Defining Latvia: Recent Explorations in History, Culture, and Politics 9789633864463

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Defining Latvia

Defining Latvia Recent Explorations in History, Culture, and Politics

Edited by Michael Loader, Siobhán Hearne, and Matthew Kott

Central European University Press Budapest ‒ Vienna ‒ New York

© 2022 by the authors Published in 2022 by Central European University Press Nádor utca 9, H-1051 Budapest, Hungary Tel: +36-1-327-3138 or 327-3000 E-mail: [email protected] Website: www.ceupress.com All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the permission of the Publisher. The publication of this book was supported by the Book Publication Subvention issued by the Association for the Advancement of Baltic Studies. Cover photo by Jevgenija Gehsbarga. ISBN 978-963-386-445-6 (hardback) ISBN 978-963-386-446-3 (ebook) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Loader, Michael, editor, author. | Hearne, Siobhán, editor, writer of introduction. | Kott, Matthew, 1974- editor, author. Title: Defining Latvia : recent explorations in history, culture, and politics / edited by Michael Loader, Siobhán Hearne, and Matthew Kott. Description: Budapest ; Vienna ; New York : Central European University Press, 2022. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021061463 (print) | LCCN 2021061464 (ebook) | ISBN 9789633864456 (hardcover) | ISBN 9789633864463 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Latvia--History--20th century. | Latvia--Politics and government-20th century. | Latvia--Ethnic relations--History--20th century. | Latvia--Social conditions--20th century. | Nation-building--Latvia--History--20th century. Classification: LCC DK504.738 .D44 2022 (print) | LCC DK504.738 (ebook) | DDC 947.9608/4--dc23/eng/20220111 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021061463 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021061464

Table of Contents List of Figures

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Acknowledgements

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Foreword Ivars Ījabs

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Introduction Latvia and Latvian Identity in Historical Perspective Siobhán Hearne

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1 Mapping Latwija Matīss Siliņš and Latvian Cartographic Publishing in the 1890s Catherine Gibson

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2 The Sokolowski Affair Testing the Limits of Cultural Autonomy in Interwar Latvia Christina Douglas & Per Bolin

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3 More than a Means to an End Pērkonkrusts’s Antisemitism and Attacks on Democracy, 1932–1934 Paula Oppermann

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4 “My Home and My Family Are Now Our Regiment” National Belonging and Familial Feelings in Latvian Units during World War II Harry C. Merritt

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5 The Economic Program of the Latvian National Communists – Myth or Reality? Daina Bleiere 6 Latvia Goes Rogue Language Politics and Khrushchev’s 1958 Soviet Education Reform Michael Loader

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7 Latvian Photography of the 1960s between Art and Censorship Ekaterina Vikulina

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8 Onwards and Upwards! Mainstreaming Radical Right Populism in Contemporary Latvia Daunis Auers

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9 Gaming the System Far-Right Entryism in Post-Soviet Latvian Politics Matthew Kott

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Glossary of Archives

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About the Contributors

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Index

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List of Figures

Figure 1 Figure 2

Figure 3

Figure 4



Matīss Siliņš, Latwijas karte (Kurseme lihdz ar Widsemes un Witepskas gub. latweeschu daļu)47 Riga: M. Siliņš; A.V. Grotusa litogrāfija, 1899 Courtesy of the National Library of Latvia, https:// dom.lndb.lv/data/obj/49574.html Matīss Siliņš, Latwijas wispahriga (poiltiska un fiziska) un geoloģijas (Inflantijas jeb poļu Widsemes latweeschu etnografijas) karte48 Riga: M. Siliņš; A. Štāla litogrāfija, 1891 Courtesy of the National Library of Latvia, https:// dom.lndb.lv/data/obj/34315.html Matīss Siliņš, Baltija, wiswairs Kurzeme un Vidzemes latweeschu daļa Latweeschu Indriķa laikā 1200 un wehlaku lihdz 1300 p. Kr. dz.49 Riga: A. Štāla litogrāfija, 1891 Courtesy of the National Library of Latvia, http://dom. lndb.lv/data/obj/34312.html Detail from Matīss Siliņš, Riga lihdz ar apwidu50 Riga: M. Siliņš; A. Štāla litogrāfijā, 1896 The hatched red squares indicate buildings of Latvian cultural significance, such as the building of the Riga Latvian Society shown here. Courtesy of the National Library of Latvia, http://dom. lndb.lv/data/obj/34235.html

Acknowledgements The Editors wish to express their gratitude to our authors who contributed their cutting-edge research as chapters to this volume. Four years after the planning for a conference on new research on Latvia began, we thank Central European University Press for bringing this project to fruition in book form. We would like to thank the organisations who provided the generous funding for the conference (“Latvia at Crossroads: The Centenary of the Latvian State,” Uppsala University, Sweden, 10-12 October 2018), without which this book would never have arisen: first and foremost, Riksbankens Jubileumsfond (Bank of Sweden Tercentenary Foundation); the Institute of Russian and Eurasian Studies (IRES) at Uppsala University, who also hosted the event; the Uppsala Forum for Peace, Democracy, and Justice; and the British Association for Slavonic and East European Studies. We greatly appreciate the financial support from the Association for the Advancement of Baltic Studies through a Book Publication Subvention award. Our thanks also go to Jevgenija Gehsbarga at IRES for the use of her striking photograph of a giant Latvian flag hanging over the former KGB “Corner House” headquarters in Riga for the front cover; the Director of IRES Claes Levinsson for his support for this project; and to our proofreader and indexer (and contributor), the multi-talented Dr. Harry Merritt. Michael Loader, Siobhán Hearne, and Matthew Kott

Foreword The first hundred years since Latvia’s independence, widely celebrated in 2018, have been marked by multiple political upheavals, regime changes, forced population transfers, and outright genocide. Despite all this, Latvia has survived as a state and as a nation, and this is surely a reason to celebrate. During this first Latvian century, however, not much room has been left for historical and social scientific reflection. Historical, social, and cultural studies were often mobilized to serve pressing political needs—both by the Left and the Right, socialists and conservatives, nationalists and internationalists. Free and independent scholarly research on history, culture, and politics has been a luxury during most of the first hundred years of Latvia’s statehood. The last 30 years after the restoration of independence in 1990–1991, shaped by the restoration of democracy and the market economy, as well as accession to the EU and NATO, have also been a time of rebirth of free cultural and scientific self-reflection. Topics previously regarded as marginal or problematic from the point of view of grand political master narratives have now become objects of serious scholarly inquiry. The study of Latvia’s history, culture, and politics has become, to a significant extent, internationalized. Using modern theoretical and methodological tools and approaches, research on Latvia is increasingly integrated into the international academic landscape, serving as a basis for many common research projects and initiatives. At the same time, Latvia and Latvians have regained the attention of western European and North American scholarship. If, during the 1990s, one often spoke of a “return to Europe,” now, there is a growing understanding that Latvia has never actually left Europe, despite being temporarily erased from the map by the so-called European great powers. Simplistic distinctions and stereotypes about Latvia and the Baltics in general are fading away, slowly but surely—like perceptions of wild ethnic nationalism in the East and good civic democracy in the West, or Orientalizing assumptions about the Latvians being somehow inherently prone to political extremism and being “given” their state almost by a historical accident. In this sense, the “return to Europe” has rather taken place in the West, by realizing that the Baltic countries have always been at the heart of Europe. The present volume makes an important contribution to these reflections. Based on a series of papers delivered at the conference, “Latvia at a Crossroads: The Centenary of the Latvian State,” held at Uppsala University

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in October 2018, it covers a wide range of topics and themes. The team of authors is also diverse—around a third of them coming from Latvia, the others from other European and American research institutions. What unites them, however, is not just the interest in Latvia but the willingness to inscribe these experiences in the multiplicity of wider European contexts—from the emergence of Baltic national movements in the nineteenth century, to the developments surrounding right-wing extremism in the EU of the twenty-first. The articles in this collection make a significant contribution to the research on periods and problems heretofore less frequently covered in the literature. In doing this, they put the grand concepts of statehood, the nation-state, and state foundation in a slightly different light, showing the historical complexity behind them. In this foreword, I would like to sketch out a broader context to some of the themes covered in the contributions of this volume—how they might fit into the larger trends of Latvian history and politics. The Latvian national movement emerged in the mid-nineteenth century, and its main focus was on the preservation of language and the fight for agrarian reform. This movement developed in a basically colonial context, where the entrenched Baltic German nobility and the Russian imperial administration were the dominant players competing for hegemony in the region. Since Latvians initially pursued mainly aims of agrarian and cultural emancipation, it took a while before the idea of a territorial, politically autonomous Latwija emerged. Indeed, the very geographical term emerged relatively late: when Baumaņu Kārlis composed the present Latvian national anthem, “Dievs, svētī Latviju” (“God, Bless Latvia,” 1873), the term was by no means widely known or accepted. Hence, it is very productive to interpret the work of early Latvian cartographers, like Matīss Siliņš—maps really are at the basis of popular geographical imagination. Mainly due to Siliņš and his predecessors, Latwija as a territorial concept gradually took the place of Livland, Courland, and Vitebsk guberniias (provinces) in the minds of Latvians. A recurring term in this volume is, of course, nationalism. Following Rogers Brubaker’s distinction, however, it is important to distinguish between state-led nationalism and antistate nationalism. Latvian history provides us with a lot of evidence here. The Latvian nationalism before World War I was largely antistate and directed against the Baltic German hegemony over life in the Baltic provinces. When Latvia became an independent state in 1918, however, the type of nationalism changed. Before the war, when Latvians still were a small, but rapidly developing minority in the seemingly unshakable

Foreword

Russian Empire, there was very little talk about ethnic exclusivity. Indeed, Latvian nationalism initially was rather liberal and inclusive: apart from some politicians on the far right, like Fricis Veinbergs, there was very little antisemitism among Latvian activists. The situation changed after the World War I, when a Latvian nation-state was established. This is when exclusive, antiliberal, and racist nationalism started to figure prominently in the Latvian discourse. The right-wing, fascistic, and wildly antisemitic Pērkonkrusts (Thunder Cross), described in this volume, also has its roots in the early years of independence. Relations with the Baltic Germans were no less complicated. This was a typically postcolonial situation, where centuries-long oppression and cultural domination caused a great deal of resentment and a longing for a revenge on the Latvian side following the establishment of independent Latvia. At the same time, however, there was a need to show to the international community that the newly created Republic of Latvia was actually a civilized, democratic European country that respected the rights of minorities and valued their contribution. The story of Paul Sokolowski and the Herder Institute in Riga, told in this volume, is a very instructive example here. The cultural arrogance of some Baltic German Kulturträger was confronted with the readiness of the Latvian elite to use political power to humiliate their former oppressors. Again, the term “nationalism” tells us very little in such contexts: it is necessary to take into account the real and perceived asymmetries between the groups involved, as well as their colonial past. In this case, Baltic Germans were seen as the main adversaries by many Latvians—and yet, at the same time, as “significant Others,” too. Their resettlement by Nazi Germany to newly occupied Polish territories in 1939, when around 50,000 Baltic Germans heeded Hitler’s call and left Latvia, also fundamentally changed Latvia’s political landscape and self-perception. The ambiguity of nationhood was instrumentalized in Latvia by the two totalitarian powers fighting each other during World War II. It is well-known that the Nazi occupation authorities flirted with local national symbolism and traditions in their attempts to co-opt Baltic populations for their own cause during the World War II. The fact that the seemingly internationalist Soviet Red Army proceeded in a similar vein is less known—and the contribution in this volume fills this gap. This topic actually opens a much broader theme extensively covered in this volume—Soviet nationalities policy and its relationship to Latvian culture and identity. After the restoration of independence, it has often been claimed that Soviet policies in Latvia were fundamentally antinational and assimilatory.

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The chapters herein on the Latvian national communists of the late 1950s call for a revision and qualification of this assumption. True, the Soviet regime often engaged in a creeping Russification of the Latvian Soviet Socialist Republic (SSR)—both in terms of linguistic practices, and migration policies. On the other hand, though, it invested heavily in the preservation of the allegedly national façades of the constituent Soviet republics by promoting national cadres to certain political posts, by cultivating loyal and domesticated local intelligentsias, and by claiming certain parts of national legacies as their own, that is, Soviet and socialist. This Soviet flirting with national identities had already been institutionalized in the Stalin era as what historian Terry Martin has termed an “affirmative action empire.” The situation started to change in the mid-1950s, however, when the ostensible liberalization of Soviet public life allowed some speculation about new forms of synthesizing communism and nationalism, and even negotiating a new relationship between Moscow and the national republics. Nevertheless, it turned out that there were strict limits to these speculations. The Soviet grip on power was not to be challenged for the sake of some “local particularities.” The experience of the Latvian national communists is very telling here. When Eduards Berklavs, Vilis Krūmiņš, and other leading local Communists started to plan cultural and economic autonomy for the Latvian SSR, and when they opposed mass immigration from other Soviet republics, the Soviet system ultimately turned against them. This was not only because Nikita Khrushchev was even more intolerant towards local nationalism than Stalin, his predecessor. The political direction of a republic very much depended on the presence of a strong pro-Moscow wing in the local republican Communist Party. Unfortunately, the Latvian party had such a wing, which under the leadership of a neo-Stalinist, Arvīds Pelše, gained the upper hand in the struggle against the national communists. The significance of this episode goes far beyond the particular historical situation. The victory of this conservative wing determined the further political course of the Latvian Communist Party, whose main thrust was total and unshakeable loyalty to Moscow until the very end. The odious figure of Pelše set Latvia apart from those Soviet republics where the first secretaries of the local Communist Parties, like Antanas Sniečkus in Lithuania or Petro Shelest in Ukraine, more often succeeded in playing their own game vis-à-vis the Soviet central government. The legacy of the Soviet period certainly plays a role in contemporary Latvian politics, where ethnic and geopolitical cleavages play the central

Foreword

role. The Soviet occupation and subsequent annexation of Latvia not only caused significant economic damage, but also changed the demography. In 1991, when Latvia regained freedom, only slightly over 50% of the population were ethnic Latvians; in some larger cities, the “titular” nation was even a minority. This experience has been deeply traumatic; and this trauma has often made itself felt in the post-Soviet debates on citizenship, language policy, and the education system. After the restoration of independence, significant political energy was devoted to reversing the Soviet Russocentric orientation, and make the Latvian language and culture the new norm in Latvian public life. This has been a complicated process. Latvian radicalism has often been mitigated by the geopolitical ambition to integrate the country into the main Euro-Atlantic structures, like the EU and NATO. At the same time, half-hearted policies of social integration have had only limited success due to the persistence of a certain postimperial mentality and pro-Kremlin sympathies among a segment of Latvia’s Russophones. So, the ethnic and geopolitical cleavage largely remains the defining trait of Latvian party politics today. Two chapters in this volume address the issue of the right-wing radicalism in contemporary Latvia, whereby comparisons are made with other European countries where the far right is currently on the rise. The main Latvian right-wing nationalist party, the National Alliance (Nacionālā apvienība), has been rightly put in focus here. This rather radical, nativist right-wing party has nonetheless been an integral part of most ruling coalitions in Latvia since the 1990s—and this might seem peculiar at the first glance. In fact, there is very little surprising about it, if one bears in mind that the main cordon sanitaire in Latvian parliamentary politics has been upheld against the post-Soviet Russophone parties, often regarded as Putinist and potentially subversive to Latvian independence. The right-wing Latvian radicals, on the contrary, were able to become part of the Latvian political establishment—only, of course, because they were shrewd enough not to openly challenge some fundamentals of the political consensus, like the pro-Western geopolitical orientation of the country. One can only speculate about how these relations will develop in the future. The recent deterioration of relations between Russia and the West will undoubtedly influence Latvian party politics as well, leading to more polarizing positions on both sides. At the same time, the Latvian far right is increasingly integrated in broader European right-wing circles and is also increasingly promoting their common agenda—such as anti-LGBT, antimigration, and anti-EU rhetoric. This will undoubtedly pose a challenge for Latvian

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democracy, showing, once again, that the Latvian political process generally follows European and global trends—albeit with our own, specifically Latvian features. Ivars Ījabs, Dr.sc.pol. Member of the European Parliament for Latvia Associate Professor, University of Latvia Riga and Brussels, July 2021

Introduction Latvia and Latvian Identity in Historical Perspective f Siobhán Hearne

Where is Latvia? And who are Latvians? In the present day, these questions might initially appear straightforward given that the borders of the independent republic of Latvia are clearly demarcated in northeastern Europe and citizenship statistics are freely available. However, Latvia as a concept and Latvian as an identity do not have a singular definition. In just over a century, Latvia has transitioned from imperial periphery, to nation-state, Soviet republic, and finally an independent EU member state following the collapse of the Soviet Union. What constitutes “Latvianness” has become increasingly contested against the backdrop of this seismic political, economic, cultural, and social change. This volume emerges from a conference organized by the editors to mark the founding of the Latvian state in its centenary year, entitled “Latvia at a Crossroads: The Centenary of the Latvian State,” held at Uppsala University in October 2018. The aim of the conference was to bring together historians, political scientists, cultural scholars, and anthropologists from across Europe and North America to mark the centenary of the nation’s independence through scholarly discussions of Latvia’s past and present. The nine chapters of this volume broadly examine shifting definitions of Latvia and Latvian identity across vastly different social, economic, cultural, and political contexts. The wide chronological approach, from the late nineteenth to the early twenty-first century, serves to deconstruct the traditional temporal parameters of Latvian history, in order to explore political, social, and cultural changes across political regimes. In recent years, Latvian studies has become a lively interdisciplinary field, bringing together researchers working across various different linguistic contexts. In the decades since Latvian independence, scholars have explored the aspects and dimensions of state and nation building in the twentieth century.1 Latvian history and politics has often been examined in a pan-Baltic framework in order to emphasize the shared histories and 1 David Smith, ed., Latvia – A Work in Progress? 100 Years of State- and Nation-Building (Stuttgart: Ibidem-Verlag, 2017); David Smith, David Galbreath, and Geoffrey Swain, eds., From Recognition to Restoration: Latvia’s History as a Nation-State (New York: Brill, 2010); Artis Pabriks and Aldis Purs, Latvia: The Challenges of Change (London: Routledge, 2001); Juris Dreifelds, Latvia in

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common experiences of the Baltic states as imperial provinces, Soviet Socialist Republics, and independent nations.2 Defining Latvia moves beyond focusing solely on the political context of Latvia’s turbulent history to incorporate a variety of unique social and cultural perspectives, including the experiences of Latvian mapmakers in the Russian Empire, the participation of Latvians in the Waffen-SS and Red Army during the Second World War, and the development of extremist politics following Latvia’s ascension to the European Union in 2004. This volume also moves beyond the pan-Baltic framework to analyze the specificities of Latvian history, culture, and politics more closely. Defining Latvia proceeds chronologically in three parts. Part One examines the formulation of nation, state, and belonging from the late nineteenth century until the end of the Second World War. Part Two focuses on Soviet Latvia, specifically the relationship between Riga and Moscow in the context of Khrushchev’s thaw. Finally, Part Three brings the discussion into the present day and explores the presence of the far right in post-Soviet Latvian politics. The themes of memory, identity, and nationalism run as an undercurrent throughout this collection and connect contributions from vastly different political contexts. For example, Paula Oppermann’s chapter on antisemitism in interwar Latvia, Michael Loader’s chapter on the politics of the Latvian language in the Thaw, and Daunis Auers’s contribution on present-day radical right populism reveal how organizations tap(ped) into broader fears about the existential threat posed to “authentic” Latvianness and the Latvian language in order to narrow the parameters of Latvian identity. Harry Merritt and Daina Bleiere’s contributions illustrate how present-day memory politics have influenced perceptions of Latvian formations in the Nazi/Soviet armies and Latvian political functionaries in the Soviet era. To contextualize the volume, this introduction will now sketch a broad historical overview of conceptions of Latvia and Latvian identity from the late nineteenth century until the present day. Transition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Mārīte Jakovļeva et al., Varas Latvijā: No Kurzemes hercogistes līdz neatkarīgai valstij: Esejas (Riga: LU akadēmiskais apgāds, 2019). 2 Kaarel Piirimäe and Olaf Mertelsmann, eds., The Baltic States and the End of the Cold War (New York: Peter Lang, 2018); Olaf Mertelsmann, ed., The Baltic States under Stalinist Rule (Cologne: Böhlau Verlag, 2016); Andrejs Plakans, A Concise History of the Baltic States (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014); Elena Zubkova, Pribaltika i Kreml’, 1940–1953 (Moscow: Rosspen, 2008); David J. Smith, Artis Pabriks, Aldis Purs, and Thomas Lane, eds., The Baltic States: Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania (London and New York: Routledge 2002); Romauld J. Misiunas and Rein Taagepera, The Baltic States: The Years of Dependence, 1940 – 1990 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993); Edward C. Thaden, ed., Russification in the Baltic Provinces and Finland, 1855–1914 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981).

Introduc tion

Whose Latvia? Formulating Nation, State, and Belonging from the Nineteenth Century to 1945 From the Russian conquest of the Baltic region in the early eighteenth century until the mid-nineteenth century, Latvian referred primarily to language similarities.3 From the 1850s, various concepts of Latvianness developed in the midst of a series of administrative, economic, social, and cultural transformations. Serfdom was abolished in the Baltic provinces in the early nineteenth century, much earlier than elsewhere in the Russian Empire, and agrarian reforms in the 1850s gave inhabitants of the Baltic region the ability to rent or buy land from the local Baltic German nobility.4 New internal passport regulations in 1863 made migration within and beyond the Baltic provinces much easier. Beginning in the mid-1880s, the Russian imperial state issued a series of Russifying edicts within the Baltic provinces in order to reduce the influence of the Baltic German elite. Changes included making Russian the principal language of most local and governmental institutions, placing schools in the Latvian provinces under the central tsarist Ministry of Education, and the attempt to limit the influence of the Lutheran and Catholic Churches.5 As well as a reorientation of the relationship between the Russian imperial state and the Latvian-speaking population, the 1880s also marked the beginning of state-sponsored industrialization, which brought significant social and economic transformation. Extensive railway networks connected cities in the Baltics to the internal provinces of the Russian Empire.6 By the early twentieth century, the Latvian region was an important center for domestic and international trade, and Riga was a major multicultural city, the fourth biggest in the empire.7 3 Andrejs Plakans, “The Latvians,” in Russification in the Baltic Provinces and Finland, 1855–1914, ed. Thaden, 211–212. 4 On the abolition project in the Baltic provinces, Susan P. McCaffray, “Confronting Serfdom in the Age of Revolution: Projects for Serf Reform in the Time of Alexander I,” Russian Review 64:1 (2005), 1–21. A useful survey of scholarly literature on the emancipation of serfs in the Baltic region can be found in Kersti Lust, “The Impact of the Baltic Emancipation Reforms on Peasant–Landlord Relations: A Historiographical Survey,” Journal of Baltic Studies 44:1 (2013), 1–18. 5 Plakans, “The Latvians,” 235–236. 6 For the development of the railways in the Baltic region, see Augustus J. Veenendaal, “The Baltic States – Railways under Many Masters,” in Eastern European Railways in Transition: Nineteenth to Twenty-First Centuries, ed. Henry Jacolin and Ralf Roth (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), 25–40. 7 Ulrike von Hirschhausen, Die Grenzen der Gemeinsamkeit: Deutsche, Letten, Russen und Juden in Riga, 1860–1914 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006); Edward C. Thaden, “The Russian Government,” in Russification in the Baltic Provinces, ed. Thaden, 56; Stephen D. Corrsin,

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From the mid-nineteenth century, industrialization, increased rural to urban migration, rising literacy, consumerism, the development of the mass circulation press, and the improvement of networks of communication and transportation encouraged the broad circulation of competing and divergent ideas about what it meant to be Latvian and the place of the Latvian provinces within the Russian Empire.8 From the 1850s, the first wave of the Latvian national movement emerged, as a group of Latvian intellectuals began to develop the Latvian language and publish in Latvian, establish Latvian newspapers and social organizations, and promote education among Latvians.9 The number of Latvian-language publications and organizations mushroomed in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, but not without opposition from the Russian imperial administration. The Latvian national awakening broadly began as a cultural movement, but it became increasingly politicized in the decades that followed, as prominent members called for legal and political reform and challenged the domination of the Baltic region by Baltic German elites. After the administrative reforms and cultural Russification of the 1880s, and the bloody suppression of popular unrest in the wake of the 1905 revolution, the Russian imperial administration and its unwillingness to engage in political and economic reform became a key focal point of criticism for Latvians across the political spectrum.10 Histories of the Latvian national movement have focused on the formulation of ideas and concepts within the broad intellectual currents of the national awakening and the movement has been placed into a wider

“The Changing Composition of the City of Riga, 1867–1913,” Journal of Baltic Studies 13:1 (1982), 19–39; Michael F. Hamm, “Riga’s 1913 City Election: A Study in Baltic Urban Politics,” Russian Review 39:4 (1980), 442–461. 8 Andrejs Plakans, “The Latvian National Awakening: Modernization of an Intellectual Milieu,” Journal of Baltic Studies 2:2 (1971), 9–13; Plakans, “The Latvians,” 248–268; Gints Apals, Jaunlatvieši un tautiskās atmodas laikmets Latvijā (Riga: LU, 1993); Vita Zelče, Latviešu avīžniecība : laikraksti savā laikmetā un sabiedrībā, 1822–1865 (Riga: Zinātne, 2009); Andrejs Plakans and Tovio U. Raun, “The Estonian and Latvian National Movements: An Assessment of Miroslav Hroch’s Model,” Journal of Baltic Studies 21:2 (1990), 131–144. 9 Ieva Zake, “Inventing Culture and Nation: Intellectuals and Early Latvian Nationalism,” National Identities 9:4 (2007), 313–315. 10 Tovio U. Raun, “The Revolution of 1905 in the Baltic Provinces and Finland,” Slavic Review 43:3 (1984), 454–467; Plakans, “The Latvians,” 258–267. Ernst Benz, Die Revolution von 1905 in den Ostseeprovinzen Rußlands: Ursachen und Verlauf der lettischen und estnischen Arbeiterbewegung im Rahmen der ersten russischen Revolution (Mainz: Universität Mainz, 1989); Jāni Bērziņš, ed., 1905. gads Latvijā, 100: Pētījumi un starptautiskas konferences materiāli, 2005. gada 11.–12. janvāris, Rīga (Riga: Latvijas Vēstures institūta apgāds, 2006).

Introduc tion

pan-Baltic and European context.11 Scholars have stressed the importance of centering the intercultural environment within which the national movement developed, examining the engagement of Latvian intellectuals with Baltic German and Russian cultures throughout the nineteenth century.12 The national movement was dominated by men, but recent research has examined portrayals of women as an integrative force within oral and written representations of Latvia.13 Folklore, theater, and the natural environment have all been used as lenses to explore the multiple ideas in circulation about Latvianness during the national awakening.14 While the activities and ideas of key figures within the national movement have been well analyzed, we know far less about the extent to which nonelites sympathized and engaged with them. The social structures of Russian imperial society and strong opposition from the Baltic German and urban elite made the national mobilization of Latvian-speaking rural dwellers difficult.15 In the volume’s first chapter, Catherine Gibson provides a welcome intervention, as she examines the role of mass-produced maps in disseminating ideas about Latvian nationhood to lower-class populations in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In her analysis of the work of author, publisher, and mapmaker Matīss Siliņš (1861–1942), Gibson demonstrates the impact of technological innovation, rising consumerism, and improved networks of communication and transportation on the development of ideas about Latvia as an ethnocultural, and crucially, a spatial concept. Siliņš took advantage of developments in global communication to encourage 11 Tovio U. Raun, “The Latvian and Estonian National Movements, 1860–1914,” Slavonic and East European Review 64:1 (1986), 66–80. 12 Ivars Ījabs, “Learning to Laugh: Satire and Political Thought in the Latvian ‘National Age,’” Journal of Baltic Studies 50:2 (2019), 163–181; Ivars Ījabs, “Another Baltic Postcolonialism: Young Latvians, Baltic Germans, and the Emergence of the Latvian National Movement,” Nationalities Papers 42:1 (2014), 88–107; Ivars Ījabs, “The Nation of the Socialist Intelligentsia: The National Issue in the Political Thought of Early Latvian Socialism,” East Central Europe 39:2–3 (2012), 181–203; Zake, “Inventing Culture and Nation,” 307–329. 13 Irina Novikova, “Constructing National Identity in Latvia: Gender and Representation During the Period of the National Awakening,” in Gendered Nations: Nationalisms and Gender Order in the Long Nineteenth Century, ed. Ida Blom, Karen Hagemann, and Catherine Hall (Oxford: Berg, 2000), 311–334. 14 Paulius V. Subačius, “Inscribing Orality: The First Folklore Editions in the Baltic States,” European Studies 26 (2008), 79–90; Alfreds Staumanis, “Latvian Theatre: A Synthesis of Ritual and National Awakening,” Journal of Baltic Studies 3:3–4 (1972), 175–183; Katrina Z. S. Schwartz, “‘The Occupation of Beauty’: Imagining Nature and Nation in Latvia,” East European Politics and Societies 21:2 (2007), 259–293. 15 Per Bolin and Christina Douglas, “‘National Indifference’ in the Baltic Territories? A Critical Assessment,” Journal of Baltic Studies 48:1 (2017), 13–22.

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consumers to participate in defining “Latwija” themselves. By paying for newspaper advertisements appealing to residents of Latvian “colonies” in other parts of Europe, as well as North and South America, to send him information about their local area, Siliņš encouraged Latvian speakers to think of themselves as a global community connected by language and lineage in the Baltic region. Gibson’s examination of the importance of geographical knowledge in the development of “national consciousness” incorporates Latvia into broader conversations regarding the material and discursive efforts required to persuade populations to think in national terms in modern European history. The Republic of Latvia came into existence on 18 November 1918. The new Latvian government was immediately faced with defeating the alternative pro-German and pro-Bolshevik governments that were in operation within the Latvian region, building a functioning Latvian state against the backdrop of the colossal destruction and social dislocation of the First World War, and fostering the idea of Latvian statehood among a multiethnic population.16 Latvia’s declaration of independence marked a new starting point in the long process of forging a coherent national identity, which was enacted across the political, social, and cultural spheres.17 In the years immediately following the declaration of independence, Latvianness was defined along the lines of citizenship for the very first time. In 1920, ethnic Latvians comprised 72.8% of the population, with the remainder being made up of Russians, Jews, Germans, Poles, Lithuanians, and Estonians.18 The 1922 Latvian constitution was sensitive to this diversity and outlined the rights of the “People of Latvia” (Latvijas 16 Andrejs Plakans, “Death and Transfiguration: Reflections on World War I and the Birth of the Latvian State,” in Latvia – A Work in Progress?, ed. Smith, 41–43. 17 Per Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas: Ethnic Policies and “National Disciplines” at the University of Latvia, 1919–1940 (Huddinge: Södertörn Academic Studies, 2012); Suzanne Pourchier-Plasseraud, Arts and the Nation: The Role of Visual Arts and Artists in the Making of Latvian Identity, 1905–1940 (Leiden: Brill, 2015); Aldis Purs, “‘Unsatisfactory National Identity’: School Inspectors, Education and National Identity in Interwar Latvia,” Journal of Baltic Studies 35:2 (2004), 97–125; Aldis Purs, “The Price of Free Lunches: Making the Frontier Latvian in the Interwar Years,” The Global Review of Ethnopolitics 1:4 (2002), 60–73; Aldis Purs, “‘One Breath for Every Two Strides’: The State’s Attempt to Construct Tourism and Identity in Interwar Latvia,” in Turizm: The Russian and East European Tourist under Capitalism and Socialism, ed. Anne E. Gorsuch and Diane P. Koenker (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006), 97–118; Ineta Lipša, “‘Over-Latvianisation in Heaven’: Attitudes towards Contraception and Abortion in Latvia, 1918–1940,” in Baltic Eugenics: Bio-Politics, Race and Nation in Interwar Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, ed. Björn M. Felder and Paul J. Weindling (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2013), 169–201. 18 Raymond Pearson, National Minorities in Eastern Europe, 1848–1945 (London: Macmillan, 1983), 148.

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tauta) of all ethnicities, rather than the more narrowly defined “Latvian People” (latviešu tauta), while also guaranteeing the legal protection of the cultural rights of ethnic minorities. In December 1919, two laws were passed that enshrined the rights of school pupils to receive tuition in their “family language,” obliged state and municipal institutions to maintain minority schools, and established minority departments within the Ministry of Education.19 However, the years after independence were also fraught with tension about the appropriate boundaries of Latvian citizenship. The Citizenship Law of 1919 was debated endlessly in the Saeima (parliament) and revised multiple times in the decade following its adoption.20 Uniting the Latvian provinces of the former Russian Empire under one nation-state also posed a challenge, as cultural friction persisted between certain groups of Latgalians and western Latvians.21 The year 1918 marked the beginning of a renegotiation of social and ethnic hierarchies in the Latvian region, but important power shifts had already begun decades earlier. By the late nineteenth century, industrialization, urbanization, cultural Russification, and the emerging Latvian national movement had already called the domination of Baltic German elites into question. In this atmosphere of radical social, political, and economic change, social problems became increasingly “ethnified.”22 As the processes of industrialization and mass migration transformed the ethnic composition of Baltic towns and cities, prominent Baltic German associations were concerned that the lines between lower-class Germans and Latvians would become blurred.23 The widespread destruction and violence of the 1905 revolution and its violent suppression left “festering social and psychological wounds” that reinforced mutual resentment between Latvians and Baltic Germans and produced narratives of victimhood that became incorporated into both groups’ discourses of collective identity.24 The First World War 19 Marina Germane, “Latvians as a Civic Nation – The Interwar Experiment,” in Latvia – A Work in Progress?, ed. Smith, 60. 20 Germane, “Latvians as a Civic Nation,” 62–66. 21 Andrejs Plakans, “Regional Identity in Latvia: The Case of Latgale,” in Forgotten Pages in Baltic History: Diversity and Inclusion, ed. Martyn Housden and David J. Smith (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2011), 49–70. 22 Matthew Kott, “The Roots of Radicalism: Persistent Problems of Class and Ethnicity in Latvia’s Politics,” in Latvia – A Work in Progress?, ed. Smith, 279–284. 23 Christina Douglas, “A Baltic German Women’s Movement: The German Women’s League in Riga Preserving ‘Germandom’ in Democratic Latvia, 1919–1934,” Zeitschrift für Ostmitteleuropaforschung 64:2 (2015), 218–238. 24 Kott, “The Roots of Radicalism,” 285; Raun, “The Revolution of 1905”; Ernst Benz, Die Revolution von 1905 in den Ostseeprovinzen Rußlands; Anders Henriksson, Vassals and Citizens:

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deepened ethnic divisions even further, as anti-German and anti-Jewish sentiments and initiatives were embraced by Latvians, Russians, and the Russian imperial administration.25 After 1918, Baltic Germans became a minority group within the new Latvian democratic state. Due to their former elite status, alliance with the Russian imperial administration and attachment to a foreign power, their loyalty as Latvian citizens was often called into question.26 Agrarian reforms initiated in the early 1920s ended the economic dominance of the former Baltic German elite in the countryside, as the vast majority of manorial lands were confiscated by the state and redistributed as new smallholdings.27 However, Baltic German factory owners, businessmen, and professionals retained a degree of economic and cultural power in Riga and Latvian provincial towns. In this volume, Per Bolin and Christina Douglas’s chapter uses the case study of the Herder-Institut zu Riga (Herder Institute in Riga), a German-language higher education institution, to examine how the erosion of former social hierarchies and the redistribution of cultural domination played out “on the ground” in interwar Latvia. Throughout the 1920s, Baltic German politicians and academics campaigned for the Herder-Institut to be granted university status, based on their right as an ethnic minority to exercise cultural autonomy and receive education in their native language. Bolin and Douglas show how the Herder-Institut’s struggle to obtain university status was tinged with legacies of the imperial period. Debates within Saeima committees grew heated as academics from the University of Latvia questioned why the nation required a German-language university at all, when their institution catered for all the citizens of Latvia, regardless of their ethnicity. After an article smearing Latvian culture and academics at the University of Latvia appeared in a German periodical, staff at the Herder-Institut were forced on the defensive as their loyalty to the newly independent state was publicly called into question. Baltic Germans were not the only ethnic minority who were regarded with suspicion in interwar Latvia. Belarusians and Latgalians, who mainly The Baltic Germans in Constitutional Russia, 1905–1914 (Marburg: Verlag Herder-Institut, 2009); Anders Henriksson, The Tsar’s Loyal Germans. The Riga German Community: Social Change and the Nationality Question, 1855–1905 (Boulder: East European Monographs, 1983). 25 Eric Lohr, “The Russian Army and the Jews: Mass Deportations, Hostages and World War I,” Russian Review 60:3 (2001), 404–419; Mark R. Hatlie, Riga at War, 1914–1919: War and Wartime Experience in a Multi-ethnic Metropolis (Marburg: Verlag Herder-Institut, 2014), 163–178. 26 Katja Wezel, “German Community – German Nationality? Baltic German Perceptions of Belonging in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Century,” Journal of Baltic Studies 48:1 (2017), 5–8. 27 Kott, “The Roots of Radicalism,” 294–295.

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lived in the economically underdeveloped and politically disputed regions bordering Poland and the Soviet Union, were represented as a security threat by the political police and nationalistic activists.28 Latvian Jews were a constant target for accusations of disloyalty. In the Russian Empire, Jews were only allowed to settle in towns and cities of the Baltic provinces under specific conditions, as the region fell outside the Pale of Settlement. Jews primarily lived in the southeastern region of Latgale, as the imperial province of Vitebsk was located within the Pale.29 After 1918, the institutional restrictions imposed on Jews were abolished, but the place of Jews within the new Latvian state was uncertain and up for debate. The antisemitic categorization of Jews as “foreign” in the Russian Empire continued after its collapse, especially as most Latvian Jews were German, Russian, or Yiddish speakers. Violent acts were committed against groups of Jews during the Latvian War of Independence.30 The wording of Latvia’s 1919 Citizenship Law initially excluded Jews, which meant that there was a discrepancy between the percentage of Jews living in Latvia and the percentage granted Latvian citizenship.31 Within the University of Latvia, nationalist student groups expressed their hostility towards Jewish students by publishing antisemitic articles and violently evicting Jewish students from lecture halls, while the university’s leadership and the student union broadly supported their actions.32 On 15 May 1934, Kārlis Ulmanis took power in a bloodless coup, ending Latvian parliamentary democracy and ushering in a new wave of authoritarianism and institutionalized antisemitism.33 Paula Oppermann’s chapter explores antisemitism beyond academic circles by focusing on the interaction between the national socialist Ugunskrusts (Fire Cross) association, which later became the political party Pērkonkrusts (Thunder Cross), and the wider public before the May 1934 coup. In her careful reading of the coverage of a 1932 pogrom and subsequent antisemitic attacks, Oppermann demonstrates how antisemitism was normalized, 28 Kott, “The Roots of Radicalism,” 296; Ilga Apine, “Baltkrievi Latvija,” in Mazākumtautības Latvijā: Vēsture un Tagadne, ed. Leo Dribins (Riga: Latvijas Universitātes Filozofijas un socioloģijas institūts, 2007), 196–197; Plakans, “Regional Identity in Latvia,” 57–59. 29 Zvi Gitelman, A Century of Ambivalence: The Jews of Russia and the Soviet Union, 1881 to the Present (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001), 2; Andreivs Ezergailis, Holokausts vācu okupētajā Latvijā 1941–1944 (Riga: Latvijas Vēstures Institūta apgāds, 1999), 77–82. 30 Leo Dribins, Antisemītisms un tā izpausmes Latvijā: Vēstures atskats (Riga: Latvijas vēstures institūta apgāds, 2002), 84. 31 Germane, “Latvians as a Civic Nation,” 64–65. 32 Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas, 129–172. 33 Aivars Stranga, Ebreji un diktatūras Baltijā, 1926–1940 (Riga: Latvijas Universitātes Jūdaikas Studiju Centrs, 2002), 171–201.

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or even accepted, by broad swathes of the population in interwar Latvia. Antisemitism and völkisch (ethnic) nationalism were the core ideological tenants of the Ugunskrusts/Pērkonkrusts. Members of Pērkonkrusts were able to spread their ideas across Latvian society because they enjoyed support from its “respectable” segments, namely from schoolteachers, university professors, and members various civic organizations. In exploring the exclusion of Jews from ideas of the Latvian nation, Oppermann’s focus on antisemitism at the ground level before the 1934 coup adds further nuance to historiographical discussions about the transition in political discourse from the “nation of Latvia” to the “Latvian nation” under the conditions of Kārlis Ulmanis’s authoritarian government.34 The outbreak of the Second World War marked an abrupt break in the development of Latvian statehood and national identity. In June 1940, Soviet troops invaded Latvia and began a process of rapid Sovietization. Though this process was interrupted by the invasion of the USSR by Nazi Germany in June 1941, Sovietization resumed once again in recaptured Latvian territory from September 1944, after Latvia was absorbed into the USSR with the Red Army’s eastward advance. The experiences of those living within Latvia during the Nazi and Soviet occupations were varied and traumatic, involving a complex combination of resistance, collaboration, persecution, and violence, depending on how an individual or group was identified by the occupying power in terms of class, ethnicity, gender, and political affiliation.35 On 14 June 1941, 15,424 Latvian citizens classified as “anti-Soviet elements” were deported to forced labor camps in distant regions of the Soviet Union.36 During the Nazi occupation, 91% of Jews in 34 Deniss Hanovs and Valdis Tēraudkalns, eds., Ultimate Freedom – No Choice: The Culture of Authoritarianism in Latvia, 1934–1940 (Leiden: Brill, 2013); Deniss Hanovs and Valdis Tēraudkalns, “Happy Birthday, Mr Ulmanis! Reflections on the Construction of an Authoritarian Regime in Latvia,” Politics, Religion, and Ideology 15:1 (2014), 64–81; Andrejs Plakans, “Celebrating Origins: Reflections on Latvia’s Ninetieth Birthday,” in From Recognition to Restoration ed. Smith, Galbreath, and Swain 13–30; Andres Kasekamp, “Radical Right-Wing Movements in the North-East Baltic,” Journal of Contemporary History 34:4 (1999), 587–600. 35 Geoffrey Swain, Between Stalin and Hitler: Class and Race War on the Dvina, 1940–1946 (New York: Routledge, 2004); Irēne Elksnis Geisler, “The Annexation of Latvia: A Gendered Plight,” in The Baltic States under Stalinism ed. Mertelsmann, 137–152; Irēne Elksnis Geisler, “From the Voices of the Deported: The Mass Latvian Deportation of June 14 1941,” Oral History Forum 29 (2009), 1–15; Andrejs Plakans, Experiencing Totalitarianism: The Invasion and Occupation of Latvia by the USSR and Nazi Germany, 1939–1991: A Documentary History (Bloomington: AuthorHouse, 2007); Andrew Ezergailis, The Holocaust in Latvia, 1941–1944: The Missing Centre (Riga: Historical Institute of Latvia, 1996). 36 Indulis Zālīte and Sindija Eglīte, “1941.gada 14.jūnija deportācijas struktūranalīze,” in Aizvestie: 1941. gada 14. Jūnijs, ed. Ainārs Bambals et al. (Riga: Latvijas Valsts arhīvs, 2001), 687–691.

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Latvia were killed.37 Around half of Latvia’s Roma population and more than two-thirds of chronic psychiatric patients were also exterminated.38 Invasion and occupation decimated Latvia’s population and deepened existing class and ethnic divisions.39 Identity and ideology loom large in scholarship on Latvia in the Second World War. Soviet historiography deliberately exaggerated the mass cooperation of Latvians with the Nazi and Soviet regimes during wartime.40 Certain Latvian historians in exile have speculated that Latvians conscripted into the German Army were fighting specifically for the restoration of independence, while ignoring or glossing over Latvians who fought in (and volunteered for) the Red Army.41 Individuals and groups whose experiences contradicted accepted narratives within the shifting ideological parameters of the Cold War and its aftermath have been marginalized in Soviet and post-Soviet historiography. However, more recently, historians have critically reflected on this scholarship and woven the Latvian Central Council, national partisans, women forced to collaborate with the Nazis, communists, and the Latvian women and men who volunteered for the Red Army into the rich tapestry of Latvian wartime history.42 Recent scholarship has also explored the use of 37 Ezergailis, The Holocaust in Latvia, 1941–1944, 203. 38 Matthew Kott, “The Fate of Romani Minorities in Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania during the Second World War: Problems and Perspectives for Romani Studies and Comparative Genocide Research,” in Latvijas vēstures un historiogrāfijas problēmas 1918–1990: Latvijas Vēsturnieku komisijas 2012. un 2013. gada pētījumi, ed. Inesis Feldmanis et al. (Riga: Zinātne, 2015), 239–267; Kaspars Tuters and Arnis Viksna, “The Extermination of Psychiatric Patients in Latvia during World War II,” International Journal of Mental Health, 35:3 (2006), 72–74. 39 Kott, “The Roots of Radicalism,” 301–302. 40 V. Samson, Partizanskoe dvizhenie v severnoi Latvii v gody velikoi otechestvennoi voiny (Riga, 1951); V. S. Savchenko, Latyshskie formirovaniia sovetskoi armii: na frontakh velikoi otechestvennoi voiny (Riga: Zinātne, 1975). On the exaggeration of the role of Latvians in the Holocaust in Soviet historiography, see Aivars Stranga, “Holokausta vēstures pētniecība un holokausta piemiņa Latvijā,” Symposium of the Commission of Historians of Latvia 18 (2006), 14. 41 Latviešu kaŗavīrs Otrā pasaules kara laikā: Dokumentu un atmiņu krājums, 11 vols (1970–1993); Arturs Silgailis, Latviešu leģions: dibināšana, formēšana un kauju gaitas Otrajā pasaules karā (Riga: Junda, 2001). 42 See the many relevant chapters in V. Nollendorfs and E. Oberländer, eds., The Hidden and Forbidden History of Latvia under Soviet and Nazi Occupation, 1940–91 (Riga: Institute of the History of Latvia, 2005). Geoffrey Swain, “Divided We Fall: Divisions within the National Partisans of Vidzeme and Latgale, Fall 1945,” Journal of Baltic Studies 38:2 (2007), 195–214; Geoffrey Swain, “Latvia’s Democratic Resistance: A Forgotten Episode from the Second World War,” European History Quarterly 39:2 (2009), 241–263; Geoffrey Swain, “Forgotten Voices: Reflections on Latvia during World War Two,” in From Recognition to Restoration, ed. Swain and Smith, 45–59; Inese Dreimane, “Sieviešu sadarbība ar nacistu represīvajām struktūrām Latvijā, 1941–1944. gadā,” Latvijas Vēsturnieku Komisijas Raksti 16 (2005), 319–365; Daina Eglitis and Vita Zelče, “Unruly Actors: Latvian Women of the Red Army in Post-War Historical Memory,” Nationalities Papers 41:6 (2013), 987–1007; Juliette Denis, “‘The Best School of

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gendered imagery to construct idealized representations of Latvian national identity during both the Nazi and Soviet occupations.43 Latvian displaced persons and émigré communities have been situated at the very center of the broader ideological conflict between East and West at the end of the war.44 In this volume, Harry Merritt’s chapter explores how feelings of national belonging were fostered amid competing ideologies by focusing on Latvians who fought in the national units of the Waffen-SS and the Red Army. Using the symbolic concessions to national customs afforded by the occupying powers who recruited them to fight, men used toponyms, language, national holidays, and songs to sustain a connection to Latvia and to create a “home away from home” while in their units. Drawing upon a rich base of first-person primary sources, including interviews with and diaries written by military personnel fighting on both sides, Merritt lucidly illustrates the shared context of most men who served in Latvian national formations and the enduring power of nationalism across the opposing ideological frontiers of the Second World War.

Latvia in the USSR: Contesting Moscow’s Norms from the Soviet Periphery, 1945–1990 At the end of the Second World War, Latvia was formally and forcefully reabsorbed into the Soviet Union. From 1946, Latvia was integrated into Soviet Five-Year Planning with quotas for industrial and agricultural outputs.45 The collectivization of agriculture began immediately after the end of the war and was accompanied by the deportations of around 50,000 people classified as kulaks (wealthy peasants) in 1949.46 The immediate postwar Communism’: Latvians in the Great Patriotic War, 1941–45,” in The Baltic States under Stalinism ed. Mertelsmann, 27–46. 43 Mara Lazda, “Family, Gender and Ideology in World War II Latvia,” in Gender and War in Twentieth-Century Eastern Europe, ed. Nancy M. Wingfield and Maria Bucur (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006), 113–154. 44 Juliette Denis, “Hitler’s Accomplices or Stalin’s Victims: Displaced Baltic People in Germany from the End of the War to the Cold War,” Le Mouvement Social 3:244 (2013), 81–98; Aldis Purs, “‘How Those Brothers in Foreign Lands Are Dividing the Fatherland’: Latvian National Politics in Displaced Persons Camps after the Second World War,” in Warlands: Population Resettlement and State Reconstruction in the Soviet-East European Borderlands, 1945–50, ed. Peter Gatrell and Nick Baron (London: Palgrave, 2009), 48–66; Ieva Zake, “‘The Secret Nazi Network’ and Post–World War II Latvian Émigrés in the United States,” Journal of Baltic Studies 41:4 (2010), 91–117. 45 Plakans, A Concise History of the Baltic States, 364. 46 Geoffrey Swain, “Deciding to Collectivize Latvian Agriculture,” Europe–Asia Studies 55:1 (2003), 39–58; Daina Bleiere, “Repressions against Farmers in Latvia in 1944–53,” in The Hidden and Forbidden History of Latvia, ed. Nollendorfs and Oberländer, 242–255; Mara Lazda, “Women,

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years were characterized by armed struggle in the Latvian countryside as Soviet security forces battled anti-Soviet Latvian partisans. Latvia experienced some of the largest waves of Slavic migration in the Soviet Union, when workers, specialists, and administrators were moved to Latvia from other regions of the USSR. By the mid-1950s, Russian was the dominant language of communication in the various ministries, the police, NKVD (secret police), medical institutions, state farms, and the industrial sector.47 Latvian state ministries were reorganized according to the Soviet model, as were all aspects of political, economic, social, and cultural life.48 Latvian historical scholarship on the decades after Latvia’s absorption into the Soviet Union tends to be politically charged and imbued with the volatile ideological context of the post-Soviet era. Russian-language Soviet and post-Soviet scholarship largely echoes the state narratives of the Soviet period regarding the legitimacy of Latvian annexation and the benefits it brought to the Baltic states, whereas Latvian-language historiography from the 1990s tended to interpret the Soviet period as a 50-year concerted and centrally led campaign of demographic and linguistic Russification.49 Recent research has challenged these generally accepted orthodoxies and shed new light on the complicated relationship between Riga and Moscow in the Soviet period.50 Nation, and Survival: Latvian Women in Siberia, 1941–57,” Journal of Baltic Studies 36:1 (2007), 1–12; Irēna Saleniece, “Impact of the Deportation of 25 March 1949 on the Population of Eastern Latvia: Archival Documents and Oral History Sources,” in The Baltic States under Stalinism ed. Mertelsmann, 99–118. 47 Geoffrey Swain, “‘Cleaning up Soviet Latvia’: The Bureau for Latvia (Latburo), 1944–1947,” in The Sovietization of the Baltic States 1940–1956, ed. Olaf Mertelsmann (Tartu: Kleio, 2003), 68–84; Michael Loader, “Restricting Russians: Language and Immigration Laws in Soviet Latvia, 1956–1959,” Nationalities Papers 45:6 (2017), 1083–1084; Michael Loader, “The Thaw in Soviet Latvia: National Politics 1953–1959” (PhD diss., King’s College London, 2015), 40–41. 48 Aigi Rahi-Tamm and Irēna Saleniece, “Re-educating Teachers: Ways and Consequences of Sovietization in Estonia and Latvia (1940–1960) from the Biographical Perspectives,” Journal of Baltic Studies 47:4 (2016), 455–456; Zubkova, Pribaltika i Kreml’, 128–190. 49 For an overview of Russian language historiography, see Vita Zelče, “Latvia and the Baltic in Russian Historiography,” in The Geopolitics of History in Latvian–Russian Relations, ed. Nils Muižnieks (Riga: University of Latvia Press, 2011), 31–58. See also: Ludmilla Vorob’eva, Istoriia Latvii ot Rossiiskoi imperii k SSSR: Toma 1 & 2 (Moscow: Istoricheskaia pamiat’ i Rossiiskii institut strategicheskikh issledovanii, 2009–2010); Elmārs Pelkaus, Inese Skrīvele, and Andrejs Veisbergs, eds., Policy of Occupation Powers in Latvia, 1939–1991 (Riga: Nordik, 1999); Jānis Riekstiņš, In Defense of the Latvian Language: Against Russification, 1944–1989 (Riga: Latviešu valodas aģentūra, 2012). 50 William D. Prigge, Bearslayers: The Rise and Fall of the Latvian National Communists (New York: Peter Lang, 2015); Loader, “The Thaw in Soviet Latvia”; Loader, “Restricting Russians”; Gatis Krūmiņš ed., Latvijas tautsaimniecības vesture (Riga: Jumava, 2017); Gatis Krūmiņš, “Soviet Economic Gaslighting of Latvia and the Baltic States,” Defence Strategic Communications 4 (2018), 49–78; Swain, “Deciding to Collectivize Latvian Agriculture”; Geoffrey Swain, “Before

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Two contributions in this volume continue this trend by focusing on the Latvian national communists, a group of likeminded individuals who opposed the Russification of Latvia, sought Latvian autonomy within the parameters of the Soviet system, and who occupied prominent political positions in the mid-to-late 1950s.51 Daina Bleiere’s chapter questions whether the national communists actually had a coherent economic plan, or whether it existed only in the rhetorical sense to further justifying reprisals against the group during their purge from the upper echelons of the Latvian Communist Party in 1959. Other historians have contended that the national communists sketched a program that prioritized Latvian economic concerns and sought to reduce Latvia’s industrial demand for Slavic labor. Bleiere offers an entirely new approach, arguing that the existence of an established economic plan has been exaggerated to suit the agendas of the political functionaries who succeeded the national communists following their purge, as well as to downplay collaboration between national communists and the Soviet regime during the 1990s, when a broad anticommunist consensus emerged following Latvian independence.52 Michael Loader’s chapter focuses on discussions of the controversial Khrushchev reform of the Soviet education system in 1958 in Latvia, which proposed a standardization of the number of school years across the USSR and reversed compulsory language tuition in both Russian and the titular national language. These proposals were met with blistering criticism and interpreted as a conscious attempt by Moscow to marginalize the Latvian language and disadvantage Latvian school pupils.53 Loader shows how an unlikely coalition of conservatives and national communists in the Latvian leadership led Union-wide resistance to the reform, with some initial success in forcing concessions from Moscow. National Communism: Joining the Latvian Komsomol under Stalin,” Europe–Asia Studies, 64 (2012), 1239–1270. 51 Loader, “The Thaw in Soviet Latvia”; William Prigge, “The Latvian Purges of 1959: A Revision Study,” Journal of Baltic Studies 35:3 (2004), 211–230; Daina Bleiere, “Nacionālkomunisms Latvijā: Historiogrāfija,” Latvijas Vēstures Institūta Žurnāls 46 (2003), 110–130. 52 On this trend in nomenklatura autobiographies, see Mārtiņš Kaprāns, “Between Improvisation and Inevitability: Former Latvian Officials’ Memoirs of the Soviet Era,” Journal of Baltic Studies 47:4 (2016), 537–555; Michael Loader, “Collaborators or Dissidents? Resistance and Collusion among the Latvian National Communists,” in Research Commission of the Historians of Latvia: The Impossible Resistance, Opposition, Conformism and Survival under Soviet and Nazi Regimes in 1940–1991 in the Baltic States and Ukraine (forthcoming, Riga, 2021). 53 For literature on the education reform’s impact on Latvia, see: Jeremy Smith, “Republican Authority and Khrushchev’s Education Reform in Estonia and Latvia 1958–1959,” in The Sovietization of the Baltic States ed. Mertelsmann, 237–252; Daina Bleiere, “Nacionālkomunisms Latvijā un 1959. gada Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” Latvijas Vēstures Institūta Žurnāls 1 (2004), 126–149.

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While such resistance was used against the national communists during the 1959 purge, the principal outcome of allowing Russian school students to drop Latvian classes was to exacerbate the language gap: in 1970, just 18% of all Russians in Latvia spoke Latvian, but 75.8% of 20–29-year-old Latvians, the generation that grew up with the education reform changes, could speak Russian.54 Both Bleiere’s and Loader’s chapters contribute to the growing literature on center–periphery relations in the Khrushchev-era USSR, while also closely examining the ideological struggles occurring within the Latvian republic in the late 1950s.55 Policy shifts in the 1950s and 1960s reverberated in the Latvian cultural sphere. After Stalin’s death, Khrushchev initiated the (hesitant and limited) relaxation of literary and artistic censorship known as the Thaw.56 From the mid-1950s, the Soviet leadership began to reorient foreign policy away from Stalinist isolationism towards the encouragement of peaceful coexistence and knowledge transfer with the West.57 These changes brought about the partial opening up of the Soviet Union to foreign tourists, and thousands flocked to Riga following the establishment of a branch of the Soviet tourist agency Inturist in the city in the late 1950s.58 At the same time, technological 54 Michael Loader, “The Rebellious Republic: The 1958 Education Reform and Soviet Latvia,” Journal of the Institute of Latvian History 100:3 (2016), 113–139. 55 Tõnu Tannberg, Politika Moskvy v respublikakh Baltii v poslevoennye gody, 1944–1956: issledovaniia i dokumenty (Tartu: Tartu University Press, 2008); Dietrich Loeber, V. Stanley Vardys and Laurence Kitching, Regional Identity Under Soviet Rule: The Case of the Baltic States (Hackettstown: Institute for the Study of Law, Politics and Society of Socialist States, 1990). Other recent studies of center–periphery relations include Jamil Hasanli, Khrushchev’s Thaw and National Identity in Soviet Azerbaijan, 1954–1959 (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2014); Tõnu Tannberg’s Behind the Iron Curtain: Soviet Estonia in the Era of the Cold War (New York: Peter Lang, 2015); Michael Loader, “Beria and Khrushchev: The Power Struggle over Nationality Policy and the Case of Latvia,” Europe–Asia Studies 68:10 (2016), 1759–1792. 56 Rolf Ekmanis, Latvian Literature under the Soviets: 1940–1975 (Belmont: Norland, 1978); Samantha Sherry, Discourses of Regulation and Resistance: Censoring Translation in the Stalin and Khrushchev Soviet Era (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015), 102–140; Polly Jones, Myth, Memory, Trauma: Rethinking the Stalinist Past in the Soviet Union, 1953–70 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), 57–96; Susan E. Reid, “Modernizing Socialist Realism in the Khrushchev Thaw: The Struggle for a ‘Contemporary Style’ in Soviet Art,” in The Dilemmas of De-Stalinization: Negotiating Cultural and Social Change in the Khrushchev Era, ed. Polly Jones (London: Routledge, 2006), 223–244. 57 For an overview of this shift, see Vladislav Zubok, A Failed Empire: The Soviet Union in the Cold War from Stalin to Gorbachev (Raleigh: University of North Carolina Press, 2007), 94–192. 58 Anne E. Gorsuch, All This Is Your World: Soviet Tourism at Home and Abroad after Stalin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011); Botakoz Kassymbekova, “Leisure and Politics: Central Asian Tourists across the Iron Curtain,” in Mobilities in Socialist and Post-Socialist States, ed. Kathy Burrell and Kathrin Hörschelmann (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), 62–86; Ieva Zake, “Soviet Inturist and Foreign Travel to the Latvian SSR in the Post-Stalin Era,” Journal of Cold War Studies 20:2 (2018), 55–56.

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developments permitted the freer circulation of information both within and beyond the borders of the USSR, such as the shift from wired to wireless broadcasting and the mass production of radios and television sets.59 Ekaterina Vikulina’s chapter traces the impact of these shifts on the evolution of photography in Soviet Latvia. Vikulina argues that Latvian photography underwent a transformation in the 1960s because of technological developments in the production of photographic equipment and the circulation of foreign media under the conditions of the Thaw.60 Latvian photographers were influential both within and outside the Soviet Union, as they received international acclaim at foreign exhibitions and discussions of their work frequently appeared on the pages of the USSR’s principal photography magazine, Sovetskoe foto (The Soviet Photo).61 In her examination of how Latvian photographers responded to international trends and drew on the techniques of their foreign counterparts elsewhere in the socialist bloc, Vikulina contributes to broader historiographical discussions regarding the porosity of the iron curtain, especially in relation to the cultural sphere.62 Both the Latvian Thaw and Khrushchev’s Thaw ended with the resurgence of conservative politicians in Riga and in Moscow. The purge of the Latvian national communists came at the hands of those conservatives in both capitals.63 Khrushchev’s experimentation with de-Stalinization and decentralization in the mid-to-late 1950s was over; the 1960s ushered in an era of obedient orthodoxy for Latvia. After Khrushchev’s removal from power in 1964, the political situation in Latvia ossified around its leader 59 Kristin Roth-Ey and Larissa Zakharova, “Communications and Media in the USSR and Eastern Europe,” Cahiers du monde russe 56:1–2 (2015), 1–16; Kristin Roth-Ey, Moscow Prime Time: How the Soviet Union Built the Media Empire That Lost the Cultural Cold War (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2011); Stephen Lovell, Russia in the Microphone Age: A History of Soviet Radio, 1919–1970 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 135–160. 60 Ekaterina Vikulina, “Power and the Media: The Visual Revolution of the 1960s,” Cahiers du monde russe 56:2–3 (2015), 429–465. 61 On the re-emergence of the journal, see Jessica Werneke, “Reimagining the History of the Avant-garde: Photography and the Journal Sovetskoe foto in the 1950s and Early 1960s,” The Soviet and Post-Soviet Review 44:3 (2017), 264–291. See also Alise Tifentale, Fotogrāfija kā māksla Latvijā: 1960–1969 (Riga: Neputns, 2011). 62 Yale Richmond, Cultural Exchange and the Cold War: Raising the Iron Curtain (University Park: Penn State University Press, 2003); Eleonory Gilburd, To See Paris and Die: The Soviet Lives of Western Culture (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2018); Patryk Babiracki and Keynon Zimmer, eds., Cold War Crossings: International Travel and Exchange across the Soviet Bloc (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2014). 63 Michael Loader, “The Death of ‘Socialism with a Latvian Face’: The Purge of the Latvian National Communists,” Journal of Baltic Studies 48:2 (2017), 161–181; Michael Loader, “A Stalinist Purge in the Khrushchev Era? The Latvian Communist Party Purge, 1959–1963,” Slavonic and East European Review 96:2 (2018), 244–282.

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for the next two decades, Augusts Voss, mirroring Leonid Brezhnev’s reign in the Kremlin.64 Latvia’s “reawakening” from 1986 under the conditions of Gorbachev’s perestroika and glasnost’ renegotiated the relationship between Latvia and Moscow. In the late 1980s, tens of thousands of Latvians rose to challenge Moscow, protesting against the construction of the planned Daugavpils hydroelectric dam over environmental concerns.65 The year 1989 marked the year of the iconic Baltic Way demonstration, during which two million Baltic citizens joined hands from Tallinn to Vilnius to mark the 50th anniversary of the signing of the secret protocols of the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union.66 Latvia declared independence on 4 May 1990 and emerged from the rubble of the collapsing USSR to face new challenges.

Semantics and Signifiers: Localizing Labels and Definitions since 1990 The May 1990 declaration of independence restored Latvian sovereign statehood. The 1919 citizenship law and 1922 constitution were reinstituted to formally recognize the continuity between the interwar and post-1990 Republic of Latvia. Foreign policy was reoriented towards a “return to Europe” and break away from the Russian sphere of influence, as membership of the Council of Europe, as well as ascension to the European Union (EU) and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) became key policy goals. The restoration of Latvian independence also began a long struggle to grapple with the legacies of the Soviet era. The Soviet nationalities policy had consolidated national and ethnic identities while maintaining the distinctions between national and ethnic groups, especially at the Union republic level.67 This raised questions about how to proceed with 64 Juris Dreifelds, “Latvian National Demands and Group Consciousness since 1959,” in Nationalism in the USSR and Eastern Europe in the Era of Brezhnev and Kosygin, ed. George Simmonds (Detroit: University of Detroit Press, 1977). 65 David Galbreath and Daunis Auers, “Green, Black and Brown: Uncovering Latvia’s Environmental Politics,” Journal of Baltic Studies 40:3 (2009), 333–348. 66 V. Blūzma, O. Cello, and T. Jundzis, Latvijas valsts atjaunošana, 1986–1993 (Riga: Latvijas Universitātes žurnala “Latvijas Vēsture,” 1998); Valdis Blūzma, Tālavs Jundzis, Jānis Riekstiņš, Heinrihs Strods, and Gene Sharp, Regaining Independence: Non-violent Resistance in Latvia 1945–1991 (Riga: Latvian Academy of Sciences, 2009). 67 Timofey Agarin, A Cat’s Lick: Democratization and Minority Communities in the Post-Soviet Baltic (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2010), 37–64.

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the demographic consequences of Soviet annexation, as 1.1 million Russian speakers (over 40% of the total population) lived inside Latvia’s borders. The Soviet education reforms which form the focus of Loader’s chapter had disincentivized Latvian-language acquisition for Russian speakers and other nontitular minorities, which meant that Russian speakers often failed to linguistically assimilate into Latvian communities. The 1989 Soviet census indicated that just over 21% of non-Latvians claimed proficiency in the Latvian language.68 Following independence, fluency in the Latvian language and the internalization of cultural norms became important components of Latvian citizenship and requirements for participation in broader political and civic life. In 1992, the Law on Language dropped Russian as a co-official language and made knowledge of Latvian compulsory for employment in various branches of the public and private sectors.69 The 1994 Law on Citizenship excluded those without prewar family connections to Latvia from automatic citizenship, a category that included the majority of Russianspeaking Soviet-era migrants. In order to obtain citizenship, applicants had to possess fluency in the Latvian language, pass a history and civic test, know the national anthem, and have proof of legal income.70 This legislation excluded Latvia’s Russian-speaking minority from immediate inclusion in the political process and created the category of noncitizens. In 1998, facing pressure from European organizations, the Latvian government removed some restrictions on citizenship and rolled out a “social integration” project, which encouraged Soviet-era migrants to undergo the naturalization process and promoted bilingualism among Russian speakers by obliging minority language schools to teach the majority of their classes in Latvian.71 Under these policies, definitions of Latvianness hinged upon an individual’s ability to speak the Latvian language, engagement in “Latvian” cultural values, desire for European integration, and importantly their “display of loyalty to the Latvian state by not questioning the state’s official narratives and 68 Agarin, A Cat’s Lick, 50. 69 Magdalena Solska, “Citizenship, Collective Identity, and the International Impact on Integration Policy in Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania,” Europe–Asia Studies 63:6 (2011), 1091; Nils Muižnieks, Juris Rozenvalds, and Ieva Birka, “Ethnicity and Social Cohesion in the Post-Soviet Baltic States,” Patterns of Prejudice 47:3 (2013), 294. 70 David Galbreath, “The Politics of European Integration and Minority Rights in Estonia and Latvia,” Perspectives on European Politics and Society 4:1 (2003), 44. 71 Carol Schmid, “Ethnicity and Language Tensions in Latvia,” Language Policy 7 (2008), 3–19; David Galbreath and Nils Muižnieks, “Latvia: Managing Post-Imperial Minorities,” in Minority Rights in Central and Eastern Europe, ed. Bernd Recehl (London: Routledge, 2010), 141.

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historical interpretations.”72 These parameters aligned state power with ethnic Latvians and excluded non-Latvians from the “core nation,” which in turn paved the way for the development of Latvian and Russian radical nationalism in the late 1990s and 2000s.73 The Latvian political and media spheres were, and continued to be, characterized by ethnolinguistic cleavages between “Latvian” and “Russian” political parties and media content.74 The 2000s have generated new challenges for Latvian nation building and the development of Latvian identity. Latvia has experienced intense waves of emigration since EU ascension in 2004 and the global financial crisis of 2008.75 This exodus of Latvian residents has intensified existing negative demographic trends and generated enormous concern about the future of the nation. In the wake of the global financial crisis, existing ethnic tensions within mainstream party politics became increasingly radicalized, especially around the issue of language.76 Within this climate, the idea that the Latvian nation (imagined as exclusively ethnically Latvian) is under threat from various demographic and cultural “outsiders” circulates within political and popular discourse. Campaigns for gender equality have been met with suspicion and conservative backlash in the name of “protecting” the family unit and buttressing the existing patriarchal gender order.77 The existence of LGBT citizens has also been discursively constructed as a potent threat to Latvian identity and national stability.78 Longstanding anxieties about 72 Ammon Cheskin, “Exploring Russian-Speaking Identity from Below: The Case of Latvia,” Journal of Baltic Studies 44:3 (2013), 289–290. 73 Graham Smith, “The Ethnic Democracy Thesis and the Citizenship Question in Estonia and Latvia,” Nationalities Papers 24:2 (1996), 200; Kott, “The Roots of Radicalism,” 308–309. 74 Daunis Auers, Comparative Politics and Government of the Baltic States: Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania in the 21st Century (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 110–112; Ammon Cheskin, “The Discursive Construction of ‘Russian Speakers’: The Russian-Language Media and Demarcated Political Identities in Latvia,” in Shrinking Citizenship: Discursive Practices that Limit Democratic Participation in Latvian Politics, ed. Maria Golubeva and Robert Gould (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2010), 133–154. 75 Mihails Hazans, “Emigration from Latvia: A Brief History and Driving Forces in the TwentyFirst Century,” in The Emigrant Communities of Latvia: Identity, Transnational Belonging, and Diaspora Politics, ed. Rita Kaša and Inta Mieriņa (Cham: Springer, 2019), 35–68. 76 Kott, “The Roots of Radicalism,” 310–311. 77 Mara Lazda, “Negotiating Gendered Transnationalism and Nationalism in Post-Socialist Latvia,” Nationalities Papers 46:3 (2018), 422–440; Irina Novikova, “Gender Equality in Latvia: Achievements and Challenges,” in Women and Citizenship in Central and Eastern Europe, ed. Jasmina Lukić, Joanna Regulska, and Darja Zaviršek (New York, Ashgate, 2006), 101–120. 78 Richard Mole, “Nationality and Sexuality: Homophobic Discourse and the ‘National Threat’ in Contemporary Latvia,” Nations and Nationalism 17:3 (2011), 540–560; Michael Edward Pelz, “Europeanization, National Party Systems, and Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Rights: The Cases of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania” (PhD diss., University of Toronto, 2016), 100–125.

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the danger posed by Russia, and by extension Latvia’s Russian-speaking community, to Latvian cultural values and national security have become inflamed in light of the Russian state’s self-representation as the defender of so-called “Russian compatriots” living outside the borders of the Russian Federation.79 In the wake of the European migrant crisis, these anxieties have been supplemented by growing concern about the perceived socioeconomic and cultural threat posed by refugees and asylum seekers.80 Two chapters in this volume examine how circulating discourses about impending national crisis created opportunities for the rise of radical right populist parties and movements. Daunis Auers’s contribution focuses on the development of the National Alliance (Nacionālā Apvienība, NA), a radical right populist party with considerable political influence in contemporary Latvia, especially in relation to domestic demographic and family policy. Auers astutely explores how the NA has been incorporated into the political mainstream, arguing that this is partly a result of their reputation as an “easy” coalition partner who has little to say on government policy unless it relates to their broader nativist agenda (concerned with migration, demography, and the protection of Latvian national culture). The Latvian political landscape has also allowed the NA to enjoy considerable electoral success, as individual politicians within mainstream parties vocally support some of the NA’s positions. Unlike other international contexts, the cordon sanitaire in the Saeima is constructed around pro-Russophone parties, which are considered a greater threat to democracy than “nationalist” Latvian parties. Entering the political mainstream has allowed the NA to directly influence government policy, most notably by successfully leading campaigns against the ratification of the Council of Europe’s Istanbul Convention in 2017 and another to reject the United Nations Migration Pact in 2018. Matthew Kott’s chapter also explores the emergence of radical right ideologies within the Latvian political mainstream, this time focusing on the use of “entryist” tactics employed by far-right nationalist organizations on either side of the ethnolinguistic divide. In this context, entryism refers to the infiltration of political parties by smaller organizations in order to expand the latter group’s influence and further disseminate their ideas. To examine the efficacy and broader consequences of this tactic, Kott focuses 79 Ammon Cheskin and Angela Kachuyevski, “Russian-Speaking Populations in the Post-Soviet Space: Language, Politics, and Identity,” Europe–Asia Studies 71:1 (2019), 1–23. See also the many excellent articles in this special issue. 80 Aija Lulle and Elza Ungure, “Asylum Seekers Crisis in Europe 2015: Debating Spaces of Fear and Security in Latvia,” Journal on Baltic Security 1:2 (2015), 62–95.

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on two case studies: Evgenii Osipov, head of the Latvian branch of the ultranationalist and neofascist Russian National Unity movement (Russkoe Natsional’noe Edinstvo) and Raivis Dzintars, leader of the nationalist, right-wing All for Latvia! (Visu Latvijai!). Osipov managed to successfully organize an entryist coup of a party on the polar opposite of the ethnolinguistic political divide, the Latvian National Democratic Party (Latvijas Nacionāli demokrātiskā partija), whereas Dzintars used All for Latvia! to subvert and re-radicalize the mainstream political party For Fatherland and Freedom/LNNK (Tēvzemei un Brīvībai/LNNK). Kott’s careful reading of blog entries, writings, interviews, and archived materials from Internet chat forums provides a rich study of the motivations behind, and consequences of, the use of entryism by far-right groups in Latvia. Taken together, the nine chapters of this volume encourage readers to consider how conceptions of Latvia and Latvianness have shifted in accordance with broader trends in the late nineteenth, twentieth, and early twenty-first centuries. Rather than the definitive word on Latvian history, culture, and politics, the unique explorations presented within this volume are intended to act as an invitation for future studies, in order to further enhance our understanding of Latvia’s unique and numerous social, economic, political, cultural contexts.

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1 Mapping Latwija Matīss Siliņš and Latvian Cartographic Publishing in the 1890s f Catherine Gibson

Introduction In 1890 author and publisher Matīss Siliņš (old orthography: Siliņsch) lamented the lack of high-quality vernacular cartographic materials available for Latvian readers. Siliņš complained that: “Until now, we had to manage with maps of our homeland in German or in Russian …, but they are not well known to the Latvian: the names of places are in a foreign language, and the majority of them sound completely different than in Latvian.”1 While Latvian newspaper and book publishing was flourishing in Livland/Lifliand and Kurland/Kurliand provinces in the late nineteenth century to satisfy the demands the highly literate and rapidly growing urban population, Siliņš felt that cartographic print culture lagged behind.2 Siliņš decided to take matters into his own hands and began publishing an annual book calendar, Atbalss (Echo, 1889–1898), with supplementary color maps to “satisfy the Latvian people’s growing cultural needs.”3 The maps constructed powerful images of a geographical space called “Latwija” and aimed to “provide Latvian readers with an extensive overview of our homeland in this cheaply accessible way.”4 Siliņš conceived of the maps as instruments of moral enlightenment for “schools and newspaper readers” that would help instill a sense of Latvian national consciousness.5 1 The writing up of this research was supported by the European Regional Development Fund and the program Mobilitas Pluss grant no. MOBJD517. Atbalss (1890), 89–90. 2 According to the 1897 All-Russian imperial census, literacy rates were 92% in Livland and 85% in Kurland. The population of Riga quadrupled between 1871 and 1913 as a result of rapid industrialization and rural to urban migration. Toivo U. Raun, “Literacy in the Russian Empire in the Late 19th Century: The Striking Case of the Baltic Provinces,” Acta Historica Tallinnensia 23 (2017), 66. On the book trade in Riga, see: Arend Buchholtz, Geschichte der Buchdruckerkunst in Riga, 1588–1888 (Riga: Müllersche Buchdruckerei, 1890). 3 Awots, no. 3, 7 January 1907, 31. 4 Balss, no. 43, 21 October 1892, 10. 5 Awots, no. 3, 7 January 1907, 31.

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Siliņš was born in rural Kurland/Kurliand province in 1861 and emerged as a key figure in the Latvian-speaking scientific community in late imperial Russia and interwar Latvia, until his death in 1942. Following his early career as a schoolteacher, writer, and translator in Kurland/Kurliand province and Moscow, he moved to Riga in 1888 and became actively involved in the Knowledge Commission (Zinību komisija) of the Riga Latvian Society (hereafter RLS). Between 1902 and 1921 Siliņš worked as the director, curator, and tour guide of the RLS’s Latvian Ethnographic Museum, the precursor of today’s Latvian National History Museum. Siliņš conducted numerous ethnographic expeditions to gather artifacts for the museum and edited the geographical section of the Conversational Dictionary (Konversācijas vārdnīca) published by the RLS between 1903 and 1921. Furthermore, over the course of his lifetime Siliņš published 19 large geographical maps and town plans, and more than 50 inset maps, leading historian of cartography Jānis Štrauhmanis to describe Siliņš as the “first Latvian cartographer.”6 In 1925 Siliņš was elected as an honorary member of the newly founded Latvian Geographical Society. Nevertheless, despite Siliņš’s contributions to many different spheres of Latvian intellectual and cultural life in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, he has thus far received little attention from scholars.7 This chapter examines the maps that Siliņš published as supplements to Atbalss between 1889 and 1898 as a lens through which to explore emerging ideas about “Latwija” in the late nineteenth century.8 As Ivars Ījabs argues, in the 1860s the term “Latwija” was only used by a small circle of Latvianspeaking intellectual elites in the Baltic provinces and its political and geographical meaning was the subject of much debate. By the early 1880s, the concept of “Latwija” became increasing politicized when members of the RLS presented a program for reform in 1883 to Senator Nikolai Manasein 6 Jānis Štrauhmanis, Matīss Siliņš: Pirmais latviešu kartogrāfs (Riga: Latvijas Universitāte; Latvijas Kultūras Fonds, 1994). 7 There are only several short articles and books describing Siliņš’s main activities and publications in broad terms: A. Karnups, “Matīss Siliņš,” Senatne un Māksla 1, 1 January 1936, 151–153; Konstantīns Karulis, “Matīss Siliņš (1861–1942) atmiņās,” Latvijas Zinātņu Akadēmijas Vēstis 50:6 (1996), 73–74; Jānis Štrauhmanis, “Matīsa Siliņa ietekme uz Latvijas nacionālās kartogrāfijas veidošanos,” Scientific Journal of Riga Technical University 19 (2012), 16–19; Sanita Stinkule, “Skolotājam, literātam un tulkotājam, grāmatizdevējam, kartogrāfam un etnogrāfam Matīsam Siliņam – 150,” Latvijas Zinātņu Akadēmijas Vēstis 5/6 (2014), 34–52; Liene Soboļeva, Sava ceļa gājējs: Matīss Siliņš (Riga: Jumava, 2019). 8 This topic is examined in greater depth in Catherine Gibson, Geographies of Nationhood: Cartography, Science and Society in the Russian Imperial Baltic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2022), especially 134–175.

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during his inspection of the Baltic provinces, which included the proposal to transform the three Baltic provinces into two more ethnically homogenous Estonian and Latvian provinces. The political-administrative reformist agenda of the tsarist government combined with the increasingly territorially and ethnically orientated nationalist ideology of the RLS to consolidate the concept of “Latwija” as a region within the empire.9 Consequently, Ījabs contends that by the early twentieth century “the notion of ‘Latwija’ became obvious to a considerable part of the Latvian population.”10 Yet, we still know little about how the concept of “Latwija” moved from the narrow realm of intellectual and political debate and gradually came to resonate with a broader segment of Latvian-speaking society. Siliņš’s maps offer us one way to examine how the concept of “Latwija” was disseminated to a wider Latvian-speaking audience through visual culture at the turn of the century. In doing so, this chapter contributes a Latvian case study to the broader literature on nationalism that emphasizes the considerable effort and commitment, both material and discursive, required to persuade populations to think in national terms, as well as the often limited success of these endeavors. Moreover, this chapter poses the question of how and why geography and cartography emerged as spheres in which the idea of “Latwija” developed as a meaningful spatial concept for thinking about the world at a time when in many other realms of daily life, local populations remained “indifferent” to nationalist concerns.11 In this chapter, I analyze Siliņš’s cartographic activities from three main perspectives. Firstly, approaching Siliņš’s maps as works of popular science publishing, I examine the relationship between geography, natural science, and emerging ideas about Latvian nationhood. Whereas previous scholarship has overwhelmingly focused on the artistic dimensions of Latvian national visual culture, this chapter explores how cartography was 9 Ivars Ījabs, “Als ‘Latwija’ zu einem politischen Begriff wurde: Die Revision von 1882/83 durch Senator Nikolaj Manassein und das politische Denken der lettischen Nationalbewegung,” Zeitschrift für Ostmitteleuropa-Forschung 65:3 (2016), 403. 10 Ījabs, “Als ‘Latwija’ zu einem politischen Begriff wurde,” 374. 11 For a discussion of how the concept of “national indifference”—originally developed by historians of the Habsburg Empire James Bjork, Pieter Judson, Jeremy King, and Tara Zahra—might be applied to analyze the Baltic German community in the Baltic provinces, see Katja Wezel, ed., “Special Issue – Baltic German Perceptions of Belonging in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Century,” Journal of Baltic Studies 48:1 (2017), 1–98. See also: Karsten Brüggemann and Katja Wezel, “Nationally Indifferent or Ardent Nationalists? On the Options for Being German in Russia’s Baltic Provinces, 1905–17,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 20:1 (2019), 39–62.

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used to disseminate ideas about who Latvians were and where they lived.12 Secondly, I move beyond reading Siliņš’s maps only for their content and embed his maps in the social, economic, and political context of cartographic publishing in fin de siècle Riga. Drawing on Siliņš’s own writings about his maps, newspaper advertisements, and reviews, I explore how he navigated the commercial world of publishing and retailing and created consumer products designed to appeal to a broad segment of Latvian-speaking society. I argue that understanding these efforts to politicize the consumption of print culture and geographical knowledge is crucial for assessing the role of cartography in disseminating ideas about Latvian nationhood. Finally, while existing scholarship frames Siliņš as an intellectual and cultural figure working within a narrow Latvian national context, this chapter embeds Siliņš’s activities as part of widespread efforts by self-mobilized individuals in the Russian Empire in the second half of the nineteenth century to record and map information on natural and human phenomenon, thereby highlighting his significance as a mapmaker beyond just the Latvian case.

Latvian School Atlases and Map Literacy before 1890 Over the course of the second half of the nineteenth century, intellectuals across the empire produced geographical textbooks and atlases to enable local populations to access geographical knowledge. As Marina Loskutova argues, the focus on producing geographical materials for schoolchildren reflects the importance attached by contemporaries to the role of “local studies” (known as kraevedenie in Russian and Heimatkunde in German) as means of heightening “regional consciousness.”13 In the case of Latvianlanguage publications, a group of young students at the University of Dorpat (Tartu)—Krišjānis Valdemārs (Waldemar/Woldemar), Krišjānis Barons, and Juris Alunāns—led the way in publishing the first Latvian-language geography textbooks and school atlases from the late 1850s.14 Barons’s 12 Suzanne Pourchier-Plasseraud, Arts and a Nation: The Role of Visual Arts and Artists in the Making of the Latvian Identity, 1905–1940 (Leiden: Brill, 2015). 13 Marina Loskutova, “S chego nachinaetsia rodina? Prepodavanie geografii v dorevoliutsionnoi shkole v regional’noe samosoznanie (xix–nachalo xx v.),” Ab Imperio 3 (2003), 159–198. 14 Artūrs Apīnis, “Latviešu valodā sarakstīto ģeogrāfijas mācību grāmatu un ģeogrāfijas karšu attīstība līdz ar viņu nozīmi no 1854. līdz 1914. gadam,” Izglītības Ministrijas Mēnešraksts 7 (1935), 13–24; M. Dziliuma, “Vklad absolventov Tartuskogo Universiteta v razvitie latyshkoi geografii v XIX veke (K. Valdemar, K. Baron, Iu. Alunan),” in Tartuskii Gosudarstvennyi Universitet: Istoriia razvitiia, podgotovka kadrov, nauchnye issledovaniia. Tochnye i estestvennye nauki, vol. 2.1 (Tartu:

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geography textbook, Our Self-Description of the Land (1859), was accompanied by a map, Map of the Land of the Latvians. While Latvian versions of place names appeared on earlier German and Russian maps, Barons’s map is the first known map to feature the cartouche and scale bar also in Latvian.15 Two years later, the first Latvian school atlas was published, Atlas with Seventeen Maps (1861), widely attributed to Ernests Dinsbergs (Dünsberga).16 The territorial extent of the Latvian-inhabited lands depicted on these early school maps and atlases was not precisely defined. On the map of Europe in Dinsbergs’s atlas, the floating inscription “Latvian” (Latweeschi) was positioned over the approximate area the provinces of Lifliand/Livland, Kurliand/Kurland, Vitebsk, Kovna, and Vil’na. As the provincial borders were not marked and the label “Latweeschi” was used in a broad sense to refer to all speakers of what we today call Baltic languages, the map only provided readers with a very general idea of the Latvian area of settlement. Likewise, Barons’s map did not mark an ethnographic border between Latvians and Estonians in Livland/Lifliand province. Instead, imperial administrative borders exercised a powerful influence over understandings of Latvian space. On Barons’s map, the area of Latvian habitation abruptly stopped at the southern border of Kurland/Kurliand and the eastern border of Livland/Lifliand. According to Barons’s intellectual horizons in the late 1850s, Latvian speakers (or Latgalians) living in western Vitebsk province (today’s Latgale) did not form part of the “land of the Latvians.” The importance of imperial administrative borders as a framework for thinking about “Latwija” persisted throughout Latvian-language school atlases published in subsequent decades.17 Tartu Gosudarstvennyi Universitet, 1982), 86–90; Viesturs Zanders, “Deiatel’nost’ pervykh latyshskikh knigoizdatelei (60–90-e gody XIX veka),” Knygotyra 52 (2009), 211–118. 15 Krišjānis Barons, Lantkahrte no latweeschu semmes (Tērbata: G.A. Reyhers; Jelgava: Šulcs, 1859). Available digitally at the National Library of Latvia: http://dom.lndb.lv/data/obj/34423. html (accessed 24 July 2019). 16 Atlass ar septiņpacmit lantkahrtehm (Jelgawa: G.A. Reyhers, 1861). Available digitally at the National Library of Latvia: http://dom.lndb.lv/data/obj/34452.html (accessed 24 July 2019). Tenu Karma and Vello Pātsi, “Kā tapis pirmais ģeogrāfiskais atlants latviešu valoda,” in Grāmata latviešu sabiedrībā 1856–1870, ed. Aleksejs Apīnis (Riga: Avots, 1987), 27–36; Guna Krūmiņa, “Zinātniskas un populārzinātniskās grāmatas,” in Grāmata latviešu sabiedrībā 1856–1870, ed. Aleksejs Apīnis (Riga: Avots, 1987), 9–25. 17 Atlass Latwijas ļauzchu skolahm ar 13 pehrwēs drukatahm kahrtihm (Jelgawa: Drukāts un dabunams pie I.W. Steffenhāgena un dēla, 1880). Available digitally at the National Library of Latvia: https://dom.lndb.lv/data/obj/34455.html (accessed 24 July 2019).

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In order to understand the role of maps in shaping ideas about “Latwija” over the second half of the nineteenth century we not only need to examine the content of these geography textbooks and atlases, but also consider how local populations interacted with maps as objects of material and visual culture and the spread of map literacy. By the mid-nineteenth century, the Baltic provinces had a particularly well established network of rural and elementary schools compared to the rest of the empire, partly due to the abolishment of serfdom in this region 40 years prior to the empire as a whole.18 Religion also played an important role in the development of education: the Lutheran tradition prescribed that peasants needed basic literacy in order to achieve salvation and, from the mid-1840s, Orthodox schools were founded in the region to provide education to Estonian and Latvian converts to Orthodoxy.19 School wall maps, atlases, and geography textbooks were increasingly available for use in classrooms across the Baltic provinces, yet teachers frequently complained that these materials were not very effective didactic tools. In 1880, Hugo Lieven, head teacher of the gymnasium in Pernau (Pärnu), complained that geography textbooks presented students with lists of facts and statistics. In his experience, pupils passively memorized this information and then quickly forgot everything, “without bringing the student any benefit.”20 Instead, many teachers advocated a more active approach to using cartography in the classroom. In his instruction manual for teaching “local studies” (Heimatkunde), Gustav Blumberg, director of the German-language gymnasium in Dorpat, encouraged teachers not only to display maps on the classroom wall, but to assign students the task of producing their own maps. Blumberg specified that pupils should be taught aspects of technical drawing, such as how to work with quadrants and scales.21 Map literacy was not limited to secondary-level educational establishments. Martha von Grot, a seminary leader (Seminarvorsteherin) from Dorpat, argued in her lecture on teaching Heimatkunde at the meeting of Baltic German teachers in Riga in 1907 that schoolchildren as young as nine 18 Raun, “Literacy in the Russian Empire in the Late 19th Century,” 68. 19 Irina Paert, “Orthodox Education in the Lutheran Environment 1840–1917,” Nordost-Archiv: Zeitschrift für Regionalgeschichte 16 (2017), 74−91. 20 Hugo Lieven, Die Revision des Lehrplanes der Gymnasien des Dorpater Lehrbezirks nach Ihren allgemeinen Gesichtspunkten erörtert (Riga: N. Kymmel, 1880), 30. 21 Gustav Blumberg, Heimathskunde: Stofflich begrenzt und methodisch bearbeitet (Tartu: W. Glasers Verlag, 1869), 21.

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or ten should be able to “understand maps of unseen landscapes.” According to von Grot, teachers could measure a pupil’s understanding of cartography by whether the child was able, when “seeing the map of their hometown, they imagine the hometown itself, just as they saw it in nature,” but also “vice versa, when the child is able, when looking at the hometown out there, to think of how to transfer it themselves to map symbols.”22 Geography textbooks for “people’s schools” (narodnye uchilishcha) introduced pupils to the concept of mapping by first getting the children to draw plans of everyday objects, such as a book, and then apply the same principles to draw maps of their classroom, schoolhouse, and school grounds.23 Teachers aspired to impart a deeper understanding of cartography, whereby children had the knowledge and skills to both read maps made by others and to create maps themselves of the world around them. Map literacy was perceived by teachers to be a key component of geography teaching over the course of the second half of the nineteenth century and consequently maps gradually became a familiar part of the material and visual culture of everyday school life.

Mapping the Human and Physical Geography of “Latwija” It was against the backdrop of political discussions among Latvian-speaking intellectuals about the definition of a Latvian ethnolinguistic territory, the production of Latvian-language school atlases and geography textbooks, and the spread map literacy that Siliņš began publishing his annual calendar, Atbalss, in Riga in 1889. By the nineteenth century, calendars had become a “household staple” throughout the Russian Empire as a form of print culture aimed at lower-class readers.24 Like many other nineteenth-century calendars, Atbalss included not only calendar tables and lists of important dates, but also poetry, short stories, and nonfiction articles about a wide range of practical topics, including the use of artificial fertilizers, methods for dealing with agricultural pests, and how to identify good dairy and beef cattle. Accordingly, scholars characterize the calendar genre as an early form of popular 22 Arbeiten und Ergebnisse des Ersten Deutsch-Baltischen Lehrertages am 3. und 4. August 1907 in Riga (Riga: Verlag von G. Löffler, 1907), 79. 23 E. Andreev and K. Stepanov, Kratkii uchebnik geografii Rossii dlia nachal’nykh narodnykh uchilishch (Riga: K.G. Zikhman, 1912). 24 Charles A. Ruud, Russian Entrepreneur: Publisher Ivan Sytin of Moscow, 1851−1934 (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s Press, 1990), 28.

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science literature.25 From 1893 Atbalss featured a series of articles called “Collection of Homeland Descriptions” (“Tevijas aprakstu krahjumu”) which provided readers with a broad overview of different topics, including social and cultural history, natural history, ethnography, and geography. However, what distinguished Siliņš’s calendars was the inclusion of large-format maps as supplements. The maps spanned multiple topics and genres, from road maps, town and city plans, historical maps, and thematic maps depicting the distribution of schools, to maps of Asia and world maps. Designed to be read in conjunction with the articles in Atbalss, Siliņš sought to engage readers in exploring their homeland in all its human and physical dimensions. Siliņš’s maps reveal how the tools and mediums used to explore ideas about ethnicity and territory shaped emerging concepts of Latvian nationhood. His maps of “Latwija” communicated ideas about who should be thought of as Latvian and delimited the borders of the territory where they lived. Whereas the borders of the Latvian-inhabited territory had remained vague on earlier Latvian-language maps, such as those by Barons and Dinsbergs, on the Map of Latwija (1890) Siliņš included bold red lines clearly indicating the “furthest extent of the Latvian-language border” in all directions (fig. 1). Siliņš also presented an enlarged concept of “Latwija” that included Latvian (or Latgalian) speakers living in the western districts of Vitebsk province. Drawing on his experience of conducting fieldwork in Vitebsk province, Siliņš believed that Latgalians were an indisputable part of the Latvian ethnocultural nation and thus should be included within the territorial concept of “Latwija.”26 Nevertheless, the idea that western Vitebsk was part of “Latwija” was not yet widespread and Siliņš felt the need to repeatedly emphasize this to his readers. The subtitle of the Map of Latwija explained that “Latwija” comprised “Kurzeme with the Latvian parts of Widzeme and Witebsk provinces.” The lengthy title of the Comprehensive … Map of Latwija (1891) likewise specified that “Inflanty or Polish Widseme” was part of “Latwija” (fig. 2). By mapping southern Livland/ Lifliand, Kurland/Kurliand, and western Vitebsk provinces together, Siliņš encouraged his readers to think about these regions’ inhabitants collectively.27 Siliņš’s presentation of the ethnolinguistic territory and borders of “Latwija” reinforced the idea that the region was inhabited by a majority 25 Maits Talts, “The Role of Popular Science Literature in Shaping Estonians’ World Outlook,” Istoriko-Biologicheskie Issledovaniia 5:2 (2013), 64–65. 26 Atbalss (1890), 89. 27 On the relationship between cartographic visualization and practices of knowledge construction, see: Bruno Latour, “Drawing Things Together,” in The Map Reader: Theories of Mapping Practice and Cartographic Representation, ed. Martin Dodge, Rob Kitchin, and Chris Perkins (John Wiley & Sons, 2011), 65–72.

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Figure 1 Matīss Siliņš, Latwijas karte (Kurseme lihdz ar Widsemes un Witepskas gub. latweeschu daļu)

Riga: M. Siliņš; A.V. Grotusa litogrāfija, 1899 Courtesy of the National Library of Latvia, https://dom.lndb.lv/data/obj/49574.html

Latvian population. Only occasionally did he include information about nonLatvian populations. On the Comprehensive … Map of Latvia (1891) (fig. 2), Siliņš used colored shading to indicate small settlements of Poles, Estonians, and “Russian colonies from the eighteenth century” (i.e. Old Believers).28 On later editions of the Map of the Latvian-Inhabited Land (1901; 1911), he used dots and hatching to depict Belarusians, Lithuanians, and Estonian “colonizers” (kolonisti) in Vitebsk province, referring to Estonian speakers who migrated to this area during the Great Northern War in the seventeenth century.29 Nevertheless, by singling out these small areas inhabited by 28 Old Believers or Old Ritualists (starovery or staroobriadtsy) continue to follow the liturgical and ritual practices the Eastern Orthodox Church prior to the reforms of Patriarch Nikon in the mid-seventeenth century. 29 Matīss Siliņš, Latwijas latweeschu semes karte (Riga: M. Siliņš; Ernsta Plates, 1911). Available digitally at the National Library of Latvia: http://dom.lndb.lv/data/obj/34257.html (accessed 24 July 2019).

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Riga: M. Siliņš; A. Štāla litogrāfija, 1891 Courtesy of the National Library of Latvia, https://dom.lndb.lv/data/obj/34315.html

Figure 2 Matīss Siliņš, Latwijas wispahriga (poiltiska un fiziska) un geoloģijas (Inflantijas jeb poļu Widsemes latweeschu etnografijas) karte

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MAppInG L At wIJA

Figure 3

Matīss Siliņš, Baltija, wiswairs Kurzeme un Vidzemes latweeschu daļa Latweeschu Indriķa laikā 1200 un wehlaku lihdz 1300 p. Kr. dz.

Riga: A. Štāla litogrāfija, 1891 courtesy of the national Library of Latvia, http://dom.lndb.lv/data/obj/34312.html

non-Latvians, Siliņš framed these populations as minorities living within a majority Latvian-inhabited territory. Moreover, while Siliņš defined “Latwija” primarily according to ethnolinguistic criteria, by blending human and physical geography he portrayed the Latvian ethnolinguistic territory as possessing a unity that was further underpinned by natural science. The Comprehensive … Map of Latwija (1891) (fig. 2) included detailed information about hydrology (rivers and lakes) and geology (rock formations, the location of sandstone, limestone, clay, gypsum, and other mineral deposits). Much of this information was based on the latest geological research by Constantin von Grewingk (1819–1887), professor of geology at Dorpat University.30 In addition to maps of “Latwija,” Siliņš published a wide range of other maps addressing different aspects of Latvian nationhood. His 1891 historical 30 G.F. Nikolaeva-Serdinskaia, “Vklad professora Tartuskogo (Derptskogo) Universiteta K. Grevingka v izucheniia territorii sovermennoi Latviiskoi SSR,” in Tartuskii Gosudarstvennyi Universitet: Istoriia razvitiia, podgotovka kadrov, nauchnye issledovaniia. Tochnye i estestvennye nauki., vol. 2.1 (Tartu: Tartu Gosudarstvennyi Universitet, 1982), 91–96; Angelīna Zabele, “Latvijas geologiskas kartesanas aizsakumi,” Zinātņu Vēsture un Muzejniecība 780 (2012), 292–293.

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Riga: M. Siliņš; A. Štāla litogrāfijā, 1896 The hatched red squares indicate buildings of Latvian cultural significance, such as the building of the Riga Latvian Society shown here. Courtesy of the National Library of Latvia, http://dom.lndb.lv/data/obj/34235.html

map of the Baltic region in the thirteenth century projected a timeless homogeneity into an imagined national past and informed readers about important archaeological and historical sites that were part of Latvian cultural heritage (fig. 3). The Plan of Riga (1896) marked the location of buildings of Latvian cultural importance, specifically Latvian cultural organizations and Latvian-language newspapers, publishing houses, and bookshops (fig. 4). The map thus constructed a symbolic landscape of Latvian cultural activities in the city and reframed the urban geographies of everyday life in a nationally symbolic framework. By overlaying political, human, and physical geography, Siliņš reinforced a sense of the geographical harmony and laid the foundation for the development of spatial narratives with political implications, later taken up by nationalist activists. While the topics of Siliņš’s maps all had a Latvian focus, the multiple inset maps and plans incorporated into his cartographic works reveal how he was operating within the wider networked information space of the Russian Empire, where mapmakers extensively borrowed and copied from one another. As Vytautas Petronis notes in the case of maps of Lithuania,

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cartographers frequently used information from their ideological opponents and reinterpreted it according to their own political beliefs and worldview.31 The degree of intertextuality is especially evident in the Map of Latwija (1890), which contains an inset map of the Latvian and Lithuanian language area based on information from a Lithuanian “language area” (Sprachgebiet) map by Prussian Lithuanian linguist Friedrich Kurschat printed in Königsberg in 1876 (fig. 1). The Comprehensive … Map of Latwija (1891) contained a reworking of an 1881 map of Latvian dialects produced by Julius Döring and August Bielenstein, as well as an insert map of “Latvian colonies” in Vitebsk province lifted from an ethnographic map published by the Vitebsk Province Statistical Committee in 1872 (fig. 2). Siliņš had not personally traveled to all the areas depicted on his maps and therefore relied on knowledge compiled from previously published maps. Siliņš distilled the work of earlier mapmakers and repackaged their findings to advance his argument about the spatial cohesiveness of the Latvian territory. Approaching Siliņš’s maps from the perspective of a wider dialogue between cartographers in the Russian Empire is an important corrective to the Latvian historiographical tendency to view Siliņš as working in an isolated national historical context.

The Business of Map Publishing Scholarship on cartography in the Russian Empire has not devoted much attention to the economic and consumer driven forces affecting mapmaking and publishing. The gap in the literature can partly be explained by the lack of surviving sources pertaining to nineteenth-century cartographic publishing houses. Even the largest cartographic publishing house, A. Il’in’s Cartographic Establishment in St. Petersburg, which was responsible for printing over 90% of all civilian cartographic materials in the empire by the end of the nineteenth century, has not been extensively researched as the firm was nationalized following the Bolshevik Revolution and most of its records have been lost or destroyed.32 Nevertheless, approaching the history of cartography as part of the wider history of print culture is especially 31 Vytautas Petronis, Constructing Lithuania: Ethnic Mapping in Tsarist Russia, ca. 1800–1914 (Stockholm: Stockholm University; Huddinge: Södertörns högskola, 2007), 227. 32 For a short study, see: L.K. Kil’dushevskaia, “Izdatel’skaia deiatel’nost’ ‘Kartograficheskogo Zavedeniia A. Il’ina,’” Knizhnoe delo v Rossii vo vtoroi polovine XIX–nachale XX veka 6 (1992), 97–111.

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important in the case of Siliņš, who was a private entrepreneur and created cartographic commodities that were aimed at the wider literary market.33 The majority of those involved in producing and selling books in late imperial Russia combined multiple roles as they could not make enough income from just one sphere.34 Siliņš was no exception and was involved in almost every stage of the mapmaking process, from collecting data on field trips, compiling information from multiple published sources, drawing the manuscript maps, transferring the design onto the lithographic stone, publishing, and book selling. Reviewers frequently commented on Siliņš as a “local cartographer” and praised the skill behind his “self-made” (selbstgefertigt) maps.35 Siliņš contracted the lithographing of the calendar and maps to the A. Stahl firm, one of several printing houses located on the Domplatz in Riga’s old town.36 Siliņš offered generous discounts to bookshops and booksellers who placed bulk orders. The calendar and maps could also be purchased directly from the publisher in Riga or by mail order for a small extra charge to cover postage. The development of the railroad network and the reforms of the empire’s postal system in the 1870s meant that by the early 1900s, hundreds of millions of letters and postcards were send through the post.37 Siliņš cartographic publishing activities thus formed part of this broader rise in the consumption and circulation of printed material at the turn of the century. Whereas many earlier projects to create thematic maps of the Baltic provinces had received financial support for research and publication from the Imperial Russian Geographical Society or Imperial Academy of Science, we have no evidence that Siliņš received money from academic or learned societies to produce the maps for Atbalss. Several historians suggest that the RLS supported Siliņš’s mapmaking activities, yet the nature of this support appears to have been mostly ideological and did not extend to financial backing.38 Moreover, Siliņš complained that, despite his numerous 33 My analysis of Siliņš’s cartography as business is heavily informed by Mary Pedley’s work. See: Mary Sponberg Pedley, The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005). 34 Signe Jantson, “Booksellers, Publishers and Press Workers in the Second Half of the 19th and Early 20th Century in Estonia,” Knygotyra 52 (2009), 240. 35 Libauishe Zeitung, no. 288, 18 December 1893. 36 Buchholtz, Geschichte der Buchdruckerkunst, 249. 37 For an account of how infrastructural developments and consumerism impacted the production and circulation of picture postcards, see: Tobie Mathew, Greetings from the Barricades: Revolutionary Postcards in Imperial Russia (London: Four Corners Books, 2018), 29–44. 38 Ījabs argues that the Riga Latvian Society supported Siliņš’s publication of the first map of “Latwija,” in 1889. However, I have not found any evidence to corroborate this statement and

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requests, the RLS Knowledge Commission denied him access to their lists of Latvian place names, which enables us to question the extent of the RLS’s involvement.39 Instead, the commercial nature of Siliņš cartographic venture meant that rather than producing expensive maps in small print runs for a limited audience of intellectuals, civil servants, and military personnel, Siliņš created affordable cartographic commodities aimed at a broader social spectrum of Latvian readers. Siliņš’s cartographic activities were shaped by the technological developments of the time, especially advances in chromolithography printing and paper production, which reduced the cost of printed materials and led to a rapidly expanding market for cheap paper products in late imperial Russia.40 For comparison with the Latvian-language maps available three decades earlier, Dinsbergs’s 1861 Latvian-language atlas was sold for 1 ruble and 20 kopeks, pricing it out of the range of working-class readers as it was equivalent at the time to one or two week’s wages for a servant or two pairs of boots or three pairs of trousers.41 By contrast, Siliņš’s Map of Latwija (1890) could be purchased for just 40 kopeks. Moreover, Siliņš’s approach to cartography, unlike many of his contemporaries, was entrepreneurial. He had a strong business acumen and sought to combine high-quality and innovative content with low prices and large print runs. Comparing Siliņš’s Map of Latwija (1890) with a contemporary atlas by the Baltic German pastor and scholar August Bielenstein, Atlas der ethnologischen Geographie des heutigen und des praehistorischen Lettenlandes (1892), illustrates the different ways in which these mapmakers conceived of their wares within the literary marketplace. Whereas Bielenstein’s Atlas was priced at 2 rubles, Siliņš’s 1890 issue of Atbalss, including the supplementary Map of Latwija, was sold for one-fifth of the price at just 40 kopeks. Just 500 copies of Bielenstein’s Atlas were printed, while the 1890 edition of Atbalss sold 12,000 copies in

Kristine Wohlfart does not mention Siliņš’s maps in her detailed history of the RLS. Ījabs, “Als ‘Latwija,’” 404; Kristine Wohlfart, Der Rigaer Letten Verein und die lettische Nationalbewegung von 1868 bis 1905 (Marburg: Herder-Institut, 2006). 39 Altbass (1894), 35. 40 On the growing market for cheap paper products in late imperial Russia, see: Alison Rowley, Open Letters: Russian Popular Culture and the Picture Postcard 1880–1922 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013). For an overview of the technological developments in paper production which drove down printing costs, see: Olga Mashkina, “The Pulp and Paper Industry Evolution in Russia: A Road of Many Transitions,” in The Evolution of Global Paper Industry 1800–2050: A Comparative Analysis, ed. Juha-Antii Lamberg et al. (Dordrecht; Heidelberg: Springer, 2012), 285–306. 41 Karma and Pātsi, “Kā tapis pirmais ģeogrāfiskais atlants latviešu valoda,” 35.

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1891 alone.42 Siliņš explained that while the map alone would normally be sold for 2 rubles, the “unusually large circulation, by which Atbalss is distributed among the people, allows for the price to be so low.”43 Moreover, Siliņš responded to the empire’s developing consumer culture by producing different versions of his maps, ranging from a simple two-color print of the map published as a supplement to the calendar, to a separate wall map sold for 75 kopeks, and a multicolor version for 1 ruble.44 Selling maps across a range of different prices allowed Siliņš to generate the greatest amount of income from customers. After completing the manuscript of the Atlas in the late 1880s, Bielenstein struggled to find a publisher to take on the project and conceded that, unlike popular novels, the scientific nature of his cartographic publication meant that it was not the sort of book likely to be bought as a Christmas gift.45 He was only able to publish the Atlas in St. Petersburg some years later with the help of his contacts at the Imperial Academy of Science. By contrast, in 1896 the newspaper Düna Zeitung explicitly included Siliņš’s calendar and maps in its list of recommended Latvian-language books to buy as Christmas gifts.46 Although Siliņš was able to publish a large number of maps in the 1890s, the process was not always straightforward. While mapmakers in the Baltic provinces faced centralized prepublication censorship of cartographic materials by the Military Topographical Corps up until the 1860s, in later decades cartographic materials were dealt with by the local provincial Censorship Committees.47 Siliņš’s maps carry the imprimatur of the Riga censor and we have no evidence that the imperial authorities viewed Siliņš’s mapmaking activities as politically contentious. Nevertheless, Siliņš cartographic endeavors were often hampered by his struggles to gather data and finance his projects without a learned society to support him. Some years, Siliņš’s ambitions overreached and he was unable to deliver the maps he promised to his readers. In the 1894 issue of Atbalss he apologized to readers that he had not finished a map of the 42 August Bielenstein, Ein glückliches Leben: Autobiographie, 1826–1907 (Michelstadt: Neuthor Verlag, 2002), 325; Balss, no. 43, 21 October 1892, 10. 43 Altbass (1894), backcover. 44 On the development of consumerism in late imperial Russia, see: Marjorie L. Hilton, Selling to the Masses: Retailing in Russia, 1880–1930 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2014). 45 Bielenstein, Ein Glückliches Leben, 325. 46 Düna Zeitung, no. 281, 13 December 1896, 2. 47 For an example of how this prepublication censorship of cartographic materials worked, see the report from 24 March 1859 by the Military Topographical Corps granting permission for the publication of Maa kaardi-ramat, the first Estonian language geographical map. National Archives of Estonia (EAA) 321.1.228.75.

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Zehsu Limbaschu (Cēsis-Limbaži) area, explaining that “This is a big job that takes time. For now, dear readers, please be patient.”48 At the same time, this public apology to his readers may also have simply been a marketing strategy to emphasize the popularity of his work and connect with his customers

Selling the Idea of “Latwija”: Advertising and the Politics of Consumption Siliņš’s business model of selling his maps for low unit costs and in large print runs, and the relatively high wages of workers in the Baltic provinces compared with the rest of the empire, meant that the maps would have been affordable to workers.49 However, Siliņš’s maps were a consumer product that was not vital for everyday life. His proclamation that the Latvian people should be provided with maps in their own language, rather than having to rely on German and Russian maps, was an issue which, in quotidian terms, was unlikely to have been very significant for the majority of Latvian speakers. He therefore engaged in various strategies to push sales and broaden his customer base among urban consumers. As Marjorie L. Hilton argues, successful retailers in late imperial Russia “kept in touch with customers’ tastes and preferences and marketed products by tapping into their emotions, loyalties, and dreams.”50 One way in which Siliņš gained visibility and promoted the cultural value of his maps was through his participation in the public-orientated educational activities of the RLS. Notably, in 1896 he produced two maps for display at the Latvian Ethnographic Exhibition organized by the RLS in Riga in 1896.51 Over the course of six weeks, the exhibition was visited by 45,000 people, equivalent to one-sixth of Riga’s population at the time. Siliņš’s maps provided a spatial context for visitors to situate the different ethnographic objects on display from various regions of “Latwija.” 48 Altbass (1894), 35. 49 Boris N. Mironov, “Wages and Prices in Imperial Russia, 1703–1913,” Russian Review 69:1 (2010), 66. 50 Hilton, Selling to the Masses, 84. 51 Matīss Siliņš, Rīga līdz ar apvidu (Riga: M. Siliņš; A. Štāla litogrāfijā, 1896); Matīss Siliņš, Latwijas skolu karte (Riga: M. Siliņš; A. Štāla litogrāfijā, 1896). On the Latvian Ethnographic Exhibition, see: Sanita Stinkule, Toms Ķikuts, and Jānis Ciglis, Latviešu Etnogrāfiskā Izstāde 1896 / Latvian Ethnographic Exhibition 1896 (Riga: Neptuns, 2016); Sanita Stinkule, ed., Indivīds. Vēsture. Nācija. Latviešu Etnogrāfiskajai Izstādei – 120: Rakstu krājums (Riga: Latvijas Nacionālais Vēstures Muzejs, 2017).

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In addition, Siliņš heavily advertised his goods in major Latvian- and German-language newspapers in Livland/Lifliand and Kurland/Kurliand. Siliņš’s advertisements were placed alongside announcements for the meetings of the RLS, theater performances, and society balls, as well as adverts for consumer goods such as cigars and chocolate. The juxtaposition of Siliņš’s maps alongside luxury commodities suggests that he aimed to reach people who had some disposable income and leisure time, as well as more educated readers concerned with political and social issues. The advertisements reveal how Siliņš publicized the map supplements as one of the calendars’ unique selling points, which made his products superior to his competitors, and attempted to seduce potential buyers by providing detailed descriptions of the maps. Advertising also cultivated a broader cartographic sensibility among readers by informing them of the cultural importance of maps for understanding their homeland. Building upon an assumed basic level of map literacy among his readers, Siliņš sought to educate potential customers about how to judge the quality of a map by emphasizing factors such as the newness of the data and the credentials of the mapmakers. Siliņš drew readers’ attention to both the educational and aesthetic value of his maps, noting how “the map, richly presenting different geographical information, at the same time remains beautiful, clear, easy to read and will give … an extensive and accurate picture of all the regions of our homeland.”52 Siliņš regarded the high quality of his maps as a technical achievement and a symbolic resource for Latvian cultural pride, noting that “the publisher of the map spared neither time, nor effort, nor expense to present something useful.”53 Furthermore, Siliņš attempted to stimulate wider interest in Latvian geography, cartography, history, and ethnography by appealing to his readers to participate in the mapping project by sending him geographic and ethnographic information about their local area. Throughout the nineteenth century, it was common practice for mapmakers to appeal to readers for information to draw and correct maps. However, these appeals were usually published in scientific journals and read by members of the intelligentsia or civil service. By contrast, Siliņš invited a much wider social group to “lend a helping hand” in the process of mapping “Latwija.”54 Siliņš asked 52 Balss, no. 43, 21 October 1892, 10. 53 Altbass (1890), 89–90. 54 Altbass (1893), 48.

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readers to send him information about place names, as well as additions or corrections to incorporate into future maps. Siliņš participatory approach to mapmaking was especially evident during his later work in 1904–1905 on a Map of Asia, which depicted Latvian “colonies” across the Russian Empire and in North and South America.55 In an article in the newspaper Latweeschu Awizes, Siliņš appealed to readers as far away as “Siberia, the Far East, Turkmenistan, and America” to send him information about Latvian communities scattered across the globe. He reminded readers to include their name and address so that he could repay their kindness by sending them a copy of the finished map when it was published.56 Siliņš’s approach to mapmaking at the turn of the century closely resembles today’s crowd sourcing campaigns, whereby he reached out to involve Latvian speakers in the process of their spatial self-definition.57 In Siliņš’s eyes, the Latvian-speaking reading public was not only the object and target audience of his maps, but also an active participant in creating them. Siliņš sought to use the mapmaking process to mobilize individual readers to join in the wider endeavor of mapping the human and natural geography of “Latwija.” Moreover, the way in which Siliņš’s was able to reach out to Latvian readers around the world was made possible thanks to developments in global communication infrastructures in the late nineteenth century, especially the international postal system (the Russian Empire joined the International Postal Union in 1874) and the expansion of the railway network.58 The rhetorical devices used by Siliņš to market his maps reveal how he aimed both to satisfy an alleged demand for vernacular cartographic materials among Latvian readers and inspire further interest and engagement with geography and cartography. As Siliņš wrote in an advertisement in 1892: “Loyalty creates loyalty. Following this conviction, the publisher presents the result of his difficult and expensive undertaking in the hope that the Latvian people will support it now and always by buying a calendar and promoting its dissemination.”59 By attempting to persuade his Latvian readers of the importance of cartography for the development of Latvian culture and national consciousness, he politicized personal consumption 55 Matīss Siliņš, Asijas karte lihds ar wisu Kreewiju un Latweeschu kolonijām (Riga: Schnakenburg druk., 1904). 56 Latweeschu Awizes, no. 67, 24 August 1905, 2. 57 This way of working was not limited to his cartographic projects, but also characterized his ethnographic fieldwork and collecting folksongs and objects for the museum. 58 Mathew, Greetings from the Barricades, 30–31. 59 Balss, no. 43, 21 October 1892, 10.

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by connecting it to the wider needs of the national community. He hoped that loyal customers would become loyal and self-conscious Latvians. When in 1894 Siliņš was forced to increase his prices, he appealed to his readers to continue support the venture: Dear readers of the Atbalss calendar, you will find that, starting this year, the price of the calendar has increased from 25 kopecks to 35 kopecks. There is no need for a long explanation of the reasons. Beautiful maps and other supplements require not only long, hard work, but, above of all, a lot of money. In order to continue publishing maps as usual, the publisher is forced to turn to the Latvian people for support: it is good to buy a calendar, despite the increased price.60 We must wary, however, of taking Siliņš’s claims at face value. These appeals to readers tell us more about the commercial interests of Siliņš as a publisher and bookseller rather than the views of the consumers themselves. It is also important to add a caveat about the limitations to the circulation of cartographic knowledge about “Latwija” and the geographical spread of Siliņš’s customers. Siliņš’s calendar and maps claimed to be aimed at all Latvian speakers and reach across confessional divisions by providing information about Lutheran, Orthodox, and Catholic calendar dates. However, in the context of the early 1890s, his audience would primarily have lived in Livland/Lifliand and Kurland/Kurliand provinces. Although Siliņš included the western part of Vitebsk province in his maps of “Latwija,” in the 1890s the region was subject to a ban on printing and publishing in Latin script, which remained in force in the whole of the northwestern territory from 1865 to 1904. Consequently, during this period, Vitebsk province largely remained part of a separate information space to Livland/Lifliand and Kurland/Kurliand. Moreover, literacy levels in western Vitebsk were far lower than in the neighboring Baltic provinces.61 Thus, while Siliņš included the Latvian (or Latgalian) inhabitants of Vitebsk province within “Latwija,” the population themselves remained largely isolated from the networks of circulation, consumption, and production of geographical knowledge about “Latwija” during this period. It is only later, from the 1910s, that we find examples of intellectuals from Vitebsk province engaging with 60 Altbass (1894), backcover. 61 According to the 1897 census, 82.81% of Vitebsk province’s population was illiterate.

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Siliņš’s maps. Notably, the Latgalian newspaper publisher and political figure Francis Kemps (Fraņcs Kemps) criticized Siliņš for transcribing Russian-language versions of toponyms rather than using the local Latvian or Latgalian place names.62 Siliņš’s maps became one of the definitive reference works for scholars interested in Latvian ethnography and linguists and were widely cited by experts in the Russian Empire and early Soviet Russia. However, there are few sources that give us an insight into the opinions of Siliņš’s Latvian readers and it is therefore hard for historians to assess the impact of his maps on emerging ideas about Latvian nationhood. Among the contemporaries who penned reviews of Siliņš’s map in the local Latvian- and German-language press, many of whom remained anonymous, his maps were widely met with positive acclaim. In contrast to the ideas that Siliņš was trying to convey through his maps, these reviews give us an insight into what readers actually took away from their encounters with Siliņš’s maps. Some reviewers commented directly on the value of Siliņš’s mapmaking activities for promoting Latvian national consciousness. In 1895, a review in the Latvian-language newspaper Balss (Voice) proclaimed Siliņš’s calendar and map excellent value for money: “It is really a small price! If you notice the price of the publisher’s tireless work and diligence, with which he tries to introduce Latvians to Latvia, then we can wish for the calendar a lot of buyers and a lot of admirers.”63 Concerning the map’s contents, reviewers tended to simply repeat Siliņš’s own descriptions of what the map showed rather than offering critical commentary. Most of Siliņš’s customers would have had little knowledge or expertise with which to assess the scientific accuracy of the maps themselves and therefore did not pass judgment on issues of data or methodology. Instead, Siliņš’s reviewers focused on aesthetic and economic issues, valuing maps that were legible, well engraved, beautifully colored, and reasonably priced. An anonymous review in the German-language Libauishe Zeitung praised the maps aesthetic appearance and the “great care” with which the map had been made, but noted how out how the inclusion of so much information about political, human, and physical geography left the map too cramped. The use of hatching in particular was felt to have compromised the “readability” of place names.64 Siliņš was attuned to his customer’s tastes and in subsequent advertisements for new publications 62 Dzimtenes Wehstnesis, no. 113, 19 May 1912, 5. 63 Balss, no. 6, 8 February 1895, 4. 64 Libauishe Zeitung, no. 209, 14 September 1891.

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he made sure to emphasize the aesthetic qualities, including the “beautiful carving” and “clear print on thin paper.”65

Conclusion To mark the centenary of the Republic of Latvia in 2018, the National Library of Latvia produced an atlas of one hundred maps from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries to commemorate the state’s history.66 The maps present a rich visual narrative outlining the major historical milestones and social, political, and economic developments over the past hundred years. For Siliņš 120 years earlier, cartography had a similar cultural and national mission. Siliņš used maps to define the Latvian ethnographic territory, promote awareness of Latvian nationhood, and educate and delight his readers. By mapping Latvian speakers together, he encouraged readers to think about Latvians as a collective community spanning three administrative provinces. Moreover, he wanted to create high-quality objects of material and visual print culture that would demonstrate the sophistication of Latvian-language scientific production and challenge the dominance of German- and Russian-language cartography in the region. Siliņš’s maps formed part of a wider spectrum of social, cultural, and consumer activities at the turn of the century that sought to strengthen the notion of “Latwija” as an epistemic space and normalized ethnicity as a prism for thinking about a Latvian territory within the empire. Siliņš’s activities to map “Latwija” formed part of broader developments in the late nineteenth century, whereby geographers across Central and Eastern Europe turned to cartography to delineate regions “belonging” to various ethnolinguistic groups and used geographical knowledge to argue for the natural borders and internal unity of these territories.67 Situating Siliņš in this wider comparative perspective enables us to view him as a regional 65 Balss, no. 43, 21 October 1892, 10. 66 Jānis Barbans, 100 gadi 100 kartēs (Riga: Karšu Izdevniecība Jāņa Sēta; Latvijas Nacionālā bibliotēka, 2018). 67 For a comparative study of this phenomenon among American, German, Polish, Hungarian, and Ukrainian geographers, see: Steven Seegel, Map Men: Transnational Lives and Deaths of Geographers in the Making of East Central Europe (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2018). See also: Petronis, Constructing Lithuania: Ethnic Mapping in Tsarist Russia, ca. 1800–1914; Darius Staliūnas, ed., Spatial Concepts of Lithuania in the Long Nineteenth Century (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2016); Katariina Kosonen, “Making Maps and Mental Images: Finnish Press Cartography in Nation-Building, 1899–1942,” National Identities 10:1 (March 2008), 21–47.

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example of a widespread phenomenon. At the same time, in contrast the nationally orientated cartographers who rose to prominence during the First World War, we need to be careful not about reading too much nationalist meaning in Siliņš’s mapmaking activities in this prerevolutionary period. In the 1890s, Siliņš’s vision of “Latwija” remained firmly grounded within the imperial space. Siliņš’s cartographic publishing activities illustrate how while many members of society in the Baltic provinces in late imperial Russia were orientated towards activities to promote national culture and languages, they remained “indifferent towards nationalism as a political strategy.”68 Siliņš’s cartographic publications consolidated the notion of “Latwija” as a region which was nested within, rather than subverted or replaced, imperial geographies. While Siliņš mapped the Latvian language area and its borders, his maps did not explicitly link language to the larger, and more political, concept of national identities. Siliņš’s maps offered a view of a Latvian-speaking community within the empire, rather than a vision of a political nation.

68 Brüggemann and Wezel make this point in relation to the Baltic German community, but it is also helping for framing Siliņš’s stance towards national questions. Brüggemann and Wezel, “Nationally Indifferent or Ardent Nationalists?,” 61.

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The Sokolowski Affair Testing the Limits of Cultural Autonomy in Interwar Latvia f Christina Douglas & Per Bolin

Introduction After the simultaneous collapse of the Russian and German Empires, Latvia emerged as an independent state in 1918. Activists in the Latvian national movement were now within reach of their primary goal—to create a Latvian nation-state based on Latvian culture and language. Since ethnic Latvians constituted around 75% of the population within the new Latvian borders, the emerging Latvian political and intellectual elite was confident that the goals of the national movement were close to fulfillment. Latvian politicians dominated the new parliament, the Saeima, and state institutions were mobilized in the early 1920s to infuse the new state with national Latvian content. The prime target of nationalist resentment, the Baltic German landowning nobility, saw their manor lands confiscated in far-reaching agricultural reforms in the early 1920s. Land was redistributed by the state to Latvian small-scale farmers.1 At the same time, the economic and cultural capital of the former elite, the Baltic Germans, was not easily eroded. The urban Baltic German elite (factory owners, businessmen, professionals, and literati) was not affected by the agricultural reforms and retained a large degree of economic and cultural power in Riga and Latvian provincial towns. Also, the ethnic divides that had so clearly marked the Baltic lands in late imperial Russia continued in independent Latvia. Civil society—voluntary associations and political parties—were to a very large extent organized along ethnic lines.2 Fearing a general Latvianization of society, the main goal of politicians 1 Andrejs Plakans, A Concise History of the Baltic States (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 2 Ulrike von Hirschhausen, The Grenzen der Gemeinsamkeit. Deutsche, Letten, Russen und Juden in Riga 1860 –1914 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006); Michael Garleff, Deutschbaltische Politik zwischen den Weltkriegen. Die Parlamentarische Tätigkeit der Deutschbaltische Parteien in Lettland und Estland (Bonn-Bad Godesberg: Verlag Wissenschaftliches Archiv, 1976); Benjamin Conrad, Loyalitäten, Identitäten und Interessen. Deutsche Parlamentarier im Lettland und Polen der Zwischenkriegeszeit (Göttingen: Mainz University Press, 2016); Mark R. Hatlie, Riga at War, 1914–1919: War and Wartime Experience in a Multi-ethnic Metropolis (Marburg: Herder-Institut, 2014).

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and associations connected with ethnic minorities in the early 1920s was to achieve a measure of cultural autonomy to safeguard their respective languages and cultures. More specifically, ethnic minorities wanted to have a separate school system where their children would be taught in their native language. The most vociferous and best organized ethnic minority in this campaign was the former elite group, the Baltic Germans.3 However, the notion of cultural autonomy for ethnic minorities also found some resonance among the Latvian elite, not only because of the legacies of an ethnically divided civil society, but also because it would presumably allow the greater part of the school system to be placed firmly in Latvian hands. Consequently, in Latvia and Estonia, cultural autonomy schemes for ethnic minorities were developed in the early 1920s, especially in the form of separate school systems. These institutions were part of a general move towards cultural autonomy for ethnic minorities, which was a specific way of handling the issue of minority rights within the newly emerged states of Central and Eastern Europe after 1918. The actual formalization of cultural autonomy in terms of separate school systems differed between countries: in Estonia it was included in legislation in 1925, while in Latvia similar initiatives failed. In Latvia, however, cultural autonomy for ethnic minorities was regulated by an education law in 1919, which allowed ethnic minorities to establish separate schools using their native language in tuition.4 In Latvia, not only the Baltic Germans but also other ethnic minorities made use of this opportunity, including Russians, Jews, Belarusians, and Poles. However, since cultural autonomy never became firmly established in the Latvian legal system, the meaning and boundaries of cultural autonomy was never clearly defined and remained therefore open to different interpretations. For the Baltic Germans, having a separate school system was an essential part of their quest to retain their former elite status as much as possible within the cultural sphere. As a numerically very small ethnic minority, 3 Conrad, Loyalitäten, Identitäten und Interessen, 81–88; Garleff, Deutschbaltische Politik zwischen den Weltkriegen, 82–90. 4 Garleff, Deutschbaltische Politik zwischen den Weltkriegen; Michael Garleff, “‘Kein deutsches Kind ohne deutsche Schule.’ Das deutsche Schulwesen im unabhängigen Estland bis zur Übernahme durch die Kulturselbstvervaltung,” Nordost-Archiv. Zeitschrift für Regionalgeschichte 1 (1992), 309–335; Helena Šimkuva, “Die Probleme der deutschen Schulwesens in der Republik Lettland (1919–1939) – Ergebnisse und Aufgaben der historischen Forschung,” Nordost-Archiv. Zeitschrift für Regionalgeschichte 1 (1992), 351–374; Leo Dribins, “Die Deutschbalten unde die Idee vom nationallettischen Staat (1918–1934),” Nordost-Archiv 5 (1996), 277–299; Fredrika Björklund, “The Rhetoric of the Nation: Baltic Germans in the First Latvian Democracy,” in Re-inventing the Nation: Multidisciplinary Perspectives on the Construction of Latvian National Identity, ed. Mats Lindqvist (Botkyrka: Mångkulturellt centrum, 2003).

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approximately constituting a mere 3.5% of the population, the Baltic Germans feared that future generations would be Latvianized. Such fears were actually long standing and became increasingly prevalent during the last decades of the imperial regime. Pressured by both Russification and the national movements of Latvians and Estonians, the Baltic Germans became increasingly anxious to preserve their nationhood, Volkstum, from dissolution. It was first and foremost Baltic German women and their women’s movement that worked to accomplish this by establishing German-speaking schools and organizing various social and cultural activities.5 Cultural autonomy in the early 1920s was therefore seen by the Baltic Germans as a precondition for their very survival as a minority community defined by language, culture, and heritage.

A New Perspective on Cultural Autonomy Nonterritorial cultural autonomy in the Baltic states during the interwar period has received considerable scholarly attention during the past two decades. British historians David J. Smith and Martyn Housden, together with Finnish historian Kari Alenius, have produced a substantial body of work on this issue. However, their main focus has been on Estonia.6 Baltic German strategies to obtain cultural autonomy in Latvia have primarily been explored by John Hiden.7 Moreover, research has so far centered primarily 5 Christina Douglas, “A Baltic German Women’s Movement: The German Women’s League in Riga Preserving ‘Germandom’ in Democratic Latvia, 1919–1934,” Zeitschrift für Ostmitteleuropaforschung 64:2 (2015), 218–238; Christina Douglas, “Te-aftnar i nationens tjänst. Den tyskbaltiska kvinnorörelsen och det tyskbaltiska nationella projektet 1905–1919,” Tidskrift för genusvetenskap 37:3 (2015), 31–50; Anders Henriksson, “Minority Nationalism and the Politics of Gender: Baltic German Women in the Late Imperial Era,” Journal of Baltic Studies 273:3 (1996), 213–228. 6 David J. Smith, “Non-territorial Cultural Autonomy as a Baltic Contribution to Europe between the Wars,” in The Baltic States and Their Region: New Europe or Old?, ed. David J. Smith (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2005); Martyn Housden, “Cultural Autonomy in Estonia: One of History’s ‘Curiosities’?,” in The Baltic States and Their Region, ed. Smith; Kari Alenius, “Under the Conflicting Pressures of the Ideals of the Era and the Burdens of History: Ethnic Relations in Estonia, 1918–1925,” Journal of Baltic Studies 35:1 (2004), 32–49; Kari Alenius, “The Birth of Cultural Autonomy in Estonia: How, Why, and for Whom?,” Journal of Baltic Studies 38:4 (2007), 445–462; Martyn Housden, On Their Own Behalf: Ewald Ammende, Europe’s National Minorities and the Campaign for Cultural Autonomy, 1920–1936 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2014). 7 John Hiden, Defender of Minorities: Paul Schiemann, 1876–1944 (London: Hurst, 2004); John Hiden and Martyn Housden, Neighbors or Enemies? Germans, the Baltic, and Beyond (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2008). For a critical perspective, see Ivars Ījabs, “Strange Baltic Liberalism: Paul Schiemann’s Political Thought Revisited,” Journal of Baltic Studies 40:4 (2009), 495–515.

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on the most prominent proponents of legislation on cultural autonomy: politicians and intellectuals like Paul Schiemann in Latvia, and Werner Hasselblatt, Ewald Ammende, and Mikhail Kurchinskii in Estonia. John Hiden’s work on Schiemann is no doubt an important contribution, but the fact that it is almost entirely based on German-language sources means that the attitudes of the Latvian political and cultural elite towards cultural autonomy is largely absent.8 The work of the entire British research group is also characterized by a clearly positive evaluation of cultural autonomy as a constructive way to handle ethnic minority issues. Smith and Housden, especially, argue not only that measures on cultural autonomy adopted in Estonia and Latvia during the interwar period adequately addressed minority issues, but that they also constitute a possible blueprint for the managing of such questions in contemporary post-Soviet Europe.9 However, while this policy-oriented approach of Smith and Housden certainly has its values, it still contains a normative aspect that prevents them from fully addressing the societal consequences of cultural autonomy when these policies were put into practice. Within Latvian and German historiography, the measures of cultural autonomy and separate school systems for ethnic minorities have also generally been viewed very positively.10 Helena Šimkuva, for instance, maintains that the measures instituted towards cultural autonomy not only made Latvia one of the most democratic states in Europe, but also facilitated the integration of ethnic minorities within the Latvian state.11 The predominant historical narrative on cultural autonomy in Latvia during the interwar period has therefore stressed its positive influence on society as a democratic and successful way of handling minority issues and minority rights. But was cultural autonomy within the framework of the Latvian nation-state really such an uncomplicated affair? In this chapter, we argue otherwise. Our main point is that there remained considerable frictions 8 Hiden, Defender of Minorities. 9 Smith, “Non-territorial Cultural Autonomy”; Housden, “Cultural Autonomy in Estonia”; David J. Smith and Karl Cordell, “Introduction: The Theory and Practice of Cultural Autonomy in Central and Eastern Europe,” in Cultural Autonomy in Contemporary Europe, ed. David J. Smith and Karl Cordell (London: Taylor & Francis, 2013). 10 Garleff, Deutschbaltische Politik zwischen den Weltkriegen; Garleff, “‘Kein deutsches Kind ohne deutsche Schule’”; Šimkuva, “Die Probleme der deutschen Schulwesens in der Republik Lettland”; Dribins, “Die Deutschbalten unde die Idee vom nationallettischen Staat”; Raimonds Cerūzis, Vācu faktors Latvijā (1918–1939). Politiskie un starpnacionālie aspekti (Riga: LU akadēmiskais apgāds, 2004). 11 Šimkuva, “Die Probleme der deutschen Schulwesens in der Republik Lettland,” 355.

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within the cultural sphere when the new Latvian elite struggled to replace the former Baltic German elite.12

Testing the Limits: A German-Speaking University in Riga? In this chapter, we explore one of these points of friction: the Baltic German campaign to establish a separate German-speaking university in Riga. Higher education in Riga was established during the imperial period with the founding of the Polytechnical Institute in 1862. Funded by the Baltic German elite, it was mainly geared towards the needs of the industrial and commercial sectors.13 Policies of Russification forced the Polytechnical Institute to change its tuition language to Russian during the 1890s, and it therefore lost some of its German character. Still, its teaching staff at the start of World War I comprised of a fair number of Baltic German academics. Part of this established Baltic German professoriate was integrated into the new university that was founded in Riga after the war, the University of Latvia. However, an important part of the agenda of the new university was to support the state-directed Latvianization of higher education, and the Baltic German academic elite was gradually replaced with younger Latvians.14 The German language was initially to some extent allowed in tuition, primarily in the natural sciences, technology, and medicine, but that practice was also limited gradually. The decided aim of the Latvian-dominated university leadership was to establish a virtual monopoly of the Latvian language within the university. From 1922 onwards, the university became increasingly Latvianized in terms of the ethnic composition of its staff and language use.15 Partly in response to the increasingly Latvian character of the state university, the Baltic Germans founded an alternative establishment of higher education in 1921: the Herder-Institut zu Riga. The Herder-Institut was founded to provide German-speaking youth with higher education in their native language. By 12 Per Bolin, “The Fall of Empire and the Emergence of New Elites: Creating a National Academic Elite at the University of Latvia, 1919–1922,” Nordost-Archiv. Zeitschrift für Regionalgeschichte 23 (2014), 67–85. 13 Juris Briedis et al., eds., Augstākās tehniskās izglītības vēsture Latvijā (Rīgas Tehniskā universitāte: Rīga 2002); Jürgen von Hehn, “Deutsche Hochschulaktivitäten in Rīga und Dorpat zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen,” in Die Universitäten Dorpat/Tartu, Riga und Wilna/Vilnius 1579–1979, ed. Gert von Pistohlkors, Toivo U. Raun, and Paul Kaegbein (Cologne: Böhlau, 1987). 14 Bolin, “The Fall of Empire and the Emergence of New Elites.” 15 Per Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas: Ethnic Policies and “National Disciplines” at the University of Latvia, 1919–1940 (Huddinge: Södertörn Academic Studies, 2012).

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1923, among the Baltic German politicians and academics in Riga, a plan to elevate the Herder-Institut to the status of university—a German-speaking parallel establishment to the University of Latvia—had taken firm shape. Between 1923 and 1926, the Ministry of Education and the representatives of the German school authorities held very contrasting views on the legal status of the Herder-Institut. The case for the Baltic German minority’s right to establish their own private institute of higher education, or augstskola, was primarily argued by Karl Keller, the director of the German school system. The ministry disagreed, and in a extraneous decision of 1924 it was established that minority school authorities were not entitled to open private universities. The institute was therefore in a very precarious situation, under threat of imminent closure. Keller, however, continued to defend the rights of the Herder-Institut, claiming that as a private augstskola, the institute only had to adapt to the ministry’s regulations for universities, not for schools in general.16 According to the government decision, the rights of the Herder-Institut to teach and award degrees at university level would necessitate special legislation. Alternatively, the institute would be closed if its legal position was not established by legislation in the Latvian parliament, the Saeima.17 The problem was finding a way to have the Saeima grant formal university rights to the Herder-Institut, when the Saeima was dominated by ethnic Latvians and where the Baltic German political parties only controlled a small fraction of votes. However, an opportunity suddenly arose in 1926, when the Social Democrat government was in a very weak parliamentary position and needed the support from the smaller ethnic minority parties in order to form a majority. If the Baltic German Saeima delegates and representatives of the Herder-Institut acted strategically, the desired legislation granting university rights to the institute actually had a fair chance to pass.

The Sokolowski Affair: First Encounters The prospect of granting university status to the Herder-Institut, however, dimmed considerably when it was publicly called into question by the 16 Latvian State Historical Archives (Latvijas Valsts vēstures arhīvs, hereafter LVVA), 1632. fonds, 2. apraksts, 699. lieta, Ministry of Education. Herdera institūta lieta. Letters from Keller to the ministry, 16 July 1926; 11 August 1926. 17 LVVA, 163. f., 2. apr., 699. l., Ministry of Education. Herdera institūta lieta. Transcript of the government decision, 1 February 1924.

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Latvian academic elite. In March 1926 Pēteris Zālīte, a philosophy professor at the University of Latvia and a former politician from the early postwar period, published a scathing attack on the chairman of the Herder-Institut, Professor Sokolowski, in the Latvian newspaper Jaunākais Ziņas.18 Zālīte maintained that Sokolowski had advanced very derogatory opinions about Latvian academia, especially Latvian philosophers, within German cultural circles. The section on Latvia in Reichls Philosophischer Almanach: Internationales Jahrbuch der Philosophie der Gegenwart had portrayed the Latvian philosophers at the university as at best second-rate academics.19 Zālīte maintained that the main source for the section on Latvia was no other than Sokolowski himself. The section on Latvia consisted of little more than five pages mostly pertaining to the Baltic Germans, the Germans in Latvia (Reichsdeutsche), the Herder Gesellschaft, and the Herder-Institut.20 In the brief mention of Latvians and the university, the very existence of Latvian philosophy, as well as a Latvian culture, was called into question.21 Zālīte claimed that this constituted an act of defamation of the University of Latvia and its scholars, marking it of inferior academic standard, in fact, much lower than that of the Baltic German private establishment of higher education, the Herder-Institut zu Riga. Worse still, according to Zālīte, Sokolowski had supported the claim that German culture in general terms was by far superior to Latvian culture. This was something the new Latvian cultural elite simply could not tolerate. Being in what must be termed a postcolonial society, where the ridicule and suppression of Latvian national culture was still in living memory for many, the elevation and status of Latvian culture could not be questioned.22 Continued Baltic German claims of cultural superiority would therefore tend to make the Latvian elite wary about extending the limits and scope of minority cultural autonomy. Therefore, this immediately became a very contentious issue and definitely something that the Baltic German politicians did not need at this specific moment, a public affair that enraged Latvian academics and nationalist activists alike. The common but divergent backgrounds of Zālīte 18 Jaunākais Ziņas, 27 March 1926. 19 Reichls Philosophischer Almanach: Internationales Jahrbuch der Philosophie der Gegenwart, Dritter Band 1925/1926, ed. Paul Feldkeller (Darmstadt: Otto Reichl Verlag, 1926), 132–137. 20 Reichls Philosophischer Almanach, 132–137. 21 Reichls Philosophischer Almanach, 132. 22 Ivars Ījabs, “Another Baltic Postcolonialism: Young Latvians, Baltic Germans, and the Emergence of the Latvian National Movement,” Nationalities Papers 42:1 (2014), 88–107.

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and Sokolowski made the issue especially contentious. Zālīte was actively involved in Latvian politics during the struggle for independence, taking part in the first provisional Latvian National Assembly in Valka in 1917 and becoming an elected member of the commission that drafted the new Latvian constitution.23 In the early 1920s, he also published a substantial historical study of the Latvian struggle for independence between 1917 and 1919, and what he described as the “German aspirations to colonize Latvia.”24 Sokolowski, on the other hand, had belonged to an opposing political force. As minister of justice in Andrievs Niedra’s pro-German cabinet in 1919, Sokolowski had been an active part of the (failed) attempt to preserve Baltic German hegemony in the Baltic territory.25 His involvement in this campaign was certainly not forgotten among Latvian nationalist activists.26 Realizing this, the representatives of the Herder-Institut desperately tried to control the damage inflicted by Zālīte’s article. The accusation that Sokolowski had defamed not only the philosophers at the University of Latvia, but also Latvian culture more generally, also implicated the Herder-Institut since he was its chairman. This resulted in an intense activity within the institute, indicated by the fact that the board at Herder had three meetings in three days directly following the publication of Zālīte’s article. The original plan had been to publicize a firm denial of both Sokolowski’s and the institute’s involvement in the matter, and a response had already been written for the newspaper that had printed Zālīte’s article. However, that plan had to be abandoned before it could be put into action. By 29 March 1926, the first time the board convened since the publication of the article, it had come to their attention that Sokolowski in fact had been corresponding with the editor of Reichls Philosophischer Almanach. As Sokolowski was not present at the meeting, the board decided to await further clarification on the matter from him before taking any action. To speed things up, board members Dr. Wilhelm Klumberg and Mag. Woldemar Wulffius offered to travel to Wattram (Vatrāne) the next day to 23 Vija Apinīte, “Filozofs Pēteris Zālīte – LU Bibliotēkas draugs,” Universitātes Avīze, 30 April 2002, 3. 24 Pēteris Zālīte, Vācu varas pastari Latvijā: Kritiski vēsturisks Latvijas neatkarības ciņu, Golca kara gājiena, Bermonta aventūra, niedrisma un vācu Latvijas kolonizācijas tieksmju apskats (Riga, 1923). 25 Conrad, Loyalitäten, Identitäten und Interessen, 78. 26 Detlef Henning, “From Kangars to Rubiks: The Long Line of Traitors in the Historical Political Culture of Latvia,” Journal of Baltic Studies 37:2 (2006), 185–186.

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find Sokolowski and urge him to come to Riga, or alternatively to write an explanation that could be sent to the press. The board swiftly accepted the proposal.27 The board’s actions here speak of a real sense of urgency: they wanted an explanation from Sokolowski and they wanted it promptly. The need to handle the matter swiftly can of course be related to the stakes, the coveted university status for the Herder-Institut. The following day, 30 March, the board convened again, this time with Sokolowski present. He offered the following explanation: he had indeed had a private correspondence with Feldkeller, but he did not know that Feldkeller was editor of Reichls Philosophischer Almanach. Sokolowski also assured the board that he would meet with the dean of the philosophical faculty at the university as well as Zālīte and explain the matter.28 On 31 March, the board met for the third time in three days. Sokolowski reported that he had attended the aforementioned meetings and had in fact discussed the matter with Zālīte for an hour. He had made it clear that neither the Herder Gesellschaft nor the Herder-Institut had anything to do with the controversial section on Latvia in Reichls Philosophischer Almanach, and that its author was the editor Feldkeller, not Sokolowski.29 Sokolowski’s position at Herder seems to have deteriorated rapidly after these three consecutive meetings. At the very next board meeting, one month after his explanation to the dean and Zālīte, Sokolowski did not formally resign as chairman but told the board at Herder that he would cede his pay from 1 March. He also, in answer to a direct question, said that he would not stand for reelection as chairman at the upcoming Generalversammlung (General Assembly).30 Sokolowski repeated this stance at the next board meeting on 15 May, that he could not accept his reelection as first chairman of the Herder Gesellschaft. The reason given by Sokolowski was that that he would be abroad due to scientific work for an extended period.31 Sokolowski seems to have quickly become a serious liability for the Herder-Institut and its quest for coveted university status. His previous 27 LVVA, 4772. f., 1. apr., 4. l., Herder-Institut. Protokoll der 59ten Vorstandssitzung, 29 March 1926. 28 LVVA, 4772. f., 1. apr., 4. l., Herder-Institut. Protokoll der 60ten Vorstandssitzung, 30 March 1926. 29 LVVA, 4772. f., 1. apr., 4. l., Herder-Institut. Protokoll der 61ten Vorstandssitzung, 31 March 1926. 30 LVVA, 4772. f., 1. apr., 4. l., Herder-Institut. Protokoll der 62ten Vorstandssitzung, 1 May 1926. 31 LVVA, 4772. f., 1. apr., 4. l., Herder-Institut/Gesellschaft Protokoll der 63ten Vorstandssitzung, 15 May 1926.

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involvement in Niedra’s provisional government implied a disloyalty to the Latvian state, a disloyalty that could tinge the reputation of the institute.32 The minutes of the meetings give the impression that Sokolowski distanced himself of his own accord, but the question arises if he was not in fact outmaneuvered and sacrificed. At a board meeting on 21 October 1926, now with Professor Dr. Karl Reinhold Kupffer as chairman, the institute disassociated itself even further from Sokolowski, deciding that he was no longer allowed to officially represent the Herder-Institut. This decision had immediate consequences since the board had to inform not only Sokolowski himself but also the University of Munich that had already been told that Sokolowski would be representing the Herder-Institut at an upcoming celebration.33 This undertaking proved to be somewhat delicate, and its enactment was discussed at two separate board meetings in November.34 However, the urgent necessity to revoke Sokolowski’s affiliation with the institute clearly outweighed any discomfort on the board’s side, even if they agonized over the issue of exactly how detailed the explanation to the University of Munich ought to be.35 The need to distance the Herder-Institut from Sokolowski was in fact directly related to the ongoing political process regarding the institute’s legal status. At the request of the Herder-Institut’s board, the Baltic German members of the Saeima, Karl Keller and Baron Wilhelm von Fircks, attended the board meeting on 21 October 1926. Keller made a detailed report of the process in general as well as of his negotiations with different people, including representatives from the University of Latvia. In this context, Keller had also detected a distinct displeasure for the Herder-Institut and its former chairman Sokolowski, especially among the university’s representatives. After an extensive discussion on the topic, the board decided to ask the Baltic German Saeima members to continue in their efforts, and to try to secure the Herder Gesellschaft’s presidium an audience with the president of Latvia. They also decided to ask Dr. Klumberg to meet with Professor of Medicine Jānis Ruberts in an attempt to reconcile with the university leadership. Ruberts, rector of the university between 1923 and 1925, was a 32 A few years previously, Andrievs Niedra himself had stood trial for treason. See Henning, “From Kangars to Rubiks,” 185–186. 33 LVVA, 4772. f., 1. apr., 4, l., Herder-Institut. Protokoll der 70ten Vorstandssitzung, 21 October 1926. 34 LVVA, 4772. f., 1, apr., 4, l., Herder-Institut. Protokoll der 71 Vorstandssitzung, 4 November 1926; Herder Institut, Protokoll der 72 Vorstandssitzung, 13 November 1926. 35 LVVA, 4772. f., 1. apr., 4. l., Herder-Institut.Protokoll der 72 Vorstandssitzung, 13 November 1926.

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pragmatist with good connections with the Baltic German community.36 However, by 1926 Ruberts no longer had any connection with the university leadership, and these discussions appear to have been fruitless.37 Finally, they ruled to deny Sokolowski the right to represent the Herder-Institut. This decision was explicitly made and justified by the fact that the displeasure among the university staff towards the Herder-Institut was directly related to “alleged utterances” by Sokolowski.38 The negative feelings about the Herder-Institut and Sokolowski were clearly taken very seriously by the Herder-Institut’s board. In an effort to curtail the influence of these sentiments, they devised at double strategy. On the one hand, they sought the help of Latvians who had good relations with the Baltic German community, like Ruberts. At the same time, they distanced the Herder-Institut even more directly from Sokolowski. When his imminent departure as chairman proved to be insufficient, they went a step further and removed him from all representative duties. The board did not want to risk having Sokolowski represent the institute even at functions in Germany. He had clearly become a serious liability since much of the displeasure among the Latvian academics seemed to be focused on him personally. The displeasure towards both the Herder-Institut and Sokolowski can be related to the more general negative attitude among most Latvians towards the Baltic Germans. Benjamin Conrad, who has closely studied the shorthand minutes from the Latvian Saeima, regards the period between 1923 and 1929 as a time when the relationship between the Baltic German minority and the Latvian state “calmed down and normalized.”39 But he also stresses that the aforementioned negative attitude led the Baltic German members of the Saeima to obscure their political achievements from the general public to more easily reach compromises with the Latvian parties and the government.40 Conrad, however, pays little attention to the Herder-Institut question; he only briefly mentions the passing of the 36 LVVA, 7427. f., 3. apr., 1504. l., Latvijas Universitāte. Staff records: Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas, 91–97. Ruberts belonged to a faculty that had battled for the right to appoint qualified Baltic German academics in the early 1920s. He was also married to a Baltic German. 37 LVVA, 4772. f., 1. apr., 4. l., Herder-Institut.Protokoll den 70ten Vorstandssitzung, 21 October 1926. 38 LVVA, 4772. f., 1, apr., 4, l., Herder-Institut.Protokoll den 70ten Vorstandssitzung, 21 October 1926. 39 Conrad, Loyalitäten, Identitäten und Interessen, 96 (our translation). 40 Conrad, Loyalitäten, Identitäten und Interessen, 97.

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law in 1927 regarding the status of the institute.41 Here, we argue that these struggles were not primarily enacted in the Saeima plenum, but rather in the Saeima committees and in the cultural arena more generally. The intense activity. and to some degree even animosity. among the academics at both the Herder-Institut and the University of Latvia on this issue points to this conclusion. The battlefield regarding the status of the Herder-Institut was not located in the Saeima or related to party politics, but it was a battle in the cultural sphere of higher education, fought principally by intellectuals.

Growing Frictions… This battle began well before 1926. Hostility towards the Herder-Institut had been brewing among the academics in the Faculty of Philosophy and Philology at the University of Latvia for at least a year. Zālīte and some of his colleagues within the faculty maintained at staff meetings that the institute harbored people who wanted to harm the interests of the university and especially their own faculty.42 Tensions were clearly building between the faculty’s nationally oriented Latvian academics, primarily Zālīte, linguist Juris Plāķis, and archaeologist Francis Balodis, and its much smaller group of Baltic Germans, some of whom had established close ties with the Herder-Institut.43 Plāķis, for instance, in a faculty meeting in October 1925, complained that the major Baltic German newspaper Rigasche Rundschau had accused the Latvian linguists at the university of being more concerned with the ongoing and politically instigated process of Latvianizing family names rather than engaging in “proper” scholarly work.44 At the meeting, the respected Baltic German historian Leonid Arbusow chose to describe this article as a piece of “heedless and pointless journalism” and the faculty decided not to take any further action.45 41 Conrad, Loyalitäten, Identitäten und Interessen, 83. 42 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 363. l., Latvijas Universitāte Minutes of Faculty Meetings, 16 May 1925. 43 Francis Balodis, a recent returnee from the Soviet Union in 1924 was principally an Egyptologist but strove after his return to Latvia to take over the field of Baltic archaeology from the two Baltic German archaeologists in the faculty, Max Ebert and Karl Lövis of Menar. See LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 363. l., Latvijas Universitāte Minutes of Faculty Meetings, 28 March 1925; 2 May 1925; 16 May 1925; 7 November 1925; 4 December 1926; 14 May 1927; Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas, 222–229. 44 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 363. l., Latvijas Universitāte Minutes of Faculty Meetings, 15 October 1925; Conrad, Loyalitäten, Identitäten und Interessen, 87. 45 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 363. l., Latvijas Universitāte Minutes of Faculty Meetings, 15 October 1925. The official Latvianization of German names seems to have been a very sensitive issue

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Indeed, Leonid Arbusow, the most prominent Baltic German scholar in the faculty, was the very person chosen by Herder-Institut representatives to act as mitigator. Arbusow was clearly the most qualified historian in the faculty, which he joined in 1919 and where he was appointed full professor in 1922. From 1925, he also lectured regularly at the Herder-Institut, and served as a bridge between these two academic establishments.46 Even before the publication of Zālīte’s article, on 3 March 1926, Arbusow informed the board of the Herder-Institut that the section on Latvia in Reichls Philosophischer Almanach caused considerable irritation within the university faculty. At that point, however, the board at Herder decided to deny any connection between the institute, or Sokolowski, and the section on Latvia in Reichls Philosophischer Almanach, and Arbusow was asked to convey this position to his colleagues at the university.47

Drawing the Battle Lines: Debates within the Saeima Committees, 1926–1927 From December 1926, the Saeima Educational Committee debated the proposed legislation on the Herder-Institut. While the case for extended rights for the institute had previously been argued primarily by Sokolowski, now the main proponents were Saeima delegate Paul Schiemann and the Herder-Institut representatives Klumberg and Kupffer. For Schiemann, the main principle was that the state should not intervene in the spiritual and educational efforts of its citizens; instead, it should occupy a nationally neutral stance. Moreover, Schiemann argued that the institute was valuable because it engaged in specifically academic endeavors, such as the training of schoolteachers and clergymen for service in German-speaking schools and congregations.48 Schiemann’s argument was supported by Max Lazerson, a Saeima delegate from one of the Jewish parties. Lazerson argued that the Herder-Institut provided Latvia with cultural heritage based on the German language and within the Baltic German community, who did not appreciate having their names written in a Latvian orthography. In February 1927, the Latvianization of names became law. 46 LVVA, 7427. f., 13. apr., 88. l., Latvijas Universitāte, Staff records. 47 LVVA, 4772, f., 1. apr., 4. l., Herder-Institut.Protokoll der 58 Vorstandszitzung, 3 March 1926. 48 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., Latvijas Universitāte. Sarakste ar izglītiības ministriju par jauno augstskolu dibināšanu … Transcript of Saeima Educational Committee Meeting, 16 December 1925; 8 December 1926.

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history—diversity that was valuable for Latvia but also an asset for the other ethnic minorities in their efforts to preserve their cultural distinctiveness. Also, Lazerson noted, there had to be other institutions in Latvia for qualified academics that the university would not employ for one reason or another.49 These arguments did not placate Zālīte and his colleagues at the University of Latvia. At that point, the university leadership was headed by two professors from the Faculty of Philosophy and Philology: rector Augusts Tentelis, a historian, and pro-rector Juris Plāķis, a Latvian linguist. Many academics in this faculty were irritated by the Sokolowski affair. Plāķis, especially, was also notorious for his right-wing nationalist views, and he had been the most vociferous anti-German voice within the faculty for some time.50 The University Council decided in October 1926 to send three representatives to the Saeima committees within which the Herder-Institut proposal would be discussed: two from the humanities, Kārlis Straubergs and Plāķis, and one from law, the University Council secretary, Roberts Akmentiņš.51 They all had considerable experience in this matter. Both Straubergs and Plāķis had served for short spells as ministers of education, and Akmentiņš had previously, in his legal capacity, made a formal assessment of the HerderInstitut’s statutes.52 Within various Saeima committees in December 1926 and the following spring, they repeatedly and strongly argued against the proposal to grant university status to the Herder-Institut. Within the Educational Committee, they were joined in their efforts by the Saeima delegate Kārlis Dišlers, a lecturer in law at the university.53 49 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of Saeima Educational Committee Meeting, 8 December 1926; 17 December 1926. Actually, Max Lazerson had himself recently been turned down as a prospective privatdocents by the University Council, without official motivation. LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 2. l., LU Padomes protokoli, 5 May 1926. There was clearly a practice at the university to not appoint Jewish academics. During the entire interwar period, the university selected Jewish candidates only in a very few cases. See Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas, 168–170. 50 Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas, 204. 51 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 2. l., LU Latvijas Universitātes Padomes protokoli, 20 October 1926. 52 Juris Plāķis was Minister of Education for a brief spell in 1920. Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas, 204. Kārlis Straubergs held the same office in 1924, and in 1926 he was the university’s representative in the Saeima Educational Commission on School Legislation. Latvijas Universitāte Divdesmit Gados, II (1939), 73; LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 2. l., LU Padomes protokoli, 3 February 1926; 10 October 1926. Akmentinš had previously made an assessment of the Herder-Institut’s legal position on behalf of the Ministry of Education, LVVA, 1632. f., 2. apr., 699. l., Ministry of Education. Herdera institūta lieta, 20 November 1923. 53 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of Saeima Educational Committee Meeting, 8 December 1926; Latvijas Universitāte Divdesmit Gados, II (1939), 526–527. Several of the leading academics at the university also served as Saeima delegates, and often as ministers of education.

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One of their main arguments was that the Herder-Institut was in fact not a proper academic establishment, but still tended to portray itself as such. Since 1921, it had been engaged in educational pursuits for adults, but, they claimed, in a popular rather than academic manner. The courses offered at the institute were short and did not meet academic standards, and properly enrolled students constituted less than half of the lecture attendants. The university representatives saw no problem with this arrangement as such, but emphasized that this meant that the Herder-Institut did not qualify as an academic institution.54 Straubergs, Plāķis, and Akmentiņš also argued that the University of Latvia, according to its approved constitution, was acknowledged as the highest educational establishment in the country. It consisted of eleven faculties which provided a full range of academic training, a remarkable feat considering its establishment less than a decade earlier. They claimed that elevating the Herder-Institut to an equal academic rank of university would therefore be absurd. Also, for material and economic reasons, it would make more sense for the Latvian state to centralize higher education in one fully equipped university, rather than extend its limited resources to smaller institutions of a lower academic quality.55 Another line of argument was that a separate German-speaking university was not necessary, since the University of Latvia catered for all citizens of Latvia, not merely for ethnic Latvians. They pointed out that in November 1926, the university had 335 matriculated Baltic German students, and that their proportion among the studentship much exceeded that of this ethnic group in Latvia as a whole.56 The representatives from the institute, for their part, acknowledged that Baltic German students did enroll at the university, but claimed that a substantial number of them instead chose to study at German universities and were therefore potentially lost as an asset for Latvia.57 54 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of Straubergs’s speech in the Saeima Legal Committee on 14 December 1926, and Akmentiņš’s in February 1927. 55 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of Saeima Educational Committee Meeting, 15 December 1926; Transcript of Akmentiņš’s speech in the Saeima Legal Committee, February 1927. Akmentiņš supported his argument by showing that the university had opposed the establishment of smaller institutions of trade and commerce on other occasions, preferring to have such academic training situated within the university itself. 56 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of Akmentiņš’s speech in the Saeima Legal Committee in February 1927. 57 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of the proposal “Likums par Herderinstitūta Riga,” 3.

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Moreover, the university representatives claimed that the university employed a substantial number of Baltic German academics, 57 at the time of the hearing or 12.3% of the entire body of professors and lecturers. The German language was also used in tuition.58 The validity of this statement is questionable, since at this time there was a clear policy at the university to restrict the use of the German language (and Russian) in tuition and to primarily recruit and promote Latvian-speaking academics.59 However, the university’s representatives were clearly determined to counter the allegation that Baltic Germans were discriminated against. They also warned that elevating the Herder-Institut to university status would create a dangerous precedent. If the Baltic Germans were granted a separate university, the Russian and Jewish minorities would surely claim the same right. While having less economic power than the Baltic Germans, Jewish and Russian minorities in Latvia were actually greater in number.60 Schiemann and the representatives of the Herder-Institut stressed that according to the proposal, the institute would be privately funded and not economically dependent on the state.61 The university’s representatives claimed that this was impossible, given that the Baltic German group was far too small to meet the costs of a university without state subsidies.62 While both Straubergs and Akmentiņš strove to discredit the notion that the university’s negative stance towards the Herder-Institut was based on Latvian chauvinism, more aggressive arguments were voiced by the nationalist right-winger Juris Plāķis.63 He implied that the expected lack of funding from within the Baltic German group would necessitate subsidies from Germany, which would have political implications. This implied that the loyalty to the Latvian state among those involved with the Herder-Institut would be compromised.64 Plāķis, as well as Akmentiņš, also questioned 58 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of Akmentiņš’s speech in the Saeima Legal Committee, February 1927. 59 Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas, 82–106. 60 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of Strauberg’s speech in the Saeima Legal Committee on 14 December 1926, and Akmentiņš’s in February 1927. The Russian minority was more than three times the size of the Baltic German one, but had considerably less political and economic power. 61 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of Saeima Educational Committee Meetings, 8 December 1926; 14 December 1926; 15 December 1926. 62 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of Saeima Educational Committee Meeting, 15 December 1926. 63 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of Straubergs’s speech in the Saeima Legal Committee on 14 December 1926, and Akmentiņš’s in February 1927. 64 LVVA, 5485. f., 1. apr., 2821. l., Saeima. Likumas par Herdera institūtu Riga. Transcript of Saeima Educational Committee Meeting, 23 March 1927; 6 April 1927. Plāķis tried to have a

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whether it was really in the state interest to let the Baltic German group isolate themselves from the rest of Latvian society, effectively creating a virtual “state within the state.”65 Plāķis also kept referring to Sokolowski and the infamous section on Latvia in Reichls Philosophischer Almanach, presenting this as evidence of a general disdain for Latvian culture among the Baltic Germans connected to the Herder-Institut.66 The delegates from the institute disagreed, strenuously arguing that false information abroad about the University of Latvia had no connection whatsoever to the institute; on the contrary, such allegations would harm the desired amicable relationship with the university.67 The university’s campaign against the Herder-Institut proposal did not take place solely within the various Saeima committees. The university’s leadership also orchestrated a press campaign, sending copies of university delegates’ speeches to a significant number of Latvian newspapers, asking for them to be published.68 The discussions within the Saeima committees continued in the same vein until May 1927, when the legislation on the Herder-Institut was finally passed.

The End of the Affair – and How to Understand Its Meaning Cultural autonomy can be understood as a kind of political project of belonging. Nira Yuval-Davis’s theoretical framework regarding the politics of belonging highlights “specific political projects aimed at constructing belonging to particular collectivity/ies which are themselves being constructed in these projects in very specific ways and in very specific boundaries.”69 Being a multiethnic society, the new Latvian state needed a suitable project of belonging to ensure loyalty among all its citizens, regardless of nationality. Cultural autonomy, even if it was not formally included in the constitution, specification inserted that the private funds for the Herder-Institut could only be collected within Latvia, but failed to get any support from the committee. 65 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of Akmentiņš’s speech in the Saeima Legal Committee, February 1927. 66 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Manuscript of Plāķis’s speech in the Saeima Legal Committee, December 1926. 67 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208, l., LU. Sarakste … Transcript of Saeima Educational Committee Meetings, 14 December 1926; 15 December 1926; 17 December 1926. 68 LVVA, 7427. f., 6. apr., 208. l., LU. Sarakste … Letter from rector Tentelis to eight Latvian newspapers, 17 March 1927. 69 Nira Yuval-Davis, The Politics of Belonging: Intersectional Contestations (London: Sage, 2011), 10.

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was a compromise that promised to satisfy the needs of Latvia’s ethnic minorities in exchange for their loyalty to the Latvian state. For the Baltic Germans, giving the Herder-Institut university status was well within the established boundaries of their community of belonging. However, for the more nationally-inclined Latvians, it challenged the very boundaries of belonging. For Plāķis and his associates, the Baltic Germans were extending the limits of cultural autonomy in a way that compromised their status as loyal Latvian citizens. Instead of the original compromise they were creating a “state within a state.” The politics of belonging involve, according to Yuval-Davis, “not only the maintenance and reproduction of the boundaries of the community of belonging by the hegemonic political powers … but also their contestation, challenge, and resistance by other political agents.”70 Furthermore, Yuval-Davis also stresses the fact that belonging “becomes articulated, formally structured, and politicized only when it is threatened in some way.”71 We argue that the Sokolowski affair threatened the politics of belonging for the Latvian state, and that the contestation regarding the boundaries of the politics of belonging was primarily fought in the cultural sphere. A consequence of cultural autonomy as a project of political belonging was also that the cultural sphere became politicized. Within the idea of cultural autonomy, Latvian citizenship was important, but it was not everything. People were expected to define themselves according to ethnic categories and differentiating between citizenship and nationality was standard. The students at the Herder-Institut, for instance, had to fill in a form declaring their citizenship as well as their nationality.72 Similarly, University of Latvia staff had to state the citizenship and nationality of both themselves and their spouses in the employment records.73 The importance of distinguishing between citizenship and nationality, something Yuval-Davis also stresses, is crucial here as it highlights the underlying duality between citizenship and nationality.74 We argue that this duality was at the very core of the Sokolowski affair, because of its close connection to questions of conflicting loyalties: to one’s ethnic group and to the newly established Latvian state. Sokolowski clearly became a symbol for disloyalty towards the Latvian state. His past history as a minister in the Niedra government together with 70 Yuval-Davis, The Politics of Belonging, 20. 71 Yuval-Davis, The Politics of Belonging, 10. 72 See, for example: LVVA, 4772. f., 1. apr., 88. l., HI. The student file of Irene Grüner. 73 LVVA, 7427. f., 3. apr., Latvijas Universitāte, Staff records. 74 Yuval-Davis, The Politics of Belonging, 46, 81.

The Sokolowski Affair

his questionable opinions about Latvians made him a compelling weapon in the hands of Plāķis. The Herder-Institut board clearly understood this as they desperately tried to distance him from the institute to prevent jeopardizing the possibility of achieving coveted university status. As a common political project of belonging, cultural autonomy was certainly not helped by the tendency among certain Baltic Germans to retain a colonial mindset and position themselves as culturally superior to Latvians.75 Many Latvian intellectuals saw this colonial mindset in Sokolowski, which in turn bred resentment. In the end, the Herder-Institut received the right to be a privately funded establishment of higher education—an augstskola. But the question remains: was the Baltic German success in achieving formal university status for the Herder-Institut somewhat of a Pyrrhic victory? Was cultural autonomy extended to such an extent that it actually worsened the interethnic relations between Baltic Germans and Latvians? The political project of belonging in interwar Latvia seems to have received a substantial blow from the Sokolowski affair. The Sokolowski affair and its fallout also supports YuvalDavis’s argument that the political projects of states (here, a multiethnic Latvian state bound together by cultural autonomy) and the political projects of nations (such as the Latvian nation) do not necessarily overlap.76 However, despite achieving university status, degrees from the HerderInstitut remained invalid as they would not entitle graduates to enter into certain professions in Latvia, like law, architecture, and medicine. The University of Latvia managed to retain its monopoly in awarding arodtiesības, the right to be admitted into an established profession.77 Still, after the conflict over the status of the Herder-Institut in 1926–1927, the relations between Latvian and Baltic German academics became considerably more strained. The Sokolowski affair clearly contributed to this increased divide. The academics at the university, especially in the humanities, turned in a more nationalist direction after 1926, constructing an agenda focused on exploring the history and culture of ethnic Latvians. The Baltic German academics at the university were gradually marginalized, especially those who could not lecture in the Latvian language.78 75 Ute Hofmann, “Ethnic, Social and Mental Frontiers in Interwar Latvia: Reflections from Baltic Germans’ Autobiographies,” in Frontiers and Identities: Cities in Regions and Nations, ed. Lud’a Klusáková and Laure Teulières (Pisa: Plus-Pisa University Press, 2008). 76 Yuval-Davis, The Politics of Belonging, 201. 77 LVVA, 1632. f., 2. apr., 699. l., Ministry of Education. Herdera institūta lieta. 78 Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas, 223–229.

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During the early 1930s, conflict escalated between Latvian nationalist activists and Baltic Germans over the possession of cultural artifacts and symbolic spaces. The most well-known conflict, recently analyzed by historian Adam Brode, concerned the ownership of the prestigious Riga Cathedral of St. Mary.79 Due to mounting popular opinion among Latvians, the Cabinet decided to Latvianize the cathedral by handing it over to the state, leading to the exodus of the cathedral’s Baltic German congregation by the end of 1931. The widening gap between Latvians and Baltic Germans in the early 1930s was partly due to the fact that the common project of political belonging— cultural autonomy—came increasingly under attack from Latvian nationalist activists. But an equally important part of that process of estrangement was lingering notions of Baltic German paternalism and superiority that momentarily surfaced during the Sokolowski affair. While most Baltic German leaders were too wary to display an openly nationalist agenda, instances such as this affair showed quite clearly to Latvians that many, if not most, Baltic Germans still regarded them as inferior.80

79 Adam Brode, “National Activism and Symbolic Space: The Struggle for Riga’s Cathedral Church in 1931,” Journal of Baltic Studies 48:1 (2017), 67–82; Adam Brode, “Pride of Place: Interethnic Relations and Urban Space in Riga 1918–1939” (PhD diss., University of Pittsburgh, 2020), 280–310. 80 Hofmann, “Ethnic, Social and Mental Frontiers in Interwar Latvia: Reflections from Baltic Germans’ Autobiographies.”

3

More than a Means to an End Pērkonkrusts’s Antisemitism and Attacks on Democracy, 1932–1934 f Paula Oppermann

“Hit them, hit them!” “Beat the Jews!”

Brīvības iela (Freedom Street), Riga, on a Sunday afternoon. Shouting and singing anti-Jewish songs, more than 500 people are rampaging along the main thoroughfare of the Latvian capital. A woman in front of a Jewish shop is beaten. One of the rioters runs after an allegedly Jewish-looking boy, shouting, “Beat him, beat him!” and hitting him with a stick. The boy manages to escape. All around, people are shouting, “Beat the Jews!” The police resort to using rubber truncheons in order to disperse the mob.1 This pogrom occurred not in the first days of the occupation by Nazi Germany in July 1941, but on 11 September 1932.2 It was the final stage in the escalation of an attack that had begun hours earlier at a football match between Hakoah and Universitātes Sports (the University of Latvia’s football club), which the former had won 2–1.3 After the match, which took place 1 “Ziņojums polītiskās pārvaldes Rīgas rajona pārzinim,” Latvian State Historical Archives (Latvijas Valsts vēstures arhīvs, hereafter LVVA), 323. f., 3. apr., 109. l., 16 lp. The report mentions that people were singing “Daugaviņa māmuļiņa” (“Dearest Mother Daugava”). According to Marģers Vestermanis, in the interwar period, nationalists used to modify the lyrics of this song from “throw the nets into the Daugava” to “throw the Jews,” see Margers Vestermanis, “Der lettische Anteil an der ‘Endlösung’: Versuch einer Antwort,” in Die Schatten der Vergangenheit: Impulse zur Historisierung des Nationalsozialismus, ed. Uwe Backes, Eckhard Jesse, and Rainer Zitelmann (Frankfurt and Berlin: Propyläen, 1990), 440–441. 2 The term “pogrom,” and not “riot” is used here according to a definition by Werner Bergmann, where a pogrom is a “one-sided, non-state, majority-based form of collective violence against a largely defenseless ethnic group.” The power imbalance differentiates a pogrom from a riot, as in the latter, a minority can rage against a (perceived) oppressing minority, or two equal groups can attack each other. Werner Bergmann, “Pogrome,” in Internationales Handbuch der Gewaltforschung, ed. Wilhelm Heitmeyer and John Hagan (Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2002), 443–444. 3 “LU futbola vēsture,” Latvijas Universitāte website, https://www.lu.lv/sports/veidi/futbols/ lu-futbola-vesture/ (accessed 2 February 2019); “Sports. Beidzot uzwareja ‘Hakoah’ 2:1,” Pēdējā Brīdī, 14 September 1932.

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at a stadium located about 20 minutes’ walk from the historic city center, a steadily growing crowd headed downtown.4 Initially, it had been made up of 300 people, mainly young men wearing fraternity caps, waving, and disseminating leaflets from the newspaper of the Latvian People’s Association Ugunskrusts (Fire Cross).5 Historians have illuminated a radicalization and growth of antisemitism in Latvia in the press, political and public discourse, and the university student milieu prior to World War II.6 There remain, however, differing perceptions of the extent, roots, and results of this development. Since anti-Jewish violence was seldom lethal, and because it did not occur on a daily basis, some scholars have characterized such attacks as isolated acts with little support from the majority of society.7 For example, Andrew Ezergailis goes far enough to claim that, “Antisemitism in pre-war Latvia, to the degree that it existed, was not visible, either in the press or on the streets. Antisemitism in independent Latvia was relegated to the fringes of public life.”8 Katrin Reichelt argues that, based on published memoirs from Jews and non-Jews, “the majority of Latvia‘s inhabitants distanced themselves from such an extreme ideology or hardly noticed it.”9 While 4 Nowadays this is the stadium of the University of Latvia; at the time of the events described it was the home of the Rīgas Armijas Sporta Klubs: “Kā Rīgā pirms 100 gadiem noritējuši pirmie futbola mači?,” Riga City Council website, https://www.riga.lv/lv/ampnews/ka-rigapirms-100-gadiem-noritejusi-pirmie-futbola-maci?13758 (accessed 2 February 2019). 5 N.N., “Grosser antisemitischer Skandal vor und nach einem Fußballwettspiel,” Rigasche Rundschau, 12 September 1932; “Par ‘Ugunskrusts’ org.,” LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 109. l., 4. lp. 6 Examples that will, among others, be referred to below in more detail, are: Matthew Kott, “The Roots of Radicalism: Persistent Problems of Class and Ethnicity in Latvia’s Politics,” in Latvia – A Work in Progress? 100 Years of State- and Nation-Building, ed. David J. Smith (Stuttgart: ibidem, 2017), 279–314; Aivars Stranga, Ebreji un diktatūras Baltijā (Riga: Latvijas Universitātes Jūdaikas Studiju Centrs, 2002), 144–145; Leo Dribins, Antisemītisms un tā izpausme Latvijā: vēstures atskats (Riga : Latvijas vēstures institūta apgāds, 2002.), 83–84; Per Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas: Ethnic Politics and “National Disciplines” at the University of Latvia, 1919–1940 (Huddinge: Södertörn Academic Studies, 2012). 7 There were incidents where Jews were killed, for example, in a pogrom in Kārsava in 1920, when soldiers of the Latvian Army rampaged through the town and shot two Jewish citizens. See Dribins, Antisemītisms, 83–84. 8 Andrew Ezergailis, The Holocaust in Latvia 1941–1944: The Missing Center (Riga: Historical Institute of Latvia, 1996), 84. 9 Katrin Reichelt, Lettland unter deutscher Besatzung 1941–1944: Der lettische Anteil am Holocaust (Berlin: Metropol, 2011), 51. Reichelt referred to, for example, accounts by Frida Michelsone, Max Michelson, Bernhard Press, and Jewgenij Salzmann. She argued that memoirs that emphasize antisemitism, like Max Kaufman’s and Meir Levenstein’s, were problematic, as much of their descriptions was based on rumors or other difficult to corroborate sources. The chapter at hand presents other survivors’ testimonies and draws a different conclusion. A thorough scholarly re-evaluation of testimonies regarding the question of antisemitism in interwar Latvia would be necessary.

More than a Means to an End

agreeing that not all Latvians shared extreme hatred against Jews, Aivars Stranga notes that, “however, various forms of negative images, prejudices, antipathy, and suspicion against Jews were quite extensively common,” and that Latvian Jews were perceived as “foreigners who cannot fully integrate into Latvian society.”10 How does the football pogrom described above fit into this picture? There was a large crowd involved, and there were similar attacks elsewhere in Latvia, although usually on a smaller scale.11 Was open and violent antisemitism before the German occupation really a marginal phenomenon that left wider society unconcerned? The pogrom’s context—the perpetrators, their arrangements prior to the match, and the aggressive propaganda in the periodical Ugunskrusts—challenges this narrative that attacks on Jews were isolated incidents in interwar Latvia. It rather leads one to consider whether they could have been organized measures serving political goals. The perpetrators of the pogrom came from the milieu of the Latvian fraternities and the association Ugunskrusts, which later became the party Pērkonkrusts (Thunder Cross).12 This organization was established by members of student fraternities and men who had previously been active in ultra-nationalist circles such as the Latvju Nacionālais Klubs (Latvian National Club, LNK). Established in 1922, the LNK promoted anti-democratic, antisemitic, and pro-authoritarian views; embraced and conducted physical violence; and saw in itself the same spirit as the Italian Fascists and other right-wing movements at the time. It was banned in 1925 and all attempts to revitalize a similar organization failed mostly due to internal quarrels among the initiators.13 This changed in January 1932, when approximately 50 men gathered at the venerable Rīgas Latviešu Biedrība (Riga Latvian Society) to inaugurate 10 Aivars Stranga, “Ebreju bēgļi Latvijā: 1933–1940,” in Holokausta izpētes problēmas Latvijā (Riga: Latvijas Vēstures instititūta apgads, 2001), 321. 11 For example, in 1939, a members of Pērkonkrusts desecrated the interior of a synagogue in Preiļi: Björn M. Felder, “‘Die Spreu vom Weizen Trennen…’: Die Lettische Kartei – Pērkonkrusts im SD Lettland 1941–1943,” Latvijas Okupācijas Muzeja Gadagrāmata 5 (2003), 51. In April 1933, Rigasche Rundschau reported that houses of a Jewish organizations were vandalized in Rēzekne. It did not refer to Pērkonkrusts, but mentioned that the Jewish community was very upset by this event: “Antijüdische Demonstration in Rositten,” Rigasche Rundschau, 20 April 1933. 12 Pērkonkrusts is the name more commonly encountered in the literature than the earlier designation, Ugunskrusts. In this chapter, both names will be applied synonymously, based on the respective sources, since the organization remained in fact the same, as will be elaborated on below. 13 For an overview on the LNK and its successor organizations, see Uldis Krēsliņš, Aktīvais Nacionālisms Latvijā: 1922–1934 (Riga: Latvijas vēstures institūta apgāds, 2005).

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the Latviešu Nacionāla Apvienība (Latvian National Association, LNA).14 Soon thereafter, Gustavs Celmiņš, a lawyer and former fraternity member, established himself as leader of the organization and changed its name to Latviešu Tautas Apvienība “Ugunskrusts” (Latvian People’s Association Ugunskrusts), or simply Ugunskrusts.15 Ugunskrusts was the first organization to unite the radical right since the demise of the LNK, and it dominated this part of the political spectrum.16 In the last decades, historians have illuminated different aspects of Pērkonkrusts’s history. The organization has been identified as fascist,17 and scholars have elaborated on its influence in the political sphere and essential parts of Pērkonkrusts’s ideology.18 Matthew Kott demonstrates that Pērkonkrusts is an example of not only a fascist, but a national socialist organization that was anti-German at the same time, while Aivars Stranga emphasizes that Pērkonkrusts’s members were united in their antisemitism from the very beginning.19 Less attention has been paid to Pērkonkrusts’s interaction with wider society and the role that antisemitism played in this context.20 This chapter investigates how and why Pērkonkrusts conducted antisemitic activities in the early 1930s. Firstly, it argues that the physical and verbal attacks on Jewish citizens were consciously applied to undermine the Republic of Latvia, in 14 “B.bas ‘Ugunskrusts’ dibinātāju sapulces dalībnieki 24. janv. 1932. g. Latv. B.bas mazā zālē,” LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 115. l., 194 lp. 15 Ādolfs Šilde, Ardievas Rīgai: tikai atmiņas (Brooklyn: Grāmatu Draugs, 1988), 74. 16 Almost the only competition came from the Apvienotā Latvijas nacionālsociālistiskā partija (United Latvian National Socialist Party) of Jānis Štelmachers. Štelmachers initially promoted cooperation with Nazi Germany and was therefore harshly criticized from both left and right. His organization remained marginal, with not more than a hundred members, and was closed down in 1934. 17 The definition of “fascism” as “a genus of political ideology whose mythic core in its various permutations is a palenginetic form of populist ultranationalism” developed by Roger Griffin is applied here to define Pērkonkrusts as fascist: Roger Griffin, The Nature of Fascism (London and New York: Routledge, 1991), 26. Griffin mentions Pērkonkrusts specifically, for example, on p. 218. Previously, Pērkonkrusts had already been discussed in passing in the scholarly literature for some time, for example: Stein Ugelvik Larsen, Bernt Hagtvet, and Jan Petter Myklebust, eds., Who Were the Fascists: Social Roots of European Fascism (Bergen: Unversitetsforlaget, 1980), 179. 18 Dribins, Antisemītisms, 96; Stranga, Ebreji un diktatūras, 120. 19 Matthew Kott, “Latvia’s Pērkonkrusts: Anti-German National Socialism in a Fascistogenic Milieu,” Fascism 4 (2015), 169–193; Stranga, “Ebreju bēgļi Latvijā,” 304. 20 Ezergailis argued that they had little impact on the overall population: Andrievs Ezergailis Caur velna zobiem: Vācu laiki šodien. 1941–1945. Esejas un domas (Riga: Atvērtās krātuves, 2015), 293. Armands Paeglis, author of the only existing monograph about the organization, downplayed the antisemitic riots and claimed that such “hooliganism … is not direct proof that the organizations’ leadership supported or promoted these actions,” Armands Paeglis, Pērkonkrusts pār Latviju: 1932–1944 (Riga: Klubs 415, 2005), 33.

More than a Means to an End

order to build an authoritarian one-party state. Secondly, it elucidates that beyond a political tool, antisemitism was a core ideological pillar of the party, exceeding the widespread hostility towards other minorities—particularly Germans—of the time. In the final section, the chapter will examine the methods members of Pērkonkrusts used to infiltrate various spheres of Latvian society with this ideology and to consolidate their power. It will show that thereby they considerably fostered the estrangement of Latvia’s citizens already before the nationalist coup d’état by Kārlis Ulmanis in May 1934.

A Threat to Democracy In 1919, the Latvian state was declared a democracy providing all its citizens with equal rights. Citizens were, according to the republic’s founders, “all inhabitants … of Latvia, regardless of ethnicity.”21 It was a major task to seek harmony among the different groups and to base coexistence on “equality and inclusiveness.”22 In this context, an inclusive concept of citizenship was essential. It was, as Marina Germane describes, part of a project to create a “civic nation.” This approach was important, as social challenges intertwined with tensions among the ethnic groups—which considered themselves (and were prescribed) as being of different ethnic belonging—had shaped the region for centuries.23 The Constitution of Latvia (1922) granted for the first time equal rights for all citizens living in the country. Many of the dissimilarities between the different ethnic groups that had developed over history, however, remained. Despite having been deprived of their former privileges, the Baltic German elite continued to be influential economically and to a degree politically as well.24 Jews were still often denied state positions, and thus continued to work in their traditional jobs in the free professions or as shopkeepers. 21 Kott, “The Roots of Radicalism,” 291. 22 Marina Germane, “Latvians as a Civic Nation – The Interwar Experiment,” in Latvia – A Work in Progress?, ed. Smith, 58. 23 The author is aware of the problematic nature of ascriptions such as “ethnic group,” “Jews,” “Latvians,” and “Germans.” For practical reasons, the terminology will nevertheless be applied throughout this chapter, keeping in mind that these terms are in most cases artificial concepts created for political purposes and particularly that they ignore people’s individual self-images. For a detailed discussion about the ethnification of social problems in Latvia, see Matthew Kott, “Towards an Uncivil Society: Reactions to Soviet and Nazi Occupation and the Demise of Civil Society in Riga, 1939–1949” (PhD diss., University of Oxford, 2007), chapter 1. 24 Disregarding their actual influence, perceptions differed among the Germans, many of whom felt they had lost power, and particularly within the new Latvian elite, who felt the old

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The majority of the Latvian speakers still belonged to the peasantry. The basis of equal political rights did not sufficiently support social mobility and interaction among the different groups. As Per Bolin summarizes, “the Latvian nationalization policy was primarily ‘dissimilationist,’ granting cultural rights to the minorities but at the same time institutionalizing ethnic categorization and separateness.”25 This differentiation of ethnic groups is reflected in the discussion about who was to be granted citizenship rights, ignited by the return of refugees coming to Latvia from the territory of the former Russian Empire.26 Despite having mainly symbolic value, the topic was a catalyst for the ethnification of national discourse and the alienation of Latvia’s minority inhabitants.27 Within this discussion, particularly the Latvian-speaking right-wing nationalists saw the criteria for belonging to the Latvian nation as ethnic or racial, rather than territorial.28 Also, the Latvian-speaking majority population held reservations about those that they considered to be non-Latvian, and questioned their loyalty towards the Latvian state.29 Ugunskrusts attracted those who held such ethnicized nationalist sentiments. Under the slogan, “Latvia for Latvians! Bread and Work for Latvians!,” Ugunskrusts aimed to fight against the alleged advantages enjoyed by ethnic groups in the country that they considered non-Latvians, particularly “Germans” and “Jews”—or those individuals whom Ugunskrusts activists identified as such. These two minority groups were clearly separate from what Ugunskrusts imagined constituted the “Latvian people.” At one of the organization’s largest gatherings in 1933, Celmiņš declared in front of 2,000 people, “Sovereign power belongs to the Latvian people (and not, as the constitution says: ‘to the people of Latvia’)!”30 This emphasis illustrates that Ugunskrusts members not only sought to challenge the Latvian law on citizenship; they completely rejected the hierarchies had not been sufficiently reversed. On this conflict, see also the contribution by Christina Douglas and Per Bolin in this volume. 25 Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas, 129. 26 Germane, “Latvians as a Civic Nation,” 63. 27 Germane, “Latvians as a Civic Nation,” 67. 28 Björn M. Felder, “‘God Forgives – but Nature Never Will’: Racial Identity, Racial Anthropology, and Eugenics in Latvia 1918–1940,” in Baltic Eugenics: Bio-Politics, Race and Nation in Interwar Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, ed. Björn M. Felder and Paul J. Weindling (Leiden: Brill Rodopi, 2013), 126–127. 29 Latvia’s political police recorded the activities of suspicious Baltic Germans: Kott, “The Roots of Radicalism,” 296. 30 “Kundgebungen des Pehrkonkrusts ‘Lettland den Letten,’” Rigasche Rundschau, 18 September 1933.

More than a Means to an End

democratic republic’s constitution because it granted rights to individuals regardless of their ethnic or religious provenance. Instead, they offered a “new nationalism” that replaced the inclusive community of all citizens with an exclusive community of a homogenous Latvian people.31 This was a völkisch nationalism that openly linked the idea of the nation to race, and excluded Jews in particular—as will be discussed later.32 This völkisch nationalism equated “citizens” (as opposed to members of the national community) with alleged non-Latvians or ethnic Latvians who identified with the republic, accused them of “indifference towards the issues of our people’s life,” and considered the concept of citizenship a “destructive phenomenon.”33 Ugunskrusts’s “new nationalism” had nothing to do with the inclusive civic nationalism of the Republic of Latvia that Germane has described. Instead, it included only those who were Latvian according to Ugunskrusts’s völkisch ideology. Using the word “nationalism,” however, was a tool to appeal to both traditional and racist sentiments alike, and to attract the conservative circles of Latvian society who were “rather cool towards the modern fascist and Nazi currents.”34 The attempt not to scare off conservatives may have been also a reason—next to covering up their anticonstitutional attitudes—for Ugunskrusts not to openly demand the abolition, but rather the reform of the existing political order: The president is elected by the people to for at least five years; he appoints the cabinet, which also only he can recall. Legislative work should be carried out by a professional parliament. The government could then work undisturbed by party political influences.35 One of Ugunskrusts’s founding members and ideologue, Adolfs Šilde, emphasizes in his memoirs that the organization wanted a “people’s rule” and not a dictatorship.36 Had this actually been the case, Ugunskrusts could have been more supportive of the Farmers’ Union, which made a very similar 31 “Pilsonis un nacionālists,” Ugunskrusts, 28 August 1932. 32 On civic and völkisch nationalism, see Hannah Arendt, Elemente und Ursprünge totaler Herrschaft: Antisemitismus, Imperialismus, Totalitarismus (Munich: Piper, 2009), 488–490. An essential analysis on Pērkonkrusts’s völkisch agenda is provided in Kott, “Latvia’s Pērkonkrusts,” 169, 171. 33 “Pilsonis un nacionālists.” 34 Stranga, “Ebreju bēgļi Latvijā,” 304. 35 “Grosser antisemitischer Skandal.” 36 Šilde, Ardievas Rīgai, 93.

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suggestion in 1933 to the Latvian parliament (Saeima) to “limit the power of parliament while expanding the authority of a directly elected president and his government.”37 The significant difference was, however, that Prime Minister Ulmanis and his Latvian Farmers’ Union aimed to create an authoritarian, but inclusive, state; for Ugunskrusts, as Andres Kasekamp described it, the “reform of the system of government or constitution … was not an end in itself, but only a means toward the goal of creating a strong, united national community, not unrelated to the German idea of a Volksgemeinschaft.”38 Everyone—also ethnic Latvians—who disobeyed or did not fit Ugunskrusts’s agenda was threatened: “Not every citizen is a nationalist and not every nationalist is a citizen. That ‘citizen’ who trades with Jews and other minorities, selling Latvian interests, rights, and dignity, is not a nationalist.”39 Furthermore, all ethnic Latvians were considered part of the racial community, regardless of how they identified themselves; the Latvians in the eastern regions of the country who “had over generations opted to identify as Poles or Belarusians would need to be won back to the [Latvian] nation.”40 Since Ugunskrusts’s propaganda was diametrically opposed to the existing political order in Latvia, its activities were perceived with increasing concern by the government and state authorities, and the political police observed the organization from its very beginning. On 12 April 1933, the Saeima banned Ugunskrusts on the grounds that it did not conform with society’s interests and Latvia’s democratic principles.41 Celmiņš and his comrades had been prepared for this contingency. They immediately founded the party Pērkonkrusts, which was essentially the same as Ugunskrusts, with similar statutes, members, and aims. Therefore, Pērkonkrusts remained under surveillance and the government banned the party on 30 January 1934.42

37 Ieva Zake, “Latvian Nationalist Intellectuals and the Crisis of Democracy in the Inter-War Period,” Nationalities Papers 33 (2005), 100. 38 Andres Kasekamp, “Radical Right-Wing Movements in the North-East Baltic,” Journal of Contemporary History 34 (1999), 592. 39 “Pilsonis un nacionālists.” 40 Kott, “Latvia’s Pērkonkrusts,” 186. 41 “Rīgas apgabaltiesības svarīgu lietu izmeklēšanas tiesnesim M. Krēsliņa kungam,” LVVA, 3235. f., 5. apr., 113. l., 299. lp. According to historian Haralds Biezais, the Saeima accepted the Social Democrats’ request to ban Pērkonkrusts on 15 December 1933: Haralds Biezais. “Gustava Celmiņa Pērkoņkrusts dokumentu gaismā,” Latvijas Zinātņu Akadēmijas Vēstis 1–4 (1992), 29. 42 “Dienesta atzīme par partijas ‘Latviešu tautas apvienība Pērkoņkrusts’ darbību,” LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr. 110. l., 19. lp.; Paeglis, Pērkonkrusts pār Latviju, 76, 127.

More than a Means to an End

Also after the ban, however, the members continued to operate semi-legally in follow-up front organizations until after Ulmanis’s nationalist coup.43 The republican government closed down the party because it threatened the political and societal order, and linked this to Ugunskrusts’s antisemitism, as summed up in this police report: “Ugunskrusts’s aim is the division of the Latvian people through hatred, and this manifests itself openly in the pursuit of agitation and action against the Jews, without excluding even the organization of pogroms.”44 The authorities realized what Pērkonkrusts’s leaders later denied, and what today tends to be underestimated: namely, that attacks on Jewish citizens were an essential element of Ugunskrusts’s anti-democratic agenda.45 The examples provided reveal Ugunskrusts’s specific desire to undermine the Republic of Latvia and to create an authoritarian, allegedly ethnically homogenous one-party state. Antisemitism was, however, not solely a tool; it was at the core of the organization’s ideology.

Antisemitic Ideology and Actions As illustrated above, Jews and Germans were the chief focus of Pērkonkrusts’s hate-propaganda. Attacks on the latter were perceived by Germans in Latvia with growing concern. Reports from the German embassy in Riga back to Berlin were optimistic about increasing national socialist and authoritarian sentiments in Latvian society, but expressed alarm about the ultranationalists’ (i.e., Pērkonkrusts’s) “chauvinism” against Germany.46 Similarly, parts of the Baltic German community perceived Pērkonkrusts as a threat, as it attacked the (Baltic) German political and economic dominance in the region.47 Pērkonkrusts’s propaganda, however, described the Germans as a threat only insofar as their interests interfered with what Pērkonkrusts’s leaders perceived to be Latvian issues, or whenever they presumed their audience 43 “Ziņojums L.T.A. ‘Pērkoņkrusts’ nodomiem pēc biedrības ‘Jauna Latvija’ slēgšanas,” LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 111. l., 39. lp., Paeglis, Pērkonkrusts pār Latviju, 77. 44 Dienesta atzīme, LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 109. l., 13. lp. 45 Šilde, Ardievas Rīgai, 76; Björn M. Felder, Lettland im Zweiten Weltkrieg: Zwischen sowjetischen und deutschen Besatzern 1940–1946 (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2009), 244; Paeglis, Pērkonkrusts pār Latviju, 28–29. 46 “‘Pērkonkrusts’ und die Deutschen,” Europa-Ost, 19 September 1933; Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts (hereafter PA AA), Riga 167; Po 9c Bd. 2, Fol. 7, 2. Haralds Biezais emphasized that the embassy in particular created the image of Pērkonkrusts as an anti-German organization because it presented their attacks against Baltic Germans as attacks against Germany: Biezais, “Pērkonkrusts dokumentu gaismā,” 29. 47 “‘Aktivistische’ Inschriften,” Rigasche Rundschau, 15 May 1933.

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wanted to hear invective against the Baltic Germans.48 Celmiņš warned about Nazi Germany’s expansionism, but at the same time could express admiration for German National Socialism and Adolf Hitler.49 This admiration reveals the essential difference between Pērkonkrusts’s perceptions of Germans and Jews, as the latter were classified as a biological, internal enemy who could never be part of the Aryan Volksgemeinschaft.50 Equating Pērkonkrusts’s anti-German attitude with their anti-Jewish activities has two consequences. Firstly, it affirms that despite having an anti-German attitude, Pērkonkrusts was a national socialist organization, as Kott has argued.51 Secondly, it downplays the existence and results of Pērkonkrusts’s radical antisemitism. This method was applied deliberately by some of Pērkonkrusts’s members after World War II.52 It is therefore pivotal to scrutinize the quality and roots of antisemitism as a core element of Pērkonkrusts’s ideology. As noted above, the majority of the members had been involved in rightwing political activities long before the establishment of the association in 1932, especially in nationalist student fraternities, and the LNK.53 The LNK had been the first organization in which “radical antisemitism was the only and main content,” and Ugunskrusts carried on its ideological heritage.54 They declared the Jews to be a biological and cultural threat, a “parasite in the full meaning of the word … sucking the blood and sweat of other peoples.”55 Images of vermin were only used to denigrate Jews, and never Germans. Even if the attacks against the latter group were quite harsh at times, the criticism remained rhetorical. Similarly, Ugunskrusts clashed with political enemies, such as the Social Democrats. Their confrontations in legislative bodies and on the streets could become quite violent, but were based on a difference in political opinion.56 Only Jews were attacked for who they were, not what they did, as some examples illustrate. In September 1933, for several evenings, three Pērkonkrusts men gathered to wait in front of a house in Riga’s Sarkandaugava neighborhood. 48 Stranga, Ebreji un diktatūras, 138ff. 49 Report of the German embassy to Berlin, PA AA, Riga 167; Po 9c Bd. 2, Fol. 7, 2. 50 Kott, “Pērkonkrusts,” 183. 51 Kott, “Pērkonkrusts,” 183. 52 Šilde, Ardievas Rīgai, 76, 87. 53 Stranga, Ebreji un diktatūras, 140; Kott, “The Roots of Radicalism,” 298; Krēsliņš, Aktīvais nacionālisms, 416. 54 Stanga, Ebreji un diktatūras, 120. 55 “Vai žīdiem maz ir sava ‘nacionālā’ valoda?,” Pērkonkrusts, 13 May 1933. 56 For example, members of the Social Democrats’ paramilitary organization, Strādnieku Sports un Sargs (SSS), attacked Pērkonkrusts’s headquarters: “Ziņojums Rīgas prefektūra kungam,” LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 110. l., 15. lp.

More than a Means to an End

They knew the place was home to approximately 25 young Jewish people preparing to emigrate to Palestine. One evening, the Pērkonkrusts men managed to get into the house and harassed the Jewish residents, ordering them to leave Latvia or they would smash up the place.57 This was no isolated incident; private premises, such as homes or leisure facilities, were targeted in order to threaten Jewish people. A survivor remembered attacks against a Jewish summer camp in the countryside he was attending in the early 1930s.58 His account gives evidence that the violence was committed indiscriminately against men, women, and even children. He also reported an incident where Pērkonkrusts’s supporters assaulted Jewish girls among a group of his friends on a boat trip in Riga. They called them “dirty Jews,” and shouted “when will you go away from here?”59 Such antisemitic violence occurred all over Latvia, and despite the crackdown against them, Pērkonkrusts’s members did not stop their activities even after the Ulmanis coup in 1934. In a statement in 1951, as part of the investigation of former Pērkonkrusts member, Kārlis Grīnbergs, by the Soviet authorities for allegedly collaborating with the Germans during World War II, a witness recalled: In 1935, during the month of August, I walked around the city of Bauska and personally saw how Grīnbergs and Zirnis met a Jewish rabbi in Andrejs Upītis Street, and started beating him with a cry of “Beat the Jews!”60 Alongside physical harassment, Ugunskrusts called for a boycott of “nonLatvian” shops. This was yet another “tradition” inherited from and practiced by the LNK in the 1920s.61 The fascists gave high priority to boycotts, which served various purposes. Firstly, they were presented as a solution for the economic crisis that had hit Latvia in a similar way as other European countries.62 Celmiņš accused the ethnic minorities of exacerbating the 57 LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 110. l., 43. lp. 58 Abram Kit, Interview 32685, Segments 46–47, Visual History Archive, USC Shoah Foundation, 1997 (accessed 18 August 2018). 59 Kit, Interview 32685. 60 KGB investigation file on Kārlis Grīnbergs, Latvian State Archive (Latvijas Valsts arhīvs, hereafter LVA), 1986. f., 1. apr., 6242. l., 3. lp. 61 Stranga, Ebreji un diktaturas, 121. 62 Ugunskrusts’s year of founding 1932, was the peak of the crisis: Valters Ščerbinskis, Apvērsums: 1934. gada 15. maija notikumi avotos un pētījumos (Riga: Latvijas Vēstures institūta apgāds, 7, 2012), 566.

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situation for ethnic Latvians, and claimed that the only solution was to get rid of them: “if no Latvian would buy anything from the minorities, three months would be enough to sideline them economically.”63 The boycotts thus embodied Ugunskrusts’s völkisch nationalism, as an incident reported by the Rigasche Rundschau about a visitor who was given a leaflet at a fair in Riga illustrates: Looking more closely at the note later, he noted that it was a call for a boycott of “foreign” companies in Latvia, and the slogan was written in Latvian: “Latvia for Latvians! Work and Bread!,” under it is written “Ugunskrusts,” the Latvian name for the swastika. The text reads “Latvians wake up, do not learn to appreciate the products of Latvia, but the products of Latvians.”64 Officially, the call for boycotts was directed against all non-Latvian shops, but internally it was made clear to members of Pērkonkrusts that the boycott was an anti-Jewish measure.65 Such actions attracted Latvians who held antisemitic and anti-capitalist views. In particular, nationalist intellectuals perceived capitalism as a concept allegedly alien to Latvians, who were considered to be mainly farmers, and an economic system that allegedly fostered non-Latvian dominance and exploitation by large-scale (hence non-Latvian) capitalists.66 On the other hand, Pērkonkrusts did not propagate Marxist critiques of capitalism, but instead were among the first in Latvia to circulate ideas of the “Jewish–Bolshevik conspiracy.” During the Nazi occupation in World War II, the Germans capitalized on the fact that this conspiracy theory had already existed in these circles.67 In a similar way to physical violence, boycotts led to exclusion and increased insecurity among Latvia’s Jewish citizens. In March 1933, members of the local Ugunskrusts branch in Valmiera disseminated leaflets all over the town which read: “Whoever crosses a Jewish shop’s threshold is a traitor to the Latvian people.”68 A newspaper reported: “That day, the Jewish shops were empty, but the shops of the true Latvians were full of customers.”69 It 63 “Grosser antisemitischer Skandal.” 64 “Nationalistische Treibereien,” Rigasche Rundschau, 12 September 1932. 65 The men had to sign a certificate vowing to never to buy products in “non-Latvian” shops; thus the boycotts had an internal meaning: LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 109. l., 18. lp. 66 Zake, “Latvian Nationalist Intellectuals,” 105–107. 67 Felder, “Die Spreu vom Weizen,” 50. 68 “L.T.A. ‘Ugunskrusts’ darbība Valmierā,” Dailes Magazina, 3 March 1933. 69 “L.T.A. ‘Ugunskrusts’ darbība Valmierā,” Dailes Magazina, 3 March 1933.

More than a Means to an End

is difficult to confirm whether this was simply the journalist’s mischievous exaggeration, but it is clear that Jewish shops remained a particular target for Pērkonkrusts. Even when the organization was forced to operate underground after 1934, its members continued these attacks, for example, by preparing to detonate stink bombs inside stores owned by Jews.70 Jewish shops were also a target on 11 September 1932, when the mob rioted through Riga’s streets after the football match between Hakoah and Universitātes Sports. The match had taken place in a heated atmosphere, in front of 2,500–3,000 people.71 Among them were many students with fraternity insignia supporting Universitātes Sports, and many Jews supporting Hakoah. The groups had already clashed before the players entered the pitch.72 Hakoah had been in the lead in the first half and were the better team throughout the game.73 In the second half, a Universitātes Sports goal was declared invalid, and after this, their supporters, many of them wearing fraternity caps, invaded the playing field and attacked the Hakoah players with sticks.74 The police cleared the pitch three times during the rest of the game, which ended with Hakoah winning 2–1.75 But the violence did not end there. According to Rigasche Rundschau, after the match, “the Hakoah team had to be escorted out of the locker rooms by the police, as a group of a hundred Latvian students moved into the dressing room and called for riots against the Jewish footballers.” The police had to use rubber truncheons as the students became increasingly aggressive. They had been prepared for this as “it became known that an anti-Jewish demonstration had been organized by the Latvian students, which was to start as soon as it became clear that the university’s football team was losing the decisive battle.”76 Notwithstanding the mass involvement, the pogrom received relatively little attention in the media. This can be interpreted as a sign of the 70 NKVD investigation file on Broņislavs Alhimovičs, LVA, 1986. f., 2. apr., P-9061. l., 24. lp. 71 A few days before, the two rival teams, both fighting for promotion to the First League, had played two difficult, decisive games. The first had been declared invalid, the second ended 1–1. Approximately 2,000 people attended this game. Afterwards, a brawl between Jewish and non-Jewish fraternity members broke out: “Fußballwettspiel mit nachfolgender Schlägerei. ‘Hakoah’ – ‘Universität’ 1:1,” Rigasche Rundschau, 5 September 1932; “Bez neizšķirtas futbolu ziņas žīdi uzbrukuši latviešu studentiem,” Latvijas Sargs, 5 September 1932; “Riht izschķiroschā cihņa starp ‘Universitates Sports’ un ‘Hakoah,’” Pēdējā Brīdī, 9 September 1932; “U.S. pret Hakoah,” Sporta pasaule. 5 September 1932. 72 “Ziņojums polītiskās pārvaldes Rīgas rajona pārzinīm,” LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 109. l., 16. lp. 73 “Ko saka tiesnesis par sacīksti US: Hakoah,” Sporta Pasaule, 19 September 1932. 74 “Grosser antisemitischer Skandal.” 75 “Sports. Beidzot uzwareja ‘Hakoah’ 2:1.” 76 “Grosser antisemitischer Skandal.”

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normalization of antisemitism. While in the 1920s, there were heated debates about anti-Jewish violence in Riga and the countryside, the coverage in 1932 was limited to about a handful of articles.77 There was, however, a police investigation, after which the police arrested Latvian students, but also Jews.78 The police quickly found that Ugunskrusts had been directly involved, as visitors at the stadium had been throwing copies of Ugunskrusts’s eponymous newspaper on to the pitch, and about a hundred people gathered at the stadium exit after the match to hand these out to the leaving crowd.79 While the mob hunted for allegedly Jewish-looking people in Riga’s city center, people threw leaflets into the air, declaring “Latvia for Latvians! Ugunskrusts, the newspaper for the Latvian struggle, published every Sunday. Bread and work for Latvians!”80 On the very day of the match, Ugunskrusts published the article “Sports in Jewish Hands,” with the following rallying cry: “Open your eyes, Latvians! Cleanse Latvian sports of Jewish teams!”81 On top of that, leading Ugunskrusts members were present at the match.82 Despite all of the evidence, Celmiņš afterwards declared that his organization had nothing to do with the violence and that he had told his comrades “to stay out of trouble.”83 The historical sources, however, paint another picture. Not only do they show the organization’s pivotal role in the event, the fact that a group of primarily university students managed to motivate hundreds of other people to join the violence hints at Ugunskrusts’s success in exporting its antisemitism beyond academic circles.

Spheres of Influence On 15 May 1934, Kārlis Ulmanis took power in a coup d’état, claiming that if had he not seized control and suspended the constitution, Pērkonkrusts would have done the same. Even at the time, contemporaries agreed that 77 Dribins, Antisemītisms, 84. 78 “Grosser antisemitischer Skandal.” 79 “Ziņojums polītiskās pārvaldes Rīgas rajona pārzinīm,” LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 109. l., 4, 16. lp. 80 LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 109. l., 4. lp. 81 “Sports žīdu varā. Atverat jel acis latvieši. Tīru latviešu sportu no žīdu kombinācijām!,” Ugunskrusts, 11 September 1932. 82 During his interrogation by the police, Šilde admitted that he had been at the match, but denied participation in any violence: Noklausināšanas protokols Ādolfs Šilde, LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 251. l., 31. lp. 83 P.Br., “Lihdzihpaschneeks ‘Ugunskruzta’ schtabā,” Pēdējā Brīdī, 17 September 1932.

More than a Means to an End

this was not the case, and that Ulmanis had simply used this explanation to legitimize his takeover and because he was worried that in the upcoming elections, he would lose votes to the fascists.84 Indeed, Pērkonkrusts’s leaders were actively preparing for the upcoming elections. Instead of staging a coup, gaining power legally would have consolidated their position and made it easier to reshape Latvia according to their plans.85 Ugunskrusts’s ambitions for the national elections reflect the development of the organization since its establishment in 1932. It had begun as a narrow “elite organization,” but from the very beginning, its leaders had not wanted it to remain so.86 In November 1931, about 20 young men in the circle around Celmiņš and Ādolfs Šilde met to establish what was to become Ugunskrusts. They planned to reunite the right-wing movements that had been fragmented since the ban on the LNK in 1927. While the LNK had—despite individual supporters among the military and other circles—remained a youth- and university-focused organization, the founders of Ugunskrusts aspired for more.87 In the following section, examples will be provided to reveal that Celmiņš and his followers approached the working class, the rural areas, and the unemployed in order to infiltrate all levels of Latvian society.88 It is difficult to evaluate the success of Ugunskrusts’s mass approach. There are no exact numbers of Ugunskrusts members; most scholars estimate a membership of 5,000–6,000, and 8,000–15,000 subscribers to the eponymous party newspaper.89 The increase in members as well as subscribers to their publication reflects that they gradually gathered more followers, not only in Riga, but also outside the capital. Of course, the impact of the party organ Ugunskrusts, and later Pērkonkrusts, as much as of newspapers in general, can be disputed.90 Considering, however, that subscription newspapers usually had more than one reader, and that 84 Ščerbinskis, Apvērsums, 568–569. 85 In this context, it is important to note that despite often referring to itself—and being perceived as—a movement that permeated all parties and organizations, Pērkonkrusts was actually a political party. For a detailed analysis on the fascist desire to form a “party above the parties,” see Arendt, Elemente und Ursprünge, 104. 86 Kasekamp, “Radical Right-Wing Movements,” 595–596. The organization’s origins and impact in the student milieu have been elaborated on elsewhere, and will not be the focus of this analysis. Matthew Kott described their representative’s attempts in the student council to create an academic chair in antisemitism, and Armands Paeglis wrote about their attempt to implement a numerus clausus for Jewish students. 87 Kott, “Pērkonkrusts,” 178; Bolin, Between National and Intellectual Agendas, chapter 5. 88 Stranga, Ebreji un diktatūras, 133–135. 89 The newspaper’s name changed to Pērkonkrusts after Ugunskrusts was banned. 90 Reichelt, Lettland unter deutscher Besatzung, 51–52.

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Pērkonkrusts’s members distributed party publications within their local civil parishes, it can be argued that Ugunskrusts was a substantial tool for spreading propaganda, at least in the eyes of its editors.91 Furthermore, Pērkonkrusts’s Jew-baiting was not limited to their official publications. There was also substantial overlap with the student newspaper Universitas, edited by Ugunskrusts member Šilde—who was strongly influenced by his favorite publication, Latvis, edited by Arveds Bergs—or periodicals like the explicitly antisemitic Tautas Vairogs.92 Ugunskrusts was thus only one of various channels by which Ugunskrusts could disseminate their radical right-wing ideology. In addition to written propaganda, Pērkonkrusts organized mass events in an attempt to reach broader audiences. For example, on 17 September 1933, they held different gatherings all over Riga, particularly in the workingclass districts. In the days running up, posters with the slogans “Latvia for Latvians! Bread and Work for Latvians!” had been distributed in the city, advertising the main gathering in the Trades Association Building.93 This highlight of the day was extremely well attended. In front of 2,000 people, Celmiņš, Šilde, and Juris Plāķis gave speeches.94 The latter’s—despite being rather dry—apparently received applause particularly for “his numerous insults against the Jews.”95 One of the key tasks for Ugunskrusts’s Central Council (Centrālā Valde), made up of approximately 40 men who constituted the core of the organization, was to recruit new members.96 Most of the members of the Central Council were clerks or civil servants that came from or lived in the capital, but who traveled eagerly.97 In towns and villages all over Latvia, Celmiņš, Ernests Plāķis and other high-ranking members gave lectures at gatherings.98 91 NKGB investigation file on Jānis Grīnbergs, LVA, 1986. f., 2. apr., P-7683. l., 29. lp. 92 Aivars Stranga, “Par Šildi – un ne tikai,” Diena, 18 March 1994. Tautas Vairogs claimed that Jews were speculators and parasites, e.g., “Žīdu noslēpumi,” Tautas Vairogs, 1 January 1933. 93 “Kundgebungen des Pehrkonkrusts.” 94 Juris Plāķis (1869–1942) was a linguist and professor at the University of Latvia. He was deported to Siberia in 1941, where he also died. 95 “Kundgebungen des Pehrkonkrusts.” 96 “Latviešu tautas apvienība Ugunskrusts statūti,” LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 109. l., 2. lp.; Zvaigznīte, “Aģentūras lapiņa Nr. 1317, Ziņojums par ‘pērkoņkrustiešu’ darbību,” 3 July 1934, LVVA, 3235. f., 5. apr., 113. l., 103. lp. Pērkonkrusts was heavily dominated by men, although there was also a women’s section. 97 “‘Pērkoņkrusta’ pārvalde 1933. jūlijā,” LVVA, 3235. f., 5. apr., 113. l., 302. lp. 98 Ernests Plāķis was the son of Juris Plāķis. He studied at the University of Latvia, became a physician at a Riga hospital, was arrested and deported by the Soviet authorities, and died in 1972 in Latvia.

More than a Means to an End

They addressed topics like the danger of internationalism, the need to get rid of democracy, and, time and again, how the Jews were exploiting honest Latvian workers and farmers, and were a threat to every European nation.99 These gatherings were well attended. On 8 October 1933, approximately 500 people came to listen to Celmiņš and Juris Plāķis in Daugavpils, a city with a significant proportion of Jewish inhabitants. At this event, Pērkonkrusts’s intentions to threaten and isolate Jewish citizens were explicit; the large number of recognizable Pērkonkrusts members in the town generated insecurity among the local community. At the entrance to the event, men in uniform guarded the event to prevent Jews from entering.100 It seems unlikely that Jewish citizens would have had a reason to do so, but this measure clearly emphasized that they did not belong. In order to consolidate their influence, Ugunskrusts established local branches all over Latvia. In September 1932, the political police had registered 54 such branches in the provinces, some with 15 to 20 members, others with far more.101 In Valmiera, Voldemārs Ziraks, a clerk at a local bank, fraternity member, and representative of Ugunskrusts’s Central Council, opened a local branch in autumn 1932, and within a few months, around 100 men joined.102 His local branch is one example of the fact that, in the fascist tradition, Ugunskrusts aimed specifically at recruiting young people.103 Members of the newly established branch were mainly pupils of Valmiera’s two secondary schools. Every week, the pupils and other Ugunskrusts men gathered for discussions, organized sporting events, and while proudly walking in their uniforms, handed out the aforementioned leaflets urging people not to spend their money in Jewish shops.104 Similar activities were recorded in Kurzeme; on 18 November 1933, the Ugunskrusts branch in Talsi, also mainly formed from local pupils, tried to take advantage of the town’s full streets during the Independence Day festivities to disseminate their leaflets with calls to boycott Jewish shops. Apparently, few people paid any attention to them.105 In both Valmiera and Talsi, the secondary school students could count on their teachers’ support. According to Sociāldemokrāts, the headmaster 99 “Latviešu sanāksme,” Latgales Ziņas, 13 October 1933. 100 “Latviešu sanāksme.” 101 “Polītiskā pārvalde ziņojums par organizācijas Ugunskrusts darbību,” LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 109. l., 17. lp. 102 “‘Pērkoņkrusta’ pārvalde 1933. jūlijā,” LVVA, 3235. f., 5. apr., 113. l., 302. lp. 103 Stranga, Ebreji un diktatūras, 134–135. 104 “L.T.A. ‘Ugunskrusts’ darbība Valmierā,” Dailes Magazina, 3 March 1933. 105 “Talsu Dzihwe,” Talsu Vēstnesis, 24 November 1933.

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of one of the schools in Valmiera had personal connections to the local Ugunskrusts leader Ziraks and supported his pupils’ participation in the organization. In general, the Latvian fascists aimed to not only directly recruit young people, but also their educators. In the Riga Teachers’ Institute, the students (prospective teachers) openly wore swastika symbols, and greeted each other with the Pērkonkrusts salute “Cīņai sveiks” (“Hail the struggle”). They actively recruited new members at schools without the objections of teachers or directors.106 This reflects more than Pērkonkrusts’s successful attempts to permeate Latvian society through the youth and educators. The support of respected persons, like teachers and professors, reinforced the organization’s transition from the fringes of society in their elitist university circle and mobs occasionally rioting in the streets, towards a broadly accepted, established mass phenomenon. Beyond the education sector, Ugunskrusts made an effort to infiltrate organizations such as the Karavīru biedrība (Soldiers’ Association), the competing United Latvian National Socialist Party of Jānis Štelmachers, and particularly the Aizsargi (Home Guard), a paramilitary organization established as an auxiliary to the regular army in 1919 during the War of Independence.107 After the war, the Aizsargi remained in existence, their task being to help protect the new state as a reserve force, but many of the veterans did not see their hopes fulfilled and became dissatisfied with the new order.108 They idealized their experiences and solidarity during the war, which seemed so contrary to the unstable and disrupted setting of parliamentarianism.109 Celmiņš exploited these sentiments. He saw in the Aizsargi a “Latvian avant-garde,” suspicious of democracy and therefore ripe for enrollment in his cause.110 Being an Aizsargs himself (he was expelled from the organization in 1933), and having fought in the War of Independence, he felt that he could connect to these men and frequently presented 106 “Rigas skolotaju inztituts – pahtarņeeku un ‘pehrkoņkruzteeschu’ citadele,” Sociāldemokrāts, 1 December 1933. 107 “Karavīru dzīve,” Latvijas Kareivis, 1 March 1932; “Polītiskā pārvalde ziņojums par organizācijas Ugunskrusts darbību,” LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 109. l., 17. lp. 108 Andres Kasekamp, The Radical Right in Interwar Estonia (Basingstoke and New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2000), 143. 109 Kott, “Towards an Uncivil Society,” 55; Andres Kasekamp described how the war became a “central concept” for many of the former soldiers and among the radical right: Kasekamp, The Radical Right, 143. 110 LVVA, 3235. f., 2. apr., 5210. l., 113. lp. This idea was not limited to Celmiņš; Ulmanis also regarded them as an elite and essential pillar of the new state and nation: Ilgvars Butulis, Sveiki, aizsargi!: Aizsargu organizācija Latvijas sabiedriski politiskajā dzīvē 1919.–1940. gadā (Riga: Jumava 2011), 74–76, cited in Kott, “The Roots of Radicalism,” 299–300.

More than a Means to an End

Ugunskrusts’s attacks on the republic as a continuation or a “second war of liberation”: In his speech, Gustav Celmiņš compared the current time with 1918, the country’s first independence struggle. Once Ugunskrusts would take up the fight, then its [i.e., the Aizsargi’s] work would be continued, even if there were going to be some victims.111 There were practical reasons for Pērkonkrusts to recruit men from within the Aizsargi. Since the Home Guard enjoyed particularly strong support among the rural population, accessing their ranks meant expanding Pērkonkrusts’s influence among the leading farmers.112 Also, Aizsargi members had access to weapons and military expertise. In 1933–1934, many Home Guards who were found to be members of Pērkonkrusts were excluded from the Aizsargi, but Pērkonkrusts continued recruiting from their ranks, particularly after Ulmanis had arrested considerable parts of Pērkonkrusts’s leadership in summer 1934.113 Having supporters among the Aizsargi was useful for Pērkonkrusts, as it meant that these would less likely participate in arrests of their comrades.114 The Aizsargi seem to be but one example that illustrates Pērkonkrusts’s success in permeating various institutions.115 It also shows that the fascists managed to appeal to traditionalist sections of Latvian society using nationalist rhetoric. The idea of demolishing the state would most likely not have been attractive to the men of the Home Guard, many of whom saw their organization as the backbone of the Latvian state, and most of its members were rather nationalist and conservative.116 Pērkonkrusts’s 111 “Polītiskā pārvalde ziņojums par organizācijas Ugunskrusts darbību,” LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 109. l., 22. lp. 112 Kott, “Towards an Uncivil Society,” 68. 113 Valters Ščerbinskis highlights this in order to emphasize that Pērkonkrusts had little influence on police and military circles at the time, forces that would have been necessary for a successful coup: Ščerbinskis, Apvērsums, 34. 114 LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 116. l., 16. lp.; LVVA, 3235. f., 1/22 apr.710. l., 42., 45., 57., 114. lp. 115 In July 1934, the police estimated that approx. 90% of Riga’s Aizsargi supported Pērkonkrusts: “Ziņojums par ‘Pērkoņkrustiešu’ darbību,” LVVA, 3235. f., 5. apr., 113. l., 143. lp. The situation may have been different in the countryside, however, such as in Latgale, where the Aizsargi consciously recruited men from ethnic minorities: Björn Felder, review of Vom Donnerkreuz zum Hakenkreuz. Die baltischen Staaten zwischen Diktatur und Okkupation by Karl-Heinz Gräfe, Nordost-Archiv. Zeitschrift für Regionalgeschichte 20 (2011): 364–367., https://www.recensio. net/rezensionen/zeitschriften/nordost-archiv.-zeitschrift-fuer-regionalgeschichte/xx-2011/ ReviewMonograph352270296/@@generate-pdf-recension?language=de (accessed 22 March 2019). 116 Kott, “Towards an Uncivil Society,” 68. Björn Felder agrees that there was considerable support for Pērkonkrusts among the Aizsargi: see Felder, “Die Spreu vom Weizen,” 50.

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self-declared agenda to fight for a “new nationalism” and to continue a struggle in the spirit of the War of Independence, however, made them seem more appealing to many in the Aizsargi. Finally, Pērkonkrusts recruited new members from among family, friends, and acquaintances.117 Many members had private connections also with the other members’ families, and even attended each other’s weddings.118 This was particularly the case among the fraternity members, but personal recruitment also went beyond these circles. Sometimes potential new members were approached personally, and Pērkonkrusts men offered them small paid positions within the party.119 Once a person joined, participation in the weekly gatherings was expected, where they would have listened to high-ranking members giving talks against communists and Jews.120 Antisemitic violence thereby served as a consolidating factor and a method to demonstrate the strength of the organization to the party rank and file. The success of such antisemitic education, however, seems to have varied. Some Jewish survivors later remembered colleagues or lodgers who were members of Pērkonkrusts, but who maintained positive relations with their Jewish acquaintances.121 The phenomenon of engaging in personal relations with Jews while holding antisemitic views at the same time was not limited to the Latvian fascists, but was rather a common occurrence in other European contexts.122 Ideological indoctrination promoted the glorification of, and obedience to, the leader, Celmiņš.123 The strict education and establishment of close ties is an important factor explaining why Pērkonkrusts’s impact did not 117 For example, Ādolfs Šilde brought a former classmate to a meeting: KGB investigation file on Kārlis Berkans, LVA, 1986. f., 1. apr., 21417. l., 1. sēj., 25.–26. lp. In other cases, both father and sons joined: Juris Kļaviņš, dzīves stāsts, e-grāmata, 23–30 August 1998, http://www.dzivesstasts. lv/lv/free.php?id=625 web.2019/05/10. 118 Paeglis, Pērkonkrusts par Latviju, 138. In general, wives or female relatives of Pērkonkrusts men played an important role in the movement, even though men heavily dominated. For example, Celmiņš’s sister, Ieva, smuggled food and information to him in prison following his arrest. The role of women and the women’s section in Pērkonkrusts has yet to be fully investigated. 119 NKVD investigation file on Broņislavs Alhimovičs, LVA, 1986 f., 2. apr., P-9061. l., 10. lp. 120 LVA, 1986 f., 2. apr., P-9061. l., 14. lp. 121 Maly Kohn, Interview 36613, Segments 8–9. Visual History Archive, USC Shoah Foundation, 1997 (accessed 19 August 2018); Frieda Ende, Interview 775, Segment 6, Visual History Archive, USC Shoah Foundation, 1995 (accessed 19 August 2018). 122 Hannah Arendt emphasized that the disconnection of the generalized hatred against Jews from any real experiences with them was a key feature of twentieth-century antisemitism. She defined this as “Erfahrungslosigkeit des Judenhasses”: Arendt, Elemente und Ursprünge, 511. 123 Meetings would begin with everybody standing up, raising their right hand and shouting “Ciņai sveiks”: “Ziņojums par organizācijas Ugunskrusts darbību,” LVVA, 3235. f., 3. apr., 109. l., 17. lp.

More than a Means to an End

disappear when the party was banned and its leaders arrested by the Ulmanis regime. Having established a reputation and gathered followers and influence, they could continue their activities, although limited, and focused on attacking the Ulmanis regime. Although Ulmanis’s slogan “A Latvian Latvia” was deliberately very close to Pērkonkrusts’s “Latvia for Latvians,” it meant something very different. As Matthew Kott highlighted: “Ulmanis, although clearly a Latvian nationalist who strove for national unity, was not necessarily aiming to build a pure, mono-ethnic Volksgemeinschaft in the manner of the Nazis or Pērkonkrusts.”124 For Ulmanis, nationalism tied the peoples of his nation together; Pērkonkrusts, by contrast, used the term “nationalism” to divide them.125 The difference between Ulmanis’s and Pērkonkrusts’s nationalism is not only important for analyzing their activities in the interwar period. It also challenges today’s narratives about Pērkonkrusts. After World War II, Pērkonkrusts men in exile depicted their organization and their activities both before and during the war as being nationalist and for the cause of Latvia.126 They equated their völkisch nationalism with patriotism and asserted that they had never acted in favor of the civic Latvian nation and republic, but only in the interests of what they, in their racist ideology, considered to be “their” people.

Conclusion This chapter has investigated the activities and ideology of the fascist Pērkonkrusts party in the years prior to the Ulmains coup d’état in 1934, with a focus on three interrelated aspects. First, it demonstrated that Pērkonkrusts despised the inclusive concept of the civic nation as embodied in the constitution of the Republic of Latvia. They aimed at the destruction of this inclusive nation and at replacing it with a homogenized national 124 Kott, “Towards an Uncivil Society,” 92. A similar view on Ulmanis’s inclusive concept of the nation is presented in Ilgvars Butulis, “Autoritäre Ideologie und Praxis des Ulmanis-Regimes in Lettland 1934–1940,” in Autoritäre Regime in Ostmittel- und Südosteuropa 1919–1940, ed. Erwin Oberländer (Paderborn: Schönigh, 2001), 255–256. 125 However, Ulmanis’s ethnic “openness” should not be overestimated or be presumed for all members of his party: Deniss Hanovs and Valdis Tēraudkalns, “The Return of the Gods? Authoritarian Culture and Neo-Paganism in Interwar Latvia, 1934–1940,” in Latvia – A Work in Progress?, ed. Smith, 93. 126 Well-known examples are the memoirs of Pērkonkrusts’s leading figures; Ādolfs Šilde, Ardievas Rīga; Gustavs Celmiņš, Eiropas krustceļos (Esslingen: Dzintarzeme, 1947).

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body purely comprised of what they considered to be ethnic Latvians. In times of growing ethnic tensions, propagating such an agenda was supposed to attract Latvian citizens who held anti-Jewish sentiments. Physical and verbal violence and repeated calls for boycotts made the exclusion of Jews conceivable and increasingly acceptable, and led to the isolation of and insecurity among Jewish Latvian citizens. Such alienation of Latvia’s Jewish population continued to influence national politics even after Pērkonkrusts was banned and forced underground in 1934. Their antidemocratic attitude was thus closely intertwined with racist antisemitism, as analyzed in the second part of the chapter, which illustrated that within their völkisch concept of the nation and the state, antisemitism was the core of Pērkonkrusts’s ideology. While expressing an aversion to the influence of Baltic Germans in Latvia, Pērkonkrusts shared the national socialist ideology and regarded Jews as an existential biological arch-enemy. It is essential to emphasize this difference in order to challenge postwar narratives about Pērkonkrusts as a patriotic organization; from the very beginning, Pērkonkrusts aimed only to fight for those they believed to be “true Latvians.” Finally, the chapter demonstrated that in order to subvert the existing order and to consolidate their ideology as a broadly accepted position, Members of Pērkonkrusts infiltrated Latvian society by opening local branches, subverting establishments of higher and secondary education, as well as political institutions and organizations like the Aizsargi. Thereby the members of Pērkonkrusts attempted and managed to spread their ideas broadly across Latvian society, beyond their initial urban university setting. Pērkonkrusts’s antisemitic activities that have been investigated in this chapter challenge the assumption that, due to the absence of official, statesponsored antisemitism, there was no societal, organized antisemitism in Latvia during the interwar period, and thus attacks on Jews were isolated incidents. The majority of Latvia’s citizens may have been indifferent towards those of different ethnicities, and there was undoubtedly a certain level of solidarity and interaction between citizens. Attacks on Jews did, however, occur on a regular basis all over the country. They were incited by and instrumentalized by antisemitic, antidemocratic groups like Pērkonkrusts, which played an integral role in the atomization of Latvia’s society in the early 1930s.

4

“My Home and My Family Are Now Our Regiment” National Belonging and Familial Feelings in Latvian Units during World War II f Harry C. Merritt

Introduction Pēteris Čačka was a World War II Latvian soldier for whom “the national idea of Latvia had remained sacred since childhood.” Yet, the Latvian state no longer de facto existed when war erupted on the territory of Latvia in 1941, meaning that Čačka could only serve in the military of another state. After being conscripted into the German-organized Latvian Legion in 1944, Čačka deserted and hid in Latvia until the Soviet Union’s Red Army arrived, willingly joining its 43rd Guards Latvian Rifle Division. Latvians in the Red Army, he argued, “were all [nationally minded], not communist, and all of us fought as Latvians for Latvia in the ranks of the Soviet army.” More interestingly, Čačka adds that “the main point that I know today is that … both sides fought for Latvia.”1 As a country occupied by both the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany during World War II, the case of Latvia poses a number of paradoxes. The Soviet Union established the 201st Latvian Rifle Division as its first new national formation in the Red Army during the war; it was later renamed the 43rd Guards Latvian Rifle Division and grouped with the 308th Latvian Rifle Division in July 1944 to form the 130th Latvian Rifle Corps, which was given the mission of “liberating” Latvia from German occupation. After initially only allowing Latvians to serve in police and auxiliary roles in small units, in February 1943 Nazi Germany authorized the creation of a “Latvian Legion” subordinated to the Waffen-SS, ultimately consisting of the 15th Waffen Grenadier Division of the SS (1st Latvian) and the 19th Waffen Grenadier Division of the SS (2nd Latvian). These units were ostensibly given the task of “national defense” against renewed Soviet occupation, 1 Latvian National Oral History Archive (Nacionālās mutvārdu vēstures krājums, hereafter NMV), Interview no. 1384. Pēteris Čačka, interview by Augusts Milts.

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with the 19th Division fighting in the Latvian province of Courland until the last day of the war. In many ways, World War II was the climax of the conflict that developed among the ideologies of liberalism, communism, and fascism during the interwar period. These ideologies, however, could not on their own supersede nationalism as a mobilizing and motivating force. Though the Marxist-Leninist (communist) ideology of the Soviet Union viewed the world primarily through class and the National Socialist (fascist) ideology of Nazi Germany viewed the world primarily through race, each system needed to consider and make certain concessions to local nationalisms, especially as wartime contingency placed increasing demands on each country for manpower and resources. From its foundation, the Soviet Union was organized as a federation of nationalities, simultaneously embracing “both an extraterritorial personal definition of nationality and a territorial one.”2 Nationality could be the basis for repression, as during the “Latvian Operation” by the NKVD (People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs) in the late 1930s and mass deportations of Latvians of the 1940s, but the Soviet nationalities policy also led to the social promotion of Latvians and certain forms of cultural expression, as in the Red Army’s Latvian national formations. For Nazi German policymakers, nationality was superseded by race, while Latvia and much of the rest of Central and Eastern Europe was viewed as a colonial territory slated for Germanization. As the tide of the war shifted, however, Nazi Germany adopted a pan-European rhetoric, toning down German chauvinism while allowing for increased cultural expression and the creation of national political institutions and military formations in the territory it occupied.3 This chapter explores national and familial feelings among Latvian soldiers in World War II, reconsidering these qualities within the Latvian Rifle Corps and bringing greater nuance to how they are discussed within the Latvian Legion. By looking at these Latvian national formations together, not only differences but also commonalities can be exposed. Soldiers in both the Latvian Legion and Latvian Rifle Corps spoke Latvian among one other, celebrated Latvian holidays, sang traditional Latvian songs, and often thought of themselves and their comrades-in-arms as serving the Latvian national cause. Furthermore, as they bonded together, their units 2 Terry Martin, The Affirmative Action Empire: Nations and Nationalism in the Soviet Union, 1923–1939 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2001), 72. 3 On this point, see Mark Mazower, Hitler’s Empire: How the Nazis Ruled Europe (New York: Penguin, 2008), 144–156, 446–470.

“My Home and My Family Are Now Our Regiment”

effectively became communities, “homes away from home,” where they could feel connected to their homeland while outside its borders. Concurrently, soldiers established affective ties among their fellow soldiers that reimagined their relationship as familial. These perceptions are important for understanding how these units built and sustained morale during the war as well as the public memory of these units in politics and society after the war. Furthermore, these Latvian national formations serve as archetypal cases for how important the national idea was across Europe during World War II, no matter the sponsoring power behind them.

Historiography and Sources As a consequence of the events of World War II, historiography on this subject has always been sharply divided. One school emphasized the national qualities of the Latvian Legion while essentially ignoring the Latvian Rifle Corps. Among World War II Latvian exile (trimda) communities and especially among former Legionnaires, a narrative was established that the Latvian Legion were among other heroic freedom fighters who fought for Latvian national independence.4 In post-Soviet Latvia, the Latvian Legion has been central to public memory of the war, with its veterans frequently perceived as “martyrs” or “heroes.”5 The perception of the Latvian Legion as a part of Latvian national history was embodied in the decision to elevate Latvian Legion Day, 16 March, to a state holiday from 1998 until 2000. By contrast, from the immediate postwar period onward, Latvian trimda historians in the West like Arnolds Spekke declared that the Soviet Union was committed to “kill[ing] the national spirit” among Latvian soldiers serving in the Red Army.6 Some historians omit the 130th Latvian Rifle Corps entirely from their books or devote only minimal attention, while dedicating significant space to considering the Latvian Legion.7 A recent 4 Vita Zelče, “Latviešu leģiona piemiņas dienas ģenēze un leģionāru komemorācijas tradīcija Rietumu latviešu kopienā,” in Karojoša piemiņa: 16. marts un 9. maijs, ed. Nils Muižnieks and Vita Zelče (Riga: Zinātne, 2011), 113. 5 Katja Wezel, Geschichte als Politikum: Lettland und die Aufarbeitung nach der Diktatur (Berlin: Berliner Wissenschafts-Verlag, 2016), 238. 6 Arnolds Spekke, History of Latvia: An Outline (Riga: Jumava, 2006), 357. 7 See Andrejs Plakans, The Latvians: A Short History (Stanford: Hoover Institution Press, 1995); see also Mara Kalnins, Latvia: A Short History (London: Hurst & Company, 2015). For a brief mention focusing solely on the conscription of Latvians into the Red Army from 1944 to 1945, see Uldis Ģērmanis, Latviešu tautas piedzīvojumi (Riga: Zvaigzne, 1991), 244.

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representative work by a group Latvian historians states that “Relatively many Latvian soldiers subjectively perceived the Legion as the nucleus of the next Latvian national army …. Many Legionnaires were under the influence of illusions, and they needed a tempting ideal—a free Latvia—in order to fight.”8 Though they acknowledge that 70% of the original personnel of the 201st Latvian Rifle Division were volunteers, the authors engage in no such subjective analysis with respect to Latvians in the Red Army. In Soviet Latvia, the historiography was diametrically opposed to that of the Latvian trimda in the West. Wartime statements by the leaders of the Latvian Communist Party (Bolsheviks)—LK(b)P—framing Latvian Red Army soldiers as “the best sons and daughters of the Latvian nation” were carried forward by Soviet historians.9 Soviet historians emphasized the Latvian qualities of Red Army Latvian national formations—both the use of the Latvian language and the linkages between the 130th Latvian Rifle Corps, the LK(b)P, and the government of the Latvian Soviet Socialist Republic (SSR)—along with the friendship between Latvia and other Soviet peoples that they supposedly embodied.10 Commemoration in Latvia included the more celebratory marking of Victory Day, 9 May, and more somber and informal gatherings for veterans of the Latvian Rifle Corps.11 As a counterpoint, early Soviet sources often minimized or ignored the Latvian Legion and tended to describe any Latvians serving in German-organized units as “Latvian-German nationalists,” ipso facto traitors to the national cause.12 Later, Latvian Legionnaires were presented as both bourgeois nationalists and indoctrinated SS-men (esesovtsy). This historiographical school has endured in Russia and some Russian-language scholarship in the Baltic states. Despite these long-established historiographical frameworks, some recent work by scholars in Latvia has opened up space for nuance, new 8 Daina Bleiere et al., Latvija Otrajā pasaules karā (Riga: Jumava, 2008), 362–363. 9 For use of the phrase by LK(b)P Central Committee (CK) member Žanis Spure, see Indriķis Lēmanis, “Dzimtenes balvas saņemot,” Cīņa, 10 October 1942; for use of the phrase by the LK(b)P first secretary, see Jānis Kalnbērziņš, “Biedra Kalnbērziņa runas nobeigums,” Cīņa, 30 April 1943. For an appearance in postwar Soviet historical literature, see V. I. Savchenko, Latyshskie formirovaniia sovetskoi armii: na frontakh velikoi otechestvennoi voiny (Riga: Zinātne, 1975), 546. 10 See A. A. Drizul, V. P. Samson, and V. I. Savchenko, eds., Bor’ba latyshskogo naroda v gody Velikoi Otechestvennoi voiny, 1941–1945 (Riga: Zinātne, 1970), 920–926; see also Savchenko, Latyshskie formirovaniia sovetskoi armii, 8–12. 11 See Vita Zelče, “Uzvaras svētki Padomju Latvijā,” in Karojoša piemiņa, 196–237. 12 Richards Plavnieks, Nazi Collaborators on Trial during the Cold War: Viktors Arājs and the Latvian Auxiliary Security Police (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 90–91.

“My Home and My Family Are Now Our Regiment”

interpretations, and the reconsideration of a variety of first-person primary sources. Historian Uldis Neiburgs and sociologist Vita Zelče, in introducing a compilation of war diaries from Latvian soldiers on both sides, note that “the two regimes [Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union] tried to appeal to the love of one’s motherland, faith in utopian ideals and responsibility for families and loved ones.”13 This book also points to the possibilities of incorporating first-person primary sources, or ego documents, such as memoirs, diaries, and interviews, to enrich and expand our historical understanding of this complex and contentious period. Some Latvian historians have expressed deep skepticism about these types of sources, with Inesis Feldmanis declaring them “very subjective and incomplete historical sources … not conducive to coming closer to historical truth.”14 The collection of testimony in Latvia, however, has been embraced by researchers animated by a desire to deepen understanding of Latvian history and Latvian society during the periods of foreign occupation in the twentieth century.15 Collections of first-person primary sources gathered by the Latvian National Oral History project and the Museum of the Occupation of Latvia have been utilized by scholars to explore questions of agency and adaptation during the turbulent period of World War II.16 The Soviet Commission for the History of the Great Patriotic War (also known as the “Mints Commission”), is another valuable collection of interviews for scholars studying the Red Army. Jochen Hellbeck describes the Mints Commission as “a large-scale biographical enterprise,” which provides insights into the lives of numerous Soviet soldiers and civilians in wartime.17 Though some questions remain about the degree to which soldiers were able to express their own ideas without being censored or redirected, an increasing number of historians are making use of them.18 As Omer Bartov argues, scholars 13 Uldis Neiburgs and Vita Zelče, “Introduction,” in (Two) Sides: Diaries of Latvian Soldiers in WWII, ed. Uldis Neiburgs and Vita Zelče, trans. Kārlis Streips (Ikšķile: Zelta Grauds, 2018), 9. 14 Inesis Feldmanis, Latvija Otrajā pasaules karā (1939–1945): jauns konceptuāls skatījums, 2nd ed. (Riga: LU Akadēmiskais apgāds, 2015), 6. 15 See Baiba Bela, “Dzīvesstāsti kā resurss sabiedrības izpētē: Nacionālās mutvārdu vēstures projekts,” in “Socioloģijai Latvijā – 40,” special issue, Latvijas Universitātes raksti 736 (2008), 97. 16 See Baiba Bela, “Everyday Life, Power, and Agency in Turbulent Latvia: The Story of Otto Irbe,” in Baltic Biographies at Historical Crossroads, ed. Aili Aarelaid-Tart and Li Bennich-Björkman (New York: Routledge, 2012), 37–52. 17 Jochen Hellbeck, “The Antifascist Pact: Forging a First Experience of Nazi Occupation in the Wartime Soviet Union,” The Slavonic and East European Review 96 (2018), 119. 18 Oleg Budnitskii concludes that because no lists of the interviewers’ questions have been found and most original, unedited records are missing or destroyed, “it is impossible to determine to what

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should consider “personal accounts, or testimonies [all forms of evidence provided by individual protagonists in historical events] … as documents equal in validity to other forms of documentation.”19 In traumatic and destructive periods such as World War II in Europe, “the use of testimonies only as confirmation of events already known through other documentation condemns to oblivion events only known through testimonies.”20

The Latvian Legion: karmīnsarkans on Feldgrau21 In popular memory and some scholarship, the Latvian Legion is frequently presented as monolingually Latvian, completely separate from Germanic units of the Waffen-SS, entirely free from Nazi indoctrination, and possessing numerous continuities from the interwar Latvian Army.22 While not wholly inaccurate, first-person primary sources complicate this narrative and illustrate the national qualities of the Latvian Legion as dynamic rather than fixed. Consideration must be given to the relationship among frameworks established by the German occupation, the Latvian officials and officers who both fulfilled and circumvented German policy directives, and the enlisted soldiers who participated in unit cultures and developed their own informal practices from below. The German occupation of Latvia simultaneously loosened Soviet restrictions on certain expressions of Latvian culture imposed in 1940 and also censored or removed the word “Latvian” from various institutions and public life.23 As Modris Eksteins argues, these policies of the extent the interviewers determined the course of the interview, its dynamics and content.” Oleg Budnitskii, “A Harvard Project in Reverse: Materials of the Commission of the USSR Academy of Sciences on the History of the Great Patriotic War – Publications and Interpretations,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 19 (2018), 180. 19 Omer Bartov, “Wartime Lies and Other Testimonies: Jewish–Christian Relations in Buczacz, 1939–1944,” East European Politics and Societies 25 (2011), 487. 20 Bartov, “Wartime Lies,” 488. 21 Karmīnsarkans (carmine red) is the color of two of the three stripes of the Latvian flag while Feldgrau (field gray) was the greenish-gray shade of the standard Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS uniform. 22 See Valdis O. Lumans, Latvia in World War II (New York: Fordham University Press, 2006), 290. See also Andrejs Modris Mežmalis, The Latvian Legion: Information, Facts, Truth (Riga: n.p., 2008), 53. 23 Latvian flags, for example, could once again be displayed and banned songs and works of literature, theater, and films could once again be read, performed, and screened, but the University of Latvia, which had been renamed Latvia State University under Soviet rule, was renamed to the University of Riga under the German occupation. Other national institutions were similarly renamed, such as the National Opera (to “Riga Opera”) and the National Theater (to “Riga Drama Theater”). See Daina Bleiere et al., History of Latvia: The 20th Century (Riga: Jumava, 2006), 294.

“My Home and My Family Are Now Our Regiment”

German occupation were an “implicit recognition of ethnic individuality, even if Nazi officials refused to acknowledge this distinctiveness openly.”24 After proposals for a Latvian Army of 100,000 personnel in exchange for Latvian independence after a German victory on the Eastern Front were rejected by German occupation officials, the Latvian Legion would form under a similar framework—leeway in cultural expression and internal rhetoric, but under German supervision and serving German interests. This compromise was reflected in the command structure of the Latvian Legion. Rudolfs Bangerskis, a general in the interwar Latvian Army, served as nominal leader and inspector general of the Legion yet had no command authority. Instead, German divisional and corps-level command was in the hands of German Waffen-SS officers, with headquarters staffed in part by Germans. This led one veteran of the Legion to declare Bangerskis: “a commander … without the possibility of command; SS-Gruppenführer—without a group; [and] Inspector General … without the right of inspection.”25 As a consequence, relationships could be strained between German and Latvian officers. As a compromise, former Latvian Army colonel Artūrs Silgailis was named the 15th Division’s infantry leader in addition to his administrative duties.26 Nevertheless, tensions persisted for the remainder of the war. Pēteris Lapainis, a battalion commander, recorded in his diary after a meeting of commanding officers in the 15th Division: “One can see … what’s necessary and more painful is: [the lack of] cooperation between Latvian and German staff … a portion of the commanders complain that they have no control.”27 Vilis Janums complained that at 15th Division headquarters, many young SS officers were “ultranationalists [who] conceived of themselves as belonging to the master race and looked at Latvians like negroes.”28 Lower in the ranks, relations between Latvians and Germans could also be poor. Legion medic Jānis Zemītis wrote that “life would be even more peaceful, if the company didn’t have a new Spieß [SS-Stabsscharführer, or company sergeant major]—a German, who harasses us.”29 Given these relations with German 24 Modris Eksteins, Walking Since Daybreak: A Story of Eastern Europe, World War II, and the Heart of Our Century (Boston: Mariner, 2000), 157. 25 Ādolfs Blāķis, Medaļas otrā puse: okupācijas varu pavadā un jūgā, 1940–1945 (Buenos Aires: La Voz, 1956), 94. 26 Arthur Silgailis, Latvian Legion, 2nd ed. (Riga: Military Literature Publishers Foundation, 2006), 49. 27 Diary of Pēteris Lapainis, 25 January 1944, Latvian War Museum (Latvijas Kara muzejs, hereafter LKM), 5-922-DK/p, 5. 28 Vilis Janums, Mana pulka kauju gaitas (self-published, 1953), 91. 29 Jānis Zemītis, Nenoslēgtais loks: Leģionāra stāsts, ed. Aija Lāce (Riga: Mansards, 2013), 96.

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officers and staff, a sense of ownership in the Legion conveyed through its Latvian qualities was a necessary counterbalance. In their visual appearance, Legionnaires embodied this policy of symbolic concessions to Latvian sensibilities in the context of a German-dominated “New Europe.” On their standard German-issued uniforms, Legionnaires wore a shield patch in the red-white-red of the Latvian flag on the right upper sleeve of their uniforms.30 The addition of a more nationally identifiable variant of the shield patch, with the word Latvija (Latvia) written on it, in 1944 was presented as something the Latvian Legion received “as a reward for their performance” in battle.31 Official collar insignia for the 15th Division was a Latvian sun symbol (saulīte) with three stars representing the historical provinces of Latvia: Courland (and Semigallia), Livonia, and Latgallia, an adaptation of the standard cockade on Latvian Army hats from 1919 to 1940.32 For the 19th Division, the insignia was a fire-cross (ugunskrusts), a traditional Latvian symbol essentially identical to the Nazi swastika, which had also been appropriated by the eponymous Latvian far right movement in the 1930s (see Chapter 3). Beyond the feldgrau field uniform and Stahlhelm (German steel helmet) that were otherwise indistinguishable from German units, Latvian Legionnaires also wore insignia historically associated with some German military units and later appropriated by the Waffen-SS, the Totenkopf (“death’s head” or skull and crossbones; in Latvian, miroņgalva).33 While officially forbidden to them as non-Germans, many Latvian Legionnaires also wore the symbol most associated with the SS, the double Sig runes (ϟϟ), due to confusion in the supply chain and lax oversight. It was not until 30 May 1944, that Ēriks Jaunkalnietis received a fire-cross patch to replace the Sig rune patch.34 Jānis 30 Rolf Michaelis, Latvians in the Ordnungspolizei and Waffen-SS (Altglen, PA: Schiffer, 2012), 68. 31 Laumanis, Special Order no. 3, 30 May 1944, Latvian State Historical Archives (Latvijas Valsts vēstures arhīvs, hereafter LVVA), P-412. f., 1. apr., 1. l., 30. lp. 32 Latviešu kaŗavīrs Otra pasaules kaŗa laikā: dokumentu un atmiņu krājums, vol. 3: Latviešu leģions, ed. Osvalds Freivalds (Västerås, Sweden: Daugavas Vanagi, 1970), 135. 33 Though the Totenkopf had been used by soldiers of the German states since the eighteenth century, its meaning changed under Nazi rule. From 1933, the Totenkopf was associated with units of the SS tasked with administering concentration camps; later, one of the first Waffen-SS combat units was formed in part from these personnel, the 3rd SS Panzer Division Totenkopf, which featured the Totenkopf as collar insignia in addition to the cap emblem. On that division, see Charles W. Sydnor, Jr., Soldiers of Destruction: The SS Death’s Head Division, 1933–1945 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990). Heinrich Himmler stated that “the death’s head admonishes us to be ready at any time to commit our individual life for the life of the whole community.” Peter Longerich, Heinrich Himmler: A Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 287. 34 Ēriks Jaunkalnietis, “The Diary of Ēriks Jaunkalnietis,” in (Two) Sides, 253.

“My Home and My Family Are Now Our Regiment”

Auzāns recalled that Latvian flag patch on the sleeve was “the only way that a Legionnaire differed from a German military uniform” and was dismayed by the prospect of wearing the Sig runes and Totenkopf.35 Such misgivings lingered among some veterans, as Legion officer Ādolfs Blāķis later reflected that these “foreign Totenkopf uniforms place a cover of ‘darkness’ over the mighty works of Legionnaires.”36 For many Legionnaires, however, the number of Latvian cultural expressions surrounding the unit outweighed wearing a foreign uniform. When Ēriks Jaunkalnietis departed for the front, he commented in his diary, “At the train stations people admire the wagons that are decorated with Latvian flags, as songs in Latvian resound, only the clothing is strange, unrecognizable. People sing folk songs, but their costumes are strange to me.”37 Another interesting avenue for exploring the identities of Latvian Legionnaires is through the ways that they imbued toponyms along the front lines in the Soviet Union with symbolic significance. A wooden fort in the Volkhov region was nicknamed “Mežotne Palace” (Mežotnes pils) after a famous Baltic German manor in Latvia.38 At another location nearby, the ruins of a monastery at Spasskaia Polist’ became a “Latvian Alcázar” (latviešu Alkazārs), referencing a besieged stronghold of Nationalist forces in Toledo during the Spanish Civil War.39 Later, a portion of the ice-filled Velikaia River was labeled “Death Island” (Nāves sala), after the location of a fierce battle between the Latvian Riflemen and the Imperial German Army in 1916.40 From these choices, the troops reveal their desired aims: protecting the Latvian homeland, opposing communism in collaboration with other Axis-aligned movements, and following in the tradition of the World War I–era Latvian Riflemen.

The Latvian Rifle Corps: Learning to Speak Soviet Latvian The designation of the 201st Rifle Division as “Latvian” was not empty or meaningless. However cynical and hypocritical the Soviet system could be, its administrators and party officials took the nationalities policy that 35 Jānis Auzāns, Dzīve, darbi un nedarbi (unpublished manuscript, 2007), 39. 36 Blāķis, Medaļas otrā puse, 77–78. 37 Jaunkalnietis, “Diary of Ēriks Jaunkalnietis,” 243. 38 Latviešu kaŗavīrs, 3:163. 39 Latviešu kaŗavīrs, 3:146; Silgailis, Latvian Legion, 45. 40 Diary of Pēteris Lapainis, 4.

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underpinned federalism and cultural and linguistic policies in the Soviet Union seriously. While serving in Latvian national formations, Latvians (most of whom had only experienced one year of Soviet rule) also learned to “speak Bolshevik.”41 This does not simply mean that they learned Russian, though that also occurred, rather that soldiers from Latvia adapted to a different mode of self-expression, incorporating new vocabulary and narrating their lives according to the Soviet model.42 Integration into the Soviet system was expedited for Latvians who evacuated to the Soviet rear early in the war. They were intensively targeted for propagandization, service in the Red Army, and recruitment into the LK(b)P. As Juliette Denis argues, “the experience of war on the Soviet side was in itself considered the best Soviet school.”43 Red Army Latvian national formations offered a form of “positive integration” that was achieved through “subtle, if unequal negotiation” that could involve varying degrees of cynicism and naïveté, performance, and internalized belief.44 Even as they adapted to new norms in a society and military that emphasized indoctrination, wartime provided some breathing space for idiosyncratic and heterodox ideas. While those from Latvia were learning to “speak Bolshevik” (and Russian), some ethnic Latvians from Russia and members of non-Latvian nationalities were also learning Latvian and developing new affective ties to Latvia. Though administratively considered the same in terms of nationality, Latvians from Latvia and Latvians from within the prewar borders of the Soviet Union were distinct populations.45 Many of the highest-ranking officers and political staff in the 201st Latvian Rifle Division, including its commander, Jānis Veikins, were Latvians who had lived in the Soviet Union prior to 1940 and spent decades in the Red Army or party. Andrejs Ābele explains: 41 On “speaking Bolshevik,” see Stephen Kotkin, Magnetic Mountain: Stalinism as a Civilization (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 198–237. 42 In Soviet Turkmenistan, locals learned to “speak Bolshevik … but that they spoke it with their own accents and lent it their own meanings.” Adrienne Lynn Edgar, Tribal Nation: The Making of Soviet Turkmenistan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004), 11. 43 Juliette Denis, “‘The Best School of Communism’: Latvians in the Great Patriotic War, 1941–45,” in The Baltic States under Stalinist Rule, ed. Olaf Mertelsmann (Cologne: Böhlau, 2016), 42. 44 Kotkin, Magnetic Mountain, 236. 45 Sometimes known as “Russian-Latvians,” Latvians from within the pre-1939 borders of the Soviet Union are generally described as de-nationalized and Russified in the historiography of Latvia. See, for example, Adolfs Šilde, “The Role of Russian-Latvians in the Sovietization of Latvia,” Journal of Baltic Studies 18 (1987), 191–208.

“My Home and My Family Are Now Our Regiment”

Our company, according to national composition [is comprised] mostly of Latvians from Latvia, there are also Jews [and] there is one Lithuanian, but for the most part they are all evacuees from the Latvian SSR, except for some commanders who are also Latvians, but they are Soviet Latvians, they do not even know the Latvian language, [they are Latvians] only by family name, but “Latvian” is written [as their nationality] in their passports. There is one Ukrainian, who is already fluent in Latvian.46 The basic parameters of a Russian or Russified Latvian command staff supervising a strong contingent of Latvians along with other nationalities from Latvia, a variety of other Soviet nationalities, and language learning across multiple lines, which persisted for much of the 201st/43rd Division’s existence. Russification did occur, as training and commands in battle were issued in Russian and political meetings were also largely conducted in Russian. Yet, Latvian appeared officially in cultural programs, speeches by visiting dignitaries representing the Latvian SSR and LK(b)P, and was used informally among the troops. Proficiency in the Latvian language was at times also promoted. Political officer Kārlis Eipurs initially noticed that some “Russians from Riga spoke Latvian poorly” and then subsequently “taught them the Latvian language.”47 Kārlis Bremze, a Latvian from Russia who had spoken Latvian in childhood but had largely forgotten it before the war noted that in his medical battalion, “the doctors were Latvians from Latvia and we all spoke in the Latvian language,” allowing him to readjust to using his native language.48 For some, it was difficult to articulate what made these Red Army units truly Latvian. “What’s the difference between the Latvian Division and Russian units?” asked Georgijs Portnovs. His answer was that “it’s about fighting. Latvians are fighting steadfastly, stubbornly, but specifically, Latvian traits are difficult to indicate.”49 Symbolic gestures could connect the service of Latvian Red Army soldiers to the national cause. Ambulance driver Jānis Purs nicknamed his vehicle Krišjānis Valdemārs, after the nineteenth-century 46 Andrei Andreevich Abele, interview by R. I. Golubeva, May or June 1943, Latvian State Archives (Latvijas Valsts arhīvs, hereafter LVA), PA-301. f., 1. apr., 20. l., 4. lp. 47 Gunta Strautmane, Dialogā ar vēsturi: Pētera Krupņikova dzīvesstāsts (Riga: Zinātne, 2015), 109. 48 Museum of the Occupation of Latvia (Latvijas Okupācijas muzejs, hereafter OMF), 2300/837. 49 Georgii Romanovich Portnov, interview by R. I. Golubeva, 15 May 1943, LVA, PA-301. f., 1. apr., 24 .l., 1.op lp.

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Latvian folklorist and early nationalist.50 These symbols along with familiar faces provided the illusion that soldiers were closer to home. After arriving at the Gorokhovets camp, located near the city of Gorky (Nizhny Novgorod), Isaak Rabinovich wrote in a letter to his wife that “it feels more like in a camp near Riga to us than a place at such a distance from the city we love.”51 Sofia Gvozdetskaia, a medical officer originally from Belarus, noted that the 201st Division had become a home for her (svoim rodnim domom), but even more so for Latvians. Wounded Latvians under her care pleaded to remain, since once they were sent away to a hospital, they would leave the unique environment of the 201st Latvian Rifle Division. By 1943, the sense of the division as a Latvian national home diminished somewhat after the personnel had been “diluted with other nationalities,” but Gvozdetskaia still found it difficult to transfer Latvians outside of her unit.52 Similarly, Jēkabs Vecvagars was the commissar of the 191st Regiment until an automobile accident left him with a broken leg. He repeatedly petitioned to commanders and LK(b)P officials to return to the 201st Division but was rejected on medical grounds and was officially replaced in his role. Finally, with the creation of the 308th Division, he was able to return to a Latvian national formation in June 1944.53 Regardless of shifting demographics during the war due to replenishment with non-Latvian personnel, Red Army Latvian national formations remained a foster home for its orphaned soldiers while Latvia remained under German occupation.

Celebrating Being Latvian on the Front: Holidays, Song, and Dance All of the most important traditional holidays were embraced and celebrated in the Latvian Legion, including Christmas, Easter, and Midsummer (Līgo/ 50 Ieva Pliesmane, “Vo imia zhizn’,” in Na pravyi boi, na smertnyi boi: sbornik vospominanii i dokumentov o vooruzhennoi bor’be latyshkogo naroda protiv fashistskikh zakhvatchikov, vol. 1, ed. Alfrēds Raškevics (Riga: Liesma, 1968), 131. 51 Isaak Moseevich Rabinovich to Dora Borisovna, 16 September 1941, in Sokhrani moi pis’ma…: Sbornik pisem evreev perioda Velikoi Otechestvennoi voiny, vol. 3, ed. Il’ia Al’tman, Leonid Terushkin, and Elena Testova (Moscow: Polimed, 2013), 114. 52 Sof’ia Abramovna Gvozdetskaia, interview by R. I. Golubeva, 21 May 1943, LVA, PA-301. f., 1. apr., 21. l., 1.op lp. 53 Iakov Krish’ianovich Veitsvagar, interview by R. I. Golubeva, 2 August 1945, Scholarly Archive of the Institute of Russian History at the Russian Academy of Sciences (Nauchnyi arkhiv Instituta rossiiskoi istorii Rossiiskoi akademii nauk, hereafter NA IRI RAN), fond 2, r. I, opis 16, delo 20, list 2.

“My Home and My Family Are Now Our Regiment”

Jāņi).54 Pēteris Lapainis was deploying to the front in the USSR with his unit when they stopped over in Krustpils. He recorded in his diary, “in the meantime, we fixed up a Christmas tree, drank vodka, sang Latvian songs, and we showed that we were departing as part of a cheerful, joyous regiment of friends.”55 Some were welcomed into the Legion as new recruits with a Midsummer celebration: “I went down [to Paplaka, a training camp in Courland] …. And then we celebrated—the regiment officers made [St.] John’s Day a big evening and we went down there. They brought some beer and started a fire going and there was an orchestra and there was dancing.”56 Mintauts Blosfelds also remembered celebrating Midsummer after a period convalescing in a military hospital. Along with others soon to be sent back to the front, they celebrated by Rundāle Palace in southern Latvia, where “girls from the surrounding countryside had brought with them the usual St. John’s Night wreaths which they placed on the heads of the Legionnaires, and everyone danced around the fountain in the castle forecourt.”57 Midsummer could be celebrated outside of Latvia’s borders as well. Voldemārs Grāvelis, commander of the 19th Division’s Artillery Regiment, thanked a Latvian parish elder (pagasta vecākais) for sending his unit care packages with which they could celebrate Midsummer: For us soldiers, among whom the moments of joy are rare and small, it does not need to be mentioned that the moment that sincerely inspires [us] is when we remember the homeland. [Your] community has given us once more new energy in [our] campaign, new hopes for victory, and belief in Latvia and the Latvian people …. [P]lease accept the sincerest Latvian thanks [sirsnīgāko latvisko paldies] from me and my soldiers.58 Similarly, presents from Latvia—including cookies, butter, and bacon—arrived in large numbers for Legionnaires for Christmas 1943.59 These direct and 54 Technically, Līgo refers to 23 June and Jāņi (St. John’s Day) refers to 24 June, though each term can serve as a metonym for the two-day holiday. 55 Diary of Pēteris Lapainis, 1. 56 “Janis Saulitis,” interview by Steven Kiersons, in Steven Kiersons, Bear-Slayers: Latvian Myth, Memory, and the World Wars (Raleigh, NC: Lulu Publishers, 2008), 116. According to Ilgars Aluts, the first Latvian volunteers were shipped off to the front on Līgo evening, 23 June 1942, giving this date extra significance. Ilgars Aluts, Sāpe mūža garumā: leģionāra atmiņas, ed. Gunārs Birkmanis (Riga: Klubs 415, 1997), 11. 57 Mintauts Blosfelds, Stormtrooper on the Eastern Front: Fighting with Hitler’s Latvian SS (Barnsley, UK: Pen and Sword, 2008), 94. 58 LVVA, P-412. f., 1. apr., 4. l., 9. lp. 59 Latviešu kaŗavīrs, 3:201.

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indirect connections to the Latvian homeland were important for maintaining morale and fashioning the narrative of the Latvian Legion as a national force. Differences were also noted by Latvians serving outside the Legion. Juris Zīverts, a war correspondent, recorded in his diary that “our Christmas party” with “our German friends … does not delight me. It’s too militaristic, without any emotions [or] sincerity.”60 Outside holidays imposed on Legionnaires, such as Hitler’s Birthday, were typically appreciated only for the extra alcohol provided.61 Not all holidays were ostensibly welcome for open celebration. The Reichskommissar of Ostland, Hinrich Lohse, issued a ban on commemorating Latvian Independence Day (18 November) in 1941, though many Rigans had circumvented this by quietly laying flowers at the Brothers’ Cemetery and also by the Freedom Monument.62 The front, however, provided an even freer atmosphere for commemoration. Kārlis Lobe, commander of the 43rd “Imanta” Regiment celebrated Latvian Independence Day 1943 in the Volkhov region of Russia with a moment of silence and a brief speech. For symbolic effect, the unit used a compass to orient themselves in the direction of Latvia, while draping Latvian flags to face the opposite direction, toward enemy lines.63 The next year, Jānis Bolis marked 18 November on the front lines in Latvia, noting on this “lovely day” that “I have to mention the nice feeling that I am still in the homeland and can serve it.”64 Service in the Red Army meant that a long list of holidays connected to the Soviet state or the international socialist movement were commemorated, with varying levels of enthusiasm from the troops. The Day of the Great October Socialist Revolution, 7 November, was marked with both political agitation and festivities. Georgs Lande recalled that his regiment gathered for a political meeting, followed by dinner with vodka and a film screening.65 Other holidays, such as 1 May, International Workers’ Day, and 23 February, the Day of the Red Army, which commemorates its founding, were marked in a similar fashion.66 No matter the manner in which they were celebrated, 60 Juris Zīverts, “The Diary of Juris Zīverts,” in (Two) Sides, 291. 61 Blosfelds, Stormtrooper, 88; Nikolajs Šķute, “The Diary of Nikolajs Šķute,” in (Two) Sides, 126; Zīverts, “Diary of Juris Zīverts,” 299–300. 62 Operational Situation Report in the USSR no. 153, 9 January 1942, US National Archives and Records Administration (hereafter NARA), RG 242, T-175, roll 237, 2723540-41. 63 Latviešu kaŗavīrs, 3:195–196. 64 Letter from Jānis Bolis to Berta Bolis, 18 November 1944, letter held in private collection, loaned to the author by the letter writer’s son. 65 G. Lande, “201. latviešu divīzijas 92. pulka–vēlāk 43. gvardes latviešu strēlnieku divīzijas 121. pulka I. rotas I. nodaļas karagaitas no 1942.g.maija līdz 1942.g.decembrim,” LVA, PA-200. f., 9. apr., 697. l., 40. lp. 66 Political Report no. 93, 29 February 1944, LVA, PA-30.1 f., 3. apr., 85. l., 38. lp.

“My Home and My Family Are Now Our Regiment”

new holidays helped to set new rhythms and senses of time. Andrian Vavilov noted that his unit first went into combat near Moscow “on the day of the Stalin Constitution,” 5 December 1941.67 Some holidays—those with connections to Latvian independence or with religious significance—were suppressed by the Soviet regime. Midsummer, however, the most important annual holiday for Latvians, was officially embraced by the unit.68 Vera Kacena, a medic and later a correspondent for the newspaper Latviešu strēlnieks (Latvian Riflemen), noted on Midsummer 1942 that the celebration of the holiday brought her comfort while serving far from Latvia: “Last night I went to the river to wash myself and to pick some flowers …. A group of soldiers came along the shoreline with wreaths of oak branches on their heads, quietly singing Latvian Midsummer songs—I could not help but feel that we were at home.”69 Plans for Midsummer 1943 also engaged soldiers of every nationality and role within the 43rd Guards Division. Political meetings in the days prior would lead to a Midsummer’s Eve performance by a “Latvian folk choir” as well as “Latvian folk dances.”70 Jānis Piesis recounted the preparations for Midsummer 1944: “six girls dressed in [Latvian] national costumes. A barrel of beer was made, fish were caught …. [T]he commander of the engineer platoon, Kauve … made the dance floor, laid out the boards …. [E]verywhere there were slogans and decorations.”71 Ivan Koniushev noted a Red Army variation on the Līgo tradition; a maypole was erected, which instead of featuring a bonfire on top or decorations alongside, held a half-liter bottle of vodka atop it. The soldier who could successfully climb the pole would earn the vodka.72 A singing style traditionally associated with Midsummer, 67 Andrian Mikhailovich Vavilov, interview by R. I. Golubeva, 28 May 1943. LVA, PA-301. f., 1. apr., 28. l., 22. lp. 68 Typically, only ethnic Latvians celebrate Jāņi, Eastern Orthodox Slavs have Kupala night (Ivan-Kupala or Ivanov den’), which falls on a later date due to the Julian Calendar, while Latvian Jews traditionally did not partake in Midsummer celebrations at all. Starting in 1961, the celebration of Midsummer was banned by Soviet Latvian authorities for supposed bourgeois-nationalist connotations; this remained in effect until it became an official holiday in 1990. 69 Vera Kacena, “Skarbais pavasaris,” in Uzvaras ceļos: Apraksti un tēlojumi, ed. Voldemārs Kalpiņš (Riga: Latvijas Valsts izdevniecība, 1951), 143, cited in Daina Eglitis and Vita Zelče, “Unruly Actors: Latvian Women of the Red Army in Post-War Historical Memory,” Nationalities Papers 41 (2013), 994. 70 Letter from Riekstiņš and Cherednichen to Nikolaev, June 1943, LVA, PA-301. f., 3. apr., 50. l., 1.–1.op lp. 71 Ianis Ianovich Piesis, interview by R. I. Golubeva, 8 July 1946, NA IRI RAN, f. 2, r. I, op. 16, d. 32, l. 2–2ob. 72 Ivan Timofeevich Koniushev, interview by R. I. Golubeva, 28 June 1946, NA IRI RAN, f. 2, r. I, op. 16, d. 33, l. 2.

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in which each line concludes with the refrain “līgo,” was also adapted to wartime conditions. Improvised stanzas satirized the enemy in a manner comparable to Russian folk poetry (chastushki), bringing together Latvians and Russians in the Latvian Rifle Corps in ribald laughter:73 Poor Hitler was feeling dejected, līgo, līgo. The fascist has lost his zeal, līgo. Leaving Russia without looking back, līgo, līgo, Fleeing for his life, his heels smeared with mud, līgo!74 Catherine Merridale writes that “songs were vital for morale” in the Red Army.75 Red Army and LK(b)P officials recognized this, establishing musical ensembles in the Latvian Rifle Corps and sponsoring songwriting competitions. Out of 26 submissions, “Uz kauju” (“To battle”), with music by composer Pēteris Smilga and lyrics by poet Fricis Rokpelnis, was selected as the 201st Division’s Battle Song.76 In summer 1941, the 201st Division’s ensemble composed original songs that sought to meld Latvian themes with Soviet patriotism, featuring titles like “Song of the Latvian Riflemen” and “Stalin’s Sons.”77 The bandmaster of the 308th Division’s ensemble detailed a broad repertoire ranging from classic opera songs to patriotic Soviet songs, though he stressed that “we used Latvian folk motifs” in front of a variety of audiences.78 In 1944, the ensemble performed a total of 309 times.79 Performances were held not just for other Red Army units on the front, but also in a concert in Moscow, where the ensemble was able to demonstrate to the audience “the high level of choral culture, which for centuries has been cultivated by the Latvian people,” highlighting songs like the Latvian folk song of Liv origins, “Pūt, vējiņi!” (“Blow, wind!”).80 Songs were not just performed at official concerts. One soldier reported that “Es karā aiziedams” (“As I went off to war,” a popular song from World 73 In Latvian known as apdziedāšanās dziesmas (songs that mock or deride), which are often sung at holidays. On chastushki and “the coarse humor that soldiers loved,” see Catherine Merridale, Ivan’s War: Life and Death in the Red Army, 1939–1945 (New York: Picador, 2006), 197–198. 74 Elvira Zake, “Vospominaniia operatsionnoi sestry,” in Na pravyi boi, 144. 75 Merridale, Ivan’s War, 195. 76 Savchenko, Latyshskie formirovaniia sovetskoi armii , 120. 77 Leonid Davidovich Koktobulis, interview by R.I. Golubeva, 31 July 1945, NA IRI RAN, f. 2, r. I, op. 224, d. 2, l. 2. 78 Koktobulis interview, NA IRI RAN, f. 2, r. I, op. 224, d. 2, l. 2. 79 Zutis, Political Report no. 64, 21 January 1945, LVA, PA-301. f., 3. apr., 84. l., 8. lp. 80 G. Polianovskii, “Vechera latyshskogo iskusstva,” Pravda, 24 April 1943.

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War I) was the most popular “of the Latvian songs,” while popular folk songs from Russia were also translated into Latvian and sung.81 Georgs Lande recalled that songs like “Nu, ar dievu Vidzemīte” (“Farewell now, my dear Livonia”) were popular; he was told by older veterans of the front that “Jauns un traks, tu, puika, esi bijis” (“You’ve been young and crazy, my lad”) was the unofficial song of the 201st Division.82 The former, a song composed in the 1870s and frequently sung by the World War I–era Latvian Riflemen represents a continuity of Latvian soldiers singing confidently of a victorious return home while the latter signaled the prominence of light-hearted, romantic songs among the repertoire.83 Songs of all kinds sustained morale on long marches; in at least one case, not only did the official ensemble perform concerts, but also in the 2nd Company of the 121st Regiment, “songs could be heard in the Russian, Latvian, Tatar, and Jewish [i.e., Yiddish] languages.”84 Pauls Pihels, an ethnic Liv whose family originated on the Estonian island of Saaremaa before settling in Latvia, sang during the war, continuing as a member of the 130th Latvian Rifle Corps Veterans’ Ensemble. When a soldier was killed in action, Pihels and his comrades-in-arms would sing the 1930s song “Māte, es nākšu” (“Mother, I will come”). Perhaps more unexpectedly, Pihels claimed that when his unit participated in the operation to take Riga in October 1944, he and other Red Army soldiers not only sang folk songs like “Pūt, vējiņi,” but also the forbidden anthem of “bourgeois” Latvia, “Dievs, svētī Latviju” (“God, Bless Latvia”).85 In the Legion, singing was also a key means of maintaining morale and building comradeship. Visvaldis Lācis writes that Latvian Legionnaires “sang everywhere,” in the front and in the rear.86 In contrast to other Waffen-SS units, evening taps were conducted by singing the Latvian lyrics to the traditional Lutheran hymn, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” (“Dievs kungs ir mūsu stiprā pils”), along with the national anthem of independent Latvia, “God, Bless Latvia.”87 Once the Legion had formed and deployed, 81 Boris Dmitrievich Fedorov, interview by R.I. Golubeva, 24 May 1943, LVA, PA-301. f., 1. apr., 22. l., 79.op lp. 82 LVA, PA-200. f.9. apr., 697. l., 2. 83 On “Nu, ar dievu Vidzemīte,” see Guntis Šmidchens, The Power of Song: Nonviolent National Culture in the Baltic Singing Revolution (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2014), 114–115. 84 Pazar, “Material ob opyte agitatsionno-propagandistkoi raboty 43 gvardeiskoi latyshskoi strelkovoi Rizhskoi divizii v boiakh za Sovetskuiu Pribaltiku,” 9 June 1945, LKM, 4-106-ug. 85 Pauls Pihels, interview, OMF, 2300/836. 86 Visvaldis Lācis, Latviešu leģions: Patiesības gaismā (Riga: Jumava, 2006), 215. 87 Mežmalis, The Latvian Legion, 54; Spekke, History of Latvia, 370.

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the Soldiers’ Aid Front Theater, which included two musical ensembles, served as a means of bringing entertainment from Latvia to Legionnaires in the field. Their first tour in August 1943, which many commanders thought put their troops at ease, was followed by a second tour from December 1943 to January 1944.88 In January 1944, Ēriks Jaunkalnietis recorded in his diary how the Bušs band of the Front Theater “played very powerful music”; the presence of musicians and performers so excited the enlisted soldiers that drunken scuffles repeatedly erupted.89 In January 1945, Ilmārs Knochs wrote in his diary that a performance by soldiers’ choirs was “wonderfully refreshing—it will leave a lasting impression on my spirits.”90 Back in Latvia, wounded Legionnaires and Wehrmacht soldiers recuperating in Riga were treated to songs performed by singing troupes in Latvian folk dress, which reportedly raised the spirits of both cohorts.91 Mariss Vētra, a veteran of the Latvian War of Independence and a popular singer among the troops, stated that “the songs to which [soldiers] are accustomed on the front are sacred.”92 One of the most requested songs was “Mūžam zili” (“Forever blue”) with music by the composer Emīls Dārziņš set to lyrics by the poet Kārlis Skalbe; the song somberly describes how “there has never been peace beneath Latvia’s birch trees,” but also declares “the spirit of the heroes will never fade.”93 Many other songs dated back to World War I and were sung by the Latvian Riflemen of that era, which featured themes of freedom (personal and national) and patriotic sentiments about Latvia.94 Different contexts also called for different styles of music. Vilnis Bankovičs thought that Latvian folk songs (dainas) were “more suited to rest periods than to marching in formation,” when he and his fellow Legionnaires sang German marching songs or occasionally parodies thereof.95 While the 15th Division’s song is uplifting and romantic, referencing the call to war and a promised return to a sweetheart, the 19th Division’s song is more stridently martial: “We boldly and proudly march/ And the guns on our shoulders/And the names of the ancient heroes/Come 88 Latviešu kaŗavīrs, 3:160–162. 89 Ēriks Jaunkalnietis, “The Diary of Ēriks Jaunkalnietis,” in (Two) Sides, 245–246. 90 Ilmārs Knochs, diary, 3 January 1945, LKM, 5-52056/2582-DK, 12. 91 J. V., “Ar jaunu sparu,” Tēvija, 27 March 1942. 92 Ē. R., “Kaŗavīru dziesmas,” Daugavas Vanagi, 30 June 1944. 93 Ē. R., “Kaŗavīru dziesmas.” 94 Lācis, Latviešu leģions, 216–217. 95 Vilnis Bankovičs, Driven West, Taken East: A World War II Memoir of the Eastern Front, trans. Maris Roze (self-publication, 2015), 93.

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along with us as our legacy.”96 Commonly, bonding through song took on new significance upon leaving the homeland behind. On trains carrying Latvian soldiers to the Eastern Front in Russia, Legionnaires spontaneously broke into song, singing songs like “God, Bless Latvia” and “Kad šķiroties no tēva mājām” (“When you part from your father’s home”).97 In such ways, a connection to Latvia was sustained even while away from the homeland.

Latvian National Formations as Families Military units are a unique social space. As David H. J. Morgan notes, “combat and military experience separate men from women while binding men to men.”98 In this context, military units allow for an exploration of “homosociability” and masculinity, though the Red Army notably also allowed women to serve in both combat and noncombat positions. The separation of soldiers from their families and their communities necessitated new rhythms of life and new structures for establishing meaning. Family-like comradeship, which fostered relationships between young and old hierarchically (as age often corresponded to rank) and among comrades-in-arms horizontally, provided structure for disoriented soldiers along with tenderness and affirmation for those cut off from their families on both sides.99 Most vitally, each Latvian national formation served as a “home away from home” and surrogate family for Latvians, allowing them to sustain morale during difficult times. Latvian Legionnaires and Latvian Soviet Riflemen often drew from a discourse that reimagined relations between fresh recruits and seasoned veterans, enlisted men and officers, and young and old as a familial 96 http://www.vilki.lv/Vilkudiski/StobriJauKarsti/15divizijas-dziesma/; http://www.vilki.lv/ Vilkudiski/StobriJauKarsti/19-divizijas-dziesma/. 97 Bankovičs, Driven West, Taken East, 45; Aluts, Sāpe mūža garumā, 11. Juris Zīverts reported that when he was evacuated from Latvia by ship to Germany in October 1944, he and other Latvians sang “God, Bless Latvia” when leaving their “native shores.” Zīverts, “Diary of Juris Zīverts,” 272. Voldemārs Caune recorded in his diary that everyone on his ship departing Latvia in October 1944 sang “God, Bless Latvia …. and other patriotic songs,” Voldemārs Caune, Diary of Voldemārs Caune, 9 October 1944, LKM, 5-35565 / 1776-DR. 98 David H. J. Morgan, “Theater of War: Combat, the Military, and Masculinities,” in Theorizing Masculinities, ed. Harry Brod and Michael Kaufman (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, 1994), 166. 99 On this point, see Thomas Kühne, The Rise and Fall of Comradeship: Hitler’s Soldiers, Male Bonding and Mass Violence in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 166–168.

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relationship. Noncommissioned officers (NCOs) and officers frequently refer to the enlisted men under their command as “boys” (zēni) and “lads” (puiši), making themselves into elders with familial responsibilities, not just those of superior rank. When Ēriks Jaunkalnietis was transferred to the 44th Regiment’s 2nd Battalion in April 1944, he wrote: That’s my new group of boys who will have to be turned into men. I am the commander of the 1st group [sic] of the 5th company and the sergeant of my platoon. The commander of the company is an old battle wolf, O’scha [Oberscharführer] Stūrītis. The boys have been on the front lines for only one month.100 Ilgars Aluts recalled that the eldest in his squad, who also happened to rank highest as sergeant, called the others by the diminutive form vecītis (Dad).101 Perhaps to emphasize comradeship over seniority, Zemītis, a medical orderly, uses “puiši” but not “zēni” when referring to enlisted Legionnaires. Conversely, officers were referred to at times by referencing their age or fatherly authority. Various Red Army commanders and political officers, like the zampolit (deputy political commissar) Shviakin and Lieutenant Colonel Lieutenant Colonel Riekstiņš were called “Father” by enlisted Latvian Riflemen.102 The first Latvian officer in German service awarded the Iron Cross, Captain Aleksandrs Mateass, had for a long time been called “the Old Man” (vecais) by his men.103 Even NCOs utilized this terminology; Jaunkalnietis also referred to Kārlis Aperāts, his battalion commander, as “vecais.”104 Familial metaphors also explained the relations between the front and the rear. Latvian Legionnaires were upheld as role models for and the protectors of Latvian children back home. Appearing in front of schoolchildren at a Riga elementary school, the principal introduced them by stating “as long as heroes live, the Latvian nation (latvju tautu) will not be lost.” Each Legionnaire framed their service as a sacrifice to protect the youth of Latvia, 100 Jaunkalnietis, “Diary of Ēriks Jaunkalnietis,” 250. 101 This could signify either egalitarian familiarity (“old chums”) or be an ironic reference to the age of squad members, most of whom were teenagers. See Aluts, Sāpe mūža garumā, 19. 102 Vasilii Ivanovich Agafonov, interview by R. I. Golubeva, 24 November 1942, LVA, PA-301. f., 1. apr., 18. l., 5. lp.; Mikhail Ivanovich Mukhin, interview by R. I. Golubeva, 3 July 1946, NA IRI RAN, 2 f., I r., 16 op., 36 d., 1ob. 103 “Pirmie latviešu kaŗavīri apbalvoti ar Dzelzs krustu,” Daugavas Vanagi, 27 March 1942. 104 Jaunkalnietis, “Diary of Ēriks Jaunkalnietis,” 245. Cf. Vilis Hāzners, another Legion officer called vecais by those under his command: Vilis A. Hāzners, Varmācības torņi: Atmiņas (Lincoln, NE: Vaidava, 1977), 341.

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with Valdemārs Loķis stating that “the younger generation must experience happier times” and Aleksandrs Rozenkopfs telling his audience, “[W]e, the old soldiers, have experienced and know the horrors of Bolshevism. That is why, without lingering, we grab hold of a rifle in order to fight for a new, beautiful life.”105 As an anonymous letter from a wife to her husband on the front published in Daugavas Vanagi (Hawks of the Daugava) put it, “All Latvian soldiers are as close to me as brothers.”106 Occasionally, soldiers served in uniform with family members. A number of brothers served together in the Latvian Legion and transfers could bring together those conscripted at different times.107 Siblings and spouses also served together in the Latvian Rifle Corps. Ernests Jansons and his wife volunteered together for service in the 201st Division.108 Shmuel Zeitlin argues that in the 201st/43rd Division, it was Latvian Jews rather than ethnic Latvians who were most likely to serve in a unit with a spouse, sibling, parent, or child.109 After entire families had been evacuated together in June 1941 in fear of Nazi German rule, multiple family members subsequently volunteered together. The six Solovei brothers from Balvi, Latvia all joined the 201st Division, though only one, Moshe-Aron, would survive the war.110 Similarly, five of the six Ferber brothers from Tukums, Latvia volunteered to serve in the Red Army, but only one returned home.111 Sniper Sāra Erenšteine served alongside her husband and brothers.112 Abram and Lena Shur served together as husband and wife in the 43rd Guards Division.113 Six months after 43-year-old Elizar Rabinovich was conscripted into the 201st Division in fall 1941, his son Iza joined the unit.114 The presence of family members could provide extra motivation, but also increase the pain of loss when one of them was killed or wounded. 105 “Kamēr vien dzīvos varoņi, latvju tauta nezudīs,” Tēvija, 24 April 1942. 106 “Vēstule uz fronti,” Daugavas Vanagi, 5 June 1942. 107 Jēkabs Muša, for example, was assigned to the 15th Division before later being transferred to the 19th Division, where his older brother served. “Latviešu leģionāra Jēkaba Mušas stāsts,” Sargs.lv, 15 March 2012, http://www.sargs.lv/Vesture/Vesture/2012/03/15-01.aspx (accessed 23 January 2019). 108 Troegubov, “O boevikh delakh,” LVA, 200. f., 9. apr., 1153. l., 6. lp. 109 Shmuel’ Tseitlin, Dokumental’naia istoriia evreev Rigi (Israel: n.p., 1989), 258. 110 Tseitlin, Dokumental’naia istoriia, 258. 111 Iakov Tsalelovich Karasin, interview by G. Koifman, 25 August 2011, I REMEMBER, https:// iremember.ru/memoirs/pekhotintsi/karasin-yakov-tsalelovich/. 112 Aron Shneer, Plen: Sovetskie voennoplennye v Germanii, 1941–1945 (Moscow: Mosty Kul’tury, 2005), 390. 113 Shulamit Shalit, “V lesu prifrontovom,” Al’manakh Evreiskaia Starina 85 (2015), http:// berkovich-zametki.com/2015/Starina/Nomer2/Shalit1.php. 114 Elizars Rabinovinovičs, interview by Ināra Reine, 16 February 2000, NMV 803.

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Most Latvian Red Army soldiers had left part or all of their entire family behind. Arefii Ivanov stated that “In the Soviet Union, I have no one. When I was evacuated on 3 July from Riga, … I didn’t know where everyone [else] went. In Latvia, I have a father, mother, and brother.”115 Others had family members who had successfully been evacuated and ended up in far-flung corners of the Soviet Union. Latvian Red Army soldiers bonded with their comrades in arms as extensions of their own families. If he died, Alberts Dāboliņš wanted his son to inherit his watch and other keepsakes, “[A]ll of my boys in the company are aware of this, and the ones who stay alive will deliver all of that to you.”116 Andrejs Ābele stated that his small chemical unit of 35 personnel “live as if a small family.”117 This metaphor became more pointed as soldiers faced the fears that their relatives could have been killed elsewhere on the front or back home in Latvia. In his report, Guards Medical Orderly Kvin recounted the tragic fate of his family, who were brutally shot along with other defenseless city dwellers. I have no family and no home anymore, my home and my family are now our Guards Regiment, in which—without regard for my own life—I will avenge for the blood of our relatives, for the shed blood [of those] who gave their lives for the defense of the Motherland—[my] comrades.118 Feelings of loss and distance were also present for Latvian Legionnaires from the beginning. Legion officer Kārlis Mūsiņš’s wife, mother, and two daughters were all deported to Siberia on 14 June 1941.119 Others had left behind their families in Latvia for the front lines in Russia, though Legionnaires were more likely to see them for leave or during hospital stays. Later, families would shift with the front lines. Like hundreds of thousands of other Latvians, Jānis Bolis’s wife and three sons fled to Germany to escape the advancing Red Army. “I’m writing to you although I still don’t know where you are. I’m writing because … my heart is full of doubt and hope …”120 When contact was reestablished a few days later, Bolis expressed 115 Arefii Luk’ianovich Ivanov, interview by R. I. Golubeva, 27 November 1942, LVA, PA-301. f., 1. apr., 18. l., 187.op lp. 116 Alberts Dāboliņš, “The Diary of Alberts Dāboliņš,” in (Two) Sides, 76. 117 LVA, PA-301. f., 1. apr., 20. l., 4. lp. 118 Political Report, April 1943, LVA, PA-301. f., 3. apr., 83. l., 31. lp. 119 LVVA, P-1000. f., 1. apr., 3. l., 30. lp. 120 Letter from Jānis Bolis to Berta Bolis, 10 November 1944.

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renewed optimism and determination to hold the line in Courland with his fellow Legionnaires.121 The distance between soldiers and their families could also make communication difficult; over time, Ēriks Jaunkalnietis found it difficult to write letters to his wife, unable to “think of anything sensible to write to her.”122 Soldiers’ brothers-in-arms could understand their thoughts and feelings better on the front than their wives, children, and parents. Familial feelings emerged organically, but they were also cultivated from above. Jānis Piesis remembered that “young people didn’t keep close relations among each other.” Therefore, he assigned LK(b)P and Komsomol members the task of getting to know their comrades’ “so-called five-word biography,” including his first name and patronymic, whether or not he is married, what his wife’s name is, and whether or not he has children. Piesis justified this initiative on the basis of an order by Stalin, but also noted the practical effect it had in improving morale and combat performance. Such familiar and familial bonding was superior to hard masculine bonding, “in place of profanity [mat], they would familiarize themselves better with their comrades.” By mid-1943, according to Piesis, “it had a great impact.”123

Conclusion Latvian Legionnaires and Latvian Red Army soldiers fought on opposite sides of a war that devastated their homeland. Though they served in national formations meant for Latvians, the strategic goals of each great power that commanded them were antithetical to the reestablishment of an independent Latvian nation-state. In spite of this context, many of those who served felt that they fought for the national cause, belonged to Latvian units, and connected with their fellow soldiers in lasting and meaningful ways. This was facilitated by the symbolic concessions of the occupying powers that recruited them, the officials and officers who managed and commanded them, and the inclinations and preferences of the rank-and-file soldiers. Furthermore, the striking parallels in how soldiers related to Latvia and to one another in these units, beyond being as noteworthy as the stark differences, point to a shared context for most who served in Latvian national 121 Letters from Jānis Bolis to Berta Bolis, 15 and 17 November 1944. 122 Jaunkalnietis, “Diary of Ēriks Jaunkalnietis,” 253. 123 Ianis Ianovich Pesis, interview by R. I. Golubeva, 6 June 1943, LVA, PA-301. f., 1. apr., 26. l., 12.–12.op lp.

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formations during the war. The officer corps had largely been raised in Latvia under the Russian Empire, then shaped by service in World War I or the conflicts that immediately followed it. The enlisted men (and, in the Latvian Rifle Corps, women) had mostly been raised in independent Latvia during the interwar period, shaped by its institutions and culture. These convergences, in both the top-down policies of the occupying powers and the bottom-up actions of Latvian soldiers, point to new directions in considering the experience of Central and Eastern Europe during World War II. Small states like Latvia matter in the general context of World War II historiography, because they can illuminate the broad contours of the war, the nature of occupation, and the enduring power of nationalism.124 Such studies are only possible when combatants on both sides are considered and first-person primary sources are incorporated alongside more traditional archival documents.

124 See Holly Case, Between States: The Transylvanian Question and the European Idea during World War II (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009), 1.

5

The Economic Program of the Latvian National Communists– Myth or Reality? f Daina Bleiere

Introduction Khrushchev’s attempts from the mid-1950s to make the Soviet state and economic administration system more efficient created some optimism among a part of the Latvian Soviet elite that republican autonomy would be gradually expanded in order to solve problems created by Stalinist overcentralization and negligence of republican interests. People who later were called “national communists” undertook activities aimed at solving a very different set of problems—from the promotion of the Latvian language in official use to the reorientation of the economy of the republic to serve the needs of its population. Although similar activities at that time were also undertaken in other republics, the defeat of the Latvian national communists in June–July 1959 made the Latvian phenomenon in a way unique in the whole Soviet Union. The defeat of the national communists in Latvia was caused by the concerted efforts of Stalinists in the Latvian SSR (Soviet Socialist Republic) nomenklatura and their counterparts among the party functionaries in Moscow. They considered the main culprit of the potential “separatism” to be the deputy chairman of the Council of Ministers, Eduards Berklavs, and the national communists consequently have been discussed as an opposition, a certain faction of the Latvian Communist Party (LCP) grouped around him. In my opinion, the national communists were a group of like-minded people who worked in parallel, and for the most part independently, in their respective fields of responsibility to make the Soviet regime more acceptable to Latvians. The economic views of the Latvian national communists are, in one way or another, addressed in every publication about the purge of Latvia’s leadership in 1959 and about Latvia’s economic development in the 1950s, as well as in works dedicated specifically to the activities of the Latvian

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national communists.1 A widespread view, especially in Latvian academic and popular literature, is that Eduards Berklavs and other national communists had a certain economic program (or concept) developed between 1958 and 1960 by Pauls Dzērve, the director of the Economics Institute of the Latvian Academy of Sciences, and that the core of this program was opposition to the development of heavy industry in Latvia, as well as the intention to develop the production of consumer goods (mainly for the use of the republic’s population).2 This program or concept is most often called the “Perspectives on the Latvian SSR National Economy” research program, and it was developed in 1959 by the Economics Institute of the Latvian Academy of Sciences under the leadership of Dzērve. Perhaps the first publication in which this view was advanced was an article by Ēriks Rozenbaums in the newspaper Cīņa (Struggle) in 1989.3 Rozenbaums extensively quotes the research program, but unfortunately does not mention his source. All attempts by researchers to find this document in the archives have so far been unsuccessful, although we know that it was photocopied and widely distributed among officials and institutions involved in economic planning. William Prigge stresses that “prior to the July plenum, there was never any mention of Dzērve’s ‘program’ in the press, nor is there any trace of it now in the archives.”4 Benjamiņš Treijs, deputy director of the Economics Institute in 1959, published his personal copy translated into Latvian (the original was in Russian) in

1 See: Gatis Krūmiņš, ed., Latvijas tautsaimniecības vēsture (Riga: Jumava, 2017); Daina Bleiere, Ilgvars Butulis, Inesis Feldmanis, Aivars Stranga, and Antonijs Zunda, Latvijas vēsture 20. gadsimts: Otrais papildinātais izdevums (Riga: Jumava, 2005); Jānis Riekstiņš, “I nodaļa: Pretdarbība varas struktūrās,” in Nevardarbīgā pretošanās: Latvijas neatkarības atgūšanas ceļš 1945–1991, ed. Valdis Blūzma, Tālavs Jundzis, Jānis Riekstiņš, Heinrihs Strods, and Džīns Šārps (Riga: Latvijas Zinātņu akadēmija, 2008); William D. Prigge, Bearslayers: The Rise and Fall of the Latvian National Communists (New York: Peter Lang, 2015); Michael Loader, “The Thaw in Soviet Latvia: National Politics 1953–1959” (PhD diss., King’s College London, 2015); Michael Loader, “The Death of ‘Socialism with a Latvian Face’: The Purge of the Latvian National Communists, July 1959–1962,” Journal of Baltic Studies 48:2 (2017), 161–181; Michael Loader, “A Stalinist Purge in the Khrushchev Era? The Latvian Communist Party Purge, 1959–1963,” The Slavonic and East European Review 96:2 (2018), 244–282. 2 See: Egils Levits, “Latvija padomju varā,” in Latvijas valsts atjaunošana. 1986. – 1993, ed. Valdis Blūzma, Ojārs Celle, and Tālavs Jundzis (Riga: Latvijas Universitātes žurnāla “Latvijas Vēsture” fonds, Latvijas Zinātņu akadēmijas Baltijas stratēģisko pētījumu centrs, 1998), 54; Jānis Stradiņš, Latvijas Zinātņu akadēmija: izcelsme, vēsture, pārvērtības (Riga: Zinātne, 1998), 226–227; Riekstiņš, “I nodaļa.” 3 Ēriks Rozenbaums, “Nerealizētā alternatīva,” Cīņa, 6 September 1989, 2. 4 Prigge, Bearslayers, 121.

The Economic Program of the L at vian National Communists

1999.5 In an interview which accompanied the publication, Treijs speaks about this text as a concept, but at the same time he admits that the main direction of the research of the institute was to develop the concept.6 Thus, one misunderstanding about the economic program of the national communists is that it is very often mixed up with the conceptual framework of the research program, the purpose of which was to elaborate “scientifically fortified proposals [emphasis added] for the prospective development of the economy of the republic on the whole, and for its main branches”—that is, to create a concept for the development of the economy, an economic program in the proper sense.7 Even researchers who do not perceive “Perspectives” to be such a program or concept still speak about some kind of economic platform of the national communists. Prigge, for example, although he maintains that “Perspectives” as an economic program was the invention of Berklavs’s and Dzērve’s enemies, speaks about Dzērve as “the main architect of the national communist’s economic platform.”8 If “Perspectives” should not be perceived as such a program, then what kinds of sources do we have that can be used to speak about the economic platform of the national communists? Did such a platform exist in reality, or are we speaking about the independent economic views of different people, views which had something in common because they were formed within and reflected by the same political and social contexts? From this question follows several other problems that should be investigated. If the national communists did have some kind of common political and economic platform, it could be presumed that the national communists were a kind of consistent political group with deliberate and shared goals (as was maintained by supporters of Arvīds Pelše, the principal opponent of the national communists, and also by Berklavs in the 1990s). Did such a group exist in reality? Was Pauls Dzērve the mastermind behind the national communists? Why were the reprisals against him so unusually severe? In order to find answers to these questions we have to look first at the political and economic context in which the policies of the national communists developed. That context was defined by attempts to find a solution to 5 “Pētījuma programma ‘Latv. PSR tautas saimniecības attīstības perspektīvas,’” Latvijas Vēstnesis, 10 August 1999, https://www.vestnesis.lv/ta/id/18287. 6 Oļģerts Krastiņš, “Ar tautsaimnieka skaidro prāt,” interview with B. Treijs, Latvijas Vēstnesis, 10 August 1999, https://www.vestnesis.lv/ta/id/18281. 7 “Pētījuma programma,” Latvijas Vēstnesis. 8 Prigge, Bearslayers, 108.

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the problem that loomed over the political and economic system of the Soviet Union throughout its existence—was it possible to combine a hierarchical approach based on strict top-down control while simultaneously ensuring that local initiative and responsibility were not entirely eliminated? The top-down approach reached its peak under Stalin’s rule. After his death, the Soviet leadership tried to find new approaches, but any attempts at “democratization” (that is, expanding the rights of local authorities), were hampered by the center’s fear of losing control over the national republics that were constantly suspected of nationalist and separatist tendencies. This conflict, which was built into the Soviet system, became apparent in the second half of the 1950s due to reforms that increased the rights of the republics to manage their economies. It became apparent not only in Latvia, but also in all the national republics.

The Context of Soviet Economic Reforms It was not a coincidence that Berklavs’s activities, such as attempts to curb immigration and to promote the official use of the Latvian language, began in 1956. The efforts were sparked not only by the liberalization that occurred after the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) in February 1956, but also, perhaps to a greater extent, by an expansion of the rights of the republics in the management of their economies, which started in 1955. It was only in 1958, however, that economics became the focus for Berklavs and other national communists. This was due to three factors. The first is well-known—the reform of industrial management in 1957, that is, the transition from a vertical to a territorial system through the creation of the Sovnarkhozy (Regional Economic Councils). Although the decentralization of industrial management had already begun in 1955, it was very cautious and individual republics’ industries still were strictly controlled by the USSR’s Gosplan (State Planning Committee) and the All-Union ministries. The Sovnarkhoz reform was a radical change. Before the reform, the Latvian SSR controlled only 22% of industrial enterprises (for the most part these were nonstrategic factories designated as local industry, which comprised light industry and food processing). Under the Sovnarkhoz reform, the Latvian SSR now controlled 54% of enterprises on its territory, producing almost 73% of industrial output. Alongside production from local industrial enterprises, which were under the direct control of the Latvian SSR’s Council of Ministers, Latvia controlled plants that produced

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96.5% of industrial production.9 Although decentralization brought new problems and was not total (military-industrial plants were still under central control, as were chemical and energy-production industries), for the first time the republic’s authorities could (and were forced to) think about the strategic development of industry and of specialization. It also became possible to try to solve problems surrounding environmental pollution and dire working conditions, which were outside the reach of republican authorities in previous years. From 1946, Latvia’s industrial sector was developed extensively by creating new production capacities. As a result, the structure of Latvian industry changed considerably. In terms of industrial output, in 1939 the proportion of manufactured goods and heavy industrial production and machinery (in Soviet terms this was known as “Group A”) to consumer products (“Group B”) was 24% to 76%, while in 1946 the proportion was 45% to 55%, with the proportion of consumer goods production continuing to decrease.10 As developing the production of machinery was considered to be an important goal for Soviet-type industrialization, and because Latvia was ahead of Estonia and Lithuania in this regard at the end of 1950s, the Latvian leadership in principle did not have any objections. Furthermore, the proportion of the production of consumer goods was still well above the Soviet average. Yet, as the supply of consumer products declined, shortages and the low quality of consumer products that were typical of Soviet industry became an everyday experience in Latvia, although compared to other Soviet republics Latvia still looked quite strong. With regards to the production of foodstuffs, the problem was created not so much by the model of industrialization, but rather poor output from the agricultural sector, which was the result of collectivization. At least in part, however, this could also be ascribed to a lack of necessary agricultural machinery that was suitable to Latvian climatic and agricultural conditions. Although socialist industrialization was presented by Soviet propaganda as an altruistic way to help the “new” Soviet republics, in reality the new industrial enterprises were created or expanded by using buildings and industrial infrastructure inherited from tsarist Russia or created in Latvia when it was independent in the 1920s and 1930s. Capital investment in industry in Latvia from 1946 to 1953 was among the lowest in the whole 9 Irēne Šneidere, Sotsialisticheskaia industrializatsia v Latvii: Hod, itogi, problemi (Riga: Zinātne, 1989), 115. 10 Šneidere, Sotsialisticheskaia industrializatsia, 283.

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Soviet Union—ahead of only Lithuania and Moldavia.11 Newly created plants were often equipped with outdated machinery from older plants in the USSR or trophy equipment from Germany. Social infrastructure lagged behind industrial infrastructure, and the construction of new housing only started on a mass scale at the end of 1950s. These problems were especially grave in the capital, Riga, which was the main target of Soviet industrialization—this is particularly clear given that the population of Riga increased by almost 1.7 times between 1939 and 1959. In 1959, 27.7% of the entire population of Latvia and almost half (49.4%) of the entire urban population of Latvia lived in Riga.12 A very serious problem surrounding the socialist industrialization of Latvia was a deficit in the labor force. Enormous demographic losses during the Second World War, as well as deportations and other repressions after the war, depleted Latvia’s already insufficient reserves. A solution was found in the attraction of workers from other republics, especially from the nearest regions of Russia and Belorussia. Thus, socialist industrialization not only aggravated social problems due to a lack of housing and basic services, it also caused enormous change in the ethnic composition of Latvia, a change which up to the end of 1950s was most pronounced in Riga and other large cities such as Liepāja and Jelgava. According to data from the population census in 1959, in comparison with 1939 the number of ethnic Latvians decreased by 150,000 while the number of ethnic Russians increased by 370,000.13 In 1939, Latvians made up 77% of the population of Latvia, while by 1959 that number had fallen to 62%.14 The influx of non-Latvians from other republics was accompanied by the politics of “squeezing out” Latvians from branches of the economy that were considered by the Soviet authorities as strategically important (such as the railways, military industry, etc.), and by discrimination against the Latvian language in official and everyday use. The frustration of Latvians was tangible, especially in the context of the 1956 Hungarian Uprising, and of this the Latvian SSR leadership was aware. 11 Promyshlennost’ SSSR: Statisticheckii sbornik (Moscow: TsSU pri SM SSSR, “Statistika,” 1964), 74. 12 Osnovnyie pokzateli vypolnenia narodnokhoziaistvennogo plana Latviiskoi SSR: po dannym Upolnomochennovo Gosplana SSSR po Latviiskoi SSR (Riga, 1946), 5; Padomju Latvijas ekonomika un kultūra: statistisko datu krājums (Riga: Izdevniecības “Statistika” Latvijas nodaļa, 1966), 9–10. 13 Edmunds Krastiņš, Latvijas rūpniecība XIX-XX gadsimtā: Vēsturiski ekonomiska apcere (Riga: Jumava, 2018), 168. 14 Irēne Šneidere, ed., Latvija padomju režīma varā 1945–1986: Dokumentu krājums (Riga: Latvijas vēstures institūta apgāds, 2001), 436.

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The recruitment of labor was planned and implemented centrally up until the mid-1950s, and a republic’s authorities could not influence this process. Latvian authorities had little say with regards to the allocation of new enterprises or the expansion of existing ones. For the USSR’s Gosplan and All-Union ministries, problems such as the overdevelopment of Riga, the building of housing, etc., were of little concern because social conditions in Latvia were much better than in other parts of the Soviet Union. Attempts to liberalize economic management also resulted in the transfer of labor recruitment to the competency of each individual republic’s Councils of Ministers in 1954. Gosplan’s new function was to coordinate the transfer of the workforce between republics.15 This measure was accompanied by rhetoric about the intensification of production based on the internal reserves of each republic’s workforce. These developments encouraged the Latvian leadership to try to curb migration, either by administrative means (as it was done by Berklavs, when he was the first secretary of the Riga City Party Committee from January 1956 to May 1958) or by making plans for the development of industries that were less labor intensive. The second development was the enhancement of the republics’ rights with regards to economic planning. In 1956 the involvement of republics in their economic planning increased when they were asked to draw up draft plans for branches that were under their own control or under the joint control of All-Union and republic ministries.16 Although in general this arrangement did not work well because the Gosplans of the republics were not accustomed to such tasks, the Sovnarkhoz reform demanded the even deeper involvement of republics in the planning process. There were also serious problems in Latvia—even very limited freedom of action was perceived as a major problem. With the creation of the Latvian SSR Sovnarkhoz, the tasks of Latvia’s Gosplan became more complex, and difficulties were created by the lack of a clear delineation of responsibilities between republican and central planning institutions. During the reform process, the USSR Gosplan at times tried to deprive the republics of rights that they enjoyed even under Stalin’s very rigid system.17 The expansion of the rights 15 Elena Zubkova, “‘Drugoi SSSR?’ Osobennosti realizatsii sovetskovo projekta v respublikakh Baltii (1950–1960-ie gg.),” in Symposium of the Commission of the Historians of Latvia 25 (Riga: Latvijas vēstures institūta apgāds, 2009), 685. 16 Natalia Kibita, Soviet Economic Management under Khrushchev: The Sovnarkhoz Reform (London: Routledge, 2013), 29. 17 In November 1957, the Latvian Gosplan protested against attempts to make several modifications to production manufactured by local district (raion) industries (such as furniture, knitwear, fabrics, and footwear) by arranging for their distribution centrally, although

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of the republican Gosplans was rather minor. All important decisions—such as the construction and deployment of new enterprises or planning for the supply of raw materials and the distribution of output—continued to be the prerogative of the USSR Gosplan. Latvia’s leadership (or at least part of it) nevertheless had reason to believe that the tendency to enhance the rights of the republics would continue, especially after June 1957, when Nikita Khrushchev secured his monopoly on power, and March 1958, when he assumed the office of the Soviet prime minister (chairman of the USSR Council of Ministers) alongside his post as the CPSU Central Committee (CC) first secretary. Pēteris Guļāns, who was the party organization chairman at the Latvian SSR Economics Institute, recalled a conversation (in 1958 or 1959) in which Dzērve said that there was no need to submit republican initiatives to the CPSU CC because all problems were now being resolved by the republics themselves.18 Other sources also provide evidence that Latvia’s leadership (or, at least part of it) was of the opinion that it had been granted quite considerable freedom of action. Berklavs’s policy of restricting migration to Riga, the 1956 LCP CC Bureau decision about learning Latvian by officials and people working in the service sector and government, and the 1958 Latvian SSR Law on Education (see Chapter 6) are all evidence of a simplistic or legalistic interpretation of Moscow’s policies—an interpretation that did not take into account the byzantine traditions according to which Soviet politics functioned in reality, the power struggle between the proponents and opponents of economic decentralization in Moscow, or the changing mind of Khrushchev himself. The third factor that provoked national communist activity in the sphere of the economy concerns the circumstances surrounding the drawing up of the Seven-Year Plan (1959–1965). Work on the plan in Latvia should have started in October 1957, and according to the proposed schedule had to be dealt with by the Council of Ministers in February 1958, and then by the USSR Gosplan in March.19 It is not quite clear if these steps were fulfilled according to schedule, due to the cumbersome process of harmonizing the proposals for Latvia in Moscow, but we know that the final proposals regarding enterprises at the republic level needed to be submitted to the USSR Gosplan by 15 October 1958, while proposals regarding local (raion-level) throughout the postwar period this production was distributed by the LSSR Council of Ministers. Latvian State Archives (Latvijas Valsts arhīvs, hereafter LVA), 693. fonds, 1. apraksts, 143. lieta, 105–106. lapa. 18 Pēteris Guļāns, Pieredzētais un pārdzīvotais (Riga: LZA Ekonomikas institūts, 2008), 54. 19 LVA, 693. f., 87. apr., 8. l., 115. lp.

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industries had until 25 October.20 Documents from the LSSR Council of Ministers show that on 16 October the planned proposals had not been submitted to Moscow. On 17 October these proposals were discussed at a joint meeting of the LCP CC Bureau and Latvian SSR Council of Ministers. Perhaps the version discussed at the 17 October meeting was not the final one. Although the USSR’s Seven-Year Plan was approved by the 21st CPSU Congress at the end of January 1959, it was not presented in detail. The scheduled figures for the plan were not fully coordinated between the republics, Sovnarkhozy, and the USSR Gosplan. Gosplan proposed completing the plan by October 1959. This situation created the expectation in Latvia that some corrections were still possible. A publication from Dzērve in the literary review Karogs (The banner) and his presentation at the republic’s conference of propagandists on 27 March 1959 is evidence of such hopes.21

The National Communists as a Group If there was an economic program, then this presumes the existence of some kind of organization among the national communists, as well as the presumption that their actions and statements were not expressions of the opinions of like-minded people but were in fact a targeted action. Opinions about the national communists as a consolidated group have two sources. One source originates from allegations made by the national communists’ enemies, and the second is based on statements made by Berklavs in the 1980s and 1990s. The suggestion that there was a “group” around Berklavs was put forward in certain speeches made by supporters of Arvīds Pelše on 7–8 July 1959 at the plenary session of the LCP CC, but the idea was not thoroughly developed at this meeting. At the bureau meeting on 15 December 1959, however, when the work of the Economics Institute was ostensibly discussed (but discussions actually revolved around the work of Dzērve), a coherent “group” was already spoken about as if it were common knowledge. The first deputy head of Gosplan, Alise Vīndedze, for example, maintained that Dzērve, Berklavs, and some people at the Central Committee “strongly support 20 LVA, 693. f., 87. apr., 9. l., 68–70. lp. 21 See: Pauls Dzērve, “Komunistiskās celtniecības septiņgade,” Karogs 1 (1959), 103; LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 76. l., 104. lp. Stenograph of a theoretical conference held by the LCP CC on 27–28 March 1959.

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one another.”22 The first deputy head of the Council of Ministers, Matīss Plūdonis, said that he had the impression that somebody was giving directions to Dzērve.23 The former first secretary, chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet Jānis Kalnbērziņš, most succinctly formulated the official political position. He stressed that it was incorrect to think that Berklavs, Dzērve, Trade Union Council chairman Indriķis Pinksis, and other accused people were operating on their own because “it is known that Berklavs was their leader, he gave directives.”24 No proof was presented, however, to give weight to such claims. Apparently, the economic problems were exactly what provided favorable material for such allegations, as it is possible to see common ideas in the speeches and articles of Berklavs, Dzērve, and Treijs related to the development of the republic’s Seven-Year Plan. These affinities stemmed from discussions that were topical at that time, and these views were shared by a wide range of economic managers and specialists. Expressing similar ideas, however, does not constitute evidence of the group’s existence. Of course, some of potential members of the group were well acquainted with Berklavs. Dzērve, Pinksis, and the Second Secretary of the LCP CC (1958–1959) Vilis Krūmiņš worked with Berklavs at Latvia’s Komsomol Central Committee. Other people, who became victims of reprisals as supporters of Berklavs’s views, were perhaps considered to be his clients—for example, Edgars Mūkins, who became deputy head of Gosplan at Berklavs’s suggestion. Some, such as Treijs, were incorporated into the “group” situationally: he was Dzērve’s deputy and was involved in the preparation of different materials for the republic’s leadership. In some cases, the links between Berklavs and some potential supporters were not explicit and were not demonstrated by the accusers, as was the case for the LCP CC head of the Agriculture Department, Antons Lūriņš, who became a victim of reprisals because his demand for two reports on workforce reserves in the countryside was prepared by researchers at the Economics Institute. Every functionary who for some reason became undesirable could be included in the group, as was done later with Pāvils Pizāns, editor of the party newspaper Cīņa, Agriculture Minister Aleksandrs Ņikonovs, and LCP CC Second Secretary Vilis Krūmiņš. Thus, it can be affirmed that the “group” was essentially virtual—it did not exist in reality, but persistent attempts to maintain that it existed reflect the 22 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 60. l., 295. lp. Stenograph of a meeting of the LCP CC Bureau, 15 December 1959. 23 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 60. l., 308–309. lp. 24 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 60. l., 322. lp.

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stereotypes and expectations that were typical of Soviet functionaries in the 1950s. During Stalin’s rule, political adversaries were usually tied together in groups (as in the Moscow show trials in the 1930s, the Leningrad case in the late 1940s, and early 1950s, etc.). This tradition was continued by Khrushchev in his dismissal of a group of the highest level of functionaries in 1957—the so-called “Anti-Party Group” comprised of Vyacheslav Molotov, Georgy Malenkov, and Lazar Kaganovich. According to a tradition established by Stalin, the creation of factions and groups within the party was the greatest of sins. Thus, the recognition of Berklavs and people close to him as a “group” would automatically impose severe penalties. It is possible that the criminal prosecution of Berklavs was intended. Moscow, however, did not want to provoke too strong a reaction regarding the replacement of Latvia’s leadership, either in the USSR or (especially) abroad, and, therefore, Pelše had to give up his intention to organize a political trial of the national communists. Perhaps there was a grain of Stalinist paranoia in the accusations about the building of a group, but in general the purpose of such allegations was quite rational—to convince Moscow that severe reprisals were necessary. The creation of a group was also a convenient way to enhance reprisals against Dzērve. He was described as the intellectual executor of Berklavs’s directives and a person whose career was consciously advanced and promoted in various ways by Berklavs. Dzērve denied allegations that he was Berklavs’s personal friend and advisor. He declared that Berklavs did not ask for advice and that he did not give any advice to Berklavs; in addition, “he [Berklavs] never listened to anybody’s advice.”25 In my opinion, Dzērve in reality was in his own right an enemy of Pelše’s supporters—his closeness to Berklavs merely provided the grounds to get rid of him. The reasons for this will be discussed later in this chapter. It is important to note, however, that the existence of the group in the 1990s was also an idea actively promoted by Berklavs himself. In various versions of his autobiography and numerous published articles and interviews, Berklavs maintained that during his studies at the Higher Party School in Moscow between 1948 and 1951 he had already awoken “from communism’s dreams and nightmares,” and he started to form a conscious resistance to the Soviet regime while working within the system.26 In order to enhance his options for resistance, he deliberately started to build a support base in 25 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 60. l., 279. lp. 26 University of Latvia Academic Library (Latvijas Universitātes Akadēmiskā bibliotēka, hereafter LUAB), Rarities 13043, Eduards Berklavs, “Kas es esmu. Pēc kā esmu centies,” 27 February 1996. See also: LUAB R1482, Eduards Berklavs, “Visiem, kam ir interese par mani,” 2 April 1993.

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the LCP CC Bureau, the Council of Ministers, Gosplan, etc., by promoting his own people to important positions. There are several versions of this in his autobiography, but he never mentions Dzērve, and he does not speak about his own undertakings in the sphere of the economy. Berklavs sees the essence of his politics in attempts to reduce the immigration of non-Latvians to Riga, in the promotion of Latvian in official and everyday use, as well as in the Latvianization of the nomenklatura.27 I have strong doubts regarding Berklavs’s thesis about his conscious resistance to the system, although I do not think that he was knowingly reshaping his memories. Berklavs by nature was a “political animal.” He was absorbed by contemporary politics and was not at all interested in the past. In his memoirs, Zināt un neaizmirst (“To know and not forget,” published in 1998), he frankly admits that he does not remember many things, so he widely referred to materials from the archives to characterize his actions between 1956 and 1959.28 It is possible that subconsciously he interpreted his past actions in a way that made them seem most effective from the point of view of his political views and the expediency of the 1990s. Berklavs’s version of his views and actions in the 1950s could be scrutinized from several point of views. Firstly, in the 1990s he exaggerated his anticommunist efforts during this period. On 25 November 1962, during his exile in Vladimir region, Berklavs wrote in his diary that he was disillusioned with the party but that he was ready to fight for the restoration of the ideas of Leninism, had the conditions for this arisen.29 During this period he was still an idealistic national communist, and the abandonment of the “communist” part perhaps started sometime during the 1970s. Secondly, Berklavs perhaps exaggerated his influence on policy. Of course, he could suggest people he considered to be intelligent and like-minded as candidates for important positions. He could influence his colleagues’ policies in the cases of mid-level functionaries. His influence on the highest offices, however—such as the appointment of Minister of Agriculture Ņikonovs or Minister of Culture Voldemārs Kalpiņš, whom he claims 27 LUAB R13043, Berklavs, “Kas es esmu”: LUAB R1482, Berklavs, “Visiem, kam ir interese par mani.” 28 Eduards Berklavs, Zināt un neaizmirst (Riga: Preses nams, 1998), 5–6. 29 LUAB R14791. Diary of Eduards Berklavs, 1, “Dažu dienu piezīmes,” 23 June 1961–21 June 1964, Vladimir. “If … I can in no way exert influence on the course of the party, [what] if I cannot see my own nation through anymore and help to revive the ideas of Leninism? What sense then is to keep myself in the party? If conditions were to develop when I could do something for the revival of the ideas of Leninism, I would immediately join in the fight for this. If someday justice would be restored, if I were to be rehabilitated, then I would also be reinstated to the party.”

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the chairman of the Council of Ministers, Vilis Lācis, nominated due his pressure—would have been scrutinized by the CPSU CC. It is possible that in 1958 and 1959 Moscow’s policy with regards to the national republics was more relaxed than previously and afterwards, but, in any case, this claim has to be studied in depth. There is not any serious evidence that Ņikonovs or Kalpiņš had much in common with Berklavs or that they felt some affinity for him. They were national communists in that they were also for “socialism with a human face” as a way to make the Soviet regime more acceptable to the local population, but their interests lay in different fields.30 This leads to the conclusion that Berklavs’s claim that he consciously formed a group of supporters in order to influence ethnic politics in Latvia seems to be exaggerated, although this problem needs to be researched in more depth. Of course, some degree of clientelism was typical for the Soviet system, but Berklavs, perhaps, was driven not so much by the desire to have his own people in all positions as by the conviction that intelligent people should be promoted to these positions in order to make their work more effective. In my opinion, psychologically, Berklavs was not the type of party functionary that schemed in order to reach his desired post and then to protect himself from the intrigues of his colleagues. He was a rather straightforward man, who was concerned with doing his job to the best of his ability.

Berklavs’s Views on the Economic Development of Latvia Eduards Berklavs as a Council of Ministers deputy chairman and member of both the bureaus of the Council of Ministers and the LCP CC actively participated in discussions on the Seven-Year Plan, and several of his statements were proffered by his enemies as proof of his nationalistic economic views. His main objections to the plan’s proposals can be formulated as follows: 1. Draft plan figures showed that the anticipated increase in output was larger than the planned increase in labor efficiency. This meant 30 Although this slogan was invented by Czechoslovak communists in 1968 to characterize the program of Alexander Dubček, ten years earlier the Latvian national communists had similar aim—to overcome the disillusionment of the Latvian population with Soviet power and Communism and to make the system acceptable to Latvians. It is no surprise then that Voldemārs Kalpiņš used this slogan in his diaries in 1993 in a similar way to characterize national communist politics in the 1950s. Andrejs Grāpis, ed., Stāja: Voldemāra Kalpiņa laiks (Riga: Pils, 2011), 367.

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that the remainder would need to be covered by the attraction of labor from outside the republic. The plan envisaged the reconstruction of Riga’s railway car factory, a diesel engine factory, and a factory for building electrical machinery, with the goal of doubling their output. Reconstruction work—and later manufacturing—required many more working hands. The result would be an increase of the population of Riga, which is not seen as desirable when considering the state of the social infrastructure. 2. Structural changes for industry that were envisaged by the draft plan were unacceptable to Berklavs because they anticipated an increase in machine building (due to the reconstruction of factories, as mentioned above) and a decrease in the light, food-processing, and wood-processing industries. Berklavs believed the republic’s industries should pay more attention to the needs of the population.31 Of course, Berklavs was not alone in his criticism of the plan, but other functionaries’ criticism was narrower: they turned their attention to figures that referred to their particular field of responsibility. Berklavs spoke about general statements in the plan. Berklavs’s remark about a diesel factory that produced engines for tanks was perhaps an accidental comment, but one that was unfortunate in hindsight. He mentioned that the location of the factory in Riga was dangerous because in case of war the city could become a target for bombardment. Later, this was used to underpin arguments that his views were anti-Soviet. His remarks, however, reflected ongoing discussions in the Sovnarkhoz, Gosplan, the Economics Institute, and other institutions about the general direction of the development of industrial infrastructure. One aspect of this was the insufficient workforce in Latvia, and another was the economic inefficiency of producing large and comparatively inexpensive products, such as railway cars, diesel engines, and electrical machinery, which were produced almost exclusively from steel and other materials that were imported from other republics and then almost fully distributed outside Latvia. Most economists were of the opinion that Latvia should specialize in products that were more expensive, more labor intensive, and needed a smaller quantity of inputs that were imported from other republics, such as radio electronics or the chemical industry. Thus, Berklavs repeated (although a bit clumsily) arguments that were already popular among economic management specialists in the republic. With 31 LVA, 270. f., 2. apr., 2975. l., 7–12. lp.

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regards to the reconstruction of the diesel factory, on 15 December 1959 Second Secretary Vilis Krūmiņš pointed out that the head of Sovnarkhoz, Georgijs Gaile, was also of the opinion that the factory ought to be closed.32 Berklavs’s remarks were immediately seized upon by the head of Latvia’s Gosplan, Augusts Čulītis. He was quick to point to a lack of consistency in Berklavs’s views because light industry was no less labor consuming than machine building. Čulītis, however, was not cogent in explaining how the deficit in the workforce could be covered, considering that the draft plan envisaged an increase in the industrial workforce from 523,000 to 612,000. He merely pointed out that around 47,000 workers could be accounted for by a natural increase in the workforce, 16,000 could be attracted from the countryside (especially from the eastern regions of Latvia), and that there were allegedly significant reserves of people in cities and towns who were not employed in a “socially worthy job.”33 It is worth pointing out that draft plan discussed on 17 October covered the development of industries under the control of the republic. Although several large enterprises were soon to begin construction or were being designed, these projects were not mentioned or were only noted in passing—this includes, for example, the chemical fiber plant in Daugavpils, the glass fiber plant in Valmiera, the plastic materials processing plant in Olaine, and a factory producing semiconductor devices in Riga (later known as “Alfa”). Such plants were directly controlled by All-Union committees, not by the Latvian Sovnarkhoz. The building of such enterprises was formally initiated based on demands from the republic, and Latvian authorities did not object to such plans.34 There is a widespread view that the construction of large enterprises, including the above, were objected to by the national communists. Perhaps such an impression was created by a letter written and published abroad in the early 1970s by seventeen Latvian communists.35 In reality, in 1958 and 1959 they did not object 32 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 60. l., 451. lp. 33 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 60. l., 35–36, 43–44. lp. 34 See: Krastiņš, Latvijas rūpniecība, 169. 35 The letter by seventeen Latvian communists was written in 1968–1969 by Berklavs. According to him it was signed by himself and sixteen communists, mostly party veterans. In 1971 they managed to smuggle the text (in Russian) illegally to the West. It was published in 1972 by several major newspapers in Sweden and Denmark, as well as by Radio Liberty in Russian. The publication was echoed by commentaries and publications acrosss Europe and the USA. Soviet propaganda unsuccessfully tried to convince the public in the West as well as in Latvia that the letter was forged by Latvian émigré social democrats in Sweden. See: Blūzma et al., Nevardarbīgā pretošanās, 191–224.

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to the building of these plants in any way. The chemical industry and military facilities (in the case of semi-conductor production) were out of their reach—and besides, these industries were considered to be the most modern and progressive. Only one major construction project caused protests in the period 1958–1959: the Pļaviņas Hydroelectric Power Plant (HPP). The initial push in this case, however, came not from Berklavs and the economists who were against an increase in immigration, but from cultural personalities who protested against the flooding of the most beautiful parts of Latvia’s landscape, which were rich in nature and cultural monuments. In March 1958, a group of 55 well-known scientists, writers, and public figures signed a petition against plans to build an HPP on the Daugava River. The signatories to the petition acknowledged that the construction of the power station was necessary (a lack of energy during the 1950s was a bottleneck for the Latvian economy), but they asked authorities to build the HPP in a way that would not be so detrimental to the Daugava River Valley. The petition was delivered to Council of Ministers chairman Vilis Lācis. The most active opponent of the HPP was the journalist and old communist Vera Kacena (the wife of Minister of Culture Voldemārs Kalpiņš). She published an article in the weekly newspaper Literatūra un Māksla (Literature and art), in which, without referring to the existence of the petition, she explained arguments that outlined the dire ecological, cultural, and economic consequences of building the station according to the plan envisaged by the central hydropower design organization, Gidroenergoprojekt. The article stirred great passion among the general public, although the authorities did not allow discussion surrounding the HPP to become too widespread. In the course of discussions over the Seven-Year Plan, however, some alternatives were proposed. Dzērve expressed a possible alternative—building a thermoelectric power plant that used natural gas. Yet, this was not his own idea. A prioritization of thermoelectric power plants, which were cheaper to construct in comparison with hydroelectric ones, was also considered by the USSR Gosplan at that time. Such ideas were also promoted in Lithuania. Defenders of hydroelectric power, however, won out over other groups. Top managers within the Latvian SSR Gosplan and the Council of Ministers were also in favor of an HPP. Even the idea of a lower level for the HPP reservoir, which could have preserved at least some parts of the Daugava River Valley from flooding, was rejected by a majority of the people in charge of the Latvian economy.

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Reprisals against Pauls Dzērve Reprisals against Dzērve were the most severe of all the actions taken against the national communists. Other national communists were deprived of their status gradually, while Dzērve was punished quickly and irreversibly. He was criticized at the July 1959 plenary meeting, and the resolution of this meeting included a commission for the CC Bureau to discuss the work of the Economics Institute.36 A special investigative committee was formed by the LCP CC to examine the work of the Economics Institute, led by Pēteris Allens, head of the Political Economy department of the Agricultural Academy. The commission, and especially its head, was reluctant to condemn Dzērve, so six specialists from Moscow were added.37 The commission’s conclusions repeated allegations that had already been voiced at the July plenary meeting and afterwards. These conclusions were discussed at the LCP CC Bureau meeting on 15 December 1959. Although Dzērve, according to the code of conduct of the party, plead guilty to all “mistakes,” he was dismissed from his position as director of the Economics Institute. His collaborators at the institute, after a range of punishments were exacted, were allowed to continue their research in economics, although the most stubborn one—Konstantin Uskov—was the subject of a sort of witch hunt. On 13 June 1960, Dzērve was deprived of his title as a corresponding member of the Latvian Academy of Science. He was sent to work at the “Autoelektropribor” electro-technical factory as a “workshop economist.” On 21 December 1961 he died in a car accident. Although Dzērve’s political fate is ascribed to his ties to Berklavs, there is reason to believe that this was simply an excuse. Dzērve’s career was nurtured more by his predecessor at the institute, Fricis Deglavs, than by Berklavs. Dzērve’s career was also helped along by his personal qualities and his impeccable record of work in the underground LCP and in the Komsomol CC, as well as his service with the Latvian division of the Red Army during the war. Dzērve defended his thesis in Leningrad on the economic views of the Latvian communist leader (1918-1920) Pēteris Stučka, and his specialization in general was the history of economics. As director of the institute and a rising academic star, Dzērve could not confine himself to the history of economics—he was overloaded with public 36 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 10a. l., 30. lp. Resolution of the VII closed plenary meeting of the LCP CC, “About serious drawbacks and mistakes in work with cadres and in the practice of national politics in the republic.” 37 Guļāns, Pieredzētais un pārdzīvotais, 53.

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obligations, including the duty to explain the party’s economic politics in different forums and in the press. Dzērve gradually became involved in active high-level discussions. It is useful to compare two articles written by him. In 1956 he wrote an article propagating the Sixth Five-Year Plan for the development of the national economy (launched in 1956 but abandoned in 1958 in order to bring forward much more optimistic and unrealistic targets, which were instead to be fulfilled by the Seven-Year Plan for 1959–1965). In 1959 he wrote another article, in this case about the Seven-Year Plan.38 The first article does not contain any signs of criticism, in contrast to the second article. In 1956 Dzērve did not question the party line that machine building was the main branch of Latvia’s industry, while by 1959 his opinion had changed. Dzērve, like many other economists and managers in 1958 and 1959, expressed the sound idea that the expansion of industrial production should be based on an enhancement in productivity rather than on extensive factors—that is, the attraction of labor from outside of Latvia. Reprisals against Dzērve could be attributed to two factors: the situation in the Economics Institute, and his involvement in discussions and political processes as the director of the institute. Dzērve had a broader vision and better education than most functionaries of his generation. Dzērve was a keen supporter of liberal tendencies in the field of Soviet economics and was ready to revise the economic dogmas of Stalinism. An important factor that led to Dzērve’s persecution was his beliefs and activities, including an ideological conflict with Jānis Bumbieris, the director of the Economics Institute from June 1952 until February 1957, who left a very negative imprint on Latvian social sciences in the 1940s and 1950s. Pēteris Guļāns described Bumbieris as a person who considered his main task to be fighting bourgeois nationalism, and who possessed a rather strange, perhaps even sick, psyche.39 Bumbieris represented the archetypical example of a Stalinist, and his dogmatism made Dzērve furious; sometimes he could not hide his antipathy in public. Perhaps in part due to Bumbieris’s policies as director of the Economics Institute, the institute had become a kind of safe haven for ex-service political officers from the army as well as unsuccessful party functionaries. These people did not have the abilities and skills needed to do research work, but they were vigilant about fulfilling the correct political line. The most active 38 Pauls Dzērve, “Padomju Latvijas tautas saimniecības attīstība,” Karogs 7 (1956), 83–90; Pauls Dzērve, “Komunistiskās celtniecības septiņgade,” Karogs 1 (1959), 97–106. 39 Guļāns, Pieredzētais un pārdzīvotais, 65.

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of these was Grigory Besedin, a retired officer from the Baltic Military District Political Department, who after the July 1959 plenary meeting became the main critic of Dzērve in the institute in his capacity as deputy head of the institute’s party organization. Of course, there were also proper, well-trained economists who worked in the institute, and strife between the two groups became very visible when the research program “Perspectives on the Latvian SSR National Economy” was discussed at the institute’s party organization meeting on 24 April 1959. Bumbieris was strongly against the program—in his opinion, it was unacceptable in principle to research the production capacities of a particular republic instead of the production forces of the Soviet Union as a whole. He also objected to using rational norms of consumption for Latvia in research. In Bumbieris’s opinion, only the norms of the Soviet Union as a whole should be used. Using a republic’s norms promoted autarchy, in his interpretation. This caused Dzērve to comment on the need to fight dogmatism and revisionism. It was obvious that the “dogmatism” remark was aimed at Bumbieris.40 It is worth mentioning that on 6 June, when “Perspectives” was discussed at the scientific council of the institute, there were no objections to the program, perhaps because Bumbieris was not present. Bumbieris’s antipathy towards Dzērve could be ascribed not only to internal struggles within institute, but also to their disagreement on a wider range of problems, especially regarding discussions in 1958 on the economic views of the nineteenth-century Young Latvians movement. Considering that Bumbieris was a “Red professor” (a graduate of the Institute of Red Professors in Moscow) and one of the leading ideologists in 1940s Latvia, he had significant influence in the LCP CC and, perhaps, was close to Pelše; therefore, his involvement in the persecution of Dzērve should not be underestimated. The activities of Berklavs with regard to Gosplan were not well received by its boss, Augusts Čulītis (who had been in the position since 1957), who became the most ardent critic of Berklavs during the 1959 July plenary meeting. Berklavs’s idea of appointing Dzērve and Pinksis as members of collegium of Gosplan was probably disliked by its leadership. Grievances in this regard were explained by Vīndedze at the 15 December 1959 CC Bureau meeting. The research program “Perspectives on the Latvian SSR National Economy,” as well as other activities by Dzērve and the Economics Institute as a whole, were regarded by Gosplan as interference and a misuse of its competency. 40 LVA, PA-819. f., 1. apr., 98. l., 38, 42. lp.

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The allegations against Dzērve could be summarized as follows: The research program “Perspectives on the Latvian SSR National Economy” is revisionist and nationalistic because it places the interests of Latvia above those of the entire Soviet Union, and its aim is to replace Gosplan as the general planning agency for economic development in Latvia. 2 Dzērve and Treijs had objected to plans for the reconstruction and expansion of several plants and were against attracting additional workers to Latvia. In information provided to the LCP CC, the institute had written that there were no workforce reserves in the countryside. 3 Dzērve in several of his publications and public addresses had made ideological mistakes—for example, in 1956 he had written that collectivization in Latvia was implemented too hastily. He also allegedly had said that dogmatism poses a graver danger than revisionism. In his book on Pēteris Stučka in 1957, he “wrongly” interpreted the mistakes Stučka made in Soviet Latvia in 1919. He was also too objective (positive) in describing life in Sweden and other places in his travel notes. 1

Guļāns was right when he wrote that Dzērve’s fate was already decided at the July 1959 plenary meeting. All of the above-mentioned allegations were aimed at obtaining some more or less believable justification for reprisals against him.41 Repenting his sins, however, did not help Dzērve’s attempts to prove the groundlessness of allegations against him. “Perspectives” was not a policy program in itself—it was simply a program of research carried out by the Economics Institute. Dzērve’s ambition was to create a sort of concept for the development of the Latvian economy for the next ten to fifteen years, but he was not allowed to do this. He was accused of taking a “revisionist” approach, dividing the branches of the economy into two parts and six subdivisions—these two parts were delineated by “sources of materials” and “distribution of production” (inside Latvia or outside), which was considered an offense despite this idea being borrowed in part from the Moscow Economics Institute. This division was not a concept, however, but an instrument of research. Some conceptual elements can be seen in the research program: 1) the thesis that planning the republic’s economy must take into account a shortage in the workforce; 2) that the expediency of industrial enterprises whose production demanded large quantities of metal imported from other regions of the USSR and that was 41 Guļāns, Pieredzētais un pārdzīvotais, 53.

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utilized mainly outside Latvia must be reconsidered. It was not, however, opposition to heavy industry as such. Most of the arguments made by the opponents of Berklavs and Dzērve were fabricated by distorting and maliciously reformulating their real thoughts and arguments.

Conclusion The Latvian national communists wanted to correct the problems created by Stalinist industrialization and collectivization in Latvia. They believed that the Latvian economy could be made more effective and consumer-oriented within the existing system of a planned command economy, especially taking into account the decentralization of industrial management in 1957. The national communists’ peak influence over the Latvian SSR leadership was rather short-lived—it lasted around one and half years (from the 15th LCP Congress in January 1958 to June–July 1959). Thus, most ideas were not even formulated fully, not to mention implemented. Pelše and his supporters—by using, distorting, and taking out of context various statements made by Berklavs, Dzērve, and other national communists—gave the impression that such a program did exist. A more thorough analysis, however, shows that this was not true. Their ideas were rather fragmented, as was their approach to problems created by different personalities. If Dzērve really did aspire to develop some kind of complex vision of structural development for Latvian industry (although this would raise the question of whether the Economics Institute and Dzērve personally had enough intellectual resources to undertake such a task, and even whether it could be solved in principle), then it is safe to say that Berklavs’s vision was narrower. His main ambition was to curb immigration to Latvia, in order to create some space for the improvement of living conditions for the population of Latvia. Other people with national communist inclinations—for example, Minister of Agriculture Ņikonovs—acted within their confines of their purview, although they also had some very bright ideas. When analyzing the economic views and actions of functionaries at this time, sometimes it is difficult to draw a strict line between national communists and other economic managers. The Sovnarkhoz reform enhanced localist tendencies throughout the Soviet Union. The thin line between localism and nationalism is not always easily detectable. Why particular functionaries between 1959 and 1961 in Latvia were removed for being national communists very often depended not so much on their ideological

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differences as on their personal animosities and bureaucratic and institutional rivalries. This does not mean, however, that there were no national communists. They represented the liberal strand of the Soviet Latvian nomenklatura that opposed the Stalinists and were of the opinion that the sentiments and grievances of the local population should be respected. This struggle did not end with the removal of the Latvian national communists from power. Many Soviet economists at the end of the 1950s were very optimistic about the prospects for a socialist economy, even if they did not like the exaggerated vision presented by Khrushchev. The Latvian economy, despite all the distortions and difficulties, performed very well in comparison with other republics, and the republic’s economic managers had reason to believe that they could create a real island of socialism in this one particular republic. Their weak point, however, was that plans made in the republic were dependent on power struggles over economic and political reforms in Moscow.

Acknowledgements The research for this chapter was made possible by the University of Latvia through project no. ZD2015/AZ85 on “The territory of Latvia as a contact zone between different cultural spaces, religions, and political, social, and economic interests from prehistory to the present day.”

6

Latvia Goes Rogue Language Politics and Khrushchev’s 1958 Soviet Education Reform f Michael Loader

A storm had been brewing in national relations in the USSR for several years before the debacle over a reform of the education system began in late 1958. Soviet Minister of Internal Affairs Lavrenty Beria stoked nationalist sentiments in the Soviet republics in 1953 when he unveiled a “New Course” in Soviet nationality politics, which involved replacing ethnic Russian officials in the republics with cadres from among the titular nationalities and converting to the use of the titular language rather than Russian in party and government business.1 Localist politicians with nationally minded tendencies in the republics were further emboldened by the “Secret Speech” of the new Soviet leader, Nikita Khrushchev, to the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) in 1956, which denounced Stalinism, and the introduction of new policies such as the 1957 Sovnarkhoz (Regional Economic Council) reform, which devolved some economic powers to the republics. The crushing of the Hungarian Uprising by Soviet troops in 1956, however, made it clear to indigenous officials that the postStalin era did not necessarily mean linear progress in their favor; thus, military intervention in Hungary made them nervous yet more resolute about defending their republics’ interests. Under these remarkably changed circumstances, a mere few years after the death of Soviet leader Joseph Stalin, two republics can be singled out for their early efforts to redefine the center–periphery relationship, that is, relations between the Soviet republics and Moscow. In Latvia and Azerbaijan, new nationalistic cabals within the leaderships of their titular communist parties went the furthest by creating laws enforcing the use of the local language in public sector and government business: in the Latvian case, requiring officials and public sector employees to learn Latvian within two years or face the threat of dismissal; in the Azerbaijani case, enshrining Azeri as the state language within the republic’s constitution in August 1956 and 1 Michael Loader, “Beria and Khrushchev: The Power Struggle over Nationality Policy and the Case of Latvia,” Europe–Asia Studies 68:10 (2016), 1759–1792.

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additional measures in October 1956 that resembled the Latvian language law.2 This was made possible, as was the opportunity for further significant renegotiation of the demarcation line over autonomy and the powers of the republics, because the center–periphery relationship at this point was not fixed or fully defined but malleable.3 It was in this already tumultuous context that Khrushchev unveiled his flagship reform of the Soviet education system in September 1958. The Soviet republics and autonomous republics of the Russian Federation (RSFSR) were already well acquainted with the reform having been consulted at length about proposals to orient schooling towards a technical education and practical work experience. What shook the administrations in the republics was the announcement at the Central Committee of the CPSU (CC CPSU) plenum on 12 November 1958 of the inclusion of so-called Thesis 19 within the reform bill entitled “On strengthening the connection of the school with life and on the further development of the public education system in the country” as a component of a general restructuring of secondary and higher education.4 The key passage of Thesis 19 stated: In the area of language study in the schools of the Union and autonomous republics children are considerably overloaded … In the nationality schools, children study three languages—their mother tongue, Russian, and a foreign language. The question ought to be considered of giving parents the right to send their children to a school where the language of their choice is used. If a child attends a school where instruction is conducted in the language of one of the Union or autonomous republics, he or she may also study the Russian language if he or she wishes. Conversely, if a child attends a Russian school, he or she may, if he or she so desires, study the language of one of 2 Latvian State Archives (Latvijas Valsts arhīvs, hereafter LVA), PA-102. fonds, 14. apraksts, 8. lieta, 83–84. lapu. Riga City Party Committee (gorkom) decision to impose a time limit on language acquisition, 30 November 1956; Jamil Hasanli, Khrushchev’s Thaw and National Identity in Soviet Azerbaijan, 1954–1959 (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2015), 110, 112; Krista Goff, “What Makes a People? Soviet Nationality Politics and Minority Experience after World War Two” (PhD diss., University of Michigan, 2014), 142–143. 3 Jeremy Smith, “The Battle for Language: Opposition to Khrushchev’s Education Reform in the Soviet Republics, 1958–59,” Slavic Review 76:4 (2017), 1002; Michael Loader, “Restricting Russians: Language and Immigration Laws in Soviet Latvia, 1956–1959,” Nationalities Papers 45:6 (2017), 1097. 4 Russian State Archive of Contemporary History (Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv noveishei istorii, hereafter RGANI), fond 2, opis 1, delo 335. Stenograph of a CC CPSU plenum, speech by CC CPSU First Secretary Khrushchev, 12 November 1958.

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the Union republics …. To grant parents the right to decide what language a child should study as a compulsory subject would be a most democratic procedure. It would eliminate arbitrary decisions in this important matter and would make it possible to overcome the practice of overloading children with excessive language study.5 The crux of Thesis 19, which was so egregious to non-Russians in the republics was that the law would allow Russian-speaking schoolchildren in the periphery to drop classes in the titular non-Russian language. For practical purposes, non-Russian children would have to continue learning Russian because it was the Soviet lingua franca, a prerequisite for career advancement, and a requirement for access to a university education and professional development (although nominally they could opt out).6 The learning of three languages (Russian, the titular, and one foreign language) in the republics as opposed to only Russian and a foreign language in the RSFSR was compensated in the Baltic republics by an extra (ninth) year of primary schooling. In Latvia, for example, across their education students studied the Latvian language for two to three hours a week totaling 700 hours of study (the equivalent of almost a school year).7 Yet, Khrushchev’s reform also envisaged the modernization of the Soviet education system and standardization of the curriculum, reducing it to eight years in the Baltic case to bring it into line with Russia—in itself the homogenization of differing education practices was an important component of Sovietization. With a year less for language learning, already overloaded students would become even more overburdened by still studying three languages, which provided the government’s rationale for the elimination of compulsory language learning in the republics. This chapter will examine Latvia’s role as the most prominent and rebellious republic in its hostility to the reform, the resistance effort (which has hitherto not been fully examined by historians using the range of literature, archive materials in Russia and Latvia, and periodicals now available), and the impact of the reform upon Latvia. 5 “Par skolas sakaru nostiprināšanu ar dzīvi un par tautas izglītības sistēmas tālāku attīstību mūsu zemē,” Cīņa, 16 November 1958, 3; see also “Ob ukreplenii sviazi shkoly s zhizn’iu i o dal’neishem razvitii sistemy narodnogo obrazovaniia v strane,” Pravda, 16 November 1958, 2. 6 Some non-Russian schools did indeed take advantage of the option not to offer Russian and consequently many parents decided to send their children to Russian schools. Michael Jean Widmer, “Nationalism and Communism in Latvia: The Latvian Communist Party under Soviet Rule” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 1969), 539. 7 LVA, 290. f., 1. apr., 3673. l., 9. lp. Stenograph of a Latvian Supreme Soviet session, 6 July 1956.

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Grounds for Opposition While Thesis 19 was sprung upon the republics, the overall education reform involved a lengthy process of consultation with the republics in which they submitted proposals. There was a groundswell of support for how to cope with overburdening while maintaining the existing structure of learning three languages through the introduction of an additional year of schooling. In this consultative process, there was no mention of dropping compulsory second language learning.8 Yet, as with the combative nature of Thesis 19, Khrushchev’s published education reform pressed ahead with the intention to standardize primary education at eight years Unionwide (eleven years total).9 The problem was that the Baltic republics, with their extra year of education over the RSFSR, were loath to give up their competitive advantage against Russian students (Latvians and Estonians were generally better educated than local Baltic Russians, and consequently, often had access to superior employment) by losing their extra year of education to standardization.10 Despite the Soviet constitution being a “paper tiger,” the formal status of the titular languages was of great importance to the titular nationalities of the periphery. Once a language is no longer used for educative purposes its decline is inevitable and if it is no longer mandatory it becomes marginalized.11 Thus, the great unspoken fear in the republics over Thesis 19 was the relegation of the titular languages to a lower status because Russian students’ parents would prevent their children from learning the local language. Thesis 19 would accomplish this gradually by increasing the number of Russians in urban centers who could not speak the local language, 8 Smith, “Battle for Language,” 993. 9 Confusingly, the literature, archival documents, and press sources refer interchangeably to the education system’s lengths—either the proposed primary school period or the total amount. For simplicity, the years of education have been standardized throughout this chapter including in quotations to refer only to the basic primary education period in question: The proposed basic eight-year system (eleven years in total including three years of secondary teaching). The Baltic republics already possessed an extra (ninth) year in their systems (twelve in total). The Latvian national communists proposed an additional (tenth) year to relieve the burden on students (thirteen in total). This chapter will refer to the primary years in question only—eight, nine, or ten. 10 Jeremy Smith, “Republican Authority and Khrushchev’s Education Reform in Estonia and Latvia 1958–1959,” in The Sovietisation of the Baltic States 1940–1956, ed. Olaf Mertelsmann (Tartu: Kleio Publishers, 2003), 239. 11 E. Glyn Lewis, Multiculturalism in the Soviet Union (The Hague: Mouton, 1972), 153; William Prigge, “Power, Popular Opinion, and the Latvian National Communists,” Journal of Baltic Studies 45:3 (2014), 314.

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and, therefore, to accommodate them as ever more street signs, service staff, and announcements would have to cater to Russian speakers. That the reform had Russifying characteristics is still denied in contemporary Russian historiography, which focuses instead on the reform’s “democratic” parental choice element, the “desire” of pupils to switch to teaching in Russian, and counter accusations of Western states’ language policies.12 According to historian Jeremy Smith, there is only circumstantial evidence of linguistic Russification, that is, in the sense that Russian was only glacially replacing the native tongue of the titular nationalities as they self-identified as Russian speakers.13 Whether linguistically this was occurring is not the point, however. Rather, it is that the republics perceived the threat and acted accordingly. In any case, the more immediate threat, one acutely perceived by the republics, was of this different variety of “camouflaged” linguistic Russification through the displacement of the titular language as the alternative language of communication in the republics. Furthermore, the reform legalized the possibility of transforming titular language schools into schools with Russian as the language of instruction in the republics.14 To the republics, the proposed education reform appeared as if the center was throwing down the gauntlet for them to accept a remarkable provocation in terms of Russification. Several republics had significant numbers of Russians and Russian speakers living within their borders. Thus, maintaining the teaching of their native language to Russian students in schools was especially important to these republics.15 The sensitive nature of the subject of language instruction meant that in the past the central authorities treaded lightly. Even in the days of hyper-centralization under Stalin, the most brazen proposals to replace 12 E. V. Shelestiuk, “Natsional’naia i iazykovaia politika v istorii Rossii,” in Iazyk i kommunikatsiia v sovremennom polikul’turnom sotsiume: sborniknauchnykh trudov, eds. L.K. Raitskaia, N.M. Mekeko, and T.V. Popov (Moscow: TransArt, 2014), 248–249; V. M. Alpatov, 150 iazyikov i politika: 1917–2000 (Moscow: Russian Academy of Sciences, 2000), 107. 13 Smith, “Battle for Language,” 993; Abandonment of titular languages for Russian as a mother tongue was not measurably affected by Soviet language policies. Brian D. Silver, “Language Policy and the Linguistic Russification of Soviet Nationalities,” in Soviet Nationality Policies and Practices, ed. Jeremy R. Azrael (New York: Praeger, 1978) 292–293, 300–301. 14 Daina Bleiere, “Nacionālkomunisms Latvijā un 1959. gada Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” Latvijas vēstures institūta žurnāls 1 (2004), 126. 15 In 1959, Latvia had the third-highest percentage of (Russian-speaking) Slavs (Russians, Belarusians, Ukrainians) living in the non-Slavic republics at 31%. Yet, Slavs in Kirghizia comprised 37%, almost outnumbering the Kirghiz (40.5%); and in Kazakhstan, Slavs comprised the majority at 52.4%, dwarfing native Kazakhs at 30%. Russian State Archive of the Economy (Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv ekonomiki, RGAE), f.1562, op.36, d.1566а.

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native language instruction with Russian were not approved by Moscow and successfully resisted by the republics in 1938 and again in 1948 with discretion remaining with the republics. Yet the teaching hours of Russian steadily crept up and the thorny issue of standardization was postponed until it returned to the foreground as a Russian-language promotional campaign began in the late 1950s in which the 1958 reform was “part of official efforts devoted to expanding [the] role [of Russian] as the language of the ‘new historical community—the Soviet people,’” and Khrushchev would later make his personal opinions clear by promoting Russian as the “second mother tongue.”16

The Situation in Latvia Nowhere did the center–periphery tug of war over the education reform play out more dramatically than in Latvia. By late 1958, the so-called Latvian national communists were at their zenith, having gained control of many of the levers of power within the Communist Party of Latvia (CPL). The national communists emerged during the mid-1950s as a group of likeminded individuals with underground and wartime connections who opposed the Russification of Latvia and wanted to exert autonomous control over various aspects of life in Latvia such as immigration and the economy (see Chapter 5), but crucially, still within the bounds of the Soviet system. A key policy area for the national communists was the emotive issue of language. In 1958, knowledge of Latvian among the younger Russian generation was dismal. That year, Russian-language schools, attended mainly by Russian children, introduced a Latvian language exam. On 3 July, Skolotāju Avīze (The Teachers’ Newspaper) evaluated the results of this examination and determined that there were low comprehension levels in grammar and reading. A significant number of Russian students were unable to name 16 Peter A. Blitstein, “Nation-Building or Russification? Obligatory Russian Instruction in the Non-Russian School, 1938–1953,” in A State of Nations: Empire and Nation-Making in the Age of Lenin and Stalin, ed. Ronald Grigor Suny and Terry Martin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 255, 258, 263–265; Isabella T. Kreindler, “Soviet Language Planning since 1953,” in Language Planning in the Soviet Union, ed. Michael Kirkwood (London: Macmillan, 1989), 46; Isabella T. Kreindler, “The Non-Russian Languages and the Challenge of Russian: The Eastern versus the Western Tradition,” in Sociolinguistic Perspectives on Soviet National Languages, ed. Isabelle T. Kreindler (Berlin: Mouton, 1985), 356; Michael Kirkwood, “Glasnost’, ‘The National Question’ and Soviet Language Policy,” Soviet Studies 43:1 (1991), 65.

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historical Latvian figures.17 In 1956, the national communists set the tone for their language policy with an ambitious language initiative designed to redress Stalinist Russification policies by combating ignorance of the Latvian language. In an effort to restore the primacy of the Latvian language, the national communists enacted a law that effectively compelled Communist Party employees, government functionaries, and service sector personnel to reach a conversational level in knowledge of the Latvian and Russian languages (so the law did not appear partisan) or possibly be removed from their jobs. The education reform threatened to undermine the national communists’ language initiative just as the two-year deadline set by the law for gaining competency in both Russian and Latvian was approaching. The national communists were also staunch defenders of nine-year schooling long before Thesis 19 appeared. As early as July 1956, national communist and Latvian Minister of Education Vilis Samsons reiterated the national communists’ commitment to Latvia’s school system. He already considered nine-year schooling insufficient and was in favor of the extra year to relieve the load, declaring that to transition to eight-year schooling would be “a step backwards.”18 As such, Thesis 19 was received very poorly by Riga. The leadership considered Thesis 19 a display of cavalier Russian chauvinism, evidence of Russians’ unwillingness to learn indigenous languages, an attempt by Moscow to undermine local languages and cement the supremacy of the Russian language, and ultimately linguistic Russification because, in practice, Latvians still had to learn Russian for advancement in Soviet society.19 Any redressing of the balance of center–periphery relations in favor of greater local autonomy involved resisting central initiatives. The education reform acted as the catalyst for this struggle, becoming the defining issue over which the national communists would challenge the center.

The Public Debate As the scale of hostility towards the reform became apparent, Moscow unusually opted to respond yet in keeping with the new circumstances of the Thaw: at the November CC CPSU plenum Khrushchev encouraged 17 Ādolfs Šilde, Bez tiesībām un brīvības. Latvijas sovjetizācija: 1944–1965 (Copenhagen: Imanta, 1965), 194–195. 18 LVA, 290. f., 1. apr., 3673. l., 9. lp. 19 Yaroslav Bilinsky, “The Soviet Education Laws,” Soviet Studies 14:2 (1962), 146.

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a genuine and wide public debate on the reform and the presentation of realistic proposals.20 Thus, the Soviet public engaged in a comparatively unfettered debate, which largely played out in the opinion sections of the daily newspapers, although no extreme opinions were expressed in the press on either side. While the government’s original intention was “little more than a democratic ritual,” Khrushchev favored mobilizing public opinion through a general discussion.21 According to Jeremy Smith, the reason for the extraordinarily unrestrained debate stemmed from Khrushchev’s activist regime, which “sought reform in a number of areas, and called publicly for regional input into policy-making as well as implementation of policy.”22 Whereas previously the decision would have been simply railroaded through by the Kremlin, in a break with the Stalinist past, an unprecedented public debate took place. Khrushchev’s Thaw sought to involve the public more in political life and the education reform proved to be a testing ground for these new societal relations, a microcosm of the wider Khrushchev Thaw experience. This sincere public consultation created an extraordinary opportunity for leaderships in the republics, who were already enjoying more autonomy than at any point since the early 1920s. Leaders in the republics were emboldened by the combination of the circumstances created by the Thaw, Khrushchev’s indebtedness to non-Russian Central Committee members who supported him in the “Anti-Party Group” struggle in 1957, the overall de-Stalinization process, and the transfer of economic powers to the republics through the Sovnarkhoz reform. Republican leaders considered the preservation of their respective titular national language as central to their role. To Moscow, they positioned themselves as indispensable intermediaries—the bridges between the Soviet government and the people, ensuring Moscow would retain them because of the importance of their role as mediators.23 The leaders of the republics opposed to the reform realized that the best way to 20 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 129. 21 This pluralistic discussion allowed for an unconnected (from the republics) parallel effort from specialists and scientists to moderate the reform’s technical aspects, particularly opposition to students entering the workforce two years early utilizing these unique circumstances in which the party was inviting participation and expert opinion in the crafting of the reform for the first time since the 1920s. Laurent Coumel, “The Scientist, the Pedagogue and the Party Official: Interest Groups, Public Opinion and Decision-making in the 1958 Education Reform,” in Soviet State and Society under Nikita Khrushchev, ed. Melanie Ilič and Jeremy Smith (London: BASEES/ Routledge, 2011), 69, 73, 82. 22 Smith, “Republican Authority,” 237–238. 23 Saulius Grybkauskas, Governing the Soviet Union’s National Republics: The Second Secretaries of the Communist Party (London: BASEES/Routledge, 2021), 193–198.

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connect with the public and to mobilize public opinion against the reform was through emotive speeches about language and to use newspapers in the republics to print the opinions of teachers and parents criticizing the reform. It was not only the republics’ leaders but also teachers (from the mid-1950s they were able to express themselves slightly more freely) who took the invitation to the discussion seriously and hoped that their opinion would be considered in Moscow.24 The aim of the public debate for the republics’ leaders was to clearly demonstrate that there was no popular support for an education law that included Thesis 19. The public debate brought the republics’ leaderships closer to the people (and by implication both local leaders and their publics moved further from Moscow) and made them more responsive to the population through their greater adherence to popular opinion, something that was previously ignored before the conflict over the reform. The national communists were at the forefront of this development: Education Minister Samsons wrote in the journal Kommunist Sovetskoi Latvii (Communist of Soviet Latvia), “the CC CPSU is not afraid to disregard the usual views on education, looking for creative new ways for its further development in consultation with the broad masses of the people.”25 The national communists used the lenient circumstances provided by the Thaw to their advantage by appealing for public support to provide them with greater leverage to amend the reform. At a meeting of the CPL Riga branch on 22 November 1958, Council of Ministers Chairman Vilis Lācis took the lead in challenging the implementation of Thesis 19 and ignited the debate on the subject. He questioned the logic of making second language study optional because “knowledge of both Russian and the republics’ languages was necessary for working in Latvia and other Soviet republics,” and for the continuation of one’s education outside the RSFSR. Therefore, the law was “somewhat difficult to realize practically.” Lācis found that the termination of compulsory language study would “hardly promote the strengthening of peoples’ friendship” and he considered it “advisable to hear the opinion of teachers and the general 24 Daina Bleiere, “Vispārējās izglītības sovetizācija Latvijā: padomju cilvēka veidošana mācību procesā (1944–1964),” Latvijas vēstures institūta žurnāls 1 (2013), 114. While it should be noted that Moscow was interested in the opinions of professionals, they were less concerned with public opinion. David J. Galbreath and Mary Elizabeth Galvin, “The Titularization of Latvian Secondary Schools: The Historical Legacy of Soviet Policy Implementation,” Journal of Baltic Studies 36:4 (2005), 450. 25 Vilis Samsons, “O dal’neishem sovershenstvovanii sistemy narodnogo obrazovaniia,” Kommunist Sovetskoi Latvii 12 (1958), 10.

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public on this issue,” encouraging them to join the debate and to “speak out.”26 Over the next month, the party press was inundated with letters criticizing Thesis 19 and supporting Latvian proposals for extended schooling and continued obligatory Russian and Latvian courses. Discussions also took place at workers’ meetings in factories and kolkhozy (collective farms), party cells, open party meetings, teachers’ meetings, and parents’ conferences in schools. Historians are struck by the debate’s remarkably forthright tone. Prigge believes the national communists encouraged a wide public debate on the education reform in order to galvanize the power of public opinion behind their resistance effort towards Thesis 19. “The Latvian public,” he wrote, “which for over a year had become accustomed to being consulted, was mobilized by Lācis’s call.”27 Yaroslav Bilinsky supports this notion. According to Bilinsky, the education reform did not follow the usual pattern of universal endorsements from a spectrum of parents, teachers, school administrators, and party officials, officially sanctioned rallying of public opinion, a controlled discussion, and the “Supreme Soviets affixing their rubber stamps after a brief and perfunctory debate.” Instead, there was a “comparatively free expression of real differences of opinion among party officials, educators and parents …. The most striking challenge to the central government was provided by Latvia.”28 At the 22 November meeting, others echoed Lācis’ sentiments. Deputy Education Minister Erna Purvinska insisted that “the unburdening of pupils should not be at the expense of language.” Purvinska viewed competency in Russian and Latvian as equal: Can I refuse to allow the study of Russian in Latvian schools, the language, which is a powerful means of international communication and familiarizes people with the riches of Russian culture?—I think not! Can Russian schools abandon the study of Latvian to children who in the future will live and work in Latvia, who will continue to study at universities in Latvia?—Just the same, I do not think so!29 26 LVA, PA-102. f., 16. apr., 9. l., 205, 208–209, lp. Stenograph of a CPL activists’ meeting in Riga, 22 November 1958. 27 William Prigge, Bearslayers: The Rise and Fall of the Latvian National Communists (New York: Peter Lang, 2015), 91. 28 Bilinsky, “Education Laws,” 138, 146. 29 LVA, PA-102. f., 16. apr., 9. l., 222–224. lp.

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National communist Milda Vernere, director of Riga’s 49th School, followed Purvinska’s speech, pouring scorn on the reform’s voluntary principle in language study: I join the teachers and great majority of parents who think that democracy in relation to language learning in school is irrelevant …. If we do not establish a strict order in language learning, then there will be irresponsible parents who want their children to learn only one language …. I believe that every citizen should know both languages, because otherwise we will have a situation where no one can talk in institutions without an interpreter. Vernere went on to blame the situation of overburdened students “borrowing the program of Russian Republic schools instead of aligning [our curriculum] with [Latvia’s] customs.” She went so far as to urge Latvia’s leaders to suggest to Moscow that Thesis 19 should be abandoned.30 Her zeal in opposing Thesis 19 and role in crafting the Latvians’ own education law resulted in her dismissal in 1962 during the purge of the national communists.31 At a teachers’ meeting at the Academy of Sciences on 1 December, there was a lively debate between members of the school’s parents’ committee. Mokrinska, Riga’s 22nd school director, announced there was a consensus among teachers that nine-year schooling should continue, and Russian students should learn Latvian because many graduates remained in Latvia or attended the republics’ higher education institutions.32 Although leaders of the Baltic republics advocated for the status quo, they understood that this might put their republics’ school graduates at a disadvantage against Russian school graduates in the RSFSR. In those schools, only two languages were required (Russian and one foreign language) compared to three in the Union republics. Therefore, as a solution, Lācis and the national communists proposed a further year of schooling (maintaining the existing ninth year and adding a tenth) to ensure that 30 LVA, PA-102. f., 16. apr., 9. l., 233–234. lp. Some speeches from this meeting were published for public consumption in the Latvian and Russian daily newspapers Cīņa (The Struggle) and Sovetskaia Latviia (Soviet Latvia) on 23 November 1958. Tellingly, only milder excerpts from Vernere and Purvinska’s speeches were printed rather than their sharper utterances at the meeting, which are quoted above. 31 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 135. 32 “Vairākuma viedoklis. Pilsētas skolotāju aktīva sanāksme,” Sovetskaia molodezh’, 2 December 1958.

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students were not overburdened.33 In December, Samsons clarified the government’s position in an interview with the sympathetic, national communist-controlled newspaper Rīgas Balss (Voice of Riga): interviewer: “The thesis emphasizes that a new education system must be developed in each Union republic in accordance with the peculiarities of its economic and cultural development. What are the differences in this regard in our secondary schools?” samsons: “… our republic should establish a [ten]-year period of study.” interviewer: “What explains this extension of the term of study?” samsons: “It is necessary to consider the children of the permanent residents [Russians] of our republic.” interviewer: “Should the same period of study for schools [ten years] in our republic be recommended for the Russian language of instruction?” samsons: “Yes, many education specialists believe that children of citizens of other nationalities permanently living in the republic should study the Latvian language, study the history and geography of Latvia, our traditional subjects [singing], know the nature of the republic, and can communicate with the population in their native language.” interviewer: “How should language education issues be resolved?” samsons: “This question is very serious. Lenin noted that coercive methods were unacceptable in resolving the national question. He said that the principle of voluntariness should be the basis of language learning. Therefore, it is clear that this principle with regard to languages is the basis for the thesis. Latvians, however, are fully convinced that without knowledge of Russian, their children will not be able to fully master the riches of Russian culture. And the children of permanent residents willingly learn the Latvian language, without which it is impossible to understand the history of the Latvian people, its culture and character. We are sure that the majority of the Latvian SSR’s working people have deeply understood that knowledge of the Russian and Latvian languages is a prerequisite for successful work and continued education in our republic.”34 33 LVA, PA-102. f., 16. apr., 9. l., 205. lp. 34 “Gotovit’ molodezh’ k zhizni, k poleznomu trudu,” Rīgas Balss, 1 December 1958, 2. Samsons estimated that the assimilation of all this knowledge would require over 900 hours, totaling almost another school year. Samsons, “O dal’neishem sovershenstvovanii sistemy narodnogo obrazovaniia,” 12, 13.

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As reflected by Samsons, a significant portion of the public discussion was devoted to the necessity for children to acquire knowledge of Latvian history and geography. In defiance of Thesis 19, the national communists requested that the Latvian school curriculum be revised to allow more hours to study Latvia’s geography, history, language, and literature.35 By 1958, the Ministry of Education had already succeeded in developing its own curriculum, focusing on Latvian history and other subjects related to Latvia despite Moscow’s initial insistence on a unified history curriculum.36 The impassioned responses of the Latvian public to the reform were matched only by the extraordinary frankness of the debate. In the press, there was a flood of articles supporting Lācis and Samsons in their proposals to extend primary schooling to ten years in order to retain instruction in three languages, particularly from concerned officials in Latvia’s education departments. M. Kalnin, head of Liepāja’s Education Board, wrote in the Russian-language newspaper Sovetskaia Latviia that “the question of the length of secondary education in our republic should be solved on the basis of local conditions. [Nine]-year training is insufficient. I believe that our republic requires [ten]-year compulsory schooling.”37 On 19 December, national communist Jānis Ģībietis, head of the Riga City Education Department, wrote to the newspaper Trud (Labor) in support of an additional school year. A survey of readers’ letters published in Sovetskaia Latviia indicated that most respondents favored a continuation of the existing arrangement for compulsory second language study.38 Others wrote in support of at least maintaining Latvia’s special nine-year system in the section Cīņa reserved for the discussion entitled “The People are Talking about the Future of Schooling.” Writer Anna Brodele insisted, “Under no circumstances in our republic should we give up nine grades …. The history and geography of one’s own people and country must be taught thoroughly.” She suggested the abolition of exams to compensate.39 Secondary school director Iu. Sidorov reiterated that “a nine-year period of study will give Russian students the full opportunity to learn Latvian properly, and for Latvian students [to 35 V. Stanley Vardys, “Soviet Colonialism in the Baltic States: A Note on the Nature of Modern Colonialism,” Lituanus 10:2 (1964), http://www.lituanus.org/1964/64_2_01_Vardys.html. 36 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 128. 37 M. Kalnin, Sovetskaia Latviia, 4 December 1958, 2. See other articles in support of the national communists’ line, for example, E. Danne, “Vnimanie izucheniiu iazykov,” Sovetskaia Latviia, 2 December 1958, 2. 38 “Ob izuchenii iazykov: obzor pisem chitatelei,” Sovetskaia Latviia, 13 December 1958, 2. 39 Anna Brodele, “Replika diskusijā,” Cīņa, 5 December 1958, 2.

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learn] the Russian language. Learning Latvian in Russian schools should be considered mandatory because we train personnel first of all for our republic.”40 While the reform was poorly received in the republics, arguments in favor (the other side of the debate) were largely ignored in Latvia, where the republic’s press gave a predominantly one-sided presentation of the discussion.41 Yet, there was some support for the All-Union law in Latvia. Its “democratic” nature was celebrated for giving parents the right to choose what languages their children learned.42 Still, the methods used to elicit parents’ requests to nominate a preferred language of instruction put disingenuous formulations to parental groups such as “Do you want your children to know Russian?”43 It was positively noted, however, that the reform would standardize the badly fragmented Soviet education system with its varying lengths of compulsory education. P. Kuņina, a department head at Latvia State University, complained in the newspaper Sovetskaia molodezh’ (Soviet youth) that “every extra year at school is in some way contrary to the national interest.”44 The chairman of the Daugavpils Pedagogical Institute reviewed letters sent to Sovetskaia Latviia. Many of the opinion pieces submitted to the Russian-language Sovetskaia Latviia contrasted sharply with their counterparts in the national communist’s periodical Rīgas Balss. Rather than language, the articles focused on practicalities for work. Several letters argued in favor of “the principle of voluntary participation in the study of languages.” Pensioner F. Perezhilo wrote, “Let the parents decide the language of instruction of their children and whether they need to learn an additional language. No doubt, the majority of parents will solve this issue correctly.”45 There was some support for Latvian-language learning but usually with the proviso of changing the methodological approach to teaching spoken Latvian rather than grammar. Many letters expressed pro-Russian sentiments such as the need for continued mandatory Russian-language teaching through notions such as “there cannot be a cultured person in the Soviet Union who does not speak 40 Iu. Sidorov, “Nuzhna deviatiletniaia shkola,” Sovetskaia Latvia, 13 December 1958, 2. 41 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 128. 42 Prigge, “Power, Popular Opinion,” 313. 43 Francis Knowles, “Language Planning in the Soviet Baltic Republics: An Analysis of Demographic and Sociological Trends,” in Language Planning in the Soviet Union, ed. Michael Kirkwood (London: Macmillan, 1989), 158. 44 P. Kuņina, “Mūs gaida grūts un nopietns, taču cildens darbs,” Sovetskaia molodezh’, 21 November 1958. 45 “Ob izuchenii iazykov,” Sovetskaia Latviia, 13 December 1958, 2.

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Russian.” “How can we, Soviet citizens, look in the eyes of [our] friends without learning Russian?” asked K. Žina, a teacher in Riga. The director of Madona District’s 1st School, A. Treiča, took a particularly hard line by highlighting the already dominant status of Russian: Russian must not become optional. It would be impossible to translate all specialist literature into Latvian. Raising the issue of parents deciding whether or not their children will learn Russian would be … making concessions to some parents with backward views. Talsi Secondary School head teacher E. Weisberg wrote “the Russian language is our second native language,” and insisted that only permanent residents in Latvia should have to learn Latvian. This was echoed by others who claimed that children only temporarily residing in Latvia (such as those of military personnel) should be exempt from learning Latvian.46 This point was particularly contentious. At a meeting of teachers and education staff on 1 December, Stogova, a spokeswoman for parents of Russian school students, argued that because there was considerable turnover in migration to Latvia, it was unnecessary for children to learn Latvian if they would be leaving for Russia in a few years.47

The Rubberstamp Resists: The Debate at the USSR Supreme Soviet It seems that there was some coordination between the republics at the meeting of the USSR Supreme Soviet, the Soviet parliament in Moscow, which convened to debate the education reform between 22 and 24 December 1958. Once again, the education reform episode created another precedent, a genuine debate among the deputies at the Supreme Soviet; hitherto the parliament merely ratified the party’s proposed legislation with the individual Supreme Soviets in each republic required to dutifully follow suit. Instead, breaking with established protocol, when the education reform came up for debate the republics formed a united front. While the reform was almost universally condemned, the strongest rebukes came from the 46 “Ob izuchenii iazykov,” Sovetskaia Latviia, 13 December 1958, 2; A. Treiča, “Par krievu valodas un svešvalodu mācīšanu,” Cīņa, 30 November 1958, 3; K. Sondors, “V interesakh molodezhi,” Sovetskaia Latviia, 2 December 1958, 2; K. Žina, “Valodas jāmācās,” Cīņa, 22 November 1958, 3. 47 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 128.

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delegates from the Baltic republics, Azerbaijan, Georgia, Ukraine, Moldavia, and Armenia. Representatives from all three Baltic republics insisted that non-Russian languages remain a required subject in all schools.48 On 24 December, it was the turn of Latvia’s representatives to speak, and they took the lead in opposing the reform. National communist leader Eduards Berklavs made an impassioned speech in defense of nine-year schooling and the need to preserve mandatory Russian- and Latvianlanguage learning. He was characteristically outspoken and uncompromising, declaring that “our republic’s schools absolutely require the continuation of classes in Latvian, Russian, and one foreign language.” He argued that “to solve the problem of overburdening students, without lowering the level of knowledge, seems hardly possible to us … a majority of the Soviet Latvian public will not support us if students do not study the history, literature, and geography of Latvia, if we refuse traditional classes in musical education.” To compensate, Berklavs suggested that education be streamlined with superfluous material removed, for example, teaching on ancient and medieval history. Berklavs said it was necessary to study each republic’s customs and demanded that the republics’ Supreme Soviets be granted the right to prolong schooling by one year and to determine the mode of instruction.49 This was a call for greater decision-making for the republics in the sensitive sphere of education, which was deemed essential by Soviet authorities for inculcating the country’s youth with Soviet values. Berklavs’ case was bolstered by Article 25 of the proposed thesis, which only vaguely defined the limits of the republics’ abilities to interpret the legislation: “The system of public education must be reorganized … taking the greatest account of local specificities … [and] adapting to the peculiarities of [each republic’s] economic and cultural development.”50 One of the most striking aspects of the struggle between the national communists and Moscow over the education reform was the support the national communists found from the most unlikely of individuals, Arvīds Pelše, a leading Stalinist ideologue and the national communists’ chief adversary on the CC CPL Bureau, the highest executive authority in the republic. He presented a united front with his archenemy Berklavs in opposition (at 48 Bilinsky, “Education Laws,” 144. 49 State Archive of the Russian Federation (Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii, hereafter GARF), f.7523, op.76, d.65, l.146–147, 151–152. Stenograph of USSR Supreme Soviet Session, 24 December 1958; “PSRS Augstākās Padomes Otrā Sesija. Deputāta E. Berklava runa,” Cīņa, 27 December 1958, 2. 50 “Tautas izglītības sistēmas,” Cīņa, 16 November 1958, 3.

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least outwardly) to Thesis 19 when he spoke at the Supreme Soviet. While defying Moscow was usually anathema to the subservient Pelše, it seems his opposition to Thesis 19 was merely political opportunism. He used Berklavs’ opposition to the reform as a charge against him during the purge of the national communists in July 1959 but deftly sidestepped accusations of his own complicity. Furthermore, after Berklavs’ removal it took only one month to bring Latvia into line with All-Union legislation, thereby demonstrating Pelše’s willingness to obey Moscow after his faction’s victory over the national communists. The explanation for Pelše’s unlikely support at the Supreme Soviet was probably due to his political weakness at the time. The Pelše faction was at its nadir in late 1958. Languishing in the political wilderness, Pelše may have considered it prudent to temporarily support the national communists on this popular issue to avoid confrontation on the bureau, which was dominated by the national communists, while he built his case against them. Prigge surmises that strong public support for the Latvian government’s position may also have affected Pelše’s decision.51 In his speech, Pelše focused on the popularity of the current system among the public and specifically referenced the debate on the reform in Latvia. “Latvia’s working people,” he declared, “at parents’ meetings, have unanimously spoken in favor of the need to preserve the study of Latvian and Russian … It would be inadvisable to abolish this fine tradition.” Uncharacteristically, the avowed internationalist stated that “It is necessary to learn the Latvian language in Russian schools for all those permanently living in the Latvian SSR, for the fruitful work among the population knowledge of the national language is required.” Pelše aped national communist rhetoric in his speech, stating: The law should … give republics the right to make some deviations from the school system project and programs developed by the RSFSR Academy of Pedagogical Sciences. Each national republic has its own historically formed customs …. It is necessary to consider these traditions in the school reform’s execution. Furthermore, he echoed Berklavs in his comment that the republics should retain the authority to amend the draft law before its ratification. He protected himself by adding the usual ritual praise of the Russian language. Pelše noted that students’ heavy workload under the current curriculum 51 Prigge, “Power, Popular Opinion,” 314–315.

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would place them under more pressure than students in Russia, who studied only two languages. Under the circumstances, Pelše believed that a ninth school year was “extremely advisable” and that fears over that issue were “unreasonable”; however, “for pedagogical and political considerations” he tactfully said both Latvian and Russian schools should have a ninth year, which would eliminate the existing bias in favor of Latvians.52 While other Soviet republics also opposed the education reform at the Supreme Soviet, Latvian delegates led the way with their vociferous speeches. While we have no archival evidence that the Baltic leaders agreed on a platform, according to Daina Bleiere, their views were known to each other and there was some exchange of information. Estonia and Lithuania supported proposals to extend schooling by a year and hoped that Moscow would listen to them about the need to retain teaching of three languages, but they did not press for the same level of decision-making autonomy as Latvia.53 The explicit rejection of Thesis 19 by the republics at the Supreme Soviet was not outright intransigence or defiance. Instead, realistic, alternative proposals to reach a consensus on the issue ultimately had an impact upon Moscow and demonstrated that the republics were able to influence the center. In his draft thesis on the education reform published in the press on 21 September 1958, Khrushchev made apparent his preference for standardized schooling, though proposed that the extra year be left to the discretion of each republic. In the revised thesis proposed at the Supreme Soviet in December, however, standardized schooling was assumed.54 According to Vilis Krūmiņš, a national communist and the CPL’s second secretary, during the Supreme Soviet session, CC CPSU Presidium member Otto Kuusinen informed him that contrary to the Soviet leadership’s views (including Khrushchev’s), Ukrainian deputies announced they would vote against the draft law because of the provision shortening schooling by a year. Other republics, including Latvia, supported Ukraine.55 Ivan Kairov, president of the USSR Pedagogical Sciences Academy, opposed extending education to nine years because it would strain resources, which would 52 GARF, f.7523, op.76, d.74, l.164–167. Stenograph of USSR Supreme Soviet Session, 24 December 1958; “PSRS Augstākās Padomes Otrā Sesija. Deputāta A. Pelšes runa,” Cīņa, 27 December 1958, 2. 53 Bleiere, “Vispārējās izglītības sovetizācija Latvijā,” 114; Daina Bleiere, “Ņikitas Hruščova izglītības reformas un vispārējās izglītības sovetizācija Latvijā,” Latvijas vēstures institūta žurnāls 3 (2013), 116–117; Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 129; GARF, f.7523, op.76, d.74, l.84–85, 149–150; V. Niunka, “Nazrevshaia gosudarstvennaia zadacha,” Pravda, 19 November 1958, 3. 54 R. Schlesinger, “The Educational Reform,” Soviet Studies 10:4 (1959), 434. 55 Vilis Krūmiņš, “1959 gads. Atmiņas un pārdomas,” Latvijas likteņgadi 4 (1990), 89.

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already be fully exhausted by the move to an eight-year education system, and would delay entrance into the workforce and higher education. Kairov, however, relented to the republics’ pressure and accepted that “the issues of the languages ​​studied in schools should be considered and decided by the Supreme Soviets of the Union republics.”56 Due largely to Latvian obstinacy, the Supreme Soviet passed the All-Union education law without Thesis 19, and backed down on the length of schooling: Article 9 stated: “The school year in eight-year schools is established by the legislation of the Union republics.”57 The central authorities compromised and permitted each republic to decide whether to pass or reject Thesis 19, as Berklavs had suggested.58 This was a significant and genuine retreat by Moscow, as the center was caught off guard by the level of resistance, and was not as some older sources suggest, a ploy.59

Moscow Runs Roughshod Due to widespread resistance, the skeleton education law passed by the USSR Supreme Soviet in December 1958 contained no regulations pertaining to the language issue. This version of the law provided only a general framework and offered the republics the possibility of different approaches to its implementation through republic-level legislation and administration, another remarkable concession from the center. These compromises from Moscow, however, proved short-lived. Despite the blistering criticism at the Supreme Soviet in December 1958 and Moscow’s initial decision to allow the republics to pass their own versions of the education reform into law without including Thesis 19, the Kremlin was dissatisfied and reversed course in early 1959. Each republic’s leadership was individually pressured into accepting the law’s original provisions outlined in November 1958. The limits of acceptable autonomous action by the republics had been reached. Moscow plainly felt that sufficient concessions had already been granted and that the republics were pushing too 56 Schlesinger, “Educational Reform,” 435; GARF, f.7523, op.76, d.53, l.95; f.7523, op.76, d.74, l.188. Stenographs of USSR Supreme Soviet sessions, 22–24 December 1958. 57 GARF, f.7523, op.76, d.77, l.39. Draft education law passed by the USSR Supreme Soviet, 24 December 1958. 58 Widmer, “Nationalism and Communism,” 543. 59 Bohdan Nahaylo and Victor Swoboda, Soviet Disunion: A History of the Nationalities Problem in the USSR (New York: Free Press, 1990), 132.

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far. This exposed the disquieting reality that despite the de-Stalinization process, Moscow was still prepared to run roughshod over local sensibilities. In March and April 1959, 12 of 14 Soviet republics’ Supreme Soviets obediently ratified statutes that contained the regulations of Thesis 19 essentially unrevised. Azerbaijan and Latvia were the only recalcitrant republics to pass their education laws without Thesis 19.60 The Latvian Supreme Soviet convened on 16–17 March 1959 to debate the education law and draft the appropriate legislation. A few days beforehand, the Latvian CC Bureau discussed a Latvian variation of the law. Berklavs pressed for a decision on the length of schooling, but the bureau was hesitant. The leadership had been trying to gain Moscow’s assent for its law for several days, demonstrating that the Latvians were not acting entirely autonomously or “brazenly” and had requested approval as they did in the case of their proposed residency restrictions. Pelše reported that he had contacted Moscow but the official in question was in Paris and that the Secretariat would consider their request, but no assurances were given.61 It is possible that Pelše was playing a risky game of encouraging the national communists to pass an unacceptable law in the hopes of triggering Moscow’s intervention. Yet, there was genuine behind-the-scenes vacillation on Moscow’s part about how to deal with the Latvians’ recalcitrance. Apparently, Leontīna Lapiņa, head of the CPL Department for Schools, traveled to Moscow at least five times seeking clarification about the law but did not receive it.62 Without a response, the national communists proceeded with debating their version of the law. At the Latvian Supreme Soviet, Berklavs gave the keynote speech, announcing that Latvia’s draft law accounted for Latvia’s conditions, including the special requirements and traditions of Latvia’s schools. He reiterated the unequivocal need for continued teaching of Russian and Latvian explaining that it was necessary for technical specialists and difficult for those pupils who could not speak both languages to work in teams. Numerous speakers reinforced this, among them Jānis Brodelis, head of vocational training for the Latvian Council of Ministers, who noted that Latvia’s customs included knowledge of Latvian, which was necessary for living and working in Latvia. 60 Gerhard Simon, Nationalism and Policy toward the Nationalities in the Soviet Union: From Totalitarian Dictatorship to Post-Stalinist Society (Boulder: Westview Press, 1991), 247–248. 61 Loader, “Restricting Russians,” 1092; LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 51. l., 133. lp. Stenograph of a CPL Bureau meeting, 12 March 1959. 62 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 15. l., 113. lp. Stenograph of a CPL plenum, 7–8 July 1959. Speech by Minister for State Control Anton Ozolin.

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Brodelis celebrated the inclusion of a 38-hour course in the curriculum entitled “Our Great Motherland Provides,” a program of studying the history and geography of Latvia and the traditions of the Latvian people.63 Berklavs conceded that students learning three languages would be overburdened in comparison to those in other republics who studied only two. The emphasis on Latvian subjects was plain as Berklavs noted that students in Russian schools would study them “more than before.” To reduce the burden, all language teaching was to be streamlined to focus on the practical use of the language, developing students’ speaking ability over grammar skills. This was in line with the National Congress of Teachers’ recommendations from March 1957, which suggested a major overhaul of the curriculum. Furthermore, Education Minister Samsons reaffirmed that the curriculum for some subjects would be reduced and transferred to the secondary school stage to lighten the load. Samsons summarized the situation: “Logic suggests a simple answer. If we continue to want to study all three languages, and the history, literature, and geography of Latvia, and everyone unanimously spoke up for this, then it is natural to [retain a ninth year].” Berklavs defended the extra year of schooling, saying that it would “prepare students mentally and physically to be more mature young people who will be better prepared to immediately join the workforce.”64 Finally, Berklavs pledged to provide free textbooks for grades one to eight from 1962. This was designed to combat the perennial problem of a lack of printing resources for publishing houses, which resulted in an insufficient number of textbooks for students. The situation with Latvian-language and literature textbooks in Russian-language schools was especially poor. A Riga gorkom report from late 1956 noted that schools were provided with textbooks that were inadequately translated into Latvian. There was a lack of Latvian-language textbooks for the third and seventh grades, no grammar textbooks for the eighth grade, and no textbooks at all for the sixth grade.65 The situation was complicated on the second day of debate, 17 March, when Moscow finally responded and rejected the Latvians’ proposals, but the leadership did not halt the Supreme Soviet session. There was, however, some reaction because all discussion of nine-year schooling was abruptly dropped. The national communists opted for a degree of caution and instead 63 LVA, 290. f., 1. apr., 5169. l., 43, 70, 73, 122. lp. Stenographs of Latvian Supreme Soviet sessions, 16–17 March 1959. 64 LVA, 290. f., 1. apr., 5169. l., 49–50, 54, 90–91. lp. 65 LVA, PA-102. f., 14. apr., 12. l., 100. lp. Protocols of a Riga gorkom bureau meeting, 26 October 1956.

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chose some diplomatic wording in the Latvian education law adopted on 17 March. The possibility to increase schooling by one year was included but not mandated, merely referencing what the national communists considered that they won at the USSR Supreme Soviet in December 1958—the right to determine the length of schooling: “Study time … is determined by the Latvian SSR Council of Ministers,” the law stipulated.66 Nevertheless the Latvian law still deviated from the All-Union law in its conspicuous absence of Thesis 19 and the promise of free textbooks. Michael Widmer believes that the national communists avoided dealing with Thesis 19 by ignoring it altogether, which would not have been much of a strategy if it were the case.67 More accurately, as Bilinsky suggests, as far as Berklavs was concerned, the republics received the right to decide how the reform was implemented and Latvia choose not to include Thesis 19 in its legislation. “Latvian government leaders declared in no uncertain terms that Thesis 19 had been weighed and found wanting,” writes Bilinsky.68

Resistance by Obstruction The national communists felt that they had done enough (by ostensibly dropping nine-year schooling from their law) to meet the letter of Khrushchev’s proposals. Yet, Smith notes that to the national communists this meant nothing in practice because they brazenly intended to obfuscate it and perpetuate the existing system.69 The national communists realized that outright subversion would incur Moscow’s wrath, so they changed tack by tacitly accepting the reform and then, as other republics did, quietly fail to implement it.70 The other obstinate republic, Azerbaijan, took its cue from the Latvians, demonstrating that it was Latvia that led the resistance to Thesis 19. After the Latvian law was published in Sovetskaia Latviia on 20 March, the Azerbaijanis adapted the Latvian law to Azerbaijani conditions in their 66 Bleiere, “Vispārējās izglītības sovetizācija Latvijā,” 114; Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 129. 67 Widmer, “Nationalism and Communism,” 543–545. 68 Bilinsky, “Education Laws,” 146. 69 Smith, “Republican Authority,” 249–250. 70 The law was effectively not implemented in Estonia or Belarus. The Ukrainians tried to negotiate with Moscow, offering alternative proposals but having lost the legal fight resolved to undermine the law in practice, although this was strenuously denied by the Ukrainian leadership. Meanwhile, the Lithuanians resisted standardization. Smith, “Battle for Language,” 997–999.

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new law, which the Azerbaijani Supreme Soviet ratified on 26 March. This made teaching of Russian and Azerbaijani compulsory, regardless of which school students chose to attend. Historian Jamil Hasanli explains that “the Latvians went furthest of all. This added to the Azerbaijani leadership’s confidence that the language problem could be solved in a similar way.”71 Krista Goff’s research confirms that Azerbaijani leaders “argued that they followed the precedent set by Latvia when they introduced their version of the thesis.”72 The March 1959 education law passed in Latvia was unacceptable to Moscow. Bleiere believes that the national communists still hoped it would be possible to retain the further year of study, so the ambiguous clause about length of study remained in the law to directly test Moscow’s reaction, and thus the limits of the republics’ authority. It seems Moscow wavered before deciding where to draw the line, which would explain the delayed response; yet the national communists failed to read the unspoken unease in Moscow’s silence as a signal. The Latvians became the test case for the Baltic republics, as the first one to pass a “renegade” law.73 Furthermore, according to Bleiere, Moscow may only have made a final decision in late March or April because Estonia’s education law was not adopted until 23 April, when the Estonians abandoned all previous proposals, including mandatory three-language teaching and nine-year education (Lithuania also asked the CC CPSU for permission to preserve the extra year of teaching).74 In the long term, in contrast to Latvia, Smith considers that “tactful handling by the Estonian leadership, while it did not achieve all it set out to do, resulted in a freer hand than in Latvia.”75 While it may have helped keep the Estonian leadership intact, Estonia directly achieved nothing more than Latvia despite their “polite” approach, whereas to the Latvian population it was clear that the national communists were taking a more independent approach and acting in their interests. In May 1959, in a speech to the heads of district and city education departments, Samsons explained what happened. The Latvian authorities had concluded that teaching three languages required a nine-year system and a request had been submitted for its retention. For their part, the Estonians and Lithuanians also asked to retain nine-year schooling. He conceded, however, 71 Hasanli, National Identity in Soviet Azerbaijan, 374–376. 72 Goff, “Soviet Nationality Politics,” 158. 73 Bleiere, “Ņikitas Hruščova izglītības reformas,” 116–117. 74 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 129; National Archives of Estonia (Rahvusarhiiv), ERAF, 1.4.2362, 100. Stenograph of a Communist Party of Estonia Bureau meeting, 21 April 1959. 75 Smith, “Republican Authority,” 240–241.

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that the time for discussion was now over and an “answer has been received [from Moscow]: based on the need for uniformity in the school system, as well as from some other considerations, it has been decided to impose an eight-year education period everywhere.” Yet, Samsons revealed an inducement: “We are allowed to return [to the extra year system] after three to four years if it [the new system] turns out to be completely unworkable.”76 Such a “sweetener” surely only served to encourage the Latvians to sabotage the law’s implementation. The return to nine-year education did indeed occur some seven years later, after the reform’s failure. Once Moscow made its decision, the national communists encountered sustained pressure to remove discrepancies between their law and the AllUnion legislation. Smith describes the national communists’ resistance to the education law as merely a “relatively mild show of defiance” (the basic principles of the reform were not openly questioned by anyone and the discussion focused on how to implement them more successfully), though he suggests they provoked further reaction from the center by ratifying a divergent law.77 On 12 May, the Latvian leadership was forced to completely back down. The stenographic notations from Samsons’ meeting with educational personnel shows us how the tussle played out. Samsons asked rhetorically, Were we wrong to develop a nine-year school curriculum? … We would not be forgiven if we did not [try]. We found out a lot, especially about the student workload. The CPL decision of 12 May mandates eight-year education and instructs us to implement it. These are our orders.78 In explaining this climbdown by the Latvian authorities, Samsons told the assembled education ministry staff that the Latvian Supreme Soviet would amend the section concerning language teaching in the law passed in March to make “the wording as it was in the thesis. The other republics [ratified it]; we are also recommended to do so.” So, Latvia was word for word to be brought fully in line with All-Union legislation. “Why?” Samsons asked, again rhetorically: The CC CPSU explained to us. The Leninist principle: a second language (republican or Russian) must not be taught through 76 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 144. 77 Smith, “Republican Authority,” 250–251; Bleiere, “Ņikitas Hruščova izglītības reformas,” 114. 78 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 145.

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administrative coercion—it can only exacerbate tensions. Citizens need to be convinced of the need for these languages through their own free will and understanding. This communication with Moscow was through CC CPSU Secretary Nuritdin Mukhitdinov, a close acolyte of Khrushchev. Mukhitdinov appears to have been trying to smooth the Latvians’ ruffled feathers when, according to Samons, Mukhitdinov stressed to him that this outcome “did not mean that the focus on these languages should be reduced, they should be taught even better and more because they are necessary for people in later life at work and study. The voluntary nature of a second language and the need to teach it is not a contradictory thesis, but a dialectical Marxist-Leninist solution. The discussion of the theses proved that almost without exception, all residents, parents of children, and the public spoke about teaching Latvian and Russian.”79 Mukhitdinov’s bluster was contradictory: the ability to choose and the necessity of language learning were mutually exclusive and just because the public discussed the issue was of little comfort to Latvian leaders concerned about the implications for their language. Skolotāju Avīze publicly reported the decision adopting eight-year schooling. Yet even then the seeds of defiance remained. While Samsons conceded in the newspaper that retaining the teaching of Latvian and Russian as second languages was desirable, making it compulsory would be “management by decree,” he then word for word quoted Mukhitdinov’s salve about the need to learn both Latvian and Russian.80 Samson used Mukhitdinov’s platitudes to demonstrate how the Latvians intended to circumvent the law: Yes, language learning could not be imposed but knowledge of Russian and Latvian was necessary and so would still be taught.81

Consequences for the National Communists On 8 May 1959, the Latvian bureau received a memorandum about their education law from Vladimir Semichastnyi, the powerful Chairman of the Department of Party Organs for the Union Republics (within the CC CPSU 79 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 145. 80 “LKP CK un LPSR Ministru Padomē. Par apmācību ilgumu vispārizglītojošā politehniskajā darba vidusskolā,” Skolotāju Avīze, 29 May 1959. 81 Even after the national communists effectively lost control of the leadership in mid-June 1959, accusations abounded that “Russian was not, in practice, being studied in Latvian language schools but rather German or English.” LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 15. l., 100. lp. Speech by Jānis Vanags.

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apparatus), and the official in charge of the education reform, Vladimir Kirillin, representing a distinct intervention from Moscow and instructing the Latvians to report on the appropriate measures taken in response.82 The receipt of the memorandum was surely the cause of the leadership’s capitulation on the reform on 12 May. This followed the arrival from Moscow of an inspection team from the Department of Party Organs in April to investigate charges of nationalism against leading Latvian national communists. The team’s purpose was to gather evidence against the national communists and not to seriously investigate the allegations of nationalism made in citizens’ letters sent to Moscow.83 The investigation team’s report exaggerated the Latvian leadership’s deviations from the All-Union education law, claiming that the Latvians were still requiring a nine-year study period, “the requirement for separate teaching of the history and geography of Latvia, in isolation from … the USSR,” and the privileging of Latvian schoolchildren through the pledge to offer free textbooks. The report also referenced a “mood to separate Latvian children from children of other nationalities, a desire to put them in different conditions” and gave the example of Director Marta Duškina of Riga Secondary School No. 3, who supposedly introduced special ribbons for Latvian students, telling them, “This will make you different from Russians.”84 Latvia’s deviation from the All-Union law became a regular line of attack during the buildup to the purge with reference to the insistence on an extra year of school and the promise of free textbooks.85 The investigation team’s leader, Inspector K. Lebedev, scolded the Latvian bureau during the heated 20–21 June meetings for creating a law, which meant the “nonrecognition of the Union Law and the establishment of a different law,” underscoring that divergence was not permitted. Lebedev harped on the allegation that the national communists were elevating Latvia above other republics: 82 RGANI, f.4, op.15, d.166, l.89. Memorandum to the CPL from Semichastnyi and CC CPSU head of the Department of Science and Higher Education Institutions Vladimir Kirllin, 8 May 1959. 83 Michael Loader, “Purging in the Khrushchev Era: ‘Red Cardinals’ and Nationalism in the Soviet Republics,” in Negotiating Stability: Moscow, Local Nomenklatura and Intelligentsia in the Soviet Periphery, ed. Saulius Grybkauskas and Li Bennich-Björkman (London: Routledge, 2022), 16-47. 84 RGANI, f.3, op.12, d.527, l.85, 93. “Report of the CPSU commission about shortcomings in work with cadres in the Latvian SSR,” 27 May 1959. An inspection team also visited Azerbaijan and similarly embellished the situation in claims designed (successfully) to enrage Khrushchev. Loader, “Purging in the Khrushchev Era,” 16-47; RGANI, f.2, op.1, d.374, l.147–48. Stenograph of a CC CPSU plenum, 29 June 1959; Vladimir Semichastnyi, Bespokoinoe serdtse (Moscow: Vagrius, 2002), 41, http://www.rulit.me/books/bespokojnoe-serdce-read-318540-1.html. 85 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 48a. l., 22. Protocol of a CPL Bureau meeting, 21 June 1959.

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Each republic is sovereign in matters of public education, but here we are talking about something else. We, as communists, must proceed from national interests and it is impossible to put one republic in a special position. The Latvian SSR law bypassed questions about the procedure for learning languages at school …. Why should Latvia be placed in such a privileged position compared to other republics?86 Pelše repeated this criticism when he orchestrated Berklavs’s dismissal between June and July 1959. In his defense, Berklavs responded that there was unanimous support for nine-year schooling among the Latvian leadership, including Pelše, and widespread public backing.87 An indignant Mukhitdinov, who was also present, having led the team back to Latvia, questioned Berklavs directly about the free textbooks, demonstrating how it had become a thorny political issue: Why did you allow yourself to promise free textbooks only to Latvian students at the expense of the state? You are not the head of state here; you do not represent the party. And why only such a privilege for students in Latvian schools? Why are you so dismissive of other peoples? Why are they worse than Latvians? … This is a significant political question …. This is harmful to the politics of our party.88 According to both Council of Ministers Chairman Lācis, and Berklavs in his response to Mukhitdinov, the controversial proposal originated during preparations on the draft law. The Latvians were “guided” by the RSFSR draft law, which included the provision of free textbooks. “We thought that since the RSFSR did this, we could copy it,” Lācis reflected under questioning from Khrushchev at a Presidium meeting on 1 July. Then the RSFSR Supreme Soviet session to ratify the law was postponed to 15–16 April, by which time the provision was no longer included. Therefore, the Latvians were “wrong footed” by holding their session first with the provision present and it became a political cudgel with which to beat the 86 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 48a. l., 88–89. lp. Stenograph of CPL Bureau meetings, 20–21 June 1959. CPL First Secretary Jānis Kalnbērziņš parroted Lebedev’s exact words on the provision of free textbooks when the purge began at the July plenum. LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 15. l., 14. lp. 87 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 48a. l., 237–238. lp. 88 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 48a. l., 141–143. lp.

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national communists—as Lācis put it, “we made a mistake in this matter.”89 Furthermore, the inspectors of the Department of Party Organs were not really quibbling about the unacceptable cost or privileges of offering free textbooks—what irked the CC CPSU apparatus was this new Thaw-era decentralization and the breaking of the custom by which regional party organizations asked the center’s approval before making a decision on any subject no matter how trivial and never did so without authorization. At a CC CPSU plenum on 29 June 1959, Khrushchev waded into the row over the education reform, demonstrating his frustration over Azerbaijani and Latvian defiance. He asked rhetorically if republics could have differing laws and if so, then why for Latvia, opining that it could not be a case of one rule for one republic and another for the rest. He spoke out against Latvia’s provision of free textbooks because there were “insufficient material conditions to do it across the whole country. Therefore, no one should do this,” which served to encourage the national communists’ enemies. Tellingly, Khrushchev revealed to the audience his personal and candid opinion on the concerns of Latvia and Azerbaijan about the education reform: “Why do they object to this? The influence of the Russian language will be on the languages of other nationalities. What do you want, comrades, Turkish influence? Or Norwegian? [General animation in the hall].”90 This comment plainly reveals Khrushchev’s view that it was natural for the Russian language to hold a dominant status in the USSR. The Latvian bureau discussed amending the law at a meeting on 18 June. Berklavs, although behaving in a subdued manner and having offered to resign three days previously after having been berated by Khrushchev during the first secretary’s visit to Riga in early June, maintained a “rearguard” action against the All-Union law.91 Berklavs argued unsuccessfully over the semantics of the wording of the amendment, which permitted students to decide the language of instruction alongside parents, preferring that it only state “parents” because students were more likely to opt out. There was still confusion within the leadership and resentment simmered. Department for Schools chief Lapiņa remarked, “It turns out that the Russian language is compulsory in a Latvian school, but the Latvian language is not compulsory in a Russian school. Will two languages be ​​ studied in these schools?” Pelše clarified the bureau’s position, “There are Latvian schools and Russian 89 RGANI, f.3, op.12, d.997, l.40–41. Stenograph of a CC CPSU Presidium meeting, 1 July 1959; “O perestroika obshchego srednego obrazovaniia,” Pravda, 15 April 1959, 2. 90 RGANI, f.2, op.1, d.374, l.132, 150. 91 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 15. l., 55. lp.

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schools. But in each of these schools one or the other language can be taught …. Therefore, a second language is taught in one school, but not in another.” Pelše also touched on the subject of textbooks, noting that it was “a matter of principle. Parents will be waiting for these free textbooks.” When Lapiņa retorted that they would not be waiting because the provision was not due to come into force until 1962 and that “maybe by then there will be free textbooks,” Pelše responded, “We cannot legislate now for what will happen in the future.” He then forced the debate’s conclusion—“The proposal is to approve the draft decree. No objection is accepted.”92 On 20 June, the same day as the tendentious bureau meeting, Pelše reported to Moscow that he had prepared amendments to the law so that it fully complied with the All-Union legislation. This draft decree amended the March law, rescinding all deviations. It enshrined the right of parents to decide the language of instruction at school for their children and fixed primary schooling at eight years. This was very similar to the decree formally issued later, in August 1959, but was held back because the bureau was concerned about having to make an embarrassing public announcement about changes to the March law.93 The decree was drafted so Pelše could assure Moscow that the appropriate amendments had been made in accordance with Semichastnyi’s insistent memorandum. On the eve of the purge, to diffuse the issue, there was a fraught attempt to collectively parcel out the blame for incurring Moscow’s wrath over the education law at a bureau meeting on 4 July. Berklavs referenced how both he and Pelše both defended nine-year schooling at the Supreme Soviet in December 1958. Lācis admitted that he had erred in publishing an article in the largest Soviet daily newspaper Pravda (Truth), which used some of exact same talking points as Pelše’s Supreme Soviet speech, such as the need to be able to deviate from the project of the RSFSR Academy of Pedagogical Sciences. Lācis stressed that “everyone needed to take responsibility for this matter,” including Pelše, although it was “not a sin. Now a decision has been made, there is a [political] line,” and he referred to the affair as “our common mistake.” Second Secretary Krūmiņš emphasized the collective nature of the bureau’s approach: “The fault here is not of individuals, but of the bureau as a whole, because we did not have disagreements on this issue, there were no different opinions.” In an attempt to defuse any individual 92 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 54. l., 6–9. lp. Stenograph of a CPL Bureau meeting, 18 June 1959. 93 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 54. l., 2, 6. lp. Decree of the Presidium of the Latvian SSR Supreme Soviet, “On Some Questions of the People’s Education in the Republic.”

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accountability, Krūmiņš also implied that the bureau together shaped the “erroneous” line: “Lācis did not write the article in Pravda. Pelše did not invent his speech at the Supreme Soviet, either.”94 Nevertheless, it was too late to attempt to absolve the bureau’s culpability through collective responsibility. The Pelše faction had seized the initiative. The meeting’s protocol recorded that “individual senior leaders are inclined towards national isolation on the issues of school reorganization.”95 At the July 1959 plenum, where the purge began, there were apologies and excuses when the education reform was raised. Lācis once again affirmed that “it is wrong to insist on some exception for Latvian schools.” There was also some defiance. When one speaker, Jānis Vanags, rector of the Agricultural Academy, argued that the leadership should not fear asking for the extra year of education, Pelše interjected to remind him that the All-Union law required adherence. Vanags persisted with his concern: “But what will happen if our children do not understand Latvian?” First Secretary Kalnbērziņš concluded the plenum with a point that reinforced the absurdity of Moscow’s imposition of the All-Union law upon Latvia by contradictorily stating that people could not be made to learn languages, but they should still be told to do so: I believe that after Khrushchev’s instructions, we have clarity in this matter. We were told that you cannot force people to learn languages through administrative fiat; it should be done on a voluntary basis. And parents of schoolchildren must be told that their children [should] learn both Latvian and Russian. It was wrong when we decided that a child must learn three languages. This child is seven years old …. Who can decide for him? The parents. On the one hand, this is democracy; on the other, there is no Russification. And we began to split hairs. It is not right.96 Under pressure, many national communists abandoned their convictions. Vanags said he had spoken to Samsons during the July plenum, but the minister of education was now “[hiding] in the ‘bushes,’ disavowing [his former position on nine-year education].”97 94 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 48a. l., 238, 244, 255. lp. Stenograph of a CPL Bureau meeting, 4 July 1959; Vilis Lācis, “Smotret’ daleko vpered,” Pravda, 29 November 1959, 3. 95 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 145–146. 96 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 15. l., 28, 100, 163 lp. 97 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 15. l., 100. lp. Samsons was demoted in February 1960 to chief scientific secretary at the Latvian Academy of Sciences for his role in the education reform fiasco and

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Lācis was removed in November 1959, partially because of his highprofile defense of the Latvian education system.98 Resistance towards the implementation of Thesis 19 played an important role in Pelše’s portrayal of the national communists as nationalists during the ongoing purge. In 1960, Pelše wrote in Kommunist Sovetskoi Latvii: Some people began to howl that by studying the Russian language and culture, young Latvians would forget the national particularities of their own culture, traditions, and customs. Such reasoning can only harm Latvian young people. Such a view is nothing but a manifestation of bourgeois nationalism.”99 Pelše waited to enact the new law until after the purge began and he emerged as the undisputed victor from the struggle. The Chairman of the Presidium of the Latvian Supreme Soviet, Kārlis Ozoliņš, was keen to distance himself from his defeated national communist colleagues and on 11 August 1959 signed an amended education decree into law. The new law explicitly replicated the All-Union law on parental choice in language instruction and repealed the March 1959 law’s clauses about compulsory education in both languages. Finally, the new law removed the ambiguity about school length and officially abolished Latvia’s extra school year, bringing Latvia into line with the eight-year system observed elsewhere, four months after all other republics approved their laws.100 That the republics’ laws had to be modeled exactly on the RSFSR’s showed how in practice the invitation for proposals from the republics was hollow and republic-level considerations could not be seriously considered within the Soviet system, even while the process of de-Stalinization was haphazardly proceeding.101 The disarray caused by the struggle over the education reform served to demonstrate that Khrushchev’s “halfway house” of trying to include traditional Latvian subjects in the curriculum. LVA, PA-101. f., 23. apr., 27. l., 18. lp. Personal file for Vilis Samsons. 98 LVA, PA-101. f., 22. apr., 54a., l., 27. lp. “On serious shortcomings and mistakes in working with personnel and in conducting national policy in the republic.” In the party’s decision about mistakes during the national communist period, Lācis was recorded as having “acted passively in resolving a number of fundamental issues, kept silent, and sometimes supported erroneous views and proposals.” 99 Arvīds Pelše, “O nekotorykh voprosakh international’nogo vospitaniia: v pomoshch’ politicheskomu samoobrazovaniiu,” Kommunist Sovetskoi Latvii 1 (1960), 28–37. 100 LVA, 290. f., 1. apr., 5352, l., 7–12. lp. “Concerning Some Issues in the Latvian SSR’s Educational System,” 11 August 1959; GARF, f.7523, op.78, d.786, l.33. “Changes to the Latvian SSR Education Law.” 101 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 130.

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decentralization failed the test when Moscow lost its nerve and resorted to imposing central authority rather than finding an accommodation because the periphery responded by using its newfound powers to oppose the reform, attempting to discover how far the limits of permissibility for the republics could be redrawn.102

Conclusion Both Smith and Widmer postulate that one of the major causes of the purge was Latvia’s rejection of Khrushchev’s education law. Smith calls it the “final straw;” Widmer remarks that “the Latvian leadership’s position on this issue must have been an important factor which prompted Moscow to purge the Berklavs’ group.”103 Bilinsky agrees, noting that “Moscow promptly took up the challenge from Baku and Riga” and that “both Latvia and Azerbaijan were finally brought into line after farreaching changes in their leadership.”104 Gerhard Simon also subscribes to this notion, determining that the education law “signalled a change in the overall thrust of nationalities policy” and resulted in the rapid spread of purges to nearly all Union republics.105 Understandably, these historians assumed Khrushchev had already determined to cleanse Latvia’s leadership of the national communists and used the education reform as a pretext. Widmer, Bilinsky, Simon, and Smith, however, exaggerate its contribution as a basis for the Latvian purge. The national communists’ amendments to their education law in May 1959 were a tactical retreat in the face of intense scrutiny designed to placate the Kremlin. That Latvia passed a law that deviated from an All-Union law was not sufficient to provoke a purge, but the episode undoubtedly contributed to the Latvian purge (and also to the Azerbaijani purge) by reinforcing other accusations and unsettling Moscow.106 It was not, however, the root cause and was overshadowed by numerous other developments in Latvia, which gave conservatives in 102 As Laurent Coumel puts it, the education debate and its consequences demonstrate the emergence of a pluralism that did not fit with the leadership’s understanding of “public opinion.” Coumel, “The Scientist,” 82. 103 Widmer, “Nationalism and Communism,” 545; Smith, “Republican Authority,” 249–251; Smith, “Battle for Language,” 994–995. 104 Bilinsky, “Education Laws,” 138, 146. 105 Simon, Nationalism and Policy, 248. 106 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 130.

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Moscow and Riga greater cause for concern.107 The national communists’ adversaries homed in on the education reform specifically because Berklavs was so involved in the creation of the March law. While it was not the decisive factor in causing the purge of the national communists in July 1959 as the above historians have indicated, Latvia’s (and Azerbaijan’s) purges were to some extent the products of confrontations within their ruling circles. Nevertheless, defiance over the education reform assisted an alliance of conservative hardliners in Riga and Moscow in their attempt to successfully depict the national communists as nationalists, intent on putting Latvia on a path towards autarky and seclusion from the USSR. This culminated in the purge that ended Latvian national communism as its representatives and sympathizers were rooted out and removed across Latvian state and society. The overthrow of the national communists also curbed the ability and willingness of education leaders and teachers to resist the implementation of the reform.108 The long-term effects of the education reform proved counterproductive for Khrushchev, the quality of education in Latvia, and Latvia’s further integration into the USSR. In November 1959, Ilūkste District Secretary Dakšs complained that students voluntarily learning Latvian or Russian were failing but still passed onto the next grade.109 In 1962, nearly 5,000 students in Riga were forced to repeat the school year because of poor Russian.110 The introduction of bilingual schools, where parallel classes were taught in Russian and Latvian, was designed to expand the use of Russian and undo the emphasis placed on the Latvian language by the national communists. The number of these schools increased dramatically, even in regions with marginal Russian populations. By July 1963, there were 240 such schools in Latvia.111 According to Bruno Kalniņš, this only served to increase Latvian perceptions of Russification.112 After the reform was implemented, the 107 On the Latvian purge, see: Michael Loader, “The Death of ‘Socialism with a Latvian Face’: The Purge of the Latvian National Communists, July 1959–1962,” Journal of Baltic Studies 48:2 (2017), 161–181; Michael Loader, “A Stalinist Purge in the Khrushchev Era? The Latvian Communist Party Purge, 1959–1963,” Slavonic and East European Review 96:2 (2018), 244–282. On the Azerbaijani purge, see: Loader, “Purging in the Khrushchev Era,” 16-47. 108 Bleiere, “Ņikitas Hruščova izglītības reformas,” 118. 109 Russian Archive of Socio-Political History (Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv sotsial’nopoliticheskoi istorii, RGASPI), f.17, op.89, d.507, l.100. Stenograph of a CC CPL plenum, 25 November 1959. 110 Bilinsky, “Education Laws,” 141. 111 Widmer, “Nationalism and Communism,” 567. 112 Bruno Kalniņš, “The Position of Minorities in the Soviet Union,” Bulletin of Baltic Studies 8 (1971), 7.

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number of hours allotted for teaching Latvian in Russian schools gradually decreased while the teaching hours for Russian in Latvian schools increased. In Latvian schools in 1964–1965, the total hours per week across all grades in Latvian language and literature classes was 72.5 hours and 38.5 hours of Russian classes. This compares to 79 hours of Russian and just 26 hours of Latvian in Russian schools.113 Ultimately, the education law was a failure. Growing criticism and calls to abandon or significantly overhaul the education reform appeared from late 1963.114 In December 1963, Khrushchev expressed his own dissatisfaction with the results of the reform to the Presidium.115 In August 1964, one of its main propositions was abolished throughout the USSR. In September 1965, after Khrushchev was ousted as Soviet leader, the Baltic republics requested and were specially permitted to regain nine-year schooling from 1966.116 After this, “what was left of the education reform?” asks Bleiere—“Unavoidable potato harvesting for rural school students in the autumn, a frivolous attitude towards teaching Latvian in Russian schools and in some places in Latgale, Latvian schools were turned into Russian schools at parents’ ‘request.’”117 Latvia’s return to nine-year schooling was dressed up as a concession towards national sensibilities. It appeared that the extra year would allow more time for the inclusion of subjects of Latvian significance. Yet nearly all the extra time in Latvian schools was used for studying Russian language and literature. This contributed to the persistent problem of poor Latvian-language competency among Russians. In academia, the reform’s legacy saw the emphasis on titular languages fade—despite mother tongues being the focus of the first All-Union conference on language teaching in 1956, this stress vanished at subsequent conferences; while pedagogical conferences became devoted to the teaching of Russian in non-Russian schools.118 Contrary to some researchers’ conclusions, titular-language 113 Juris Dreifelds, “Latvian National Demands and Group Consciousness since 1959,” in Nationalism in the USSR and Eastern Europe in the Era of Brezhnev and Kosygin, ed. George Simmonds (Detroit, MI: University of Detroit Press, 1977), 139–140. 114 Jaan Pennar, “Five Years after Khrushchev’s School Reform,” Comparative Education Review 8:1 (1964), 75. 115 A.A. Fursenko, ed., Prezidium TsK KPSS 1954–1964, Tom 1 (Moscow: ROSSPEN, 2015), 818–832. 116 Widmer, “Nationalism and Communism,” 569; “Latvijas PSR Likums: ‘Par mācību laiku Latvijas PSR vispārizglītojošās vidusskolās, kurās mācības notiek latviešu valodā,’” Cīņa, 19 September 1965, 1. 117 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 130. 118 Kreindler, “Non-Russian Languages,” 356, 364–365.

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instruction declined into the 1960s as the reform further enhanced the status of the Russian language and the slide in Russian competence in titular languages advanced. Brian Silver shows how Harry Lipset’s analysis of textbook production and assessment that non-Russians did not suffer a decline of native-language instruction in the early 1960s are flawed because, among other reasons, his analysis ignores the probability of substantial increases in the matriculation rates of non-Russians relative to Russians. Enrollment in non-Russian schools declined while increasing non-Russian bilingualism threatened the long-term viability of schooling in the titular language.119 A growing “language gap” favoring Russian is evident from the 1970 census results as Latvians’ command of Russian grew while Russians’ ability to speak Latvian stagnated. Just 17.2% of all Russians in Latvia spoke Latvian but 75.3% of 20- to 29-year-old Latvians (46.2% among all Latvians), the generation educated under the reform, possessed knowledge of Russian.120 In the long term, a smoldering sense of resentment towards the education reform developed among Latvians, which engendered a postSoviet Latvian “sovereignty project” based on a policy of integration through titular language acquisition. This was evident in 2004 in the implementation of the Latvian education laws when “Russian-speaking parents, teachers and students thus found themselves in a position very similar to that of the Latvians in 1958.”121 Distracted by domestic and external problems, Khrushchev lost control or his resolve over this issue upon which he had staked so much.122 The abandonment of the reform represented a defeat for Khrushchev since it was forced through with consequences for Moscow’s relationship with the periphery and for Khrushchev’s standing with the republics, where he lost crucial support that he could not recover; meanwhile, he became increasingly isolated within the Kremlin leadership. Bleiere considers the education reform one of Khrushchev’s least popular policies, “significantly undermining his prestige at all levels of society.”123 The education reform serves as an example of how Khrushchev mishandled his reforms and ended up provoking the republics. Khrushchev’s reform was not a direct 119 Brian D. Silver, “The Status of National Minority Languages in Soviet Education: An Assessment of Recent Changes,” Soviet Studies 26:1 (1974), 29, 35, 37–38; Harry Lipset, “The Status of National Minority Languages in Soviet Education,” Soviet Studies 19:2 (1967), 184–185, 188. 120 Knowles, “Language Planning,” 157, 168. 121 Galbreath and Galvin, “The Titularization of Latvian Secondary Schools,” 452. 122 Coumel, “The Scientist,” 78. 123 Bleiere, “Latvijas PSR izglītības likums,” 130.

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attack on the sacrosanct “Leninist” principle of mother-tongue education as such—children would still receive instruction in their native language—but rather the reform translated effectively into the undermining of the status of the titular languages while bolstering the primacy of Russian. Khrushchev did not foresee the consequences of his reform and its effect of “cornering” the republics on the sensitive issue of language, which caused them to react with hostility to the initiative within the context of the looser political conditions of the Thaw. Despite offering the republics greater input in decision-making, Khrushchev and his Kremlin colleagues were products of the Stalin era and were used to Moscow making a decision and the republics dutifully enacting it. Resistance to the center was new: the zigzagging that followed the public debate, counterproposals from the republics, the denunciation of the reform at the Supreme Soviet, Moscow’s subsequent climbdown in December 1958, then the decision to reverse course and force through the law in early 1959, and the suppression of Latvian alterations by May 1959—all demonstrate that Khrushchev was reacting to events in an ad hoc manner. This was not a deliberate provocation; rather, it appears to have been a miscalculation due to ignorance in Moscow regarding perceptions of Russification in the republics, evidenced by Khrushchev’s aforementioned personal opinions and the center’s surprise at the vociferous reaction among the titular nationalities. The unexpected level of resistance to the introduction of the reform played a role in convincing the Kremlin and Khrushchev’s more conservative colleagues that the republics could not be trusted with autonomy and would seek ever more. Conservative hardliners in the Kremlin considered that Khrushchev’s initiatives transferred an unsettling amount of decisionmaking control to the republics, demonstrated, for example, by resistance to the education reform. The purge of the national communists between 1959 and 1962 and the wider purges of Communist Party leaders across the republics at this time showed that the period of concessions was over, and Moscow was reasserting control, recentralizing the Union following the failure of decentralization. Khrushchev was persuaded to begin this recentralization of the country, which was formalized in the new party program of 1961, which comprehensively rebuffed local aspirations and represented the center’s diminished tolerance towards localism. The debacle of the education reform revealed how far Moscow was willing to accommodate the republics in the Thaw era, to demarcate the ill-defined limit of Khrushchev’s Thaw by drawing an uncrossable line on unacceptable

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disobedience, which helped to define those boundaries for the Brezhnev era. This tacitly encouraged Russians in the periphery to pay even less attention to learning the titular language, fostering resentment among the titular nationalities and furthering perceptions of Russification. The experience of the education reform illustrated how Khrushchev’s genuine call for input from the republics in the law’s formulation was an impractical half-measure because the inflexible Soviet system could not consider local conditions without decentralizing real political power to the republics, which the Soviet leadership proved unwilling to relinquish.

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Latvian Photography of the 1960s between Art and Censorship f Ekaterina Vikulina

Latvian photography of the 1960s had already gained fame during the Soviet period. For many professionals and amateurs, it served as an example worth following and determined the field for exploring visual forms. In this regard, it is important to look at the factors that predetermined the origins and development of Latvian photography. This chapter tries to identify the place of Latvian photography in the 1960s in order to answer questions about its originality, derivation, and influence. The research for this chapter is based on publications in Soviet magazines and journals, exhibition albums, awards in photographic competitions, and interviews with the masters who worked at that time. Its focus is on intercultural connections in the 1960s, the role of visual information, the scope of censorship, and the conflicts and intersections between what was permitted and what was forbidden. The censorship in this chapter is considered from different angles. The first is censorship of the aesthetic order. In the 1960s, we are talking about overcoming stagnant patterns, prejudices against visual experiments, branded as formalism in Stalin’s time, when experimenting with form was seen as alien to the socialist system and as a product of bourgeois art.1 During the Thaw, aesthetic censorship continued to operate, but at the same time there were tendencies toward overcoming it.2 In this regard, I will dwell on the artistic search in detail, explore stylistic changes, and disputes about photography in the 1960s. Another important point is the correlation between “official” and “unofficial” photography at the time. These loose and relative categories help us to define the cultural priorities of the Thaw, to find out what range of representations were valid (or acceptable) and describe 1 The ideological campaign against formalism and naturalism was a product of the Stalin era. Echoes of this made themselves felt, partly during the Thaw. Formalism was understood as a form of modernist art and as part of bourgeois culture. 2 The Thaw, which began after Soviet leader Joseph Stalin’s death in 1953 and continued until the ouster of his successor, Nikita Khrushchev, in 1964, was a very special period because it ushered in liberal changes in politics and culture, including the growth of visual exchange between the USSR and Western countries. Although the Thaw ended in 1964, its feature characteristics persisted almost until the end of the 1960s. Therefore, the concept of the Thaw is important in tracing and analyzing the development of Latvian photography.

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the place of Latvian photography in the context of Soviet and world trends. Furthermore, the issue of the censorship of foreign visual information, especially periodicals, is important here. This chapter will examine the role of visual culture, which penetrated the Iron Curtain at that time from the West, and foreign influences on Latvian photographers, including how this phenomenon was possible and how widespread it was.3 Finally, special attention will be devoted to nude photography in Latvia and its cultural and aesthetic prerequisites. What were the censorship frameworks that limited its appearance in the press? In this connection it is important to examine the specificity of censorship in the 1960s, to analyze how the artistic context redefined what was permissible, and how the framework of representation was changing depending on the place of publication or exhibition. To answer these questions, this chapter will cover the main characteristics of Soviet photography during the Thaw, the weakening of censorship and the impact of foreign visual culture, the formation of Latvian photographic art and the phenomenon of nude photography in the USSR. An examination of all these versatile aspects will help to explain the rise of Latvian photography in the 1960s.

Latvian Photography in the First Half of the Twentieth Century The development of Latvian photography from its earliest period was closely connected with Russia and other European countries. The first daguerreotype ateliers were opened by visiting foreigners, mainly Germans, who retained a monopoly in this industry until the end of the nineteenth century, when Latvian photography began to develop.4 The Latvian Photographic Society was founded in 1910.5 Its first chairman was Mārtiņš Buclers (1866–1944), one of the most influential figures in early 3 In this chapter, Western influence is considered both from the side of the socialist (Eastern Bloc) and capitalist countries. Those and others were Western in relation to Soviet Latvia. In turn, the visual culture of the Western capitalist countries exerted its influence not only directly, but indirectly, through the socialist states, which also experienced the influence of the Western capitalist world. A distinction is made between the influence of the visual culture of the Eastern Bloc and capitalist countries in several cases when it is important to make such a clarification. 4 In 1906, the magazine Stari complained that all significant photographic institutions in Riga belonged to the Germans. P. Korsaks, “Fotogrāfijas sākumi Latvijā 19. gadsimtā,” in Latvijas Fotomāksla: Vēsture un Mūsdienas, ed. Pēteris Zeile and Gunārs Janaitis (Riga: Liesma, 1985), 9, 21. 5 The Riga Photographers’ Society was founded in 1890 and included both amateurs and professionals. Various nationalities featured on the membership roster, but the majority of members were Germans. Thanks to the society’s efforts, the first two photo exhibitions were

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Latvian photography. He was the popularizer of this medium, the author of the first book on photography in the Latvian language, and the publisher and editor of Stari (Rays of light) magazine.6 This periodical published about technical issues, the work of the photography society, exhibitions, and argued for photography to belong to the art sphere.7 Latvian photography at the beginning of the twentieth century was characterized by the spread of landscape motifs, an interest in ethnography, as well as a fascination with pictorial techniques that photographers studied mostly abroad.8 The famous photographer Kārlis Bauls (1893–1975), for example, graduated in 1917 in Moscow from the artistic photo studio of Anatoly Trapani, who was a famous pictorialist.9 Trapani was one of the first in Russia to exhibit nude photographs, in which he used “noble printing techniques.” Kārlis Bauls also applied these pictorial techniques to create nudes, as did as other Latvian classics such as Roberts Johansons (1877–1959) and Vilis Rīdzinieks (1884–1962), who also studied the craft in St. Petersburg.10 These photographers were landscape masters, excellent portraitists, who captured the famous cultural figures of Latvia and Russia and demonstrated their talent in nude images. Their works as well as the works of other Latvian colleagues won gold and silver awards at exhibitions in their home country organized in 1902 and 1904. Portraits, ethnographic studies, landscapes, and everyday sketches were displayed at both exhibitions. The first international exhibition took place in 1910: Korsaks, “Fotogrāfijas sākumi Latvijā,” 22–23, 300. “During the years of the Latvian Republic there existed six photographic societies—the Latvian Photographic Society, societies in Liepāja, Jelgava, and Daugavpils, the society of professional photographers, and the German Photographic Society. The societies performed the task of educating both the photographers and the public. Along with the development of documentary photography the societies promoted art photography.” P. Korsaks, “Fotogrāfija kā kultūras sastāvdaļa,” in Latvijas Kultūra 1920–1940, ed. Ilze Konstante (Riga: Latvijas Mākslas Muzeju Apvienība, 1990), 122. 6 M. Buclers, Fotogrāfija (Riga, 1904). 7 P. Zeile, “Fotomākslas, fotoestētikas un kritikas sākumi Latvijā,” in Latvijas Fotomāksla, ed. Zeile and Janaitis, 38–39. 8 Pictorialism was the use of different techniques to bring photography and painting closer together, such as the soft-focus lens, filters, pigment processes, oil print processes, etc. Thus, the well-known master of Latvian photography Jānis Rieksts (1881–1970), who created portraits of the writers R. Blaumanis, L. Tolstoy, J. Rainis, and Aspazija, mastered pictorial techniques and pigment printing in Germany. At the same time, many famous Latvian photographers were educated in Russia. Roberts Johansons (1877–1959), for example, studied drawing and retouching at the Stieglitz School in St. Petersburg, worked as a photographer in various Russian cities, and in 1916, opened the “Venus” photo studio in Moscow. P. Korsaks, “Redzamākie 20. gadsimta sākuma Latviešu fotogrāfi,” in Latvijas Fotomāksla, ed. Zeile and Janaitis, 66, 73–74. 9 P. Korsaks, “Fotogrāfija un fotokritiskā doma Latvijā,” in Latvijas Fotomāksla, ed. Zeile and Janaitis, 107. 10 Korsaks, “Redzamākie 20. gadsimta,” 77.

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and abroad.11 The creative biographies of these authors demonstrate the wide cultural ties that existed at that time. The high assessment of their works at world competitions indicates their compliance with common artistic trends. After the Second World War many old masters continued to pursue studio photography, and some of them worked at the Rīgas Foto (Riga Photo) company. Their recognition among the professional community is evidenced by their exhibitions in Soviet Latvia in the 1960s–1970s.12 Not all photos from the previous period were available to the public, but they were familiar to specialists interested in the history of photography from old Latvian magazines.13 Meetings with the first Latvian masters were organized at the Riga Photo Club, where they shared their artistic vision and experience with a new generation of photographers. It is difficult to talk about direct influence and continuity since the style of early photography was perceived by young people as somewhat outdated.14 Nevertheless, it should be noted that in the second half of the 1960s, photographers started experiments with printing techniques (including nude images).15 This allows us to draw a certain parallel between the works of early and postwar photographers.

The Phenomenon of Amateur Photography and the Development of Media in the Thaw Visual changes during the Thaw were closely related to the development of media, the dissemination of amateur photography and the extension of the 11 Among them were J. Rieksts, M. Lapiņš, A. Cālītis, P. Šmits, M. Sams, V. Priede, E. Baumane, and E. Mergupe. It is also worth mentioning the work of Gustav Klutsis (Gustavs Klucis), the world-famous Latvian artist who left for Russia in 1915. Klutsis supported the revolution and Soviet power. During the 1920s and 1930s he created propaganda posters using the technique of constructivist montage. However, this trend had no further impact in Latvian photography. 12 The Riga Photo Club, for example, arranged a one-man exhibition for Vilis Rīdzinieks in 1965. Roberts Johansons participated in the first post-war exhibition in 1958 for which he received gratitude from the Ministry of Culture of the Latvian Soviet Socialist Republic. His solo exhibition took place posthumously in 1979. Korsaks, “Redzamākie 20. gadsimta sākuma Latviešu fotogrāfi,” 74, 80, 302. 13 Several periodicals devoted to photography were published during the interwar period: Fotogrāfijas Mēnešraksts (Photographic monthly), Attēls (Image), Objektīvs (Objective), Daile (Beauty), and Ilustrētais Žurnāls (Illustrated journal). Korsaks, “Fotogrāfija kā kultūras sastāvdaļa,” 111. The publication of nudes from the 1910s–1920s predominantly took place later in the 1980s, for example, the book Latvijas Fotomāksla: Vēsture un Mūsdienas, edited by Pēteris Zeile and Gunārs Janaitis, was published in 1985. Gunārs Binde, interview with Ekaterina Vikulina, 23 April 2021. 14 Binde, interview with Vikulina, 23 April 2021. 15 See, for example, Jānis Gleizds, “Akts № 1,” in Photographers in Latvia: 100 Images, ed. Pēteris Apinis and Vilnis Auziņš (Riga: Nacionālais apgāds; Preses nams, 2001), 64.

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arsenal or array of pictorial means and options. Liberalization during the Thaw also brought access to visual information from abroad that influenced Soviet photography, among other forms of media. The beginning of the Thaw was marked by the appearance of a large number of new illustrated publications.16 The circulation of national newspapers and magazines significantly increased. A number of specialized journals (medical, art, etc.) appeared at this time, including regional publications in each republic, which were published in the local languages. After a fifteen-year break, the All-Union journal Sovetskoe foto (Soviet photo) resumed publication and its circulation was increased to 130,000 in 1960.17 There were also more publications available in foreign languages. This period coincided with the heyday of the Soviet photography industry. By this time there were new factories producing cameras and photographic paper. Similarly, during the Khrushchev period, photography became a widespread hobby in the Soviet Union. If in Stalin’s time the ability of photography to create art was rejected, the Thaw had rehabilitated the medium. In the 1960s there were millions of amateur photographers, a great number of studios appeared, and the mass production of photo equipment began. The figure of the amateur photographer largely determined the photographic process of the Thaw. This phenomenon had a pronounced influence on the development of photography in this period and in many ways helped form and shape photographic aesthetics. Due to the photo club movement, Latvian photography of the 1960s received a powerful impetus for its development. In this regard, it is important for us to look deeper into the artistic context of Soviet photography of the 1960s, to trace the expansion of the stylistic framework, which overcame previous prohibitions. The discussion about the advantages of professional or amateur photography was characteristic of the Thaw and took place on the pages of Soviet publications.18 The shift in perspective from professional, prescribing certain behavior for people in front of the camera, to amateur could partly explain 16 For more about Soviet media in the 1960s, see Ekaterina Vikulina, “Vlast’ i media: Vizual’naia revoliutsiia shestidesiatykh,” Cahiers du Monde Russe 56: 2–3 (2015), 429–465. 17 State Archive of the Russian Federation (Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi federatsii, hereafter GARF), fond 9425, opis 2, delo 285, list 64; GARF, f. 9425, op.2, d. 317, l. 47–48. 18 See, for example, Leo Gens, “From Experiment to Art” (in Russian), Sovetskoe foto 2 (1966), 12–19. The professionals noted in this chapter are primarily reporters and photojournalists whose work was subordinated by certain editorial standards and regulations. In turn, amateur photography was a more complex phenomenon since it was more widespread and included a wide variety of trends. Its hallmark was institutional organization in photo clubs. Many masters of Latvian photography came out of this environment, yet they subsequently considered themselves as artists not as amateur photographers (for example, Gunārs Binde). They were, however, originally formed by the amateur movement, and later had a strong influence upon it.

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the appearance of the informality with which people behaved in pictures.19 Reducing the distance between the photographer and the model(s) marked a new trend in the representation of the Soviet people. The emotionality expressed in the unfettered gestures or postures in the pictures found its place in periodicals as well. Amateur works received public recognition, were published in the pages of Sovetskoe foto, and were likewise shown at All-Union exhibitions. In turn, the trends that were originally formed among enthusiasts became part of the visual mainstream. Amateur photo techniques were appropriated in the professional environment and became part of the canon. An amateur was considered a person who could take a picture “from the inside,” or in a way that was inaccessible to a professional. An open look, a peculiar vision, and the absence of professional clichés were regarded as valuable in this period. The works of amateur photographers were often placed in the context of photographic art. The group was also characterized by an enthusiasm for experimental printing techniques.20 This highlights why and how amateur works were shown at exhibitions and published in the press alongside professional works. In the 1960s, extensive debates about photojournalism and the value of unexpectedly captured moments were explored by both amateurs and professionals. Direct photography, which was almost completely discarded as a practice under Stalin, returned during the Thaw. Gradually, staged shots gave way to images that captured life by catching the subject off guard because they were perceived as realistic and truthful. In their enthusiasm for documentary and reportage styles, photographers turned to the photographic heritage of the 1920s. Its typical compositional techniques (sharp angles and diagonals) were widespread among amateurs and professionals during the Thaw for the transmission of motion. At the same time attitudes towards experimentation were, however, ambivalent. Journal editors were aware of photographic experiments of that time, were sparing about sharing information about them, and warned about the dangers of formalism. Sovetskoe foto continued to struggle with “formalism” in photography and sometimes headlines such as “There Is No Place for Formalism, Bad Taste, and Clichés on the Exhibition Stands” accompanied reviews.21 In turn, the editors of the journal allowed and even 19 Ekaterina Vikulina, “Telo ottepeli: Vzgliad fotoliubitelia,” in Vizual’nye aspekty kul’tury, ed. V. L. Krutkin, A. F. Vasileva, T. A. Vlasova, and O. A. Shnyreva (Izhevsk: Udmurt State University, 2005), 136–142. 20 V. Tarasevich, “Volga – 67,” Sovetskoe foto 4 (1968), 8. 21 Sovetskoe foto 11 (1963), 23.

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welcomed the appearance of “unusual” photographs, occasionally featuring them on the cover.22 In this development, one can also see a weakening of censorship that gradually began to turn a blind eye to the search for expressive forms, which was unacceptable at the previous stage. The composition of the frame also witnessed changes during the Thaw. If the central composition of the subject prevailed before, photographers from the mid-1950s often left most of the frame empty: the main event, subject, or object was placed in a corner or closer to the edge of the frame, in the periphery of the image. The minimalism of this photographic practice often echoed the “aesthetic conventionality of the spectacle” in cinema of the Thaw era.23 Photographers tried to find adequate solutions that corresponded to their aesthetic aspirations and the requirements of the time.24 The thematic approach of photographic works also changed. There were considerably fewer pictures devoted to labor during the Thaw in comparison to the previous era. A vast number of genre shots and street sketches appeared at the time, fully manifesting the romanticism of the 1960s. There were also more photographic works that experimented with form and resembled so-called abstract photography. The mastering of various photographic styles opened a range of creative possibilities. This subsequently led to increased stylistic diversity and a wide range of representations of the body.25 The emotional content of images noticeably increased in the 1960s. Photographs focused on human feelings and moods, often expressed through close-up portrait shots.26 The subject’s face appeared on a black or white background; sometimes extra details were removed with the help of 22 These could be pictures with a bold composition, using sharp angles, close-ups, or unusual textures. See, for example, V. Kozik, “Doch’,” Sovetskoe foto 12 (1965), front cover; Grigorii Bibik, “Serebrianyi veter,” Sovetskoe foto 10 (1965), front cover. 23 Lev Anninsky, Shestidesiatniki i my: Kinematograf, stavshii i ne stavshii istoriei (Moscow: Kinocentr, 1991), 176. 24 Among such requirements can be listed: a subjective assessment, sincerity, an expression of one’s attitude to the world, emotionality, plastic expressiveness, etc. Thus, the philosopher Moses Kagan, whose texts were published by Sovetskoe foto, considered artistic criteria important to “assess the ideological, emotional, poetic expressiveness of the object, and evaluate its plastic.” Moses Kagan, “Estetika i khudozhestvennaia fotografiia,” Sovetskoe foto 5 (1968), 25. 25 Ekaterina Vikulina, “Reprezentatsiia tela v sovetskoi fotografii ‘ottepeli’” (PhD diss., Russian State University for the Humanities, 2012). 26 See, for example, “Pafos truda neischerpaemaia tema,” Sovetskoe foto 8 (1968), 2–5. The importance of psychology and the search for new forms were often emphasized in articles on portraiture in Sovetskoe foto. See: V. Malyshev, “Razmyshleniia o liubimom zhanre,” Sovetskoe foto 5 (1966), 19–21; S. Morozov, “Protiv ustarelogo ponimaniia khudozhestvennosti,” Sovetskoe foto 4 (1967), 25–27.

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special print techniques such as “dodging” or burning, creating a feeling of appliqué.27 As a result, individual facial characteristics were emphasized and amplified, and the viewer’s attention was drawn to these features. The face approached the spectator, testifying to the close and trusting relationship between the subject and the viewer. This set the stage for an era of “sincerity,” realized in photography through the emotionality of gestures, but also in the way photographers captured the daily life of Soviet citizens.28 All these shifts in stylistic and thematic approaches show an interest in previously forbidden experiments and the expansion of the scope of what was permitted in the Soviet photography of the 1960s. These aesthetic changes inspired many photographers and gave a powerful impetus to the development of photography, including in Latvia.

Latvian Photography in the USSR: From Bewilderment to Recognition The distinguishing trends of postwar Latvian photography only began to develop from the beginning of the 1960s. Prior to this, authors were influenced by the reportage style of Soviet journals. In the 1950s it was still difficult to talk about the originality of Latvian photography. Pictures in Latvian magazines largely imitated the visual style of Sovetskoe foto and Ogoniok (Spark). The subjects of pictures (workers, cosmonauts, scientists, doctors, children, national minorities, and people of color) were also similar. A number of works were reprinted from All-Union magazines.29 Though photography albums of the early 1960s did not represent the work of individual authors, they described the beauty of nature and the working life of the republic. This shows how Latvian photography borrowed its subjects, style, and methods from the Soviet “mainstream.” At the time, the visual approach of Latvian magazines fit into the paradigm of the early Thaw. Attention to human feelings, leisure, and everyday life were typical features of the art of the Thaw as a whole. By the mid-1950s, there were photographic works in Latvian social and political magazines 27 See, for example, a portrait of a ballerina Elena Riabinkina by Abram Shterenberg: Sovetskoe foto 1 (1968). 28 See, for example, the photographs of the Lithuanian master Antanas Sutkus: Antanas Sutkus, Kasdienybės archyvai: 1959–1993: nepublikuotos fotografijos (Vilnius: Lietuvos fotomenininku sajungos fotografiju fondas, 2003). 29 For example, see: Zvaigzne, 1 (1961), front cover.

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with a specific visual solution and lyrical mood for that period. Photo competitions appeared in the Latvian-language magazines Zvaigzne (Star) and Liesma (Flame) at the turn of the decade. The journal Māksla (Art), published from 1959, printed works by Latvian and foreign photographers. The very idea of returning to art photography after the long break under Stalinism was introduced to the Latvian public in 1957, coming to the Baltic republics as an initiative from Moscow in connection with the organization of the All-Union Exhibition of Photography.30 The result was the first exhibition of photographic art in Riga in 1958, which provided impetus for the further development of Latvian photography. In the 1960s, Baltic photography underwent significant changes. This period marked the beginning of tendencies that would coalesce into national photography schools or styles by the end of the decade. What prompted this change? First, the formation of numerous organizations that united photographers and the appearance of studios and photo clubs meant that photographers were interacting on a more frequent basis. The changes that shaped the development of Latvian photography for years were taking place mostly in the amateur environment, but not in journalism. In this regard, the focus of this chapter is Latvian amateur photographers. Secondly, changes in Baltic photography came due to its persistent orientation towards the West in the first half of the 1960s. Foreign periodicals played a large role here. Besides this the 1960s were characterized by the expansion of professional contacts abroad and significant exhibition activity. Many Baltic authors participated in overseas expositions, representing Soviet photography. The Baltics were the first republics in the Soviet Union to receive honorary titles from FIAP (Fédération Internationale de l’Art Photographique, The International Federation of Photographic Art). Recognition abroad confirmed the relevance and importance of these works to photographic processes globally. The Riga Photo Club was founded in 1962. Three years later, club member Gunārs Binde received a gold medal at the World Exhibition in Argentina for his photograph, Portrait of Director Eduards Smiļģis. In 1967 alone, Binde participated in 40 expositions and received fifteen prizes, among them the Grand Prix in Belgium for his work Act, as well as gold medals in Moscow and the USA. It was not only Gunārs Binde whose work received critical acclaim: other prominent Latvian photographers were also recognized. 30 Alise Tifentale, Fotogrāfija kā māksla Latvijā/The Photograph as Art in Latvia, 1960–1969 (Riga: Neputns, 2011), 20.

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More than 20 Latvian photographers participated in significant annual international exhibitions.31 In 1967 Leons Balodis took first place and won the Big Silver Medal in Paris, first place and the medal of Maria Theresa in West Germany, and the Gold Medal in East Germany. Amateur status had its advantages: these photographs were not censored as rigorously as professional work and being an artistic activity, it offered more freedom to express ideas and granted the opportunity to exhibit works worldwide.32 Recognition also came from Moscow, where Sovetskoe foto often referred to images from Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. The number of such publications increased in the second half of the 1960s. This can be explained by the trends of Baltic photography becoming more noticeable.33 Sovetskoe foto noted that the works of Latvian authors were distinguished by the variety of content and form, as well as their impeccable technique. Latvian photographs appeared on the covers of Sovetskoe foto as early as 1958, a year after the periodical resumed publishing after the long break.34 The journal responded positively to the works of Filips Izraelsons and his Latvian countrymen.35 In 1963, there was a large publication in Sovetskoe foto with authors from the Baltic republics, including Žanis Graubics, Yakov Tikhonov, and Filips Izraelsons from Latvia; Gunnar Vaidla, Oskar Vihandi, and Vladimir Gorbunov from Estonia; and Antanas Sutkus and 31 Of note was the 2 nd International Camera Club Exhibition (Vsetin, Czechoslovakia); the 1st International Salon of Photographic Art (Epinal, France); the 29th International Salon of Photographic Art (Buenos Aires, Argentina); the 16th International Salon of Photographic Art (Bordeaux, France); the 18th World Exhibition of Photographic Art (Niteroi, Rio de Janeiro State, Brazil); Amager Foto 66, The 1st International Fine Art Photography Exhibition (Copenhagen, Denmark); the World Press Photo 1966 Competition exhibition (The Hague, Netherlands); The Golden Camera 1st World Biennial of Photographic Art (Mondovi, Italy); the Northwest International Exhibition of Photography (Puyallup, WA, USA); the Photeurop 67 international exhibition held by the camera clubs of Belgium, France, Britain, and Switzerland (Lausanne); the 18th International Salon of Photographic Art; the 10th FIAP Biennial (Bordeaux, France); the 18th Mexico City International Photographic Art Exhibition, among many others. For more about the participation of Latvian photographers in international exhibitions, see: Tifentale, Fotogrāfija kā māksla Latvijā, 28, 30, 86–98; Atis Skalbergs, “Latviešu padomju fotomākslas attīstība,” in Latvijas Fotomāksla, ed. Zeile and Janaitis, 167–168; Gunārs Janaitis, “Fotoapvienības un to Loma Fotomākslas attīstiba,” in Latvijas Fotomāksla, ed. Zeile and Janaitis, 142–143. 32 Tifentale, Fotogrāfija kā māksla Latvijā, 28. 33 At first the journal did not single out the work of Latvian, Lithuanian, or Estonian photographers, but wrote about Baltic photography. A common feature of these works was the search for expressive form. 34 Vladimir Gailis, “Dozhd’ zastig,” Sovetskoe foto 12 (1958), front cover. 35 F. Izraelsons, “Moi zemliaki,” Sovetskoe foto 2 (1960), 14–16; F. Izraelsons, “Gosti iz Rigi,” Sovetskoe foto 11 (1961), 34–40.

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Liudas Ruikas from Lithuania.36 The reaction of Semyon Friedland, the author of the article, was ambiguous.37 Despite complimenting individual photographs, he was perplexed by the photographs of Herz Frank (aka Hercs Franks, who later became a famous Latvian film director) and the photo sketches of children by Antanas Sutkus (the future leading figure of Lithuanian photography). “These works are built on superficial, random observations, they are not able to bring the viewer aesthetic satisfaction, but also [lack] accurate information about the life of our children. This is an offensive waste of taste and skill … undoubtedly inherent in the authors,” wrote Friedland.38 He also criticized photographers who experimented with form and sophisticated printing techniques. By 1964, however, Sutkus’s photographs (particularly At the Song Festival and In the Dunes of Neringa) had already received awards at exhibitions and his works were praised by Sovetskoe foto. The article about these images, published in the August issue of the journal, noted that works by Latvian authors were distinguished by a variety of content and form, as well as technical impeccability.39 Every year there were more publications about Latvian photography in Sovetskoe foto. In 1966 the journal published several texts in one issue, which introduced the works of Latvian authors and the activities of the Riga Photo Club.40 It was noted that Latvian photographic masters were well-known not only in the republic, but also abroad. Although some works were criticized for the lack of imagery, generalization, and psychological characteristics, nevertheless, the level of works was rated highly.41 They were praised for their diversity of themes, thoughtful selection of plots, an original and sometimes bold visual solution, searches for interesting forms, and constant interest in experimentation. Thus, we see changes in the editorial politics of the journal regarding experiments with form, which 36 Semyon Friedland, “Trebovanie vremeni,” Sovetskoe foto 7 (1963), 4–9. 37 Semyon Friedland (1905–1964) was a photographer and a journalist. He was also the founder of the Revolutionary Society of Proletarian Photographers (ROPF), which provided straightforward pictures for the realist tastes of a wide audience and was opposed to the October group that favoured experimental images and have been historically connected with Constructivism. Friedland worked as a photojournalist for the magazine Ogoniok from 1925, and the magazine SSSR na stroike (USSR in construction) from 1932. From the mid-1950s Friedland was a member of the editorial boards of Ogoniok and Sovetskoe foto. 38 Friedland, “Trebovanie vremeni,” 5. 39 L. Pronin, “Glubzhe pronikat’ v zhizn’: u stendov pribaltiiskikh respublik,” Sovetskoe foto 8 (1964), 12–13. 40 Sovetskoe foto 9 (1966). 41 It was believed that generalization in photography turned snapshots into images, helping to avoid unnecessary information and details.

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received positive connotations. Nevertheless, the photographs of Baltic authors published by Sovetskoe foto can hardly be called representative. The best-known works of Sutkus and Binde were not favored by the editors. The journal published works they found interesting from the point of view of technical execution and those which they found graphically expressive. Preference was given to lyrical compositions. By the second half of the 1960s, Latvia was hosting international photo exhibitions that also influenced the development of a Latvian photographic language. Of these exhibitions, it is necessary to mention Interpress Photo-66 and Sieviete starptautiskajā fotomākslā (The woman in international photographic art) 1968. Both were well attended by the public, as were the personal expositions of foreign authors. It is significant that people stood in line for hours to view the photo exhibition Interpress Photo-66.42 These exhibitions were of great importance because through them the Latvian audience and photographers became acquainted with the trends of foreign photo art, as well as with major works and names. Along with foreign authors, Latvian photographers also took part in these reputable exhibitions, which also mattered in professional and amateur circles. In 1968, the first photo exhibition exclusive to the Baltic republics, “Amber Land,” opened in Riga. This exhibition, as A. Kozlov wrote in Sovetskoe foto, clearly outlined the trends of the Baltic masters of photography for the first time: The cinematic point of view significantly influenced not only the attitude of the world, but also the pictorial style of the Baltic photo masters. This probably explains the fact that reportage works at this exhibition, unfortunately, were almost unnoticeable and did not determine its leading direction. Most of the photographs were superbly staged, in some cases resembling so-called freeze-frames in a film.43 This remark makes an important point. The originally thoughtful composition of the film’s frame often served as a model for artistic photography. There is evidence that photographers were inspired by local and foreign films.44 These confessions once again emphasize the importance of visual 42 Skalbergs, “Latviešu padomju fotomākslas attīstība,” 168. 43 A. Kozlov, “‘Iantarnyi krai’: Pervaia fotovystavka pribaltiiskikh respublik,” Sovetskoe foto 8 (1968), 12. 44 Binde argued that he learned to compose photos from neorealist films. Ekaterina Vikulina, “Klassik – Dissident,” interview with Gunārs Binde, Art & Times 3 (2004), 60.

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information that came from abroad and explains the provenance of certain motifs and mise-en-scènes in Latvian photography of the 1960s.45

The Weakening of Censorship and the Impact of Western Visual Culture The Thaw weakened the censorship that existed under Stalin; there was more freedom, if not at the political level, then at the level of artistic expression. In turn, researchers also note the inconsistency of the censorship system during this period: on the one hand, there were moves away from the “Stalinist model” and an attempt to modernize the relationship between power and society, and on the other hand, the party sought not to lose its leading role in culture.46 Furthermore, there was no unity at the highest levels of power in ideological approaches. This offered a certain freedom of action in making specific practical decisions on cultural issues.47 The attitude to censorship also changed in the creative environment. Moreover, in the second half of the 1960s there were protests against censorship by writers and artists and even demands for it to be completely halted.48 During the Thaw years, censorship was mainly performed by the central Glavlit (Main Administration for the Protection of Military and State Secrets in the Press) and its local organizations, which were entrusted with control of print media, the editorial offices of periodicals, mass visual products, the activities of museums and exhibitions, etc. The new regulation of 1958 circumscribed Glavlit’s function and its political and ideological control.49 From 1963 to 1966 Glavlit was part of the State Committee for the Press of the USSR Council of Ministers. As a result, Glavlit’s authority was weakened, its financial situation worsened, and its place on the hierarchical ladder of nomenklatura (elite bureaucrats and politicians within the Soviet system) privileges was changed.50 Later, Glavlit again assumed its former place as 45 For example, see: G. Binde, “Stena,” Sovetskoe foto 9 (1966), 23. 46 Tatiana Goriaeva, Politicheskaia tsenzura v SSSR. 1917–1991 gg. (Moscow: ROSSPEN, 2009), 321, 348. 47 Goriaeva, Politicheskaia tsenzura, 323. 48 Goriaeva, Politicheskaia tsenzura, 338–345. 49 Goriaeva, Politicheskaia tsenzura, 348. 50 Goriaeva, Politicheskaia tsenzura, 334. The head of the Latvian division of Glavlit, V. N. Agafonov, pointed to a weakening of authority and claimed that the State Committee for the Press of the Latvian SSR Council of Ministers bypassed Glavlit and approved political posters, which were executed in a formal manner. See: Goriaeva, Politicheskaia tsenzura, 335.

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the ideological regulator of society. From 1969 all preliminary censorship was carried out by the editorial staff responsible for the production of information and art products.51 The state censorship organs were assigned the role of follow-up control. It was reduced to “catching fleas,” as the Glavlit employees termed it.52 Thus, we see the complexity of censorship that existed in the 1960s, which either weakened or strengthened its control, with conflicting attempts to regulate it at the legislative level. In turn, the results of the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union did not pass unnoticed, and society was much more critical toward censorship than in the previous period. The factors of the expansion of foreign contacts and the flow of diverse information from abroad are also important here. The impermeability of the Iron Curtain in the 1960s is often overstated, which disguises how visual information was broadcast and circulated from abroad to the USSR. This distorts what was permissible within the framework of representation and creates a simplified view of the censorship system. Soviet authors were stylistically influenced by international photographic exhibitions and magazines, as well as pictures by their colleagues from abroad published in the Soviet press. Reviews of foreign exhibitions were published in Sovetskoe foto, and although works from Eastern Bloc countries were privileged, information about Western photographic artists was also present in the journal. Acquainting Soviet viewers with the works of masters such as Henri Cartier-Bresson, Richard Avedon, Josef Sudek, and Robert Duano enriched public understanding and, in turn, served as a guide for local photographers. Similarly, Sovetskoe foto also introduced Soviet audiences to American photography. The selection of pictures was often tendentious, with preference given to those works that criticized capitalist society. Cooperation with Eastern Bloc countries was particularly fruitful. Due to growing interest in photographic processes abroad, Sovetskoe foto increasingly turned its attention to the works of photographers in Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Poland, and even the politically independent Yugoslavia. Photography books were also available. Eastern Bloc countries enjoyed greater artistic freedom than the USSR. The Czechoslovak publishing house Odeon, for example, released books about classic photography including the works of Cartier-Bresson, Nadar, Rodchenko, Brassai, and Paul Strand, among others. 51 Goriaeva, Politicheskaia tsenzura, 349–350. 52 Goriaeva, Politicheskaia tsenzura, 348.

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Foreign magazines and books on photography were available in Soviet libraries (for example, the Lenin State Library—since 1992 the Russian State Library—the Library for Foreign Literature, and the USSR National Public Library for Science and Technology).53 Thus, the inaccessibility of information in the USSR is often exaggerated. From the late 1950s, international photography exhibitions were also held in the USSR and Eastern Bloc countries.54 All this suggests that images from abroad penetrated the Soviet Union through foreign films, international exhibitions, separate publications in Sovetskoe foto, and foreign magazines (many libraries and editorial offices held subscriptions to these publications). Baltic photographers also played an important role in this information chain, finding inspiration in “the debris of modernist aesthetics” from the available sources on Central and Western European photography.55 Many Latvian photographers collected information, as well as gained inspiration from foreign photographic journals, mostly from the Eastern Bloc. The Czechoslovak magazine Fotografie/Revue Fotografie (Photography review), which was also published in Russian from 1959, was especially popular.56 The Polish and Bulgarian journals Fotografia (Photography) and Bŭlgarsko foto (Bulgarian photo) were also available. German magazines had a lesser influence because the German language was simply less known compared to English or Slavic languages. Yet, foreign magazines were the main source of information about current trends in contemporary photography. Not all trends from abroad, however, were to the tastes of local authors. Fotografie often published so-called “abstract” photography, which was not popular at that time in Latvia. Latvian photographers were, instead, more interested in nude photography, or so-called “Akts” in Latvian. 53 Ekaterina Vikulina, “Aleksandr Sliusarev (9 Oktiabria 1944–23 Aprelia 2010): Rassuzhdeniia o fotografii i ne tol’ko,” interview with Aleksandr Sliusarev, Photographer.ru, 23 April 2011, http://www.photographer.ru/cult/person/5174.htm; Ekaterina Vikulina, “Igra v fotografiiu. Boris Mikhailov – o tom, kak vse nachinalos’ i chto iz etogo vyshlo,” interview with Boris Mikhailov, Photographer.ru, 31 July 2008, http://www.photographer.ru/cult/person/3287.htm. 54 Thus, for example, the First International Bifota (Berliner Internationale Fotoausstellung) Photography Exhibition opened in East Berlin in 1958. In 1960, the biennial Interpress-foto exhibition took place in East Berlin and was subsequently held in different socialist capitals: the second exhibition was in Budapest in 1962, in Warsaw in 1964, in Moscow in 1966. Tifentale, Fotogrāfija kā māksla Latvijā, 12. 55 Alise Tifentale, “Unconventional Art: The Emergence of New Photographic Art in the Post-Stalin Soviet Union” (paper presented at the annual Southeastern College Art Conference, Meredith College, Durham, NC, 17–20 October 2012). 56 Fotografie/Revue Fotografie was published quarterly in Czechoslovakia. The journal was published in Czech from 1957 and also in Russian from 1959 to 1984. The journal was aimed at the artistic side of photographic creativity. In its early years the name of the journal was Fotografie.

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Photographic journals from capitalist countries were less accessible but they could be purchased, and some were available in libraries. According to Aleksandr Sliusarev, the editorial office of Sovetskoe foto had all the photographic journals that were available and, if you had good relations with the employees, it was possible to see them. In the early 1960s, Sliusarev became acquainted with the Swiss journal Camera, which he regularly perused.57 Such periodicals were also sent by friends, colleagues, or relatives in foreign countries. As in the other Baltic republics there were direct contacts between the capitalist world and Latvia. Beginning with Khrushchev’s Thaw, all three Baltic republics saw an influx of tourists from capitalist countries, primarily from émigré communities.58 Personal interaction influenced through mail (packages, letters, and gifts) from the capitalist West increased greatly with Khrushchev’s Thaw: In Soviet Latvia, the number of packages of printed matter (bandroles in Latvian) from Western countries increased by 4,480% between 1955 and 1960 …. Among the packages were newspapers, journals, and books from anti-Soviet émigré centers in the capitalist West …. Émigrés from the West also sent a variety of publications in English. One Latvian Glavlit report from 1961 complained that the multitude of photo ads in American magazines like The American Home, Better Homes and Gardens, and Popular Boating threatened to give Latvian readers the false impression that people in the capitalist world were wealthy and prosperous. Copies of National Geographic gave anti-Soviet accounts of life in socialist camp countries …. Despite considerable censorship of the mail, some literature from the capitalist West reached citizens in the Baltic Republics.59 Renowned Latvian photographer Gunārs Binde said that he received the issues he needed from abroad or bought them in Latvia.60 Authors could 57 In 1964, the editor-in-chief of Camera, Allan Porter, came to the USSR, and photographer Viktor Reznikov helped him with contacts and filming. Reznikov’s works were then published in Camera, and he received copies of this periodical for a year, if not more. In the 1970s, the works of Latvian photographer Egon Spuris were also published in Camera, and he received the journal for three years as recompense. Ekaterina Vikulina, “Aleksandr Sliusarev.” 58 William Risch, “A Soviet West: Nationhood, Regionalism, and Empire in the Annexed Western Borderlands,” Nationalities Papers 43:1 (2015), 73–74. 59 Risch, “A Soviet West,” 74. 60 Gunārs Binde, interview with Ekaterina Vikulina, 28 March 2020.

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receive foreign journals as copyright editions if their work were published there. Binde also stated that there was greater access to international periodicals in the Eastern Bloc countries outside the USSR where photographers enjoyed more freedom and he himself acquired journals when he was abroad.61

Censorship and Erotic Photography in the USSR Nudes in Baltic photography appeared from approximately the beginning of the 1960s. At this time, Jānis Kreicbergs in Latvia created his first nudes. There is a 1963 photo by Gunārs Binde, for example, of a naked woman with her hands folded in prayer.62 In Lithuania, Rimantas Dichavičius, worked in the genre of nude photography from around 1961. Another Lithuanian photographer, Aleksandras Macijauskas, captured the loving embrace of a man and a woman in 1964.63 In Estonia, nude photography in the 1960s is represented by the works of Andrei Dobrovolski, Tatjana Dobrovolskaia, Boris Mäemets, Rein Maran, Kalju Suur, and others. In Latvian photography, nude scenes at this time were also present in the works of Jānis Gleizds, Sarmīte Kviesīte, and Gunārs Janaitis in the late 1960s.64 Zenta Dzividzinska’s photographs taken in 1968 and 1969, show a nude couple, a naked girl in Latvian fields, and children’s legs and genitals.65 The Latvian journal Māksla quite often published nude photography from the second half of the 1960s. By the end of the 1960s nudity had become a general trend in “unofficial” photography. Of course, not all these works were published in catalogs or were exhibited. By 1971, however, the first album of Latvian art photography, which included pictures of everyday work in the republic, also featured nudes by photographers Jānis Gleizds and Gunārs Binde from the 1960s.66 61 Binde, interview with Vikulina, 28 March 2020. 62 Gunārs Binde, “Akts,” in Gunārs Binde, ed. Laima Slava (Riga: Neputns, 2006), 22. 63 Aleksandras Macijauskas, “Untitled,” in Body Vision: Lithuanian Nudes, ed. Annette Nellessen, trans. Graham Lack (Munich: Edition Reuss, 1996), 83. 64 Jānis Gleizds, “Akts,” in Mākslas Foto, ed. Jānis Kreicbergs (Riga: Liesma, 1971), 46; Jānis Gleizds. “Nude I,” in Tifentale, Fotogrāfija kā māksla Latvijā, 131; S. Kviesīte, “Nude,” in Fotogrāfija kā māksla Latvijā, 151; Gunārs Janaitis, “Man and Woman,” in Fotogrāfija kā māksla Latvijā, 135. 65 Zenta Dzividzinska, “Sieviete un vīrietis,” in Fotogrāfija kā māksla Latvijā, 122; Zenta Dzividzinska “Untitled,” in Es neko neatceros: fotografijas. 1964–2005 = I Don’t Remember a Thing: Photographs, ed. Zenta Dzividzinska and Alise Tifentāle (Riga: Adverts, 2007), 100–101. 66 Jānis Kreicbergs, ed., Mākslas Foto (Riga: Liesma, 1971).

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Similarly, Václav Jírů, the editor of the Czechoslovak magazine Fotografie, compiled an album of Soviet photography, which the publishing house Odeon released in 1972.67 In addition to wartime photographs, the album featured naked female bodies: In the Sauna (V sauně) by A. Dobrovolskii, Model (Modelka) by Jānis Kreicbergs, Torso by V. Barnev, The Sea (Moře) by Gunārs Binde, and Summer (Léto) by R. Dichavičius. Though the dates of these works are not present in the album, some of them were produced in the previous decade.68 How did erotic photography pass strict Soviet censorship? What was the reason for the development of nude photography in the 1960s? It was a consequence of the weakening of gender norms in the post-Stalin period, a change in bodily practices in the 1960s, and an echo of the sexual revolution in the West.69 Certainly, nudity was present even in early Latvian photography, and this historical background is important to take into account when analyzing the emergence of erotic images in the 1960s. In many ways, however, the appearance of nudity in Latvian photography after a long break was the result of external influences: local photographers adopted the visual experiences and practices of foreign colleagues. As already mentioned, photographers testified that many foreign albums and journals were available in the country. This also applied to products with erotic content. Albums with nude photography by world-renowned masters (as well as local photographers), for example, were published in Czechoslovakia.70 With some difficulties it was possible to get journals with erotic content from capitalist countries (Photo and Zoom).71 Nude photography was present in many Eastern Bloc journals but the most influential was the Czechoslovak journal Fotografie. The periodical was distributed in the USSR in Russian from 1959, and approximately from this time nude images appeared on its pages. The editor-in-chief of the journal wrote in his article dedicated to the tenth anniversary of the periodical: 67 Václav Jírů, ed., Současná sovětská fotografie (Prague: Odeon, 1972). 68 For example, the Gunārs Binde’s photograph “The Sea” is dated 1965. Gunārs Binde, “The Sea,” in Gunārs Binde, ed. Laima Slava (Riga: Neputns, 2006), 23. 69 In the West, changes in the understanding of the human body manifested themselves in the radical performances of the 1960s, images in glamor magazines, and erotic photography. These developments also influenced Soviet photography. 70 See, for example, the album “Light and Shadow” was published in Prague in three languages (German, English, and French) in 1959. Milos Hrbas, Miroslav Hak, Jan Lukas, and Josef Prošek, ed., Licht und schatten = Light and Shadow (Prague: Artia, 1959), 119. 71 Binde, interview with Vikulina, 28 March 2020.

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Two excellent nude photographs appear in the first issue. We try to publish such photographs regularly. We have come to the conclusion that maybe they are not so far from the truth of life: most photographers, and not only men, have long tried, are trying and will always try nude photography, but the results of their attempts rarely reach such a level that the photograph will see the light [of day] …. In this regard, it is worth mentioning that we were often met with the opinion that we are “forbidden” to publish photographs of nudity. But we have been publishing these photos for several years, and so far, have never encountered such a ban. Apparently, the whole point here is a certain share of decisiveness or the ability to choose the right pictures and be able to protect them.72 Fotografie had a pronounced influence on Soviet photographers. As Gunārs Binde, Egon Spuris, Ilmar Apkalns, and other Latvian photographers admitted, this journal covered exactly the material about which they were thinking and for which they were looking.73 From the second half of the 1960s nudes from the Baltic republics were also published in this journal.74 These works are very close to the photographs of their Czechoslovak colleagues. The similarity is especially noticeable if we compare the motifs, composition, and printing techniques used by Baltic and foreign authors. The most famous Latvian photographer who continually returned to the theme of nudity is Gunārs Binde. In his work, models are often immersed in twilight. Only certain parts of the female body are illuminated, allowing the viewer to guess the overall shape of the figure.75 This was a moment of alienation or estrangement, when familiar forms lost their clarity, and turned into something else, into a landscape or still life. Such an approach to the representation of the female body was typical for many Latvian photographers, including Gleizds, but it was first circulated in European photographic journals of that time. This makes it possible to speak of a certain trend in the nudes of European photography. The game of light and shadow helped to avoid explicit shots, hiding the intimate parts of the female body in the dark parts of the frame. In such fragmentation, one can see the body slipping away in a halo of mystification. 72 Václav Jiru, “Desiatyi god – ot F-57 k F-66,” Fotografie 1 (1966), 5. 73 Skalbergs, “Latviešu padomju fotomākslas attīstība,” 166. 74 Binde’s first nude was published in Fotografie in 1964. 75 Binde, “Akts,” 21, 25, 30; Jānis Gleizds, “Akts II,” Māksla 3 (1969), 48; H. Stankevics, “A Nude,” in Padomju Latvijas Fotomeistari, ed. Atis Skalbergs (Riga: Liesma, 1986), 78.

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The body does not seem to expose itself in the end. Helen Petrovsky, a philosopher and photography theorist, noted that “eroticism exists only insofar as the object escapes. And in this elusiveness, he can never be fully exposed. The final exposure is equal to its killing, the triumph associated with mastery, with penetration into the depths, is pornographic.”76 Such reticence in Latvian nude photography could be explained by censorship but points more to the poetic aspirations of the photographer-artists themselves. The image of the female body had to meet certain aesthetic expectations to avoid excessive naturalism. One of the founders of the Riga Photo Club and its first chairman, Vilnis Folkmanis, described it this way:77 The nude is one of the hardest genres in photographic art (if not the very hardest). In order to create an artistically accomplished nude photograph, the photographer needs not only a high level of technical mastery, the skill of freely applying all the means of photographic expression, but also a profound knowledge of human anatomy and a high aesthetic culture. To celebrate the beauty of the human body, the photographer must understand the difference between the naturalistic depiction of a naked body and the artistic image of this body, distinguishing between the form of the particular artistic image and their immediate feelings or observations, which are devoid of generalization. Before engaging in nude photography, one must engage in a comprehensive study of the history of art, especially painting, graphic art and sculpture, and develop one’s own artistic tastes.78 The context of art here is crucial to understanding why nude photography took place in the USSR. While pornography was persecuted, the frame of photo art made it possible to publish nude images in Soviet and East European journals. That is also the reason why Latvian photographers ignored magazines with nudes that did not meet their aesthetic requirements. 76 Helen Petrovsky, Neproiavlennoe. Ocherki po filosofii fotografii (Moscow: Ad Marginem Press, 2002), 181. 77 The official name of the club, as recorded in exhibition catalogues, has changed repeatedly over the course of time and has been known as: Foto amatieru klubs (Amateur Photography Club, 1962), Rīgas foto amatieru klubs (Riga Amateur Photography Club, 1963), Rīgas fotoamatieru klubs (Riga Amateur Photography Club, 1964–1966), Rīgas foto klubs (Riga Camera Club, 1967–1969), Rīgas fotoklubs (Riga Camera Club, 1971–1973), fotoklubs “Rīga” (Camera Club “Riga,” 1976–1977), Tautas fotostudija “Rīga” (People’s Photo Studio “Riga,” 1978–1990), fotoklubs “Rīga” (Photo Club “Riga,” from 1991). Tifentale, Fotogrāfija kā māksla Latvijā, 22. 78 Tifentale, Fotogrāfija kā māksla Latvijā, 54.

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According to Gunārs Binde, the East German periodical, Das Magazin (The magazine), was not for artists, but for “consumers, philistines, and lovers of sticking pictures on the wall of a restroom … It was worse than pornography. It was banal and sweet. There was no art there. But my mission was art, not pornography.”79 Binde believed that erotica, in contrast to pornography, had depth, generalization, and a certain philosophy. The images of naked women photographed by Latvian masters were mostly based on the powerful tradition that has developed in the fine arts, as well as the idea of women as “vessels of beauty” and the belief that nature is manifested in them more than in men.80 If close-ups of individual faces appeal to human individuality, then a close-up of the body is extremely abstracted from this phenomenon. Enlarged in the frame, the female body resembles a landscape. It is no coincidence that nudes were often shot with dunes in the background. The surrounding landscape continues in the reliefs of the body, realizing the metaphor of women being one with, and a part of, nature. Amateurs familiarized themselves with these images in exhibitions, albums, and local periodicals. Fragmented female bodies, rolled into embryonic poses, reproduce patriarchal views, translating a certain tradition in representation, which had already developed in Western photo art. The Baltic masters imitated the style of these nudes, which were also common in the Eastern Bloc. This contradicted the official view of the Soviet woman, challenging her identity as a subject. This is clearly demonstrated by the following example. Several nudes were published in a review of the exhibition “Woman. Riga. 1968” in the Latvian journal Māksla.81 At the same time, the article about this exposition in Sovetskoe foto highlighted completely different photographs, mostly portraits, ignoring nudity, and instead focusing on women as brides, future mothers, and athletes. Nevertheless, the attitude towards nudity was also slightly changing in All-Union press. If before it was impossible to imagine any hint of eroticism in photography, then during the Thaw some nudes were published even in such journals and magazines as Sovetskoe foto and Sovetskii soiuz (Soviet Union).82 Veiled eroticism is present, for example, in the photograph New 79 Binde, interview with Vikulina, 28 March 2020. 80 Predominantly, nudes were of women, although Latvian authors sometimes also shot male nudity. See, for example, Gunārs Binde, “Viriešu akts” (1960), personal archive of Gunārs Binde. 81 Gunārs Binde, “Sieviete. Rīga. 1968,” Māksla 2 (1968), 49–52. 82 For example, see: Nikolai Khorunzhii, “Novaia kvartira,” Sovetskoe foto 6 (1960), 10; Nikolai Khorunzhii, “Untitled,” Sovetskii soiuz 5 (1958); Mladen Grchevich, “Ritm,” Sovetskoe foto 12

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Flat by Nikolai Khorunzhii where we see a female silhouette behind a translucent curtain in the bathroom. The name of the image refers to housing, but it was used to “camouflage” the image with erotic content, bypassing the censorship of the Soviet press. Yet, for the most part nude photography, which was so popular among amateurs in the late Soviet period, was absent in All-Union magazines. Their appearance can be explained by the differing levels of permissibility among the periodicals. The magazine Soviet Union was published for export and focused on readership abroad, so the scope of what was allowed here was wider than in other magazines. The presence of nudes in Sovetskoe foto was possible through the framework of photo art. Another exception that this journal allowed were pictures of naked women from the Third World, which referred in some way to descriptions of “exotic” life.83 At the same time, more liberties were allowed in Baltic journals. This is because of the special status of the Baltic republics within the USSR and thus their more liberal cultural policy, so these national periodicals enjoyed more freedom than the All-Union press.84 This highlights the double standards that existed in censorship during the Thaw. The requirements for journals and magazines published in the USSR were different than the standards in the Eastern Bloc countries, which possessed more freedom. Soviet censorship narrowed the scope of what was representationally acceptable, especially in All-Union periodicals. Likewise, albums of Soviet art photographs had different requirements from the exhibition catalogs of photo clubs. In general, exhibition catalogues and albums were more liberal than publications in magazines, journals, and the news press. (1967), 23; Jean-Luc Michel, “Akt,” Sovetskoe foto 3 (1968), 20; V. Bogdanov, “Akt,” Sovetskoe foto 4 (1968), 8. 83 See, for example, E. Basevi, “Molodezh,’” Sovetskoe foto 10 (1963), 19. For more, see: Vikulina, “Reprezentatsiia tela.” 84 Soviet people from other republics perceived the Baltic republics as an island of Western culture, “our Soviet abroad.” The “Western” impression was implied not only in architectural styles, impressive restaurants, and more fashionably dressed women, but also more liberal cultural policies. In this hierarchy, the Baltic republics were more “Western” than other republics, Estonia was more “Western” than Latvia and Lithuania (because of softer censorship), and the Eastern Bloc was more “Western” than the Baltic republics. Risch, “A Soviet West,” 75–76. Soviet politics in the Baltic republics differed from others in relative liberalism and taking into account the national specifics of the region. Besides this, a constant appeal to the themes of national culture testified to the existence of a kind of cultural opposition to the Soviet system. Aleksandr Pyzhikov, Khrushchevskaia “ottepel’”: 1953–1964 gody (Moscow: Olma-Press, 2002), 193.

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Conclusion The weakening of censorship, the expansion of the aesthetic framework, and foreign influence were the primary factors that contributed to the formation of the Latvian photograph of the 1960s. Among other the factors that impacted the transformation of Latvian photography in the 1960s was an amateur environment open to art experiments, a softer cultural policy in the republic, close ties with Eastern Europe and the capitalist West, and the availability of foreign magazines. In this chapter, visual images from abroad are considered to be important factors indicating liberal changes during the Thaw. This visual information was much more ambivalent, elusive, and difficult to censor. The images that penetrated the Iron Curtain became a kind of “counterculture” that pushed the limits of what was permissible in both stylistic and thematic terms. If at the beginning of the Thaw, Latvian photographers were influenced by the style of Soviet magazines, then by the mid-1960s the influence of foreign photography becomes apparent, which was reflected in compositional decisions, in the subject of works, and the distribution of erotic images. At the end of 1960s the sensuality of this epoch in the visual sphere shifted from romantic scenes to nudes. The pictorial tradition of nudes, which made the Baltic republics famous throughout the Soviet Union, was shaped in many ways by foreign visual culture. In turn many Soviet photographers at the time were influenced by Baltic photography, which was inspired by models from outside the country.85 Thus, the transmission of visual canons took place both directly (through magazines, albums, articles in magazines, and exhibitions), and indirectly, through the Baltic masters, whose work was admired among colleagues. Taking Latvian photographs as an example, we can clearly see how the images of foreign photography were adopted, how they were integrated into the local tradition, which in turn became an “agent of influence” for amateur photographers in the USSR. Photographic censorship during the Thaw was multilevel and heterogeneous; its scope varied depending on the place of publication and exhibition of 85 In particular, Aleksandr Sliusarev and Boris Mikhailov admitted this. For more, see: Ekaterina Vikulina. “Aleksandr Sliusarev”: Vikulina, “Igra v fotografiiu.” See also: Elena Barkhatova, “Soviet Policy on Photography,” in Beyond Memory: Soviet Noncomformist Photography and Photo-Related Works of Art, ed. Diane Neumaier (New Brunswick, NJ: The Jane Voorhees Zimmerli Art Museum and Rutgers University Press, 2004), 57; Valery Stigneev, “The Force of the Medium: The Soviet Amateur Photography Movement,” in Beyond Memory, ed. Diane Neumaier, 70.

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the work. The appearance of a layer of “unofficial” photo art, which emerged in an amateur environment in the 1960s, signified a radical revolution in public consciousness regarding the liberalization of photographic norms. In many ways, this shift was evocative of greater changes that occurred in official art at the time. Characteristically, many photographers moved in both circles. Some of their works were published in Sovetskoe foto, some were recognized in exhibitions, and others were created for one’s personal “inner circle.” Gunārs Binde, for example, worked on the photographic film Hello, Moscow for the Novosti Press Agency (APN), but at the same time he was a key figure for all Soviet photographers, famous for his nudes already in 1960s, that are now attributed to “unofficial” art. Therefore, the concept of “unofficial” photography did not mean that their representatives were not published in the press or were excluded from participating in exhibitions. Instead, Latvian photographers were keenly aware of the parameters of acceptability for publication, exhibition, and which works photographs should be kept to themselves. Put simply, they tried to fit within a permissible framework that depended upon the specific context of whether it was publishing in Soviet or foreign periodicals, the All-Union or regional press, or participating in an exhibition within the country or abroad.

Acknowledgements The article was prepared with the support of Starptautiskā Rakstnieku un tulkotāju māja (The International House of Writers and Translators) in Ventspils.

8

Onwards and Upwards! Mainstreaming Radical Right Populism in Contemporary Latvia f Daunis Auers

Introduction The twenty-first century has seen scholars pay ever greater attention to European radical right populist (RRP) parties and movements. The academic literature, however, has primarily focused on Western Europe, with Central and Eastern Europe, and particularly the Baltic states, being at best an afterthought and at worst, ignored.1 As a result, there are few studies of radical right populism in the region.2 The scarcity of research paints a misleading picture of the genuine strength of contemporary RRPs in the Baltic states, particularly Latvia and Estonia, where RRP actors—political parties, groups, and movements—are both visible and have political influence. In the case of Latvia, the National Alliance (Nacionālā Apvienība, NA) has been a member of every government coalition since 2011, and has effectively “owned” cultural policy (a key ministerial portfolio for RRPs) since 2013 when NA first took the minister of culture portfolio. NA is also the key player in domestic demographic and family policy, having pushed for the creation of a Demography Affairs Center under the Cabinet of Ministers “Cross-Sectoral Coordination Center,” which has resulted in a number of concrete policy outputs, including 1 For example, the recent volume edited by Caiani and Císař contains twelve country studies of the radical right, but none from the Baltic states (with Poland and Sweden left to represent the wider Baltic region): Manuela Caiani and Ondřej Císař, Radical Right Movement Parties in Europe (London: Routledge, 2018). The Baltic states tend to be neglected because, as small states, they are both “out of sight and out of mind” but also have comparatively small scholarly communities and a correspondingly smaller number of radical right populism scholars. 2 A few exceptions include: Daunis Auers and Andres Kasekamp, “Explaining the Electoral Failure of Extreme-Right Parties in Estonia and Latvia,” Journal of Contemporary European Studies 17:2 (2009), 241–254; Andres Kasekamp, “Extreme-Right Parties in Contemporary Estonia,” Patterns of Prejudice 37:4 (2003), 401–414; Nils Muižnieks, “Latvia,” in Racist Extremism in Central and Eastern Europe, ed. Cas Mudde (London: Routledge, 2005), 101–128; Daunis Auers and Andres Kasekamp, “Comparing Radical Right Populism in Estonia and Latvia,” in Right Wing Populism in Europe: Politics and Discourse, ed. Ruth Wodak, Majid Khosravinik, and Brigitte Mral (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013), 235–248.

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greater benefits to Latvian families with three or more children.3 NA has also used its political influence to push back against the European Union (EU) refugee relocation quotas and successfully led a campaign against the ratification of the Council of Europe’s Istanbul Convention on preventing and combating violence against women and domestic violence in 2017, as well as a rejection of the United Nations (UN) Migration Pact in 2018. NA has very much influenced the contemporary Latvian political system. By contrast, the Conservative People’s Party of Estonia (Eesti Konservatiivne Rahvaerakond, EKRE) only entered parliament in 2015 and was in government from 2019–2021, and radical right influences are thus correspondingly lower in Latvia’s northern neighbor. Scholars disagree over the correct terminology to describe the parties located to the ideological right of mainstream conservative and Christian democratic parties—far right, radical right, radical right populist, extreme right, and, more recently, national populists, are among the most frequently used descriptions. This chapter avoids an extended discussion of the lexicon by adopting the straightforward description of radical right populist (or populist radical right) used by Cas Mudde.4 RRPs are “radical” because they oppose elements of the liberal democratic order; “right” in believing in an unequal natural order; and “populist” in dividing society into two halves—“us” (the people) and “them,” the cosmopolitan, out-of-touch elite. RRPs naturally side with “the people.” RRPs share a common ideological “winning formula” or “master frame.” This has three core components—authoritarianism, populism, and nationalism/nativism—all of which appeal to people who feel left behind with the developmental direction of contemporary society’s politics and disenchanted with the contemporary political elite.5 Authoritarianism promises clearer and more commonsense decision-making that is in line with what the people 3 In the negotiations on the formation of a new government coalition after the October 2018 parliamentary election, NA pushed for the creation of a Ministry of Demography Affairs. While the other coalition partners blocked this, NA did succeed in having one of its leaders, an MP who failed to be reelected to parliament in 2018, appointed as a special advisor on demographic issues to new prime minister, Krišjānis Kariņš: TVNET/LETA, “Parādnieks premjera padomnieka amatā varētu saņemt 2000 eiro mēnesī,” TVNET, 22 January 2019, https://www.tvnet.lv/6505239/ paradnieks-premjera-padomnieka-amata-varetu-sanemt-2000-eiro-menesi. 4 Cas Mudde, Populist Radical Right Parties in Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 25. 5 Herbert Kitschelt, “Diversification and Reconfiguration of Party Systems in Post-Industrial Democracies,” Europäische Politik 03/2004 (Bonn: Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung, 2004); Jens Rydgren, “Is Extreme Right‐Wing Populism Contagious? Explaining the Emergence of a New Party Family,” European Journal of Political Research 44:3 (2005), 413–437; Mudde, Populist Radical Right; Cas

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want: being tough on crime and promising particularly harsh punishments to the perpetrators of the most shocking crimes (pedophiles, rapists, and murderers), including capital punishment. This often means a rejection of the existing liberal-democratic order. Populism entails positioning the party alongside “the people” and claiming to be their true representatives, opposing the existing political system, and criticizing the existing elite (mainstream parties and politicians) that populate the political environment. Finally, nativism puts the rights of the indigenous or native population (typically as a cultural rather than political expression) above those of other groups living in the state, even if they are citizens of the state. Ethnopluralism—the concept that all nations are equal, but incompatible and should not be mixed—is central to the concept of nativism. Scholars disagree over the extent to which Latvian nationalist parties can be identified as a part of the radical right party family. Michael Minkenberg did not categorize NA as part of the radical right in his edited volume on the radical right in Eastern Europe, while Lenka Bustikova and Herbert Kitschelt identified TB/LNNK, before its merger into NA, as an extreme right party.6 Both For Fatherland and Freedom (Tēvzemei un Brīvībai, TB) and the Latvian National Independence Movement (Latvijas Nacionālā Neatkarības Kustība, LNNK) of the 1990s, however, as well as the fused TB/ LNNK and postmerger NA, are clearly radical right parties that meet the core ideological criteria of the radical right.7 This chapter unequivocally identifies NA as an RRP. This chapter has three main parts. The first section outlines the salience of the radical right in Latvia since the 1980s right up to the present day. After a brief historical overview of radical and extreme movements in Latvia, it outlines the growth and development of the youth activist organization All for Latvia! (Visu Latvijai!, VL!) from the start of the twenty-first century to it coestablishing NA in 2010, after which the party became a trusted government coalition partner and political senior statesman. The second Mudde, “The Populist Radical Right: A Pathological Normalcy,” West European Politics 33:6 (2010), 1167–1186. 6 Michael Minkenberg, “Profiles, Patterns, Process: Studying the East European Radical Right in its Political Environment,” in Transforming the Transformation? The Radical Right in the Political Process in East Central Europe, ed. Michael Minkenberg (London: Routledge, 2014), 27–56; Lenka Bustikova and Herbert Kitschelt, “Comparative Perspectives on Legacies and Party Competition,” Communist and Post-Communist Studies 42:4 (2009), 459–83. 7 Daunis Auers and Andres Kasekamp, “The Impact of Radical Right Parties in the Baltic States,” in Transforming the Transformation? The Radical Right in the Political Process in East Central Europe, ed. Michael Minkenberg (London: Routledge, 2015), 137–154.

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part then explains the roots of the electoral success of NA. The third and final section considers the concept of mainstreaming and explains why RRP ideas have become ingrained in the political mainstream in Latvia.

Radical Right Populist Movements and Parties in Contemporary Latvia Contemporary Latvia is host to a number of different radical groups and movements. This chapter will focus on radical right ethnic Latvian groups and movements that are admittedly fragmented and frequently feuding but are a part of the RRP ecosystem in Latvia.

Movements The increased political freedoms of the final years of the communist regime in the late 1980s saw the flowering of right-wing nationalist movements in Latvia. They were not considered radical, extreme, or even especially right wing at that time. Rather, they were seen as mainstream nationalists fighting against the occupation of what Ronald Reagan had called the “evil empire” in his famous 1983 speech. There were essentially two nationalist factions at that time. On the one side were the moderates rallying under the broad political umbrella of the Latvian Popular Front (Latvijas Tautas Fronte, LTF) alongside ex-communists, dissidents, and émigrés. The majority of the center-right ethnic Latvian parties that controlled the political executive in the 1990s and first decades of the twenty-first century could trace their lineage back to the LTF. The other more radical nationalist grouping that was positioned to the right of the LTF was the Citizens’ Congress (Pilsoņu Kongress, PK). It was formed in 1989 and advocated setting up an ethnically pure “Latvian” legislature, cleansed of Russian-speaking “occupiers” and composed of only citizens of interwar Latvia and their direct descendants. PK was eventually marginalized as its call to boycott the Latvian Supreme Soviet elections in 1990 was largely ignored, and the resulting LTF-dominated legislature then voted for a declaration of independence on 4 May 1990, which was rapturously received by the Latvian public. PK was the source of the Latvian nationalist movements and political parties that sprouted up in the 1990s and the 2000s. In 2005, the future Commissioner for Human Rights at the Council of Europe, Nils Muižnieks, authored a chapter mapping existing “racist

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extremist” movements in Latvia.8 Muižnieks stressed that, while there was a relatively broad network of “extremist” movements in Latvia, they were disjointed, fractious, and none had an active membership in the triple digits. Muižnieks divided these movements into “first” and “second” generations. The first generation was composed of those activists who had been active in the pre-independence PK, while the second generation emerged in the late 1990s as a response to the socialization and mainstreaming of the first generation into Latvia’s political class. The main enemy for both generations, however, was the same: the post-Soviet Russian-speaking minority in Latvia. Many of the first-generation organizations were inspired by prominent Latvian interwar radical or extremist organizations. The most prominent interwar extremist organization was Thunder Cross (Pērkonkrusts), which was resurrected by about a dozen extremists in 1995. It continued the interwar organization’s antisemitic stance, but augmented it with an anti-Russophone rhetoric, typically describing this minority as “occupiers” and calling for a “renewal of the racial purity of the Latvian people.”9 In its early years, the organization engaged in kidnapping and minor acts of attempted terrorism. The group was broken up by the security police in the 1990s, however, following a botched attempt to blow up the Victory Monument, which marks Soviet victory in World War II and is the major symbol of the Russian-speaking community in Latvia. Two of its members were found guilty of inciting national or racial hatred. One of the two, Igors Šiškins (whose father was Russian), continues to be active in the radical movement and rather enjoys dressing up in Nazi-style uniforms adorned with swastikas (the ancient Latvian fire cross symbol). He founded the Gustavs Celmiņš Center (Gustava Celmiņa Centrs) which was a direct successor to the now banned Thunder Cross movement.10 In 2014, the center followed in the steps of Thunder Cross and was banned for extremist activity by a Latvian court following an application from the Latvian Security Police. Nevertheless, Šiškins remains active, maintaining a web page under the Thunder Cross name (www.perkonkrusts.lv) which is richly adorned with swastikas and, as of 2019, heading up an NGO named the People’s Welfare (Tautas labklājība). The Latvian (Latvietis) organization similarly traces its history back to the PK. In the 1990s and first few years of the twentieth century, it published 8 Muižnieks, “Latvia.” 9 Muižnieks, “Latvia,” 105. 10 Gustavs Celmiņš was the founder and leader of the interwar Thunder Cross.

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the newspaper, A Latvian in Latvia (Latvietis Latvijā), back copies of which can be found on its website (www.latvietis.lv). Its program is unashamedly nativist, arguing for positive discrimination for Latvians in the state sector, with larger pensions for ethnic Latvians as well as far more generous family allowances to ethnic Latvian families with children. Both these organizations were still active in late 2019, although one thing common to these continuing “first generation” movements is an inability to rally more than a dozen or so, primarily elderly, activists to their public meetings. Their continued Internet presence does, however, mean that their literature (and occasional videos) are still available, and their core ideas live on. Indeed, some first-generation activists remain active only in the virtual world. The Latvian People’s Tribunal (Latvijas Republikas Tautas Tribunāls) is one such case. It is run by veterans of the Latvian radical movement and settles scores both old and new by listing people perceived to have betrayed the Latvian state. The accusations are often colored with the claim that the facial features of the individuals reveal that they are members of some, in their opinion, inferior nation (most frequently the accusation is that they are Jewish). Nevertheless, all three of these organizations have long seemed a little tired. This was already the case in the late 1990s when the second generation of radical and extremist national Latvian movements became familiar. The Latvian National Front (Latvijas Nacionālā Fronte, LNF) rose into the public consciousness in 2001 when Aivars Garda, an extravagantly bouffanted publisher of esoteric literature, organized essay contests with explicitly antiRussian and antihomosexual themes. It is an explicitly extremist organization, identifying with national socialists and serializing a Latvian translation of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion in its provocatively named newspaper DDD (Deoccupation, Decolonization, Debolshevization). The organization has been led by Garda since its creation and, in contrast to the Latvietis organization and Igors Šiškins, maintains a regularly updated and modern-looking Internet page (fronte.lv). LNF has also held closer, albeit irregular, contacts with mainstream parties. In 2004, one of the more prominent members of the party, Liene Apine, was controversially appointed to a post in the Foreign Relations Committee of the Latvian parliament by Aleksandrs Kiršteins, who was at the time a member of the People’s Party (Tautas Partija, TP), but then served as an NA parliamentary deputy from 2014. Klubs 415 was formed as a young Latvian nationalist, hard Eurosceptic (opposing Latvia’s then proposed accession to the European Union) movement in 1995, and as was the case with many Latvian nationalist movements

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at this time, was supported by Aivars Slucis, a Latvian-American medical doctor, who also used his fortune to publish anti-Russian texts in major US newspapers. Indeed, it should be noted that émigrés have been key supporters of these radical organizations, perhaps because the Baltic states that they had idealized for so long from exile are very different to the Baltic states that actually exist today. Klubs 415 was active in attempting to mobilize a coalition of organizations to support voting no to accession to the EU in the 2003 referendum (it equated membership of the EU with a new type of financial and international legal system occupation and resulting loss of national sovereignty), as well as organizing public marches and rallies such as that to the Freedom Monument on 16 March, the commemoration day for Latvian Waffen-SS legionnaires. In 2001, members of Klubs 415 marked the historical date of the signing of the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact on 23 August by standing in front of the Freedom Monument with flaming torches and T-shirts spelling out “decolonization” one letter at a time. The organization has since been renamed as the Latvian Nationalist Club (Latviešu Nacionālistu Klubs) and currently describes itself as a “patriotic, thoughtful Latvian organization … that has the aim of achieving a Latvian Latvia, where the Latvian nation freely decides on its laws, develops its culture and shapes its own future.”11 The movement’s most prominent leader since its founding has been Jānis Sils, who has been regularly interviewed by mainstream media and is a well-known representative of radical Latvian nationalism. However, similar to the first-generation movements, Klubs 415 and its successor organization are numerically small. In a 2002 interview, Sils revealed that at that time, just when the debate on accession to the EU was hotting up, the organization had nine members and approximately 120 supporters.12 Sils has remained active in the nationalist milieu. In a blog entry in March 2012, he argued that the financing for pro-Latvian demographic policy could be found by reintroducing capital punishment. Sils identified 2,600 prisoners that, in his opinion, could be executed (1,400 burglars, 800 murderers, 200 rapists, and 200 pedophiles).13 Sils is also involved with the 11 “Latviešu nacionālistu klubs,” n.d., http://www.nacionalisti.lv/teksti/2/latviesu-nacionalistuklubs/. There is also a slightly toned-down English description of the club and its mission: “Latvian Nationalist Club,” 1 March 2009, http://www.nacionalisti.lv/raksts/141//latvian-nationalist-club/. 12 TVNET/LTV Panorama, “‘Mūsu cilvēks’ – ‘Kluba 415’ prezidents Jānis Sils,” TVNET, 14 March 2002, https://www.tvnet.lv/6328852/musu-cilveks-kluba-415-prezidents-janis-sils. 13 Jānis Sils, “Kā iegūt demogrāfijas un izglītības vajadzībām vismaz 5–8 000 000 latu gadā?,” blog post on Nacionalisti.lv, 26 March 2012, https://www.nacionalisti.lv/raksts/1130/

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Fatherland Guards (Tēvijas Sargi, TS), an organization founded in 2004 that provides self-defense and hand-to-hand combat training for members. Sils personally leads the training; Latvia’s State Security Service (Valsts Drošības Dienests) has argued that the self-defense training courses are used as an instrument to recruit individuals to radical or extreme organizations.14 TS achieved greater visibility in 2017, however, when five of its members, dressed in military combat fatigues and black hoodies, posed ominously in front of the Mucenieki refugee center located just outside Riga.15 The organization had previously proposed setting up vigilante patrols on the streets of Riga, to protect ethnic Latvians from the alleged threat of new migrants and refugees to Latvia. This reflects a broader trend of the second generation of Latvian nationalists, turning their ire away from the Russophone minority and increasingly directing their actions towards refugees and visible minorities in Latvia. The observations of the above analysis—that there are several active groups but that they are small and fractured is also confirmed by the State Security Service, which is charged with monitoring radical and extremist groups in Latvia. Its 2018 annual report found that right-wing radical and extremist groups are “small, passive and internally fractured” and primarily active on the Internet, organizing just the occasional public event or demonstration while radical or extreme left-wing groups in Latvia do not exist.16

Political Parties Two significant and long-lasting political parties emerged in the first wave of radical nationalism in the 1990s, TB and LNNK. These later fused together into the TB/LNNK alliance and then in 2010 successfully joined up with the newer second-generation VL! party to campaign in the 2010 parliamentary election as NA (this case is analyzed in greater depth in Matthew Kott’s contribution to this volume). LNNK was the oldest of these parties, tracing its roots back blogs/K%C4%81+ieg%C5%ABt+demogr%C4%81fijas+un+izgl%C4%ABt%C4%ABbas+vajadz% C4%ABb%C4%81m+vismaz+5+-+8+000+000+latu+gad%C4%81%3F/. 14 Valsts drošības dienests, 2018. gada publiskais pārskats (Riga: Valsts drošības dienests, 2018), 25, https://vdd.gov.lv/lv/?rt=documents&ac=download&id=42. 15 Kasjauns.lv, “Organizācija ‘Tēvijas sargi’ ar mulsinošu vēstījumu sevi parāda, kā prastu grupējumu,” Jauns.lv, 1 October 2017, https://jauns.lv/raksts/zinas/255737-organizacija-tevijassargi-ar-mulsinosu-vestijumu-sevi-parada-ka-prastu-grupejumu. This action at least partially backfired on them when Twitter, Facebook, and other social media users turned the picture into a meme, with the picture of the Guards photoshopped to have them facing a male stripper, My Little Pony and other scenes intended to emasculate them. 16 Valsts drošības dienests, 20.

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to 1988. TB is a few years younger, and emerged from the PK. Both parties had moderate success in the first postindependence elections but joined forces in 1997 in order to unite and consolidate the nationalist vote. The two parties then enjoyed a decade-long successful union that saw them spend just two years in parliamentary opposition between the 1998 parliamentary election and the 2010 parliamentary poll. They were inevitably moderated by this governmental responsibility, with the period between 1998 and 2010 seeing Latvia join the European Union, sign a border treaty with Russia (thereby acknowledging a chunk of Latvian territory ceded to Russia during the Soviet period), and experience a severe economic depression. TB/LNNK saw its share of the nationalist Latvian vote gradually shrink as the new, more radical VL! gradually built up its support through a series of high-profile public demonstrations and an aggressive, populist critique of the existing political elite. VL! had started its activities as a youth movement in 2000 and members carried out a number of events, such as standing half naked in the winter outside the Latvian parliament, with the names of Latvian towns and villages being sacrificed to Russia scrawled on shivering torsos, while parliamentarians inside debated the Latvian–Russian border treaty. Much of the success of VL! lies in its successful mobilization of youthful activists. This was (and remains) quite unusual in Latvia, where political parties tend to be small in both membership and ideology. The way in which VL! could effectively mobilize its members to its cause was an effective way of attracting media attention. VL! was registered as an NGO in 2002, and as a party in 2006. VL! failed, however, to pass the 5% threshold in the 2006 parliamentary election, and was likely to do so again in 2010, largely because it lacked the level of financing needed to successfully compete in Latvian elections. At the same time, TB/LNNK lacked support in the polls but had built up a substantial network of financial sponsors through its many years in national and municipal government coalitions. This made for a perfect political marriage. VL! brought youth, vigor, and a legitimate radical right populist message untarnished by years of government to the table, while TB/LNNK bought political savvy and cash. The unified NA list won eight seats in 2010, and then fourteen in the 2011 early parliamentary election, followed by seventeen in 2014 and thirteen in 2018, remarkable consistency in a fragmented party system such as Latvia’s, that sees few parties survive longer than a few election cycles. NA has remained an increasingly influential member of every government coalition from 2011 right up until the time of writing. There are other, smaller, radical right parties in Latvia, but these have had little success in parliamentary elections, for similar reasons to the struggles

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of VL! before it joined forces with TB/LNNK in creating NA—a lack of financial resources. National Power Unity (Nacionālā Spēka Savienība, NSS) was formed when its long-time leader Viktors Birze broke away (or was pushed out—the two sides tell different stories) from Klubs 415 and created a separate political party together with cochair Aigars Prūsis. NSS was a far more explicitly extreme and racist organization than Klubs 415 or VL! NSS won 0.13% of the vote (just 1,172 votes) in the 2006 parliamentary election. Birze eventually emigrated away from Latvia in search of work but has subsequently returned to Latvia. In 2014, NSS morphed into the National Justice Union (Nacionālā Savienība Taisnīgums, NST) and in 2015 organized its first rally, which was targeted against the “forced” migration of refugees to Latvia.17 However, it did not take part in the 2018 parliamentary election. The year 2006 also saw a similarly small radical right party—A Latvian Latvia (Latviešu Latvija, LL)—take part in the poll, winning just a 0.12% share of the vote (or 1,130 votes). These poor results, alongside the electoral and office-holding success of NA from 2010 onwards, meant that no other radical right parties competed in national elections in Latvia until 2018, when the Latvian Nationalists (Latviešu Nacionālisti, LN) list—an alliance of several small nationalist parties—collected just 0.5% of the vote in the parliamentary election.18 Regular consolidation of radical right parties has allowed LNNK, TB, and latterly NA to achieve consistent electoral success. The following section will address the key policies of these parties and explain how these policies have allowed the parties to enter the political mainstream, rather than be excluded from government politics.

Onwards and Upwards! Explaining the Electoral Success of Latvia’s Radical Right This section focuses on the sources of the consistent electoral success of NA. It holds that this more than quarter century of electoral success for the radical right (and decade for NA) is largely down to RRP parties unswervingly adhering to the core nativist element of the populist radical right master frame. 17 Liepājniek iem.lv, “Nacionā lajai sav ienībai ‘Taisnīg ums’ – grandiozi plā ni,” Liepājniekiem.lv, 27  March  2017, https://w w w.liepajniek iem.lv/zinas/sabiedriba/ nacionalajai-savienibai-taisnigums-grandiozi-plani-199899. 18 Latvian Rebirth Party (Latvijas Atdzimšanas Partija, LAP), Inheritance of the Fatherland (Tēvzemes Mantojums, TM), and Māra’s Land (Māras Zeme, MZ).

Onwards and Upwards!

While NA certainly also has authoritarian and populist attitudes and policies, the core of a radical right party is its nativism, the focus of this section. Nativists argue that noncore populations (which can be long-standing minorities or newly arrived immigrants) pose an existential threat to the titular nation. This means that the titular nation should receive certain privileges that ensure its continued existence against the demographic and cultural threats posed by minorities and immigrants. Throughout the 1990s the large Russian-speaking minority was seen as the key threat to the Latvian nation. Indeed, the 1989 Soviet census had served as a call to arms for Latvians as it revealed that, thanks to several decades of Russification, ethnic Latvians made up just 52% of the population of the Latvian territories.19 This demographic shift posed a clear and evident threat to the Latvian language, culture and even future statehood, and served as a rallying cry for the last few years of the anti-Soviet and pro-independence movement. After independence in 1990–1991, LNNK, TB, and other RRP parties and movements focused their efforts on denying automatic citizenship to nonethnic Latvians, restoring the primacy of the Latvian language in the state sector, and reworking the school curriculum to reflect a more national interpretation of Latvian history and to promote “traditional” (meaning conservative) Latvian values and culture. A shift of emphasis, however, has gradually taken place in the twenty-first century. This change is at least partially explained by a generational shift in the radical right movement, but also because of external effects caused by membership of the EU and Latvia’s increased openness to being impacted by global events. This change has seen RRPs increasingly concentrate their ire on visible minorities and refugees rather than Russian speakers, as well as a focus on conservative versus liberal values. In 2007, Lubomír Kopeček pointed out that there was little racist populism in Latvia and other East-Central European states because of a virtual absence of third world immigration into the region during the communist era, and the comparatively low level of economic development in the 1990s also meant that immigration was limited in the postcommunist era.20 19 Russification here refers to the migration of Russian-speaking Soviet citizens from Soviet republics to meet labor demand in the more advanced economy of Latvia beginning in the 1950s, as well as the calculated policies of Soviet leaders. See, for example, Michael Loader’s chapter on the 1958 Soviet education reform in this volume. 20 Lubomír Kopeček, “The Far Right in Europe: A Summary of Attempts to Define the Concept, Analyze Its Identity, and Compare the Western European and Central European Far Right,” Central European Political Studies Review 9:4 (2007), 280–293.

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Membership of the EU in 2004, and the subsequent opening of the European labor market to Latvian workers, has led to some 400,000 people emigrating from Latvia over the last decade and a half. While relatively few Europeans have migrated to Latvia in this time, a growing number of Asian students have started studying in Latvia, primarily in the capital city of Riga. Thus, more than 2,000 Indian students were based in Latvia in the 2018–2019 academic year, making up a quarter of the 8,380 full-time international students in Latvia at that time.21 Riga now has a substantial visible minority. At the same time, the 2015 EU refugee crisis saw Latvia faced with the prospect of several hundred, primarily Muslim, refugees being relocated to Latvia as a part of the EU’s refugee relocation plan. In the three years between 2015 and 2018, some 374 of the 531 refugees Latvia had committed to receiving were relocated to Latvia, although a great number have subsequently left to resettle elsewhere in the EU. These simultaneous trends mobilized the radical right, with NA opposing the relocation plan, and also being critical of international students from Asia coming to study in Latvia. NA leaders claimed that many students were only interested in getting the opportunity to work and settle, rather than study, in Europe. By far the most controversial commentary came in a 2018 op-ed piece published on the Delfi news portal by Jānis Dombrava (who has been parliamentary deputy for NA since 2011), entitled “International Students—Kebab Cooks.”22 Dombrava outlined the increasing presence on Latvia’s streets of people dressed in a style “untypical” of Latvians, claimed that students from Asia were abusing the student visa system in order to simply get the right to work (make kebabs, in his words), and hence called for limits on the number of non-EU students in Latvia. At the end of the op-ed, he harked back to the 1990s, stating that “the number of immigrants in Latvia should not be allowed to increase so much that Latvia stops being Latvia, that the Latvian language and culture disappears.”23 Asians, rather than Russian speakers, were now considered the biggest threat to Latvian identity. NA has also stood up for “traditional” conservative Latvian values against what it has described as pernicious liberal values that, once again, threaten Latvians. The two key battles have been against ratification of the Istanbul 21 Izglītības un zinātnes ministrija, Pārskats par Latvijas augtsāko izglītību 2018. Gadā: galvenie statistikas dati (Riga: Izglītības un zinātnes ministrija, 2019), https://www.izm.gov.lv/images/ statistika/augst_izgl/Augstakas_izglitibas_LV_parskats_2018.pdf. 22 Jānis Dombrava, “Ārvalstu studenti – kebabu cepēji,” Delfi.lv, 17 May 2018, https://www. delfi.lv/news/versijas/janis-dombrava-arvalstu-studenti-kebabu-cepeji.d?id=50034553. 23 Dombrava, “Ārvalstu student.”

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Convention in 2017 and a campaign the following year against Latvia signing up to the UN migration compact. The Council of Europe’s Istanbul Convention on preventing and combating violence against women and domestic violence was opposed by NA’s then minister of justice, Dzintars Rasnačs, on the grounds that the wording of the text uses the term “gender” and that ratifying the convention might lead to a redefinition of the sexes in Latvia.24 While few NA supporters, or the wider public, seemed likely to have read the text of the convention, NA’s position fed into a fear that international organizations were pushing liberal values (same-sex marriage, new definitions of gender, etc.) onto Latvia’s conservative population. The battle over the Istanbul Convention morphed into a conflict over the UN’s migration compact designed to foster cooperation of migration issues between countries in 2018, with the Latvian parliament ultimately voting to support an NA-drafted resolution rejecting the compact.25 NA opposed ratifying the compact because it “contains an unacceptable message that supports multiculturalism and immigration as core human rights.”26 Both cases saw heated debates in the media and parliament, as well as the cabinet of ministers, with NA leading the charge against ratifying these documents. These were certainly hot button issues for NA’s voters. This turn to focus on values has not seen NA completely turn its back on decrying Russian influences in Latvia. The use of Russian in the private sector has been a mobilizing issue. As the number of Russian tourists has grown sharply over the last decade, the service sector in Latvia started demanding Russian-language knowledge in job advertisements. This caused alarm, as it was seen as undermining the position of the Latvian language, as well as being discriminatory against younger Latvians, who tend to learn English and other EU languages rather than Russian. NA pushed back with an amendment to the labor law, passed in November 2018, that bans employers from asking job seekers to have specific language skills if knowledge of the language is not a direct part of their duties.27 24 Dzintars Rasnačs, “Tieslietu ministra Dzintara Rasnača viedoklis par riskiem, ratificējot Stambulas Konvenciju,” NA website, 25 January 2018, https://www.nacionalaapvieniba.lv/aktualitate/ tieslietu-ministra-dzintara-rasnaca-viedoklis-par-riskiem-ratificejot-stambulas-konvenciju/. 25 The Global Compact for Safe, Orderly and Regular Migration of 11 July 2018. 26 Nationālā Apvienība, “NA aicina ministru kabinetu neatbalstīt ANO globālo migrācijas līgumu,” NA website, 14 November 2018, https://www.nacionalaapvieniba.lv/aktualitate/ nacionala-apvieniba-aicina-ministru-kabinetu-neatbalstit-ano-globalo-migracijas-ligumu/. 27 European Centre of Expertise, “Flash Reports on Labor Law, November 2018: Summary and Country Reports” (Brussels: European Commission, 2018), 32, https://ec.europa.eu/social/Blob Servlet?docId=20602&langId=en.

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Similarly, regular commemoration of key dates and annual ceremonies remains central to NA’s core message. NA continues to organize rallies marking veterans of the Latvian Waffen-SS Legion on 16 March; a commemoration of the 1934 authoritarian coup by interwar leader Kārlis Ulmanis on 15 May; a several-thousand-strong torch-lit rally through the center of Riga on the evening of Latvia’s Independence Day on 18 November; as well as a growing annual convoy of cars adorned with Latvian flags in procession through Latvia. A prominent NA parliamentarian, Rihards Kols, also headed the “Latvian Flag Association” which raised funds to construct an enormous Latvian flagpole, and equally large flag, in the center of Riga to mark Latvia’s centenary year in 2018. These nativist celebrations of Latvia, and battles against alien, liberal influences, remain key to understanding the success of NA. The next section considers how this nativist rhetoric and action can be reconciled with NA’s legislative and executive presence since 2011.

Mainstreaming RRPs in Latvia NA, and its predecessors LNNK, TB, and TB/LNNK, have successfully developed nativist policies and attitudes, attracting consistent levels of electoral support in an otherwise very fluid political system.28 As discussed above, this can be explained by NA’s updating of its nativism rhetoric to include antiliberal attitudes and partially reorient its ire away from Russophones (and Russia) and towards the decadent, liberal West. Unpacking NA’s electoral success is, however, only one part of the puzzle. Parliament offers a greater opportunity for the radical right to have its voice heard. Entering government gives the radical right the opportunity to directly influence policy. In contrast to other radical right parties in the Baltic Sea region, such as the Sweden Democrats (Sverigedemokraterna, SD) or, at least until 2018, EKRE in Estonia, NA has become an established part of a succession of government coalitions and observers tend to describe it as a “nationalist” or “conservative” party and largely fail to make the link between NA and Europe’s broader RRP movement. Why does NA sneak below the radical right radar? And how did NA establish itself as a mainstream party in Latvia? 28 Daunis Auers, “Latvia,” in The Handbook of Political Change in Eastern Europe, ed. Sten Berglund et al., 3rd ed. (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, 2013), 85–124.

Onwards and Upwards!

Mainstream parties are established political parties that have successfully competed for office in multiple election cycles, are entrenched, and spatially located at and around the ideological center of a political party system. Their presence and legitimacy in the party system, and as coalitionable governing parties, is largely unchallenged. By contrast, RRPs are seen as “niche” or challenger parties whose radical nativism has located them outside of the political mainstream and made them uncoalitionable. Nevertheless, despite its ideological roots as a radical right party, NA has successfully avoided being pigeonholed as a niche party in Latvia, having joined a government coalition in 2011, just one year after the newly merged NA had been elected to the Latvian legislature for the first time. This section examines four theses that explain the rapid mainstreaming of NA. The first two theses focus on party adaptation to the appearance of RRPs in the political system. The first is that RRPs become more moderate as they play by the rules of democratic party competition, and the second thesis being mainstream parties adapt and change their positions, thus merging RRP policies into the mainstream. This has been quite straightforward in Latvia, where the party system, dominated by ethnic Latvian political groupings, has long been tilted to the ideological right. Thus, while NA’s radical right policies and rhetoric would locate it on the far extremes of a traditional Western European party system, in Latvia it finds itself within the mainstream. According to the third thesis, some party systems, such as that in Sweden, have responded to the electoral success of the radical right with the construction of a cordon sanitaire around the niche party, leaving it far from power and influence. This has not been the case in Latvia, however, because parties favorable to the Russian-speaking population have been identified as a far greater threat to democracy and political stability by the mainstream parties. Fourth, NA has become embedded into the mainstream as it has proved to be an amenable coalition partner, focusing on culture and demographic policies, and allowing other coalition parties to get on with their own areas of responsibility. In 2008, Sheri Berman elaborated an inclusion–moderation hypothesis which argued that “participation in democratic institutions and processes can turn extremists into moderates” as parties adapt to their political environment and shift to the mainstream.29 In other words, 29 Sheri Berman, “Taming Extremist Parties: Lessons from Europe,” Journal of Democracy 19:1 (2008), 5.

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the routines and rhythms of legislative and executive life lead radical right parties to move beyond their core issue of nativism to participate in other political arenas—budget making, local government, public transport, and so on—that then gradually moderates the party. In the case of NA, the party has tended to focus on promoting demographic or family policies (which are nativist in the sense of aiming to increase the core population, thus negating the need for immigration), as well as promoting Latvian culture. This has been done in order for the party to keep its core identity and avoid becoming routinized by its place at the heart of the political system. At the same time, however, it has tentatively developed political positions in a whole host of other areas that have expanded the party beyond its niche. The party has also become more mainstream in its funding, with political commentators speculating on the party’s relationship with various domestic economic groupings, most particularly bankruptcy administrators. Nevertheless, NA has still managed to keep an outsider image, with a focus on culture and demography. The following three explanations are more compelling than the inclusion–moderation hypothesis. In response to the second thesis, NA was also swiftly mainstreamed because its core nativist policies have long featured in other political parties. In short, in Latvia, “nationalism … constitutes part of the mainstream itself.”30 Mainstream parties have long recruited well-known politicians with nativist attitudes. The Green/Farmers Union recruited Visvaldis Lācis (one of Latvia’s best-known World War II Waffen-SS Latvian Legion veterans and a firm opponent of integrating Latvia’s Russian speakers by naturalization) and Aleksandrs Kiršteins (who opposed signing the border treaty with Russia) for the 2006 parliamentary campaign, both of whom were described as “good nationalists” by Aivars Garda, the aforementioned leader of the Latvian National Front.31 Another example came during the run up to the extraordinary parliamentary election in 2011, triggered by a referendum called by the then Latvian president, Valdis Zatlers, when Janis Ādamsons, a deputy from the pro-Russian-speaker Harmony Center Party, said on Latvian regional TV that he believed that the current Latvian government was planning to bring 40,000 to 60,000 “Arabs” into Latvia; he regarded this a mistake, as ethnic Latvians ostensibly could have a common dialogue 30 Minkenberg, “Profiles, Patterns, Process,” 39. 31 Aivars Ozoliņš and Pauls Raudseps, “Asie jautājumi. Intervija ar Induli Emsi,” Diena, 13 October 2006, https://www.diena.lv/raksts/pasaule/krievija/asie-jautajumi.-intervija-arinduli-emsi.-pilna-versija.-1865.

Onwards and Upwards!

with white Europeans, but not with non-Europeans.32 In 2010, Latvia’s media published leaked email correspondence between the centrist Unity party’s (which has long been a member of the center-right European People’s Party in the European Parliament) minister of foreign affairs, Ģirts Kristovskis, and the aforementioned radical Latvian-American nationalist and medical doctor, Aivars Slucis. The emails saw Kristovskis express sympathy for Slucis’s assertion that he could not practice medicine in Latvia, because he would be unable to treat Russians with empathy.33 It should be added that while Slucis was quickly disowned by Unity (which also returned his financial contribution), the National Alliance vigorously supported both Slucis personally, and his views on the Russian minority in general. Perhaps a better indicator of NA’s success in mainstreaming nativism is its annual torch-lit rally march with the slogan “Latvia Is Ours!” on 18 November, Latvia’s national day, starting from the statue of Latvia’s interwar dictator Kārlis Ulmanis (erected in 2003—in itself evidence of a greater toleration of authoritarian attitudes) and proceeding to the Freedom Monument. Despite the echoes of fascist torch parades in the 1930s, since the tradition began in 2003, the number of participants has steadily increased, reaching over 20,000 on Latvia’s centenary in 2018. Clearly, the party system in Latvia is skewed to the right, and NA’s nativist stance is mirrored by individuals in the mainstream parties. This normalization of RRP rhetoric has allowed NA to emerge as a credible political force without the negative stigma often attached to RRPs elsewhere in Europe. The third thesis for the mainstreaming of NA is the fact that the mainstream parties already have a cordon sanitaire that serves to exclude Harmony Center from the governing coalition.34 The very idea of a party that is pro-Russophone in government appears to be far more threatening than the presence of a “nationalist” Latvian party (and, as established above, there is a great deal of sympathy for NA’s positions in the Latvian political mainstream). The aftermath of the 2011 early election in Latvia saw the Zatlers Reform Party (ZRP) of former president Valdis Zatlers—who had 32 Diena, “SC norobežojas no Ādamsona teiktā, ka viņš labāk saprastos ar baltās rases cilvēkiem,” Diena, 2 September 2011, https://www.diena.lv/raksts/latvija/zinas/sc-norobezojas-no-adamsonateikta-ka-vins-labak-saprastos-ar-baltas-rases-cilvekiem-13901332. 33 Ilze Veģe, “Opozīcijas prasību atsaukt Kristovski no ārlietu ministra amata skatīs 9. novembrī,” NRA, 4 November 2010, https://nra.lv/latvija/politika/34641-opozicijas-prasibu-atsaukt-kristovskino-arlietu-ministra-amata-skatis-9-novembri-papildinats.htm. 34 See, for example, Edgars Eihmanis, “Latvia – An Ever-Wider Gap: The Ethnic Divide in Latvian Party Politics,” in European Party Politics in Times of Crisis, ed. Swen Hutter and Hanspeter Kriesi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 236–258.

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called the early election in 2011 an attempt to rid Latvia’s political system of what he saw as the pernicious influence of Latvia’s oligarchs—propose to form a government coalition with Harmony Center. This led to public protests and a revolt of both rank-and-file party members as well as parliamentary deputies that led to ZRP backtracking from the idea. Merely proposing this coalition, however, led to a schism and then the collapse of ZRP. More liberal politicians in Latvia may well wrinkle their noses with distaste at the prospect of forming a coalition with NA, but they know nevertheless that it would be less controversial (and deadly) than a coalition with a pro-Russophone party. Finally, NA is largely considered to be a relatively “easy” coalition partner. As an RRP, its main focus is on nativist issues such as migration, demography, and protecting the national culture. This is why NA has exerted much energy on opposing the Istanbul Convention, as well as opposing migration into Latvia, including international students (the so-called “kebab cooks”). With NA having a greater focus on culture and values, coalition partners have greater freedom of movement to develop their own welfare and economic policies, with relatively little interference from NA. In 2017, the Latvian government undertook a significant reform of the tax system, receiving advice from the World Bank and the OECD, as well as consulting domestic economists, business associations, and other interested parties. Although a part of the governing coalition at that time, NA did not elaborate any defined position on this important reform. By contrast, discussions of the Istanbul Convention managed to provoke reactions for the NA throughout 2017.

Conclusions The National Alliance, a party alliance created in 2010 through the merger of the established (even tired) TB/LNNK and the new, energetic VL!, has continued the long success story of radical right parties in Latvia. Not only has NA been elected to all four parliaments since 2010, but it has also been a part of every government coalition since 2011. Moreover, domestic observers and international scholars typically ignore NA in international studies of the European radical right. This chapter presents four explanations for this oversight: 1 The nature of political competition has seen NA forced to move beyond its nativist niche, by engaging with party sponsors needed to compete in national elections, where private money is still important.

Onwards and Upwards!

2 In any case, NA’s nativist policies are mirrored by the presence of individual politicians with radical right positions in established mainstream parties, meaning that NA may not appear to be significantly more nativist than other parties in Latvia. 3 In contrast to Sweden, Germany, and other European states, Latvia has no cordon sanitaire around NA, because the pro-Russophone parties are seen as a bigger threat to Latvian democracy, and therefore excluded from government coalition building. 4 By prioritizing nativist issues, NA is actually a relatively easy coalition partner, leaving other parties to get on with the issues that are important to them. As a result, NA has become part of the political mainstream in Latvia. The party’s presence in parliament and even in government may well have helped to tame the nationalist movement, which still features a number of different organizations and activists, but also seems to have aged over the last decade, with no significant new players emerging. There is little need for underground activities when there is a political platform, and a seat at the government table, to oppose immigration or “decadent” Western, liberal values, and this is where NA has been most effective in affecting the nature of government policy. The recent focus on family and demographic policy—with increased benefits and economic opportunities for families with two or more children—and consistent opposition to legislating samesex partnerships and opposing immigration (including the EU’s refugee relocation policies) has ensured that Latvia is among the more conservative states in northern Europe. This is particularly evident when comparing Latvia to neighboring Estonia, which only saw the nativist EKRE party enter government in 2018. Over the preceding decade Estonia had, for example, adopted regulations on same-sex partnerships and, in contrast to Latvia, ratified the Istanbul Convention in 2017. NA has shown that radical right parties can become established in European party systems, exert influence and have significant policy impact, and merge almost seamlessly into the political mainstream.

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Gaming the System Far-Right Entryism in Post-Soviet Latvian Politics f Matthew Kott

“Entryism” (or “entrism”) is a phenomenon in politics, whereby a lesser, marginalized, or nonrecognized group with a particular ideological agenda seeks to gain control of or influence over a larger, more mainstream, or legitimate political actor—such as a party, trade union, organization, or grassroots movement—in order to better disseminate its ideology and further said agenda. The advantages of this asymmetric tactic is that it allows a hard core of determined activists to subvert an existing structure that already enjoys a certain amount of acceptance in parts of society for the purpose of making their minority, often more radical ideas and positions appear to have more support than is actually the case. Within the framework of a more or less liberal, democratic system and open, civil society, successful entryism can have negative systemic effects: not only by offering a larger, more visible platform for ideas that may be at odds with the basic principles that underpin liberal democracy or an open society, but also by circumventing any structural mechanisms designed to hamper the growth of such ideologies, the efficacy and even the legitimacy of measures to protect the current societal order may be called into question. Entryism is thus a potentially effective way for gaming the political system in favor of radical, uniform Davids over the mainstream, “broad church” or “big tent” Goliaths that otherwise tend to moderate radical activism through pluralism. In the literature, the term is usually associated with groups and movements on the political left. Particularly Trotskyites have adopted this tactic in the past, in some countries seeking to covertly infiltrate labor unions and other parties already in the 1930s, after Leon Trotsky encouraged his followers to adopt what came to be known as the “French Turn.”1 Although the term would assume a pejorative connotation, even in other leftist circles,2 entryism has been applied as a label to describe 1 Robert J. Alexander, International Trotskyism, 1929–1985: A Documented Analysis of the Movement (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1991), 348–349. 2 Baruch Hirson, “Entryism and the CPSA, 1923–25,” in A History of the Left in South Africa: Writings of Baruch Hirson (London: I.B. Tauris, 2005), 44.

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a range of politicized phenomena beyond its original, narrower usage, for example, “cultural entryism.”3 A significant problem when writing about entryism, however, is the lack of rigorous conceptualization required for it to be a meaningful analytical tool. When discussing entryism as practiced by the radical right, as will be the focus of this chapter, the term is sometimes used as if it were self-explanatory, becoming therefore an empty signifier.4 Even in scholarship on Trotskyist entryism, the oldest and most developed corpus on the subject, however, there has not been a deep discussion of the concept, either. The definition most often cited is one formulated by John Tomlinson.5 Writing on Britain at the turn of the 1980s, Tomlinson, an academic and former Labour politician, sought to shed light on the significance and influence of different extremist movements at the time, both on the left, and on the right, what causes them, and what affects they have on a parliamentary democratic system.6 Unusually for the time, Tomlinson makes sharply critical observations about both “fascism” and the revolutionary left, international networks, and terrorist threats from a center-left, social democratic perspective—rather than from the prevalent Cold War, more right-leaning totalitarianism paradigm. His discussion of entryism, unsurprisingly, is mainly in the contemporary context of the infiltration by the Trotskyist Militant movement and other far-left groups of his own Labour Party. Tomlinson defines “entr[y]ism” as, the manoeuvre by which a group infiltrates a larger, less radical party, trade union, or pressure group, with a view to three basic objectives: 1. To identify support for its own cause within the host group, or stimulate it; 2. To provoke and/or exploit division within that group to its own political ends and in order to achieve a degree of executive power; 3 Alexander Adams, Culture War: Art, Identity Politics and Cultural Entryism (Exeter: Imprint Academic, 2019). 4 E.g., while appearing in the title, entryism is never explicitly defined or discussed in the following article: Tom McCulloch, “The Nouvelle Droite in the 1980s and 1990s: Ideology and Entryism, the Relationship with the Front National,” French Politics 4 (2006), 158–178, doi:10.1057/ palgrave.fp.8200099. 5 E.g., Patrick Webber, “Entryism in Theory, in Practice, and in Crisis: The Trotskyist Experience in New Brunswick, 1969–1973,” Left History 14 (2009), 33–34, doi:10.25071/1913-9632.24904. 6 John Tomlinson, Left–Right: The March of Political Extremism in Britain (London: John Calder; New York: Riverrun, 1981).

Gaming the System

3. To exert influence on the nature and direction of policy within the infiltrated group.7 The value of Tomlinson’s definition is that it is both ideologically neutral— despite his applying it mainly to Trotskyists like Militant Tendency and the Chartists—and encompasses both covert and overt forms of political infiltration. Furthermore, the three objectives outlined above need not all carry the same weight at any given time, offering a way to analyze entryism as a process that can deepen, shift focus, and gain or lose momentum. As such, it serves also as a useable working definition for the present study of cases of far-right entryism in Latvia after 1991. Where Tomlinson offers a usable definition of the strategies of entryism, more recently, Alan Campbell and John McIlroy have contributed to the scholarship by commenting on the various tactics of entryism. The processes of entryism are highly situational, and are determined by the types and relations between the entering and the target organizations, as well as the ultimate, long-term goals of the entryist group. For example, is the goal to take over permanently the infiltrated organization, dissolving the original external group of the entryists in the process? Perhaps the intent is to create a network of client or front organizations that serve the interests of the original group, or alternatively, to enter the target organization, sow chaos and factionalism, then exit and benefit from the rival’s implosion. Campbell and McIlroy stress that “infiltration is a means, not an end,” and therefore the tactics of entryism chosen must fit the political agenda of the entryists.8 One of the keys to success of entryism, according to Campbell and McIlroy, is the ability of the entryists to recruit converts from within the target movement. These, who change their political allegiance whist remaining part of the target organization, are both instrumental and essential for the further recruitment of new adherents, as their native, rather than entryist, status gives them the credibility needed to convince those who would otherwise be suspicious of perceived external actors.9 Herein, I will examine in some detail two recent historical cases, and present a third, which is still ongoing. Tomlinson’s definition and Campbell and McIlroy’s notions of tactical considerations regarding process will be 7 Tomlinson, Left–Right, 64. 8 Alan Campbell and John McIlroy, “‘The Trojan Horse’: Communist Entrism in the British Labour Party, 1933–43,” Labor History 59 (2018), 514–515, doi:10.1080/0023656X.2018.1436938. 9 Campbell and McIlroy, “‘The Trojan Horse,’” 514.

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applied in order to establish that the cases are examples of entryism, and also to assess the efficacy in each instance.

Evgenii Osipov and the Russian National Unity Franchise in Latvia While much of journalistic attention over the decades since Latvia regained its independence from the USSR in 1991 has focused on the radical nationalist and extreme right movements and parties among the majority ethnic Latvian population, the scholarly literature has not ignored the existence of an ecosystem of far-right, radical nationalist ecosystem of individuals, groupings, and parties among the Russian-speaking population.10 One of the defining features of post-Soviet society in Latvia is the division into two main linguistic communities of Latvian and Russian speakers. The size and significance of the latter group—currently comprising roughly two-fifths of the population11—is a direct legacy of a half century of Soviet rule after World War II, when the central authorities in Moscow encouraged settlement from other parts of the USSR through industrialization, militarization, and other policies. These Soviet-era newcomers, whether ethnic Russians or not, predominantly ended up in schools, workplaces, and social contexts that assimilated them into a common Russophone cultural space. Furthermore, they often had little knowledge of the history, language, and society of Latvia before the Soviet conquest, which caused perennial friction with the local Latvian population, including, at times, elements with the Latvian Communist Party itself.12 By the time of the last Soviet census in 1989, there were over 900,000 ethnic Russians residing in the Latvian SSR, and the proportion of ethnic Latvians in the country had declined from around three-quarters of the population in the interwar period to just 52%.13 10 An early, and still relevant source of information on extremism amongst both the Latvian- and Russian-speaking communities in Latvia is: Nils Muižnieks, “Latvia,” in Racist Extremism in Central and Eastern Europe, ed. Cas Mudde (London and New York: Routledge, 2005), 101–128. 11 “60,8 % Latvijas iedzīvotāju dzimtā valoda ir latviešu,” press release, Centrālā statistikas pārvalde, published 2 August 2019, https://www.csb.gov.lv/lv/statistika/statistikas-temas/iedzivotaji/ meklet-tema/2747-608-latvijas-iedzivotaju-dzimta-valoda-ir-latviesu (accessed 19 August 2019). 12 See, for example, the contribution by Michael Loader in this volume. 13 Latvijas PSR Valsts statistikas komiteja, “1989. gada Vissavienības tautas skaitīšanas rezultāti: Latvijas PSR (demogrāfiskie radītāji): Statistisks biļetens” (Riga: Latvijas PSR Valsts statistikas komiteja, 1990), 6.

Gaming the System

For Russian speakers, the popular movement to restore independence in the 1980s and the sudden collapse of the USSR in 1991 was, according to David Laitin, a “double cataclysm,” leaving them a stranded—in Laitin’s words, “beached”—postimperial minority, whose members felt abandoned to their fates by Moscow in the states that (re-)emerged in the former borderlands of the Soviet Union.14 The post-Soviet legislation on citizenship excluded former Soviet nationals with no family connections to the prewar independent Latvian republic—i.e., a majority of Russian speakers—from the reconstituted body of citizens. Soviet-era migrants would instead have to apply for naturalization, initially a restrictive process. This denial of automatic citizenship rights by the restored Republic of Latvia was seen by many in the Russian-speaking community as a betrayal of promises of political inclusion made by the glasnost’-era Latvian Popular Front (Latvijas Tautas fronte) movement for independence.15 For the small but growing number of Russian nationalists, however, this was even more egregious: it was a humiliating affront to those who had previously enjoyed the position of primus inter pares and saw themselves in the role of generous benefactors to other nationalities in the multiethnic Soviet Union.16 This sense of aggrieved postimperial entitlement led to the rise of various ultranationalist groups in the Russian-speaking populations of the former Soviet Union, including neofascist groups that flirted with the heady symbolism of the very ideology that the Soviet people had made great sacrifices to defeat in World War II. One such movement that arose was Russian National Unity (Russkoe Natsional’noe Edinstvo, RNE), a Russian national socialist organization headed by Aleksandr Barkashov. Barkashov, like his namesake, Aleksandr Dugin, began his political career on the Russian far right by taking part in the milieu around Pamyat’ (Memory), a perestroika-era activist group that was a hothouse for radical nationalist, fascistic, and antisemitic ideas in the closing years of the USSR.17 Already in 1990, Barkashov had split off and formed his own group, RNE. This organization was built around fascist organizational principles, promoted racial supremacist and antisemitic ideology, and used symbols reminiscent 14 David D. Laitin, Identity in Formation: The Russian-Speaking Populations in the Near Abroad (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998). 15 David Galbreath, “The Politics of European Integration and Minority Rights in Estonia and Latvia,” Perspectives on European Politics and Society 4 (2003), 38–40, doi:10.1080/15705850308438852. 16 Cf. Walter Laqueur, Black Hundred: The Rise of the Extreme Right in Russia (New York: HarperCollins, 1993), 276–278. 17 Laqueur, Black Hundred, 210.

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of Nazism. It quickly grew to be one of the most prominent ultranationalist groups, not only in Russia, but also with branches in other parts of the post-Soviet space.18 Due to its racism and its members’ aggressive and violent tendencies, RNE was periodically banned as an extremist organization in different parts of Russia, until it dissolved into infighting factions and successor groups in the 2010s. The idea to expand RNE dates probably from around the mid-1990s. In 1995, Barkashov singled out Estonia and Latvia as states that “oppressed their Russian minorities while living on natural resources from Russia”; additionally, he saw these states as actively interfering in Russia’s internal politics, using covert methods to hinder the rise of a strong nationalist movement there and alter Russia’s defense policy and national interests.19 It should be noted that, aside from a small contingent remaining at the Skrunda radar base until 1998, Latvia had finally succeeded in negotiating a near complete withdrawal of ex-Soviet Russian military units from its territory in 1994. The head of Barkashov’s franchise in Latvia was Evgenii Osipov. Osipov was born in Aizpute, Latvia, in 1977, but grew up in Liepāja, a port city that had a large military presence in Soviet times. Despite various family ties to Latvia, both he and his parents were made noncitizens after the country regained independence, a cause of bitterness and a sense of injustice for him.20 He is known to have been involved with the aggressively anti-independence Interfront (International Front of the Working People of the Latvian SSR) around 1991.21 By his own reckoning, he joined the RNE at the age of sixteen, and claims to have become the head of the regional branch for Latvia at eighteen, i.e., around 1996,22 even though the 18 For information on the background of Barkashov and the RNE see, for example: Sven Gunnar Simonsen, “Aleksandr Barkashov and Russian National Unity: Blackshirt Friends of the Nation,” Nationalities Papers 24 (1996), 625–640, doi:10.1080/00905999608408473; and Viacheslav Likhachev, Natsizm v Rossii (Moscow: Panorama, 2002). 19 Simonsen, “Aleksandr Barkashov,” 233. 20 Elmārs Barkāns, “Jevgēņijs Osipovs: ‘Nevaru cienīt šo nāvīgi slimo valsti,’” Kasjauns.lv, 15 November 2013, https://jauns.lv/raksts/zinas/102942-jevgenijs-osipovs-nevaru-cienit-sonavigi-slimo-valsti (accessed 5 May 2020). There is, unfortunately little scholarly research on the Interfront/Intermovements of the late perestroika; for a brief discussion, see: Daunis Auers, Comparative Politics and Government of the Baltic States: Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania in the 21st Century (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 37–38 and elsewhere. 21 Illarion Girs, “Volia byt’ russkim – biografiia Osipova: Chernovik predisloviia,” blog entry, 18 May 2014, https://web.archive.org/web/20150917131116/https://illarion.lv/2014/05/18/160877/ (accessed 5 May 2020). 22 Evgenii Osipov, “O sebe,” blog entry, undated, https://eugeneosipov.wordpress.com/about/ (accessed 6 May 2020).

Gaming the System

scholarly literature only notes his appearance in the press as a local RNE “commander” from 1998.23 Thanks to Osipov and his connections with Barkashov, Liepāja became the main power base of RNE in Latvia. Their main competitor among Latvia’s Russian-speaking population was the local offshoot of Eduard Limonov’s neofascist National Bolshevik Party, headed by one of Limonov’s trusted lieutenants, Vladimir Linderman. Linderman’s natsbols established strongholds in Riga and Daugavpils, Latvia’s predominantly Russophone second city. They were also more ethnically diverse than Osipov’s white supremacist national socialists, including in their ranks members of Jewish, Romani, and Ugandan origin.24 As in Russia, where Barkashov’s and Limonov’s adherents hated one another, there was a great deal of bad blood between Osipov’s and Linderman’s followers in Latvia during the 1990s and early 2000s.25 A general overview of the ideology and activities of Osipov’s RNE group will not be presented here.26 Instead, the focus will be on entryism as a political tactic adopted by Osipov to reach particular goals. For almost any political movement, a key achievement is the registration of a legally recognized public entity. This not only allows a party or organization the legal personhood required to operate openly and effectively in the public sphere, for example, by being able to enter into a contract or exercise a number of legal rights, it also bestows a certain legitimacy as an actor in the public sphere. Much of Osipov’s political career since the 1990s has been devoted to securing a legally registered organization as a vehicle for promoting his political ideals. Two key obstacles stood in the way of achieving this. Firstly, as a noncitizen, Osipov (like many of his followers), was excluded from certain political activities, including being able to vote or stand as a candidate, making the founding of a viable political party difficult. Secondly, because of their extremist ideology, links to Barkashov’s group in Russia, the prosecutions for crimes of several members, and the paramilitary style of much of their activity (promoting martial arts training, shooting practice, and organizing 23 Muižnieks, “Latvia,” 111. Girs, “Volia,” shows a photo of Osipov’s RNE membership card that designates him as “rukovoditel’ regional’noi organizatsii RNE,” but the date of issue is 19 December 1998. 24 Matthew Kott, “Antisemitism in Contemporary Latvia: At the Nexus of Competing Nationalisms and a Securitizing State,” Antisemitism Studies 2 (2018), 52, doi:10.2979/antistud.2.1.03. 25 Muižnieks, “Latvia,” 116. For the animosity between these groups in Russia, see Likhachev, Natsizm. 26 For this, see, Muižnieks, “Latvia,” and Kott, “Antisemitism.”

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war games), they earned themselves scrutiny from Latvia’s law enforcement bodies.27 Combined, these two factors meant that, from the beginning it was not possible for Osipov to register his RNE offshoot as a political party in Latvia. Therefore, the RNE in Latvia initially sought to legalize itself using the tactic of a front organization. In August 1999, Osipov tried to register a sociocultural organization under the name Kolovrat, a supposedly ancient Slavic swastika-like symbol adopted by Barkashov as his party emblem. As Nils Muižnieks wrote, the Ministry of Justice rejected the application for registration “based on the criminal past of three of the founders, the unconstitutional nature of the statutes, and the unclear procedure for electing a board.”28 Later, in July 2001, the Ministry of Justice rejected a second attempt to register an RNE front as an NGO, a decision that was upheld by the courts when Osipov’s group lodged a legal challenge.29 A different tactic tried was collaborating with other parties in semi-formal electoral bloc. Osipov tried this at the local level in 2001, when two RNE activists ran as candidates on the ticket of the small but not insignificant Russian Party (Krievu partija) for the elections to Liepāja City Council. No seats were won, however.30 Another option open to Osipov was to infiltrate and take over an existing party using entryist tactics. In 2002, Osipov saw an opportunity and seized it. The chosen host for the RNE to parasitize was the Latvian National Democratic Party (Latvijas Nacionāli demokrātiskā partija, LNDP). Formed in 1991, it was headed by Armands Māliņš, born in 1962.31 Māliņš became radicalized in the struggle for independence: the late 1980s, he was fired from the militsiia, the Soviet-era police force, for trying to form a Popular Front 27 Muižnieks, “Latvia,” 112–113. 28 Muižnieks, “Latvia,” 113. 29 Muižnieks, “Latvia,” 113. 30 Muižnieks, “Latvia,” 121. The roots of the Russian Party stretch back to 1989, when it was founded as the Democratic Initiative Center (Demokrātiskās iniciatīvas centrs). Over the years, this party had won representation in Riga City Council and the national parliament, often in coalition with other post-Communist, prominority parties such as For Human Rights in a United Latvia (Par cilvēka tiesībām vienotā Latvijā) or the Socialist Party of Latvia (Latvijas Sociālistiskā partija). This made it a minor, but legitimate political actor. Hence, one is inclined to agree with the assessment of Muižnieks when he notes, “The willingness of an ostensible mainstream party to include extremists on its electoral lists is of some concern” (Muižnieks, “Latvia,” 121). The problem of extremists being included as candidates of mainstream parties is not, however, exclusive to the Russian Party, or even pro-Russian parties, in Latvia, as can be seen from the contributions to the present volume. 31 Latvijas Nacionāli demokrātiskā partija (LNDP), “Priekšvēlēšanu programma,” Latvijas Vēstnesis, 10 September 1998, https://www.vestnesis.lv/ta/id/49674 (accessed 5 May 2020).

Gaming the System

group at his workplace. This made him a cause célèbre, with the influential TV program Labvakar even devoting a segment to his case. Māliņš later drifted to a more radical position, founding the LNDP and creating the street fighters of the National Guard (Nacionālā gvarde). In an interview in 1992, Māliņš, described as a leading national radical in the country, felt the need to say that the LNDP as a party was against “implementing the ideas of national socialism.”32 By 2002, however, LNDP had become, in the words of Muižnieks, “a moribund, tiny right-wing populist groupuscule.”33 Nevertheless, it was still officially a registered political party. Osipov saw his opportunity to legalize the RNE in Latvia through an entryist takeover of the floundering LNDP. Although the RNE and LNDP occupied polar opposite positions of the ethnic political divide in Latvia, they had several ideological common denominators that made entryism a more feasible prospect. For example, Māliņš shared the antisemitism and homophobia of the RNE members.34 Another factor that may have made cooperation with Osipov’s group attractive for Māliņš was that of demographics: his own dwindling party membership was predominantly older, while the Barkashovites from Liepāja were almost all in their teens and twenties. In May 2002, it was reported in the Latvian media that about a hundred of Osipov’s followers had joined the LNDP, which had about 1,500 members at the time. During the party congress of the LNDP, this activist core had Osipov elected chairman of the party, with Māliņš being sidelined as head of the internal disciplinary court of honor. In Māliņš’s words, the Barkashovites were not like the others that claimed to speak in the name of the Russian population, who were former communists or only “Russian” in quotation marks (an unsubtle nod to the Jewish background of prominent Russophone politicians like Boriss Cilēvičs or Tatiana Zhdanok). Māliņš looked forward to the unification of ethnic “Russian and Latvian patriots against the existing system,” which included being anti-EU, anti-NATO, antiglobalization, and antisemitic.35 32 Raitis Puriņš, “Radikālis Armands Māliņš,” Neatkarīgā Cīņa, 12 June 1992. 33 Muižnieks, “Latvia,” 113. Groupuscule in fascist studies is a term popularized by Roger Griffin in describing the ever-changing tiny post–World War II far-right outfits: Roger Griffin, “From Slime Mould to Rhizome: An Introduction to the Groupuscular Right,” Patterns of Prejudice 37 (2003), 27–50. 34 Muižnieks, “Latvia,” 113. 35 Ilze Jaunalksne, “Aptuveni 100 barkašoviešu kļūst par Nacionāli demokrātiskās partijas biedriem,” TVNET, 29 May 2002, https://www.tvnet.lv/6298471/aptuveni-100-barkasoviesuklust-par-nacionali-demokratiskas-partijas-biedriem (accessed 18 February 2020).

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This successful entryist coup was not entirely uncontested, though. Political rivals from the Latvian nationalist TB/LNNK party urged the Latvian authorities to ban the LNDP as a hate group following the election of Osipov as leader. Osipov’s wry reply was that the TB/LNNK was simply afraid of stiff competition from a rejuvenated LNDP.36 Regardless, the congress in May was declared invalid, so the Osipov faction hastily organized an extraordinary congress in July. This time it was held in a suburb of Liepāja, with only about 20 members in attendance, some of them newly registered members. Osipov was once again elected party leader. An anti-EU party program was adopted, as was a new party salute. Māliņš was quoted as describing the latter for a journalist as follows: “This is an ancient Aryan greeting, which brings man closer to God. This salute stands for the superiority of the spirit over material values.” At the same time, Māliņš expressed somewhat less enthusiasm about the unified radical movement than before. The Barkashovites’ newly legalized status, however, also gave the Latvian authorities easier opportunity to take repressive measures against them, with Osipov and a handful of others being detained by police immediately after the congress.37 Māliņš’s misgivings probably grew along with the realization that he had been a patsy. Osipov’s faction soon took complete control of the LNDP, making it an RNE franchise in all but name. The party’s power base shifted to Liepāja, and a Barkashovite agenda became the official party platform. At some point, the official party website shifted its domain from www.lndp.lv to www.aryan.lv, underlining the shift to a more explicitly national socialist ideological foundation, one that, in its anti-immigration rhetoric (ironic for a party mainly composed of descendants of Soviet-era immigrants to Latvia), foreshadowed the “white genocide” conspiracy theory that would become more prominent in far-right circles the mid-2010s.38 Outside observers were somewhat surprised by the rapid takeover of LNDP by Osipov, even if the underlying intention was to create a legal 36 “Aicina izbeigt barkašoviešus uzņēmušās Nacionāli demokrātiskās partijas darbību,” TVNET, 31 May 2002, https://www.tvnet.lv/6297343/aicina-izbeigt-barkasoviesus-uznemusas-nacionalidemokratiskas-partijas-darbibu (accessed 18 February 2020). The lodgers of the complaint from TB/LNNK, however, seem not to have all their political opponents’ identities straight, as they also referred to Osipov’s RNE as “national Bolsheviks.” 37 Ilze Jaunalksne, “Barkašoviešu bijušais līderis oficiāli iecelts par LNDP priekšsēdētāju,” TVNET, 13 July 2002, https://www.tvnet.lv/6277576/barkasoviesu-bijusais-lideris-oficiali-ieceltspar-lndp-priekssedetaju (accessed 18 February 2020). The “ancient Aryan greeting” is, of course, the fascist salute. Osipov has been photographed in the media publically giving the straight-arm salute (for example, after serving a minor prison sentence in 2004), and such images of him in other contexts doing the same still circulate on the Internet. 38 Kott, “Antisemitism,” 53.

Gaming the System

platform for RNE in Latvia. At the time, political scientist Nils Muižnieks called the apparent joining of two radical organizations “a marriage of convenience,” but also noted that the competing nationalisms of the two groups could cause friction. The head of the Security Police, Jānis Reiniks, noted that, despite that Osipov as a noncitizen was disqualified from standing for election, this would not prevent LNDP from becoming a vehicle for the Barkashovites to try to realize their political agenda in the country.39 One example of this was to organize resistance to the 2004 education reforms that would increase the role of the official Latvian language in the publicly funded Russian-language school system. Osipov became a prominent figure in the so-called HQ for the Defense of Russian Schools (Shtab zashchity russkikh shkol), organizing large local demonstrations in Liepāja. Māliņš, still with a marginal role in the party, expressed his unease at being associated with Osipov, and opening himself to accusations of betraying the Latvian people. Osipov claimed to understand, and said that he tried to disassociate his activities with the HQ from his role in LNDP, but whether this was true or not is dubious.40 This skepticism is grounded in the fact that Osipov increasingly identified the party brand with his own. After a renewal of the LNDP’s registration as a party was rejected on suspicion that some signatures on the documentation had been forged, a founding congress of the new incarnation of the party, now to be known matter-of-factly as Osipov’s Party (Osipova partija) was held in Liepāja in September 2008.41 This party contested European Parliament, national, and municipal elections, and in 2009, even gained one deputy, Elita Kosaka, on Liepāja City Council.42 This eponymous party proved, however, unable to satisfy Osipov’s needs for promoting radical Russian ethnopolitics in Latvia. In 2011, he 39 “Nacinālboļševiki [sic] legalizējas,” Latvija Amerikā, 8 June 2002. 40 Igor’ Meiden, “Evgenii Osipov: ‘Provokatory otvetiat!,’” Delfi, 8 July 2004, https://rus.delfi. lv/archive/evgenij-osipov-provokatory-otvetyat.d?id=8577066&all=true (accessed 7 May 2020). 41 LETA, “Dibināta jauna politiskā apvienība ‘Osipova partija,’” Delfi, 29 September 2008, https://www.delfi.lv/news/national/politics/dibinata-jauna-politiska-apvieniba-osipovapartija.d?id=22058006 (accessed 13 May 2020). Osipov’s friend, Russian rights activist Illarion Girs, presents the reboot of the party under a new name as instead being connected with language and identity issues, namely, so that the Russian community would be recognized as cofounding nation of Latvia, and that Russian would be recognized as co-official state language: Girs, “Volia.” Why this would require the reregistration of the party under a new name remains unclear. 42 Kosaka’s political background was not with the Barkashovite RNE, however. A lawyer by profession, she had previously represented the pro-minorities People’s Harmony Party (Tautas Saskaņas partija), and afterwards switched to the pro-Russian party For Human Rights in a United Latvia, since 2014 known as the Latvian Russian Union (Latvijas Krievu savienība).

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joined forces with his erstwhile rival, the National Bolshevik Linderman, to spearhead a campaign for a constitutional referendum on making Russian co-official language in Latvia. The referendum, held in 2012, was defeated, but Osipov went so far as to leave his own party to join Linderman’s instead, then known as ZaRYa (Za rodnoi yazyk!). Thereafter Osipov’s Party atrophied, and was officially declared liquidated by Liepāja District Court in March 2015.43 Osipov’s own characterization of his successful entryist takeover of LNDP has been relatively consistent over the years. During his time as a leading ZaRYa activist around 2014, he described the action in this way: In 2002, I legalized the youth Russian movement I led though a “hostile takeover” [“reiderstkogo” zakhvata] of the Latvian National Democratic Party (LNDP), radically replacing its leadership with supporters from RNE in Latvia, and joined the active struggle for Russian schools. Originally, LNDP was an organization of ardent Latvian neo-Nazism, of which nothing remained after my takeover …. LNDP was eventually banned shortly before the municipal elections in 2009, so we quickly had to register a new party, named for recognition purposes using my surname, which in the first elections earned us the support of 6% of Liepāja’s inhabitants.44 After several years away from the limelight of radical politics, Osipov recently gave an interview for the Russia-owned portal Sputnik News. Here he is described as still feeling proud to have “wrapped [Māliņš] around his finger”, whom Osipov described as “an ardent Latvian nationalist, who somehow managed to gain a seat on Riga City Council,” implying an unflattering assessment of the abilities of the founding leader of the LNDP. “We basically captured the LNDP. I spent two months convincing Māliņš that the unity of Aryans worldwide is strong. I could have believed it myself a little more. I persuaded him: ‘Come on, we need to unite the Latvian and Russian patriots, we will fight together against global plutocracy, it will be something new.’ He believed me, and one day I brought in a hundred-plus people, and at the congress we just 43 LETA, “Likvidēta Jevgeņija Osipova pārstāvētā partija,” Delfi, 13 March 2015, https://www. delfi.lv/news/national/politics/likvideta-jevgenija-osipova-parstaveta-partija.d?id=45688864 (accessed 5 May 2020). Cf. Osipov, “O sebe.” 44 Osipov, “O sebe.”

Gaming the System

staged a coup—changed the charter, symbols, statutes, the whole program. And anyone deemed surplus to the party was thrown out,” Osipov recalls.45 Soon thereafter, said Osipov, “the deception was revealed.”46 Even if Osipov, with the help of his fellow activist Illarion Girs and Russian state-backed media outlets like Sputnik, has been trying for years to downplay the extremist ideological nature of his involvement with RNE (Osipov’s speeches published on his party website, www.aryan.lv, belie his claims in the quote above to have not believed in Aryan racial supremacy),47 the overall narrative here appears to offer a textbook example of far-right entryism. Osipov orchestrated an influx of his group’s members into a slightly less radical, but established political party, with the goal of taking over executive control and altering the political agenda by 180 degrees, from Latvian radical ethnonationalism to Russian national socialism. Achieving this solved the long-standing problem of the Latvian authorities blocking the legalization of RNE’s political activities, and, despite the ignominious end for his eponymous party in 2015, provided Osipov a public platform for his political ideas and ambitions for a decade.

All for Latvia! and the Re-radicalization of Mainstream Latvian Nationalism Politics in post-Soviet Latvia has been characterized by an ethnic divide, with “Latvian” parties and organizations on the one side, and those labeled as “Russian” on the other. This is not to say that “Latvian” parties have not attracted minority voters, nor that they have not elected minority members as representatives in parliament or government; it is simply that “Latvian” parties, whether explicitly nationalist or not, tend to take the perspective of the majority Latvian population as the norm. Similarly, even if “Russian” parties, such as Harmony (Saskaņa), have usually had a number of ethnic 45 Aleksei Stefanov, “‘Za sebia ne ruchaius’’: buntar’ Osipov o protestakh, shprotakh, flagakh i russkikh Latvii,” Sputnik, 30 April 2020, https://lv.sputniknews.ru/Latvia/20200430/13649294/ Za-sebya-ne-ruchayus-buntar-Osipov-o-protestakh-shprotakh-flagakh-i-russkikh-Latvii.html (accessed 13 May 2020). 46 Stefanov, “Za sebia.” 47 Cf. Kott, “Antisemitism,” 53.

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Latvians as prominent members, their political agendas have focused on addressing the concerns of society’s minorities, which is almost exclusively equated with native Russian speakers, regardless of ethnicity. The explicit nationalists in both of these camps represent therefore opposite ends of an ethnified political spectrum in post-Soviet Latvia. Indeed, this is why the previous example of the LNDP being hijacked by the RNE is so spectacular, in that Russian ultranationalists targeted a Latvian radical nationalist party for entryism, and succeeded. The second case to be examined, that of All for Latvia! (Visu Latvijai!, VL!) merging with the more established TB/LNNK, is therefore more standard, in that it involves nationalist actors on the same side of the ethnic divide. What is, however, more controversial is the hypothesis that this also represented an example of far-right entryism. While, as hinted above, most of the mainstream “Latvian” parties have encoded into them a certain amount of Latvian nationalism—the statebuilding and state-legitimizing aspect of nationalism was a key component of the interwar Republic of Latvia, with which Latvia today claims unbroken legal continuity—few of them make Latvian nationalism a central pillar of their political platforms. Some of the mainstream parties help to normalize populist radical right ideas by tolerating individual members who hold and publicly express more radical nationalist positions, as demonstrated by Daunis Auers elsewhere in this volume. Nevertheless, these ideas and agendas are generally confined to the more explicitly nationalist parties and groupings on what can be described as the nationalist flank. In the post-Soviet period in Latvia’s politics, this flank has exhibited two main characteristics. On the one hand, it is a fractious, ever-changing networked milieu, where groups appear, grow, merge, split, and dissolve constantly, although many of the key individuals acting as catalysts for these fluctuating groupuscules remain active for long periods.48 On the other hand, one group has persisted throughout the whole period of the 1990s and 2000s, its roots in the perestroika-era independence struggle giving it a legitimacy enjoyed by few others. As a political party, it has also been the predominant representative of the nationalist flank in the political mainstream, having produced parliamentarians, city councilors, mayors, ministers, and even a head of government. This nationalist party of the establishment was TB/LNNK. 48 Muižnieks, “Latvia,” gives a partial overview of this situation, albeit somewhat dated, and mainly focusing on extremist groups.

Gaming the System

The Latvian National Independence Movement (Latvijas Nacionālā Neatkarības Kustība, LNNK) was a political organization that represented a more nationalist platform than the Latvian Popular Front during the struggle for regained independence from the USSR. One of LNNK’s leaders was Eduards Berklavs, who, as already described in this volume, had been purged as a leading national communist during the Khrushchev era, but successfully rebranded himself as a popular nationalist figurehead in the 1980s. The LNNK’s nationalism was, however, tactically pragmatic, in that it took part in the 1990 elections to the Latvian SSR Supreme Soviet. The new legislative session, controlled by the victorious electoral bloc of the Popular Front, LNNK, and Greens, adopted the declaration on the restoration of Latvia’s independence on 4 May of that year. After full independence and sovereignty were restored in 1991, LNNK severed its cooperation with the remnants of the Popular Front, maneuvering itself into becoming the main nationalist party in parliament. A more radical nationalist position during the last years of the USSR was held by the Citizens’ Congress, an organization that completely rejected the legitimacy of all Soviet-era power structures in favor of the continuity of the sovereign, but occupied, prewar Republic of Latvia. This stance led to the Citizens’ Congress trying to build parallel power structures, rather than fielding candidates to the de facto institutions that ruled the country in 1990, resulting in marginalization.49 As such, political parties only emerged out the Citizens’ Congress after 1991. Most of these were small, marginal outfits, but two of these eventually merged to form For Fatherland and Freedom (Tēvzemei un Brīvībai, TB), which entered the Saeima (parliament) in 1993 as a smaller faction politically to the right of LNNK. In 1995, LNNK and TB began to cooperate in an electoral bloc, and in 1997, the two parties merged to form TB/LNNK. Thereafter, it was the mainstay of national conservative politics in Latvia for a decade to come, participating in government coalitions during much of this time. Guntars Krasts from TB/LNNK was prime minister of Latvia from 1997 to 1998. Since 2004, Roberts Zīle served as an MEP for Latvia; from 2009 he has sat with the European Conservatives and Reformists group, along with, among others, the UK Conservative Party. By 2010, in the aftermath of the global financial crisis that hit Latvia particularly hard, TB/LNNK was looking like a rather tired political force. Its years in government coalitions dampened its identity-driven 49 Muižnieks, “Latvia,” 103.

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politics—reappearing occasionally as campaign sloganeering in election years—as the main political focus for TB/LNNK shifted to promoting generally conservative economic policy. This created an opportunity, for which Raivis Dzintars and his followers had been waiting. Raivis Dzintars was born in 1982 in Riga.50 While still at secondary school, he became politically active, laying the foundation for what became VL! He had tried to join the youth wing of TB/LNNK, but was too young.51 According to his autobiography, by then Dzintars already felt “that two nationalist parties was too many. There is [TB/LNNK]. Sure, not everything there is agreeable, but for precisely that reason, one must join up and try to give it a second wind!”52 It was made clear that Dzintars was not welcome for a variety of reasons, age likely only being an excuse. With some degree of understanding, he appreciates how TB/LNNK, which he describes as a “tired organization at the time” (“tobrīd pārgurušajā organizācijā”), did not take kindly to pushy young firebrands who wanted to stir things up. Creating VL! as a separate political organization was thus not an end in itself; it was done, Dzintars states, out of necessity, as a means to an end. And that end was always a single, strong nationalist party.53 From the outset, then, VL! was essentially to be a vehicle for entryism, with the goal being to rejuvenate—that is, re-radicalize—TB/LNNK. In the common perception, however, VL! is often seen as just another upstart in the constantly shifting of far-right Latvian nationalist parties and organizations at the time. Other such youth-based radical groups, who found TB/LNNK’s drift toward mainstream conservatism unsatisfying, had arisen before, the most significant of these being Klubs 415, founded in 1995.54 VL! made its first public appearance with a small demonstration on 1 October 2000, which caused a media stir.55 From this time onwards, VL! sought to impact public opinion through political actions that attracted a lot of public attention, both positive and negative, for their radical symbolism and messages, such as torch-lit marches on commemorative national days. 50 Raivis Dzintars, Ceturtā atmoda, 2nd printing ([Riga]: n.p., [2010]), 106. 51 Raivis Dzintars, Pozitīvais nacionālisms: jeb, Atbilde cinisma un neticības laikam (Riga: JLV, 2009), 118–121; the same text is reprinted in: Dzintars, Ceturtā, 83–85. 52 Raivis Dzintars, Dzīvot valstij (Riga: Domas spēks, 2018), 15. 53 Dzintars, Dzīvot, 15. 54 This group still exists today, albeit under the new name Latvian Nationalists’ Club (Latviešu nacionālistu klubs), which creates associations back to an important proto-fascist interwar organization with almost the same name. See the contribution by Oppermann in this volume on the LNK of the 1920s. 55 Dzintars, Pozitīvais, 121.

Gaming the System

The most successful, and provocative, of these actions was that arranged on 8 February 2007, protesting against the ratification in parliament of the border treaty with Russia. The provisions of the treaty—which had taken years to negotiate as Russia tried to use it to stall Latvia’s accession to the EU and NATO—acknowledged territorial changes in Russia’s favor made during the USSR. For VL!’s activists, this giveaway of Latvian territory amounted to treason. Standing in sub-zero temperatures with the bleeding names of Latvian towns emblazoned on their chests, they once again pulled off a public relations coup that earned them an enormous amount of goodwill even in relatively moderate nationalist circles.56 The path to popular recognition was not, however, easy for VL! Mistakes were sometimes made that cost their reputation dearly. In late 2002, Dzintars was forced to reboot the organization, purging some of the members who were causing trouble. It would no longer be a youth organization, but be open to all patriotic citizens of Latvia who shared VL!’s goals. Radical public actions would be toned down, and Dzintars was forced to declare that VL! did not tolerate or promote hate speech and ethnic supremacism. Furthermore, the organization would be nonpartisan in the political sphere.57 This latter point would warrant future research: Did members not share Dzintars’s entryist ambitions towards TB/LNNK, or had there been attempted entryism by other radical organizations made on VL!? Another major blunder was self-inflected by Dzintars in 2004, when in parallel to his university studies, he began working as a journalist for Latvijas Avīze, a national newspaper with a nationalist editorial line. Dzintars admits to have at times “been on the edge of extremism” (“esmu bijis uz ekstrēmisma robežas”). One such time was when he traveled to Liepāja to meet with Osipov, ostensibly to know his enemy on the issue of Latvia’s “decolonization” from Russians. Photographs from this session later surfaced in the media and on the Internet, portraying the meeting in a different light. Dzintars called this a provocation by erstwhile friends who later betrayed his trust.58 These images clearly show Osipov and Dzintars, each with a shaven head and their party insignia on an armband, interacting, smiling: the atmosphere is more of mutual recognition than a confrontation 56 Photos from this event can be found, for example, in Dzintars, Dzīvot, and Dzintars, Pozitīvais, as well as on the Internet. The visual language of this iconic VL! demonstration is strangely similar to the topless protest style of the Ukrainian women’s movement FEMEN, which emerged a year later. 57 LETA, “Visu Latvijai!,” Austrālijas Latvietis, 6 November 2002. 58 Dzintars, Pozitīvais, 122.

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of opposites. On one photo, Dzintars stands, half smirking, beside Osipov, who gives his party’s “Aryan” salute.59 These pictures would repeatedly come back to haunt him, as when they were used in negative campaign advertisements during the 2011 extraordinary parliamentary elections.60 VL! registered as a political party in 2006, running in competition with TB/LNNK for the nationalist vote in several parliamentary, municipal, and European elections. Dzintars claims that this was a gamble: if VL! could prove itself to be a serious rival, then maybe they could force the hand of TB/LNNK and get them to merge. He betrays his own adherence to the original entryist idea of VL!, however, when he writes, You cannot gain new party members by orienting them towards merging with another party. You have to create an independent organization that prepares for taking power itself. That means that many members are not interested in amalgamation at all. They want to win over [TB/ LNNK] and get into parliament on their own merits.61 The dilemma for Dzintars was that VL! had to grow strong as an independent party, so as to be able to leverage a merger with TB/LNNK, but not grow so strong that its members actually believed in the party’s future as an autonomous political actor. VL! had difficulty turning the goodwill it earned among mainstream nationalists into the political capital it needed to pose a real threat to TB/LNNK’s hegemonic position as the party of Latvian nationalism. Luckily for Dzintars, TB/LNNK’s own declining fortunes solved this problem for him. The threshold for parliamentary elections in Latvia is 5%; parties which get fewer votes than this do not get any seats at all. In the run up to the 2010 elections, both VL! and TB/LNNK were both polling 2.2%; well below the cutoff for each, but together they could stand a chance, if they could gain momentum from the synergies created.62 As Dzintars describes it, there was still strong resistance form the old guard of the TB/LNNK apparatus 59 These pictures can be found at various places around the Internet, for example: Nikolai Urusov, “Novyi sorukovoditel’ gazety Diena prizyvaet vkliuchit’ Tsentr soglasiia v pravitel’stvo i prognat’ neonatsistov ‘Vsë dlia Latvii,’” Kompromat.lv, 13 October 2010, https://www.kompromat. lv/item.php?docid=readn&id=6289 (accessed 15 May 2020). 60 LETA, “Rīgā parādījušās plakāti, kuros Dzintars redzams kopā ar Osipovu,” Delfi, 13 October 2011, https://www.delfi.lv/novados/riga/zinas/riga-paradijusas-plakati-kuros-dzintarsredzams-kopa-ar-osipovu.d?id=41170439 (accessed 15 May 2020). 61 Dzintars, Dzīvot, 15–16. 62 Dzintars, Dzīvot, 16.

Gaming the System

against an outright merger, so they ran instead as an electoral bloc under the name National Alliance (Nacionālā apvienība, NA). In the run up to the formation of NA was when the entryism began in earnest. Dzintars says they had been cultivating contacts with TB/LNNK members who sympathized with VL! for some time already. This included those who were ready to become VL! members instead, and those within TB/LNNK who, while loyal to their own party, nonetheless supported VL!—many of them who Dzintars says held key positions within the TB/ LNNK party apparatus. “I admit,” he writes, “that attracting such persons meant to some extent promoting schism, but it served as a good way to increase [TB/LNNK members’] motivation to unite. The aim was noble, which is why I did not refuse [people switching party allegiance].”63 Dzintars explains that he even orchestrated a ruse: members of TB/LNNK who sympathized with VL!, but did not actually wish to change sides, were willing to pretend to their fellow party members that they would do so, if the two parties were not merged. Several prominent members were apparently willing to give this impression, which Dzintars describes as the turning point in the unification process. A presumptive press release threatening that certain members would leave TB/LNNK was even prepared as part of VL!’s strong-arm negotiating tactics. The deception worked, and the TB/LNNK leadership agreed to form the NA as an electoral bloc.64 Those members of TB/LNNK who were against the merger, not convinced that VL! had good, collegial intentions, left the party.65 In the 2010 elections, NA won 7.67% of the vote, which translated into eight seats.66 Of those elected for NA, six were VL! members (including Dzintars), while only two were from TB/LNNK. The momentum was clearly in favor of VL!, and the process of subverting the former nationalist flagship party, TB/ LNNK, continued. Dzintars’s original entryist vision was finally achieved when VL! and TB/LNNK fully merged in 2013, with NA as the single unified party.67 It could, however, be argued that this is not an example of successful entryism, but instead a normal process of ideologically similar parties consolidating in a parliamentary system based on proportional representation. 63 Dzintars, Dzīvot, 16–17. 64 Dzintars, Dzīvot, 17–18. 65 Dzintars, Dzīvot, 18–19. 66 “CVK apstiprina oficiālos 10. Saeimas vēlēšanu rezultātus,” Delfi, 19 October 2010, https://www.delfi.lv/news/national/politics/cvk-apstiprina-oficialos-10saeimas-velesanurezultatus.d?id=34713421 (accessed 15 May 2020). 67 “Nacionālās apvienības 3. kongress,” NA official website, 10 December 2013, https://www. nacionalaapvieniba.lv/aktualitate/nacionalas-apvienibas-3-kongress/ (accessed 15 May 2020).

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After all, the evidence presented above is from Dzintars’s own words, much of it published in 2018. Dzintars certainly has an interest in shaping the historical narrative of the rise of VL! and the creation of NA, so one would need to corroborate the entryist aspects from another inside source, preferably contemporary to the events surround the 2010 formation of NA. In November 2019, news broke that archived materials from the chat forums of the then defunct neo-Nazi website Iron March had been leaked on the Internet by an anonymous antifascist activist hacker. Founded in 2011, over several years, it became a significant online meeting point for national socialists, fascists, and other radical nationalist extremists from around the world. Some of its members have been linked to violent terrorist groups.68 One of those whose name turned up in the Iron March dump was Raivis Zeltīts, secretary general of NA. Zeltīts was born in 1992 in Riga. In 2011, he joined VL! and from 2014 he has served in the leadership of NA as a member of the party board, as secretary general, and as head of the NA youth organization.69 In April 2012, however, he was an active member of Iron March, with the user name Latvian_Integralist. In a post that has been preserved he wrote to one of the forum moderators, Benjamin Raymond, asking him to go back and edit out parts of comments he had posted earlier70: Hello Benjamin. About that post, where you quoted my letter. Could you delete some fragments from it, because some of those things shouldn’t go public. It is not the Ironmarch users that I’m worried about, but our party have had some experience when media takes something out of the context and makes big deal out of it. We are now very careful about our public image, because one mistake is all what the media needs. I have responsibility for my party not to do anything that would harm our image. These are the things that are little dangerous and I would be grateful if you would take them out: 68 Jason Wilson, “Leak from Neo-Nazi Site Could Identify Hundreds of Extremists Worldwide,” The Guardian, 7 November 2019, https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2019/nov/07/neo-nazisite-iron-march-materials-leak (accessed 15 May 2020). 69 Raivis Zeltīts, Par nacionālo valsti: Jaunais nacionālisms 21. gadsimta Latvijai (Riga: Domas spēks, 2017), 13. 70 Eng.lsm.lv, “Senior National Alliance Figure Apologises for ‘Cloud’ of Far-Right Messages,” LSM.lv, 12 November 2019, https://eng.lsm.lv/article/politics/politics/senior-national-alliancefigure-apologises-for-cloud-of-far-right-messages.a338044/ (accessed 15 May 2020).

Gaming the System

“Now we have became more “friendly” to masses.” This just sounds too cynical. “In this election our approach was like I said “friendly to masses.”” This also. “Many of them are not nationalists, just patriotic people, but it helps for our public image (as we are often portrayed as fascists—like it’s a bad thing!).” “At that time TB/LNNK had lost all its influence and we pretty much control our coalition. Corrupt politicians had to leave and when we will make a single party (in this autumn) it basically will be liquidation of old TB/LNNK. I predict that name and symbolism of united party will be ours.” Right now we are deciding about the new name and symbolism, propably [sic] It will be like I said, but In my letter I am too opened about it. “Some in the party leadership say that we should start a mass movement for 4th national awakening (it’s also title of one of R. Dzintars books [i.e., Ceturtā atmoda]), where our party would be political wing of the movement, but there would also be choirs, sport clubs, paramilitary and other civic organizations committed to our goal – Latvia for Latvians. That’s also what I would like to see.” These plans definitely shouldn’t be known publicly “Our liberal wing and radical wing often work on their own, instead just of being the different expressions of same spirit.” Public doesn’t need to know about our inner weaknesses. “We cannot destroy the system, because it would be in the interests of Russians.” They would love to see that we even a consider possibility to destroy the system [emoji] I think without these things the meaning is still there and people get the idea what we are about. The rest is ok. Thank you, Raivis Z.71 Even though Zeltīts is a relatively new member of VL!, he seems privy to the entryist strategy, and views his party as not only more radical, but also 71 Message ID 1158, 1 April 2012, core_message_posts.csv, Iron March SQL Database, November 2019. Cf. Eng.lsm.lv, “Senior.” I am indebted to Rikard von Sydow for helping me access the .csv files from the leaked dump.

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likely to completely subsume the “old TB/LNNK.” Yet, concerned that he might have said too much on a forum that could have been infiltrated by journalists or antifascists, he wants these things redacted: as he says, “These plans definitely shouldn’t be known publicly.” Zeltīts’s participation on the Iron March forums, like his user name, Latvian_Integralist, imply a strong affinity for fascism at this point. Indeed, in his 2017 book on “new nationalism,” he admits, “At times I came close to more radical interpretations of nationalism.”72 Like Dzintars, Zeltīts tries to downplay his youthful flirtation with fascism, as if it was not related to the ideology underpinning VL! The message quoted above makes it clear that fascism was not very far removed from the VL! worldview in 2012. Furthermore, despite his claims in 2019 he left fascist and extremist milieus behind him as he matured, this was not the case. The aforementioned Iron March moderator, Benjamin Raymond, was also leader of the British neo-Nazi organization National Action, which the UK authorities have classed as a terrorist group. In the Latvian media, it was reported that in 2015, Raymond had visited the NA offices in Latvia, where Zeltīts was now not just a young activist, but the party secretary general.73 Today, Zeltīts also runs a website that was until recently called The New Nationalism, which offered a platform for radical ultranationalists from other countries, such as the neo-Nazi Nordisk Ungdom in Sweden and the militaristic nationalist Azov movement in Ukraine.74 Taken together, the evidence would suggest that Dzintars’s plan all along was to build up VL! as an entryist organization whose primary purpose was to subvert and re-radicalize TB/LNNK, thereby taking over the mantle as the main nationalist political party in Latvian politics. The fact that the NA leadership is now dominated not only by the founding wave of VL! members like Dzintars, but also younger, ambitious activists like Zeltīts, who had joined VL! at a much later stage, is testimony to the success of the entryist maneuver. The rapid rise of Zeltīts, however, should also signal a warning to Dzintars. Zeltīts represents another wave of youth-based radical nationalism, 72 Zeltīts, Par nacionālo, 15. 73 Māris Krautmanis, “Raivis Zeltīts: Pastāv cerība nomainīt varu Rīgā uz visiem laikiem,” nra.lv, 2 March 2020, https://nra.lv/latvija/riga/306411-raivis-zeltits-pastav-ceriba-nomainitvaru-riga-uz-visiem-laikiem.htm (accessed 15 May 2020). 74 The website recently rebranded itself as The New Promethism, strengthening the focus on the concept of Intermarium, which has increasingly preoccupied Zeltīts and other ultranationalists in Central and Eastern Europe in recent years.

Gaming the System

identitarianism. The identitarian movement arose in Germany, France, and other western European countries in the early 2010s among the disenchanted Internet generation. One of its front figures and ideologues was Markus Willinger, a German born the same year as Zeltīts, in 1992.75 Identitarianism is a transnational movement of the “alternative” far right, and the growing body of scholarship has already identified Zeltīts as one of the key promoters of this ideological strand in Latvia.76 As the old guard of VL! like Dzintars enjoy their success at the expense of TB/LNNK, they might do well to be on the lookout for attempts by the identitarians that Zeltīts associates himself with to try to further radicalize NA’s politics though their own entryist strategy.

Conclusion Two examples from Latvia have been used to illustrate the phenomenon of far-right entryism. In the first case, one movement infiltrated and subverted an existing party in order to gain legal status for its activities. In the second case, entryism was used by a more radical group to infiltrate, subvert, and take over the voter base and prestige of an older, more established, but waning incumbent, with the goal of putting more radical nationalist politics back on the agenda. In both cases, “infiltration is a means, not an end,” as per Campbell and McIlroy’s definition of entryist strategy. Both cases also involved a combination of covert and overt tactics and rhetoric, so that the target of entryism was wrong-footed and outmaneuvered, and converts and abettors from within the target organization were secured. Combined, the two cases cover all three of the different basic goals of entryism laid out by Tomlinson, making it clear that entryism should be considered a political strategy employed not only by the far left, but actors on the far right as well. Osipov and Dzintars played comparable roles in their respective cases, and probably share many of the same political ideas, hence it must have been interesting for them to meet in 2004. In both cases, entryism helped achieve the desired goals. Nevertheless, these cases also suggest that successful far-right entryism in itself is not 75 Willinger wrote several seminal texts of identitarianism, including: Markus Willinger, Generation Identity: A Declaration of War against the ’68ers (London, Arktos, 2013). 76 José Pedro Zúquete, The Identitarians: The Movement against Globalism and Islam in Europe (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2018), 250–251. See also: Matthew Kott, “A Far Right Hijack of Intermarium,” New Eastern Europe 2 (2017), 29–30.

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a long-term guarantee of political success. Osipov eventually gave up on the party he named after himself, as it could not satisfy his ambitions or allow him to realize his full political agenda. Dzintars has won what he had originally set out to achieve, but in doing so, has created a destructive party culture that could sideline him, should another, younger and more radical group try to emulate his success through their own entryist takeover. The long-term outcomes of entryism by far-right actors—both in Latvia, and elsewhere77—is a question that requires further investigation.

77 Recent developments within the Republican Party in the United States show many traits of far-right entryism, for example.

ERAF GARF

Glossary of Archives

National Archives of Estonia (Rahvusarhiiv) State Archive of the Russian Federation (Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii) LKM Latvian War Museum (Latvijas Kara muzejs) LVA Latvian State Archives (Latvijas Valsts arhīvs) LVVA Latvian State Historical Archives (Latvijas Valsts vēstures arhīvs) NA IRI RAN Scientific Archive of the Institute of Russian History at the Russian Academy of ­Sciences (­Nauchnyi arkhiv Instituta rossiiskoi istorii Rossiiskoi akademii nauk) NARA US National Archives and Records Administration NMV Latvian National Oral History Archive (Nacionālās mutvārdu vēstures krājums) OMF Museum of the Occupation of Latvia (Latvijas Okupācijas muzejs) PA AA Political Archive of the Federal Foreign Office (Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts) RGAE Russian State Archive of the Economy (Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv ekonomiki) RGANI Russian State Archive of Contemporary History (Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv noveishei istorii) RGASPI Russian Archive of Socio-Political History (Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv sotsial’nopoliticheskoi istorii)



About the Contributors

Daunis Auers is Associate Professor of Comparative Politics at the University of Latvia, Visiting Professor at the Riga Graduate School of Law, and President of the Association for the Advancement of Baltic Studies. His research interests range from populism, radicalism, and political parties to Europeanization and comparative national competitiveness. Daina Bleiere (Dr.hist.) is a researcher at the Institute of the History of Latvia at the University of Latvia. Her research focuses on the history of Latvia under Soviet rule (1940–1941, 1944–1991). Per Bolin is professor of history at Södertörn University, Sweden. His main research interests concern the nation-building process in Latvia during the interwar period. Christina Douglas has a PhD in history and is a researcher at Södertörn University. Her main scholarly interest is studying the Baltic Germans from a feminist and postcolonial perspective. Catherine Gibson is a historian of modern Eastern Europe and the Russian Empire. She is currently a Research Fellow in the School of Theology and Religious Studies at the University of Tartu and received her PhD from the European University Institute in 2019. Siobhán Hearne is a historian of gender and sexuality in the Russian Empire and Soviet Union. She is currently a Leverhulme Early Career Fellow at Durham University in the UK. Ivars Ījabs is a Member of the European Parliament for Latvia and an Associate Professor in Political Sciences at the University of Latvia. Matthew Kott is a historian of twentieth century Latvia, with a focus on political ideologies and their consequences. He is a researcher at Uppsala University and is currently editor-in-chief of the Journal of Baltic Studies.

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Michael Loader is a political historian of the Soviet Communist Party, nationality politics, and Soviet Latvia. He is currently a Leverhulme Early Career Fellow at the University of Glasgow. He is the Assistant Editor of the Journal of Baltic Studies. Harry C. Merritt is a historian of modern Europe, studying the impacts and legacies of World War II in Latvia. He is currently a Visiting Lecturer in the Department of History at Amherst College in the USA. He earned his PhD in History from Brown University in 2020. Paula Oppermann studied History and Baltic Languages at the University of Greifswald and Holocaust and Genocide Studies at Uppsala University. She is currently a PhD student at the University of Glasgow and investigates the ideology and activities of the fascist organisation Pērkonkrusts from pre- to post-war. Her research focuses on the history of antisemitism, the Holocaust, and its commemoration in Latvia. Ekaterina Vikulina is an Associate Professor in the Department of Cultural Practices and Communications at the Russian State University for the Humanities (RGGU). She holds a PhD in Cultural Studies (from RGGU). Her research interests are in the field of cultural and visual studies, media studies, the history and theory of photography, and the Khrushchev Thaw.

Index “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” (Lutheran hymn) 121 Aizpute 238 Aizsargi (Home Guard)  100-102, 104 Akmentiņš, Roberts  76, 76n52, 77, 77n55, 78 anticapitalism  94, 202 anticommunism  30, 113, 140 antisemitism  76n49, 84, 84n9, 85, 85n11, 86-87, 91-96, 102, 104, 217-218, 241 numerus clausus  97n86 pogroms  25, 83, 83n2, 84n7, 85, 86n20, 95 Aperāts, Kārlis  124 Arendt, Hannah  89n32, 97n85, 102n122 Aryan(s)  92, 242, 244, 245, 250 Auers, Daunis  18, 36, 213n2, 238n20, 246 Baltic Germans  13, 22, 78, 88n29, 91n46, 92 as cultural elite (Kulturträger)  69, 81-82, 104 as landowning elite  63 cultural autonomy of  24, 64-66, 80-82 in universities  64, 67, 74 relationship with Latvians  13, 23-24, 69, 73-75, 78-82, 190n4 Baltic States  18, 29, 65, 108, 213, 219 Baltic provinces, Russian Empire  12, 19, 25, 40-41, 43-44, 52, 54-55, 58, 61 Baltic SSRs (Baltic Republics)  153-154, 154n9, 161, 166, 173, 184, 197, 198, 198n33, 200, 204, 207, 210, 210n84, 211 see also Lifliand Governorate, Kurliand Governorate see also Estonia; Latvia; Lithuania Balvi 125 Bangerskis, Rudolfs  111 Barkashov, Aleksandr  237-240 Barkashovites  see political parties/organizations (non-Latvian), Russian National Unity movement (Russkoe Natsional’noe Edinstvo; RNE) Barons, Krišjānis  42-43 Bartov, Omer  109-110 Baumaņu Kārlis (Kārlis Baumanis)  12 Bauska 93 Belarus (Belorussia)  134, 172 Bergmann, Werner  83n2 Bergs, Arveds  98 Berklavs, Eduards  14, 129-132, 135-140, 140n29, 141-145, 147, 149, 166-167, 169-172, 177-179, 182-183, 247 Bielenstein, August  51, 53-54 Biezais, Haralds  90n41, 91n46 Binde, Gunārs  193n18, 197, 200, 200n44, 204-207, 209, 212

Blāķis, Ādolfs  111, 113 Bolin, Per  24, 87-88n24, 88 boycott economic  93, 94, 99, 104 electoral 216 Brezhnev, Leonid era of leadership  33, 187 Brīvības iela (Freedom Street)  83 Brubaker, Rogers  12 Budnitskii, Oleg  109-110n18 Campbell, Alan  235, 255 cartography  see maps Celmiņa, Ieva  102n118 Celmiņš, Gustavs  86, 88, 90, 92, 94, 96-102, 103n126, 217 censorship  31, 54, 54n47, 189-190, 195, 201202, 204, 206, 208, 210, 210n84, 211; see also Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), Glavlit (Main Directorate for the Protection of State Secrets in the Press) chastushki  120, 120n73 chauvinism German  13, 69-70, 79, 81, 106 Latvian  78, 91 Russian 157 choirs  119, 120, 122, 253 Christmas  54, 116-118 Cilēvičs, Boriss  241 “Cīņai sveiks” (“Hail the struggle”)  100 citizenship noncitizens  238-239, 243 relationship to ethnicity/nationality  15, 22-25, 79-80, 87-90, 223, 237, 249 1919 Citizenship Law  23, 25, 33, 87-88 1994 Law on Citizenship  34, 237 Cold War  27-28, 234 collectivization (agricultural)  28-29, 133, 148, 149, 160 colonialism  12-13, 70, 81, 106 “colonies” of Latvians outside the Baltic provinces  51, 57 “colonies” of non-Latvians in “Latwija” 47 decolonization  218-219, 249 postcolonialism 69 commemorative dates coup d’état of Kārlis Ulmanis, 15 May  25, 96, 226 Day of the Great October Socialist Revolution, 7 November  118 Day of the Red Army, 23 February  118 International Workers’ Day, 1 May  118

262  Latvian Independence Day, 18 November  22, 99, 118, 226, 229 Remembrance Day of the Latvian Legionnaires, 16 March  107, 219, 226 Victory Day, 9 May  108 Commission for the History of the Great Patriotic War (Mints Commission)  109, 109-110n18 Communist Party, Latvia (LCP; until 1952, Communist Party of Latvia [Bolsheviks])  14, 30, 108, 114-116, 120, 127, 129, 136-141 Central Committee  (CC)  108, 136-138, 140-141, 145, 147-148 nomenklatura  30, 30n52, 129, 140, 150 Youth League (Komsomol)  127, 138, 145 Communist Party, Soviet Union (CPSU)  132, 136 Central Committee (CC)  136, 141, 152, 157, 159, 168, 173-175, 178 nomenklatura  129, 201 purge of “Anti-Party Group”  139, 158 20th Congress of  132, 151, 202 Constitution of Azerbaijan SSR  151-152 of Latvia (1922)  22-23, 33, 70, 79-80, 87-90, 96 proposed amendments  89-90, 244 of the Soviet Union (1936; aka Stalin Constitution)  119, 154 corporation (studentu korporācija)  see fraternities, student Council of Europe  33, 216 Istanbul Convention  36, 214, 225 Courland  see Kurzeme (Latvian province); Kurliand province (governorate), Russian Empire dainas 122 Dārziņš, Emīls  122 Daugava River  83n1, 144 Daugavpils  99, 143, 191n5, 239 Death Island (Nāves sala) 113 demography as political issue  36, 213, 214n3, 219, 223, 228, 230-231 historical demographic shifts  15, 29, 34-35, 39n2, 116, 134, 223 see also Russification, in the USSR, demographic Denis, Juliette  114 deportations, mass  106, 134 of 14 June 1941  26, 98n94, 126 of March 1949  28 Dichavičius, Rimantas  205-206 “Dievs, svētī Latviju” (“God, Bless Latvia”)  12, 121, 123, 123n97

Defining L at via

Dinsbergs, Ernests  43, 46, 53 Douglas, Christina  24, 87-88n24 Dugin, Aleksandr  237 Dzērve, Pauls  130-131, 136-140, 144-149 Dzintars, Raivis  37, 248-255 Dzividzinska, Zenta  205 education Latvian education law (1919)  64 Latvian education reform (2004)  243 Law on Language (1992)  34 Saeima Educational Committee  76n52 Soviet education reform (1958-59)  30, 30n53, 31, 34, 136, 151-157, 159, 161, 180-181, 184-187 debate in the USSR Supreme Soviet 165-169 Latvian SSR language law (1959)  170, 177, 179, 182 public debates in Latvian SSR 158-165 “Thesis 19”  152-154, 157, 159-161, 163, 167-170, 172, 181 see also schools; universities Eksteins, Modris  110-111 émigrés  see exile, postwar Latvian diaspora (trimda) entryism (entrism)  233-236, 239, 241, 245, 248-251, 255-256 Estonia  41, 64-66, 121, 133, 154, 168, 172n70, 173, 198, 205, 210n84, 213-214, 231, 238 cultural autonomy policy in  64-66 European Union (EU) criticism of  15, 214, 218 European Conservatives and Reformists (European Parliament)  247 European People’s Party (European Parliament) 229 Euroscepticism 218 Latvian accession to  15, 18, 33, 221, 223-224 2003 Latvian referendum on EU membership 219 exile internal Soviet political exile  140 postwar Latvian diaspora (trimda) 26, 103, 107-108, 126, 143n35, 204, 219, 229 Farmers’ Union, Latvian  89-90, 228 Feldmanis, Inesis  109 15th Waffen Grenadier Division of the SS (1st Latvian)  105, 111-112, 122, 125n107 Financial crisis, 2008  35, 247 First World War  see World War I flag, Latvian  110n21, 110n23, 112-113, 226 France  198n31, 255 Paris  170, 198

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Index

fraternities, student  84-86, 92, 95, 95n71, 99, 102 Freedom monument  118, 219, 229 Germane, Marina  87, 89 Germanization 106 Germans (Reichsdeutsche)  69, 94, 111; see also Baltic Germans Germany  13, 26, 33, 76-78, 83, 86n16, 91, 91n46, 92, 105-106, 109, 123n97, 126, 134, 191n8, 198, 231, 255; see also occupations, Nazi German occupation of Latvia Girs, Illarion  243n41, 245 glasnost’  33, 247 Gleizds, Jānis  205, 207 Gorbachev, Mikhail  33 Gorokhovets 116 Great Depression  93, 93n62 Griffin, Roger  86n14, 241n33 Grīnbergs, Kārlis  93 Guļāns, Pēteris  136, 146, 148 Hakoah Riga (football club)  83, 95, 95n17 Hāzners, Vilis  124n104 Hellbeck, Jochen  109 Herder Institute  see schools, Herder Institute in Riga (Herder Institut zu Riga) Himmler, Heinrich  112n33 Hitler, Adolf  13 as object of admiration  92 as object of mockery  120 birthday of, 20 April  118 Holocaust 26-27 Home Guard(s)  see Aizsargi homosociability 123 HQ for the Defense of Russian Schools (Shtab zashchity russkikh shkol) 243; see also education, 2004 education reform Hydroelectric Power Plant, Pļaviņas  144 identitarianism  255, 255n75 industrialisation  19-20, 23, 39n2, 52, 133-134, 141-144, 146, 149 opposition to Soviet industrial policy 144 Interfront (International Front of the Working People of the Latvian SSR)  238, 238n20 Intermarium 254n74 internationalism  11, 13, 99, 167 Iron Cross (military decoration)  124 Iron March (website)  252-254 Janaitis, Gunārs  205 Jāņi  see Midsummer Janums, Vilis  111 Jelgava  134, 191n5 journals  see magazines

Kacena, Vera  119, 144 Kalnbērziņš, Jānis  108n9, 138, 177n86, 180 Kalpiņš, Voldemārs  140-141, 141n30, 144 Karavīru biedrība (Soldiers’ Association) 100 Kārsava 84n7 Kasekamp, Andres  90, 100n109 Keller, Karl  68 Khrushchev, Nikita  14, 31-32, 129, 139, 150, 151-152, 153-154, 156-158, 168, 176n84, 177-178, 182-187 era of leadership  31, 189n2, 193, 247; see also Thaw, Khrushchev “Secret Speech”  see Communist Party of the Soviet Union, 20th Congress of Kreicbergs, Jānis  205-206 Krūmiņš, Vilis  14 Kupffer, Karl Reinhold  72, 75 Kurland  see Kurzeme (Latvian province); Kurliand province (governorate), Russian Empire Kurliand province (governorate), Russian Empire  12, 39-40, 39n2, 43, 46, 47 fig. 1, 49 fig. 3, 56, 58 Kurzeme (Latvian province)  99, 106, 112, 117, 127 Kviesīte, Sarmīte  205 Labvakar (TV program)  241 Lācis, Vilis  141, 144, 159-161, 163, 177-181, 181n98 Lācis, Visvaldis  121, 228 Laitin, David  237 language bilingualism  30, 34, 157, 160, 162, 183, 185, 244 Estonian 54n47 German  24, 39, 44, 60, 65, 67, 75, 77-78, 175n81, 203 Latgalian  43, 46, 58-59 Latvian  12, 15, 19-21, 31, 34, 39-42, 45-46, 50, 53-57, 59-61, 78, 115, 121, 130, 156-157, 161-164, 167, 170-171, 175, 178, 180, 184, 243 proficiency as requirement for employment  34, 157, 225 proficiency as a requirement for Latvian citizenship 34 Russian  19, 29, 31, 34, 39, 59-60, 67, 78, 121, 130, 143n35, 156-157, 161-162, 164, 167, 171, 174-175, 178, 181, 183-186, 225, 243, 243n41, 244 as lingua franca of USSR  153 as “second mother tongue” of the “Soviet people”  156 use in public sector  15, 34, 157 Yiddish  25, 121

264  Latgale (Latgalia/Latgallia)  25, 43, 101n115, 112, 184 Latvia as a linguistic zone (Sprachgebiet)  19, 22, 42, 46, 51, 61 as an ethno-cultural concept  12, 19, 40-41, 43, 46, 61 EU accession  see European Union (EU), Latvian accession to Latvian Soviet Socialist Republic (SSR)  14, 115, 129, 132, 134, 149, 162, 167, 177, 236 Council of Ministers  132, 136n17, 137-138 140-141 144, 159, 172, 201n50 Economics Institute, Latvian Academy of Sciences  130, 136-138, 142, 145-149 Gosplan (State Planning Committee)  135, 135n17, 136-138, 140, 142-144, 147-148 Ministry of Culture  140, 144, 192n12 Ministry of Education  157, 159-160, 163, 171, 174, 180 Sovnarkhoz (Regional Economic Council)  132, 135, 137, 142-143, 149, 151, 158 Supreme Soviet  138, 170, 174, 179-180, 216, 247 Presidium  138, 181 Republic of Latvia, 1918-1940 Latvian Ministry of Education  23, 68, 76n52 Republic of Latvia, 1991-present Ministry of Culture  213 Ministry of Justice  225, 240 State Security Service  220 restoration of independence (19891991)  11, 13, 15, 30, 33, 216, 223, 236-238, 240, 246-247 Soviet annexation of  ??? Latvian Army  84n7, 110-112 Latvian Legion  105-108, 110-112, 116, 118, 121, 123-127, 228 Day  see Commemorative dates, Remembrance Day of the Latvian Legionnaires, 16 March see also 15th Waffen Grenadier Division of the SS (1st Latvian); 19th Waffen Grenadier Division of the SS (2nd Latvian) Latvian National Oral History project  109 Latvian Operation, NKVD  106 Latvian Rifle Corps  see 130th Latvian Rifle Corps Latvian Riflemen (World War I)  113, 121-122 Latvian-Russian border treaty (2007)  221, 228, 249

Defining L at via

Latvian War of Independence  25, 70, 100-102, 122 Latvianization as fear of non-Latvian minorities  63-65 as goal of the National Communists  140 as policy in interwar Latvia  67, 74, 74-75n45, 82 Lazerson, Max  75-76, 76n49 LGBT 35 homophobia  15, 35, 218, 241 Liepāja  134, 191n5, 238-239, 241-244, 249 Liepāja City Council  240, 243 Lifliand province (governorate), Russian Empire  12, 39, 39n2, 43, 46, 47 fig. 1, 49 fig. 3, 56, 58 Līgo  see Midsummer Limonov, Eduard  239 Linderman, Vladimir  239, 244 Lithuania  14, 50, 133-134, 144, 168, 172n70, 173, 198, 198n33, 199, 205, 210n84 Livland  see Vidzeme (Latvian province); Lifliand province (governorate), Russian Empire Livonia  see Vidzeme (Latvian province); Lifliand province (governorate), Russian Empire Lobe, Kārlis  118 Lohse, Hinrich  118 magazines Atbalss  39-40, 45-46, 52-54, 58 Camera  204, 204n57 Das Magazin 209 Fotografie (aka Revue Fotografie; Czechoslovak periodical)  203, 203n56, 206-207 Karogs 137 Kommunist Sovetskoi Latvii  159, 181 Liesma  197 Māksla  197, 209 Ogoniok  196, 199n37 Reichls Philosophischer Almanach: Internationales Jahrbuch der Philosophie der Gegenwart  69-71, 75, 79 Sovetskii soiuz 209 Sovetskoe foto  32, 193-194, 195n24, 196, 198-199, 199n37, 200, 204, 209-210 Stari 191 Zvaigzne  197 Māliņš, Armands  240-244 maps business of publishing  42, 51-60 ethnocultural 50, 56-58, 60-61 linguistic 46-47, 49, 51, 60-61 map literacy  44-45, 55-56 mapmakers (cartographers)  12, 18, 39-40, 50-51, 53-54, 56, 61 Martin, Terry  14

265

Index

masculinity 123 McIlroy, John  235, 255 memory  18, 69, 107, 110 Merridale, Catherine  120, 120n73 Mežotne 113 Midsummer  116-117, 117n54, 119, 119n68, 120 migration  19-20, 23, 35, 39n2 following EU accession  15, 35, 223-224, 228, 242 international students  224 refugees  220, 222, 231 Soviet era  14, 29, 34, 132, 134-136, 140, 142-143, 144, 149, 156, 165, 223n19, 237, 242 United Nations Migration Pact (2018)  214, 225 militsiia see police minorities  49, 78, 87n23, 88, 224 Africans 239 “beached” 237 Belarusians (Belorussians)  24, 47, 64, 90, 116, 155n15 cultural autonomy for  24, 64-66, 69, 79-82 Estonians  22, 43, 47, 65, 154 Germans  see Baltic Germans Jews  22, 25-26, 64, 76n49, 78, 83, 83n1, 84, 84n7, 85-93, 95-96, 98-99, 102, 104, 115, 125, 199n68 Judeo-Bolshevism 94; see also antisemitism Latgalians  24, 46, 58 Lithuanians  22, 47, 115 Livs (Finno-Ugric ethnic group)  120-121 non-EU students  224 Poles  22, 47, 64, 90 Roma  27, 239 “Russian Latvians”  114, 114n45, 115 Russians  22, 47, 78, 115, 120, 134, 154-155, 155n15, 162, 176, 184-185, 187, 229, 236, 238, 241, 243n41, 249, 253 “Russian speakers” (Russophones)  34, 36, 155, 155n15, 217, 223-224, 226-228, 236, 236n10, 237, 239, 246 Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of 1939  33, 219 Morgan, David H. J.  123 Moscow as metonym for the central Soviet government and CPSU  14, 18, 29-30, 32-33, 136-137, 139, 141, 151, 156-159, 159n24, 161, 163, 166-172, 172n70, 173-176, 179-180, 182-183, 185-186, 236-237 location  40, 119-120, 129, 136, 139, 145, 147, 150, 159, 165, 183, 186, 191, 197-198, 203n54 Muižnieks, Nils  216-217, 240, 240n30, 241, 243, 246n48

multiculturalism  19, 225; see also minorities, cultural autonomy Museum of the Occupation of Latvia (Latvijas Okupācijas muzejs) 109 National Anthem, Latvian  see “Dievs, svētī Latviju” (“God, Bless Latvia”) National Awakening, Latvian First (19th century)  20-21 Fourth (anticipated)  253 National Communists, Latvia  14, 30-32 debates on whether they constitute a coherent group  131, 137-141, 149-150, 156 economic policies of  129-131, 136-137, 142, 149 “Perspectives on the Latvian SSR National Economy”  130-131, 147-148 education and linguistic policies of  132, 154n9, 156-157, 160-163, 166-167, 173, 183 migration policies of  132, 135-136, 142, 149 purge thereof  129, 145, 148-150, 161, 167, 180, 182-183, 186, 247 nationalism  12, 41, 61, 106, 128, 149, 176, 181, 214, 228, 246-247, 250 “bourgeois nationalism”  108, 119n68, 146, 176, 181 civic nationalism  11, 87, 89, 89n32, 103 ethnonationalism (ethnic nationalism)  11, 35, 88, 243, 245 national consciousness  22, 39, 57-59 “national indifference”  41, 41n11 “new nationalism” (ideology)  89, 102, 254 patriotism  120, 122, 253 as self-descriptive euphemism  103104, 219, 241, 244, 249 radical (right-wing) nationalism  216, 219, 236-237, 246-247, 252, 254, 254n74, 255 völkisch nationalism  26, 89, 89n32, 94 103-104 Nazi Germany  see Germany; occupations, Nazi German occupation of Latvia Neiburgs, Uldis  109 New Nationalism, The (website)  254 newspapers  22, 40, 56, 59, 94 Cīņa  130, 138, 161n30, 163 Daugavas Vanagi (1940s periodical)  125 Düna Zeitung 54 Jaunākais Ziņas 69 Latviešu strēlnieks 119 Latvietis Latvijā 218 Latvijas Avīze  249 Latvis  98 Latweeschu Awizes 57

266  Libauishe Zeitung 59 Literatūra un Māksla 144 Pravda 179-180 Rīgas Balss  162, 164 Rigasche Rundschau  74, 85n11, 94-95 Skolotāju Avīze  156, 175 Sovetskaia Latviia  161n30, 163, 163n37, 164, 172 Sovetskaia molodezh’ 164 Tautas Vairogs  98, 98n92 Trud 163 Ugunskrusts  84-85, 96-97, 97n89, 98 Universitas 98 Niedra, Andrievs  72n32 as prime minister of a Latvian government, 1919  80 Ņikonovs, Aleksandrs  138, 140-141, 149 th 19 Waffen Grenadier Division of the SS (2nd Latvian)  105-106, 112, 119, 122, 125n107 43rd “Imanta” Regiment of  118 44th Regiment of  124 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) 15 occupations  26-28, 105, 128, 219 Nazi German occupation of Latvia  13, 26-27, 83, 85, 94, 105, 110, 110n23, 111, 116 Soviet occupation of Latvia  13, 15, 26-28, 105, 109, 216 130th Latvian Rifle Corps  105, 107-108, 121 43rd Guards Latvian Rifle Division of (previously known as 201st Latvian Rifle Division)105, 115, 119, 120-121, 125, 145 191st Regiment of  116 121st Regiment of  121 308th Latvian Rifle Division of  105, 116, 120 Osipov, Evgenii  238-242, 242n37, 243-245, 249-251, 255-256; see also political parties/organisations (contemporary Latvia, 1989-present), Latvian National Democratic Party (Latvijas Nacionāli demokrātiskā partija; LNDP), Osipov’s Party (Osipova partija) Ostland, Reichskommissariat  118; see also occupations, Nazi German occupation of Latvia Paplaka 117 parliament Latvian  see Saeima Latvian SSR  see Latvia, Latvian Soviet Socialist Republic (SSR), Supreme Soviet Soviet  see Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), Supreme Soviet

Defining L at via

Pelše, Arvīds  14, 131, 137, 139, 147, 149, 166-168, 170, 177-181 perestroika  33, 237, 238n20, 246 photography compositional techniques  194-196, 199, 199n41, 200-201 international exhibitions of  191n5, 197, 198n31, 203n54, 212 Latvian exhibitions of  192n12, 197, 200, 209, 212 nude (akts)  203, 205-206, 206n69, 207, 207n74, 208-212 Soviet trends in  192n11, 194, 205, 208, 211 Western trends in  202, 206n69, 207, 211 Pinksis, Indriķis  138, 147 Plāķis, Ernests  98, 98n98 Plāķis, Juris  74, 76, 76n52, 77-78, 78-79n64, 79-81, 98, 98n98, 99 Preiļi 85n11 Prigge, William  130-131, 160, 167 police  29, 83, 91, 95-96, 96n82, 101n113, 101n115, 105, 217, 240, 242-243 political police, Latvia  25, 88n29, 90, 99 secret police  see Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), secret police (NKVD, KGB) political ideologies communism  14, 106, 141n30, 241 fascism  86, 89, 97n85, 99, 103, 106, 234, 254 categorization and definition of  86, 86n17 neofascism  37, 237, 239 liberalism  13, 106, 214-215, 223-226, 230-231, 233 Marxism  94, 118 “socialism with a human face”  141 Marxism-Leninism  106, 140, 140n29, 162, 174-175, 186 national socialism  25, 86, 92, 104, 106, 218, 237, 239, 241-242, 245, 252 Nazism  see political ideologies, national socialism Stalinism  14, 31, 129, 139, 146, 149-150, 151, 197 Trotskyism 234-235 political parties/organisations (interwar Latvia, 1918-1940) Farmers’ Union (Zemnieku savienība; ZS) 89-90 Latvian National Association (Latviešu Nacionāla Apvienība; LNA)  86 Latvian National Club (Latvju Nacionālais Klubs; LNK)  85, 85n13, 86, 92-93, 97, 248n54 Latvian Social Democratic Workers Party (Latvijas Sociāldemokrātiskā

267

Index

strādnieku partija; LSDSP)  68, 90n41, 92, 143n35 paramilitary organization of, Strādnieku Sports un Sargs (SSS) 92n56 Pērkonkrusts (Thunder Cross)  13, 25-26, 85, 85n11-n12, 86, 86n17, 87, 89n32, 90, 91n46, 92-97, 97n85, 98n96, 99-101, 101n113, 101n115-n116, 102, 102n118, 103, 103n126, 104 banning of  90, 90n41, 91 ideology of  86, 86n17, 87, 88-92, 102-104 (symbol)  see swastika Ugunskrusts (Fire Cross)  25-26, 84-85, 85n12, 86, 88-90, 92-94, 96-101 Central Council (Centrālā Valde) 98-99 refoundation as Pērkonkrusts  90 (symbol)  see swastika see also Pērkonkrusts (Thunder Cross) United Latvian National Socialist Party (Apvienotā Latvijas nacionālsociālistiskā partija) 86n16, 100 political parties/organisations (contemporary Latvia, 1989-present) All for Latvia! (Visu Latvijai! VL!)  215, 220-222, 230, 245-246, 248-255 Citizens’ Congress (Pilsoņu Kongress; PK)  216-217, 221, 247 Democratic Initiative Center (Demokrātiskās iniciatīvas centrs) 240n30 Fatherland Guards (Tēvijas Sargi; TS) 220 For Fatherland and Freedom/LNNK (TB/ LNNK)  37, 215, 220-222, 226, 247-251, 253-255 For Fatherland and Freedom (Tēvzemei un Brīvībai; TB)  215, 220-221, 223, 226, 247 For Human Rights in a United Latvia (Par cilvēka tiesībām vienotā Latvijā)  240n30, 243n42; see also Latvian Russian Union For the Native Language! (Za rodnoi yazyk!; ZaRYA)  244 Gustavs Celmiņš Center (Gustava Celmiņa Centrs) 217 Harmony (Saskaņa) 245 Harmony Center (2005-2014) 228-230 People’s Harmony Party (1994-2010) 243n42 Klubs 415  218-219, 222, 248 Latvian Latvia, A (Latviešu Latvija; LL) 222

Latvian National Democratic Party (Latvijas Nacionāli demokrātiskā partija; LNDP)  240-244 Osipov’s Party (Osipova partija) 243 Latvian National Front (Latvijas Nacionālā Fronte; LNF)  218 Latvian National Independence Movement (Latvijas Nacionālā Neatkarības Kustība; LNNK)  215, 220, 222-223, 226, 247; see also For Fatherland and Freedom/LNNK (TB/LNNK) Latvian Nationalists (Latviešu Nacionālisti; LN)  222 Latvian Nationalists’ Club (Latviešu nacionālistu klubs) 248n54 Latvian Popular Front (Latvijas Tautas fronte; LTF)  216, 237, 247 Latvian Russian Union (Latvijas Krievu savienība) 243n42 National Alliance (Nacionālā Apvienība; NA)  15, 36, 213-214, 214n3, 215-216, 218, 220-231, 251-252, 254-255 National Bolshevik Party  239, 244 National Power Unity (Nacionālā Spēka Savienība; NSS)  222 National Justice Union (Nacionālā Savienība Taisnīgums; NST) 222 People’s Party (Tautas Partija; TP)  218 Russian Party (Krievu partija) 240 Socialist Party of Latvia (Latvijas Sociālistiskā partija) 240n30 Union of Greens and Farmers (Zaļo un Zemnieku savienība; ZZS)  228 Unity (Vienotība) 229 Zatlers Reform Party (Zatlera Reformu partija; ZRP)  229 political parties/organizations (non-Latvian) Azov movement (Ukraine) 254 Conservative Party (UK)  247 Conservative People’s Party of Estonia (Eesti Konservatiivne Rahvaerakond; EKRE)  214, 226, 231 Labour Party (UK)  234 Chartists (Labour Party faction)  235 Militant tendency (Labour Party faction) 234-235 Nordisk Ungdom (Sweden)  254 Pamyat’ (Russia)  237 Republican Party (US)  256n77 Russian National Unity movement (Russkoe Natsional’noe Edinstvo; RNE)  37, 237-238, 238n18, 239, 239n23, 240-242, 242n36, 243, 243n42, 244-246 Sweden Democrats (Sverigedemokraterna; SD)  226

268  politics of Latvia coalition governments  15, 36, 68, 213, 214n3, 215, 221, 226-227, 229-231, 240n30, 247 cordon sanitaire  15, 36, 227, 229, 231 ethnolinguistic divide  36-37, 241, 245-246 nativism  15, 36, 214-215, 218, 222-223, 226-231 oligarchs 230 populism  213, 213n1, 214-215, 221-223, 246 racism  13, 89, 103, 216-217, 223 Raymond, Benjamin  252, 254 Red Army (later, Soviet Army)  18, 27-28, 105, 107n7, 108-109, 114-116, 118-121, 123, 125-127, 145, 147 Latvian national formations in  see 130th Latvian Rifle Corps political officers  114-115, 124, 147 withdrawal from Latvia  238 Reichelt, Katrin  84, 84n9 religion  44, 89, 119 Catholicism  19, 58 Eastern Orthodoxy  44, 47n28, 119n68 Islam 224 Judaism  see minorities, Jews Lutheranism  19, 44, 58, 82, 121 Old Believers (Old Ritualists)  47, 47n28 Rēzekne 85n11 Riga as metonym for Latvian SSR and LCP leadership  18, 29, 157, 182 location  13, 19, 24, 31-32, 39n2, 40, 42, 4445, 91, 93-98, 98n98, 115-116, 121-122, 124, 126, 134-136, 140, 142, 165, 178, 183, 190n4, 197, 200, 220, 224, 226, 239, 248, 252 maps of  50 fig. 4 Old Town  52, 84 Riga City Committee (gorkom) of the Latvian Communist Party  135, 159, 171 Riga City Council  240n30, 244 Riga City Education Department (Latvian SSR)  163 Sarkandaugava neighborhood of  92 Riga Latvian Society (Rīgas Latviešu Biedrība)  40, 50 fig. 4, 52n38, 85 Riga Photo Club  192, 192n12, 197, 208 various other names for  208n77 Rokpelnis, Fricis  120 Ruberts, Jānis  72-73, 73n36 Rundāle Palace  117 Russia 190-191 Russian Empire  12-13, 18-20, 23, 25, 42, 45, 50-51, 57, 59, 88, 128, 133, 191n8, 192n11 Ministry of Education  19

Defining L at via

Russian Federation  15, 36, 108, 221, 226, 238-239, 239n35 Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic (RSFSR)  120, 126, 134, 152-154, 159, 161, 167-168, 177, 179, 181 Russification in the Russian Empire  19-20, 23, 65, 67 in the USSR demographic  14, 223, 223n19 linguistic  14, 29-30, 114, 114n45, 115, 155-157, 180, 183, 186-187 Saeima (Latvian parliament)  23-24, 36, 63, 68, 72-76, 79, 90, 90n41, 214n3, 218, 221, 225-226, 231, 240n30, 245, 247 Samsons, Vilis  157, 159, 162, 162n34, 163, 171, 173-175, 180, 180-181n97 Satversme  see Constitution of Latvia (1922) Schiemann, Paul  66, 75, 78 Second World War  see World War II schools  19, 26, 31, 39, 42-46, 68, 152-155, 161 augstskola (private higher education institution)  68, 81 curriculum  153, 161, 163, 167, 171, 174, 181n97, 223 Daugavpils Pedagogical Institute  164 for ethnic minorities  23, 34, 64-66, 153n6, 160 Herder Institute in Riga (Herder-Institut zu Riga)  13, 24, 67-76, 76n52, 77-81 Higher Party School (Moscow)  139 Institute of Red Professors (Moscow) 147 primary  44-45, 124, 153 Riga Teachers’ Institute  100 secondary  44, 99-100, 104, 152, 154n9, 162-163, 165, 171, 176, 248 seminaries  44, 75 teachers  26, 40, 75, 160-161, 165, 171, 183, 185 years of instruction, debates surrounding  153-154, 154n9, 162, 162n34, 163, 168, 174, 179; see also education, Soviet education reform (1958-59) Šilde, Ādolfs  89, 96n82, 97-98, 102n117, 103n126, 114n45 Silgailis, Artūrs  111 Siliņš, Matīss  12, 21-22, 39-42, 45-47, 49-52, 52n33, 52-53n38, 53-61, 61n68 maps by  47 fig. 1, 48 fig. 2, 49 fig. 3, 50 fig. 4 Skalbe, Kārlis  122 Smilga, Pēteris  120 Smith, Jeremy  155, 158, 172 Sniečkus, Antanas  14 Sokolowski, Paul  13, 69-73, 75, 79-82 Soviet Union  see Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR)

269

Index

Spekke, Arnolds  107 Sputnik News  244-245 St. John’s Day  see Midsummer Stalin, Joseph (Iosif)  14, 31, 119-120, 127, 135, 151, 189n2 de-Stalinization  32, 151, 158, 170, 181, 206 ; see also Thaw, Khrushchev era of leadership  14, 132, 139, 155, 186, 189, 193-194, 197, 201 Štelmachers, Jānis  86n16, 100 Stranga, Aivars  27n40, 85-86 Straubergs, Kārlis  76, 76n52, 77-78 Sutkus, Antanas  196n28 swastika  94, 100, 112, 218, 240 Sweden  143n35, 148, 213n1, 227, 231, 254

Universitātes Sports (football club)  83, 95 Universities  77, 160-161 ethnic tensions within  25, 69, 74-75, 76n49, 78-81 Dorpat (Tartu) University  42, 49 language of instruction  67-68, 77-78, 81 Riga Polytechnical Institute  67 University of Latvia  24-25, 67-70, 72, 74, 76-77, 79-81, 83, 84, 84n4, 98n94, 98n98, 164 renaming during Soviet and German occupations 110n23 University of Munich  72 university professors  26, 49, 67, 69, 72, 75-76, 78, 98n94, 100

Talsi  99, 143 Thaw, Khrushchev  18, 31-32, 157-158, 178, 186, 189, 189n1-n2, 192-196, 201, 204, 209-211 Tomlinson, John  234-235, 255 Treijs, Benjamiņš  130-131, 138, 148 Trotsky, Leon  233 Tukums 125 Turkmenistan  57, 114n42

Valdemārs, Krišjānis  42, 115 Valka 70 Valmiera  94, 99-100, 143 Veikins, Jānis  114 Veinbergs, Fricis  13 Vestermanis, Marģers  83n1 Vētra, Mariss  122 Vidzeme  112, 121 visual culture  see maps; photography Vitebsk province (governorate), Russian Empire  12, 25, 43, 46-47, 51, 58 von Fircks, Wilhelm  72 Voss, Augusts  33

Ukraine  14, 166, 168, 172n70, 254 Ulmanis, Kārlis  25-26, 87, 90-91, 93, 96-97, 100n110, 101, 103, 103n124, 103n125, 226, 229 Ulmanis Coup d’état  see commemorative dates, coup of Kārlis Ulmanis, 15 May Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) Glavlit (Main Directorate for the Protection of State Secrets in the Press)  201, 201n50, 202, 204 Gosplan (State Planning Committee)  132, 135, 136-137, 144 nationalities policy  13, 33, 106, 113-114, 182, 237 “new course” in  151 relations between center and periphery  31, 31n55, 132, 136, 151-152, 156-157, 170, 172, 182, 185-186 secret police (NKVD, KGB)  29, 106 Supreme Soviet  165, 167-169, 172, 186 United Kingdom (UK)  198n31, 234, 254 United States  57, 219, 256n77

Waffen-SS  18, 28, 105, 108, 110-113, 121, 219, 226, 228 ideology 111 symbols  112, 112n33, 113 see also Latvian Legion Willinger, Markus  255, 255n75 World War I  12-13, 22-23, 61, 67, 113, 121-122, 128 World War II  13, 84, 92-94, 103, 105-107, 109-110, 128, 217, 228, 236-237 Young Latvians  147; see also Latvian National Awakening, First Zālīte, Pēteris  69-71, 74, 76 Zelče, Vita  109 Zeltīts, Raivis  252-255 Zhdanok, Tatiana  241 Zīle, Roberts  247