polish—Soviet border o n 1 7 September 1939 was twofold: to destroy the opposing Polish troops and to ‘liberate’, or i n other words to occupy the territories of the Western Ukraine and Western Belorussia. This task would be accomplished principally by delivering a decisive attack under the slogan ‘the most just of all wars’. I n materials of the IKKI designated for circulation among communists abroad it was constantly reiterated, in various different forms, that the USSR, i n entering the territory of Western Ukraine and Western Belorussia, had carried out its ‘mission of liberation’ and ‘pulled 1 1 million people out of the capitalist hell, involving them i n the great work of socialism, guaranteeing their free national and cultural development, and bringing all the might of the state to bear in delivering them from

foreign enthrallment and enslavement’.25 Altogether the USSR’s first effort to ‘appropriate’ its ‘sphere of interests’, as agreed i n the secret protocols to the pact of 2 3 August a nd to the Agreement o n Friendship and Borders of 28 September 1939, proved entirely successful. The complex approach to developing a propaganda campaign that would justify the USSR’s territorial expansion at the expense of Poland, whose very right to exist had been called into question by Stalin and his circle, was shown to be highly effective. The Polish defeats i n the military conflict with Germany had thrown very unfavourable light on the political leadership of Poland. The ideological underpinnings used to justify the Soviet Union’s advance to the West, and in particular the call to arms delivered in the slogan concerning ‘the liberation of our Ukrainian and Belorussian brothers’, who were trapped ‘under the yoke of the Polish landowners’, successfully struck a chord with public consciousness in the USSR. I n November 1 9 3 9 , i n t h e wake o f t h e march o n Poland, Stalin set out

to ‘liberate’ Finland. This attempt, as we know, was not however so successful, and above all involved a great deal more bloodshed for the Red Army. O n the other hand Stalin’s annexations of the Baltic Republics, Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina in 1940 proved relatively easy.

Deterioration of Soviet-German 5 May 1941

relations: Stalin’s speech on

After 1940, meanwhile, and especially following Molotov’s Visit to Berlin i n November

1 9 4 0 , there was a marked deterioration

i n Soviet—German

relations. But right up until spring 1941 the Soviet government gave n o

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Vladimir Aleksandrovich Nevezhin

public indication of their concern about the growing strength of Hitler’s position in Europe. By this time Germany had become a real threat to Soviet interests in the Balkans, having included Bulgaria among its allies and defeated Yugoslavia, with which the USSR was linked by the Agreement on Friendship and Non-Aggression. It was under these circumstances, with no prospect of improvement in Soviet—German relations but, o n the contrary,

the threat o f military confrontation,

that Stalin

made his speeches on 5 May 1941 to the graduates of the military academies. Stalin no doubt wanted in some way to react to the situation and to demonstrate publicly that he had it ‘under control’. He first delivered a forty-minute speech in the Kremlin to the military ‘academicians’, and then proposed a series of toasts and rejoinders at a large banquet given after the official graduation ceremony. The main accent in his initial speech was on the completion of the process of rearming the Red Army, as a result of which the latter was now a modern fighting force. I n the second part of his speech, which concerned foreign policy questions, he gave a detailed evaluation of the reasons for the defeats of the Western Allies and for Germany’s victories i n the course of 1940— 41. While in general highly commending the German army, Stalin nevertheless emphasized that it had ’changed the slogans of liberation from the Versailles Treaty to ones that were more predatory’. The Soviet leader asserted that the Werhmacht

’would not succeed (if i t fought)

under

predatory slogans of conquest’. I n concluding his speech to the graduates, Stalin considered it necessary once more to sum up his calculations regarding the reasons for Germany’s victories in Europe. He made it very clear that the strength and might of the German army should not be exaggerated. It had sustained its victories only because of the weakness and the unpreparedness for war of its opponents, above all of France. But Stalin uttered his key phrase, as far as the USSR’s future foreign policy prospects were concerned, at the graduation banquet that followed. I n reply to a speech by a general who had proposed a toast to ‘Stalin’s peaceful foreign policy’, the chief made the following correction:

A peaceful policy has ensured peace for our country. A peaceful policy is a good thing. We adopted a defensive line — until we had rearmed our army and equipped it with modern means of warfare. And now that we have reconstructed our army and fully equipped it for modern battle, now that we have become strong — now it is time to shift from the defence to the offence.

Propaganda Concerning Foreign Policy, 1939—41 157

In conducting the defence of our country, we are obliged to act offensively. To shift from defence to a military policy of offensive operations. We must

restructure

our indoctrination,

our propaganda and

agitation, and our publications i n an offensive spirit. The Red Army is

a modern army, and a modern army is an offensive army.26 (My italics) There have been many different, and at times contradictory, interpretations in the literature of this response by Stalin. Thus one may even come across the assertion that by ’attack' Stalin meant nothing other

than ‘defence’.27 One important fact, however, should be taken into account: following Stalin’s pronouncement, on 5 May 1941, concerning the need to reorientate the country’s education, propaganda, agitation and press to a spirit of attack, active steps were immediately taken to put this statement into effect. The main questions arising i n the course of transforming the propaganda campaign i n a spirit of a ‘military policy of offensive action’ were discussed at meetings of the Orgburo, the Secretariat and the Directorate of Propaganda and Agitation of the Central Committee, as well as in the press department of the People’s Commissariat of Foreign Affairs, and the Main Directorate of Political Propaganda of the Red Army. This grandiose campaign was conducted under the direct leadership of the Secretaries of the Central Committee,

Zhdanov and Shcherbakov.

In response to the clear and unequivocal indications given by Stalin i n his speech to the graduates of the military academies about the reorientation of propaganda, attention was focused i n the first instance on the mass media. I n the hands of the Bolshevist leadership the press had always been one of the main instruments of propaganda and agitation. Just as at other critical junctures in the history of the Soviet government, so at the beginning of May 1941 it was precisely th e press that became the focus of intense concern on th e part of the Central Committee. O n 8—9 May 1941 meetings with representatives from the media (the editors of the main newspapers and journals and employees of the press agency TASS) were held at the Secretariat of the Central Committee, with

Shcherbakov presiding.28 A comparison of the theses put forward in Shcherbakov’s speeches at the meetings with press representatives o n 8—9 May 1941, and the notes for Stalin’s speeches to the graduates of the military academies, unequivocally suggests that Stalin’s speech, and his rejoinder at the banquet on 5 May, formed the specific model for Shcherbakov’s theses. Thus, following Stalin’s concrete indication that it was essential to restructure the current propaganda in an offensive spirit, Shcherbakov emphasized precisely this point i n his theses.

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I n the third section of the theses we find the following notes: ‘The slogan of defence, the slogan of attack. Prepare for a policy of war’. It is obvious that these formulae are taken directly from the ‘defence—attack’ antithesis put forward i n Stalin’s toast at the 5 May reception. Shcherbakov, using the same antithesis, drew attention precisely to the change from defensive to offensive slogans in the context of preparation for war. After the editors and TASS correspondents had been given their orders, it was the turn of the film makers to be given concrete instructions by the Central Committee on the launch of the new propaganda campaign i n the country. This took place during a meeting with the Central Committee on 14—15 May 1941, with Zhdanov presiding. The Secretary of the Central Committee found it necessary to emphasize the new problems confronting Soviet propaganda, and made clear, moreover, precisely what war the people as a whole, and film-makers in particular, should be preparing for. I n its foreign policy, he reported, the Bolshevist leadership combined independence and freedom of initiative with an expansion, where ‘circumstances permit’, ‘of the front of socialism, always and everywhere’. At this point, to support his thesis, he introduced some graphic examples, advising his audience to remember the events of 1939—40, when the Baltic states, Western Ukraine and Western Belorus-

sia, Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina had been incorporated in the USSR. ‘You understand precisely’, Zhdanov confided to his audience, ‘that if circumstances permit us, we will extend the front of socialism still further’. I n this connection he formulated the key task: it was essential to instil in the people an intolerance towards ‘the enemies of socialism’, and a readiness to deliver ‘a fatal blow to any bourgeois country and any bourgeois coalition’, and above all to educate people ‘in a spirit of active, fighting, military offensive’ (my italics — V. N.) The responsibility for achieving this task, according to Zhdanov, lay also with film makers, who, like other Soviet citizens, understood ‘the problem of our further development’, and realized very clearly that ’a conflict would of course arise between ourselves [the USSR - V. N . ] and the bourgeois world, and

we are duty-bound to conclude it to the benefit of socialism’.29 On 1 4 May 1941, that is to say, on the same day that Zhdanov and Shcherbakov opened their conference with film makers at the Central Committee, the conclusions of an investigation into Party political work with Red Army personnel were presented at a session of the Main Military Council (GVS). The timing, it seems clear, was no coincidence, but testifies yet again to the careful coordination of the Bolshevist leadership’s actions in launching their propaganda campaign in the new spirit

Propaganda Concerning Foreign Policy, 1939—41 159

of offensive war. At the session of the GVS on 14 May it was decided as soon as possible to begin drafting instructions concerning the tasks of

propaganda and Party political work among the troops.30 Thus the above-mentioned speeches by Zhdanov and Shcherbakov, and the resolution passed by the GVS, were all aimed precisely at a reorientation of propaganda in preparation for taking the offensive militarily. Evidence of this may be found i n particular i n the directives prepared by the Central Committee of the Communist Party and the GUPPKA in May—June 1941.O n 28 May 1941 G . F. Aleksandrov sent Zhdanov and Shcherbakov a draft for a Central Committee directive, prepared at their request, ‘ O n the Immediate Tasks of Propaganda’. O n 26 May 1941 A. I. Zaporozhets sent the Central Committee Secretaries a ‘Draft paper on the tasks of political propaganda i n the Red Army, arising from the speech by Comrade STALIN o n 5 May this year, which was to be included i n the general directive prepared by the Central Committee’. I n addition, on 26 May 1941,the Head of t h e Main Directorate of Political Propaganda of the Red Army sent Zhdanov, Shcherbakov and Aleksandrov the text of a speech o n ‘The Contemporary International Situation and the Foreign Policy of the USSR’.The text had been prepared by the instructors of the GUPPKA. Zaporozhets asked permission to organize on the basis of this material ‘lectures and speeches for the personnel of the Red Army i n

closed auditoriums’.31 Thus by the beginning of June 1941 Zhdanov, Shcherbakov, Aleksandrov and Zaporozhets had at their disposal all the directives and materials for instruction that had been prepared i n great secrecy, and great haste, and which reflected the conclusions of the preparatory work of the propaganda structures i n putting into effect Stalin’s call for a reorientation of propaganda in a spirit of offensive war. On two occasions at meetings of the GVS, the GUPPKA examined the directive materials supplied. As a result a final document was prepared. It was titled ‘ O n the tasks of Political Propaganda i n the Red Army i n the Immediate Future’, and o n 20 June the GVS approved the draft of this directive. The final editing of the text was entrusted to Central Committee Secretary Malenkov, to the People’s Commissar for Defence S. K. Timoshenko, and to the head of the GUPPKA, Zaporozhets. O n the same day the directive was forwarded to Stalin by Malenkov. The draft of the Central Committee’s directive ‘ O n the Current Tasks of Propaganda’ was edited by Shcherbakov himself. These documents refer openly to the necessity of offensive military action. The initiative for launching such action should lie, they made

160

Vladimir Aleksandrovich Nevezhin

clear, with the USSR and the Red Army. Noting, in full accordance with Stalin’s speeches, that the Red Army had been reorganized and rearmed with the latest technology, and that its motorized divisions enjoyed powerful strike capacity, the authors of the Central Committee’s draft directive drew attention to the following important circumstance. Since the USSR was surrounded by capitalist countries, a conflict with ‘the capitalist world was inevitable’. That being the case, the first socialist state i n the world, the document emphasized, was simply ‘obliged any day now, stubbornly and tenaciously, to prepare for a decisive battle with the surrounding capitalist world’ and emerge the victor from it, thus guaranteeing ‘the final victory of socialism’. Referring, furthermore, to Lenin’s statements concerning the necessity of offensive military action, the authors of the draft directive came to an important conclusion: ‘Leninism teaches that the country of socialism, making use of favourable international circumstances, must and is obliged to take upon itself the initiative for offensive military action [my italics — V. N.] against the surrounding capitalist world with the aim of broadening the socialist front’. This idea found similar expression in the text of a lecture given by the GUPPKA concerning the international situation of the Soviet Union: ‘We cannot exclude the possibility that the USSR will be forced, in view of the way i n which the situation has developed, to take the initiative to launch a military offensive’.3‘2 I n another part of the text this idea is reiterated, in this case with reference to quotations from Lenin. Citing an extract from Lenin’s article ‘ On Left Infantilism and the Petty Bourgeoisie’ (the sense of the quotation amounted to a recognition of the inevitability of ‘a final decisive struggle with world imperialism as a whole’), the authors came to the following conclusion: This, of course, does not exclude the possibility of an attack by the USSR against individual capitalist countries which threaten our security, at a time when there is no clear revolutionary situation in the capitalist countries. But in either case, the USSR may go on the offensive against the imperialist powers, defending the victory of socialism and carrying out the momentous mission allotted by history to the first socialist state of workers and peasants, to destroy the perpetually

threatening capitalist world around us.33 The draft directive of the Central Committee, ’Concerning the Current Tasks of Propaganda’ gave a more concrete justification for a possible military offensive by the Soviet Union. Now that the USSR’s military weakness was a thing of the past, and the international situation had

Propaganda Concerning Foreign Policy, 1939—41 161

grown more acute, ‘the military danger for our country’, the document noted, ’has drawn closer than ever before’. In complete accordance with the former propaganda principles that had been successfully applied during the ‘marches of liberation’, the Central Committee’s draft directive stated directly: ‘Under these conditions the Leninist slogan “To defend our own land on foreign soil” may at any time be put into

practical action’.34 Thus i n May—June 1941 active work was done on reworking propaganda directives and educational materials, with the aim of putting into effect Stalin’s pronouncements in his speech to the graduates of the military academies. However, the USSR did not succeed in putting Stalin’s intentions into practice in 1941: Hitler attacked the USSR first, and as a result, by force of objective circumstances, the idea of launching a n offensive was put on the back burner. I n discussing Soviet propaganda during the pre-war years, it should be emphasized, above all, that it was an important instrument in carrying out Stalin’s large-scale foreign policy initiatives, such as the rapprochement with Germany following the pact, the invasion of Poland, the war against Finland and the annexation of the Baltic states. The propaganda mechanism of Stalin’s regime was wholly under the ideological control of the Party as personified by Stalin’s closest associates. This mechanism was tightly organized and worked i n complete accordance with the tasks set out by the Bolshevist leadership during the opening stage of the Second World War. Notes

1 . Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv literatury i iskusstva (The Russian State Archive

of Literature a n d

Art, hereafter

c i t e d a s RGALI), f. 1 0 3 8 , o p . 1 ,

9‘99.“

S9

d . 2079, l. 2 3 . V. A. Nevezhin, Sindrom nastupatel’noi voiny. Sovetskaya propaganda v predverii ’svyashchennykh boev’, 1939—1941 gg. (Moscow, 1997). Sovetskaya kul’tura v rekonstruktivnyi period, 1928-1941 (Moscow, 1988), p. 205. Pravda, 24 August 1939. Pravda, 31 August 1939. D. A. Volkogonov, Triumf i tragediya: politicheskii portret I. V. Stalina. V 2 kn. (Moscow, 1988), v o l . 2 , part 1, pp. 131, 132; N . Plotnikov, ’Raschety i proschet y . . . Gebbel’sa’, i n Armiya, 22 (1993), pp. 54-5. 7 . M . V. Zelenov, ‘Glavlit i istorisheskaya nauka v 20—30e gody’, i n Voprosy istorii, 3 (1997), p. 3 3 . 8 . D. F. Kraminov, V orbite voiny: Zapiski sovetskogo korrespondenta za rubezhom. 1939—1945 gody (Moscow, 1980), p. 55. 9. RGALI, f. 618, o p . 2 , d . 1101, l. 114, 115, 159; f. 656, o p . 3, d.11, l. 3,4.

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Vladimir Aleksandrovich Nevezhin

10. Pravda, 2 August 1940. 11. Rossiiskii tsentr khraneniya i izucheniya dokumentov noveishei istorii (The Russian Centre for the Preservation and Study of Documents of Contemporary History, hereafter cited a s RTsKhIDNI), f. 1 7 , o p . 1 1 7 , d . 2 7 9 , l . 1 2 1 .

12. A. Bordadyn, ’Organizatsiya voennogo khozyaistva v Germanii’, i n Mirovoe khozyaistvo i mirovaya politika, 8 (1940), pp. 38—49. 13. Politucheba krasnoarmeitsa, 7 (1941), p. 2 (cover). 14. Dokumenty vneshnei politiki SSSR. 1939. T. XXII. V. 2 kn. (Moscow, 1992), Book 1: January—August, doc. 485. 15. Yu. Fel’shtinskii, (ed.), Oglasheniyu podlezhit: SSSR-Germaniya, 1939—1941: Dokumenly i materialy (Moscow, 1991), doc. 45; M. I. Mel’tyukhov, ‘Sovremennaya istoriografiya i polemika vokrug knigi V. Suvorova “Ledokol” ', i n Yu. N. Afanas’ev (ed.), Sovetskaya istoriografiya (Moscow, 1996), p. 495. 16. S. I. Repko, ‘Organizatsiya propagandistskoi deyatel'nosti Krasnoi Armii V period boevykh deistvii osen'yu 1939 goda’, i n Zhumalistika. Istoriya i sovremennost’ (Moscow, 1 9 9 3 ) , p p . 47—8.

17. F. I. Firsov, ‘Arkhivy Kominterna i vneshnyaya politika SSSR V 1939—1941 gg.’, i n Novaya i noveishaya istoriya, 6 (1992), p. 19; Komintem i vtoraya mirovaya voina (Moscow, 1 9 9 4 ) , Part 1 : t o J u n e 1 9 4 1 , p p . 1 0 , 1 1 .

18. 19. 20. 21.

Pravda, 1 4 September 1939. RTsKhIDNI, f. 77, o p . 1, d . 886, l. 3,9,12a, 14. A. Werth, Rossiya v voine 1941—1945 (Moscow, 1965), p. 76. Partiino-politicheskaya rabota v boevoi obstanovke. Sbomik dokumentov, izdannykh v0 vremya osvoboditel’nogo pokhoda v Zapadnuyu Ukrainu i Zapadnuyu Belorussiyu (Moscow, 1940), p p . 14-15. 22. E. Rosovska-Yakubchik, Otnosheniya Pol’shi i SSSR v 1939—1943 godakh i sovetskaya pressa. Dissertatsiya kandidata istoricheskikh nauk (Moscow, 1993), pp.66—7. 23. Oglasheniyu podlezhit (see note 1 5 above), Doc. 49. 24. Pravda, 18 September 1939. 25. Komintem i vtoraya mirovaya voina, Part 1 , d o c s . 1 7 , 1 8 - 1 9 , 2 1 , 5 2 . 26. V. A. Nevezhin, ‘Stalin’s 5 May 1941 Addresses: The Experience of Interpretat i o n ’ , i n The

Ioumal

of Slavic Military

Studies, vol. 1 1 , 1 (March

1998),

pp. 116—46. 27. 1. Fleishhauer, Diplomatischer Widerstand gegen ’Untemehmen Barbarossa’: Die Friedensbemuhungen der Deutschen Botschaft Moskau 1939—1941 (Berlin: Ullstein, 1 9 9 1 ) ; G . Gorodetskii, Mif ’ledokola’:

Nakanune voiny (Moscow, 1 9 9 5 ) .

28. RTsKhIDNI, f. 88, o p . 1, d . 927, l. 33. 29. RTsKhIDNI f. 17, o p . 121, d . 115,1. 8,10,46, 159, 162; f. 77, o p . 1, d . 919, 1. 1a, 3, 39—40, 152, 153. 30. RTsKhIDNI, f. 71, o p . 25, d . 4004, 1. 1—2. 31. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 125, d . 27, l. 84. 32. Ibid., 1. 110. 33. Ibid., 1. 118—19. 34. RTsKhIDNI, f. 88, o p . 1, d . 898, 1.1—22.

8 The USSR’s Decision to Begin the ‘Winter War’, 1939—40 Vladimir N. Baryshnikov

Introduction

A pressing question i n the historiography of the Second World War concerns the Soviet conflict with Finland which arose in late 1939 and resulted eventually i n a war between the two countries. The causes and nature of that conflict are still a matter of lively controversy among historians. The debate has focused i n particular on the reasons for the outbreak of war: this was the second war that the Soviet Union had fought since its inception, and its occurrence poses several questions, especially since it was an aggressive rather than a defensive war on the part of the USSR. But few attempts have been made to investigate the initial causes of the so-called ‘Winter War’ or the extent of the losses which the Soviet Union incurred; these are among the ’blank spots’ in Soviet historiography. Moreover, certain historians have put forward the thesis that the Soviet-Finnish war should be considered part of the Second World War, and that the date on which the Soviet Union became involved in the World War should be amended accordingly. Clearly, the key to the problem should be sought in the way i n which the Soviet Union arrived at its decision to begin the war. Even granted the difficult nature o f Soviet—Finnish relations i n t h e 1 9 3 0 5 , i t should b e

recognized that the Winter War of 1939—40 could not have arisen but for the Hitler—Stalin pact: it was the obvious result of heightened international tension at the time, and in this sense could undoubtedly be seen as a consequence of the outbreak of the Second World War itself. At the same t i m e , the Winter War can be considered a discrete and limited

episode: its immediate causes were undeniably local, and the conflict lasted only 105 days. Neither Finland nor the Soviet Union, in short, 163

164

Vladimir N. Baryshnikov

saw themselves at the time as participating i n the larger European conflict. The key question is what motivated the Soviet leadership to launch its action against Finland, and why the decision t o start the war was taken in the USSR. Was the USSR pursuing some large-scale and aggressive goal, or did it aspire only to put itself in the best possible position to defend itself, anticipating its subsequent massive involvement i n the continental war? Once again, these questions are controversial. But the underlying purposes behind the war may surely be sought by examining the manner i n which the idea of launching it evolved i n the Kremlin. No doubt both the Soviet Union’s aggressive intentions towards Finland, and its preparations for large-scale war i n Europe, which involved putting itself in the most favourable possible strategic position at the outbreak of the Second World War, could theoretically be united i n one general aim, since the advancement of Soviet troops into the heart of Finland gave the Soviet Union an opportunity not only more conclusively to solve the local problem of Leningrad’s defence (which had been the main point of discussion i n the Soviet—Finnish negotiations), but also to strengthen its strategic position i n the Baltic—Scandinavian region as a whole. Nevertheless, these two purposes are fundamentally different, a nd to understand the difference we must examine what interest the Soviet leadership was pursuing i n preparing for this specific war.

Soviet political and military planning in the 19205 and 19305 I n clarifying the concrete goals which the Soviet leadership aimed t o achieve i n its war with Finland, it is important to look at the nature of its political and military planning i n the 19205 and 19305. An analysis of Moscow's policy concerning Finland shows that during that period it underwent serious changes. First o f all, i t should b e borne i n m i n d t h a t o n c e t h e Civil War was over

and territorial and other problems in relation to Finland had been settled, the Soviet government quite openly supported the so-called ‘Red Finns’ (political refugees from Finland who had settled i n Soviet Russia). Eastern Karelia played a special role i n this policy. An autonomous national region, established on the initiative of the prominent ‘Red Finn' E. Gylling on the northwest borders of the Soviet Russia, Eastern Karelia became the bulwark of the Finnish revolutionaries who had emigrated from Finland. According to Gylling’s plans, the autonomous Karelian state would become the socialist alternative to the bourgeois Finnish state. I n

The Decision to Begin the ’Winter War’, 1939—40 165

practice, this meant the abandonment of the Finnish Communists’ policy of preparing directly for armed struggle to seize power i n Finland, in favour of the policy of creating a Finno-Ugric workers’ and peasants’ state o n the territory of Soviet Russia. The latter prospect was seen in Moscow as the most probable course of events. The newly-created autonomous state was named the Karelian Labour Commune and included those regions i n which ethnic Karelians — but also some Russians — resided (its population consisted of about 60 per cent Karelians and just

over 38 per cent Russians.1) I n the 19203 the Soviet state gave active support to the pro-Finnish movement by promoting the Finnish language and imposing its use among Karelians. By late September 1920, moreover, moves had already begun to establish a Finnish military force. The creation of the Karelian Chasseur Battalion, which i n 1930—31 was transformed into the Separate Karelian Chasseur Brigade, was announced on 1 5 October 1925.2 The role of the ‘Red Finns’ i n Karelia became even stronger after the Commune was transformed into an autonomic republic (the KASSR) i n 1923, i n a move intended by the Finnish leadership of the republic to raise its status. Already i n 1922 Gylling had spoken of the need to formalize relations with Moscow through a written agreement. And i n December 1926 A. Shotman, the first Chairman and Honorary Member o f the Central Executive Committee o f t h e KASSR, a n d a member o f t h e All-Russian Central Executive Committee, observed that ‘ n o n e o f the

other autonomous Soviet republics has such complete autonomy as

Karelia’.3 The activities o f t h e F i n n i s h Communist

Party (CPF) i n t h e USSR dur-

ing this period were equally significant. Established i n Moscow i n 1918, the Party openly worked to undermine the existing regime i n Finland, a n d i n so doing naturally earned the support of the Soviet leadership. Thus Moscow took great care of the so-called ‘Red Finns’ and gave them considerable scope for initiative. During this period, of course, the idea of t h e approaching revolutionary upheaval i n Finland and of international class solidarity was one of th e defining elements of Soviet policy. It is not surprising, therefore, that the autonomous Karelian republic, created solely for ‘the export of revolution’ to Finland, is still frequently seen as a n artificial formation. On this basis some historians have concluded that the Soviet leadership forcibly carried out a policy of ‘Finnization’ in the region, contrary to the national interests of the Karelian people. Soviet military planning during this time was quite indicative of the USSR’s relations to Finland. For most of the period under examination,

1 6 6 Vladimir N. Baryshnikov

the main aim of the Soviet command in the northwest amounted t o repelling any possible attack on Petrograd (Leningrad) launched from Finnish territory. I n other words, the Kremlin did not at that time plan any military occupation of Finland; the idea was not even discussed. With the stabilization of Soviet—Finnish relations in the early 19205, a four-year programme to construct a fortified district o n the Karelian isthmus was developed. Though primarily defensive in nature, it allowed for the possibility of ‘active initiatives’ by the defenders ‘in the event of a breach by the enemy in the most dangerous direction along the Keksholm or Vyborg highways’. Provision was made for the possibility that battles might be fought not only against the Finnish army, but also against potential allies. It was therefore proposed that up to five infantry divisions be deployed on the Karelian isthmus.4 However, as far as the operational plan went, there was no great escalation in the measures undertaken to strengthen the battle readiness of the Soviet troops, notwithstanding certain periods of heightened tension (1927 and

1930—31).5 It is clear that i n the first half of the 19305 the Red Army command considered the territory of Finland only as ‘a minor theatre of military action’. This was confirmed by the stationing of only a limited contingent of troops on the border with Finland: only four infantry divisions were stationed there, with the specific commission ‘firmly to defend the Leningrad industrial district’. It is revealing that the forces deployed here amounted to less than a quarter of those deployed on the borders of

Estonia and Latvia.6 Thus it is evident that the USSR had no concrete plan at this stage to launch an attack against Finland with the purpose of seizing its neighbour’s territory. Consideration was given only to repelling a possible attack against the USSR launched from Finland by a third party. The mid-19305, however, saw a new stage both in the Soviet government’s attitude towards the Finnish population in the USSR, and in the planning of military action against Finland. The

Finnish

ambassador

t o Moscow,

1. Koskinen,

described

the

changes which took place during this period in the USSR. By January 1935 he was already writing to Helsinki that: ‘The situation i n Russia is undergoing a complete change.’ I n a further message later on he emphasized that ‘the Soviet Union is developing a great power mentality’.7 The Finnish ambassador’s observations did indeed reflect what was happening in Moscow at the time. Here, however, we shall concern ourselves not with the reasons for this phenomenon, but with its various manifestations.

The Decision to Begin the ’Winter War’, 1939—40 167

The evolution of the Soviet leadership’s Views led to a new stage i n their relations with the ‘Red Finns’. In August 1935 a campaign against ‘Finnish nationalism' was launched i n Karelia. The leading role of the Finnish Communists i n Karelia was decisively eliminated. On 15 October the Petrozavodsk Committee of the CPF and other Party Committees were closed. O n 3 1 October the founder of Soviet Karelia, Edward Gylling, was relieved of his post as head of the republic’s government. Former ‘Red Finns’ were accused of displaying nationalist tendencies and of conducting espionage o n behalf of Finland. The NKVD fabricated a case concerning an alleged secret Finnish counter-revolutionary organization.8 Similar measures were taken simultaneously i n other places where the ‘Red Finns' had carried out their work. CPF activities in Leningrad were halted i n early autumn 1936. The Finnish branch of the National Minori t i e s University was disbanded, a n d i t s head, J . K . Lehtinen, was relieved

of his post as Chief Editor of the magazine Kommunisti. By mid-1937 the change i n the Soviet leadership’s attitude towards the former ‘Red Finns’ was obvious. The rout was complete. In Leningrad the editorial offices of Finnish newspapers such as Vapaus were closed, as were educational institutions and schools, whose directors and boards of governors were arrested. In Moscow the most prominent representatives of the CPF were likewise arrested: K. Rovio o n 8Ju1y 1937 and E. Gylling on 17 July 1937, while the Party Chairman Kullervo Manner, who had led the Party for 15 years, was arrested somewhat earlier, in 1935, together with his wife and some twenty of his close associates. They were accused of being agents of the Finnish police and of aiming to annexe Soviet Karelia to Finland. Thus a blow of unprecedented force was unleashed o n the Finnish Communists. By mid-1938 the CPF had effectively ceased its activities i n the Soviet Union. As a result of the ‘Special operation o n the Finns’ carried out i n 1937— 38, at least 4688 Finns were arrested and condemned by the NKVD in Karelia alone. Considering that the number of Firms i n Karelia i n the mid-19305 barely exceeded 3 per cent of the total population of the republic, this means that over 40 per cent of the Finnish population

suffered repression.9 The Finnish military contingents experienced similar difficulties. I n March 1935 the Politburo passed a resolution disbanding the territorial national military units, as well as the departments of military-educational institutions in which Finnish officers were trained. The Separate Karelian Chasseur Brigade was disbanded in autumn 1935, as was the Finnish branch of the Infantry School in Leningrad. Some officers were demobilized, while others were sent to serve i n other regions. But most

1 6 8 Vladimir N. Baryshnikov

officers and cadets of Finnish nationality were arrested. Out of a total of 257 men, only 1 1 per cent escaped arrest during the period of ‘purges’ and repressions i n 1935—38. Over 90 per cent were executed or died i n

the camps.10 The changed nationalities policy towards both the local Firms and the Finnish émigrés testified to the Soviet leadership’s withdrawal from the idea that the Soviet Finns could influence the revolutionary process i n Finland, and to a shift in foreign policy towards the more ordinary forms o f international

relations, with the influence

o f t h e Comintern

some-

what reduced. This shift in the USSR’s nationalities policy suggested a reduction in the threat to Finland of revolution being ‘exported’ from the Soviet Union, which had obviously been feared i n Helsinki. At the same time it should be borne i n mind that the Soviet leadership’s policy with regard to the Finnish population living in the USSR differed little from its policy with regard to a number of other peoples of the Soviet Union. The period 1935—37 also saw a shift in th e Soviet leadership’s military strategy with regard to Finland. This shift in policy was initially heralded i n 1935 by the decision to increase the number of divisions deployed on the border to six. Then, the following year, Soviet forces were charged specifically with the task of preparing to ‘rout the enemy on the Karelian isthmus and capture the fortified district’, subsequently known as the

‘Mannerheim line’.11 ‘The German factor’ — namely, the increasing influence of Germany throughout the Baltic region, and the threat of Finland’s becoming a possible German ally — played a considerable role i n this change of policy. The Soviet military command adopted its definitive position i n 1937, when the plan for a military offensive against Finland (the so-called ‘Shaposhnikov plan’) was conceived. According to th e plan, military action would be launched initially on the Karelian isthmus, where eight infantry divisions, two tank brigades and three artillery regiments were concentrated.12 The plan, conceived i n the light of a possible largescale coalition war i n Europe, was not directed exclusively against Finland. This was confirmed by the subsequent course of events. Thus i n February 1939, i n a directive to the commanders of the district’s army and naval forces, the People’s Commissar o f Defence, K. E. Voroshilov,

listed the USSR’s probable opponents in the event of all-out war. Finland was not mentioned among them.13 Obviously, the Soviet military leaders recognized the possibility of Finland’s changing its position i n the event of a general European crisis. But secret negotiations with Finland took place throughout 1938, instilling a certain hope that the USSR would

The Decision to Begin the ’Winter War’, 1939—40 1 6 9

succeed i n securing its position with regard to Finland and possibly i n

transforming the latter into a Soviet ally in the event of large-scale war.14 Thus by the late 19305 the evolution of Soviet policy with regard t o Finland suggested that the Soviet leaders were concerned more with Soviet—Finnish relations i n the event of a general European war, than with the resolution of local problems regarding Finland o r Scandinavia as a whole. However, there was soon to be a further shift in policy, as Finland began to figure among the USSR’s potential opponents.15 The reasons for this turnabout were the refusal of the Finnish government to continue the secret negotiations with the USSR, and the rapidly escalating crisis in Europe.

The plan for a military campaign against Finland The final plan for a military campaign against Finland was drawn u p by the command of the Leningrad Military District following the conclusion of the Soviet—German non-aggression pact. It can be dated to 29 October 1939, when official negotiations with Finland were o n the verge of breakdown. This operational plan differed fundamentally from all those previously elaborated by the Soviet military command. First, the plan envisaged the launching of a n operation exclusively against Finland: it did not, i n other words, anticipate the military involvement of any third parties. Second, the attack was to be launched along the entire length of the Soviet—Finnish border, and it was planned that the operation would be concluded within 1 5 days with the total defeat of the

Finnish army.16 The plan in question was ill-considered and underestimated the fighting potential of Finland’s armed forces. Even within the main anticipated theatre of war — the Karelian isthmus — provision had not been made to guarantee

the necessary superiority o f the invading troops, which num-

bered altogether 36,000.17 Very little time — in effect just one month — had been allowed for preparing the operation. Even to those who were not military specialists, it was evident that far too few troops had been prepared on the Soviet side for the successful prosecution of the war, let alone the occupation of Finland as a whole. It was assumed that a considerable effect could be achieved by the installation of a ‘People’s government’, which was the main political idea behind the war. However, the Soviet leadership was forced to admit that it had miscalculated here: not only because the idea of installing a puppet government was i n itself presumptuous and ill-conceived, but

1 7 0 Vladimir N. Baryshnikov

because n o proper preparations had been made i n the USSR for organizing such a government. By late 1939, however, with preparations for a war against Finland clearly underway, there was a marked renewal of attention to the ‘ethnic' Finns within the USSR. A thorough census was conducted of all Finns living in the USSR, and some of those who had earlier been arrested o n political charges — particularly the so-called ‘Red Finns’ — were released. This was particularly important in the light of the planned reconsitution of the Finnish military forces within the USSR. However, this was to prove extremely difficult in the aftermath of the purge which had taken place i n the mid-19305. Documentary sources suggest that the formation of the so-called Finnish national army began in mid-November 1939, just two weeks, in other words, before the launching of the Winter War. On 1 5 November information was drawn up on the number of Firms and Karelians serving i n Red Army units. This information was sent to the General Staff in Moscow and was not at all reassuring. I n the upper and middle echelons of the command structure there were only 49 Finns.18 One could not speak, in other words, of a large contingent of well-trained and wellprepared officers of Finnish origin. However, o n 1 1 November the order had been given to begin forming a special 106th division, consisting of Firms and Karelians, which would supposedly form the basis of the future Finnish national army. November 24 was declared the time limit for

carrying out this plan.19 Intensive work then began on the part of the command of the Leningrad Military District and various Party bodies on locating Finnish- and Karelian-speakers for conscription to the ranks of the 106th Division. A former ‘ R e d F i n n ’ , Akseli Antilla (1897—1953), who h a d graduated from

the Frunze Military Academy and fought on the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War, was appointed Commander of the Division. Three future ministers of the ‘People’s government’ — Tuure Lehen, a prominent CPF leader a n d graduate of the Frunze Academy; Armas Aikia, a candidate member o f t h e C P F Central Commitee, a n d Inkeri Lehtinen, a

member of the CPF Central Commitee — were appointed to Antilla’s staff

to give assistance in the organization of political work.20 O n 20 November Moscow received a telegram reporting that ‘. . . the presence of no fewer than 60 per cent Firms (in the division) will be guaranteed’.21 This makes clear that there was a rather significant shortfall i n the number of Firms available to make up the division. O n 2 7 November it was reported to Moscow that the new division consisted of

8367 Firms and 4533 Karelians.22 By the time military action began the

The Decision to Begin the ’Winter War’, 1939—40 1 7 1

total number had increased to 18,000, of whom 9 3 per cent were Finns or Karelians. But among the commanding officers the proportion was sig-

nificantly lower: only 72 per cent were of Finnish or Karelian origin.23 As it turned out, the Finnish national army was not involved in the main military action; its troops were apparently used only in the final stage of war, when Finland was actually defeated. It was significant that the Soviet government was extremely careful i n its treatment of the new army and in many respects sought to revive the ideas propagated by the ‘Red Finns’ in the 19205. Thus the agreement signed on 2 December 1939 between the USSR and the People’s Government granted Finland ’those regions of Soviet Karelia with a predominantly Karelian population — altogether 70 thousand square km’: i n other words, significant territories t o the northeast and e a s t o f Ukhta, Reboli, Porosozero and O l o n e t s . A s a result, the state border would be some 25—75 km from the Kirov railway,

while Petrozavodsk would find itself 3 0 km from the newly-established frontier. It has been a matter of controversy in the historiography as to who was the real initiator of the ‘People’s Government’, of which 0 . V. Kuusinen would become Prime Minister: the Soviet government, or the Finnish Communists? Yet the question clearly makes no sense. Both i n its conception and in its execution, the plan was a product of the Kremlin, and the so-called ‘Red Finns’ i n this case were merely the necessary executors of a script written by the Soviet leadership when they launched the Winter War. Conclusions

The Soviet-Finnish war was not, however, the product of a carefullyconsidered strategy on the part of the Soviet leadership. Rather, it occurred as a result of a number of hasty decisions taken by the Kremlin very shortly before the war began. The decision to launch a n attack against Finland was obviously taken personally by Stalin, without regard for the military or political situation of the respective countries involved. A s far a s the aims o f the Soviet leaders were concerned, both t h e events

preceding and those following the Winter War suggest that it would have been sufficient for the USSR if Finland, for military reasons, had become

a reliable barrier against any potential opponent, or i n other words an ally, rather than an occupied state. If we consider the Soviet Union's geopolitical interests in the northwest of Europe, however, it is evident that the main incentive for launching the war against Finland was a more immediate concern for the security of Leningrad.

1 7 2 Vladimir N. Baryshnikov Notes

1. I. Takala, Natsional’nye operatsii OGPU/NKVD v Karelii. V sem’e edinoii (Petro— zavodsk, 1998), p. 162. 2. M . Saloma, Punaupseerit (Porvoo-Helsinki-Juva, 1 9 9 2 ) , p p . 2 7 0 , 2 7 8 . 3. Quoted from A . A. Levkov, Natsional’naya politika v Sovetskoi Karelii (1920—28). Avtoreferat dissertatsii na soiskam'e uchenoi stepeni kandidata istoricheskikh nauk. (St Petersburg, 1 9 9 5 ) , p . 1 4 .

Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi voennyi arkhiv (RGVA), f. 37977, op. 5, d . 64, 1. 136—9. Report o n the 4-year construction programme of the Leningrad Fortified D i s t r i c t , 1 5 J u l y 1 9 2 4 .

. See V. N. Baryshnikov, Ot prokhladnogo mira k zimnei voine: Vostochnaya politika Finlyandii v 1930—e gody. (St Petersburg, 1997), pp. 86—7, 97—108. . V. N. Baryshnikov, ‘K voprosu o planirovanii Sovetskim Soyuzom voiny s Finlyandiei v 20—30—e gody’, in Pervye peterburgskie kareevskie Chteniya p0 novistike (St Petersburg, 1996), p. 152. . ’Ulkoasiainministerion arkisto. Moskovan-lahetyston raportti’, 2 3 January, 5 March 1 9 3 5 .

. K. Rentola, Keken joukeissa seisot? Suomalainene kommunismi ja sota: 1937—45 (Porvoo-Helsinki-Juva, 1 9 9 4 ) , p . 3 2 .

. Takala, o p . cit., p. 199. 10. Saloma, o p . cit., pp. 297—8. 11. RGVA, f. 3 7 9 7 7 , o p . 1 , d . 722, 1 . 405—6. Operational p l a n s for t h e war against Finland. 12. Ibid. 13. Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Voenno-Morskogo flota (RGAVMF), f. r1 8 7 7 b , o p . 1 , d . 1 0 1 , 1 . 1 4 , 1 6 . Reference t o a directive from t h e People’s

14. 15. 16. 17.

Commissariat of Defence of the USSR, n o . 15201, 1 7 February 1939. See Baryshnikov, Ot prokhladnogo mira k zimnei voine, pp. 168—87. See RGAVMF, f. r-1877b, o p . 1, d . 101, 1. 16. RGVA, f. 25888, o p . 14, d.2, 1.1—14; RGAVMF, f. r-92, o p . 2, d . 543, 1.11. Plan of operation for defeating the l a n d and naval forces of the Finnish army. RGVA, f. 37977, o p . 1, d . 722, e . 414—17. ‘Operational plans for the war against F i n l a n d ’ , i n Talvisodan historia. 0 5 . 2 (Provoo-Helsinki-Juva,

1978), p. 18.

18. RGVA, f. 3 7 9 7 7 , o p . 1 , d . 284, l . 9 8 . Report o n t h e number o f Firms a n d K a r e l i a n s i n t h e Red Army (RKKA). 1 5 November

1939.

19. I b i d . , d . 2 3 2 , 1.19, 2 1 . Decree o f t h e People’s Commissariat o f Defence, 1 1 November 1939. 20. Ibid., f. 33987, o p . 3, d . 1396, l. 1. List of persons already sent and to be sent t o Petrosavodsk ( u n d a t e d ) .

21. Ibid., d . 1380, l. 1 . Report by a member of the military council of the Leningrad Military District (LVO), N. Vashugin, 20 November 1939. 22. I b i d . , f. 3 4 9 8 0 , o p . 9 , d . 1 3 , l . 1 . The history o f t h e l s t Finnish M o u n t a i n Infantry Corps. 23. Ibid., f. 33987, o p . 3, d . 1380, 1. 1—2. Report by a member of the military council o f t h e LVO, N . Vashugin, 2 7 November

1939.

9 Room for Discussion: the Correspondence of Narkomindel and the Soviet Embassy in Denmark Rikke Home

Small nations like Denmark are perhaps always a little flattered when Great Powers like the Soviet Union take notice of t h e m at all. It was a pleasant surprise to this researcher to find quite rich archival resources on Soviet relations with Denmark, a relatively insignificant area of Soviet foreign policy. Soviet diplomats of the 19305 made quite an effort t o get information o n the current state of affairs in Denmark. Even so, diplomats sometimes misperceived the situation, and at times heated discussions occurred within the Soviet Ministry of Foreign Affairs, or Narkomindel. I n the following I will analyse the differences of opinion which arose between the l s t Western Department of Narkomindel and Deputy Commissar Stomonyakov on the o n e side, and the Soviet embassy i n Denmark on the other. I have chosen to focus on th e issue of Northern Schleswig i n the year 1933, and i n particular o n the differing assessments of the economy of the area. The purpose of this analysis is to identify the circumstances that gave rise to differences of opinion, as well as to differences in perception. I will also illustrate the ways i n which new information was organized according to existing mental frameworks. Finally, I will try to estimate whether the views held by the centre or by the periphery came closer to the truth. Political

control

How important was Narkomindel in determining Soviet foreign policy? The long-running debate on this question indicates that the answer is not straightforward. The political leadership formulated foreign policy strategy independently of Narkomindel and could at any point, where they found it appropriate, interfere in the concrete decision-making 173

174

Rikke Haue

process within Narkomindel. That is to say, they had the option of interfering,

but only sometimes

chose t o d o s o . There were, however,

numerous occasions on which the political leadership intervened directly i n foreign policy questions vital to the Soviet Union, thus circumventing Narkomindel. The advantage of looking at a rather unimportant area in Soviet foreign policy, namely Soviet relations with Denmark, is that it offers an instance in which Narkomindel apparently managed affairs without interference from the political leadership. I n the case of Denmark, there were none of the diplomatic or political extravaganzas that could be seen, for example, in relation to Germany. A distinctive feature of the political system of the Soviet Union, compared to other countries, was that the political leadership not only laid down the general lines of foreign policy, but did so i n the context of an overall interpretation of the surrounding world at any given time. The fact that the ‘correct’ interpretation of ‘objective reality’ was established at the centre also explains the political leadership’s excessive preoccupation with control and detail. Since only those at the very top of the system had the key to a ‘valid’ understanding of the situation, they had to ensure that this interpretation was correctly passed down to the lower levels of the system. The Danish historian Bo Lidegaard has compared decision-making procedures i n relation to Denmark in the USA, the UK and the Soviet Union.1 His estimate is that decisions concerning Denmark were made, or rather confirmed, at a higher level in Narkomindel than was the case with the State Department or the Foreign Office. One must assume that for all three Great Powers Denmark played a minor role, and required approximately the same level of attention. The relatively high level of attention devoted to Denmark in the Soviet case makes sense precisely because of the leadership’s insistence on issuing guidance not just on specific political decisions but on the overall understanding of the world. An example from 1934 can be found in a letter from the Deputy Head of the l s t Western Department to the ambassador to Denmark, apologizing that certain questions concerning Denmark ha d not yet been resolved, since Deputy Commissar Stomonyakov had been too busy to deal with them.2 Another example is the request from the relatively independent ambassador to Denmark, Kobetskii, for instructions on how to deal with the theft of a Soviet flag from the embassy.3 This indicates that every decision, even the most trifling, had to be confirmed at a level not lower than that of Deputy Commissar. As Aleksandr Golubev has shown, within the Politburo there was very limited interest i n or knowledge of the world outside the Soviet Union. I n m o s t cases, t h e leaders’ basic theoretical

education

consisted i n a

Narkomindel and the Soviet Embassy in Denmark

175

training i n Marxist-Leninist theory.4 The lack of first-hand experience or alternative theoretical tools to interpret reality meant that they perceived the world through ideological lenses — and at times very thick ones. I a m not in any way suggesting that ideology was the sole driving force behind the political decisions made by the leadership of the 19305, which i n my opinion was above all pragmatic. I mean only that the Soviet leadership, while pursuing its version of realpolitik, was nevertheless guided by certain ideologically-defined objectives. As Margot Light has pointed out, one consequence of Marxist-Leninist ideology i n the Soviet Union was that the theoretical categories were internalized, and left no room for an alternative set of concepts with which to approach reality.5 This applies not just to the political leadership, but to the administration as well. The more limited your personal experience, the more likely you are to supplement scarce facts by applying a readymade framework, i n this case that of Marxism-Leninism. This tendency was, undoubtedly, reinforced by political pressure, which was felt more strongly in t h e centre than i n the periphery. During the 19305 there was increased political pressure on officials to adhere on all occasions to the centrally-accepted version of reality. This is true, of course, for all diplomatic services, but i n t h e case o f the Soviet Union, the logic o f the

system was based on the ability of the political leadership to come u p with the appropriate all-encompassing evaluation of the present situation i n the world. This general assessment was to be applied on the micro-level, and did not leave much room for manoeuvre.

Thus i n the

Soviet system there was a n unusually large in-built risk of ignoring local peculiarities and imposing general, politically-motivated formulae. This inevitably gave rise to misperceptions. As the room for discussion narrowed, the danger of misunderstandings increased.

Centre and periphery It is beyond the scope of this paper to examine i n detail the means by which these centrally established perceptions were spread to the various branches of the apparatus. The purpose of this paper is to analyse how information on Denmark was organized according to existing mental frameworks both i n the centre and in the periphery of Narkomindel, that is, in Moscow and i n the Soviet embassy i n Denmark respectively. It is hoped that this chapter may be a stepping-stone i n trying to assess how Soviet perceptions of foreign issues i n general were established. Narkomindel

can be s e e n a s two concentric circles ( s e e Fig. 1 ) , where

the Moscow-based staff constitute the centre and the foreign-based staff

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Political pressure Limited access to information

Exposure to independent information

Political decisions questions

1 s t Western Department

Deputy-Commissar Stomonyakov

,

The Sovret Polpredstvo in Denmark with Plenipotentiary Kobetskii

Indirect political influence through

Narkomindel i n

Moscow

Dispatches, press resumes

Figure 1

Narkomindel

the periphery. Both the diplomats stationed abroad and the officials in Moscow had a Marxist background and therefore navigated within the same discourse as the political leadership. However, the first generation of Soviet diplomats — what might be called the ‘ideal type’ — did have some education, including some knowledge of foreign languages. Also, first-hand experience of foreign countries made them less prone to thinking in Marxist—Leninist stereotypes than their successors after the purges, or those among the political élite who had no foreign experience, or indeed any interest in foreign affairs. This applies both to the centre and to the periphery of Narkomindel.6 Still, trying to grasp developments in the outside world while working out of Moscow meant being daily exposed to the realities of Soviet life and the political climate there. Moreover, lower-ranking officials of Narkomindel were given less access to information during the 19305 than had hitherto been the case. By the late 19205, subscriptions to émigré journals in Russian were forbidden. By 1937—39, according to the former Head of Narkomindel’s Press Department, E. A. Gnedin, the Narkomindel rank and file had to queue up to catch a glimpse of the TASS telegrams that he received. Information from Denmark was probably even more scarce. It appears that Narkomindel did not subscribe to any Danish newspapers. During the early 19305 Danish affairs were supposed to be covered by the TASS correspondent in Stockholm. The embassy’s records from 1930 to 1937 suggest

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only one Visit to Denmark by the Stockholm-based TASS correspondent. Only i n the late 19305, after repeated requests from the embassy, was a TASS correspondent assigned to Denmark. I n the case of diplomats stationed abroad, daily exposure to foreign realities is likely t o have made them more wary than their Moscow-based colleagues of unconditionally applying ideologically-based analyses to complex and diverse phenomena. The degree of exposure to the realities of political and social life i n Denmark also varied according to fluctuations i n the popularity of the Soviet Union. Certainly, periods i n which Soviet ratings drew close to zero must have served as a reminder of the antagonistic relationship between the Soviet Union and the rest of the world. The tendency to stick to pro-Soviet contacts is especially strong during these periods. I n the early 19305, however, the embassy had fairly extensive contacts, and not just among declared friends of the Soviet Union, as was to be the case later. O n the whole, the available information was clearly both more diverse and more easily accessible in the periphery than i n the centre. At times it seems that the only source of information at the centre were the dispatches a n d press résumés from the periphery.

The correspondence So what was the nature of the relationship between Narkomindel i n Moscow and the Soviet embassy i n Denmark during the early 19305? I have chosen to examine the correspondence from 1933 between the Soviet ambassador to Denmark, Mikhail Veniaminovich

Kobetskii, and

the l s t Western Department i n Moscow, which was led by Deputy Commissar Boris Spiridonovich Stomonyakov. Kobetskii certainly belongs to the category of the first-generation, ‘ideal-type’ Soviet diplomat of the kind outlined above. He spent the years 1908—17 i n Denmark as a political refugee working for the Party. He never completed his formal education, since he got involved in Party work at a n early age. Kobetskii was appointed ambassador to Denmark i n 1924 and remained i n the post until 1933. This protracted stay i n Denmark enabled him to establish an impressive range of contacts, and his political analyses are usually very thorough and clear. Moreover, the fact that he had been so long outside the Soviet Union made him more prone to a n unprejudiced, ‘objective’ perception of Denmark, based on reality rather than on lofty ideological constructs. Kobetskii, however, personifies the dilemma inherent i n diplomatic work: on the one hand, he was in a good position to be able to deliver reliable information

about h i s country o f residence; o n the other,

he ran the risk of ‘going native’ and confusing his loyalties to the country

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he was supposed to serve with those to the country that was his home for almost 20 years. Long periods abroad can also make it difficult to keep up with developments at home. Towards the end of his reign i n Denmark, Kobetskii himself asked t o be transferred t o work i n the Soviet Union,

complaining that he was out of touch with life at home, since ‘so many changes had taken place there in his absence’. His request was at first denied, since Narkomindel was short of staff, and even before the purges potential diplomats were a scarce commodity i n the Soviet Union. When Deputy Commissar Stomonyakov took over responsibility for diplomatic relations with Scandinavia i n 1931, his first move was to inform Kobetskii a n d to ask his opinion o n what the ‘hottest’ issues were i n Denmark at the time. I n his next letter, Stomonyakov said that he was not yet acquainted with Danish affairs, but thought it obvious that the key issue was ‘the question of the Straits in connection with the problems of disarmament and in connection with the negotiations with France on this subject’. Kobetskii replied arrogantly that it was quite evident that Stomonyakov had not yet acquainted himself with Danish affairs, since his assumptions about the present situation were rather farfetched. According t o Kobetskii, the question of the Straits was ‘of n o importance whatsoever i n peacetime, and i n the event of war another question would be of far greater importance, namely whether or not Denmark would stay neutral vis-a-vis the Soviet Union’.7 Coming as it did from an inferior to a superior within the diplomatic hierarchy, this harsh reply is astonishing. Kobetskii was not apparently rebuked for it, at least not in the material I have had access to. I n itself the exchange is not particularly significant, but it nevertheless illustrates to what extent a Soviet diplomat of 1931 was able to correct what he saw as fatal misperceptions among his superiors in Moscow. No reference is made to Stomonyakov’s notion of the vital importance of the Straits in the correspondence following Kobetskii’s reply. It could be said that Denmark’s neutrality and the question of the Straits were in fact two aspects of the same matter, namely the geopolitical role of Denmark i n the event of a n international conflict. There is, in any case, no way of knowing whether Kobetskii’s reply really caused officials in Narkomindel to change their minds, o r whether they just let the matter rest in order to preserve good relations with Kobetskii.

Northern Schleswig8 During the early 19305 the attention of Soviet diplomats in Denmark was centred primarily on the issue of Northern Schleswig. Following Bis-

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marck’s victory in 1864, the Duchy of Schleswig-Holstein had been transferred to Prussia and later to Germany. I n 1920, as part of the Versailles Treaty, Northern Schleswig was again incorporated into Denmark following a referendum among the population. With the Great Depression and the rise of fascism in Germany, there was an upsurge of separatist feelings among the German minority in Northern Schleswig. This was the central issue raised i n dispatches sent by the Soviet ambassador to Denmark from the summer of 1933 onwards. Along with the separatist movements i n Schleswig, the embassy also kept a close eye on the growth o f fascist movements,

however

m o d e s t , and t h e establish-

ment of a farmers’ protest movement, which was especially strong in Northern Schleswig. The economic crisis of the early 19305 hit agriculture hard. Northern Schleswig was especially badly affected since it was predominantly an agricultural region which moreover had just ventured into shifting from cattle to dairy farming. Politically the German minority voted for the Slesvigsk Parti, whereas the strong German Nazi Party of Northern Schleswig, though present, did not run in the Danish elections. Unfortunately, Danish statistics on the interwar period do not focus o n ethnicity, probably because of a political decision to reinforce the sense of unity i n the Danish nation state. The size of the ethnically German minority of Northern Schleswig is usually determined by the votes cast in favour of the Slesvigsk Parti. At the 1932 elections the party collected 9868 votes out of 74,397, or roughly 1 3 per cent. This does not correspond very well to the 25 per cent vote i n the 1920 referendum i n favour of the continued incorporation of Schleswig i n Germany. The Danish Nazi party, founded i n 1930, had a relatively strong following in Northern Schleswig, compared with other parts of the country, although i n the parliamentary elections i n 1932, where they ran as independent candidates for the region, they still got only got 757 votes (1 per cent) and did not make it into parliament.9 Malene Djursaa’s explanation of the nevertheless disproportionately strong position of the Danish Nazi Party in the region is that a group of the population i n the border region, known as ‘de blakkede’, o r ‘the blurred’, were of no specific national orientation, being half—Danish, half-German. This group is discernible i n the above-mentioned statistics, where they constitute the gap between the 1 3 per cent voting for the Slesvigsk Parti and the 2 5 per cent who voted for Schleswig to stay a part of Germany i n 1920. One should not, of course, expect to be able to fit everyone i n a border region into convenient ethnic categories. However, the ‘ethnic buffer zone' — ‘de blakkede’ — still constituted a fairly small part of the population i n

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Northern Schleswig, and those supporting the Nazi Party an even smaller part.

Just as the German minority had its own organizations, so the ethnically Danish nationalists supported strictly Danish nationalist parties. The Danish Nazi Party was never very specific on the border issue, but can be said to have been primarily orientated towards Danish nationalism i n content, though inspired by the German model in form. Djursaa also points to the transitional problems of agriculture in the region during the economic crisis as a special source of discontent. According to Djursaa’s assessment, mobilization against the parliament took place among the ethnically German and the Danish populations of Northern Schleswig, but along ethnic lines.

Perceptions and reality Below, I will give a detailed account of the perceptions of Schleswig held by the l s t Western Department and Ambassador Kobetskii respectively. My main purpose i n doing so is not — tempting though it may be — to condemn either party for falling victim to misperceptions o r being out of touch with reality. I seek merely to try to identify the differences i n the conclusions drawn i n the centre and the periphery of Narkomindel. These differences are a result of the different circumstances under which perceptions of the world outside the Soviet Union were constructed respectively i n Moscow and in the Soviet embassies abroad. The dialogue between centre and periphery offers an illustration of the two sets of perceptions, and the way in which they were constructed. I n spite of my promise not t o pass judgement, I will try to give an estimate as to whether Kobetskii’s or Narkomindel’s views are best supported by Danish sources. Point of view

The Soviet perception of Northern Schleswig bears witness to ethnocentric stereotypes, that is, to an uncritical application, on the part of Narkomindel i n Moscow, of Soviet categories to a Danish context. Of course, new information is always assimilated within the framework of existing knowledge and experience. The correspondence between centre and periphery, however, reveals how often Narkomindel i n Moscow fell victim to Moscow-based parochialism, their previous Soviet experience blinkering them i n their understanding of the outside world. Territorial gains were thus seen as desirable n o matter what the cost. O n the basis of the Soviet world view, it must have seemed strange that Germany, a

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Great Power,did not choose to pursue the goal of gaining at least a slice of the Schleswig cake at the expense of little Denmark. The staff at Narkomindel

identified with t h e i r fellow Great Power, Germany,

in its

dispute with tiny Denmark. Small countries such as Denmark were seen as pawns i n international politics. More o r less bereft of power and a will of their own, the small countries were thought of only as possible platforms for Great Power influence.10 Traditional neutrality was considered a n illusion, since small states did not have the necessary power to oppose interference from abroad. The other extreme could be found i n the Soviet Embassy i n Copenhagen, where both Kobetskii and subsequent ambassadors tended to overestimate the importance of Denmark. It is, of course, a universal human characteristic to overestimate the importance of one’s own area of responsibility. However, the judgement expressed i n 1937 by a successor of Kobetskii’s, that Scandinavia was one of the most important areas of international politics, seems even to Scandinavians a bit of an exaggeration. You would have to see the world from a strictly Scandinavian point of view to share this opinion. As a rule, the ambassadors in Denmark i n the 19305 urged a n increase i n Danish—Soviet trade i n order to prevent Denmark from becoming totally dependent economically on Germany. This tendency t o View Denmark as the centre of the world was certainly not shared in Moscow, where little Denmark did not take u p much space i n the overall picture. I n the end only a limited share of the already modest foreign trade of the Soviet Union was allotted to Denmark. Narkomindel,

however,

underestimated

the real restraints t h a t pre-

vented Germany from interfering i n Schleswig and grabbing a piece of Old German land. O n the surface — though it never came to pass — it does appear reasonable to have suspected a German move against Northern Schleswig. What i s o f i n t e r e s t i n t h i s context, however, i s the difference

of opinion between Narkomindel and the embassy, bearing witness again t o stereotypes i n Narkomindel’s thinking, an d to parochialism on the part of the embassy. Possible reasons for German restraint were put forward by t h e ambassadors: the damage that would be done to the German image i n Scandinavia if Germany were to press its claims, and the possible benefits from having a diaspora in Denmark as a source of pressure on the Danish government to conform with German wishes elsewhere. Kobetskii was more prone to stick to the Danish account, according to which fears of the great neighbour i n the south were balanced by confidence i n official assurances from Germany and from the international community, especially Great Britain, as well as a

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firm belief in the loyalty of the ethnically Danish population in the region.

Economics vs ethnicity

As well as demonstrating differences arising from the different perspectives of the centre and the periphery, the correspondence also shows discrepancies in the weight attributed to various factors. Both Narkomindel and the embassy i n Copenhagen focused on economic factors i n their political analyses. This was, of course, a result of their Marxist background, and in many cases proved a good analytical tool. But there was also a divergence between the centre and the periphery in their accounts of the economic framework on which they based their political analyses. The two main points of disagreement were: 0 whether Northern Schleswig was tied more closely economically to Germany or to Denmark; 0 whether the separatist movement working for Northern Schleswig’s reunification with Germany found support among the ethnically Danish population also.

The l s t Western Department firmly adhered to the belief that Northern Schleswig was vitally connected to Germany by its pre-1920 infrastructure. Its economic ties to Germany could be seen in the the Schleswig farmers’ dependence on the Hamburg meat market as a n outlet for beef, their main product. The rest of Denmark had traditionally been more closely linked to Great Britain through its sale to the British of bacon and dairy products, and had not therefore been so badly affected by the deteriorating trade relations between Denmark and Germany. The economic dependence of Northern Schleswig — the traditional cattle region — on the German market, a nd th e resulting deprivation when its links to Germany were cut, was seen by the centre as the main source of economic hardship in the region. This would, of course, apply equally to farmers of both Danish and German ethnicity. Kobetskii agreed that beef farming was indeed a principal part of Northern Schleswig’s economy when it was reunited with Denmark i n 1920. I n the statistical yearbook of 1922 the proportion of bullocks among horned cattle is indeed larger i n Southern Jutland (which is not quite equivalent with Northern Schleswig, see note 8) than the national average: 1 6 per cent as opposed to 5 per cent. Conversely, the proportion of dairy cattle i n Southern Jutland, compared with Denmark as a whole, is 3 7 per cent and 4 9 per cent respectively. However, Kobetskii argues, a substantial part of the peas-

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antry had managed to switch to traditional Danish lines of production, partially shifting from beef t o dairy or pig farming, and their dependence on the German market had decreased accordingly: by 1 9 3 2 the figures for bullocks are 8 per cent against the national average of 2 per cent, and for dairy cattle 4 6 per cent compared with 5 3 per cent. According to these statistics, the gap between Northern Schleswig and the rest of Denmark had greatly diminished during the first decade after the reunification of the region with Denmark. It seems reasonable to assume that this also applied to Northern Schleswig’s supposed dependence o n the German market. As mentioned above, Germany had traditionally been the outlet for Danish beef, the production of which had decreased significantly. Kobetskii claimed that even those farmers who had not made the transition to dairy o r pig farming were now better off since they were not burdened by t h e debts incurred by restructuring production. Besides, a n order from Belgium for cattle had been distributed primarily among the farmers of Northern Schleswig.11 This disagreement concerning the economic dependence of Northern Schleswig o n access to the German market resulted i n a dispute between the I s t Western Department and the embassy, where Kobetskii defended his View i n a series of dispatches. Thus there are reasons to assume that this dispute was less the result of poor communication between centre and periphery than the consequence of differences i n the two sides’ framework of perception. For a Marxist analysis of the situation i n Northern Schleswig, the importance of the economic dependence of Northern Schleswig could not be overestimated. The disagreement concerning the correct evaluation of the economic situation led to different perceptions of the political situation as well. On e consequence of the centre’s analysis was that the population of Northern Schleswig as a whole had been equally hard hit by the economic crisis, irrespective of ethnicity. The economic situation — namely, the deprivation resulting from farmers being cut off from their ‘natural’ German market — is seen as the economic basis for separatist sentiments i n the region. Assuming the impact of the economic crisis to be ethnically even-handed, the centre believed that even the ethnically Danish population i n the region might be mobilized i n favour of a revision of the border i n accordance with their rational economic interests. Kobetskii’s point of departure was different in so far as h e believed that the traditional dependence of Schleswig farmers o n the German market no longer existed. Stomonyakov quotes one of Kobetskii’s dispatches, in which h e had asserted that ’the question of Schleswig’s economic

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dependence on Germany is not as indisputable as it was before the World War’.12 I n Kobetskii’s View, t h e overall economic situation was not that

desperate. The economic incentive to seek reunification with Germany was downplayed in Kobetskii’s analysis. Taking the ongoing debate i n Denmark as a starting point, Kobetskii was convinced that the separatist movement i n Northern Schleswig was not primarily driven by economic objectives. His observations i n Denmark also led him to dismiss the notion that both the German and the Danish populations in the region sought reunification, supposedly i n pursuit of their common economic interests. Kobetskii argued that separatist sentiments were thus far discernible only among the ethnically German population. I n another dispute with the l s t Western Department, he declared that the latter’s statement that even a part of the Danish population in Northern Schleswig supported the return of the region to Germany showed that they

were completely out of touch with reality.13 It could, of course, have been argued that the ethnically Danish part of the population would have been more likely to enjoy swift economic recovery than their German counterparts, due to better access to financial institutions and so on, and that this better economic performance accounted for the absence of separatist sentiments among the Danish population. But Kobetskii did not follow this line of argument. Instead, he ventured beyond a strict economic analysis, taking the nationality factor into account. Indeed, Kobetskii’s position seems to be supported by recent research and thus appears to have drawn a more precise picture of the situation than the analysis of the centre. Interestingly, the dispute o n whether the Danish farmers i n Northern Schleswig had also been mobilized i n favour of reunification with Germany continued between Narkomindel and Kobetskii’s successor F. F. Raskol’nikov. I n October 1933, Deputy Commissar Stomonyakov complains that along with Raskol’nikov’s report o n the growing separatist

sentiments among the German minority in Northern Schleswig,14 which Stomonyakov finds of interest, Raskol’nikov fails to give a n assessment of the ‘mood among the Danish peasantry of Northern Schleswig in favour of the reunification of Southern Jutland with Germany’. Nor did he touch on ‘the question of connections between Danish a nd German National Socialists i n Denmark an d pro-German sentiments among ethnically Danish fascists in Southern Jutland’. The question is put i n much the same way as i n the original recommendation from the l s t Western Department to Stomonyakov. The answer to Kobetskii therefore reflects the opinion held by the l s t Western Department, which apparently remained unchanged, despite Kobetskii’s attempts to correct it. The

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Department did not follow up on the matter while Kobetskii was still i n Copenhagen.

The testimony of Engell An interesting point i n connection with the Schleswig question can be found i n a statement by the Danish envoy to Moscow, Ove Engell, i n a conversation

with Nikolai Jakovlevich

Raivid, head o f the l s t Western

Department. I have not found Engell’s own version of the conversation, but according to Soviet sources, Engell found it appropriate during the conversation to mention the Danish government’s fear of an armed uprising among the German minority in Schleswig. Their goal was to separate Schleswig from Denmark in order to reunite with Germany. Engell, moreover, felt it necessary to inform his Soviet colleagues that in the event of such an uprising the Danish government lacked the necessary power to crush it. Judging from the documents I have had access to, Engell is the only source mentioning such sentiments within the Danish government. Apparently, the Soviet authorities chose to believe Engell’s version of the story, and the information passed on to them by Engell constituted the basis of the questions put to Kobetskii in Copenhagen from the l s t Western Department. Engell also appears to be the only source of information that even the ethnically Danish population i n the region sought independence from Denmark and reunification with Germany. Engell’s motives for leaking this information and thus putting on display the weakness of his government vis-d-vis Germany remain somewhat vague. Though there was some anxiety on the issue of Schleswig, Raivid’s version of Engell’s testimony does seem to have pushed it to

extremes.15 The staff at the l s t Western Department openly regarded the Danish envoy to Moscow as glaringly incompetent. The Head of the department, Raivid, commented after a meeting with Engell i n the summer of 1933 that ‘as always, the conversation with him was colourless and without content’.16 It therefore seems odd that the l s t Western Department i n Narkomindel was more inclined to believe the testimony of Engell, than all the other available information, including the dispatches from the Soviet ambassador i n Copenhagen. Engell’s information — that an armed uprising among the German minority i n Schleswig was imminent, and that even the Danish population of Schleswig were in favour of reunification with Germany — apparently fitted into the existing mental framework of Narkomindel’s staff. Whereas Engell’s information could be explained by economic factors, the more complex picture drawn by

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Kobetskii required other, more controversial factors to be taken into account. Kobetskii’s analysis focuses on class and ethnic divisions as well as economic reasons for the unrest in Schleswig. Kobetskii’s allusions to ethnic divisions were especially difficult for the l s t Western Department to swallow, since a strictly ethnic conflict did not fit well into Marxist-Leninist thinking. This was an obvious case i n which Marxist-Leninist preconceptions were allowed to overrule reality, and thus to invite misunderstandings of the real state of affairs. Kobetskii's assessment of the situation i n Schleswig in the summer of 1933 was that the crisis had not been solved and that fascism might be on the rise in the region. But he was still firmly convinced that among the ethnically Danish population this fascism would find its expression

in a strictly Danish nationalistic, anti-German form.17 Kobetskii’s assessment finds support among Danish researchers, including Malene Diursaa, to whom I have already referred. His View differs from that taken by the l s t Western Department, where economic factors were considered decisive. Because of this, the ethnic aspects of the conflict were downplayed, indeed more or less ignored, since the economic crisis, according to the Department’s analysis, hit both ethnic groups equally hard. Class: kulaks and ’khusmeny’

The assumption of a potential cooperation between ethnically Danish and ethnically German national socialists i n the border region is yet another instance of ethnocentric stereotyping. Though the evidence for this is very sparse, I suspect that the Communists’ notion of the various communist parties forming a single, united World Party has been transferred rather uncritically to the National Socialists, despite the ‘National’ i n their n a m e . In the Marxist—Leninist world View, at least during this period, economically-conditioned class affiliations would cause the same classes i n different countries to be natural allies, despite differences in ethnicity or nationality. Since fascism was supposed to have the same class basis i n Denmark as well as Germany, the national socialisms i n both countries were thought of as natural allies. The l s t Western Department therefore insisted that the embassy should keep a close eye on ‘cooperation between Danish and German fascists’. As mentioned above, Kobetskii was convinced that fascism among the ethnically Danish population i n Schleswig would develop i n a strictly Danish, nationalistic, anti-German form, and that it would certainly be against any revision of the borders. I n the end, both pro-German and anti-German fascism appeared i n Northern Schleswig, but the pro-German was predominantly found among the ethnically German minority. The evidence

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is scarce on whether the ethnically Danish population supported any revision of the border, but o n the face of it it seems highly unlikely. Kobetskii thus appears to have been closer to the truth than the l s t Western Department. Since Schleswig was a rural district and the majority of the inhabitants were employed i n agriculture, they were naturally considered by t h e Soviets to be a force — or at least a potential force — for reaction. The early 19305 saw the emergence of the Danish peasant protest movement L. S. (Landbrugernes Sammenslutning — The Agriculturalists’ Association), which had its main stronghold i n Northern Schleswig. I have found divergent perceptions among Soviet analysts of whether this was a socially differentiated

movement

o r not — that is, whether i t was a rank a n d file

movement of smallholders under the harmful influence of kulaks a nd agrarian capitalists, o r whether the movement was fascist through and through. Kobetskii’s successor F. F. Raskol’nikov describes L. S. precisely as a ‘peasant mass movement, though under the ideological influence of the kulaks, containing clearly fascist elements’.18 According to Ambassador N. S. Tikhmenev in 1936, L. S. was ‘an organisation for peasant-kulaks . . . under the guidance of outright Nazi figures’.19 Kobetskii was less cautious, a n d earlier i n t h e summer o f 1933 referred to L. S. a s ‘ t h e fascist

peasant organisation’. At the risk of ‘overanalysing’ the choice of terminology, one could argue that this appears t o be another example of the mindless application of Soviet categories to Danish affairs, this time from a Soviet representative stationed i n the country itself. Even more so, since t h e D a n i s h word for smallholder i s transliterated a s ‘ k h u s m e n ’ , whereas the word for farmer i s translated a s ‘kulak’, which makes n o s e n s e i n the

Danish context. If they had chosen a Russian term for ‘khusmen’ instead of the nonsensical transliteration, the Russian word ‘bednyak’ might have been appropriate. A Norwegian dictionary of the period suggests the alternative ’melkii krest’yanin’. By choosing to translate ‘farmer’ as ‘kulak’, with all its extremely negative connotations, rather than the neutral ’krest’yanin’, they immediately ensured that certain values would be attributed — at least within a Soviet context — to the group i n question. No great potential for progressive ideas was likely to be attributed to anything associated with kulachestvo, while the term ’khusmen’ is meaningless and therefore perfectly neutral. Introduced into a universe already populated with demonic kulaks, the ‘khusmeny’ constituted the positive pole within the rural population of Denmark. This also meant, i n Soviet terms, that they could be seen as the potential class ally of the proletariat, and thus to represent a progressive element.

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The traditional distinction between well-to-do and not so well-to-do peasants i n Denmark is suggested by the terms ‘husmzend’, meaning small-holders, and ‘bonder’, meaning farmers. The distinction between the two groups is expressed i n separate organizations and political parties. ‘Venstre’, traditionally the farmers' party, was thus given the perjorative attribute ‘kulatskii’ by Kobetskii’s successors. But if the Danish ‘kulaks’, or bonder, and the Venstre party were indeed a reactionary force, potentially fascist and therefore pro-German, how can one explain, by Soviet logic, why they did not i n fact turn fascist, and most certainly did not become pro-German? If anything, it was the conservative party which took up the fascist dress code and so on, though still remaining Danish nationalist in content. Here again the obvious explanation - or at least part of the explanation — would seem to lie i n ethnic-national factors. Djursaa, Quaade and Ravn all conclude that the antiparliamentary uprising i n Schleswig was due primarily to a mobilization of nationalist forces, which is more or less in accordance with Kobetskii’s interpretation. Unlike Raskol’nikov and h i s successors, who referred to Venstre a s a

‘kulak’ party , Kobetskii chose to call it ’agrarian’. Again, this bears witness to a more balanced View of the political situation on Kobetskii’s part. Though Kobetskii’s analysis was also Marxist, he saw the political spectrum as consisting of more than just two opposing camps — the forces of light and the forces of darkness. I n his view there was more than one expression of fascism — for example, there were the pro-German and the anti-German strands - and more than one reason for the rise of fascist parties. U s and them

The Soviet account of the rise of fascism i n Denmark also illustrates the Marxist-Leninist notion of the world as a battlefield between antagonistic forces of good and evil, progressives and reactionaries. I n the summer of 1933 Kobetskii wrote in a dispatch to Moscow that ‘The growth of fascism in Denmark is expressed i n the intensification of the campaign against the communists.’ This anti-Communist campaign was spurred i n the first place by a public statement by a Communist member of parliament, to the effect that he did not feel obliged to stick to the bourgeois constitution. Understandably, the statement caused a considerable outcry. The perception of a causal relation between the rise of fascism and the growing ‘smear campaign’ against the communists reflects the antagonistic outlook typical of the Marxist approach.

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Concluding remarks The case of Northern Schleswig thus serves to illustrate how the Soviet perception of the surrounding world as Viewed from the ‘centre’ differed from the perception of the world as seen from the periphery of Narkomindel. The less information you have about a specific topic, the more prone you will be to fill i n the gaps by fitting the available information into the framework of existing experience or of ideology. I n the correspondence between the centre and the periphery concerning Northern Schleswig, we find that the embassy had a much more complex and unconventional understanding of the situation than did Narkomindel. The differences i n perception between the centre and the periphery arose as a result of the different circumstances i n which these perceptions were formulated. Narkomindel staff i n Moscow were subject to more direct political pressure, had very restricted access to information, and were more influenced by the general political atmosphere.The periphery, o n the other hand, was only indirectly exposed to political pressure through Narkomindel i n Moscow. Staff working i n the periphery had access to abundant information and formed their Views on that basis rather than on the basis of ideologically-determined stereotypes. I n the above I have offered examples of ethnocentric stereotyping, or the transfer of Soviet categories t o a Danish context; of ‘great-power thinking’; of the predominance, i n Soviet analyses, of economic as opposed to ethnic or other, less quantifiable factors, and the focus i n t h e s e analyses o n class affiliations;

and of the assumption of antagonistic holism, that is, the interpretation of all social phenomena i n terms of their belonging to either a progressive or a reactionary camp. A closer analysis of these differences of View may help to answer t h e more general question as to how perceptions of the surrounding world were generated i n the Soviet Union, and t o what extent they were determined by ideologically based stereotypes and/or political pressure. The prolonged tenure of the rebellious and self-conscious Kobetskii as ambassador to Denmark does i n some ways make him a special case. Very few of his colleagues possessed a similarly profound knowledge of the country they worked i n . Kobetskii was prepared, i n defiance of Soviet hierarchy, to stand up and defend his opinions before his superiors, sometimes in quite a n abusive manner — while still asking for detailed instructions o n how to deal with the theft of the Soviet flag from the embassy’s premises. The fact that he got away with it, for the time being at least, is quite surprising. It is, of course, difficult to know for sure to what extent Kobetskii managed actually to convince Narkomindel of his

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views. It appears that, even after Kobetskii had dismissed as nonsense reports allegedly testifying to the pro-German mobilization of the Danish population of Schleswig, requests to shed light on the issue were forwarded to Kobetskii’s successor Raskol’nikov. One suspects that on occasion Narkomindel sought only to avoid fights with the obstinate and self-confident Kobetskii. The diplomatic missions of any country are important in bringing the perceptions of the centre into line with realities on the ground. I n the Soviet case, where the general interpretation of the state of affairs on the world scene was established centrally by the political leadership, reliable feed-back was of even greater importance. Even more so, since the Soviet political leadership as such did not have much interest in, or experience of, the world outside the Soviet Union. The existence of the embassies afforded some much-needed room for discussion — the possibility, at least, of correcting established perceptions and avoiding too great a gap between the reality of the world outside and Narkomindel’s preconceived notions about it. Moscow’s perceptions of the world outside would have been different if it had not been for the discussions that took place with those employed i n the periphery. As the periphery was gradually relieved of its ‘independent’ role the system lost one way of ensuring that centrally established perceptions accorded to some extent with reality. The feedback from Kobetskii and others indicates that the system was by no means monolithic. Even if there is evidence that Kobetskii’s opinions were sometimes dismissed by the centre, some room for discussion existed within the system. Notes

1 . Bo Lidegaard, I Kongens Navn (Copenhagen, 1996). 2. All quotations from the correspondence are from documents at AVP RF. F.085, o p . 17, p. 110. d . 172, 1. 44-3. 3 . F. 9 , o p . 8 , p . 6 2 , d . 1 3 , l . 2 8 . Kobetskii t o Stomonyakov,

3 June 1933.

\_

4. Research paper given by Aleksandr Golubev at the conference ’Russia i n the Age of Wars (1914—1945): Toward a New Paradigm’, i n Cortona, Italy, October 1997. The notion of inexperience and ignorance i n the Politburo itself does not, of course, apply to the apparatus servicing the leading organs of power. 5 . Margot Light, The Soviet Theory of International Relations (London, 1988). 6. Teddy J. Uldricks, Diplomacy and Ideology: The Origin of Soviet Foreign Relations (London, 1 9 7 9 ) .

7. F. 085, op. 14, p. 107, d . 125, 1. 8—7. 8 . What I have chosen to refer t o as Northern Schleswig is more or less equivalent to the area between the 1864 border and that of 1920. The term itself carries

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revisionist overtones, since the Danish term is ‘Sonderjylland’, emphasizing the affiliation with Jutland rather t h a n Schleswig. However, t o avoid confusion between the terms Sonderjylland and Sydjylland, I have chosen to resort to ‘Northern Schleswig’. Malene Djursaa, DNSAP De danske nazister 1930—1945 (Copenhagen, 1981); A l e x Quaade a n d O l e Ravn, Hajre

Om!,vols 1—2 (Copenhagen,

1979).

10. One of the clearest examples of this way of thinking i n the centre is a report by Orlov, l s t Western Department, to Narkom,Vyshinskii and others. F. 085, o p . 26, p. 119,d . 2, 1. 1—28,2 3 March 1942. 11. F. 085, o p . 16, p.109,d . 151,1. 11—10. 12. Ibid. 13. F.085, o p . 16,p. 109,d . 156,1. 15—12. 14. F.085, o p . 16,p. 109,d . 156,1. 37—36. 15. Professor Bent Jensen h a s commented on Engell’s puzzling testimony. A possible explanation for Engell’s indiscretion might be a misunderstanding o n t h e Soviet s i d e . T h i s , however,

does not change

t h e fact t h a t the l s t

Western Department attached great importance to this information and chose to let it overrule other information from alternative sources o n this issue. 16. F.085, o p . 16,p. 109,d . 152,1. 39. 17. F. 0 8 5 , o p . 16, p . 109, d . 156, 1. 15-12. Kobetskii t o Stomonyakov, s u m m e r 1933. 18. F. 0 8 5 , o p . 16, p . 109, d . 156, 1. 39—37. Raskol’nikov t o Stomonyakov ( 5 October 1933).

19. F. 09, op. 8, p. 61,ds. 92, 1. 29—12.

10 Soviet Remote Control: the Island of

Bornholm as a Relay Station in Soviet—Danish Relations, 1945—71 Bent Iensen

Introduction

While the rest of Denmark was liberated by British forces on 5 May 1945, the last remnant of the former Danish Baltic Empire1 — the island of Bornholm (with 45,000 inhabitants) — was conquered on 9 May by Soviet forces which left again only on 5 April 1946. The occupation forces, consisting of around 8000 troops from the 2nd Belorussian Front, also included a marine command

which was part o f the (Soviet) Warnemiinde

Naval Base. The Danish island and its surrounding waters constituted a specific Soviet marine district with its own chief. The occupation force did not interfere in the administration of the island and no efforts were made to influence the population by propaganda or other means. On the contrary, the troops were kept isolated i n forest areas and interaction with the Danes was severely restricted. Relatively few crimes were committed. Moscow never directly used the occupation of Bornholm to pressure Denmark into giving political or military concessions, though this course had been recommended by, among others, Maksim Litvinov, Vladimir Semenov and Mikhail Vetrov in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (Narkomindel). Nevertheless, the Soviet occupation of this ‘Christmas card island' was to have serious consequences for Denmark’s security policy throughout the post-war period. The military occupation provoked deep feelings of fear a n d insecurity among Danish politicians and officials. When the Kremlin decided to give the island back to Denmark, a feeling of relief and gratitude could be discerned, even though Denmark, strictly speaking, had n o reason to be grateful to Moscow for having at long last terminated this unwanted, and for that matter completely unnecessary, occupation of the island (Bornholm was not enemy territory, and the Germans had already been evacuated by May 1945). But even though 192

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Soviet forces quite simply had n o right to occupy the island, this feeling of fear-cum-gratitude was long-lasting, and influenced the course of Danish—Soviet relations right u p to the end of the Soviet regime. Part of the explanation of this phenomenon must be sought i n Denmark’s inglorious role i n the Second World War, when Denmark actively cooperated with the Nazi regime, among other things hailing the AntiComintern pact. Denmark was thus in n o position openly to defy the Kremlin. In contrast to Denmark, Norway had fought the German invasion and established a government i n exile during the occupation. By September 1945, Oslo had successfully got Moscow unconditionally to leave Soviet-occupied Northern Norway. As we shall see, Bornholm became a permanent issue i n Soviet—Danish relations and ‘an eternal restrictive covenant’ i n Danish security policy. If Moscow was able to use Bornholm as a ‘relay station’ t o exercise remote control over Denmark’s foreign and security policy, this was to a great extent because Danish officials and politicians allowed it to do 50.

Official Soviet declarations regarding the occupation When Soviet forces landed o n the island i n May 1945, official Soviet declarations emphasized that Bornholm was part of Denmark. This i n itself was no surprise to the Danish government, but the Soviet formulation was meant to reassure Denmark that the island and its population were not going to suffer the same treatment as Germany and the Germans i n Soviet-occupied territory, where the administration of civilian affairs was taken over by the Soviet authorities and mass rape was commonplace. I n a directive to the relevant Soviet military occupation authorities i n Germany, dated 1 5 May and signed by Stalin and Antonov, it was explained that Bornholm had been occupied only because of its position i n t h e hinterland of ‘our German zone of occupation’, and because many German agents had fled to the Danish island. The Danish people should be told that Bornholm was to be temporarily occupied ‘until the military question i n Germany h as been solved’.2 The new explanation was made even more flexible in the Danish version, edited by a special politruk an d the Danish governor of the island. Here the central passage stated that the island was temporarily occupied ‘until questions i n Germany connected with the war have been solved’.3 This formula would have allowed Soviet forces to stay on the island right up t o the 19905. However, after considering various ways i n which military control of Bornholm could be used to further Soviet strategic and political interests i n the Western part of the Baltic Sea (for

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example by establishing marine and air bases o n the island), the Kremlin apparently came to the conclusion that any possible military advantage would be outweighed by the political disadvantages that could result from putting too much pressure on the Danish government i n this regard. Moscow never risked putting forward such demands, and there were never any negotiations between the Soviet an d Danish governments concerning Bornholm. By the end of 1945 Moscow was ready to leave the Danish island. It was just waiting for the Danes to request that it do 50.

Exchange of notes and evacuation, March-April 1946 From the beginning of the occupation, Denmark’s policy was to pretend that the Soviet military presence on this part of Danish territory presented no problem, although the Foreign Minister said that the Bornholm issue represented his ministry’s greatest dilemma. The government persuaded the press not to write critical articles concerning the occupation and not to pose critical questions as to Moscow’s intentions, the duration of the occupation and so o n . Behind the official facade there was, however, considerable nervousness. O n 5 March 1 9 4 6 , after ten months o f fear and inactivity, a D a n i s h

note was finally delivered to Vyshinskii. I n very polite language ‘the victorious Red Army’ was congratulated and praised for having driven the German occupants out of Bornholm. The note was chiefly concerned with the few remaining British troops i n Denmark, who would soon be gone. Only in closing did the note say that Danish defence forces were now able to take care of the defence of Bornholm. ‘The Danish government would therefore greatly appreciate it if the Soviet government likewise might agree that the management of these tasks could be trans-

ferred to the Danish Defence Authority’.4 Molotov immediately called the Danish envoy, greeted him cordially, a n d declared:

If Denmark is now i n a condition to be able to occupy the island of Bornholm with its own troops and to establish its own administration on Bornholm without any participation whatsoever by foreign troops o r foreign administrators, then the Soviet government will withdraw its troops from Bornholm and return it t o the Danish government.5 Three days later h e was assured i n a note from the Danish government that:

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Denmark without any participation whatsoever by foreign troops will be able at once with its own forces to occupy the island of Bornholm

and fully to exercise its administration there.6 A few days later Molotov handed the Danish envoy a final document, dated 1 6 March: I confirm that I have received your letter of 8 March and hereby inform you that, since the Danish Government at the present time has the capability to occupy the island of Bornholm with its own troops and to establish its administration there without any participation whatsoever by foreign troops or foreign administrators, the Soviet Government,

i n accordance

with i t s declaration

of 5 March,

has given the order to begin during the next few days the withdrawal of Red Army troops stationed on the island of Bornholm, and to complete [this operation] within a month at most, after which the island of Bornholm will be completely transferred to Danish administration. V. Molotov. Within two weeks the occupation forces, with all their equipment, had been evacuated.

What was demanded and what was promised? Moscow, of course, had no legal right to put forward any conditions for its withdrawal, since the two countries had not been at war. But great powers do not need formal rights to justify their demands. They just demand. I n any case, these brief statements — sloppily worded and translated on the Danish side — constituted the political basis for the Soviet evacuation of the Danish island. The easygoing manner of the whole procedure and the extraordinary haste of the Soviet withdrawal indicate that Moscow was not at the time unduly worried about the question of Bornholm. If Stalin and Molotov had also wanted watertight assurances for the future, they would surely have known how to extract them. As a matter of fact, Molotov had intended to convey Moscow’s conditions to the Danes only by word of mouth. It was the Danes who insisted on a written statement. None of these notes was published at the time. It was not until the late 1960s that the Danish government published part of the documents, again i n a rather slapdash manner. This, together with the fact that the Danish Foreign Minister had pretended i n 1 9 4 6 that the Soviet evacuation was the result of long and difficult negotiations, gave

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rise to all sorts of speculation that there existed some secret agreement or secret protocol attached to the conditions stated. The secrecy surrounding the affair also meant that the Danish press and official Danish representatives were unable to handle questions efficiently. When editors asked to be confidentially briefed, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs refused to let them into its secrets.7 The Governor of Bornholm, who received several Soviet civilian and military representatives i n the years following the occupation, was never informed of the exchange of notes and was therefore unable to counter false Soviet statements regarding the conditions for the evacuation. I n 1952, when confronted with a journalist from the Communist newspaper The Daily Worker, the press attaché at the Danish Embassy i n London, uninformed of the real facts, was likewise unable to give a proper reply. Even the Danish Minister of Defence was completely unaware in 1948 of the fact that an exchange of notes h ad taken place, let alone of what those notes contained. The exchange of notes has often been referred to as an agreement or a n understanding. It is important to stress that there was no formal agreement, and that the so-called ‘understanding’ was subsequently understood differently by the two parties. I n the years that followed the question as to what exactly Denmark had promised Moscow i n March 1946, and what Moscow expected from Denmark after the Soviets had left Bornholm, was t h e subject of frequent an d heated debate. Until 1 9 5 2 , however, t h i s debate took place i n Denmark only i n confidential

discussions. The question was scrutinized i n th e Danish Ministry of Foreign Affairs, a n d specialists i n the Russian language and i n international law were consulted. After 1 9 5 2 , however,

the ‘agreement’ over

Bornholm became a hot issue i n Soviet — Danish relations. Up until then Moscow does not seem to have given the question much thought, or indeed any thought at all. There was never any attempt to establish i n a face-to-face meeting what the two parties had actually meant. Taken at face value, t h e Danish note did not commit Denmark to any obligations whatsoever. It stated only that Denmark was able t o do certain things, that is to ‘occupy’ this part of its own kingdom and t o exercise its administration there — as in fact it had always done, even during the period of Soviet administration. Non-existent

conditions

There was another peculiar aspect of the Soviet evacuation. The Danish envoy in Moscow, Thomas Dossing, who was not a professional diplomat

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and i n many ways was more Soviet-minded than the Soviets themselves, claimed afterwards that it had been a Soviet precondition for leaving Bornholm that the island should be strongly defended. Moscow expected, he wrote, ‘relatively large’ Danish forces to be placed on the island, including not only ground forces, but a marine and even an air contingent. No such thing is mentioned in the official notes and declarations, nor even hinted at i n the very few, brief and polite conversations between the Danish envoy and Vyshinskii and Molotov respectively. No such demand, nor even a suggestion to that effect, was made i n confidential Soviet and Danish papers relating to the evacuation. The Soviet envoy to Denmark was surprised when h e learned of the large size of the Danish garrison o n Bornholm after the Soviet evacuation.8 Thomas Dossing’s claim is pure invention. The Danish governor added to the impression that Dossing had given by informing the Danish government of certain casual remarks made by the Soviet komendant o n Bornholm. General Yakushev, who was himself an artillery officer, had naturally stressed the importance of artillery. I n March—April 1946 a n infantry batallion of 800 men and a n artillery unit of 300 m e n were shipped to Bornholm. Two minesweepers and two naval training ships were stationed on the island. This was far less i n the way of defence than the Soviet occupation forces had provided, but represented a considerable force for Denmark at the time. I n 1948 several anti-aircraft guns were placed there after Soviet aeroplanes demonstratively had overflown Bornholm. I n the following years this force was somewhat reduced, with only one patrol boat with 40 m m guns left i n 1959. On the other hand, seven light tanks and a reduced mortar com-

pany were transferred to the island in the 19505.9 I n November 1946 Moscow lodged an official protest at the alleged intensive shelling by coastal artillery of a commercial Soviet freighter o n its way from Stettin to Warnemiinde. According to the Soviet account, the ship had come close t o the south coast of Bornholm because of fog. During the shelling the lighthouse at Due Odde had floodlit the ship. Moscow demanded a n explanation of this ‘incorrect behaviour’ on the part of the military o n Bornholm.10 The Soviet protest was based o n pure fiction. The real reason for it is unknown. The (non-existent) Denmark

Greenland—Bornholm

nexus

believed that t h e two Danish islands, Greenland

and Born-

holm, were interconnected geostrategically. The Danish government feared Soviet retaliation if US military bases were established

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permanently in Greenland. If Washington demanded bases on the North-Atlantic island, Moscow would d o the s a m e o n the Baltic i s l a n d . The belief was unfounded, but t h e fear was real a n d thus became a

political factor i n determining the Danish attitude.11 Moscow did not really see remote Greenland as a problem i n Soviet—Danish relations, and never used the important American bases o n the Danish island as a lever t o advance its own demands. When i n October 1945 the American ambassador to Denmark raised the question of permanent bases i n Greenland, the Danish Foreign Minister was horrified and begged Washington to let the matter rest as long as Soviet occupation forces were o n Danish territory. The Americans then promised Denmark not to aggravate its already difficult relationship with Moscow, but warned the Danish government that in due course the question of Greenland would arise again. Only five days after the Soviet evacuation, Bornholm was discussed at a meeting in the Planning and Strategic Committee of the US Chiefs of Staff. A State Department representative took the View that the Soviet Union would not reoccupy the Danish island ‘in the foreseeable future’ (he did not specify when that future

would

e n d ) . According

t o the American,

however,

everyone,

including the Danes, knew that Moscow could and would return to the island if such a thing were considered in the interests of the Soviet

Union.12 I n the spring of 1946 the Danish government received a note from the Americans. When an American envoy (General Hayes) came to Denmark shortly afterwards, the Greenland question was mentioned in the Soviet press. Protracted Danish—American negotiations concerning Greenland began. The Danish government, of course, had the right t o ask the Americans to leave the island, but, again, legal rights were no hindrance for a great power which wanted to stay, as Washington did. The real issue for Denmark was what to do in the face of the manifest US will to maintain and even expand its military presence i n Greenland. The position adopted by the Danish government was to wait hopefully and see. Meanwhile, Danish politicians and officials discussed the supposed Bornholm—Greenland nexus among themselves. At a meeting on 23 May 1 9 4 6 the former Foreign Minister, Christmas Moller, told the Parlia-

mentary Foreign Affairs Committee that it would place Denmark i n a difficult position if the Russians had occasion to ask the Danish government why Denmark had been so anxious to get the Russians out of Bornholm, while a corresponding anxiety had not been demonstrated with regard to the American and British military presence on Danish

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territory. The Foreign Minister informed the Committee — which included a Communist — that the British forces had been heavily reduced since the turn of the year. But the Danish government had asked London for military experts to train Danish personnel and to carry out minesweeping. As regards American troops, h e said, Denmark had to direct all its efforts towards manning and managing the permanent meteorological station a t Thule, Greenland, which the Americans planned t o e s t a b l i s h .

Denmark should also take over the management of the British LORAN station o n the Faroe I s l a n d s , which the Americans a l s o wanted to take

possession of. I n conclusion, Christmas Moller declared that there was general agreement that no Americans should be stationed on Danish territory.13 Gustav Rasmussen then told London that Denmark was against an American takeover of the LORAN station. Moscow had just left Bornholm, and Denmark feared ‘complications’ with the Soviet Union — for example Soviet demands for bases — if the Americans established themselves o n the Faroe Islands. His anxiety seems to have been groundless. A couple of months earlier, Vyshinskii had explicitly told Gustav Rasmussen that Moscow saw no

connection between the Faroe Islands and Bornholm.14 Similarly, when i n J u n e 1 9 4 6 Rasmussen went t o Moscow, he was not once asked about

the Danish North Atlantic possessions. Molotov only briefly asked him about Denmark’s position with regard to the Kiel Canal. But Rasmussen, on his own initiative, then proceeded to inform his Soviet colleague about US plans with regard to Greenland and the Faroe Islands. He said that a few American technicians were temporarily needed at a single station i n Greenland to train Danish personnel i n t h e use of the instruments. He also told Molotov that the Danish government hoped to be able to avoid an American presence on the Faroe Islands. The immediate reason for Gustav Rasmussen’s revelations a nd assurances may have been the fact that on 2 June the Danish Communist Party newspaper Land 03 Folk had published an article based o n the above-mentioned confidential discussions i n the Foreign Affairs Committee in May.15 Three days later Pravda quoted the Danish newspaper, and, following Rasmussen’s discussion with Molotov, Stalin also referred, i n h i s conversations with Gustav Rasmussen, to t h e information con-

tained i n Pravda. Molotov expressed his satisfaction with the reaction of the Danish government t o American wishes to take over the meteorological and signal stations. ‘Stations placed o n Danish islands should of course be Danish’, he said. When the Generalissimus asked how many British soldiers were left o n Danish territory, Rasmussen said that very

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few remained (only 400—500) and that they were there because the Danish government had asked them to train Danish soldiers i n the use

of modern military equipment.16 Stalin did not go further into the matter. He did not need to. Simply by asking the question h e had made it clear that he paid close attention to the question of foreign troops o n Danish soil. His indirect warning was not lost on the Danish Foreign Minister, who — according to a close friend 17At the time, however, Gustav Rasmussen — was in any case a timid m a n . was very optimistic. At a confidential meeting o n 1 6 June 1946, he told the Minister of Defence and the Danish military chiefs that h e did not

expect further Soviet reaction.18 When East—West tensions sharpened, there was a shift in Danish policy with regard to the American bases i n Greenland. I n View of the current tension, they ceased pressing Washington for negotiations concerning American withdrawal from the island. Gustav Rasmussen told Danish military chiefs that Denmark had a legal foundation for getting the Americans out of Greenland, and that this could ‘possibly’ be achieved. But the costs might be too high. I n the event of military conflict, the USA would regard Denmark as a friend of the Soviet Union. This was not advisable. However, when t h e D a n i s h ambassador

t o Moscow, Henrik

Kauffmann, suggested i n 1947 a regional agreement on a common Danish—Canadian—American defence o f G r e e n l a n d , Rasmussen was a l s o wor-

ried. He feared that the Soviet Union might make the counter offer of a regional agreement on the mutual Danish—Soviet defence of Denmark. The Danish Minister of Defence considered Kauffmann’s proposal dangerous. Moscow might also want compensation i n Norway, h e

thought.19 In direct talks with US Secretary of State George Marshall i n November 1947, Gustav Rasmussen said that Denmark wanted the treaty o n Greenland annulled. He assured his American colleague that this policy was not the result of Soviet pressure. Marshall was not convinced. Soviet pressure o n Denmark took the form of press attacks on the USA for

remaining in Greenland.20 Shortly after the Communist coup in Czechoslovakia, Henrik Kauffmann told the State Department that the Danes were acutely aware of the proximity of the Soviet Union. They therefore feared Soviet retaliation if Denmark allowed the US to establish military bases in Greenland, with Moscow demanding its own bases on Danish territory, for example on Bornholm.21 Gustav Rasmussen also treated George Marshall to his nightmare vision of what might befall the Danish nation in the event of an East—West conflict: the Soviets might deport the whole population.

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Under the impact of the Cold War, Denmark gave i n and i n 1 9 5 1 signed an agreement with the USA securing American bases i n Greenland. Soviet reactions were moderate.

A land (almost) prohibited to foreigners I n the spring of 1 9 4 6 — while Soviet forces were still o n Bornholm — the Danish government was extremely careful not t o allow foreign military personnel to visit the island. This was a sensible policy i n View of Moscow’s well-known tendency to paranoia. I n March 1946 Gustav Rasmussen told the Danish military chiefs in no uncertain terms that the Russians must not be given any cause for suspicion as to foreign interference i n the administration of Bornholm. A means of preventing British and American officers from going to Bornholm in any way or with any purpose must be found. Even foreign civilians should be barred for a certain period from going to the island. At a meeting with the British ambassador, Alec Randall, Rasmussen said that it was a high priority for the Danish government to prevent British officers or other foreigners from going to Bornholm ‘in the immediate future’. Moscow must be given no reason to suspect any British involvement i n the defence of Bornholm.22 When i n May 1946 — a month after the completion of the evacuation — the Governor o f Bornholm, P. Chr. von Stemann, invited a British m i l i t -

ary attaché on a private visit, he was told by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that the British colonel would not be allowed to Visit the island. The governor was told that he was not authorized to invite foreign

officers to the island witout prior consultations with the Ministry.” Stemann was angry: when would his island be treated as a normal, fully-integrated part of the Danish Kingdom? How long would ‘the immediate future’ last? As we shall see, this term was gradually extended to mean ‘forever’. The governor also asked why Soviet officers were allowed to go to the island without prior notice when British officers were not? I n 1947 — when Denmark was still adhering to a strictly neutral policy in the hope of being able in some way to act as a bridge-builder between East and West — the Danish attitude to Visits by foreign military personnel was partially relaxed. Military personnel would no longer actively be prevented from going to Bornholm, but n o Danish authority

or person should encourage or take the initiative to propose such visits.24 The restrictions, however, were not abolished. When i n the s u m m e r o f

1947 an American military attaché spent a n unofficial holiday on Bornholm without asking the permission of the Danish government, Gustav Rasmussen expressed his anxiety over the visit to Danish military chiefs.

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Had the American asked permission, he would have been refused. O n the other hand, h i s visit t o the (Danish) Faroe I s l a n d s i n the Atlantic was

deemed quite acceptable. And indeed, Rasmussen would not have lost sleep over a collective visit to Bornholm by all the foreign — including the

Soviet — military attachés combined.25 Bornholm

and the abortive

Scandinavian

defence

union

The winter of 1947—48 saw a sharp escalation of the Cold War. The Communist coup i n Czechoslovakia and Moscow’s pressure on Finland i n February—April 1948, combined with rumours to the effect that Norway (and possibly Denmark) would be offered a Soviet treaty of friendship and defence, provoked a political crisis i n Copenhagen, which came to a head during Easter 1948. Over the previous few months Denmark had come under harsh attack i n the Soviet press. With the active support of the Danish Communist Party, Moscow hinted that, while Norway and Denmark did not dare openly to enter the West European Union proposed by the British Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin, a secret military agreement nevertheless existed between Great Britain and the two Scandinavian governments. Moscow was especially concerned over the many German-built airfields on Danish territory. The government and leading politicians were extremely worried, the Prime Minister one morning even mistaking the innocent sound of Danish tractors at work i n the fields for the sinister manoeuvrings of heavy Soviet military equipment being airlifted into Denmark. No wonder, then, that a Swedish request to have some of their airforce visit Denmark was refused. As a result of the 1948 spring crisis the three Scandinavian countries began negotiations for a non-aligned Scandinavian Defence Union. In May 1948, o n the eve of these negotiations, Denmark went so far as to refuse a Swedish request to have two small, unarmed training ships visit Bornholm, despite the latter’s proximity and strategic importance to Sweden. According to Danish rules for foreign warships i n peacetime, any foreign vessel could visit any Danish port without prior notice. The polite Swedes, however, had asked i n advance if a visit was opportune. Gustav Rasmussen said that i n principle (‘i og for sig') he would like to say yes, but Denmark had promised Moscow i n March 1946 ‘that no foreign military personnel would come to the island’. Even though, at the time, Moscow had no doubt had British and American military personnel foremost i n mind, it was possible, s a i d Rasmussen, that the Soviet Union

would look upon a Swedish visit with suspicion as well, and use it as a n excuse for renewed interest i n Bornholm. It was easier to explain the

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matter to the Swedes than t o the Russians, the Director of the Foreign Ministry Frants Hvass explained. The Swedes should not, however, b e

given the impression that there existed between Denmark and the Soviet

Union any agreement which prohibited foreign naval visits.26 With this prohibition the Danish government had thus, on its own initiative and without any pressure from the Soviet Union, extended de facto the promise given in 1946. Literally speaking, the Danish government at that time had only informed the Soviet government of Denmark’s ability to occupy Bornholm, and fully to exercise its administration on the island, without the participation of foreign personnel. I n real terms this amounted to a promise not to let British (or American) soldiers participate i n the Danish ‘reoccupation’ of Bornholm. But now the Danish Foreign Minister had in effect declared that the undertaking given i n 1946 did not merely concern the changing of the guard at the time, but constituted a promise for the future. O n 1 1 September 1948 Soviet airplanes demonstratively overflew Bornholm and Soviet warships were placed to th e East and West of the island. This demonstration of military muscle coincided with a meeting of Scandinavian foreign ministers i n Stockholm t o discuss the creation of a Scandinavian defence union. A Soviet naval attaché explicitly drew the attention of the island’s governor to this Soviet show of force, at the same time pointing to the importance of Bornholm as a naval base.” The military chief on Bornholm asked Copenhagen for anti-air artillery and had a battery transferred from Zeeland. I n order not to ‘provoke’ Moscow, however, the Foreign Minister confidentially asked the press not to mention this military reallocation. Denmark did not lodge a formal protest with Moscow, but merely drew the attention of the Soviet government politely to the fact that permission was needed for overflying Danish territory. It should be stressed that Soviet military personnel were i n n o way restricted from Visiting the island throughout the years following the occupation. The idea of a Scandinavian defence union was never put into action because of conflicting interests between Norway and Sweden. Sweden wanted a non-aligned union, whereas Norway wanted the union to be allied to the Western powers. After much hesitation, Denmark followed Norway’s line.

Bornholm and membership of the Atlantic Alliance When, in 1948—49, Danish politicians confidentially discussed the possibility of Denmark's joining an Atlantic alliance, fear was voiced that

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Bornholm would again be occupied by the Soviet Union.28 In February 1949 the Soviet envoy, Andrei Plakhin, told the Director of the Foreign Ministry, J. R. Dahl, that Denmark was playing with fire, even though the Soviet Union had no intention of starting a war. Plakhin also reminded Dahl that the Soviet Union had left Bornholm only on condition that no foreign troops were placed on the island. Dahl did not dispute the Soviet interpretation, but said merely that Denmark did

not intend to have foreign troops deployed there.29 This was the first time since 1946 that a Soviet representative had touched o n the Bornh o l m i s s u e , a n d i t was from t h i s point onwards, too, that Denmark began

behaving as if it accepted the Soviet understanding of the 1 9 4 6 declaration.

Gustav Rasmussen, who had earlier declared that Danish membership of the Atlantic alliance would be tantamount ‘to signing one’s own death sentence’, warned that Bornholm would be very exposed if Denmark joined the alliance, which i n his view would cover Greenland, but not the Baltic island. The Danish ambassador in Washington, on the other hand, took the over-optimistic view that ‘if the Soviet Union bombed Bornholm that would mean atomic bombs over Russia within less than 4 8 hours’. After talks i n Washington Rasmussen was able to assure the government that the pact would (formally) cover all parts of the Danish kingdom, including Bornholm, the Faroe Islands and Green-

land.3O When the Danish government signed th e Atlantic Treaty i n April 1949, it did not state that Denmark h ad any particular obligation towards the Soviet Union i n relation to Bornholm. Nor was the Bornholm question discussed in NATO until the Danish ambassador, in an informal meeting of the NATO Council on 2 5 February 1953, emphasized to his colleagues that Denmark had not undertaken any special obligations regarding the island. I n March 1 9 5 1 — two years after D e n m a r k j o i n e d NATO — the Ministry

of Defence allowed a British warship to visit Bornholm, i n what was apparently the first such instance since the Second World War. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs had not been asked, but — so it stated afterwards — would hardly have opposed the visit. I n December of that year two American destroyers visited Ronne for three days with the official blessing of the Foreign Ministry. The Ministry, however, was not wholly i n control of the matter. Several years later it learned that i n 1951 or 1952 the NATO Commander-in-Chief

of the Northern Region, Admiral Brind,

had visited Bornholm ‘in uniform’ without informing either the Ministry of Defence or the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. There was no reaction to

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these visits from the Soviet Union: everything proceeded quietly as usual. But this proved to be the calm before the storm.

Bornholm, NATO military exercises and NATO bases, 1952—3 After Denmark joined NATO, a n alleged ‘plan’ to make Bornholm a forward base of the Organization was mentioned o n various occasions i n the Soviet and Communist press.31 But i n 1952—53 these sporadic press articles were replaced by a sustained Soviet campaign against Denmark which linked real plans for American airbases o n Jutland with the alleged plans for Bornholm, and with NATO’s Main Brace exercise o n 13—25 September 1952. I n April 1952 the Soviet legation i n Denmark sent a report to the Soviet Ministry of Foreign Affairs concerning Washington’s plans i n relation to Bornholm. The report was a hotchpotch of Danish and Soviet press reports and pure speculation, but its conclusions were very clear: ‘All this confirms the fact that the island of Bornholm is now being transformed on the orders of the Americans into a marine base i n the Baltic

Sea.’32 Great significance was attached to the Visit to Bornholm in 1951 by the American Ambassador, Eugenie M. Anderson, and to her alleged views on the island’s strategic importance for NATO. The report i n general, and in particular its claim that America was laying plans ‘under cover of Denmark’s obligations to the Soviet Union’,33 was dismissed by the Soviet Ministry of Foreign Affairs as consisting mainly of platitudes. The aggressive Soviet envoy, Mikhail Vetrov, proceeded however to fan the flames. He told Vyshinskii that the Danish Minister of Foreign Affairs, Ole Bjorn Kraft, had made a provocative anti-Soviet speech, the purpose of which was to warn the Danish people of ‘the forthcoming American occupation of the country' — such was his description of the planned establishment in peacetime of American air bases on Danish territory. Now Vyshinskii himself became actively involved i n the matter. After a visit to Denmark by the Supreme NATO Commander of European Forces, General Eisenhower, a Foreign Ministry official, A. Aleksandrov, drew Vyshinskii’s attention to the fact that Denmark, unlike Norway, had never officially promised the Soviet Union not to establish bases on its territory i n peacetime. The only obligation that Denmark had incurred was i n regard to Bornholm: namely, to take full control of the island without the participation of foreign troops and administrators. Shortly afterwards Vetrov reported on the ‘Main

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Brace’ naval exercise, i n which Bornholm

was included, claiming that

the purpose of the NATO exercise was to occupy Danish naval and air bases.

First Soviet warning, July 1 9 5 2 O n instructions from Vyshinskii, the acting chief of the 5th European Department, Andrei Plakhin, proposed a whole set of Soviet measures directed at Denmark. Moscow should officially ask Copenhagen to confirm o r deny press reports about foreign bases i n Denmark. If Denmark’s answer was affirmative or evasive, the Soviet government should warn the Danish government that American bases would be considered as evidence of aggressive intentions in the Baltic Sea region. The Soviet press should publish articles presenting the provocative NATO exercise in the Baltic a s a threat to the region’s peace and security. Denmark’s active role i n the exercise should be stressed. At this stage, Vyshinskii decided only to publish a sharp warning i n the form of a n article i n Pravda. Here for the first time Moscow made active use of the Danish note of March 1 9 4 6 to argue against Denmark’s integration i n the military structure of NATO. The Pravda article, signed only ‘Viktor’, was sharply critical of the Main Brace exercise and of the alleged plan by American forces t o u s e Bornholm a s a b a s e — i n violation, i t said,

of Denmark’s promise in 1946 to establish a purely Danish administration without any participation by foreign military forces. The Danish M i n i s t e r o f Defence, Harald Petersen, immediately reacted,

but — like the Foreign Minister Gustav Rasmussen in 1949 — h e did not explicitly say that ‘Viktor’s’ interpretation was incorrect, or that Denmark’s undertaking in 1946 had nothing to do with a naval exercise i n 1952. Instead h e stressed that, according to the plan for future manoeuvres, only British, Norwegian and Danish naval units would sail i n t o the Baltic Sea, a n d that n o American

units would be involved.

Moreover, since only Danish ships would actually call at Bornholm, the NATO military manoeuvres would not influence the Danish administration of the island. Plakhin quite correctly concluded that ‘the Danish government has thus indirectly reconfirmed the undertakings concerning Bornholm that we got from the Danes back i n 1946.’ Plakhin was even more right than he realized. By referring to the 1946 undertakings as if they were still valid i n 1952, the Danish government had in effect invited Moscow to seize the opportunity and to try to transform the promise given i n 1946 into a binding and permanent commitment. The Bornholm card had been thrown into the game with

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far-reaching consequences. From now o n Moscow would use it to influence Denmark’s security not only with regard to Bornholm, but with regard to the defence of the country in general. The Pravda article had

thus secured an important Soviet goal.34 Moscow was also convinced that its criticisms had caused NATO to exclude American ships from taking part in the Main Brace exercise, and that it was thanks to Soviet intervention that only Danish ships had been allowed to call at Bornholm ports. This was not correct. The exercise had been prepared exclusively by the military organs of NATO. The Danish government was surprised when informed that allied units would sail as far as the east of Bornholm and that simulated attacks o n the island would be included in the exercise. Denmark was put i n a very delicate position. Not only was it the object of severe criticism by Moscow, but London and Washington had differe n t views as to how to react to the Soviet attack. I n August, Churchill wanted the Baltic part of the manoeuvres cancelled i n order not to provoke

Moscow. Washington,

o n the other h a n d , wanted

the m a n -

oeuvres carried out i n order not to give i n to Soviet pressure. The Danish government sided with the Americans and their evaluation: it would be unfortunate if Moscow got the impression that it could intimidate Denmark. A compromise was found by Admiral Brind, Commander i n Chief of Northern Europe: only small British and Norwegian ships would be allowed i n the waters near Bornholm, and only Danish ships would be allowed to visit the island. The manoeuvres were limited to the east coast of the island. As mentioned above, Moscow got th e impression that its pressure had worked. And the Danish government, despite its defiant stand, was very anxious. O n 20 August, bearing i n mind the exposed position of Bornholm, it requested a NATO declaration of solidarity to the effect that Denmark would be supported if the Soviet Union should use Main Brace as a pretext to undertake aggressive steps towards Denmark. I n what must

have

been

a serious l e s s o n for Denmark,

London,

Paris a n d

Washington refused. The Danes now knew that they would have to deal with Moscow on their own. Denmark also suspected (and with good reason) that NATO would not defend Bornholm or go to war over

the island in the event of Soviet reoccupation.35 Second Soviet warning, October 1 9 5 2 O n 1 October the Soviet Union issued a further warning i n the form of an official declaration, claiming that the establishment of American bases

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on Danish territory would represent a Violation of a Danish note to the Soviet government of 4 May 1949 concerning Denmark’s membership of the Atlantic alliance. The declaration also reminded Denmark of its 1946 commitment ‘to establish its administration on the island without any participation by foreign troops’. The Danish Minister of Foreign Affairs reacted very mildly, whereas the Chairman of the Parliamentary Foreign Affairs committee, Hans Hedtoft, uncompromisingly declared that Denmark had long since fulfilled its obligations of 1946. O n 29 October the Danish government officially — and very politely — replied by saying that it had not violated any obligations to the Soviet Union and that Denmark wanted only good relations with its neighbour. The government promised never to allow Denmark to be involved in any action which could be seen as a threat to the Soviet Union.

Third Soviet warning, January 1 9 5 3 Denmark’s response provoked a new, more sharply-worded reminder from the Soviet side i n January 1953. The Danish reply was considered unsatisfactory a n d the government was accused of having already decided to allow foreign bases to be established on its territory. This constituted a violation of the Danish promise of 1 9 4 6 not to permit foreign troops o n Danish territory. I n a confidential note, the Director of the Foreign Ministry, Nils Svenningsen, quite correctly remarked that Moscow was now ‘trying to put something fundamentally new into our note on Bornholm i n 1946. This is quite senseless.’ I n 1 9 4 6 Denmark had been concerned simply to get rid of the Russian occupation troops in Bornholm, and the negotiations a nd notes regarding the conditions for evacuation quite clearly concerned nothing beyond the island itself. No o n e at the time could have foreseen the present developments, and ‘nothing points to the interpretation that either of the parties was of the opinion that the declaration should have a principal significance for the whole Danish kingdom. ( . . . ) [This] is nothing more than a poor effort to misrepresent the facts.’36 However, although Svenningsen rejected the new, expanded Soviet interpretation of Denmark’s original undertaking, he did not disagree with the Soviet View that the undertaking prohibited foreign troops from coming to Bornholm. Moscow, which had a good nose for fear and insecurity, sensed that the Danish government had been frightened. I n the View of the Soviet Foreign Ministry, the very fact of the Soviets’ repeated reference to Bornholm, let alone the content of their

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statements, had made Denmark feel insecure. The public assurances given by Ole Bjorn Kraft on 8 February, to the effect that the government had never intended to allow foreign troops to come to Bornholm, confirmed this view: the Danish leadership was worried about possible Soviet reactions if Denmark permitted foreign bases on its territory. Moscow had thus succeeded i n linking the two issues, or rather i n using Bornholm to influence other aspects of Denmark’s security policy. Denmark

scared

First c o n c e s s i o n

The Soviet evaluation was correct. The Soviet warnings had made a strong impression on the Danish government. Ole Bjorn Kraft was alarmed when, i n February 1953, Denmark was informed that a tactical naval

exercise, involving

the

British and

including

Bornholm,

was

planned for the summer of that year, for the area included extended further east than that covered by the Main Brace operation. He now stressed ‘the importance of avoiding provoking the Soviet Union’. The upshot was that ‘because of the political situation with regard to Bornholm, the Foreign Minister would not advise carrying out the exercise on the scale proposed’. Kraft conceded that the defence of Bornholm had to be taken into consideration, but Denmark had already manifested its concerns i n this regard over the Main Brace exercise i n 1952. ‘Bornholm had for a long period of time been i n [Moscow’s] focus i n a completely unreasonable way, and it could not be i n th e interests of Denmark to accentuate the existing tension still more.’ The Foreign Minister explicitly referred to the recent communications from the Soviet Union expressing Moscow’s interpretation of the commitments made by Denmark i n 1946 - while adding somewhat illogically, but probably just to reassure himself, that Moscow’s reminders perhaps represented more of a

signal to Sweden than to Denmark.37 B e h i n d closed doors, meanwhile,

the Minister o f Defence,

Harald

Petersen, said bravely on the one hand that ‘one ought not to let oneself be intimidated into not holding necessary naval exercises in the Baltic Sea’, but on the other hand ‘he doubted whether it was the right time to carry out a new exercise with foreign [i.e. Allied] participation’. Consideration should be given to whether it was essential to include this section o f t h e Baltic i n the area o f t h e exercise. The Chief o f Defence, Admiral Quistgaard, was worried if t h a t meant that naval exercises could n o t i n

the future take place in the Bornholm area of the Baltic . His argument,

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however, was technical: the Bornholm waters were well suited for exer-

cises because of the danger of mines elsewhere. The Foreign Minister once again argued strongly against including Bornholm i n the forthcoming exercise. It was unreasonable to strain the present political situation by new manoeuvres there. The political risks involved outweighed the military usefulness of the exercise. ‘Denmark was at present going through a n insecure period’. An exercise further west i n the Baltic, however, was acceptable, s i n c e t h i s could b e seen only a s a defence o f Danish

territory.38 High-placed officials i n the Danish Ministry of Foreign Affairs did not exclude the possibility that Moscow’s campaign was ’a preliminary warning of an isolated [Soviet] attack on Bornholm, when an opportunity

presented itself’.39 On 12 March Foreign Minister Ole Bjorn Kraft apprehensively asked the British ambassador,

M r Berthoud,

t o t e l l him the

truth about how NATO powers would react if Soviet forces suddenly attacked Bornholm and established their occupation as a fait accompli. Mr Berthoud, though speaking off the record, of course gave the official version, that neither Great Britain nor t h e USA would tolerate such a

thing. A Soviet attack on Bornholm would be a n attack o n all NATO states, and this would trigger a war, even if the island was quickly conquered and Moscow promised to give it back later.40 Denmark’s nagging doubts were not much relieved by hearing the British ambassador’s personal opinion. The Danish inner circle knew that the island was of limited military interest to NATO: since it could not effectively be defended against any determined Soviet attack, it could serve only as an early warning station. (The only consolation was that the island was believed to be too little and insignificant, and too difficult

to supply, to be of interest to the Soviet Union as a military base.)“t1 Denmark a s a whole, indeed, could not be efficiently defended

i n the

foreseeable future. Denmark had therefore to ‘determine its attitude [to the Soviet Union with regard to the Bornholm question] by evaluating, not the possibilities for defending the Northern flank of NATO, but the risk of war.’ According to one Danish official, Erik Schram-Nielsen, head of the NATO Office of the Foreign Ministry, the determining factors for the Soviet Union, when considering a n isolated action against Bornh o l m , would be twofold: (a) whether Moscow genuinely feared t h a t t h e

island might be used as a military base, and (b) what consequences an attack was likely to provoke. Perhaps Moscow too (like Copenhagen) believed that an isolated action would not in fact trigger a world war. What could Denmark do to avert the possible Soviet threat against Bornholm? An official declaration to the effect that Denmark undertook

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not to deploy foreign military troops on the island might eliminate the first factor. O n the other hand such a step, taken i n consultation with NATO, would weaken the present deterrent effect of Denmark's alliance with the Western powers. Moscow would then come to the conclusion that NATO had written off the rather insignificant island. SchramNielsen therefore suggested exploring another way out of the dilemma. Perhaps Sweden could be induced into manifesting a decisive interest in Bornholm. If the Soviet Union could thereby be persuaded that an isolated action would cause a revision o f Sweden’s attitude towards NATO,

Moscow would have a strong inducement to abstain from attacking the i s l a n d . I n t h i s case, Denmark

would

have

t o discuss with

Sweden

whether it could abstain from the obligation not to deploy foreign troops

on Bornholm.42 Second

concession

After the second Soviet memorandum, the Danish government had been so frightened that it had seriously considered making an official undertaking to Moscow never to allow foreign troops to come to Bornholm — even though the official Danish position, submitted to NATO i n February 1953, was that it was ‘evident that the Danish government by this note [of 8 March 1946] did not take upon itself any obligations which can be pleaded today. The Danish government has not undertaken special obligations to the Soviet Union, either with regard to Bornholm, or with regard to any other part of the country.’43 The ambassador to NATO, Vincens Steensen-Leth, was instructed o n 2 4 March to tell t h e NATO Council that

the Danish government had decided to give Moscow a written declaration that ‘irrespective of the interpretation of the note of 8 March 1946, Denmark would not i n peacetime permit the stationing of troops from other NATO states on Bornholm’. When a draft declaration was discussed i n a cabinet meeting the following day, however, disagreement as to the form and content of this declaration arose. The idea was therefore abandoned, a n d the NATO ambassador was t o l d t o consider the instruction n u l l a n d void. Instead, i t was decided that Denmark should react t o the

latest Soviet memorandum through a public speech by the Foreign Minister.44 Ole Bjorn Kraft chose Bornholm as the venue for delivering his unofficial response to Moscow, and the text was distributed by the Press Office of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Presumably, Kraft and the government acted o n the assumption that Stalin’s death (on 5 March

1953) would provoke a more relaxed international climate.45 Nevertheless, the Foreign M i n i s t e r ’ s speech still contained

a n official

promise from Denmark with regard to Bornholm. The Ministry of

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Foreign Affairs made clear that it was only the form, not the content of the Danish declaration which had been changed. Denmark thus gave Moscow permanent influence on the security status of the Danish island. Quite apart from this, the speech lacked internal consistency.46 Kraft first denied that the stationing on Danish territory of a few defensive air forces from other NATO countries would represent a threat against the security of the Soviet Union and other countries. He also said that the Soviet memoranda had been ‘unreasonable and uncalled for’ because there was no evidence of any plan on Denmark’s part to allow the stationing of foreign troops on the island. He dubbed th e Soviet warning ‘ u n j u s t i f i e d ’ , moreover, because the Danish undertaking

o f March 1 9 4 6

d id not extend into t h e indefinite future, but covered only the period of transition in spring 1946. Despite this, Kraft nevertheless conceded to Moscow that since 1946 Denmark had behaved as if the undertaking were permanent. Finally, Kraft wished to assure the Soviet Union that ‘the Danish government would always take into consideration the special circumstances arising from the geographic position of Bornholm.’47 Thus Moscow had obtained an important Danish concession i n the form of a promise by the Danish government never to let allied forces be stationed on this part of Danish territory. The aggressive Vetrov, the Soviet envoy, was not yet satisfied, however, and wanted t o push D e n -

mark still further. He told Molotov (who was now back in office as Foreign Minister) that the Danish Foreign Minister had interpreted the Danish note of 8 March 1946 i n a completely new and unacceptable way. Vetrov was right in the sense that this was the first time that a Danish government had publicly stated that since 1946 Denmark had acted in a way not called for by its own interpretation of the temporary nature of the original undertaking. The Soviet envoy was so upset by Kraft’s speech that h e wanted an article published in the Soviet press demonstrating ‘the hostile character’ of the Danish minister’s declaration and its ‘distorted interpretation of the promise the Danish government had given with regard to Bornholm’.48 Vetrov’s wish does not seem to have been fulfilled. It would have been hazardous, and it was completely unneccesary. Third

concession

From Moscow’s point of View, victory was complete a couple of months later when

the leader of t h e Social Democratic

party, H a n s Hedtoft,

declared that ‘in the present situation’ it could not accept ‘a permanent stationing of allied aeroplanes i n peacetime’.49 The Danish government was of the same opinion. Even if other factors were also at play, not least the fact that Norway did not want allied bases on its territory, Soviet

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213

pressure,which was also directed against Norway, had n o doubt been a n

important reason for the Danish decision. Stalin’s death and hopes of a more relaxed international situation may also have played a role. Visits to Bornholm

after

Main

Brace

Following the strong reaction to Main Brace in 1952,a n interministerial coordination committee laid down rules for NATO exercises in the Baltic Sea. An area in the Baltic Sea was demarcated i n which common manoeuvres supposedly ‘could take place without political anxiety [on the part of Denmark]’ — that is, without the risk of giving rise to Soviet misgivings. Only Danish, and possibly Norwegian, ships should visit Bornholm in connection with NATO exercises. Denmark would take part i n NATO manoeuvres i n the Baltic Sea only if the area involved did not extend further east than the 1 6 t h longitude, that is to say, 3 0 sea miles east of Bomholm. A l l i e d warships not involved i n manoeuvres would, however, be welcome at B o m h o l m . Several Visits by Norwegian, British, American and

French ships followed in the years to come. But it was only i n September 1955 that Denmark told Sweden that Bornholm was no longer a cause for concern. Since then Swedish ships have visited Ronne each year. When a Polish plane (MIG) landed o n Bornholm on 5 March 1953, a British air attaché without permission flew to Bomholm to offer his assistance to the Danes who undertook technical inspections of the plane. The Polish government protested, and the British ambassador and the attaché were reprimanded by the Danish government. A further Polish plane landed on Bornholm in 1953. After 1955 the Ministry of Foreign Affairs also permitted several military officers to visit Bornholm: in the first instance permission was given to military attachés who were leaving Denmark, but certain high-ranking NATO officers were admitted to the island as well. The Commander of NATO’s Northern naval forces, the British Admiral Gladstone, was at first, o n t h e decision o f t h e D a n i s h Prime Minister, refused entry, but

was later allowed to visit Bornholm when i n 1955 the Ministry of Foreign Affairs belatedly learned of Admiral Brind’s ealier visit. American technicians, sent t o calibrate a radar station

o n Bornholm,

were likewise

admitted, as were a n American military attaché, invited i n connection with a Danish military manoeuvre i n 1956, and a group of American, British and Norwegian officers. When Admiral Gladstone expressed the wish to visit Bornholm again in 1957, his request was turned down by the Prime Minister, who was

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worried by the fact that the Admiral had planned to hold a confidential meeting on NATO questions with local distinguished persons. General Cecil Sugden, Commander

i n Chief o f NATO’s

Northern

Region, was

likewise refused entry when he expressed the wish to visit Bornholm i n a farewell visit in 1958. Even when permission for such Visits was given, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs always stressed that they should be carried out discreetly. Military officers should preferably not wear uniform, and were asked not t o be photographed or to give interviews. It was only in October 1 9 5 6 that the head of the Political-Judicial department i n the Ministry of Foreign Affairs recommended that Denmark in principle should move gradually towards a normalization of Bornholm as regards visits by foreign military attachés. Similar arguments were put forward in February 1958 and recommended to the Foreign Minister, J. O . Krag. But more than ten years after the Soviet evacuation, ‘the immediate future’ had still not expired, and in 1962 the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was still talking internally about the proposed ‘normalization of Bornholm’. By a decision of the cabinet, the British deputy to SACEUR (Supreme Allied Commander Europe), General Stockwell, was allowed to visit Bornholm briefly in spring 1962. But the Ministry of Foreign Affairs stressed that ‘a certain caution should be shown’ because of Moscow’s reference to Bornholm in its memorandum of December 1961. And if the Soviet Union should return to the Bornholm question i n the near future

the NATO general should not be allowed to see Bornholm.50 I n March 1962 a Danish national military exercise took place on Bornholm. The Danish Chief of Defence asked the Ministry of Foreign Affairs if the COMBALTAP — a Danish general — could take part as an observer. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs resolved that the Danish general (Tage Andersen), together with the Danish Admiral Thostrup, might take part — not, however, in their capacity as NATO officers, but only in their capacity as Danish military officers.51 Bornholm was still, to a great extent, left to its own fate. I n 1962 General

Norstad

told

the

Danish

ambassador

at

NATO,

Schram-

Nielsen, that a n East German or Polish action against Bornholm would be difficult to tackle if it did not directly involve the Soviet

Union. The difficulty consisted in the risk of escalation.52 In other words, SACEUR confirmed NATO’s position with regard to Bornholm: NATO would not risk a major war with the Soviet Union over a small Danish island. I n 1962, in the aftermath of the Cuba missile crisis, the Danish government was again greatly concerned over the question of Bornholm. A

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Foreign Ministry official, reflecting the position as stated by SACEUR, took the View that if the Warsaw Pact, without Soviet participation, made an isolated aggressive move against Denmark i n t h e form of a landing on the most exposed part of Danish territory, namely Bornholm, i n order to create a fait accompli, i t was not certain that the NATO a l l i e s would, under

all circumstances, want to mobilize the entire NATO apparatus. He also, however, doubted that the Danish government would want this t o happ e n . He referred to a meeting i n Supreme Headquarter Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE) i n April where representatives of the Danish Defence Staff had pointed to difficulties i n the Danish command structure, in the event that, for political reasons, a n attack on Bornholm were not

regarded as a NATO conflict.53 When i n May 1969 a working group of officers and technicians from the NATO Supply Centre wanted to go to Bornholm i n civilian clothes to visit the Early Warning Station there, the question was scrutinized in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which thought the group too big. The ministry still, moreover, stressed the need for discretion, and emphasized

that there should be no interviews or photographs.54 The Unified Baltic Command,

1961-2

I n 1962, after several years of negotiations and doubts o n Denmark’s part, a new NATO command (BALTAP) was established for the region stretching from southern Norway to Hamburg, including Denmark and Schleswig-Holstein. The military chief of the Danish and West German forces i n t h e area (COMBALTAP) was always t o be a Dane, a n d the h e a d -

quarters were placed in Jutland — two significant political concessions to Denmark. As for Bornholm, it was placed under the command of the chief of the ground forces in the area east of the Great Belt. This chief a nd his staff were also to be Danish. When, o n 1 2 December 1961, the Soviet Union asserted its ’good neighbour’s rights’ i n reacting with strong criticism to the new NATO command,

Bornholm

w a s u s e d a s a n argument.

The new c o m m a n d ,

Moscow alleged, would encourage Hitler’s ex-generals and admirals i n their aggressive efforts. The Danish government was facilitating these efforts, which would transform the Baltic region into an area for military preparations against the Soviet Union and other peace-loving states. The inclusion i n the new command

of Bornholm, which h a d been liberated

by Soviet forces from Hitlerite occupants, was ‘contrary to the letter and the spirit of the assurances given by the Danish Government on 8 March 1946’.

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Two days later, the Danish government responded with an official declaration which ’rejected the Soviet interpretation’ (‘Den danske regering ma afvise denne betragtning’). The Unified Command would not change the existing state of affairs, according to which only Danish forces under Danish command were on Bornholm.55 Once again, then, Denmark did not say that Moscow’s interpretation of the 1 9 4 6 undertaking was wrong. O n the contrary, it reassured the Soviets that no foreign troops would come to Bornholm, thereby implicitly confirming Moscow’s point of View. We know that this was the Soviet reading of the Danish declaration, and in the future Moscow would make use of this confirmation. I n 1969, the question of the place of Bornholm i n the Danish military command structure was still considered ‘politically sensitive’. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs explicitly referred to the Soviet démarche seven

years earlier.56 New analyses of the 1 9 4 6 promise and confirmation promise

of the

The Soviet protests i n December 1961 gave rise to a thorough-going analysis and discussion of the Bornholm question i n the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The ministry’s expert i n international law, Professor Max Sorensen, was asked to give his opinion as to ‘the 1946 agreement’: did it contain ‘a more durable obligation, that is, one extending beyond the transition period until the restoration of a normal state of affairs had been completed’? The professor took the View that one had to look at ‘the purpose of the words’. The military—political context should also be assessed. ‘The only background to the Soviet demand was to prevent the Western great powers from advancing their position eastwards beyond the lines established by the defeat an d capitulation of the German forces. The real reason for the demand of a purely Danish administration was a n insistence that the Western Powers should not get a military foothold on Bornholm.’ And he concluded that the Soviet purpose of the agreement, and thereby also its meaning, was ‘that Denmark is still bound to maintain a purely Danish administration without foreign participation

etc. . . .’.57 This analysis, of course, was political rather than legal, i n that it was not based purely o n the arguments of international law. Max Sorensen’s conclusions were disputed by the Director of the Foreign Ministry, Paul Fischer. The intention i n 1 9 4 6 h a d not been, and could not have been, to

burden Denmark with eternal ‘servitude’.58

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When in February 1965 a young secretary in the Foreign Ministry concluded that the 1962 examination of the issue had revealed that Denmark had not undertaken any special obligations towards the Soviet Union, either with regard to Bornholm, or to any other part of the country, his senior commented that his report might be ‘a little sharply’ formulated. After all, Denmark had promised that only Danish troops would undertake the defence of the island. But he conceded that there

was no reference as to how long this ‘arrangement’ should last.59 I n November 1967, following renewed Soviet criticism and assertions to the effect that NATO was planning to militarize Bornholm, the Minister of Defence, Viktor Gram, refuted these rumours, in effect repeating what Kraft had promised i n 1 9 5 3 , that is, that Denmark would always

take into consideration the special circumstances arising from Bornholm’s geographical position. I n other words, Denmark would never allow foreign troops on Bornholm. When an American squadron consisting of a n aircraft carrier, two destroyers and a frigate entered the Baltic Sea in May 1971, Denmark refused to accept an invitation to have Danish officers on board as observers. The motivation was political: fear of provoking Moscow. Two Danish pilots who had taken the squadron through the complicated Danish straits were landed on Bornholm by helicopter from the carrier. An American airplane had to make a forced landing on the island. Izvestiya (21 May 1971) dubbed the expedition a provocation and hinted that the two landings constituted a violation of the Danish assurances of 1 9 4 6 and 1961. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs decided not to react to Izvestiya’s assertion i n order not ‘to start a war of declarations’.60 Moscow, however, wanted

j u s t such a war, o r rather renewed Danish

confirmation of the Soviet interpretation. The Soviet ambassador Egorychev was instructed to inform the Danish government that ‘the Soviet government was aware of the recent American military activity on Bornholm’. He went on to draw the Danish government’s attention to the fact that, ‘ a s i s well known’, i n 1 9 4 6 and again i n 1 9 6 1 Denmark had given

assurances to the effect that Bornholm would retain its purely Danish status and that only Danish troops would be stationed on the island. Moscow ‘hoped’ that Denmark would ‘keep its obligations and not permit foreign troops on the island, including troops on manoeuvres o r o n Visits’. The landing of pilots was a Violation of international rules. Danish authorities had handled the case too casually. Once more the Danes confirmed

the Soviet View, and t h i s time even

more explicitly. The Foreign Minister said that the Danish government in 1 9 4 6 had promised only to deploy Danish forces on the island, and that

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B e n t Iensen

an analogous declaration had been given to the Soviet government in 1 9 6 1 when the Unified Command was established. He disputed only the claim that ‘the brief stay of an American plane and an American helicopter’ constituted a breach of the 1946/1961 assurance. He added that Bornholm was Danish and that Denmark at any time had the right to receive ‘visits of that sort. This was an evident consequence of Danish sovereignty.’ The Soviet ambassador concluded by expressing the hope that ‘matters with regard to Bornholm should remain as they

were’.61 His hope was certainly fulfilled, indeed over-fulfilled. I n 1 9 8 2 a n American military band was not allowed to play at a peaceful cattle show on the island, and the Danish Minister of Defence publicly declared that ‘Bornholm is not really a member of NATO’.62 Conclusion

While occupying Bornholm, Moscow did not use its military occupation of the island directly to push Denmark into far-reaching political or military concessions, contrary to the recommendations by MID officials Maksim Litvinov, Vladimir Semenov and Mikhail Vetrov. The occupation, however, created a feeling of fear and helplessness among Danish politicians and officials which was discernible throughout the post-war period. It had a genuine basis in the sense that the island could not effectively be defended by Denmark alone, and that NATO had little interest i n properly defending Bornholm. On the other hand, the Soviet evacuation, against the background of the continued American presence i n Greenland, created a feeling of gratitude towards the Soviet Union. In order to get Soviet forces out of Bornholm, Denmark had to promise Moscow that it would reoccupy the island and reestablish its administration there without foreign help. No formal agreement was signed. Over the years that followed the interpretation of the Danish promise was a matter of heated debate. Thus Bornholm became a means for Moscow to exert remote control over Denmark’s foreign policy. Fearing a n adverse reaction from the Soviet side, the Danes tried constantly to fulfil their supposed wishes. I n fact, as the Danish government openly conceded i n 1953, Denmark behaved as if it had promised Moscow never to let foreign troops touch Bornholm. The government even worried about Western military attachés visiting the island, whereas Soviet officers freely inspected Bornholm after the evacuation in 1946. Foreign Minister Gustav Rasmussen (1945—50) indeed t o o k t h e View that

Denmark had undertaken never to allow British and American military

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personnel to visit the Danish island. His successor and the new Director of the Foreign Ministry did not take this View, but behaved like Rasmussen nevertheless. Only in 1951, two years after Denmark had joined NATO, did the Danish Ministry of Defence allow a single British ship to Visit Bornholm. One reason for this behaviour was the false linkage i n Danish security thinking of the two Danish islands, Greenland and Bomholm. For many years, Denmark considered that the two islands were interconnected geostrategically and feared Soviet demands for bases o n Bornholm if Washington demanded bases i n Greenland. Moscow, however, never i n fact used the American military presence i n Greenland as a lever t o advance its own interests. It was Danish territory that Stalin, Molotov and their successors were interested i n keeping free from foreign troops and bases. The Bornholm card was played by Moscow i n a sustained Soviet campaign to obstruct the establishment of American air bases i n Denmark proper, not only to keep the Baltic island free from direct NATO influence, but a l s o t o keep the Americans out o f Jutland, the westernmost part

of the country. Moscow now used an extended understanding of the Danish 1 9 4 6 note t o assert that Denmark, i n connection

with the Soviet

evacuation of Bornholm, had promised the Soviet Union never to let foreign troops enter any part of Danish territory. While the Danish government now openly, although indirectly, confirmed th e Soviet interpretation as regards the territory of Bornholm, it still refused to acknowledge the extended understanding of the 1946 obligation. Nevertheless, after several threatening articles i n Soviet newspapers and two official Soviet memoranda, the Danish government was intimidated and gave i n . A NATO naval exercise including Bomholm was remodelled t o permit only Danish warships to call at ports o n the island. High-ranking officials i n the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Foreign Minister himself feared that the Soviet Union would reoccupy Bornholm and wanted to reassure Moscow by issuing an official declaration to the effect that foreign troops would never be allowed on the island. Opposition i n a cabinet meeting to this idea meant that the official declaration was dropped. Instead, i n April 1 9 5 3 the Foreign Minister gave a n assurance to the same effect i n a speech o n Bornholm. A few months later, Denmark gave up the idea of American air bases in Jutland. Even though this cannot be proved, it is likely that this occurred as a result of Moscow’s strategy of pressure and intimidation. What is certain is that Moscow believed that its warnings had caused a shift i n Danish policy.

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Bent [ensen

I n the years that followed, high-ranking NATO officers were not automatically allowed to visit Bornholm. Admiral Gladstone’s wish to visit the island in 1957 was at first refused because he had also wanted to hold a confidential meeting on NATO questions with distinguished local persons. Even when NATO officers were permitted to enter Bornholm, they were asked to behave discreetly — that is to say, preferably not to wear uniform, an d not to be photographed or to give interviews. When in December 1 9 6 1 the Soviet Union, asserting its rights as a ‘good neighbour’, accused Denmark of encouraging and facilitating former Hitlerites i n their aggressive plans in the Baltic area — an act which was said to be contrary to the letter and the spirit of the Danish government’s assurances of 1 9 4 6 — the Danish goverment answered that the new Unified NATO Command for the Baltic area did not change the fact that only Danish troops, under Danish command, were permitted on Bornholm. It also resisted requests from the President of Finland, Urho Kekkonen, not to strengthen Danish military cooperation with West Germany. But at the same time Denmark confirmed Moscow’s interpretation of the 1 9 4 6 obligation. Further such confirmation was given in the 19605 and 19705. It was only the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1 9 9 1 which allowed Bornholm finally to be ‘normalized’. Notes

1. If Sweden had succeeded i n keeping Bornholm after it had been ceded from Denmark i n 1658, Denmark’s security policy situation after 1945 would have been much easier to handle. 2. AMO RF F. 372, o p . 6576, d . 2, 1. 83—4. Directive n o . 11091, 1 5 May 1945. The directive is contained i n a memorandum sent by General A. N. Bogolyubov, C h i e f o f Staff o f t h e 2nd Belorussian Front, to the Chief o f Staff o f t h e 1 9 t h

Army on 1 6 May 1945. This very flexible explanation was not the same as that which Antonov had given Eisenhower a few days before. O n 1 0 May Antonov had told his American colleague that the Danish island was being occupied by Soviet forces because the German troops on Bornholm had come from ’the vicinity of Stettin, Danzig and Courland’. A second reason was the fact of the island’s position ’250 kilometres t o the east of the sphere of operations of t h e Soviet Armed Forces’. P O 3 7 1 4 7 2 2 3 , American Military M i s s i o n Moscow t o

SHAEF FORWARD [Eisenhower’s headquarters], 10 May 1945. 3 . Bomholms Tidende,

2 4 May 1 9 4 5 . See also P. Chr. von Stemann, En enbedsmands

Odyssé (Copenhagen, 1961), vol. 2 , pp. 196—7. 4. AVP RF F. 07, o p . 11, p. 14, d . 203. The Danish note, dated 2 8 February 1946, i n Danish and i n Russian translation. 5. Foreign Ministry Danish Embassy — Moscow 8 7 F 1.

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221

. Foreign Ministry Danish Embassy — Moscow 8 7 F 1. The Danish note of 8 March 1946 i n Danish and i n Russian: ‘at Danmark uden nogensomhelst deltagelse af fremmede tropper straks er i stand til med egne styrker at besaette gen Bornholm 0g der fuldtud at oprette sin egen administration. Moskva den 8 . marts 1946.’ The Danish assurance did not literally repeat Molotov’s words. Erling Brondum, editor o f Bomholms Tidende,

10. 11.

12.

13. 14. 15.

16. 17. 18.

t o UM, 5 January 1 9 6 5 ; minutes

6 February 1965 and 6 March 1965. Bent Jensen, Den lange befrielse (Odense, 1996), pp. 280—1. Dossing’s false report was believed by the Danish government. General Gortz thought that i t would be necessary to deploy coastal artillery at Bornholm. UM 5 D 74. Record of meeting 2 May 1946. UM 1 0 5 Dan 5 . Minute 29 February 1960. AVP RF F 1 6 9 10 8 3, 1. 169. Note 2 7 November 1946. Another example of this type of false linkage was demonstrated i n the autumn of 1946, when Hans Hedtoft wondered whether Danish foreign policy was really even-handed. The occasion was the British request for Danish troops to take part in the occupation of the British zone i n Germany. What if Moscow also asked for Danish help i n the Soviet zone? What would the Danish answer then be? It is of interest to note that Hedtoft apparently did not exclude a positive Danish reaction if the Soviet Union were to place the many German refugees on Danish territory i n its German zone. National Archives, State Department 8 5 9 B 20/4—1146. J o h n Hickerson to Cumming and Trimble, 1 1 April 1946. The Americans also considered buying Greenland i n order to free Denmark of this burden. It might have been a better idea to buy Bornholm. UM 3.E.92. Foreign Policy Commission. Record of meeting 2 3 May 1946. Jensen, Den lange befrielse, pp. 260—1. The Communist member of the Foreign Policy Committee, Ib Norlund, deplored the Communist paper’s indiscretion. Ib Norlund claimed, however, that h e had not leaked the information. Christmas Moller may have been the source. UM 3 E 92. Record of meeting, 20 June 1946. UM 3 E 92. Foreign Policy Committee. Record of meeting, 20 J u n e 1946. J. R. Dahl i n Berlingske Aftenavis, 9 August 1965: ‘Hans forhold til omverdenen var forsigtigt 0g angsteligt.’ UM 5 D 74. Record of defence meeting, 1 6 J u n e 1946. Rasmussen also said it would be n i c e ( ‘ t i l t a l e n d e ’ ) if Danish defence c o u l d use Soviet e q u i p m e n t

in

one or more areas. This would be a demonsration of the fact that Denmark did not exclusively lean towards one group of states. He wanted to make Denmark more independent of Great Britain t h a n had hitherto been the case and t o create a political balance to exclude the possibility of the country being tied to only one group of great powers. Despite several applications, Denmark never obtained Soviet military equipment. The Soviet response was negative. 19. UM 5 D 74. Record of meeting, 1 4 August and 6 November 1947. 20. UM 5 D 74. Record of meeting , 6 November 1947. 21. State Department 8 5 9 B 00/2—2048. Record of conversation, 2 5 February 1948. 22. U M 5 D 7 4 . Record o f defence meeting, 8 March 1 9 4 6 . J e n s e n , Den lange befrielse, p. 279. 23. Jensen, Den lange befrielse, p. 307.

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Bent Jensen

24. UM 105 Dan 5 . Correspondence between Stemann and the FM-director Nils Svenningsen. 25. UM 5 D 74.Record of defence meeting, 5 July and 1 4 August 1947.The Danish restrictions aroused the suspicions of the American embassy. According to the D a n i s h M i n i s t e r o f Defence, Rasmus Hansen, t h e Americans even suspected

26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

the Danish government of hiding Soviet soldiers i n Danish uniforms o n Bornholm. The suspicion reached as far as the diplomatic corps in Moscow. The Ministry of Defence examined the matter, but found no disguised Ivans. UM 5 D 74.Minutes of a meeting, 1 3 May 1948.This was the first time that the Danish Minister of Defence, who was also responsible for the defence of Bornholm, had heard of the Danish promise of 1946, alas i n a distorted version — telling evidence of the secrecy surrounding the whole affair. UM GSK-Moscow 8 7 F 1.Stemann’s report, 1 June 1949. UM 3 E 92. Record of meeting i n Foreign Affairs Committee, 26 January 1949. UM 3 E 92. Record of meeting i n Foreign Affairs Committee, 2 March 1949. UM 3 E 92. Record of meeting in Foreign Affairs Committee, 2 3 February and 2 1 March 1949. ‘USA-plan om strategisk luftbase pa Bornholm’, i n the Communist paper Land 0g Folk, 1 2 September 1949. When asked by Bomholms Avis, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs replied only that no such plans were known. ‘Eisenhower’s staff i n Paris planning to bring American forces to Bornholm', Krasnyi flot, 18 November

32.

33. 34.

35.

1951. ‘Construction

o f airbases i n Denmark o n American orders’,

Pravda, December 1951.The article also alleged that the USA wanted to make Bornholm into a military base. AVP RF 085 36 143 32. Report dated 26 April 1952 by Vetrov to General Secretary B. F. Podtserov. Nationaltidende, 13 September 1951. The Soviet minute did not mention a debate i n February 1952 i n the Swedish parliament on the importance of Bornholm for the defence of Sweden. ‘Pod prikrytiem oqatel’stv dannyx datskim pravitel’stvom Sovetskomu Sojuzu v otnozhenii Bornxol’ma.’ AVP RF 085 36 1 4 4 34 1. 73—89. Overview of the press 1 4 October 1952. Berlingske Tidende wrote that the Danish government was anxious not t o have exercises i n the area to the East of Bornholm. Poul Villaume, Allieret med forbehold (Copenhagen, 1995), pp. 171—4.The US position was that other powers should not be drawn into the Bornholm issue. A t t h e same time the USA d i d n o t want Denmark t o feel abandoned

36.

— without,

however, wishing to give i t a false feeling of security. Quite a balancing act! UM 105 Dan 5/1.‘Nogle bemaerkninger om den russiske demarche’, 3 February 1953,quoted i n minute, November 1967. UM 105 G 13. Record of defence meeting, 6 February 1953. UM 105 G 13. Record of defence meeting, 6 February 1953. UM 105 Dan 5 . Minute by Schramm-Nielsen, 2 March1953.

37. 38. 39. 40. U M 105 Dan 5 . OBK’s record of conversation, 1 2 March 1953. 41. UM 105 Dan 5/1. UM minute, 29 February 1960,’Foreign Policy Considerations regarding Bornholm’, signed CUH. The only evidence so far of Soviet military plans regarding Bornholm comes from a Soviet defector, an officer who had been stationed o n the German island of Riigen near Bornholm. According to a Swedish newspaper the officer said that the Minister of Shipbuilding, Colonel General V. M. Malyshev, had designated Bornholm as a n

Bomholm i n Soviet—Danish Relations, 1945—71

223

important Soviet military strongpoint i n case of war. Detailed plans for the fortification of the island had already been made. There is nothing surprising i n the defector’s information. 42. U M 1 0 5 D a n 5 . Schram-Nielsen’s minute, 2 March 1953. 43. U M 1 0 5 D a n 5 . Denmark’s NATO ambassador Steensen-Leth t o UM, 25 February 1953. 44. UM 105 D a n 5/1. Minute by HR 1 3 December 1961. UM 105 Dan 5 . UM telegram to Danish NATO ambassador, 2 7 March 1953. 45. Information, 6 April 1953.See resumé of OBK’s speech i n 1 0 5 Dan 5/1,pp. 301— 2. 46. UM 105 Dan 5/1.Minute by HR 1 3 December 1961. 47. Udenrigsministeriet (ed.), Dansk Sikkerhedspolitik 1948—1966:II Bilag (Copenhagen 1968), p p . 297—300. 48. AVP RF 085 3 7 1 4 9 30. Vetrov to Molotov 24 April 1953, including Kraft’s speech i n Russian translation. 49. Dansk Sikkerhedspolitik 1948—1966,p p . 301—2 50. UM 1 0 5 Dan 5/1. Minute by Torben Ronne, 13 March 1962.‘Director agrees’. 51. UM 105 Dan 5/1. Minute by Torben Ronne, 13 March 1962. 52. U M 1 0 5 D a n 5/1 . Schram-Nielsen to U M , 1 J u n e 1962. 53. UM 105 Dan 5/1.Minute by Frellesvig, 2 7 October 1962. 54. U M 1 0 5 D a n 5/1 . Minutes, 7 March a n d 8 March 1968. 55. Texts i n UM 145 Dan 5/1. 56. UM 105 Dan 5/1 . Minute of meeting with representative of the Ministry of Defence, 1 September 1969. 57. UM 1 0 5 Dan 5/1. Response by Max Sorensen, 1 2 February 1962. 58. UM 1 0 5 Dan 5/1. Minute by Paul Fischer, 25 August 1962. 59. UM 1 0 5 Dan 5/1 . Minute by Benny Kimberg, 6 February 1965 a n d comment by Per W. Frellesvig. The occasion was a n editor’s request to be briefed o n the B-issue. He was told that h e could get a n oral briefing, but not see the papers. 60. UM 105 Dan 5/1.Minute, 2 2 May 1971. 61. U M 1 0 5 D a n 5/1 . Record o f meeting, 8 J u n e 1971. . Jensen,Den lange befrielse, p. 312.

11 Making Foreign Policy under Stalin: the Case of Korea Kathryn Weathersby

Introduction

Throughout the years of the Cold War, the contrast in Western scholarship between the literature on the foreign relations of the Soviet Union and that of the opposing superpower was quite pronounced. Specialists on American foreign policy produced a rich body of scholarship examining not only the geopolitical context of policy making, but also the role of intellectual assumptions, partisan politics, bureaucratic rivalry, public opinion, economic interests, non-governmental organizations, political culture, racial stereotypes, individual psychology and other factors. Specialists on Soviet foreign

relations, on the other hand,

while able t o

apprehend the broader contours of Soviet policy, were severely limited by the opacity of the Soviet regime in their analysis of the internal processes of policy making. Attempts at such analysis had always to be prefaced with a statement about the paucity of information available and the consequently tentative nature of the conclusions. We would expect, therefore, that the tremendous

increase i n information

about the Soviet

regime available since the glasnost era of the late 19803, particularly as a result of the partial opening of foreign policy archives since 1991, would lead to a more multi-faceted as well as more authoritative examination of Soviet foreign policy. While the events of 1 9 9 1 may have dealt the coup de grace to theories of convergence between the Soviet Union and Western democracies, they perhaps could lead to genuine convergence between the study of the foreign policy of the Soviet Union and that of other major powers. Towards that end, this essay will discuss some conclusions about the structure and processes of foreign policy making under Stalin that have emerged from an examination of the large body of archival evidence 224

Foreign Policy under Stalin: Korea 225

available o n Soviet relations with Korea from 1 9 4 5 t o 1 9 5 3 . O f course,

policy towards Korea was not necessarily representative of Moscow’s foreign policy as a whole. The Korean peninsula was a relatively minor area of Soviet foreign relations i n the early years of the Cold War — at least until the military campaign against the South expanded into a major war i n 1950 — and at any rate Moscow’s policies naturally varied according to the differing circumstances i n each country. However, the process of policy-making was presumably more or less uniform, and since the archival evidence available on Korea is unusually extensive,1 it can serve as a valuable window onto the structures and processes of foreign policy-making under Stalin. The sources on which this analysis is based come from the Presidential Archive (APRF), t h e archive o f the Russian Foreign Ministry (AVPRF), and

the archive of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union for the Stalin years (RTsKhIDNI). At the highest level, the materials include the telegraph communications between Stalin and Mao Zedong prior to and during the Korean War, Stalin’s communications with the Soviet ambassadors to North Korea and China during the war and with his special military advisers i n those countries, and records of conversations between Stalin and the North Korean and Chinese leadership. O n middle and lower levels they include voluminous communications between the Soviet Foreign Ministry i n Moscow and its embassy in Pyongyang from 1945 to 1953, communications between various officials i n Moscow regarding Korean issues, records of the activities within North Korea of organs of th e Communist Party of the Soviet Union, including extensive reporting on the Communist Party of Korea, and records of interactions between Korean nationals and the party apparatus i n Moscow. I t should b e emphasized,

however,

that access t o archival

documents is not the only new source of information on the Soviet system. Equally important is the ability to observe the process by which the countries of t h e former Soviet bloc are being reintegrated into the world system, a difficult and complex process which brings into sharp focus the distinctive characteristics of the Soviet system.

Soviet foreign policy in the post-war years - the case of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea The archival record on Korea shows that, contrary to widespread assumptions, in the post-war years under Stalin the Party apparatus played only a secondary role i n making foreign policy. The most important policy-making channel went through the Ministry of Foreign Affairs

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and the Kremlin. The Department of Foreign Relations of the Central Committee (in 1949 renamed the Foreign Policy Commission) handled Party work abroad and the interactions with foreign nationals within the Soviet Union. I n Korea it managed such tasks as training local cadres, drafting the basic laws of the new North Korean state, monitoring the activities of local communists and other political figures, setting up and supervising institutions of culture and propaganda, and regulating contacts between Koreans and Soviet citizens. The Party apparatus generally was not involved i n establishing or implementing state-to-state relations with North Korea. The Politburo seldom m e t , and while i t issued official

rulings on foreign policy questions, it did not, apparently, discuss the

resolutions it adopted.2 I n terms of structure, the Foreign Ministry apparatus, newly uniformed and renamed a ministry in the European pattern, operated in the conventional fashion; its officers submitted reports, received directives and acted on behalf of Moscow in dealings with foreign officials. I n functional terms, however, the apparatus was skewed i n peculiarly Stalinist ways. First of all, decision making was extraordinarily centralized, even more so, perhaps, than foreign analysts had earlier perceived. Stalin and some ten or twelve persons at the top decided not only important issues but also those that would normally be resolved at lower levels. Thus, for example, Kim Il Sung’s request i n July 1949 that the Soviet Union send specialists to staff a new factory i n North Korea for producing serum to vaccinate cattle against infectious diseases was sent by the Soviet ambassador i n Pyongyang directly to Stalin, with copies sent to Molotov, Beria, Malenkov,

Mikoyan,

Kaganovich,

Bulganin, Kosygin, Gromyko,

Zorin,

Gusev, Lavrentev and Podtserob. Kim’s request later that month for three engineers able to operate Japanese-built water control systems went

through the same channels.3 I n November 1949 the DPRK’s (Democratic People’s Republic of Korea’s) request that the Soviet Union temporarily transfer to a Korean port two steam shovels located in the Manchurian port of Dalny was handled by deputy foreign minister Gromyko.4 I n August 1949 Foreign Minister Vyshinskii handled the disbursement of Hungarian forints to a North Korean delegation attending a Festival of Youth i n Budapest.5 I n February 1950 Stalin, after having decided to assist the DPRK i n a military campaign against South Korea, decided not only the significant issue of whether the DPRK could form a n additional three infantry divisions, but also whether the North Korean government could issue a bond, use credit for purchasing Soviet goods in 1 9 5 0 that had been approved for 1951, or send a request to Moscow for permission for a group of workers

Foreign Policy under Stalin: Korea 227

to travel to the Soviet Union for training i n operating Soviet textile equipment.6 Throughout the Korean War of 1950—53, Stalin personally corresponded with Mao Zedong and Kim Il Sung regarding their frequent requests for a wide array of supplies, ruling o n the quantities, delivery schedules and terms of payment for these shipments.

Decision making in the Central Committee Decision making in the Central Committee was similarly centralized. M. S. Suslov, Head of the Department of Agitation and Propaganda and editor-in-chief of Pravda, approved the proposed programme of schools and factories that a delegation of North Korean social and cultural activists would visit during its trip to Moscow i n November 1949, the communication regarding the proposed agenda having been classified ‘top secret.’7 I n March 1949 B. Ponomarev, Deputy Chief of Department o f the Central Committee,

sent to Politburo member Malenkov for deci-

sion Pyongyang’s request for an additional translator to translate lessons for the Party school established in North Korea.8 I n August 1949, Foreign Minister Vyshinskii wrote to Suslov to ask his agreement regarding the request of the DPRK embassy in Moscow to allow the third secretary of the embassy to study French at a foreign language night school.9 I n November 1949 V. Grigor’ian, the head of the Foreign Policy Commission of the Central Committee, sent to Suslov the request from the All-Union Society for Cultural Ties with Foreign Countries to allow the Korean communist

H o H o n , then i n Moscow for medical treatment,

to

visit Moscow State University and the Lenin library. H o Hon’s subsequent Visits to the university and the library were then duly reported to Suslov.10 Decisions adopted by the Politburo included such matters as North Korea's request in November 1950 that the Soviet Union prepare and ship to Korea a certain quantity of awards and medals.11 Comments by former members of the apparatus suggest that this extreme

centralization

was a consequence

o f the continuous

purges

under Stalin combined with the politicization of Virtually all activities, particularly those having to do with economics or foreign countries, that marked Bolshevik ideology. Fearing that a decision on even a seemingly innocuous issue might later be labelled sabotage of the national economy, endangering the security of the Soviet state, or some such charge, officials pushed responsibility for decisions higher and higher up the hierarchy. Whatever the cause, the inability to locate decision making at more appropriate levels inevitably had deleterious consequences for

the conduct of Soviet foreign policy.12 It first of all created a problem of

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‘noise’, as it is called i n intelligence circles. Processing such an enormous number of proposed decisions would make it difficult for the top leadership to identify what was important and to prioritize the issues before them. Secondly, it made the apparatus particularly susceptible t o paralysis. Action o n even routine,

local matters, s u c h a s those involving

a

construction site on the Korean coast or a factory i n a small Korean town, could not be taken without approval from the highest levels. Consequently, when the leadership was distracted by other issues, or incapacitated as a result of the constant changes of personnel, necessary

action could not be taken.12 Decision making in the foreign policy apparatus The foreign policy apparatus under Stalin was also characterized by a marked absence of debate or discussion. Proposals and recommendations were sent u p the channels of the Foreign Ministry and decisions were sent down, but there is no evidence of any horizontal communications below the Kremlin level. According to Molotov’s recollections, Stalin regularly discussed foreign affairs with him, o r with others brought i n for consultation on a particular issue. Copies of important documents were sent to an inner circle, the composition of which changed over time. Originally it consisted of the ‘group of six' within the Politburo, consisting o f Stalin, Molotov, Beria, Mikoyan, Malenkov, a n d Zhdanov.

This was enlarged i n October 1946 to the ‘group of seven’ by the addition of Voznesensky, then to the ‘group of 8’ i n February 1947 with the addition of Bulganin, and to the ‘group of 9’ i n September 1947 with

the addition of Kuznetsov.13 By 1949 the inner circle usually consisted of Molotov, Malenkov, Beria, Mikoyan, Kaganovich, Bulganin a n d Khrush-

chev. The files i n the Presidential Archive and Foreign Ministry give no indication that the members of the inner circle had any input into the questions being resolved; it seems that they were simply kept informed. Although lack of evidence i n itself is not a proof, the absence of such records is nonetheless noteworthy. It appears that Stalin thus ruled i n a manner more reminiscent of the Tsars than characteristic of modern states. Among other consequences of this striking lack of modernity, Stalin was deprived of the wide range of opinion and expertise that his Cold War adversaries could freely draw from. Not only were there structural constraints to policy debate but there was also a pronounced intellectual rigidity within the apparatus during these years. Nearly all communications were written in formulaic language, with the same phrases repeated verbatim. It is only at the highest

Foreign Policy under Stalin: Korea 229

level that one finds documents written i n normal language. This, of course, reflected not simply a stylistic problem but a n impoverishment o f analysis. Thus, for example, s i n c e t h e ‘threat of Japanese m i l i t a r i s m ’

was an approved formula, it was repeated in report after report, without any reference to actual conditions within Japan. I n his communications with the Chinese leadership in October 1 9 5 0 about their possible entry into the war i n Korea, Stalin showed that h e understood that Japan was

not at that time a military power;14 the constraints within the system did not distort his perceptions t o that degree. However, Stalin continued for the rest of his life to base his policy towards Northeast Asia on the mistaken assumption that Japan would rearm and again threaten the security of t h e USSR, an assumption never questioned from below.

Examples of competent analysis Despite this rigidity, Soviet diplomats, at least at the highest levels, were nonetheless capable of competent analysis. A good example is the important recommendation made by G. I. Tunkin, Political Officer of the Soviet embassy in Pyongyang, i n September 1949 that, for sound reasons carefully enumerated, the limited military campaign against South Korea proposed by Kim Il Sung was inadvisable at that time. The operation could and probably would turn into a civil war between north and south, for which the north would be blamed. The Korean People’s Army was insufficiently strong to guarantee a rapid Victory and a drawnout war would give the Americans time to intervene. After their defeat i n China, the US would probably try to save Syngmann Rhee’s regime i n South Korea and they could also use a drawn-out war i n Korea for ‘agitation’ against the Soviet Union and for ‘further inflaming war

hysteria.’15 Tunkin and, more commonly, T. F. Shtykov, Soviet ambassador in Pyongyang, often made sound assessments of the political costs of a particular policy proposal, and their recommendations were generally heeded.16 However, their analyses stayed within very narrow channels. They would respond to a specific proposal from the Koreans o r from another part of the Soviet apparatus but they never raised questions o n their own o r offered original recommendations. Without a direct order from Stalin, deeper analyses were simply not made. To a certain extent, of course, all highly bureaucratized systems create intellectual rigidity by imposing their particular ‘organizational culture.’ I n the Soviet Union under Stalin, however, this phenomenon was unusually pronounced.

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While Ambassador Shtykov was not free to make independent analyses, h e had, surprisingly, a certain freedom from bureaucratic discipline. Stalin’s well—known practice of setting members of the leadership against one another extended into the foreign policy apparatus in the form of granting to certain persons in key positions the right to communicate directly with him outside the regular Foreign Ministry channels. Shtykov was apparently one such person. The result of this freedom could have been to raise the level of analysis Stalin received from his ambassador, but other pressures within the Soviet system worked against such an outcome. Instead, the effect seems to have been to weaken ‘necessary and proper’ restraints on the ambassador’s actions. By mid-1949 Shtykov became an advocate o f Kim Il Sung’s cause, s o much so that i n the fall o f 1 9 4 9 , when

very tense conditions prevailed along the 38th parallel, without getting prior approval from Moscow he allowed the North Koreans to send three police brigades into combat against South Korean forces, with Soviet advisers accompanying them. Stalin reprimanded Shtykov for this action through Foreign Ministry channels, but the ambassador nonetheless retained his post.17 I n addition to facilitating such potentially dangerous adventures, the presence of ‘Stalin’s own men’ within the apparatus must have heightened even further the anxiety of those operating within the regular framework of the Foreign Ministry. They had reasons to fear that their decisions could at any time be undercut by actions of lower ranking officials who, while ostensibly subordinate, may in fact have had superior information about Stalin’s thinking. The role of ’the elder brother’

Centralization and rigidity distorted not only the formation but also the implementation of policy toward Korea. Soviet advisers attached to each North Korean ministry had the final say in its every decision. The adviser to the Ministry of Finance, for example, reported to Shtykov in July 1949 that no important questions were decided without his participation; the Koreans took into consideration his opinions, adopted his proposals and trusted him, the adviser reported. The Soviet administration was careful to preserve the appearance of local rule; the adviser noted that he only gave ‘advice, recommendations or introduce[d] proposals, but all questions [were] decided by the Koreans themselves, no orders or decrees [were] given to the apparatus from me.’ However, revealing the actual extent of this authority, he notes that

the personal responsibility of the advisor has sharply grown, the apparat has come to feel closer to m e and to trust me more. As a result of

Foreign Policy under Stalin: Korea 231 this,

the concrete tasks o f the advisor about t h e condition

o f work o f

the apparat have increased, and the work of the advisor ha s become more fruitful. The apparat of the Ministry h as significantly grown i n practical work a n d t h e focus o f work h a s broadened;

i n connection

with this the most varied and extremely complex questions of a theor— etical and practical nature have come before the advisor. This has made it necessary for the advisor constantly to work o n raising his own

knowledge of specialties that earlier were not needed’.18 Although the official may have exaggerated his success i n fulfilling the duties assigned to him, his report would probably reflect accurately what those responsibilities were. Furthermore, memoirs by Koreans who served i n th e DPRK apparatus on th e whole confirm the picture this

adviser drew.19 Soviet officials closely monitored the work of agencies and departments below the ministry level as well. It should be emphasized that initially the North Korean communists eagerly welcomed the expertise and experience of their ‘elder brothers’ because few within the party had any administrative experience or technical skills. Moreover, the talent pool available i n the North was extremely limited since the Japanese, who had previously held the most important positions i n Korea, had been repatriated and most Koreans who had served i n the colonial administration had fled south to avoid being persecuted as ‘collaborators’. The communications from Pyongyang to Moscow are thus filled with requests from Kim Il Sung for advisers on everything from railroads to schools to printing bank notes. Furthermore, the North Korean leadership wanted more than technical expertise from the Soviet Union; they were also eager to learn what they regarded as proper socialist practices. For example, in early September 1 9 5 0 (before the t i d e o f the war turned against North Korea), a DPRK

official requested information from the director of Gorky Park in Moscow regarding the layout of the park. Intent o n building such a park i n Pyongyang and wanting t o do so in the proper way, he asked how many buildings Gorky Park had and where they were located, how many ponds, how deep and wide they were, how many statues, the average number of visitors per day, and what kind of equipment was provided for children’s games and adult exercise. The request for information was granted only after it had gone through several levels of the Foreign Ministry and Central Committee and after the director of Gorky Park certified that the request was ‘for information of a general character, and did not touch on questions of the work of the park’.20 The documents do

2 3 2 Kathryn Weathersby

not specify what work of Gorky Park was to be kept hidden from the Korean comrades, but they do suggest that the eagerness of North Korean communists to learn from their Soviet elder brothers was met with the suspicion and distrust that so strongly characterized the Stalinist regime.

Soviet propaganda in North Korea Stalinist norms also poorly served the declared goal of ‘raising the authority of the Soviet Union’ among the people of the allied countries. The 1952 annual report from the Sovinformburo bureau i n North Korea, which was responsible for supervising the Korean press, was a case in point. ‘At first,’ the bureau representative wrote, ‘the Korean newspapers published very little of the materials reflecting the life and successes of the Soviet Union. But, at the initiative of the representative of the Sovinformburo, with decisive help from the Embassy of the USSR i n the DPRK and the Party Organization of the Central Committee of the CPSU, t h e Korean comrades were informed

that t h i s situation was n o t

correct.’ The representative of the Sovinformburo, through daily ‘assistance’, ensured that the telegrams from the Soviet government to the leaders of the people’s democracies were published on the first line of the papers, that the papers included a short selection on life i n the USSR, and that articles about the Soviet Union were moved from the fourth page to the third page. Although as a result, ‘the publication of articles about the USSR has significantly grown in the DPRK press,’ the official felt compelled to note that ‘at their own initiative the papers publish very few

articles about the USSR. . . ’.21 Shtykov’ 5 report o n the work of the All-Union Organization for Cultural Ties (VOKS), compiled i n January 1950, suggests how Stalinist style dampened the Koreans’ initial enthusiasm for learning from the Soviet U n i o n . The ambassador

writes that the H o u s e s o f Culture, established

through North Korea following the Soviet model, are not satisfying ‘the political demands set before them by the Soviet government, which proceed from their mutual relations with the DPRK’. At their meetings, they read the lectures sent from Moscow, ’as is correct, but they do not discuss them or approve them i n advance’. The Korean activists who read the lectures often did not receive them in advance of the meeting. ‘For example, on 2 5 December 1949 a lecture on the theme “The Life and Activity of Comrade Stalin” was delivered t o the lecturer 1 5 minutes before the beginning of the lecture.’ Shtykov complained that ‘the theme of the lectures is uniform. The propaganda is conducted without taking into account local conditions and the internal political situation.

Foreign Policy under Stalin: Korea 233

The l e c t u r e s . . . a r e mechanically transplanted onto Korean soil.’ It was therefore hardly surprising that the halls were sometimes only 60—70 per cent full. I n Pyongyang, at the meeting commemorating the 2 5 t h anniversary of the death of Lenin and at the meeting for the 32nd anniversary of the October Revolution, out of 1 4 0 seats, i n both cases only 70 places were filled, and almost half of those were taken by Soviet citizens. Furthermore,

the director did not invite Koreans who had visited t h e

Soviet Union to give lectures, even though they showed a great interest

in studying the culture of the peoples of the USSR.22 Economic

relations

The Stalinist approach towards economic relations with North Korea played a particularly important role i n shaping Moscow’s relations with the DPRK. Although economic considerations were not the primary motive for seeking control over the bordering states, once the control was established for what Stalin regarded as security reasons, his logic dictated that the resources of those territories had to be ruthlessly exploited. No effort must be spared to strengthen the economic base of the Soviet state since, by his lights, in the long run security could only be maintained through economic power, necessary to sustain military might. I n the decade before the Second World War, all human and material resources within the USSR had been mobilized towards the most rapid possible industrialization i n order to equip the Soviet state to withstand an expected military confrontation. In the post-war environment the same imperative existed and the same logic operated. Soviet officials i n the occupied territories accordingly imposed Stalinist norms in economic as well as political matters. North Korea thus de facto became part of the Soviet economic system, as did the occupied territories i n Eastern Europe. This meant, first of all, that any available pretence had to be exploited to seize outright the economic resources of the country, as, for example, i n the 19305 when the Party had seized control of agricultural resources i n the Soviet Union by expropriating the property of peasants labelled ‘kulaks’. Thus, all property i n the Soviet occupation zone i n Korea that had formerly been owned by the Japanese was declared a ‘war trophy’ of the Soviet Union. Since Korea had been a part of Japan since 1910 and approximately 80 per cent of the country’s real and industrial property was owned by Japanese, this definition claimed for the USSR the property on which the Koreans hoped to base the reconstruction of their newly independent state. During the first months of the occupation Soviet troops dismantled and shipped to the Soviet

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Union an undetermined but substantial portion of North Korea’s industrial and mining facilities. Archival records of these removals have not yet been released, but refugees who later fled to the American zone and several foreign witnesses reported wide-scale dismantling and removal of industrial equipment. Factories conveniently located near railway and waterway lines to Vladivostok apparently suffered the greatest damage. Steel plants and textile mills i n the Hamhung area were ‘stripped to the bone’; cranes and other dock facilities were dismantled from the ports a t Wonsan, Hungnam and Chongju. Badly needed stocks of coal and fertilizer were shipped to the Soviet Union.23 The transformers, generators and turbines were removed from electrical power plants along the Yalu

River in November 1945.24 Such action followed the pattern of Soviet occupation policies elsewhere; the Red Army removed massive amounts of industrial equipment and supplies from Manchuria and parts of Europe as well, with deleterious effects on political relations with the peoples of the countries involved, not to speak of their economic recovery. Speaking long afterward, Molotov admitted that the massive removals o f German industrial

plants had undermined Moscow’s political goal of creating a friendly government i n that country. ‘The situation should have been handled very carefully’, he concluded.25 I n Korea, drastic though they were at the beginning, the removals were stopped much earlier than i n Europe. By late November 1945 the Soviet command began to devote attention to restoring industrial production in its zone, ordering their troops to supply the Korean factories with ‘captured’ property and equipment that

had been kept in Red Army depots.26 It is not known how much of this equipment was damaged beyond repair during the initial removals, but the figure was bound to be high. Even though some industrial material was returned to the Koreans, the Soviet authorities i n North Korea continued to define former Japanese property as Soviet property. When in September 1948 the DPRK investigated the possibility of raising a Japanese merchant vessel that had sunk i n a North Korean harbour, Soviet officials approved the request and proceeded to inform the Koreans of the amount due the Soviet Union

as compensation for the value of the ship.27 Aside from such practices, Soviet determination to retain control over North Korea’s resources worsened the already poor material conditions i n the country and generated tension with the American command in the South. From the first days of the occupation, Soviet troops obstructed the movement of essential goods across the border dividing the Soviet and American occupation zones. They halted railway traffic and mail

Foreign Policy under Stalin: Korea 235

deliveries across the 38th parallel and blocked coastal shipping across the sectoral division. They stopped shipments of coal to the South and obstructed the transmission of electrical power from the northern zone. Since rice production was centred in the South while nearly all coal mines and electrical stations were in the North, th e effective closing of the border severely disrupted food and fuel supply i n both occupation zones. Throughout the fall of 1945, the Soviet command nonetheless rejected all American attempts to hold discussions o n the subject.28 By comparison, Soviet occupation policy in Germany was not so rigid at this time. Since Stalin wished to adhere to the Potsdam trade agreements as a step towards creating a unified government for Germany, which h e believed would best serve Soviet interests, movement

across

sectoral borders remained relatively free there until 1948. I n Korea, however, the allies had no agreements regarding the practical issues of the occupation, since the creation of two zones had been proposed only at the last minute and agreed to without discussion. Furthermore, the allies did not discuss the political settlement for Korea until the meeting of the Council of Foreign Ministers i n December 1945. Consequently, since no decision had been made at the top, throughout the fall of 1945 Moscow instructed its command in Korea not to hold any discussions with the Americans. As the commander of the Soviet occupation forces, General Chistiakov, explained to his American counterpart i n October, there could be n o negotiations between them ‘until decisions are made and relationships established between our respective governments’.29 One would think that Soviet authorities could have allowed simple trade even if the larger questions of Korea’s political future had not yet been resolved. But the political significance Stalin attached to the exploitation of economic resources and the Marxist conception of trade precluded such common-sense policy. According to Marx, trade within the ‘capitalist’ system was exploitation, not a mutually beneficial exchange; t h i s was, after a l l , why private

trade was illegal i n the Soviet Union. Thus, unless trade with the American zone was managed very carefully, and approved i n great detail at the highest levels, it would expose the Soviet side to exploitation by the American side. The reports from Pyongyang to the Foreign Ministry regarding the persistent requests of the American command to restore economic exchange between the two zones show that Soviet officers were genuinely outraged by the Americans’ request that ‘Soviet’ coal, electrical power, and other goods be allowed to cross into the southern zone.3O Viewing trade as exploitation revealed an inadequate understanding of how the ‘capitalist’ system operated, but it provided,

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perversely, the only model available to Soviet officials for how to conduct trade with other states. After the establishment of a North Korean government, the Soviet Union secured its access to Korean resources primarily through trade agreements imposed on that government, whereby Soviet manufactured goods and other supplies were bartered for raw materials and some manufactured goods. During the first quarter of 1950, for example, the DPRK s e n t t o the Soviet U n i o n copper, l e a d , zinc, cadmium, bismuth, tantalum concentrate, berrium concentrate, calcium carbide, acetyle n e , caustic soda, lead oxide, zinc oxide, methanol, ammonia sulphide, granulated abrasives, Bickford cording, capsules, ammonia, M W silk,

soap, talcum, ground and lump baryte, cement, crystal graphite, gold, silver, platinum, electrical energy, furs, ammonia nitrate, ferrotungsten, ferro-molybdenum, ferro-silicium, s i x types of steel, cast iron, rice

and starch.31 Since the quantities of the materials traded were calculated i n roubles and rouble values were set administratively rather than by the market, Soviet trade organs were able to assign values to the goods traded so as to undercompensate North Korea for the deliveries. The Korean leadership was aware that it was paying excessively high prices for Soviet goods. It complained about this bitterly after Stalin's death, as did the Chinese communists. Moreover, Pyongyang responded to Soviet treatment by developing its own ideology of socialist ‘self— reliance’ and promoting it throughout the world as the supposedly most advanced form of socialist thinking. During the Stalin years, however, there w a s little the North

Korean communists

could d o about

Moscow’s exploitation. First, they had no hard currency of their own, since Soviet occupation troops had seized all reserves of such currency and gold. Second, since foreign trade was controlled by the export— import plan established under the supervision of Soviet advisers, the Koreans were not able to choose freely their trading partners. I n the first quarter of 1950, exports to the USSR totalled 787,000,000 roubles, while exports outside the Soviet Union were limited to merely 552,000 roubles worth t o C h i n a ; 3 , 2 6 1 , 0 0 0 roubles worth t o Hong Kong; and 3 , 8 6 1 , 0 0 0 roubles worth t o South Korea a n d J a p a n combined. Finally, the

Soviet Union determined the kinds of materials the DPRK exported t o other countries. For the first quarter of 1950 these were limited to fish, seafood, kerosine, caustic soda, ginseng, explosive materials, ammonia

sulphate, graphite, sulphuric acid and electrical power. Moscow reserved

for itself the precious metals it desired most.32 The Soviet Union used a different mechanism to obtain oil products and transportation services. Employing the same model it used i n

Foreign Policy under Stalin: Korea 237

Eastern Europe,in 1947 Moscow established two ‘joint- share societies’ — Mortrans for sea transport and VNO for oil refining. I n theory, the DPRK and USSR each contributed half of the capital investment in the refinery and shipping line, and then split the profits. I n practice, however, the Soviet share of capital investment consisted of the Koreans’ own assets. I n the VNO it was defined as the amount of money North Korea transferred to the USSR as compensation for the Soviet expenses incurred i n restoring industrial enterprises i n the country and as payment for credits extended by the Soviet command to Korean industry before 1 5 August 1946. Thus, Moscow defined the return of Japanese property, which the Koreans regarded as rightfully theirs, and the expenses North Korea incurred as a result of the Soviet-imposed disruption of trade with the southern part of the country, as the Soviet share of the capital investment i n VNO, on the basis of which the Soviet Union claimed half the produc-

tion of the refinery.33 The arrangement with Mortrans was somewhat more equitable. The Soviet investment in it consisted of the amount North Korea would have paid for leasing the four ships the society operated, while the Korean share was calculated as the value of the port areas and facilities. However, not only were the values assigned to the various contributions set by Soviet agencies, but the profits of the societies, half of which would be claimed by the Soviet side, were also determined by the prices Soviet agencies set for oil products and shipping. So distorted were the terms of trade that the Soviets themselves began to realize that the disadvantages of the system might outweigh its advantages. I n September 1949 Shtykov reported to Foreign Minister Vyshinskii that the income of these two societies was excessive. Such large incomes, which do not correspond to their share capital, are a consequence of the fact that the price norms for both oil refining and cargo transport were set too high. The Korean government and i n particular Kim Il Sung in a n unofficial form repeatedly has brought our attention to the over-pricing of both oil refining and cargo transport. Considering such a position as not normal and in political relations disadvantageous for us, I would suggest that it is advisable to place before GUSIMZ the question of reviewing the costs and setting them in correspondence with the interests of both sides.34 Despite the counterproductive results of Moscow’s exploitative policy, its practices did not change as long as Stalin was i n power.35 Throughout the Korean War, Pyongyang had to continue to meet its delivery quotas to

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the Soviet Union, despite the massive destruction of the country by American bombing and the extraordinary exertions necessitated by the war effort. Beijing also regarded the prices the Soviet Union charged it for the supplies shipped to China during the Korean War as extortionate, which was one of the important factors that strained Sino-Soviet relations after Stalin. Conclusions

Why did Moscow pursue such an obviously self-defeating approach i n relations with its allies? I n the last analysis, Soviet ideological preconceptions were paramount. Regarding private property, profits and the market as criminal exploitation, the Soviet leadership had no understanding of the dynamics of economic exchange and could not conceive of trade between states as being mutually beneficial. Stalin’s correspondence with Mao Zedong and Kim 11 Sung during the Korean war reveals that he could not envisage that selling military supplies to Korea and China could aid his own country’s recovery from the devastation of the Second World War, i n the way that military orders from Great Britain ha d assisted the United States in recovering from the Great Depression in the late 19305. Instead, i n keeping with Marxist notions of trade as a zero-sum game,36 he regarded every litre of gasoline and every box of ammunition sent t o China as one less litre of gasoline and one less box of ammunition available to the Soviet Union. With such a primitive conception of economics, he was unable to pursue Soviet interests through any means other than crude exploitation. Equally important, the Soviet leadership projected the same kind of thinking onto its Western adversaries. The constant references Soviet officials made i n their internal communications to American imperialism and US exploitation of countries such as South Korea suggest that the public statements to this effect were not simply propaganda. It was as impossible for the Soviet leadership and apparatus to imagine the equitable, consensual, mutually-beneficial

relations a m o n g the Western allies

as it was for them to conduct such relations with their own fraternal states. They thus misunderstood the meaning of the Marshall Plan, the Brussels Pact, American occupation policy i n Japan and other key developments i n the dramatic remaking of the post-war world. Unable to regard international relations i n any terms other than Lenin’s ‘kto kogo’ — who gets whom — the Kremlin dealt with both its clients and its adversaries i n a fashion certain to bring about precisely the kind of ‘hostile encirclement’ its ideology presupposed.

Foreign Policy under Stalin: Korea 239 Notes

1. Russian President Boris Yeltsin, correctly perceiving that improved relations with South Korea required an admission of the Soviet role i n the Korean War, i n 1992 ordered all the relevant archives, except apparently that of the KGB, to catalogue and declassify their holdings o n Korea for 1949—53. I n July 1994 h e presented to the president of the Republic of Korea a collection of important high-level documents o n the war, mostly from the Presidential Archive. This collection subsequently became available to scholars, along with the larger body of documents o n Korea declassified by the archives of t h e Foreign Ministry, former Central Committee of the Communist Party and the Ministry of Defence. According to the protocols of Politburo meetings declassified by the former Central Party Archive, now RTsKhIDNI, the Politburo met i n official session only n i n e times i n the post-war Stalin years. See I. N. Zhukov, ‘Bor’ba za vlast’ v rukovodstve SSSR v 1945-1952 godakh’, Voprosy Istorii, 1/95, pp. 23—39. AVPRF, f. 1 DVO, o p . 9, d . 7, p. 8 . AVPRF, f. 0102, o p . 5, d . 39, i. 326, p. 13, 1. 1—4, 6—7. AVPRF, f. 0102, o p . 5, d . 21, i. 162, p. 12, 1. 5 . APRF,1. 125—126 (f. and o p . not given); also found i n AVPRF, f. 059a, o p . 5a, (:1. 4, p. 11, 1. 145—46. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 137, d . 143, 1. 95—96. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 137, d . 143, 1. 1—2. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 137, d . 143, l. 3. . RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 137, d . 143, 1. 102,103. . APRF, f. 3, o p . 65, d . 777, 1. 151—53. . For a n excellent discussion of this dynamic see Stein Bjornstad, The Soviet Union and German Unification during Stalin’s Last Years (Oslo: Institute for Defense Studies, 1998). 13. Zhukov, ’Bor’ba za vlast’ v rukovodstve SSSR v 1945—1952 godakh’, pp. 23—39. 14. For the texts of his telegrams t o Mao Zedong o n this subject, see Cold War International History Project Bulletin (Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars, Washington,

D C ) , I s s u e s 6 / 7 , p p . 112—19.

15. Ciphered telegram from Tunkin t o MID, 1 4 September 1949. AVPRF, f. 059a, o p . 5a, (1. 3, p. 11, 1. 46—53. 16. A characteristic example is the recommendation Tunkin sent to Vyshinskii o n 4 January 1948, against the proposal to organize Soviet air lines t o North Korea. He wrote that ’in connection with the arrival of the UN Commission an extremely complex political situation has been created. The conclusion of a n agreement

about a i r l i n e s , which might become known, could b e u s e d i n

this situation by the Americans a n d the Korean reaction against u s and against the People’s Committee of North Korea. We therefore consider it advisable t o postpone this question for t h e time being.’ AVPRF, f. 0102, o p . 4, d . 27, i. 300, p. 9, 1. 1 . 17. 2 7 October 1949, Ciphered Telegram to General Shtykov i n Pyongyang from Gromyko

a t M I D (AVPRF, f . 0 5 9 a , o p . 5 a , d . 3 , p . 1 1 , l . 7 9 ) . C o p i e s o f t h i s

reprimand were sent to Molotov a n d Malenkov but not to Vyshinskii, who had earlier that year replaced Molotov as Foreign Minister. This suggests, along with much other evidence, that Molotov retained influence i n foreign

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policy even after his dismissal from his ministerial post and that Vyshinskii had only limited influence within the leadership, despite his formal postion. 18. AVPRF, f. 0102,op. 5, d . 57, i. 723,p.15, 1. 2—39. 19. See, for example, FBIS-EAS-90—250,2 8 December 1990, ‘Yu Song-chol’s Testimony Part 11’ pp. 13—14. 20. AVPRF, f. 0102,o p . 6, d . 57, i. 830,p. 23, 1. 22-8. 21. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17,o p . 137,d . 947,1. 229—38. 22. RTsKhIDNI, f. 17, o p . 137,d . 4. 23. Henry Chung, The Russians Come to Korea (Seoul a n d Washington, 1947), pp.49-51. 24. Foreign Relations of the United States [FRUS]: 1945, vol. VI, pp. 1112—13, 1118—19. 25. F e l i x Chuev a n d Albert Resis, Molotov Remembers: Inside Kremlin Politics ( C h i cago: Ivan Dee, 1993),p. 60. 26. Erik von Ree, Socialism in One Zone: Stalin ’5 Policy in Korea, 1945—1947(Oxford Berg, 1989),p.119. 27. AVPRF, f. 0102,o p . 4, d . 24,i. 260,p.9, 1. 7—10. 28. FRUS 1945,vol. VI, pp.1059—60,1071—73,1107,1143—44. 29. Report from Hodge t o MacArthur, October 11, 1945.FRUS 1945,vol. VI, pp. 1071—2. 30. See, e.g., the regular reports sent by embassy officers i n Pyongyang to MID i n AVPRF, f. 0102,o p . 2,d . 33, 34,35. 31. Report ‘External Trade o f t h e DPRK i n t h e First Quarter o f 1950’, AVPRF, f. 0102,o p . 6, d . 49, p.22, 1. 22—7. 32. Ibid. 33. Spravka, ‘On the Soviet—Korean Joint-Share Society for Refining Oil “VNO” ’, 5 March 1949.AVPRF, f. 0102,o p . 5, d . 32, p.13, 1. 9-10. 34. AVPRF, f. 0102,o p . 5, d . 32, i. 250,p.13, 1. 44-45. 35. In August 1953 the new leadership i n Moscow extended grants, rather than loans, for post-war reconstruction and forgave a portion the DPRK's pre-war debts. Subsequently, North Korean loans were repeatedly rescheduled (in 1961, 1965, 1966 a n d 1970). S e e Karoly Fendler, ‘Economic Assistance and Loans from S o c i a l i s t C o u n t r i e s t o North Korea i n the Postwar Years, 1953—

1963’,Asien, n o . 42,January 1992,pp.39—51. 36. Throughout the Soviet period, Westerners who negotiated trade agreements with Moscow observed that their Soviet counterparts thought only i n zerosum terms. See, for example, the essays i n Leon 51055 and M. Scott Davis (eds), A Game for High Stakes: Lessons Learned in Negotiating with the Soviet Union (Cambridge, MA: Ballinger, 1986).

12 The Soviet Union and the Origins of the Warsaw Pact in 1955 Vojtech Mastny

The establishment of the Warsaw Pact i n 1955 — the Soviet bloc’s counterpart t o NATO — h a s long defied a satisfactory explanation. Why was it created six years after NATO — at a time when East—West relations were improving rather than deteriorating, while the threat of war was diminishing rather t h a n increasing? A n d , once the new a l l i a n c e was launched,

why was it not given enough military substance until several years later? What were the Soviet expectations for the Warsaw Pact and how did they compare with the results? Although it was obvious to contemporaries that Soviet foreign policy had changed i n 1955, the interplay between Moscow’s political and military considerations was only dimly understood at the time and has remained elusive ever since. Was the creation of the largely superfluous alliance a political rather than a military move? How did it relate to the concurrent struggle for power i n the Kremlin? Was it the result of a consistent policy or of a clash of competing policies? Did the formation of a rival alliance to NATO improve the chances for a breakthrough in the East—West confrontation that has retrospectively been presumed to have existed, or did it rather have the opposite effect?1 The examination of publicly available evidence has produced plausible but inconclusive explanations, ranging from the View of the Warsaw Pact as the largely empty Soviet response to the expansion of NATO as a result of the admission of West Germany, to the interpretation of the new structure as mainly a device to better discipline Moscow’s restive Eastern European allies.2 The mere trickle of inside evidence from the Soviet side that has long been available to scholars indicated discord i n the Kremlin i n those days, but did not adequately explain its nature and consequences.3 Not until the collapse of the Soviet empire allowed partial access to the pertinent archives could that evidence be supplemented by 241

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a substantial quantity of original documents. Besides records of the Soviet foreign ministry, whose prominent role i n the preparations for the Warsaw Pact signals the alliance’s nature as a political rather than military undertaking, former East German, Polish and Czech records make it possible to draw a much clearer picture than could be done before.4 Stalin

and

h i s successors

When NATO came into existence i n April 1949, Stalin did not find it necessary to counter it by putting together an alliance of his own. He was evidently content with the network of bilateral mutual assistance treaties that he had been weaving since the Second World War, which put the military potential of his East European dependencies fully at his disposal.5 Not only was he i n a position to learn from his spies that NATO at its inception and for many months afterward did not materially enhance the military might of his Western adversaries, but h e was also mistrustful of any institutional arrangements that could enable his foreign dependents to claim the status of partners rather than of subordinates. This mistrust underlay Stalin’s abolition of the Communist International in 1943 and accounted as well for the fading away of its successor, the Cominform, scarcely three years after it had been founded i n 1947 to counter the West Europeans’ rallying behind US leadership following the introduction of the Marshall plan. Nor did the Comecon, the Soviet bloc’s organization for economic cooperation launched in early 1949 as a n awkward response t o the success of th e Marshall plan, amount to more than a n empty shell for the remainder of the dictator’s life.6 Instead of risking t h e harnessing of the recently subjugated and sullen Eastern European nations into an alliance that might prove difficult to manage, Stalin concentrated his efforts on trying to undermine the Western military grouping, which always looked more shaky than it actually w a s , particularly t o someone beholden, a s h e was, t o the Marxist

preconceptions about the supposedly irreconcilable conflicts of interest among capitalists. The task of splitting NATO to render it harmless became all the more urgent for Moscow once the mounting Cold War, made worse by the outbreak of the Korean war, prompted the United States t o provide the alliance with th e military substance it ha d been lacking s o far. I n addition, a project for the European Defence Community (EDC) was being promoted by Washington with the goal of mobilizing West Germany’s military potential for a possible confrontation with the Soviet Union.

Origins of the Warsaw Pact in 1955

243

Although Stalin's efforts to avert these untoward developments were notable by their failure, his successors were initially not discouraged from proceeding along the same lines. O n e of them, Nikita S. Khrushchev, later recalled that ‘we went on as before, out of inertia. Our boat just continued to float down the stream, along the same course that had been set by Stalin.’7 The fundamental continuity of Soviet foreign policy was ensured by its being directed by his experienced former aide, Vyacheslav M. Molotov, to whose expertise in matters international other members of the ruling team were ready to defer, whatever misgivings some of them may have harboured about the wisdom or feasibility of his hard line.8 O n the fallacious Stalinist premise that the contradictions among capitalists were irreconcilable and therefore liable to exploitation, Molotov’s strategy was calculated to drive wedges between the United States a nd its Western European allies rather than seek accommodation with NATO as

a whole.9 As the building of the Western defence system was inexorably progressing, with Germany as its intended European lynchpin, Molotov sought to block it by manoeuvres remarkable for their clumsiness. At the 1954 Berlin conference of foreign ministers, he unveiled the proposal for a European security treaty which would exclude the United States and supersede NATO.10 Rebuffed, he proceeded with the outlandish suggestion that NATO be expanded (and consequently diluted out of existence) by opening itself to the admission of new members, including the Soviet

Union.11 When his Western counterparts ‘laughed out loud’, he explained that he did not want to abolish NATO but prevent the EDC.12 This is indeed what the Soviet foreign ministry h ad intended to accomplish by conceiving the collective security proposal as a ploy to rally Western European critics against the EDC, which it considered even more objectionable than NATO because of the expected prominence there of West Germany.13 But when the French National Assembly voted down the project in August 1954, thus dealing a blow not only to the West German rearmament plan but also to the cohesion of the whole Western alliance, it did so mainly for reasons of domestic politics. Moscow understandably hailed this ‘deeply patriotic action’ as its own victory, pressing further for the replacement of NATO by a European security system.14 Conversely, the uncanny speed with which the Allies in less than two months found a substitute for the EDC by resurrecting the dormant Western European Union t o usher West Germany into

NATO through the back door shocked and dismayed Moscow.15 The outcome raised fundamental questions about the wisdom of Molotov’s strategy i n the new situation.

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The Soviet response to the 2 3 October Paris agreements, which set the timetable for West Germany’s admission to NATO and fixed 5 May 1955 as the target date, still followed and, if anything, reinforced the familiar Molotov line. On the same day the agreements were signed, Moscow reiterated its proposal for an all-European security conference, calling for a meeting of the four powers’ foreign ministers to prepare it.16 When the West ignored the proposal, the Soviet government threatened to convene the conference anyway, which it subsequently did on 29 November in Moscow, with only its own allies attending.17 It was at this rump gathering that the project of a separate communist alliance was first broached.

Disagreements in the Kremlin The idea of a n alliance came from the mouth of Czechoslovak Premier Viliam Siroky in the form of a suggestion that discussions be held about special security arrangements between his country, Poland, and East Germany as those supposedly most directly endangered by the recent developments in the West.18 Besides raising the prospect of taking organizational and other measures t o bolster their defence, the conference

participants declared that if West Germany established its own armed forces, East Germany must do the same.19 The meeting was followed next month by a gathering i n Prague of parliamentarians from the three ‘northern tier’ countries which on 3 0 December vainly made a lastminute appeal to the French National Assembly to desist from the

ratification of the Paris agreements.20 Moscow’s intention to bring into life German armed forces of any kind may seem difficult to reconcile with its pervasive fear of German militarism. Yet by 1955 the Soviet authorities had already created i n East Germany a sizable force of militarized police, composed largely of repatriated prisoners of war who had been successfully indoctrinated during their captivity, although the force had not been sufficiently trusted to be organized for combat duty.21 It was only the approaching West German rearmament that made it all but impossible, for political and prestige reasons, for Moscow t o behave a s if i t did not trust ‘its’ Germans a s m u c h

as the Western powers trusted ‘theirs’. Besides, the East German communists badly wanted to have a real army to bolster the credibility

of their state.22 The necessity of finding a proper institutional framework for such an army added to the growing pressure o n the Soviet leaders to make up their minds about the German question while the clock set into motion

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by the Paris agreements was ticking. At the secret January 1955 plenum of the Party Central Committee, Premier Georgii M. Malenkov was criticized for his close association until 1 9 5 3 with the disgraced Politburo member Lavrentii P. Beria who, shortly before being deprived of power and executed as a traitor later that year, had indicated a preference for a neutral united Germany rather than the preservation of a communist

regime in its eastern part.23 During the subsequent manoeuvring calculated to thwart West Germany’s rearmament, Moscow had never brought up such a heretical notion, although the Soviet-sponsored conference of handpicked parliamentarians and other public figures, convened in Warsaw i n February 1955 to address the German question, came tantalizingly close to reviving it. The gathering passed a resolution which not only commended the recently ennunciated plan of British Prime Minister Anthony Eden for internationally supervised all—German elections — a recipe for voting the East Berlin regime out of existence — but also called for the withdrawal of all foreign troops from Germany as well as all Soviet troops from Poland. Indicating that different signals had been emanating from Moscow, the resolution appeared in the Polish press on 9 February but not in the Soviet media.24 What did appear there on that day was the sensational news that Malenkov had been ousted from office. Although the case against Malenkov concerned mainly his alleged mismanagement of domestic policy, the accusations against him had important implications for foreign policy. At the January plenum, Khrushchev inveighed against h im for not being ‘a sufficiently politically mature and hard enough Bolshevik leader’. While not questioning his honesty, Khrushchev found him lacking in character a nd backbone. Referring particularly to British Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s desire for a summit meeting, Khrushchev expressed the fear that ‘if h e were to come and talk with Malenkov

alone, t h e n

Malenkov

would

be scared and give up’.25 Given the Soviet habit of retrospectively exaggerating disgraced leaders’ faults, none of this shows that Malenkov had actually promoted a policy radically divergent from the rest of the

leadership, as his son would later assert,26 yet some of his thinking on important issues was undoubtedly different. Malenkov’s party critics referred to his advocating a shift of emphasis from the traditional Stalinist priority of investment i n heavy industry, deemed necessary to prepare the country for a looming military confrontation with the West, to the production of consumer goods, more affordable if the danger of war had diminished. The shift tallied with Malenkov’s public statement on 1 2 March 1954, which — at variance

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with the Stalinist orthodoxy — asserted that a nuclear war would be an intolerable disaster to the world regardless of political and social syst e m s . ” This prompted Molotov’s rebuke at the plenum that ‘a communist should not speak about the ”destruction of world civilization” or about the "destruction of the human race” but prepare and mobilize all forces for the destruction of the bourgeoisie.’28 At the heart of the dispute was the proper assessment of the situation since Stalin's death and the question of what policy consequences should follow. Whatever else the replacement of Malenkov as premier by Marshal Nikolai A. Bulganin and the simultaneous succession of Bulganin as defence minister by Marshal Georgii K. Zhukov may have signified, it signalled unequivocally the rejection of conciliation in dealing with the West. It is less clear what, if any, alternative strategy was pursued by the two winners in the reshuffle, Khrushchev

and Molotov. With the benefit

of hindsight, we know that eventually Khrushchev would get rid of Molotov, too, and become the undisputed supreme leader. It does not necessarily follow, however, that at the beginning of 1955 they were each pursuing clear and mutually exclusive courses i n foreign policy. Khrushchev

vs Molotov

For the time being, Molotov remained foreign minister while Khrushchev merely increased his capacity to influence the conduct of foreign affairs — something he had not notably attempted to do before. They both had a common interest in safeguarding and promoting Soviet power in a situation complicated by the conclusion and prospective implementation of the Paris agreements. I n trying to address the situation, however, their personalities and styles made a difference. Molotov was the quintessential Stalinist bureaucrat,

disciplined,

inflexible

and

formalistic,

while Khrushchev was a genial improviser and accomplished schemer. The former was a cynical realpolitiker, the latter a true believer i n the canons of communism — the last to hold the highest office i n the Kremlin. As early as 8 February, the differences could already be detected i n Molotov’s keynote speech on the international situation, which showed

signs of last-minute revision to iron out disagreements.29 While harping on t h e old theme

o f a threat

of war, which

the admission

of West

Germany into NATO would supposedly increase, it struck a new note by suggesting that the conclusion of the long-pending state treaty with Austria could be accomplished if only guarantees were given against its joining with Germany. Molotov also noted the possibility of better

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247

relations with Yugoslavia, although h e attributed it to the allegedly more forthcoming attitude of the Belgrade government rather than to any change i n Soviet policy. Until then, Molotov had been conspicuously identified with Soviet efforts to block the Austrian treaty by making it hostage to a satisfactory resolution of the German question.30 The creation of a neutral Austria independently of the German settlement was Khrushchev’s innovation. At the July 1955 plenum of the Party presidium, which retrospectively discussed the subject, Khrushchev reported having asked Molotov: ‘What do you want to accomplish by having our troops stay i n Vienna? If you are for war then it would be right to stay i n Austria. It is a strategic area, and only a fool would give up a strategic area if he is getting ready to go to war. If we are against war we have to leave.’31 Despite his misgivings, Molotov nevertheless cooperated by implementing the new course on Austria, after abandoning his original idea that the Soviet Union should reserve the right to reintroduce troops into the country if West Ger-

many’s remilitarization required it.32 Having been prominently responsible for precipitating Stalin’s break with Tito i n 1948, Molotov left to Khrushchev the task of repairing it. He did not differ about the merit of mending fences with the renegade Yugoslav chief, mainly to prevent Tito’s rapprochement with the West, although he later criticized Khrushchev for pursuing reconciliation on not only the governmental but also the Party level. Molotov was encouraged by Belgrade’s recently distancing itself from the West, downgrading its recently concluded Balkan pact with NATO members Greece and

Turkey, and even extending secret feelers to Moscow's ally Bulgaria.33 Yet he was embarrassed when Tito angrily rebuffed Molotov’s suggestion that it was Yugoslav rather than Soviet policy that had been changing. Pravda published the rebuff with implied approval, thus hinting that

Khrushchev was now in charge.34 Once the Soviet bid for Austria’s neutrality opened on 2 5 February with Molotov’s outlining to its envoy, Norbert Bischoff, the possibility of a speedy settlement35 — which Moscow eventually proved ready to conclude on terms less favourable than those it had been resisting for six years — wary Westerners suspected a ploy to disrupt NATO’s lines of

communication from Germany through Austria to Italy.36 Yet for Moscow this was only a secondary benefit of the primary goal of preventing Austria’s Anschlufs with Germany — the code word for its probable integration into the ascendant Western alliance which West Germany was poised to dominate. It was the political rather than the military consequences of its forthcoming NATO membership that mattered most at a

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time when the Soviet Union — acting o n Khrushchev’s, if not Molotov’s,

conviction that the danger of war had substantially receded — embarked on a demilitarization of the East—West conflict. Concurrently with the new line on Austria and Yugoslavia, Moscow was preparing a new disarmament proposal to the West and a new security treaty with its own allies. All these projects were to be implemented about the time the Paris agreements would come into effect at the beginning of May — unless the simultaneous Soviet efforts to derail them by appealing to disgruntled segments of Western public opinion unexpectedly bore fruit. I n March, the party presidium began to move away from the long-standing Soviet position that the only acceptable arms cuts would require one-third reductions across the board, and instructed the Soviet delegation at the UN Subcommittee on Disarmament in London accordingly.37 Earlier that month, the Central Intelligence Agency reported that Soviet military attachés from the Eastern European capitals had been summoned to Moscow — a move which its director Allen W. Dulles rightly guessed foreshadowed the formation

of a Soviet-run military alliance.38 The road to Warsaw Already on the last day of 1955 Molotov’s assistants had prepared drafts of a multilateral alliance as well as a mutual defence treaty between the

Soviet Union and East Germany.39 For the first time since the onset of the Cold War, the Soviet groping for a response to NATO’s forthcoming enlargement provided the East Europeans with an opportunity to make a modest input into Moscow’s policy in accordance with their own interests. The East Germans, supported by the Czechoslovaks, advocated a tripartite military arrangement between their two countries and Poland — a small grouping that would maximize the role of East Germany’s nascent army. Alternatively, the Poles championed a collective defence treaty linking all of the Soviet allies with Moscow in a larger alliance that would make the Polish army rank second only to the Soviet one and integrate more tightly the East German military forces.40 By the end of February, the latter option won the Kremlin’s favour, as shown also in the choice of Warsaw for the alliance’s inaugural meeting. The text of the proposed pact was then forwarded to Molotov by his subordinates for further action while the draft treaty with East Germany

was shelved.41 While the share of Molotov’s foreign ministry in the project had so far consisted mainly of the drafting of the appropriate texts, Khrushchev

Origins of the Warsaw Pact in 1955

249

positioned himself for its later political exploitation. I n sending the draft of the treaty t o the Party secretaries of the prospective signatory states on 4 March, h e justified the proposed alliance by alluding to the all but

certain ratification of the Paris agreements.42 But beyond that, referring to the Soviet-sponsored security conference in Moscow the preceding December, h e described the forthcoming meeting i n Warsaw as ‘The Second Conference of European Countries for the Preservation of Peace and Security in Europe’. The description suggested that more was intended to be accomplished there than a mere formalization of military ties within the Soviet bloc. Moscow’s intention of creating a n Eastern counterpart of NATO became public knowledge o n 2 1 March, when a Soviet press statement to that effect was issued shortly before the crucial vote i n the French Senate that would conclude the process of ratification of the Paris agreements.“ The statement mentioned recent consultations among the participants in the December Moscow conference, although nothing more was involved than timid comments on the Soviet draft.44 As an inducement for anti-NATO opposition in West Germany, the East Germans ‘cautiously’ proposed to Soviet ambassador Georgii M. Pushkin a declaration that the pact would be invalidated in case of Germany’s unification an idea approved by Molotov as ‘expedient’.45 But no such approval was given to the Polish suggestion that a demand for the removal of US bases in Western Europe be included in the treaty’s preamble - a demand liable to weaken the justification of Soviet military presence in Eastern

Europe.46 On 1 April, the Soviet Party Central Committee decided to convene the Warsaw conference to approve the treaty three weeks later. Only at this late stage did it bring in the military, instructing Zhukov at very short notice to draft a document on the establishment of the alliance’s unified command.47 The defence minister delivered the text on 18 April, by which time the date of the gathering had been postponed until midMay. Four days later, Polish premier Jozef Cyrankiewicz was in Moscow to

receive instructions about how to organize the event.48 For his part, Khrushchev during a visit to Poland i n the same month publicly discounted the military significance of the prospective alliance, dwelling instead on the desirability of a European collective security organization, which he insisted would provide the necessary safeguards against German aggression.49 His inclusion of the United States in such an organization made it appear more attractive than the previous variations designed by Molotov. By this time the last hurdle on the way to the implementation of the Paris agreements had been overcome, thus setting

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Vojtech Mastny

the stage for the admission of West Germany into NATO on 5 May, as well as for Moscow’s countermeasures. These began with the formal renunciation of its obsolete Second World War alliances with France

and Great Britain.50 More importantly, on 1 0 May the Soviet Union submitted i n London its most sweeping disarmament project so far.51 The document, prepared at Khrushchev’s initiative by the foreign ministry despite obstruction by Molotov’s aide Yakov Malik,52 adopted several of the Western — though more British and French than American — positions that Moscow had previously ruled out as unacceptable, notably the limitation of conventional forces by means of numerical ceilings rather than proportional c u t s . I t also advanced

new ideas, such a s a moratorium

on nuclear tests

starting i n 1 9 5 6 and the evacuation of all foreign troops from Germany. According to one of the authors of the proposal, A. A. Roshchin, Moscow expected a positive response, and was disappointed when Washington, still regarding rearmament rather than disarmament as the top priority, raised obstacles to prevent an agreement.53 It is ‘not i n the security interests o f the United States’, the Joint Chiefs o f Staff insisted, ‘ t o have

any disarmament for the foreseeable future’. Since the Soviet Union’s position was weakening, they maintained, ‘we should accordingly hold its feet to the f i r e . . . [and better continue the] arms race than to enter

into an agreement with the Soviets.'54 The disarmament initiative, coinciding with the Western invitation to hold a four-power summit long desired by Moscow,55 was a prelude to the Warsaw meeting where the signing of the new military pact was calculated to provide an additional incentive for the West to reconsider the strategic situation i n Europe. The Soviet-furnished text, adopted at the gathering without even the semblance of a discussion,56 bore similarities to the NATO treaty, such as the provisions for twenty-year validity and the establishment of a political consultative committee analogous to the North Atlantic Council. Article 20 of the document envisaged the abolition of both alliances upon the conclusion of a general European security treaty — the stated Soviet goal. If this were to happen, the West would be left with no substitute for its dissolved alliance while the Soviet Union would still benefit from the network of bilateral mutual assistance treaties with its Eastern European dependencies. Hence NATO officials appropriately described the Warsaw Pact as ‘a cardboard castle, ...carefully erected over what most observers considered an already perfectly adequate blockhouse . . . no doubt intended to be advertised as being capable of being dismantled, piece by piece, in return for corresponding

segments of NATO.’57

Origins of the Warsaw Pact in 1955

251

The pact differed from its Western counterpart by providing no unequivocal security guarantees to its members, particularly not an automatic commitment to their defence. I n case of an attack on any one of them, each signatory state pledged to consult with others, and then render such assistance as ‘it may consider necessary’. I n the German version of the text, the pronoun used was ‘they’, implying a decision to be made collectively rather than individually.58 Commenting o n the formulation, apparently intended to preclude the East Germans from making any decisions on their own, Party chief Walter Ulbricht noted the discrep-

ancy, yet prudently withheld any objection.59 The East German leader interpreted the provision in the treaty that left it open for other states to join ’irrespective of their social and state system’ as meaning that such additional states would not necessarily be entitled to be defended. In View of the Soviet drive for the neutralization of Austria and reconciliation with Yugoslavia, this conveyed Khrushchev’s innovative

idea, alien to Molotov’s Stalinist m i n d ,

that non-

aligned states could be won over to the Soviet side as political rather than military allies. For other reasons as well, the ostensibly military pact qualified as primarily a political document. Its call for ‘the strengthening of economic and cultural relations’ among its signatories — shorthand for their organizational and ideological streamlining — assumed particular significance in anticipation of the conclusion o n the next day of the state treaty with Austria, whose enviable neutrality some of the Soviet allies might otherwise be tempted to regard as a n attractive example to emulate. Stage-managed by Moscow, the Warsaw conference featured ritualistic ‘discussion’ during which amendments of only secondary importance were offered, most probably after having been previously commissioned

by the Soviet organizers.6O All the documents, prepared by them in advance, were subsequently published, except the one concerning the troop contingents to be contributed to the alliance by its different members. After a copy had been sent to the Party secretaries less than two weeks earlier,61 the particulars were now simply announced by Zhukov at a secret meeting without even a pretence of a discussion. Polish colonel Tadeusz Piéro, who took the record, later recalled how i t h a d been sub-

sequently whittled down by the Soviet managers to a meaningless onepage document, which left the military dimensions of the alliance

entirely at Moscow’s discretion.62 All considered, the launching of the Warsaw Pact by Stalin’s successors was even more thoroughly orchestrated than the creation of the Cominform i n 1947 had been by the master himself.

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Vojtech Mastny

I n his tour d’horizon presented to the Soviet allies assembled in Warsaw, Khrushchev’s mouthpiece Bulganin explained that the international situation resulting from the Paris agreements required greater coordination than was possible under the existing system of bilateral treaties, but he did not specify military coordination. He emphasized that the new alliance did not mean the end of efforts to achieve an all-European security pact.63 Indeed, its conclusion became Khrushchev’s foremost priority at his approaching summit with the Western leaders, scheduled to meet in Geneva on 18 July.

Revamping European security Once West Germany entered NATO, leaving the Soviet Union n o choice but to accept this, Khrushchev went on the offensive to create favourable conditions for pursuing at Geneva a radical plan for the alteration of Europe’s security environment. O n the last day of the Warsaw conference, he stunned the world with the news of his forthcoming visit to Yugoslavia which, once accomplished later that month, all but foreclosed any possibility of Belgrade’s inclusion i n the Western defence system. O n 7 June he announced the Soviet intention to sign with East Germany a treaty which would formally give it a sovereign status similar to that of West Germany, and expressed willingness to establish diplomatic relations with the Bonn government, wooing it with the prospect of unspecified concessions.64 Khrushchev also seized the initiative i n the Third World, paying highly successful state visits to India and Burma. Because o f the risks involved, such a C o l d War o f movement

was a n

anathema to the Cold War of positions that had been Molotov’s specialty. The ambivalent outcome of Khrushchev’s trip to Belgrade — where the reconciliation with Tito had been achieved at the price of legitimizing his interference i n Eastern Europe65 — and the prospect of ending the hostile isolation of West Germany sharpened disagreements i n the Kremlin. At the contentious secret meeting of the Party Central Committee at the beginning of July, Khrushchev and Molotov clashed over the policies towards Austria a nd Yugoslavia, the latter of which Khrushchev

reportedly favoured admitting into the Warsaw Pact.66 This would have made little military sense but would have added pressure on the West to take his drive for the reorganization of European security more seriously. As the Cold War rivals positioned themselves for the summit, much depended on how strong each side perceived itself to be and how strong it was perceived to be by the other. The United States interpreted Soviet

Origins of the Warsaw Pact in 1955

253

concessions on Austria as a sign of weakness. Brushing aside the creation of the Warsaw Pact as mere posturing, Secretary of State John Foster Dulles came to the conclusion ‘that we are now confronting a real opportunity. . . for a rollback of Soviet power. Such a rollback might leave the present satellite states in a status not unlike that of Finland. . . . The big idea is t o get the Russians out of the satellite states and to provide these states with a real sense of their freedom. Now for the first time this

is in the realm of possibility.’67 I n Dulles’s estimate, the Soviets, having effected a ‘complete alteration

of their policy’,68 would be unable to proceed with the same energy and imagination as before. He thought ‘Khrushchev had power but impressed him as a man who talked without thinking [and] . . . Molotov he felt was in a weakened and uneasy position. He had been impressed by his lack of sure-footedness at Vienna as compared to past occasions.’69 Such disdainful American assessments did not augur well for the forthcoming Geneva summit, but n e i t h e r d i d Soviet a t t i t u d e s .

Khrushchev later described i n his memoirs how painfully aware h e had been of his country’s backwardness, even comparing the clumsy Soviet aircraft on which he travelled to Geneva with the fancy machines flown by his capitalist counterparts.70 Together with Bulganin, he therefore all the more implored the Western leaders not to make the mistake of

thinking the Soviet Union was weak.71This was nevertheless the conclusion they reached, although they condescendingly pretended how much they were impressed by Soviet strength. But neither were they themselves as self-confident as they tried to appear; even Dulles, on his way to the summit, privately confessed to being ‘terribly worried about this Geneva conference’72 because of the disposition of the NATO allies. The secretary of state was ‘deathly afraid our allies might not come up to scratch’ and that even President Dwight D. Eisenhower might succumb to Russian smiles — particularly those of his wartime comrade-inarms, Zhukov — and ‘upset the apple cart’. Dulles was exasperated with the French and British willingness to take the Warsaw Pact seriously. French Prime Minister Edgar Faure found ‘attractive the idea to establish a similarity between the Western bloc and the Warsaw organization and consider them as organizations of the same type and seek contracts

between them’.73 And his British colleague, deluding himself that the Russians were eager to bolster his country’s status by treating it as a bridge between the two superpowers,74 seemed to be hopelessly infatuated with anything that could be labelled ‘the Eden Plan’, such as the establishment of a demilitarized strip i n central Europe through some ‘harmoni-

zation’ between NATO and the Warsaw alliance.75

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Vojtech Mastny

To prevent anything of that sort, at the Paris tripartite meeting preparatory to the summit Dulles sought to impress upon America’s allies that the Warsaw Pact was nothing but ‘a device whereby the Soviet Union projected its frontiers into the center of Europe’. He insisted that ‘the West should not do anything that would sanctify or consolidate a situation which he felt was abnormal and must change before the peace could be consolidated’. Hence it was appropriate to mention ‘the organization as little as possible’ lest it be given ‘an appearance of a real security system’.76 Once i n Geneva, each side was worried about i t s own weakness while

exaggerating the readiness of the other to make concessions out of weakness, and tried to test its limits by tabling patently unrealistic proposals. The United States challenged the Soviets to allow changes in Eastern Europe that would have amounted to surrendering their control over the region and proposed disarmament measures, particularly Eisenhower’s ‘open skies’ plan, that would have spelled the end of the closed

Soviet society.77 For their part, the Soviets reiterated their 10 May disarmament proposal (as if Washington had not made its incompatibility with US security requirements abundantly clear) and pressed their idea of a European collective security system (as if NATO could reasonably be expected to collaborate i n its own demise after it had recently so successfully enlarged itself). US deputy secretary of defense Robert B. Anderson, and chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Administration Arthur W. Radford, agreed in their estimate that all the Soviets were ‘willing to concede is the superficial fruits of their own recent efforts such as the Warsaw Treaty to counter such organizations as the North Atlantic Treaty and the Paris accords.’78 Yet the amendments Moscow offered to make its proposals more attractive were suggestive of a belief that the West could be compelled to entertain them. They envisaged advancing in steps: at first NATO and the Warsaw Pact would remain in place, later they would be dissolved, and finally all foreign troops would leave Europe.79 At variance with Molotov’s earlier proposals and i n accordance with Khrushchev’s April speech in Poland, the prospective collective security system was to include the United States (though not Canada) as a full member rather than mere observer. The Soviet draft of a ‘General European Treaty on Collective Security i n Europe’, presented to the Geneva conference o n 20 July,80 revealed most clearly the Warsaw Pact’s original purpose as a blueprint for the continent’s new security system. Many provisions of the new document were identical o r built upon the Warsaw model. The identical ones included the principle of open admission, the prohibition of any treaty contrary to

Origins of the Warsaw Pact in 1955

255

the present one (but also the preservation of the signatories’ obligations under treaties entered into previously), the promotion of economic and cultural cooperation, and the establishment of a political consultative committee (with terms of reference yet to be specified) as well as a ‘military consultative organ’. Consistent with but reaching beyond the Warsaw text were passages in the Geneva document providing for a mutual pledge against the use of force or the threat of force, the freezing of the current troop and armaments levels in preparation for their reduction, and consultation in case of an armed attack on any of the signatories. The consultation clause was more nebulous than in the Warsaw Pact. Its stated goal was merely determining the procedure to be used i n the collective effort to preserve peace, thus making th e proposed treaty all but useless as a n instrument for repelling aggression. Evidently its Soviet architects did not envisage it to be tested i n a crisis but rather used for altering the East—West balance i n a fashion that would not only make Moscow more secure but also allow it to position itself as the arbiter of European security. I n trying to encourage open-ended and wide-ranging discussion, Soviet representatives i n Geneva further sought the conclusion of a ‘treaty between groupings of states now in existence i n Europe’,81 besides the reduction of conventional forces and gradual elimination of nuclear arms. I n the meantime, the signatories were to pledge not to use force against one another and, ‘as one of the first measures’, to halt nuclear

testing.82 Bulganin described his government’s priorities as being, in descending order, European security, disarmament and the German ques-

tion.83 Since this was the reverse order of American priorities, no substantive discussion about security ensued. Before the conference ended, the heads of state therefore directed their foreign ministers to tackle the unresolved issues at another meeting later.

The languishing alliance Later on, both Khrushchev and his Western partners would retrospectively deprecate the summit. According to Khrushchev’s sneering commentary, Bulganin had been lazy and not properly prepared, Faure ineffective, Eden bright but indecisive, and Eisenhower not u p to the task either, behaving ‘not as a maker of policy but as a n executor of Mr. Dulles’s policies.’84 Yet at the time most estimates of Geneva were more favourable. Dulles thought its outcome to be ‘very much on the plus side for the West’, even musing that ‘we might get [German] unification in

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the next two years’.85 But Khrushchev concluded the very opposite: in his View, the conference was a success because it would presumably not allow Adenauer to sleep well.86 Choosing to believe what they wanted to believe, both sides showed how far apart their mutual understanding of each other was. ‘In connection with the change of the international situation following the Geneva conference’, Khrushchev i n mid-August directed the Eastern European allies to reduce the size of their expected troop contingents for the Warsaw Pact and announced the reduction of the Soviet

Union’s own forces by 640,000 men before the end of the year.87 He thus signalled a reluctance vigorously to pursue the building of the alliance despite the appointment later that month of its Soviet supreme commander and Soviet chief of staff, followed by the promulgation of a secret statute equipping the top officer with sweeping powers.88 This later caused much resentment among the alliance’s subordinate members, but otherwise bore scant relevance to Khrushchev’s grand design for

European security.89 Pending the uncertain outcome of the design, the immediate utility of the Warsaw Pact pertained to the nascent East German army. Attesting to its undecided status at the time the treaty was concluded, alone among the signatories the GDR’s contribution was left open. But the outcome of Geneva encouraged Khrushchev to press forward his concept of two German states, which required giving the Eastern one the appropriate trappings of sovereignty. On his way home from the summit, he stopped in Berlin to vow publicly not to accept any German settlement at the expense of the communist state.90 At the same time, despite Molotov’s misgivings, Khrushchev took the lead i n normalizing relations with West Germany during the September visit of its chancellor Konrad Adenauer to Moscow. The Soviet Union cemented the division of Germany by formally bestowing sovereignty on the German Democratic Republic on 20 September.91 The treaty was a substitute for a bilateral alliance between the two countries, the absence of which had so far distinguished East Germany from Moscow’s other European dependencies. It advanced military collaboration by entrusting the protection of the country’s boundaries to East German border troops.92 Ulbricht promptly requested Soviet weapons for his incipient army, supplementing them with starting the GDR’s

own production of small arms.93 Misjudging Moscow’s readiness to make concessions out of weakness, the Western governments deluded themselves in expecting progress at the forthcoming foreign ministers’ conference. They expected Moscow to

Origins of the Warsaw Pact in 1955

257

entertain seriously German unification on Western terms, in return for which the British Foreign Office was inclined to sign ‘any reasonable security treaty with the Russians’.94 The State Department actually prepared such a treaty, including the reduction and control of armaments by stages in part of Europe, although the Joint Chiefs of Staff sidetracked the

proposal.95 But Moscow had ruled out in advance any Western plans for zones of reduced armaments linked with German reunification, showing mild interest only in Eden’s plan for such a zone i n central Europe that avoided the linkage, for which reason it was not supported by Washing-

ton.96 I n view o f these circumstances,

Khrushchev

was more realistic i n har-

bouring n o illusions about the success of the foreign ministers’ conference, nor could any be reasonably expected given the Soviet desiderata mentioned to the Canadian Prime Minister Lester Pearson during the latter's visit to Moscow on 1 2 October.97 Dismissing the suggestion of Western security guarantees for the Soviet Union in return for German unification as humiliating, Khrushchev insisted that ‘you should let u s into NATO — we have been knocking at the door for two years’. Thus, in his opinion, the Soviet Union would at least be put on a n equal footing with NATO’s other members rather than being dependent for its security o n the West’s goodwill. He said he might consider the guarantees if the number of countries underwriting them were increased to include both Germanies, Czechoslovakia, Belgium, Canada, and perhaps others — a scaled-down version of the collective security pact. When the foreign ministers reconvened i n Geneva i n October, Molotov,

by then unmistakably on his way out of power, did not press the Soviet cause very hard. H e resubmitted Moscow’s already rejected proposals for treaties on European security and the creation of a joint council of the two German states.98 Otherwise the conference marked time by pointlessly debating such hypothetical questions as what would happen if a reunited

Germany joined NATO or the Warsaw pact.99 At the end Molotov attempted to slip i n a document summing up in vague items the subjects on which agreement had supposedly been reached, but was corrected by Dulles that this was in fact not the case. The conference disbanded without accomplishing anything. By then Khrushchev, now fully in command of Soviet foreign policy, was moving i n other directions. With Khrushchev’s bid for a European security treaty failing, the War— saw Pact no longer had an important place in his scheme of things. His real priority was reducing rather than building up the military — his most innovative revision of Stalin’s thinking about security. ‘After we created the Warsaw Pact', Khrushchev

later reminisced, ‘I felt the t i m e had c o m e

258

Vojtech Mastny

to think about a reduction of our armed forces.’100 In July 1955, without consulting his allies, he inaugurated the first of his successive cuts of conventional forces. Moscow’s announcement of a unilateral reduction of its armed forces by 640,000 was widely received with disbelief.101 Yet the reduction, while having little effect on Soviet troop strength in central Europe, was genuine. Pressing the Warsaw Pact allies to cut their armed forces as well, the Soviet Union made Poland and Czechoslovakia reduce the size of their military establishments while extending their modernization over a per-

iod of five years.102 Khrushchev’s attempt to shift the thrust of Soviet security policy from the traditional emphasis on massive conventional forces to minimal nuclear deterrent, thus freeing the country’s resources and reducing its excessive dependence on military force to maintain its international status, amounted to a radical new departure. Soviet allies contemplated with trepidation the consequences of Khrushchev’s policy. At the secret Moscow meeting of Party secretaries o n 6 January 1956, Czechoslovakia opposed further unilateral cuts. Its militarized economy found it difficult to adjust to the reduction of defence expenditures from 9.4 per cent to 7.3 per cent of the GNP a nd to the forced modernization which required excessive imports from the Soviet Union and the under-utilization of the domestic manufacturing capacity.103 I n a speech dwelling on economic rather than military priorities, Khrushchev told the meeting that more IL-14 warplanes were being produced in the Soviet Union, Poland and Czechoslovakia than were needed. I n contrast t o Molotov’s dire assessment o f the international

situation,

which dwelt on the alleged persistence of the threat of war, Khrushchev urged his audience not to be provoked by the warmongering Western ‘imperialists’, for the Soviet hydrogen bomb was bound to have a sobering effect on them. He insisted that the military, political, and moral strength of the communist bloc was now colossal, but must be used reasonably. He concluded that no opportunity must be missed to

strengthen its economy.104 The one important military decision of the 6 January meeting was the

establishment of East Germany’s ‘National People’s Army’.105 Its integration into the Warsaw Pact perpetuated the alliance as the vehicle for the utilization and control o f t h e East German

armed forces which, analo-

gous to the West German Bundeswehr, were incorporated into the alliance i n their entirety. This distinguished them from its other members, who retained the privilege of merely subordinating specified contingents to the unified command. At the same time, the Warsaw Pact opened for

Origins of the Warsaw Pact in 1955

259

the pariah East German regime an important new avenue to enhance its international status and eventually wield growing bargaining influence,

if not necessarily bargaining power, within the Soviet bloc.106 As a result, none of the alliance’s other partners, including the Soviet Union, acquired greater vested interest in its preservation and consolidation

than did the GDR — its weakest but most ambitious member.107 At the Party secretaries’ meeting, Ulbricht welcomed plans for closer economic cooperation but noted that the communist allies should pay more attention to their Western adversaries because of NATO’s superior organization. The meagre results of the first meeting of the Warsaw Pact’s political consultative committee, held in Prague on 27—8 January, sup-

ported that estimate.108 Other than approving the incorporation of the newly created East German army, the committee failed to act on its stated intention to create further institutions of the alliance, particularly a unified secretariat and a standing commission that would make recommendations for common foreign policy. Nor was the committee’s decision to meet at least twice a year implemented in practice. While trying to manage the Soviet allies by revitalizing the dormant organization for economic cooperation, the Comecon, Khrushchev would henceforth use the Warsaw Pact as little more than a conduit for his various disarmament initiatives.

It has been said that ‘alliances which fail to increase [their] partners’

security levels almost never form’.109 The Warsaw Pact at its origin was an exception. Far from prefiguring the later turn of the Cold War into a confrontation between two military alliances, it was an episode i n the efforts of the post-Stalinist Soviet leadership to wrestle with Stalin’s untenable legacy of rigid confrontation with the West. At issue was how to respond to the ascendancy of NATO, dramatized by the Paris agreements and the rise of rearmed West Germany, more effectively than the dead dictator and his disciple Molotov had been able to d o . The challenge gave Khrushchev an opportunity to undertake, i n successful competition with less imaginative members of the Kremlin leadership, his unprecedented attempt at a demilitarization of the European security environment, in which the launching of Moscow’s new military alliance incongruously played a key role. The struggle within the leadership led to the most substantive foreign policy disagreements i n the Kremlin since Stalin’s death, briefly allowing Moscow's Eastern European allies limited input into policy as long as their Soviet superiors did not make up their minds. Once Khrushchev

260

Vojtech Mastny

prevailed, however, h e enforced

h i s line with a vigour reminiscent

of

Stalinist practice. But the preservation of the Warsaw Pact organization — despite the failure of Khrushchev’s trying to use it to compel the West to negotiate a transformation of the European security arrangements in Moscow’s favour — would eventually turn against him. I n the 19605, the opponents of his controversial drive for the reduction of conventional forces would utilize the alliance to again bolster those forces and finally help oust him from power. Afterwards, the Warsaw Pact would surge to became the framework for organizing actual warfare in Europe — a far cry from the role originally intended for it in 1955.

Abbreviations

AAN AUVKSC

AVPRF

[Archiwum Akt Nowych] Modern Records Archives, Warsaw Archiv Ustredniho vyboru Komunistické strany Ceskoslovenska [Archives of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia] [Archiv Vneshnei Politiki Rossiskoi Federatsii] Foreign Policy Archives of the Russian Federation, Moscow

BAB

Bundesarchiv, Berlin

BA-MA CPSU FRUS GDR IMS KC PZPR

Bundesarchiv-Militararchiv, Freiburg im Breisgau Communist Party of the Soviet Union Foreign Relations of the United States German Democratic Republic International Military Staff, NATO [Komitet Centralny Polskiej Zjednoczonej Partii Robotniczej] Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party Ministerium fiir Auswartige Angelegenheiten der DDR Ministerrat der DDR National Archives and Records Administration, College Park, M D

MfAA MR NARA NATO-A

NATO Archives, Brussels

NSA PAAA SAPMO

National Security Archives, Washington, DC Politisches Archiv des Auswartigen Amtes, Berlin Stiftung Archiv der Parteien und Massenorganisationen der

SUA

Statni ustredni archiv [Central State Archives], Prague

D D R i m Bundesarchiv,

TsKhSD

Berlin

[Tsentr Khraneniia Sovremennoi

Dokumentatsii]

Center for

the Preservation of Contemporary Documentation, Moscow ZPA

Zentrales Parteiarchiv [der SED], Berlin

Origins of the Warsaw Pact in 1955

261

Notes

1. Internal evidence from Soviet archives has made such chances appear more apparent than real. On the allegedly missed opportunities throughout the Cold War, see Deborah Welch Larson, Anatomy of Mistrust: US-Soviet Relations during the Cold War (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1997); on those presumably existing in March 1952, compare the conflicting interpretations by Rolf Steininger, The German Question: The Stalin Note of 1952 and the Problem of Reunification (New York: Columbia

University Press, 1 9 9 0 ) , a n d Gerhard Wettig, ‘ D i e

Deutschland-Note vom 10. Ma'rz 1 9 5 2 auf der Basis diplomatischer Akten des russischen AuBenministeriums: Die Hypothese des Wiedervereinigungsangeb o t s ’ , Deutschland-Archiv, 2 6 ( 1 9 9 3 ) ff. 786—805; a n d o n those after Stalin’s death i n 1 9 5 3 , by J o h n W. Young, ‘ C o l d War a n d Détente with Moscow’, i n The Foreign Policy of the Churchill Peacetime Administration, 1951—1955, e d . J o h n

W. Young (Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1988), pp. 55—80, and Vojtech Mastny, ‘Missed Opportunities after Stalin’s Death?’, paper presented a t the conference ’The Crisis Year 1 9 5 3 and the Cold War i n Europe’, Potsdam, 10— 1 2 November 1996, subsequently published as ’Promarnéné pfileiitosti po Stalinové smrti?’ [Missed Opportunities after Stalin’s Death?], Soudobé déjiny [Prague] 4, n o . 1 (1997) pp. 64—74. . For the best older accounts of the origins of the alliance, see Robin A. Remingt o n , The Warsaw Pact: Case Studies

in Communist Conflict Resolution (Cambridge,

MA: MIT Press, 1971), pp. 11—27, and Lawrence 5. Kaplan, ‘NATO and the Warsaw Pact: The Past’, i n The Warsaw Pact: Political Purpose and Military Means, ed. Robert W. Clawson a n d Lawrence S. Kaplan (Wilmington: Scholarly Resources, 1982), pp. 67-91. Besides the Khrushchev

m e m o i r s , Khrushchev Remembers: The Last Testament

(Boston: Little, Brown, 1974), pp. 193—5, the evidence included especially the testimony by the knowledgable Polish defector Seweryn Bialer about the July 1955 plenum of the Soviet Party Central Committee, published i n US Senate, Committee o n the Judiciary, Scope of Soviet Activity in the United States, part 29, session of 8 June, 1 9 5 6 (Washington: US Government Printing Office, 1957), pp. 4389—92. For t h e list of the archives used i n the preparation of this study, see ‘Abbreviat i o n s ’ , above.

. Piotr S. Wandycz, ‘The Soviet System of Alliances i n East Central Europe’, [oumal of Central European Affairs, 1 6 (1956) pp. 177—84. Grant M . Adibekov, Kominform i poslevoennaia Evropa, 1947—1956 33. [The Cominform and Postwar Europe] (Moscow: Rossiia Molodaia, 1994), pp. 7—10, a n d his ’Popytka kominternizatsii Kominforma V 1950 g.: Po novym arkhivnym materialam’ [The Attempted Cominternization of the Cominform i n 1950: New Archival M a t e r i a l s ] , Novaya i noveishaia istoriia, n o s 4—5, 1 9 9 4 , p p . 51—66. O n t h e

origins of the Comecon, see Michael Kaser, Comecon: Integration Problems of the Planned Economies (London: Oxford University Press, 1967), pp. 9—26. N . S. Khrushchev,

Khrushchev Remembers: The Glasnost Tapes

( B o s t o n : Little,

Brown, 1990), p. 73. Vojtech Mastny, The Cold War and Soviet Insecurity: The Stalin Years (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), p p . 171-85.

262 Voitech Mastny 9 . J a m e s G . Richter, Khrushchev’s Double Bind: International Pressures and Domestic

Coalition Politics (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), pp. 41—4. 10. Soviet proposal, 1 0 February 1 9 5 4 , FRUS, 1952-54, v o l . 7 , p t . 1 , p p . 1190—92. 11. Notes by Soviet government, 31 March and 24 July 1954, Denise Folliot (ed.), Documents on International Affairs 1954 (London: Oxford University Press, 1957), pp. 39—43 and 46—51. 12. C . D . J a c k s o n t o Marie McCrum, 1 0 February 1 9 5 4 , FRUS, 1952—1954, vol. 7 , pt 1, pp. 1032—3. 13. Proposed measures i n connection with forthcoming proposal o n all-European security conference, 0 6 / 1 3 / 9 / 2 / 1 — 2 , AVPRF.

14. Statement by Soviet Foreign Ministry, 9 September 1954, Folliot, Documents on International Affairs 1954, pp. 51—5. 15. Analysis of the Paris agreements by Gromyko, 28 October 1954, 06/ 13a/28/27/ 20439, AVPRF. 16. Note by Soviet government, 2 3 October 1 9 5 4 , Folliot, Documents on Intemational Affairs 1954, pp. 96—101. 17. Note by Soviet government, 1 3 November 1954, Folliot, Documents on International Affairs 1954, pp. 58—61. 18. Speech by V. Siroky, A 14631, MfAA, PAAA. 19. Declaration, 2 December 1 9 5 4 , Folliot, Documents o n International Affairs 1 9 5 4 , pp. 64—70. 20. Beate Ihme-Tuchel, Das ’nordliche Dreieck’: Die Beziehungen zwischen der DDR, der Tschechoslowakei und Polen in den Iahren 1954 his 1962 (Cologne: Wissenschaft und Politik, 1994), pp. 64—8. 21. Norman M. Naimark, ‘To Know Everything and to Report Everything Worth Knowing’: Building the East German Police State, Cold War International History Project Working Paper n o . 10 (Washington: Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars, 1 9 9 4 ) , p . 2 5 .

22. Bruno Thoss, Volksarmee schaffen - ohne Geschrei!: Studien z u den Anflingen einer verdeckten Aufi‘u'stung in der SBZ/DDR, 1945—1952 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1994). 23. ‘Delo Bera (Plenum TsK KPSS, Iiul 1 9 5 3 goda: Stenograficheskii otchet)’ [The Beria Affair: Stenographic Record of the Plenary Session of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union i n July 1953], Izvestiia TsK KPSS, January 1991, pp. 143—4, 162—3. 2 4 . Trybuna Ludu [Warsaw], 9 February 1955. Cf. Michael Howard, Disengagement in Europe (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1958), p. 2 1 . 2 5 . ‘Postanovlenie Plenuma TsK KPSS o tov. Malenkove, G . M . ’ [The Decision o f t h e Plenum Concerning

Comrade G . M . Malenkov], 3 1 January 1 9 5 5 , 2 / 1 / 1 1 0 /

38—42, TsKhSD. 26. Andrei Malenkov, O moem ottse Georgii Malenkove [My Father, Georgii Malenkov] (Moscow: Tekhnoekos, 1992). 27. Pravda, 1 3 March 1 9 5 4 . 2 8 . L. A. Openkin, ’Na istoricheskom perepute’ [At the Crossroads of History], Voprosy Istorii KPSS, 1990, n o . 1, pp. 109—10. 29. ’The International Situation and the Foreign Policy of the Soviet Governm e n t ' , New Times [Moscow], 1 2 February 1 9 5 5 .

30. Audrey Kurth Cronin, Great Power Politics and the Struggle over Austria, 1945—1955 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986), pp. 143—59.

Origins of the Warsaw Pact in 1955

263

31. Record of the CPSU Central Committee plenum, 1 2 July 1955, 2/1/176/ 282-95, TsKhSD, copy at NSA. Khrushchev paraphrased his statement i n a conversation

with U S Vice-President Richard Nixon o n 2 6 J u l y 1959, FRUS,

1958—1960, vol. 10, pt 1, p. 366. 32. Record of the plenum of the Party presidium, 4—12July 1955, 2/1/172/86—108, NSA. 33. Study o n the Balkan pact by Zimianin, undated [c. October 1954], 06/13a/28/ 27/89—92, AVPRF. 34. Pravda, 10 March 1 9 5 5 . 35. Vojtech Mastny, ’The Kremlin Politics and the Austrian Settlement’, Problems of Communism, 31, n o . 4 (July-August 1982), pp. 37—51, at p p . 42—43. 36. P. H. Vigor, The Soviet View of War, Peace and Neutrality (London: Routledge, 1975), pp. 182—3. 37. Record of the CPSU Central committee plenum, 9 July 1955, Cold War International History Project Bulletin, 10 (1998), p p . 39—40. 38. Memorandum of discussion at the 239th meeting of the National Security Council, 3 March 1955, FRUS, 1955—1957, vol. 24, p . 29. 39. Drafts by Gromyko, Zorin a n d Semenov, 3 1 December 1 9 5 4 , 06/14/12/1/1—11, AVPRF. 40. Ihme-Tuchel, Das ’nordliche Dreieck’ pp. 75—80. 41. Gromyko a n d Semenov t o Molotov, 19 February 1 9 5 5 , 06/14/54/4/1—8, AVPRF. 42. Soviet Party Central Committee to Czechoslovak Party Central Committee, 4

March 1955, MN KSC, 62/2/36/48, sUA; Khrushchev to Ulbricht, 5 March 1955,J IV 2/202—244 Bd 1, SAPMO. 43. Pravda, 2 1 March 1 9 5 5 . 44. The lack of evidence of any formal consultations is noted i n the East German foreign ministry dossier, A 14630, p p . 31—34, MfAA, PAAA. 45. Molotov t o Soviet Party Central Committee, 9 May 1955, 06/14/54/4/99, AVPRF. 46. Decision by Soviet Party Central Committee, 1 April 1955, 06/14/54/4/39, AVPRF. 47. Ibid. 48. Report of 2 2 April 1955, 06/14/54/4/88, AVPRF. 49. Pravda, 21 April 1955. 50. Soviet note t o British government, 20 December 1 9 5 4 , i n F o l l i o t , Documents o n International Affairs 1954, pp. 212—15; Pravda, 7 May 1955. 51. ‘Proposal by the Soviet Government o n the Reduction of Armaments, the Prohibition of Atomic Weapons and the Elimination of the Threat of a New War’, 10 May 1955, US Department of State, Documents on Disarmament, 1945-1959, vol. 1 (Washington: US Department of State, 1960), pp. 456—67. 52. Record o f t h e C P S U Central Committee plenum, 9 J u l y 1 9 5 5 , Cold War International History Project Bulletin, 10 (1998), pp. 39—40. 53. A. A. Roshchin, ‘Gody obnovleniya, nadezd i razocharovanii (1953—1959 gg.)’ [The Years of Renewal, Hopes, and Disappointments], Novaya i noveishaya istoriya, n o . 5 (1988) pp. 127-47, at p. 131. 54. Quoted i n Richard H. Immerman, ”’Trust the Lord but Keep the Powder Dry": American Policy A i m s a t Geneva’, i n G u e n t e r Bischof a n d Saki Dockrill ( e d s ) ,

264

Vojtech Mastny

Cold War Respite: The Geneva Summit of 1955 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, forthcoming 1999). 55. Tripartite note to the Soviet Union, 10 May 1955, i n US Department of State, The Geneva Conference of Heads of Government, luly 18—23, 1955 (Washington: US Government Printing Office, 1955), p p . 6—7. 56. ’Treaty of Friendship, Co-operation and Mutual Assistance', 1 4 May 1955, i n Noble

Frankland

( e d . ) , Documents

on International

Affairs

1955

(London:

Oxford University Press, 1958), pp. 193—97. 57. Quoted in Robert Spencer, ‘Alliance Perceptions of the Soviet Threat, 1950— 1988’, i n The Changing Western Analysis of the Soviet Threat, ed. Carl-Christoph Schweitzer (London: Pinter, 1990), pp. 9—48, at p. 19. 58. The German text is printed and analysed i n Boris Meissner, Der Warschauer Pakt: Dokumentensammlung (Cologne: Wissenschaft und Politik, 1962), pp. 97— 101 and 40—48. 59. Ulbricht t o Khrushchev, 9 March 1 9 5 5 , Z P A , J I V 2/202—244 Bd 1 , SAPMO. 60. Stenographic record of meeting, 1 2 May 1955, 0447/1 / 1 / 1, AVPRF. 61. Khrushchev t o Ulbricht, 2 May 1 9 5 5 , Z P A , ] I V 2/202—244 Bd 1 , S A P M O . 62. Tadeusz Pi6ro, Armia ze skaza: W Wojsku Polskim 1945—1968 (wspomnienia i refleksie) [The Defective Army: In the Polish Army, 1945—1968 (Memories and Reflections)] (Warsaw: Czytelnik, 1994), pp. 210—13; copy of the record provided by G e n . Pi6ro. 63. Speech by Bulganin, 1 1 May 1955, ZPA, NL 90/461, SAPMO. 64. Soviet note, 7 J u n e 1 9 5 5 , i n Frankland, Documents on International Affairs, 1955, pp. 245—8. 65. Khrushchev, Khrushchev Remembers, pp. 379—82. 66. Testimony by Seweryn Bialer about the July 1955 plenum of the Soviet Party Central Committee, i n U S Senate, Committee o n the Judiciary, Scope of Soviet Activity in the United States, part 2 9 , session o f J u n e 8 , 1 9 5 6 (Washington: U S

Government Printing Office, 1957), pp. 1590—91. 67. Memorandum o n discussion at the 249th meeting of the National Security Council, Washington,

1 9 May 1 9 5 5 , FRUS, vol. 5 : 1955—57,

p p . 182—9, a t p . 1 8 4 .

68. Statement at the same meeting, quoted i n Ronald W. Pruessen, ‘Beyond the Cold War Again: 1 9 5 5 and t h e 19905’,

Political Science

Quarterly,

108

(1993),

pp. 59—84, at p. 66. 69. Memorandum o f Dulles—Adenauer conversation, Washington, 1 3 J u n e 1 9 5 5 , FRUS, vol. 5 : 1955—57, pp. 224—8, at p . 226. 70. Khrushchev Remembers, p . 3 9 5 . 71. Memorandum o f conversations at President’s dinner, Geneva, 1 8 July 1 9 5 5 , FRUS, vol. 5: 1955—57, p p . 372—8. 72. C . D . Jackson Log Entry, 1 9 J u l y 1 9 5 5 , FRUS, vol. 5 : 1955—57, p p . 301—305, a t pp. 301—302. 73. Memorandum o n conversation at tripartite luncheon, Geneva, 1 7 J u l y 1 9 5 5 , FRUS, vol. 5: 1955-57, pp. 343—54, at p . 349. 74. A n t o n i o Varsori, ‘Le gouvernement Eden e t l ’ U n i o n soviétique (1955—1956): d e l’espoir a la désillusion’, Relations intemationales, 7 1 (1992), pp. 273—98, at p. 284. 75. C . D . J a c k s o n Log Entry, 1 9 J u l y 1 9 5 5 , FRUS, v o l . 5 : 1955—57, p p . 301—5, a t p . 301, and Delegation a t the Tripartite Foreign Ministers Meeting to Department of State, 1 5 July 1955, ibid., pp. 319—21, a t p. 320.

Origins of the Warsaw Pact in 1955

265

76. Memorandum o n conversation a t t r i p a r t i t e l u n c h e o n , Geneva, 1 7 J u l y 1 9 5 5 , FRUS, vol. 5: 1955-57, pp. 343—54, a t p. 349. 77. Walt W. Rostow, Open Skies: Eisenhower’s Proposal of Iuly 21, 1955 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1982). 78. Anderson a n d Radford t o Secretary o f State, Paris, 1 9 J u l y 1 9 5 5 , FRUS, v o l . 5 : 1955-57, vol. 5, pp. 384—6, at p. 385. 79. Statement by Bulganin a t Geneva, 1 8 July 1955, i n US Department of State, The Geneva Conference, pp. 35—43. 80. ‘General European Treaty o n Collective Security in Europe’, 20 July 1955, FRUS, vol. 5: 1955—57, vol. 5, pp. 516—19. 81. U S Delegation a t t h e Geneva conference t o Department o f State, 2 1 J u l y 1 9 5 5 , FRUS, vol. 5: 1955—57, pp. 447—8. 8 2 . Proposal of the Soviet delegation, 2 1 July 1955, FRUS, vol. 5: 1955-5 7, pp. 519— 20, a t p. 520. 83. Record of seventh plenary session a t Geneva, 2 3 July 1955, FRUS, vol. 5: 1955— 57, pp. 503—12, at p. 504. 84. Record of Khrushchev—Humphrey conversation o n 1 December 1958, dated 8 December 1 9 5 8 , USSR 1 9 5 8 , Records o f t h e Policy P l a n n i n g Staff, 1 9 5 7—1961, Box 1 4 5 , R G - 5 9 , NARA; record o f Khrushchev—Harriman conversation o n 1 3 J u n e 1 9 5 9 , dated 2 6 J u n e 1 9 5 9 , FRUS, v o l . 1 0 : 1958—60, p t 1 , p p . 269—81, a t p .

276. 85. M i n u t e s o f National Security Council meeting, 2 8 J u l y 1 9 5 5 , FRUS, v o l . 5 : 1955—57, p. 531. 86. Khrushchev’s statement a t reception by East German government i n Berlin, 24 July 1955, KC PZPR 2630/2—8, AAN. 87. Khrushchev t o B e i r u t , 1 2 August 1 9 5 5 , K C PZPR 2 6 6 1 / 3 , AAN; Izvestiya, 1 3 August 1955. 88. ‘Polozhenie ob obedinennom komandovanii vooruzhennykh sil gosudarstvuchastnikov Varshavskogo soveshchaniya’ [Statute of the Unified Command of the States Participating i n t h e Warsaw Conference], Khrushchev to Bierut, 7 September 1955, KC PZPR 2661/2, 16-19, AAN. 89. Vojtech Mastny, ”‘We Are i n a Bind": Polish and Czechoslovak Attempts a t Reforming t h e Warsaw Pact, 1956—1969’, Cold War International History Project Bulletin, 1 1 ( 1 9 9 8 ) , p p . 23—43.

90. Pravda, 2 7 July 1955. 91. Soviet—East German treaty, 20 September 1955, Frankland, Documents on International Affairs 1955, pp. 200—2. 92. ‘ A k t e n n o t i z ’ , 20 September 1 9 5 5 , S t r a u s b . AZN 3 2 4 3 7 , BA-MA. 93. Ulbricht t o B u l g a n i n , 6 December 1 9 5 5 , Z P A , J I V 2/202—244 B d 1 , S A P M O . 94. Memorandum by Ivone Kirkpatrick, 1 6 December 1955, i n Michael Gehler, ‘Westintegration und Wiedervereiningung — Adenauers Démarche bei Kirkpatrick a m 15. Dezember 1955 ein Mifiverst'andnis?’, Geschichte in Wissenschaft and Unterricht, 4 3 , n o . 8 ( 1 9 9 2 ) , p p . 4 7 7 - 8 8 , a t p . 4 7 7 .

95. Kenneth W. Condit, The Joint Chiefs of Staff a n d National Policy, 1955—1956 (Washington: Historical Office, J o i n t Staff, 1992), pp. 118—22. 96. ‘Plans of t h e Western Powers Concerning the Creation of a “Zone of Reduced Tension" i n Europe’, paper by Foreign Ministry Committee of Information for Khrushchev,

1 8 October 1 9 5 5 , 8 9 / 70/ 1 , TsKhSD.

266

Vojtech Mastny

9 7 . Lester B . Pearson, Memoirs, 1948—1957: The International Years (London: Golancz, 1974), pp. 206—7. 9 8 . Soviet draft treaty o n security i n Europe, 3 1 October 1955, Frankland, Documents on International Affairs 1955, pp.53—5. 9 9 . FRUS, v o l . 5: 1955—1957,pp.633—802. 100. Khrushchev Remembers: The Last Testament, p.220. 101. Matthew Evangelista, ‘Why Keep Such a n Army?’ Khrushchev’s Troop Reductions, Cold War International History Project, Working Paper n o . 19 (Washington:

Woodrow

Wilson

International

Center

for S c h o l a r s , 1997),

pp. 45; record of the session of NATO Military Committee, 9 December 1955, IMS, NATO-A. 102. Khrushchev t o Bierut, 1 2 August 1955, K C PZPR 2661/3, AAN. 103. Karel Kaplan, Ceskoslovensko v letech 1953—66: Spolecenska krize a kor'eny refonny [Czechoslovakia i n 1953—55:The Social Crisis and Roots of Reform] (Prague: Statni pedagogické nakladatelstvi, 1992), pp. 7 2 and 131. 104. Records o f t h e meeting o f Party secretaries, 6 J a n u a r y 1956, ZPA, J IV 2/202/ 193,SAPMO. 105. Communiqué of the meeting of the Political Consultative Committee, 28 January 1956, Meissner, Der Warschauer Pakt, pp. 103—104. 106.The fine distinction drawn by Hope M . Harrison i n ‘The Bargaining Power of Weaker Allies i n Bipolarity and Crisis: The Dynamics of Soviet—East German Relations, 1953—1961’, unpublished

P h D dissertation, Columbia University,

1993,p.13. 107.Jorg K. Hoensch, ’The Warsaw Pact a n d t h e Northern Member S t a t e s ’ , i n Clawson and Kaplan, The Warsaw Pact, pp. 27—48. 108. Stenographical record of the meeting, 775/1/1/1, AVPRF. 109. Michael F. Altfeld, ‘The Decision to Ally: A Theory and Test’, Western Political Quarterly, 37 (1984), pp. 523—44,at p. 538.

Index

Abramov, Abramov, Adenauer, Adibekov,

A. L., 9 4 Yakar, 9 1 Konrad, 2 5 6 G. M., 50

Balashov, A . P., 5 5 B a l t i c states, Stalin’s annexation Bamatter, Sigi, 7 6 Bazhanov, Boris, 5 5

agriculture i n Northern Schleswig, 182—3, 1 8 7 Soviet collectivization,

of,

155, 158, 161

Beria, L. P., 12, 48, 107, 228, 245

7, 3 6 , 138,

Berthoud, Eric (British ambassador),

139

210

Aikia, Armas, 1 7 0 Aleksandrov, A . M . , 205 Aleksandrov, G . F., 146—7, 1 5 9

Bessonov, S., 1 3 9 Bevin, Ernest, 202 Bischoff, Norbert, 2 4 7 Boldin, V. I., 3 0

Alikhanov, G. S., 78, 80, 83—4, 85, 88

Bolshevik government and extraordinary measures, 122-3 and propaganda, 1 4 6

All-Russian Cheka, 2 7 A l l - R u s s i a n Congress o f Soviets, 2 6 ,

28 All-Russian Extraordinary Commission (VChK), 1 2 3

a n d war, 1 0 1 - 2 Bonner, Elena, 8 0

A l l - U n i o n Central Committee circulars, 3 5

Bordadyn, A. F., 1 5 0

Special Sector, 31 All-Union Organization for Cultural Ties (VOKS), 2 3 2 All-Union Society for Cultural Ties with Foreign Countries, 227 Andersen, Tage, 214 Anderson, Eugenie M., 205

Bornholm

a n d Greenland, 197—201, 204, 2 1 8 ,

219 and membership of the Atlantic

Anderson, Robert B., 2 5 4 Andreev, A . A., 1 4 6 Andreev, M . Z., 7 8 , 7 9 , 8 8 Antilla, Akseli, 1 7 0 Antonov, A. I., 1 9 3 Anvelt, J a n , 8 4 , 8 5

Alliance, 203—5

and NATO, 204, 205—6, 207, 210, 211, 212, 213—15, 217—18, 219—20 a n d Scandinavian

defence union,

202—3 Soviet military occupation of, 192—7

Apresyan, D. Z., 8 4 armed forces a n d the Warsaw Pact, 2 5 7—9

see also Red Army

Soviet warnings (1952—3), 206—9 a n d the Unified Baltic Command,

Atlantic Alliance, and Bornholm Island, 203—5 Austria

215-16 Brezhnev, Leonid, a n d the

and Molotov’s foreign policy, 247—8, 251, 2 5 2 a n d t h e Warsaw Pact, 2 5 2 , 2 5 3 Avtorkhanov, A . G . , 2 4 , 1 4 0

I s l a n d , Denmark, 192—220

concessions by the Danish government, 209—13 and foreign military personnel, 201—2

modification of Soviet power mechanisms, 15—17, 20 Brind, Patrick (Admiral), 204—5, 2 0 7 ,

213 267

268

Index

Britain a n d Bornholm I s l a n d , 202, 203, 2 1 0 , 213—14, 218—19 a n d t h e Warsaw Pact, 2 4 5 Bruckmann, G . , 8 2 Brussels Pact, 2 3 8 Bukharin, Nikolai, 7 4 and extraordinary measures, 1 2 5 , 1 2 7 , 1 2 9 , 1 3 0 , 1 3 2 , 1 3 3 , 134—6, 137—9 Bulganin, Nikolai, 228, 2 4 6 , 2 5 2 , 2 5 3 , 255 Bureau o f the Central Committee Secretariat, 3 0 , 3 1 , 40, 45—61 Bureau o f International Information, 50, 52, 56

China a n d Korea, 2 2 5 , 229, 2 3 8

C a c h i n , Marcel, 8 2

and t h e Warsaw Pact, 252—5, 2 5 9 Comecon, 2 4 2 , 2 5 9 Cominform, 242, 2 5 1 Comintern Cadre Department, 7 5 , 7 6 , 77—83, 8 4 , 8 8 , 9 0 , 9 3 ; dossiers, 7 7 ; l e a d e r s , 7 8 ; a n d t h e NKVD, 80, 8 1 ; n o n - R u s s i a n staff members, 7 9 ;

censorship, 1 4 7 Central Archives (later Central Party Archives of the Institute of Marxism—Leninism), 3 0 Central A s i a n Bureau, 1 3 Central Committee Administrative Directorate, 5 3 Cadres Directorate, 28—9

and extraordinary measures, 1 2 8 a n d the intelligence services, 1 1 3 a n d Khrushchev, 1 3 a n d Korea, 226, 227—8

Main Special Services Directorate, 47—8 a n d propaganda, 157, 158, 159—61 and the ’Rules for Handling Secret Documents’, 3 3 a n d Soviet intervention

i n Poland,

and the Soviet intelligence services, 110 Christiakov, G e n e r a l , 2 3 5 Churchill, Winston S., 2 0 7 , 2 4 5

CIA (Central Intelligence Agency), 248

civil society a n d Gorbachev’s reforms, 20

and infrastructural power, 4 and Stalinist power, 3 6 Civil War, 2 5 , 1 0 1 , 1 2 2 , 1 6 4 Cold War a n d Korea, 2 2 5

and Soviet and American foreign policy, 224

number of employees, 79; and t h e Second World War, 80; a n d ‘Secret S e c t i o n s ’ o f firms, 8 1 ; subdivisions, 78—9, 80; a n d t h e VKP, 8 1 ; a n d Western C P

intelligence services, 81—3 dissolution by Stalin, 49, 242 and Finland, 168 I C C (International Control Commission), 84, 85

IKKI (Executive Committee of the

152 and the Soviet—German pact, 1 4 9

Communist International), 72—3, 7 5 , 7 7 , 7 8 , 7 9 , 8 9 , 91—2;

a n d S t a l i n i s t centralized decision-

budget commission, 74; a n d intelligence services, 103; and

making, 34—5 and state power, 25, 2 7 see also Secretariat of the Central Committee Central Control C o m m i s s i o n ,

t h e NKVD, 83—5; n o n - R u s s i a n staff members, 9 5 ; numbers o f

employees, 73; Party and the

personalist principle, 10 centralized decision-making, and S t a l i n i s t power, 34—6, 4 4 Chernomordik, M . B., 7 8 , 80, 8 1 , 8 5 , 8 8 Chicherin, G . V., 1 0 8

Organization, 8 3 , 8 4 ; a n d

propaganda, 147; a n d the Second World War, 94—5; Secretariats, 92—5; a n d t h e Terror, 8 0 Minor Commission, 75, 77, 91, 93

Index

Moscow headquarters, 71—95; subdivisions a n d departments, 85—9 National Congresses, 7 2 OMS (Department for International L i a i s o n ) , 8 1 , 8 6 , 90, 9 4 , 9 5 , 1 0 2 ,

103—4, 108 Orgbureau, 9 2 Politcommission, 7 5 , 7 7 , 9 1 Politsecretariat, 7 4 , 7 5 , 8 9 , 90—1 R e g i o n a l Secretariats, 89—90, 9 1 , 9 2 ,

93, 9 4 and the ‘Russian Delegation’, 74 and the secret apparatus, 49—50, 5 2 ’Special Department', 76, 8 8 a n d t h e SS (Sluzhaba sviazei), 7 6 Standing Commission, 75, 77, 91, 93

269

a n d t h e secret apparatus, 4 1 , 4 2 , 48-51, 52

and Stalinist power, 29—30 versus the ruling clique, 26—7 versus t h e state, 26—7 see also C o m i n t e r n ; nomenklatura system Council o f Labour a n d Defence, 2 9 Council o f People’s Commissars, 2 6 , 27, 29, 35 C P F ( F i n n i s h Communist Party), 1 6 5 , 167 Cuban m i s s i l e crisis, 2 1 4

Cyrankiewicz, JOZef, 249 Czechoslovakia C o m m u n i s t coup i n , 200, 202 a n d t h e Warsaw Pact, 2 4 4 , 2 4 8 , 2 5 8

a n d the VKP (Vsesojuznaia Kommunistiche

Skaia P a r t i i a ) ,

73, 74, 75, 81, 83, 9 2 W E B (Western European B u r e a u ) , 9 0 ,

94 and Western revolutionary movements/political parties, 71, 72—3 World Congresses, 72, 73 Commissariat of Foreign Affairs, 3 5 Commissariat of Military Affairs, 3 5 communications

network, a n d t h e

emergence of Soviet power mechanisms, 6 C o m m u n i s t I n t e r n a t i o n a l , 49—50 C o m m u n i s t Party, D a n i s h , 202 C o m m u n i s t Party, F i n n i s h (CPF), 1 6 5 ,

167 Communist Party of t h e Soviet U n i o n (CPSU) banning of, and the Russian F e d e r a t i o n , vii—viii, 2 4

Central Committee see Central Committee collapse of, 24 and the emergence of Soviet power m e c h a n i s m s , 5 , 6—7 a n d Khrushchev, 1 4

local politics see local politics/party officials mass membership, viii membership,

5, 6, 7

D a h l , J . R., 204 Damyanov, G . P., 7 8 , 80, 8 5 , 8 8

Danish Communist Party, 202 Davies, R. W . , 1 3 6

de-Stalinization policy, 1 3 decision-making, a n d Stalinist power, 34—6, 4 4

democracy, closing-off of under Stalin, 4 democratic c e n t r a l i s m , a n d t h e

emergence of Soviet power mechanisms, 5 democratization, u n d e r Gorbachev, 1 9 Denmark

Danish Nazi party, 179, 180 Northern Schleswig, 178—90 a n d Second World War, 1 9 3

Soviet embassy in, and Narkomindel, 173—90

and the West European Union, 202 see also B o r n h o l m I s l a n d , D e n m a r k

despotic power, 4 Diaz, J o s é , 9 4 Dimitrov, G . , 8 3 , 8 4 , 9 4 , 151—2 disorder, a n d Stalinist power, 2 3 , 37—8 D j u r s a a , Malene, 1 7 9 , 1 8 0 , 1 8 6 ‘Doctor’s Plot’, 1 1 Dokuchaev, M . 5., 4 8 Dossing, Thomas, 196—7 D u l l e s , A l l e n W., 2 4 8 Dulles, John Foster, 2 5 3 , 2 5 4 , 255—6

270

Index

Dzerzhinsky,

F. E., 2 7 , 1 2 3

East Germany armed forces, 258—9 a n d t h e Warsaw Pact, 244—5, 2 4 8 ,

249, 251,2 5 6 Eastern Karelia, a n d ’ R e d F i n n s ’ , 163—4,

167 economic

relations, with North Korea,

233—8 E D C (European Defense Community),

242, 243 Eden, Anthony, 2 4 5 , 2 5 5 Egorychev N . G . (Soviet ambassador),

217 Eisenhower, Dwight D . , 2 0 5 , 2 5 3 , 2 5 5 Engell, Ove, 185—6 enthusiasm a n d commitment, a n d t h e Stalinist regime, 1 1 , 1 2 , 20 Enukidze, A . S., 2 6

European Defense Community see EDC European security, and the Warsaw Pact, 252—5

extraordinary measures policy, 122—4 and the Bolshevik government, 123—4 and disagreements within the élite, 127—34 and the grain procurement crisis (1927—8), 124—6 and the NEP, 123—4, 127, 129, 131, 132, 133, 136, 139, 1 4 0 open critique of Stalin’s concept, 134—6 a n d the ‘Shakhtii case’, 126—7 Ezhov, N . I., 8 4

‘family groups' and the Brezhnev period, 1 7 and the personalist principle, 9 Faroe I s l a n d s , 1 9 9 , 202, 204 Faure, Edgar, 2 5 3 FBI (Federal Bureau o f Investigation),

112 Finland a n d Bornholm Island, 220 a n d t h e 'Winter War’ (1939—40), 1 5 5 ,

161, 163—71 Finnish Communist Party (CPF), 165

Firin, S e m e n , 1 0 4 Firsov, F. I., 8 3 First Five Year P l a n , 4 Fischer, Paul, 2 1 6

foreign policy (Soviet) and t h e Cold War, 224

decision making i n the foreign policy apparatus, 228—9 and Korea, 224—38

and the political leadership, 173—5 and propaganda, 145—61 Formayster, A . R., 7 5 Frumkin, M i k h a i l , 1 3 1 G e n d i n , S. G . , 1 0 4 German reunification, Pact, 256—7

a n d t h e Warsaw

Germany Soviet postwar occupation 235

in, 234,

see also East Germany; Nazi Germany; West Germany Getty, J . Arch, 3 6 G i l l , G r a e m e , 37—8 Gladstone, A d m i r a l , 213—14, 2 2 0 glasnost (openness), 1 9 , 224

Glavlit (Main Directorate for Censorship), 1 4 7 , 1 4 9 Gnedin, E. A., 1 7 6 Golubev, Aleksandr, 1 7 4 Gorbachev, M i k h a i l , vii, 3 , 18—20 Gorlizki, Yoram, 4 4

Gosplan, 29 Gottwald, Klement, 9 4

grain procurement crisis (1927-8), 124—6 Gram, Viktor, 2 1 7 Great Patriotic War, 3 6 Great Terror, 11—12, 20, 3 1 , 1 3 8 and t h e Comintern, 7 7 , 80, 8 4 , 9 5 a n d the intelligence services, 1 0 4 , 110 Greenland, a n d Bornholm I s l a n d , 197—201, 204, 2 1 8 , 2 1 9 Grigor’ian, V., 2 2 7 Gromyko, Andrej, 226 G U G B ( M a i n Directorate o f State Security), 1 0 4 , 1 0 5 Gulyaev, L. A., 7 8 , 8 0

Index

Gulyaev, P. V., 8 8

GUPPKA (Central Department of Political Propaganda of the Red Army), 146,147,159,1 6 0 GURK (Central Department for the Control of Repertoire and Performances), 1 5 0 GVS ( M a i n M i l i t a r y C o u n c i l ) , a n d

propaganda, 158—9 Gylling, B., 164—5,1 6 7

271

Intelligence Directorate of the Red Army see RU intelligence services, 57, 101—14 activities a n d residencies, 102—5

’bugging’ operations, 105-6 decisions, 108—13; a n d J a p a n ,

109—10;a n d the USA, 111—13 distribution o f information,

106—7

and nuclear weapons, 1 1 2 publications, 1 0 6 radio intelligence, 105

Hajek, Milos, 73

a n d t h e ‘ w a r scare o f 1927’,1 0 8 I o e l s o n , M . F., 5 6 I v a n IV, Tsar ( t h e Terrible), 2 3

Hayes, G e n e r a l , 1 9 8 Hedtoft, H a n s , 208, 2 1 2

History of the All- Union Communist Party (of Bolsheviks), 1 4 6 Hitler, Adolf, 9 4 , 1 6 1

see also Nazi Germany Ho Hon, 227 Hofmaier, Karl, 8 2 Humbert-Droz, J u l e s , 74—5, 82—3 Hvass, Frants, 203 Ibarriri, D o l o r e s , 9 4 ideology, a n d Gorbachev,

18

IKKI (Executive Committee of the Communist

I n t e r n a t i o n a l ) see

under Comintern industrialization and the emergence of Soviet power mechanisms, 6

and extraordinary measures, 1 3 6 a n d Soviet economic relations with North Korea, 2 3 3

a n d Stalinist power, 3 6 Information

Bureau, 5 0

information system controls, and Stalinist power, 31—4 infrastructural power, 3-4 INO (Foreign Department of t h e OGPU), 103,104,105,106,107, 108,1 1 4 and Japan, 110 a n d t h e USA, 1 1 1

Institute of World Economy a n d World Politics, 5 6

Intelligence Directorate of the People’s Commissariat of the Navy (RU NKVMF), 102,1 1 1

Japan and the North Korea economy, 233—4,237 a n d the Soviet intelligence services, 109—10 Kaganovich, L. M . , 3 4 , 128, 2 2 8 K a l i n i n , M . 1., 2 6 , 133—4 Kamenev, L. B., 26—7, 7 3 , 132, 1 3 4 Kamerzin, Raymond, 82—3 Karelia Eastern Karelia a n d ’ R e d F i n n s ’ , 163—4, 1 6 7 a n d the ‘ W i n t e r War’ (1939—40), 1 7 1 Karelian Chasseur Battalion, 165, 1 6 7 Karelian Labour C o m m u n e , 1 6 5 Kauffmann, Henrik, 200

KDP Intelligence Service, 8 2 Kekkonen, U r h o , 220 Khrushchev, Nikita, 1 6 , 228, 243, 2 4 5 Dulles on, 253

and the modification of Soviet power m e c h a n i s m s , 13—15 versus Molotov, 246—8 a n d the Warsaw Pact, 248-50, 251-2, 253, 254, 255, 256, 2 5 7—60 K i m 11 Sung, 226, 227, 229, 230, 231, 237, 2 3 8 K n o r i n , V. G . , 9 4 Kobetskii, M i k h a i l , 174, 177—8, 180, 181, 182—5, 186, 188, 189-90 Komsomol, 34 Kondratenko, N . N . , 7 9

272

Index

Korea, 224—38 a n d t h e Central Committee, 226, 227—8 and Soviet advisers, 230—2 Soviet economic r e l a t i o n s w i t h North Korea, 233—8

Light, Margot, 1 7 5 Litvinov, Maksim, 1 9 2 , 2 1 8

local politics/party officials a n d the emergence of Soviet power mechanisms, 7 , 8 a n d information control systems, 3 1 ,

32

Soviet propaganda i n North Korea, 232—3 Korean War (1950—3), 2 2 5 , 2 2 7 , 237—8, 242 Kornilyev (NKVD staff member), 8 0 , 84, 85 Kosior, Stanislav, 1 3 2 Koskinen, I., 1 6 6 Kotelnikov, F. S., 8 0 Kraft, O l e B j o r n , 2 0 5 , 209, 2 1 0 , 211—12

a n d Khrushchev,

14

and t h e personalist principle, 9 l o c a l soviets, 3 4 Loewenhardt, J o h n , 2 4 Loganovsky, Mechislav, 1 0 4

LS. (Danish peasant protest movement),

187

Luxemburg, Rosa, 71—2

Krag, J. 0 . , 214

M a c h i n e a n d Tractor S t a t i o n s (MTS), 3 2

Kraminov, D . F., 1 4 9 Krauz, Alfred, 1 0 4 Krayevskii, Anton (Kraiewski), 7 7 , 7 8 , 80, 8 8 Kreps, M . E., 7 5 Kuibyshev, V a l e r ’ i a n , 1 3 0 Kun, Bela, 7 3 , 9 4

Main Special Service Directorate of the

KUNMZ (Communist University for Western N a t i o n a l M i n o r i t i e s ) , 7 8 K u r e l l a , Alfred, 8 9 K u u s i n e n , Otto, 7 5 , 9 2 , 9 4 , 1 7 1 Kuznetsov A . A., 2 2 8 Lanfang, A . I., 8 4 Laszlo, Raoul, 8 2 L e h e n , Tuure, 1 7 0 Lehtinen, Inkeri, 170 L e h t i n e n , J . K., 1 6 7 Lenin, V. I. o n class, 1 3 6 , 1 3 7 a n d Comintern, 7 3

and extraordinary measures, 1 3 3 ’On Left Infantilism and the Petty Bourgeoisie’, 1 6 0 a n d state—Party relations, 2 5 , 2 6 , 2 7 , 29 and Tovstukha, 5 6

Leningrad, and the war against Finland, 171

Leningrad Affair, 1 1 Levi, Paul, 7 3 Lidegaard, B0, 1 7 4

Central Committee, 47—8 Malenkov, G . M . , 28, 4 6 , 4 7 , 1 4 6 , 1 5 9 ,

227, 228, 245—6 M a l i k , Ya. A., 2 5 0 Manchuria, 110, 234 Manner, Kullervo, 1 6 7 Mannerheim line, 168

Manuilskii, D. Z., 84, 85, 91, 1 5 2 M a o Zedong, a n d Korea, 2 2 5 , 2 2 7 , 2 3 8 M a r s h a l l , George, 200 Marshall Plan, 238, 242

and the Soviet intelligence services, 109 Marty, André, 9 4 Marxist conception

o f trade, a n d Korea,

235—8 Marxist—Leninist ideology, and Soviet foreign policy, 175, 188 Matsuoka—Molotov pact (1941), 1 1 0 Mayer, Anna, 8 1 mechanism of power, 3—22 collapse of, 17—20 emergence of, 4—12 modification

of, 12—17

media c r i t i c i s m u n d e r Gorbachev,

19

and the occupation of Bornholm Island, 196

and propaganda, 157 and Stalinist power, 3 4 Mekhlis, L. Z., 45, 146, 147, 149, 1 5 3

Index

Mikoyan, A. F., 128,139, 228 military planning, and Finland, 165—71 M L S (International

L e n i n i s t School),

78, 8 2 Moller, Christmas, 1 9 8 , 1 9 9 Molotov firm, ’Secret Section’, 8 1

Molotov, U. M., 26, 34, 48, 107, 114, 128, 137, 138, 139 a n d Bornholm

Island, 194—5, 1 9 7 ,

199, 212, 219 Dulles on, 253

and extraordinary measures, 128, 137, 138, 139 and the foreign policy apparatus, 228, 243 and Korea, 2 3 4

and propaganda, 1 4 7 a n d t h e Second World War, 1 4 5 ; Soviet intervention i n Poland,

151, 1 5 4 and the Soviet—German pact, 148, 150 versus Khrushchev, 246—8 a n d t h e Warsaw Pact, 2 4 9 , 2 5 7

MTS (Machine and Tractor Stations), 32 Narkomindel, and the Soviet embassy i n Denmark, 1 7 3 , 175—90 nationalist movements, a n d Gorbachev, 19—20

NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) a n d Bornholm I s l a n d , 204, 205—6, 2 0 7 , 2 1 0 , 2 1 1 , 2 1 2 , 213—15, 217—18, 219—20 a n d the Warsaw Pact, 2 4 1 , 242, 243—4, 2 4 6 , 247—8, 2 4 9 , 2 5 0 , 253—4, 2 5 7 , 2 5 9 Nazaretyan, A . M . , 2 7 , 4 5

a n d extraordinary

273

measures, 1 2 9 ,

131, 132, 133, 136, 139, 1 4 0 and the grain procurement crisis, 1 2 6 reconstruction of, 123—4, 1 2 7 Nettelbeck, Walter, 8 2

New Economic Policy see NEP (New Economic Policy) N i c h o l a s II, Tsar, Vii

NKVD and the Comintern: Cadre Department,

80, 8 1 ; IKKI, 83—5

a n d intelligence services, 1 0 6 a n d propaganda, 147, 1 5 2 a n d t h e secret apparatus, 4 7 , 4 8 , 5 2 ,

53, 5 6 nomenklatura system and the Communist Party, viii and the emergence of Soviet power mechanisms, 4, 6, 7 Gorbachev’s a b o l i t i o n of, 1 9

and the personalist principle, 9—10 and propaganda, 1 4 7 a n d state power, 28—9 Norstad, Lauris ( G e n e r a l ) , 2 1 4

Northern Schleswig, 1 7 8 - 9 0 economics vs ethnicity, 182—5 kulaks and ‘khusmeny’, 186—8 Norway a n d B o r n h o l m I s l a n d , 202, 2 0 3 ,

212—13 a n d Second World War, 1 9 3 nuclear war, 2 4 6

nuclear weapons a n d the Soviet intelligence services, 112 a n d t h e Warsaw Pact, 2 5 5 , 2 5 8 O G P U (State security service), 2 8 , 3 1 , 34, 35, 47, 48, 52, 53, 56, 58, 59 a n d Comintern, 7 5 , 9 0

Nazi Germany

and radio intelligence, 105

deterioration o f Soviet relations w i t h , 155—61 a n d Finland, 1 6 8 a n d Northern Schleswig, 1 7 9 , 180—1, 182—5 Soviet pact with, 1 4 5 , 148—51, 1 6 3 , 169 NEP (New Economic Policy), 7

a n d t h e ‘ S h a k h t i i case’, 1 2 6 see also I N O

OMS (Department for International Communications) o f t h e C o m i n t e r n , 8 1 , 8 6 , 90, 9 4 , 9 5 a n d intelligence services, 1 0 2 , 1 0 3 - 4 , 108 Onikov, Leon, 3 2 , 60

274

Index

Ordzhonikidze,

G . K., 2 7

Organization Bureau a n d the secret apparatus, 44, 45, 46, 49, 5 4 and state power,2 5 organizational norms a n d Gorbachev’s reforms, 19—20

and modification of Soviet power mechanisms,

12—13, 1 5 , 16—17

and the personalist principle, 10—12, 20 Orgburo and the emergence of Soviet power

Poland and the intelligence services, 108 Soviet intervention

i n ( 1 9 3 9 ) , 151—5,

161 a n d t h e Warsaw Pact, 2 4 4 , 2 4 5 , 2 4 8 ,

249, 2 5 8 Politburo and the emergence of Soviet power mechanisms, 4 , 5 , 6 a n d extraordinary measures, 130,

132, 137, 138 and foreign policy, 174—5,228 and the grain procurement crisis, 1 2 5

mechanisms, 4, 5, 6, 7 a n d information control, 3 3

a n d the intelligence services, 107, 1 0 8 a n d Korea, 226, 2 2 7

and the personalist principle, 10 and Soviet propaganda, 1 5 7

a n d the secret apparatus, 4 4 , 4 5 , 4 6 ,

a n d Stalinist power, 2 8 , 2 9 , 30, 3 1 ,

35 O s i n s k i i , Nikolai, 1 2 9

patron—client relations, and the personalist principle, 9—10 Pavlova, I r i n a , 4 4 Pearson, Lester, 2 5 7

People’s Commissariats, 3 5 Defence, 1 0 7

Foreign Affairs, 108 perestroika, 18 performance targets, and t h e emergence of Soviet power mechanisms,

7—8

personalist principle and the emergence of Soviet power m e c h a n i s m s , 8—12 a n d Gorbachev’s reforms, 1 9 , 20 a n d Khrushchev, 1 3 , 1 5 u n d e r Brezhnev, 1 7

personnel policies u n d e r Brezhnev, 16—17 u n d e r Gorbachev, 18-19 u n d e r Khrushchev, 1 4 u n d e r S t a l i n , 7—8 P e t e r I, Tsar, 2 3 Petersen, H a r a l d , 206, 209 Petrovskii, G r i g o r i i , 1 3 8

and military planning, 1 6 7 47, 5 4 a n d S t a l i n i s t power, 2 5 , 2 9 , 3 1 , 3 5 , 3 6 a n d t h e ‘troika’ l e a d e r s h i p (1922), 2 7 Polyachek, L. M . , 80, 8 4 , 8 5 Ponomarev, B. N . , 2 2 7 Poskrebyshev, A . N . , 30, 4 5 , 5 6 Potsdam conference, 1 0 9

power projection, 3—4 PPOs (Primary Party Organizations), 5 Pravda o n military occupation of Danish i s l a n d s , 199, 206, 2 0 7

Zhdanov’s article o n military intervention

i n Poland (1939),

152,153—4 Primary Party Organizations (PPOs), 5 propaganda and Soviet foreign policy i n the Second World War, 145—61; intervention i n Poland, 151—5, 161; a n d t h e Soviet—German

pact, 145,148—51,1 6 1 Soviet propaganda i n North Korea, 232—3 and Stalin's speech on Soviet— G e r m a n r e l a t i o n s (1941),

155—61 PURKKA (Political Department of the Workers’ and Peasants' Red Army), 146,149,151,153,1 5 4

Pioro, Tadeusz, 251 Plakhin, A. J., 204,206

Pushkin, G . M . , 2 4 9

Podlepich, I . P., 7 9

Pyatnitskii, O . A., 74, 86, 91, 92, 9 4

Index

Quistgaard, E. J . C . (Admiral), 209—10

Scandinavian defence u n i o n , a n d Bornholm i s l a n d , 202—3

Radek, Karl, 5 0 , 5 6 , 7 3 , 1 3 1 Radford, Arthur W., 2 5 4

Schapiro, Leonard, 4 1 Schram-Nielsen, Erik, 2 1 0 , 2 1 1 , 2 1 4 scientific—technical revolution, a n d

radio intelligence, 1 0 5 Raivid, N . J . , 1 8 5 Rakov, Werner, 1 0 4 Randall, Alec, 2 0 1 Raskol’nikov, F. F., 1 8 4 , 1 8 7 , 188, 1 9 0 Rasmussen, Gustav, 199—200, 201—2,

202—3, 204, 206, 218—19 Red Army attack o n Poland ( 1 9 3 9 ) , 1 5 4 , 1 5 5

and propaganda, 1 6 0 rearmament, 1 0 8 , 1 5 6 see also armed forces; PURKKA; R U

‘Red Finns’, 163—4, 167, 170, 1 7 1 Reiss, Ignace, 1 0 4 ‘revisionist' historians see Western

‘revisionist’ historians Revolution of, 1 9 1 7 , 1 2 2

Revolutionary Military Council, 2 7 Romania, and the intelligence services, 108 Rosenfeldt, N . E., 2 4 , 30—1, 7 6 Roshchin, A. A., 2 5 0

and Statistics

80, 94—5

propaganda and Soviet foreign policy, 145—61 and the Soviet intelligence services, 109, 110, 111-12, 1 1 4 a n d t h e ‘Winter War’ (1939—40),

163—4 secret apparatus, i n the Stalin era, 40-61 and anonymous informers, 5 8 and centralized decision-making, 34—6 and the Communist Party, 48—51 efficiency of, 5 3 and implementation control, 57—9 and information system controls, 31—4 malfunctions of the system, 59—60

and ‘special correspondents’, 58—9

RU NKUMF (Intelligence Directorate of the People's Commissariat of the Navy), 102, 111 ‘Rules for Handling Secret Documents o f the

Russian Communist Party', 3 3

54—6, 57, 58, 6 1 structure, 44—7 see also O G P U (State security service) Secret Archive, 3 0 Secretariat o f t h e Central Committee Bureau, 3 0 , 3 1 , 40, 4 5 - 6 1

and the emergence of Soviet power

Russian Federation

and the Communist Party, vii—viii, 2 4 of

power, vii—viii Presidential Administration, and the Secret Archive, 3 0 Rutgers, Wim, 7 6 Ryazan case ( 1 9 5 9 ) , 1 5

Second World War a n d t h e Comintern, a n d Denmark, 1 9 3

a n d Stalin’s personal assistants, 4 5 ,

a n d t h e USA, 1 1 1 , 1 1 2

lack o f effective mechanisms

a n d Comintern,

71

ramifications, 47—51 role, 5 3 - 7 size, 51—2

Department, 106 and Japan, 110 and radio intelligence, 105

o f t h e Central Committee

Stalinist power, 38 Second International,

and t h e Great Purge, 4 9 , 5 2

Rovio, M., 1 6 7 RU (Intelligence Directorate of the Red Army), 102—3, 104, 107, 108, 1 1 4 Information

275

viii

Rykov, A.J., 128, 129, 132, 133, 134, 1 3 5

mechanisms, 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 General Department, 46—7, 5 1 a n d information control, 33—4

and the personalist principle, 1 0 Secret Department,

40, 4 1 , 44, 4 5 , 4 6 ,

47, 50, 51, 5 2 Special Sector, 40, 4 1 , 4 4 , 45—7, 5 0 ,

51, 5 2

276

Index

Secretariat o f the Central Committee (cont) a n d S t a l i n i s t power, 2 5 , 2 7 , 2 8 , 29—30, 3 1 , 35—6 Semenov, U . S., 192, 2 1 8 Seven Year P l a n (1959), 1 3 ‘ S h a k h t i i case’, 126—7

Shaposhnikov plan, 1 6 8 Shcherbakov, A . S., 1 4 6 , 1 5 7 , 1 5 8 , 1 5 9 S h o t m a n , A., 1 6 5 Shtykov, T. F., 2 2 9 , 230, 232—3, 2 3 7 Siroky, V i l i a m , 2 4 4 Smirnov, I v a n , 1 3 1 S m o l e n s k Archives, 40 Sokol’nikov, G . Ya., 1 2 9 Sorge, Richard, 104, 1 1 0 S o r e n s e n , Max, 2 1 6 Souvarine, Boris, 7 3 Soviet U n i o n , fall o f t h e , vii, 3 , 220

sovnarkhozy, establishment of the, 1 4 Special Sector, 30—1 Stalin, Joseph and Bornholm island, 193, 195, 199—200, 2 1 9 a n d Comintern, 7 4 death of, 1 2 , 3 6 , 4 6 , 5 1 , 211, 2 1 3 a n d extraordinary measures, 129—30, 131—3, 1 3 6 , 137—8, 1 3 9

and foreign policy, 228 and the grain procurement crisis, 125 a n d t h e i n t e l l i g e n c e services, 5 7 , 107—8, 114; a n d t h e USA, 112, 113 a n d Korea, 226, 227, 2 2 9 , 2 3 0

personal assistants, a n d the security apparatus, 4 5 , 54—6, 5 7 , 5 8 , 6 1 personal d o m i n a n c e of, 1 2 , 1 6 , 20 power of, 23—38; strength a n d weaknesses, 2 3 , 36—8; a n d

propaganda, 147, 148, 149;

and and and and and

Soviet intervention i n Poland, 151—2, 1 5 5 ; speech o n Soviet— G e r m a n relations (1941), 155—61 t h e ‘ S h a k h t i i case’, 1 2 6 t h e special secret office, 4 1 , 42—3 Tito, 2 4 7 Tovstukha, 5 6 t h e ’troika’ leadership (1922), 26—7, 7 3

and the Western military alliance, 242—3 and the ’Winter War’ (1939—40),1 7 1 S t a l i n i s t regime, 11—12, 23-4 a n d Bornholm I s l a n d , 192-220

and the emergence of Soviet power mechanisms, 4—12 e n t h u s i a s m a n d commitment

to, 1 1 ,

12, 20 and extraordinary measures, 123—40 a n d Korea, 224—38

and the new ‘party state’, 29—31 a n d the nomenklatura system, 28—9 and propaganda, 145—61 a n d t h e terror, 11—12, 20, 3 1

see also secret apparatus Stasova, Elena, 5 0 , 5 6 S t a t e Arts Committee, 1 5 0

state power, 2 3 and the Communist Party, 25—6 and the Stalinist regime, 24 Steensen-Leth, Vincens, 2 1 1 Stemann, P. Chr. v o n , 2 0 1 Stockwell, General, 2 1 4 Stomonyakov, B. S., 173, 1 7 4 , 1 7 8 , 1 8 4

Sugden, General Cecil, 214 Sukhanov,

D. N., 46

Supreme Soviet, 3 4 Suslov, M . S., 2 2 7 Svenningsen, Nils, 208 Sweden, a n d Bornholm I s l a n d , 202—3,

2 11 Tanaka, General, 1 0 9 TASS news agency, 5 6 , 1 5 7 , 1 5 8 a n d Denmark, 176—7 Tehran conference, 1 0 9 Terror see Great Terror ‘ t h i r d revolution’, 1 3 8 , 1 4 0 Thorez, Maurice, 8 2 Thostrup, Sven, Admiral, 2 1 4 Tikhmenev, N . S., 1 8 7 Time o f Troubles, vii Timm, P., 8 4 Timoshenko, S. K., 1 5 9 Tito, M a r s h a l , 247, 2 5 2 Tivel, A . D . , 5 6 Togliatti, P., 9 4 Tomskii, H . J . , 129, 1 3 4

Index

Tovstukha, I. P., 45, 5 6 trade, Soviet trade w i t h North Korea,

235—8 Tréand, Maurice, 8 2

277

Vyshinskii, A. Ya., a n d Bornholm I s l a n d , 194, 197, 199, 205, 206 a n d Korea, 226, 227, 2 3 7

Trilisser, M . A., 8 4 , 8 5 , 9 4

‘troika’ leadership (1922),26—7 a n d Comintern,

73

Trotskii, L. D., 26, 27, 48, 108,129,1 3 4 and the grain procurement crisis, 1 2 5 Tsarist Russia

centralized state power in, vii and ’special rule’, 1 2 2 Tsirul, Ya. Ya., 7 7 , 9 1 Tucker, R. C . , 2 4 , 4 1 , 1 3 8 Tunkin, G . 1., 229

Turkey, and the Soviet intelligence services, 1 0 9 Ulbricht, Walter, 251, 2 5 9 Unified Baltic Command, a n d Bornholm Island, 215—16 U n i o n o f Soviet Writers, 1 5 0 United States of America and Bornholm I s l a n d , 203, 205, 210, 213, 217, 218—19 a n d t h e Cold War, 224 and Korea, 229, 2 3 4

war communism, 7, 137 ’ w a r scare o f 1927’,1 0 8 Warsaw Pact, 241—60

Wats, André, 8 2 Wats, Rita, 8 2 Werth, Alexander, 1 5 2

West European Union, 202 West Germany, a n d the Warsaw Pact, 247,250,252,256,259 Western C P intelligence services, and the Comintern Cadre Department, 81—3 Western ‘revisionist’ historians and the special secret apparatus, 4 2 on Stalin’s power, 23 Western revolutionary movements/ political parties, a n d Comintern, 71, 73—4 Wilde, Grete, 8 2 ‘ W i n t e r War’ (1939—40), 155, 161,

163-71 Wright, Peter, 1 1 1

and military bases o n Greenland, 200—1

and the Soviet intelligence services, 111—13 a n d t h e Warsaw Pact, 250, 252—4

Yugoslavia a n d Molotov’s foreign policy, 247,

Valentinov, N . , 3 6 Varga, Jeno, 5 6 Vasilev, B. A., 9 1 Vatlin, A., 7 4

248, 25-1 a n d t h e Warsaw Pact, 251, 2 5 2

VChK (All-Russian Extraordinary Commission),

123

Vetrov, Mikhail, 192,205—6,212,2 1 8 Vilkov, K. F., 88 Vilkov, K. V., 78, 80 VKP (Vsesojuznaia Kommunistiche Skaia Partiia), 73, 74, 75, 81, 83, 9 2 VOKS (All-Union Organization for Cultural Ties), 2 3 2 Volkogonov, Dmitri, 4 8 , 4 9 , 5 2 Voroshilov, K. E., 107, 1 6 8

Voznesensky, 228

Yakushev, G e n e r a l , 1 9 7 Yalta conference, 106, 1 0 9 Yaroslavskii, E m e l ’ y a n , 130—1 Yeltsin, Boris, viii

Zaporozhets, A . I., 147, 1 5 9 Zetkin, Clara, 74—5 Zhdanov, A . A., 146, 147, 152, 153, 154, 157, 158—9, 2 2 8 Zhukov, E. M . , 5 6 Zhukov, G . K., 246, 249, 251, 2 5 3 Z i m i n , A., 2 8 Zimmerman, Berta, 7 5 , 8 0 Zinov’ev, G . E., 26—7, 5 6 , 7 3 , 7 4 , 132, 134

Zirotinsky, S. A., 75 Zysman, Ya. M., 76

Mechanisms of Power in the Soviet Union is the outgrowth of an international conference held in Copenhagen in 1998 under the leadership of Professor Niels Erik Rosenfeldt from the University of Copenhagen, and Professors Bent Jensen and Erik Kulavig from Odense University. Twelve of the papers presented by scholars from Russia, Eastern Europe, Australia and the United States of America have been

selected and edited for this book. Most of the contributions are based on new archival evidence and examine different aspects of the power structures, communication channels and mechanisms of decision-making within the political system of the Soviet Union. Special attention is given to the Stalin years, when the foundations of the Soviet system were being put i n place. The book deals with both ‘

domestic and foreign policy problems.

Niels Erik Rosenfeldt is Associate Professor at the Institute of East European Studies, University of Copenhagen, and Member of the Board at the Danish Institute of International Affairs. Among his publications are Knowledge and Power: The Role of Stalin ’s Secret Chancellery in the Soviet System of Government (1978), The Nerve Center of Stalin’s Rule (1980), Stalin’s Special Departments ' (1989) and Stalin’s Secret Chancellery and the Comintern (199] ). He has contributed ‘ to numerous other publications, especially within the field of Soviet history and

contemporary Russian pOIitics.

‘

'-

Bent Jensen .is Professor of Russian and East European Studies at Odense University. His publications include Denmark and the Russian Question, ' 1917—1924 (1979), The Stalin Revolution (1982), The Voice of Sakharov (1983), The Fascination of Stalinism and the Danish Left Intellectuals (1984), The Soviet Union and Denmark since World War Two (1987), The Long Liberation: Bornholm Occupied and Liberated, 1945-1946 (1996) and The Bear and the Hare: The Soviet Union and Denmark, 1945—1965 (1999).

Erik Kulavig is Head of the Department of Russian and East European Studies at ' Odense University, where he teaches Russian and Soviet history and culture. He is . co—editor (with Mette Bryld) of Soviet Civilization Between Past and Present (1998) and author of Propaganda and Everyday Life in Russia, 1924—36 (1991), Russian Nationalism, 1986—92 (1995), and Thirteen Stories about Disobedient Russians: Public Dissent under Khrushchev, 1953—64 (1999).

Jacket photograph © Richard Jenkins, 2000.