A Fateful Triangle: Essays on Contemporary Russian, German, and Polish History 383821143X, 9783838211435

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SPPS

Edited by Andreas Umland

Soviet and Post-Soviet Politics and Society

A Fateful Triangle: Essays on Contemporary Russian, German and Polish History

The author: Dr. Leonid Luks is Professor Emeritus of Central and East European Contemporary History at The Catholic University of Eichstaett-Ingolstadt, and was, from 2011 to 2015, Director of the Institute for Central and East European Studies (ZIMOS) at Eichstaett, Bavaria. Luks studied history and Russian at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich. He held lectureships at, among other universities, Erlangen, Munich, Bremen, and Cologne. Luks is editor-in-chief of the journals Forum für osteuropäische Ideen- und Zeitgeschichte and Forum noveishei vostochnoevropeiskoi istorii i kul’tury. He has published numerous books, papers, and commentaries on, among other topics, the communist theory of fascism, Polish and Russian history, totalitarianism, post-Soviet affairs, modern revolutions, current German historical discourse, and contemporary Russian political thought.

SPPS 184 Luks

The twentieth century began with a deep identity crisis of European parliamentarianism, pluralism, rationalism, individualism, and liberalism―and a subsequent political revolt against the West’s emerging open societies and their ideational foundation. In its radicalism, this upheaval against Western values had farreaching consequences across the world. Its repercussions can still be felt today. Germany and Russia formed the center of this insurrection against those ideas, norms, and approaches usually associated with the West. Leonid Luks’s essays deal with various causes and results of these Russian and German anti-Western uprisings in twentieth-century Europe. The book also touches upon the development of the peculiar post-Soviet Russian regime that, after the collapse of the USSR, emerged on the ruins of the Bolshevik state that had been established in 1917. What were the determinants of the erosion of the “second” Russian democracy (after the first of February 1917) that had been briefly established following the disempowerment of the CPSU in August 1991, and that existed until the rise of Vladimir Putin? Further foci of this wide-ranging collection of essays include the specific ‘geopolitical trap’ in which Poland—constrained by its two powerful neighbors—was caught for centuries. Finally, Luks explores the special relationship that all three countries of Central and Eastern Europe’s ‘fateful triangle’ had with Judaism and the Jews.

Vol. 184

Leonid Luks

A Fateful Triangle Essays on Contemporary Russian, German and Polish History

ISBN: 978-3-8382-1143-5 Distributed by COLUMBIA UNIVERSIT Y PRESS

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Soviet and Post-Soviet Politics and Society (SPPS) ISSN 1614-3515 General Editor: Andreas Umland,

Commissioning Editor: Max Jakob Horstmann,

Institute for Euro-Atlantic Cooperation, Kyiv, [email protected]

London, [email protected]

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* While the Editorial Committee and Advisory Board support the General Editor in the choice and improvement of manuscripts for publication, responsibility for remaining errors and misinterpretations in the series’ volumes lies with the books’ authors.

Soviet and Post-Soviet Politics and Society (SPPS) ISSN 1614-3515 Founded in 2004 and refereed since 2007, SPPS makes available affordable English-, German-, and Russian-language studies on the history of the countries of the former Soviet bloc from the late Tsarist period to today. It publishes between 5 and 20 volumes per year and focuses on issues in transitions to and from democracy such as economic crisis, identity formation, civil society development, and constitutional reform in CEE and the NIS. SPPS also aims to highlight so far understudied themes in East European studies such as right-wing radicalism, religious life, higher education, or human rights protection. The authors and titles of all previously published volumes are listed at the end of this book. For a full description of the series and reviews of its books, see www.ibidem-verlag.de/red/spps.

Recent Volumes 175

Eduard Klein Bildungskorruption in Russland und der Ukraine Eine komparative Analyse der Performanz staatlicher Antikorruptionsmaßnahmen im Hochschulsektor am Beispiel universitärer Aufnahmeprüfungen Mit einem Vorwort von Heiko Pleines ISBN 978-3-8382-0995-1

177

Anton Oleinik Building Ukraine from Within A Sociological, Institutional, and Economic Analysis of a Nation-State in the Making ISBN 978-3-8382-1150-3

178

Peter Rollberg, Marlene Laruelle (eds.) Mass Media in the Post-Soviet World Market Forces, State Actors, and Political Manipulation in the Informational Environment after Communism ISBN 978-3-8382-1116-9

179

Editorial correspondence & manuscripts should be sent to: Dr. Andreas Umland, c/o DAAD, German Embassy, vul. Bohdana Khmelnitskoho 25, UA-01901 Kyiv, Ukraine. 180 e-mail: [email protected] Business correspondence & review copy requests should be sent to: ibidem Press, Leuschnerstr. 40, 30457 Hannover, Germany; tel.: +49 511 2622200; fax: +49 511 2622201; 181 [email protected]. Authors, reviewers, referees, and editors for (as well as all other persons sympathetic to) SPPS are invited to join its networks at 182 www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=52638198614 www.linkedin.com/groups?about=&gid=103012 www.xing.com/net/spps-ibidem-verlag/ 183

Mikhail Minakov Development and Dystopia Studies in post-Soviet Ukraine and Eastern Europe With a foreword by Alexander Etkind ISBN 978-3-8382-1112-1

Aijan Sharshenova The European Union’s Democracy Promotion in Central Asia A Study of Political Interests, Influence, and Development in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan in 2007–2013 With a foreword by Gordon Crawford ISBN 978-3-8382-1151-0

Andrey Makarychev, Alexandra Yatsyk (eds.) Boris Nemtsov and Russian Politics Power and Resistance With a foreword by Zhanna Nemtsova ISBN 978-3-8382-1122-0

Sophie Falsini The Euromaidan’s Effect on Civil Society Why and How Ukrainian Social Capital Increased after the Revolution of Dignity With a foreword by Susann Worschech ISBN 978-3-8382-1131-2

Andreas Umland (ed.) Ukraine’s Decentralization Challenges and Implications of the Local Governance Reform after the Euromaidan Revolution ISBN 978-3-8382-1162-6

Leonid Luks

A FATEFUL TRIANGLE Essays on Contemporary Russian, German and Polish History

ibidem-Verlag Stuttgart

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ISSN: 1614-3515 ISBN-13: 978-3-8382-7143-9

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Contents

Introduction Part I. Bolshevism and Fascism: Two Faces of Totalitarianism The Totalitarian Double Revolution in the Twentieth Century (1917/1933) and Its Ideological Roots—An Outline Bolshevism, Fascism, and National Socialism— Related Opponents? Part II. Late Soviet and Post‐Soviet Russia in Search of Identity Farewell to Class Struggle The Aggrieved Great Power: Russia after the Crimean War and after the Dissolution of the Soviet Union— A Comparative Outline “Weimar Russia?”—Notes on Controversial Concept A “Third Way”—Or Back to the Third Reich? Part III. Poland and Its Neighbors Polish Perceptions of Russia in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Aleksandr Wat about the Janus‐Faced Russia



7 11

43

69

73 81 105

129 135

6

CONTENTS

The German Question in Polish Unofficial Journalism of the 1970s Polish Antiauthoritarian Revolutions, the Euromaidan, and Putin’s Neo‐imperial Doctrine Part IV. The Jewish Question

149

161

The Craving for “Organic National Unity” and the “Jewish Question” in the Writings of Fedor Dostoevsky and Heinrich von Treitschke Cosmopolitanism as an Anti‐Jewish Stereotype under Stalin The Catholics in Postwar Poland and the Jews

221

Concluding Remarks: Does Russia Belong to Europe?

233

167 201

Introduction

The twentieth century, which ended with the triumph of the liberal‐ democratic systems in Europe, had begun with an extraordinarily deep identity crisis of parliamentarism and liberalism, with a revolt against pluralistic societies and their values. In its radicalism, this revolt exceeded all previous revolts of this kind. Germany and Rus‐ sia formed the center of this insurrection against the values that are usually associated with the West. It should, however, be pointed out that this revolt had been inspired in Germany, on the one hand, and Russia, on the other hand, by diametrically different ideas. In Ger‐ many, the insurrection against the West was directed primarily against the ideals of the French revolution, the so‐called ideas of the year 1789. These ideals were opposed by the ideas of the summer of 1914. At that time, Germany seemed to have created a kind of alter‐ native to the Western model: the German society clarified by the war experience of 1914. In the spirit of optimism of the summer of 1914, the Germans seemed to have overcome all political, denomi‐ national, social, and regional tensions. The otherwise torn nation “no longer knew any parties.” Despite the fact that Germany belongs to the West, the discus‐ sion of many values constitutive of the occident is an old topos of German cultural history. In their acrimonious rejection of the so‐ called Western decadence, many German authors did not differ too much from the Russian Slavophiles. Helmuth Plessner explains the German protest against the West, which reached its first climax in 1914, among other things by the fact that Germany “missed” the seventeenth century, the century in which the triumph of Enlight‐ enment and political humanism began. Not least this “missed” cen‐ tury had turned Germany into a “belated” nation, an adversary of the West and the ideas that shaped it.1 1 Plessner, Helmuth: Die verspätete Nation. Stuttgart, 1974.

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In Russia, at the beginning of the twentieth century, the revolt against the West took place under completely different conditions. It was inspired primarily by the ideas of the year 1789. In 1917, Rus‐ sia seemed to have become a new home to the ideals of 1789, the ideals that the Western bourgeoisie had, in the view of the Russian revolutionaries, allegedly betrayed. The first section of this book deals with the causes and conse‐ quences of the two revolts. The second section is dedicated to the development of late‐ Soviet and post‐Soviet Russia, which in 1991 was built on the ruins of the Bolshevik regime that had been established in 1917. The fo‐ cus will thereby be on the causes of the erosion of the “second” Rus‐ sian democracy that emerged immediately after the disempower‐ ment of the CPSU in August 1991. In the third section of the book, I shall deal with the third part of the “fateful triangle” mentioned in the title, namely, Poland. The focus of this section will be on the so‐called geopolitical trap, in which Poland—constrained by its powerful neighbors—was caught for centuries. All three countries of the “triangle” had a special relationship with Judaism. This problem will be the subject of the fourth section of the book.

Part I. Bolshevism and Fascism: Two Faces of Totalitarianism

The Totalitarian Double Revolution of the Twentieth Century (1917–1933) and Its Ideological Roots—An Outline1

The “short” twentieth century is one of the best documented epochs of history. Yet, it poses much more riddles than many periods of antiquity and the Middle Ages, whose sparse documentary remains can be reconstructed only with difficulty. One of the greatest riddles in this context is the question of the causes of the unprecedented breach of civilization that took place in the first half of the twentieth century and befell old cultural nations, which had been so proud of their great poets and thinkers, their brilliant writers, and artists. How could Auschwitz and the Gulag Archipelago happen? This ques‐ tion has shaken the European self‐conception down to the present day. The National Socialist genocide of the Jews and the Bolshevik so‐ ciocid are sometimes referred to as “Asian” acts (Ernst Nolte). This definition, however, is misleading, for the totalitarian regimes that had been established in Asia usually imitated European models. The birthplace of modern totalitarianism is, without doubt, in Europe, with Russia and Germany forming the center of revolt against the traditional European image of mankind, which had been shaped for centuries by the notions of the Old and the New Testament. Many analysts of the totalitarian regimes regard these political phenomena as the most radical manifestations of nihilism and see in their nihilistic destructiveness the greatest danger for the European civilization. Hermann Rauschning, who, after a temporary flirtation 1 Extended version of a paper that has been published in my essay collection Zeithistorische Streitfragen. Essays und Repliken. Münster 2012, pp. 153–181. Compare with this also my essay “Das Jahrhundert der Verwirklichung totalitä‐ rer Utopien und der Lager”, in: Blecking, Diethelm / Peiffer, Lorenz (eds.): Sportler im „Jahrhundert der Lager“. Profiteure, Widerständler und Opfer. Göttin‐ gen 2012, pp. 12–26.

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LEONID LUKS

with the NSDAP, became one of Hitler’s most vehement critics, de‐ fined in 1938 the National Socialist revolution as “The Revolution of Nihilism.” Rauschning was wrong. The fanatical faith and the missionary zeal of the totalitarian ideologies had a much more catastrophic effect on the societies they ruled than the cynical unfaith of the ni‐ hilists. When looking at the genesis of the totalitarian double revolution of the twentieth century, one must not forget that it occurred after a 150‐year‐long triumph of the progressive‐emancipatory processes in Europe. There were occasional interruptions of this triumph march, but only for a short time. Almost after every interruption, the advance of the Europeans accelerated toward the equality of rights and the liberation from paternalism of every kind. All the more puz‐ zling is the fact that this irrepressible desire for freedom of the Eu‐ ropeans could be so abruptly controlled that so many of them could be turned into tame, submissive subjects of the recently established despotisms and into mere little screws of the gigantic totalitarian mechanisms. Not least due to this reason, the Russian novelist Va‐ silii Grossman, who died in 1964, gives in his great novel Life and Fate another concise label to the twentieth century—the century of camps, World Wars, extremes and much more: the “century of sub‐ servience.” And indeed, the triumph of the totalitarian regimes that characterized the first half of the twentieth century would have been unthinkable without the willingness of countless Europeans to accept the totalitarian dictatorships. Grossman writes: [G]igantic masses were the obedient witnesses of annihilation of the innocent. But not only witnesses. When it was commanded, they gave their voices for annihilation, they expressed their approval of the mass murders with their vocal bluster. In this boundless subser‐ vience of men, something quite unexpected appeared.2

2 Grossman, Vasilii: Leben und Schicksal. Munich/Hamburg 1984, p. 218. Trans‐ lated into English by the translator.

THE TOTALITARIAN DOUBLE REVOLUTION

13

How does Grossman explain this anthropological revolution; the fact that “the violence, which was glorified by the totalitarian social systems, proved capable of paralyzing the human mind on whole continents”? The novelist traces this triumph of totalitarianism back to the moralizing attitude inherent in totalitarian ideologies to the fact that “the crimes” committed by totalitarian regimes had been portrayed as “the highest form of humanism, that they [had divided] men into worthy and unworthy ones.”3 This breach of civilization, which took place in the heart of Eu‐ rope, had apparently occurred over night—in a short period be‐ tween 1917 and 1945 resp. 1953 (the year of Stalin’s death). This “suddenness,” however, is misleading, for breaks usually occur gradually. Even the “century of subservience” resp. the camps had its long history. It was preceded by a revolt against the traditional European image of man. This revolt had the character of a double revolution. The de‐ stroyers of the foundations on which the Christian‐Jewish culture is based entangled the defenders of this culture in a war on two fronts. They were attacked in the name of equality, justice, and interna‐ tional solidarity as well as that of the hierarchical‐elitist principle, the irreconcilable national egoism, and the idea of race. Thereby these were the influential representatives of the edu‐ cated class and not the generally feared “masses” who battled values such as tolerance and humanity with particular radicality. Not the revolt of the masses but the revolt of the intellectual elite caused the greatest blow to European humanism, wrote the Russian exile his‐ torian Georgii Fedotov in 1939.4 European humanism suffered the greatest setbacks in its con‐ frontation with two schools of thought, which were creatures of the otherwise liberal nineteenth century, but were to develop their de‐ structive potential only in the totalitarian twentieth century: the

3 Ibid. Translated into English by the translator. 4 Fedotov, Georgii: K smerti ili k slave?, in: Novyi Grad 14, 1939, p. 102.

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LEONID LUKS

class struggle theory and the raciology. The groundbreaking writ‐ ings of both schools of thought—the Communist Manifesto by Marx and Engels and the Essay on the Inequality of the Human Races by Count Gobineau—came about almost simultaneously. Both writings stood on the border of two epochs—romanticism on the one side and the scientific‐positivistic age on the other—and were character‐ ized by beliefs of the two epochs. Not least this synthesis gave them an extraordinary vigorous power. Romantic concerning Marx and Engels as well as Gobineau was the belief in a “Golden Age” of man‐ kind and a godlike, incarnated savior. At the same time, however, they were convinced that they had discovered the iron laws of his‐ tory and provided scientific justification. And with this belief in sci‐ ence, they already participated in the positivist zeitgeist, which be‐ gan to take shape around the middle of the nineteenth century. Both Marx and Engels and Gobineau were historical determin‐ ists, yet with a difference: The concept of the authors of the Com‐ munist Manifesto was characterized by boundless optimism and that of Gobineau by boundless pessimism. Marx and Engels were convinced that they had found in the pro‐ letariat a new savior, who was free from the original sin of the ex‐ ploitation of man by man. Almost nothing would connect the indus‐ trial proletarian with the old world characterized by class domina‐ tion. That is why he is also predestined to destroy this sinful world and lead mankind into the “Golden Age” of classlessness. The savior of Gobineau was the white race: [History] shows us, according to Gobineau, that civilization origi‐ nates from the white race, that it cannot persist without the help of this race, and that a society is only insofar great and sparkling as it preserves the noble group that it owes its existence.5

What Gobineau, however, was extraordinarily depressed about was the permanent decay of this “most noble” human species, resulting

5 Graf Gobineau, A.: Versuch über die Ungleichheit der Menschenracen, Vol. 1–4. Stuttgart 1904, here Vol. 1, p. 285. Translated into English by the translator.

THE TOTALITARIAN DOUBLE REVOLUTION

15

from its racial mixing with other races: “Mixing, mixing everywhere, mixing forever,” complained one of the founders of raciology bitter‐ ly.6 The “Golden Age,” which for Marx and Engels would dawn in the “bright future,” had been for Gobineau in the grey past: The Brahmans of primitive India, the heroes of the Iliad […], the warriors of Scandinavia […] give us a higher and more brilliant idea of humanity […] than the peoples, hybrid a hundred times over, of the present day.7

However, for the racial purist Gobineau, not even the “Aryan” “he‐ roes of the [past] great epochs” were immaculate: “And the blood even of these was no longer pure.”8 For Gobineau even worse were the future prospects of mankind: it decays and degenerates unstop‐ pably, because the white race loses its purity by continual mixing.9 At the end of this decay process, the final demise is waiting. But even worse for Gobineau than the inevitable decay of mankind was the following perspective: What is truly sad is not death itself but the certainty of our meeting it as degraded beings.10

The gloomy predictions of Gobineau and other advocates of deca‐ dence theories11 were particularly widespread at the turn of the century. Pessimistic at that time were, however, not only the advo‐ cates of raciology but also their Marxist opponents. The proletariat, with which Marx and Engels linked their chilias‐ tic hopes, had not proved themselves as a revolutionary class. Events such as the revolt of the Paris workers from June 1848 or the Paris commune remained on the fringes. 6 7 8 9 10 11

Ibid., Vol. 4, p. 313. Ibid., Vol. 1, pp. 283 f. Translated into English by the translator. Ibid., pp. 32, 284. Translated into English by the translator. Ibid., p. 32. Ibid., Vol. 4, p. 323. Translated into English by the translator. Compare on this i. a. Luks, Leonid: Dekadenzängste und Rußlandfurcht – zwi‐ schen Wiener Kongreß und Krimkrieg, in: Tel Aviver Jahrbuch für deutsche Ge‐ schichte XXIV, 1995, pp. 15–39.

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LEONID LUKS

A successful industrial revolution constituted, for the classics of Marxism, the prerequisite for the victory of the proletarian revolu‐ tion. The actual historical development, however, proceeded ac‐ cording to a precisely opposite scenario. Only where the industrial revolution did not occur in time, the revolution inspired by the Marxian ideas had a chance. Not in the highly developed industrial‐ ist countries, but in the agrarian and emerging countries, the postu‐ lates established by the Communist Manifesto were realized. In the highly industrialized West, on the other hand, there was a gradual mitigation of the class antagonisms, which Marx had, at that time, regarded as unbridgeable. The industrial revolution now came to fruition, and the workers had more to lose than their chains. Not least for this reason, Eduard Bernstein tried—with his The Precondi‐ tions of Socialism and the Tasks of Social Democracy from 1899—to reconcile Marxism with reality as he saw it. The collapse of capital‐ ism is not imminent, he noted. Therefore, the SPD should abandon its revolutionary phraseology and work together with the liberal bourgeois forces to reform the existing society. Although Bernstein’s theses were condemned by the majority of the leaders of the Socialist International, the growing influence of the supporters of the evolutionary goal in the Western working‐ class movement could not be overlooked. What contributed to the mitigation of the class antagonisms in the West, however, was not only the successful industrial revolution but also, indirectly, Marx himself, or to be more precise: the move‐ ment that was inspired by him. Owing to their organizational strength, the most important Social Democratic parties of the West now, at the turn of the century, achieved considerable political and economic successes. But then, it was precisely the successes of the workers’ move‐ ment that fueled visions of doom and gloom in the camp of the de‐ fenders of the present social relations. Liberal democracy was, in their view, not capable of reacting adequately to this new challenge. An extraordinarily deep identity crisis of parliamentarism and lib‐ eralism occurred. This crisis was associated with a growing skepti‐

THE TOTALITARIAN DOUBLE REVOLUTION

17

cism of the Western intellectual circles against the positivist belief in progress and science as well as against rationalist concepts. A search for alternatives to the parliamentary‐democratic system began, the pursuit of a renewal or revitalization of the ruling elites (V. Pareto and G. Mosca). The critics of parliamentarism and liberal‐ ism completely dismissed the search for compromises, which are so characteristic for the liberal age. They advocated decisional solu‐ tions, the elimination of the political opponent, if necessary with the help of the so‐called direct violence. The so‐called revolt of the masses was talked up by many right‐wing critics of liberalism as one of the greatest dangers of European civilizations. And they also regarded the organized workers’ movement as the most dangerous form of this revolt. To counter this threat looming from below, some antiliberal groups, such as the Social Darwinists, wanted to revise the traditional moral concepts. In their view, not the weak and the underprivileged should be protected from the strong; on the contra‐ ry, the strongest and the best should be protected from the weak, that is, from the masses. For the Social Darwinists sympathy with the weak was a completely obsolete demand. They idealized the laws of biological nature and tried to transfer the law of the strong‐ est into society.12 Many militant opponents of modernity regarded the Jews as the leaders of the “revolt of the masses.” They allegedly incited the “obedient” lower classes to fight against estatist privileges and so‐ cial injustices. The sentence “The Jews are our misfortune,”13 formu‐ lated by Heinrich von Treitschke in 1879, was a common place for many groups at the turn of the century—and this throughout Eu‐ rope. Treitschke’s proposals for solving the “Jewish question,” how‐ ever, were not radical enough for many of his “epigones.” Treitsch‐ ke, despite his growing anti‐Semitism, had not entirely freed himself 12 Compare with this i. a. Zmarzlik, Hans Günter: Der Sozialdarwinismus in Deutschland. Ein geschichtliches Problem, in: Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschich‐ te 11, 1963, pp. 246–273. 13 von Treitschke, Heinrich: Unsere Aussichten, in: von Treitschke, Heinrich: Aufsätze, Reden, Briefe, Vol. 4. Schriften und Reden zur Zeitgeschichte II. Meers‐ burg 1929, pp. 466–482. Translated into English by the translator.

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from liberal ideas and repeatedly emphasized that he did not ques‐ tion the Jewish emancipation as such. For such remnants of liberal thought, the successors of Treitsch‐ ke had nothing but ridicule. They believed that the solution of the “Jewish problem” required entirely new methods. An author advo‐ cating such a new form of handling Judaism with particular vehe‐ mence was the English–German publicist Houston Stewart Cham‐ berlain, whose pseudoscientific elaborate The Foundations of the 19th Century, published in 1899, would become a kind of compulso‐ ry reading for many pseudointellectual circles in the German Reich and far beyond.14 In an almost Marxian manner, Chamberlain believed that he had identified the cause of all causes, the prima causa, of all historical processes, namely, the life‐and‐death struggle between the “highly creative” Aryan resp. Indo‐European race and its “enemy”— Semitism resp. Judaism. As an ardent admirer of Richard Wagner, a Wagner biographer and leading publicist of the “Bayreuth Circle,” Chamberlain contin‐ ued his master’s campaign against Judaism, which ascribed the “moral decline” of the modern world to the influence of Judaism. Chamberlain also quoted the Wagnerian definition of Judaism, which the composer had described as the “malleable demon of the decay of humanity.”15 However, Chamberlain’s polemic exceeded Wagner’s program that had been particularly evident in the text Judaism in Music. Wag‐ ner had called on the Jews to renounce their Jewry: “Becoming to‐ gether with us man, means for the Jews first and foremost to stop being Jews.”16

14 Compare with this i. a. Bein, Alex: Die Judenfrage. Biographie eines Weltprob‐ lems. Stuttgart 1980, Vol. 1, pp. 228–230. 15 Chamberlain, Houston Stewart: Richard Wagner, in: Chamberlain, Houston Stewart: Gesamtausgabe seiner Werke in neun Bänden, Vol. 1. Munich 1922, p. 224. 16 Wagner, Richard: Das Judentum in der Musik, in: Fischer, Jens Malte (ed.): Richard Wagners „Das Judentum in der Musik“. Eine kritische Dokumentation als

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Chamberlain thought that such a self‐dissolution of Judaism was impossible because the inner nature of the Jews was irrevocably determined by their race.17 Even if Wagner had, under the influence of Gobineau whom he had met in Rome in 1876, begun to believe more and more in racial determinism,18 in the case of Chamberlain this belief almost at‐ tained the form of an adamant dogma. However, the fact that it dis‐ guised itself as a “science‐based theory” was what gave the greatest advantage to this axiom of faith. The pseudointellectual readers of Chamberlain, longing for sim‐ plistic solutions, were incredibly grateful to the author for his “key” to the unraveling of the “meaning of history.”19 On December 31, 1901, Wilhelm II wrote to the author of the Foundations: There you come, with a spell you bring order into chaos, light into the darkness; goals, which must be aimed and worked for; explana‐ tions for the inky suspected, paths which are to be pursued for the salvation of the Germans and thus for the salvation of humanity!20

Cosima Wagner, who reacted similarly euphoric to the book, wrote to Chamberlain on February 15, 1902: Your “Foundations” [are] the most read book in all classes, and dur‐ ing the meeting, which we had with his Majesty, the Kaiser said re‐ peatedly: “Chamberlain thinks the same.” You have become influen‐ tial, my friend.21

17 18 19

20 21

Beitrag zur Geschichte des Antisemitismus. Frankfurt‐on‐Main / Leipzig 2000, p. 173. Chamberlain, Houston Stewart: Die Grundlagen des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts. Ungekürzte Volksausgabe. Munich 1932, pp. 382–388. Field, Geoffrey G.: The Evangelist of Race. The Germanic Vision of Houston Stew‐ art Chamberlain. New York 1981, p. 152. On this see also: Chamberlain, Houston Stewart: Briefe 1882–1924 und Brief‐ wechsel mit Kaiser Wilhelm II. Munich 1927. Vol. 1‐2, here Vol. 2, p. 142; Kinzig, Wolfram: Harnack, Marcion und das Judentum. Nebst einer kommentierten Editi‐ on des Briefwechsels Adolf von Harnacks mit Houston Stewart Chamberlain. Leip‐ zig 2004, p. 212. Chamberlain, Briefe, Vol. 2, p. 142. Translated into English by the translator. Quoted after Kinzig, Harnack, p. 212. Translated into English by the translator.

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Chamberlain’s book, however, contained not only “simple” answers to the most complicated questions in the history of mankind but also a guide to action. He showed what means had to be applied to alter the course of history, which is characterized by the struggle between the Aryan and the Semitic race, in such a way that it is ben‐ eficial for Aryanism. He passionately argued the case for a “Cartha‐ ginian” solution of the Semitic question, that is, for the elimination of the Semitic danger according to the Roman model of 146 BC: [...] one thing is as clear as the noonday sun; if the Phoenician people had not been destroyed, […] mankind would have never seen this nineteenth century, upon which, with all due recognition of our weaknesses […], we yet look back with pride […]. The least mercy shown to a race of such unparalleled tenacity as the Semites would have sufficed to enable the Phoenician nation to rise once more; in a Carthage only half‐burned the torch of life would have glimmered beneath the ashes, to burst again into flame as soon as the Roman Empire began to approach its dissolution […], and yet we should need to be blind or dishonest, not to confess that the problem of Ju‐ daism in our midst is one of the most difficult and dangerous ques‐ tions of the day.22

Because the Jews, after the obliteration of the Phoenicians, were supposed to be the greatest remaining threat to the Aryan race, Chamberlain was more than grateful to the Romans for their “pre‐ liminary work,” for their other destructive action, which was for the history of the world maybe as unimaginably important as the de‐ struction of Carthage—the destruction of Jerusalem: He believed that without this act, Christianity would have hardly ever been able to free itself from Judaism. Chamberlain could only scorn all the talking about “humanitari‐ anism” of the modern Europeans. After all, this had—in his view— only made the rise of Judaism possible:

22 Chamberlain, The Foundations of the 19th Century. URL: https://archive.org/ stream/TheFoundationsOfThe19thCentury_362/MicrosoftWord‐Document1_ djvu.txt.

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The Indo‐European, moved by ideal motives, opened the gates in friendship: the Jew rushed in like an enemy, stormed all positions and planted the flag of his, to us, alien nature […] on the breaches of our genuine individuality.23

How Chamberlain intended to take action against this—from his point of view—“deadly threat,” he had already described in the chapter on the extermination of the Phoenician nation by Rome: The least mercy shown to a race of such unparalled tenacity as the Semites would have sufficed to enable the Phoenician nation to rise once more.24

Chamberlain introduced a number of arguments as to why the Jew‐ ish race should be relentlessly fought against: [Their] existence is sin, their existence is a crime against the holy laws of life. [The] basis of Jewish religion includes […] a direct criminal attempt upon all the peoples on earth. [The] criminal hopes [of the Jews isolate] them from suffering, striv‐ ing and creating humanity, [make] them […] inevitably the enemy, open or secret, of every other human being, and a danger to every culture. We cannot understand Judaism and its power, as well as its ineradi‐ cable tenacity […], until we have recognised his demoniacal genius and can explain its growth. Here it is a struggle of one against all.25

Thus, Chamberlain in fact denies the Jews their human existence. In her book on the predecessor of National Socialism, Doris Mende‐ lewitsch summarizes Chamberlain’s image of the Jews as follows:

23 Ibid. 24 Ibid. 25 Ibid.

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Everything that constitutes a real human being the Jews are lacking; they are uncreative, merely evil rationalists and materialists, their “religious instinct” is stunted.26

With this dehumanization of the Jews, Chamberlain in fact antici‐ pated the racist thesis of the “life unworthy of life,” which the Na‐ tional Socialist regime would later implement with an unparalleled efficiency. It is not surprising that the author of the Foundations received a special place in the “pantheon” of the NSDAP.27 Chamber‐ lain was, according to the memoires of Hermann Graf Keyserling, “undoubtedly the most important spiritual pioneer of the National Socialist movement.”28 The utopia of the “Carthaginian” solution of the Jewish question, conceived by Chamberlain at the threshold of the twentieth century, was, on the European continent, almost fully realized in the middle of this century of the camps. It was part of the essence of this centu‐ ry that it was the time of the realization of several utopian dreams that had once been considered unfeasible. In the nineteenth century, the Russian philosopher Nikolaj Berdjaev wrote in his book The New Medieval Age, one had often complained that utopias are beautiful but cannot be realized. In the twentieth century, humanity was con‐ fronted with a completely different experience. Utopias are much easier to realize than initially assumed. The question that now aris‐ es is how to prevent the realization of utopias.29 And, in fact, the protagonists of the utopian outlines shaped the political events of the twentieth century, especially in its first half, 26 Mendelewitsch, Doris: Volk und Held. Vordenker des Nationalsozialismus im 19. Jahrhundert. Rheda‐Wiedenbruck 1988, p. 46. Translated into English by the translator. 27 Compare on this i. a. Köhler, Joachim: Wagners Hitler. Der Prophet und sein Vollstrecker. Munich 1997; Sarkisyanz, Manuel: Vision vom Dritten Reich und Dritten Rom. Waren es die Sonderwege Deutschlands und Rußlands, die nach Auschwitz und zum GULAG führten?, in: Luks, Leonid / O’Sullivan, Donal (eds.): Rußland und Deutschland im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert. Zwei „Sonderwe‐ ge“ im Vergleich. Cologne 2001, pp. 69‐92, here pp. 89 f. 28 Quoted after Kinzig, Harnack, pp. 213 f. 29 Berdjaev, Nikolaj: Das Neue Mittelalter. Betrachtungen über das Schicksal Ruß‐ lands und Europas. Tübingen 1950, p. 122.

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and pushed the liberal‐democratic opponents, who did not think in “end‐time categories” and regarded politics as the “art of the possi‐ ble,” into the defensive. What became the symbol of the realized utopia were the concentration camps, which, according to the Polish‐British sociologist Zygmunt Bauman, were “the models and plans for the totalitarian society […] The camps were the testing ground for societies, which should be organized like concentration camps.”30 Around 1940, almost the entire European continent was domi‐ nated by two totalitarian Leviathans who sought to realize their utopian visions, which had been developed in two programmatic writings that occurred around the turn of the century. In addition to the Foundations of the 19th Century, this is Lenin’s What Is to be Done?, published three years later. *** When Lenin wrote his work, the entire Second International, found‐ ed in 1889, was in the midst of the revisionist struggle, which showed that the utopian energies that the Marxist movement still had in the early decades were gradually drying up. The Social Dem‐ ocratic parties of the West were increasingly concerned with par‐ liamentary, unionist, and local political questions and by no means with revolutionary ultimate goals. This descending into everyday life and routine incensed many social democrats, who still felt obliged to the legacy of the Communist Manifesto. Nevertheless, they became increasingly isolated within their respective parties. The visions of the Communist Manifesto on the abolition of pri‐ vate property and the establishment of a classless society inspired only radical margins of the workers’ movement around 1914, just before the outbreak of the First World War. Three years later, how‐ ever, representatives of this direction became sole rulers in one of the largest empires on earth. The utopia came to power, one could 30 Bauman, Zygmunt: Das Jahrhundert der Lager, in: Neue Gesellschaft / Frankfur‐ ter Hefte 1994, pp. 28–37, here p. 34.

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say with the book title of the Russian exile historians Nekrič and Geller about the history of the Soviet Union.31 After the decline of the revolutionary wave in the West after 1849, the revolutionary center of the continent moved to Russia. Here an uninterrupted intensification of political conflicts and a polarization of society were taking place, as Marx and Engels had predicted for the West. Despite this, at the beginning of the twenti‐ eth century, the tremendous Tsarist apparatus of power seemed almost omnipotent and absolutely superior to the revolutionary groups of all stripes. In this constellation, Lenin’s What Is to be Done? was written, which would later turn out to be as important and defining for the Marxist movement as the Communist Manifesto. Like Chamberlain, Lenin believed in the regularities of historical development, but at the same time—here again paralleling the au‐ thor of the Foundations—wanted to influence the spontaneous his‐ torical processes voluntarily. These analogies in the reasoning of the two authors are astonishing when one considers that Chamberlain was inspired by a world view characterized by unlimited pessimism (Gobineau’s thesis of the permanent process of decay of the white race), whereas Lenin had inherited an unlimited optimism from Marx (the inevitable victory of the proletarian revolution). With his “Carthaginian model,” Chamberlain, as already men‐ tioned, wanted to demonstrate that Gobineau’s pessimistic view was unfounded. The decay of the Aryan race can be stopped when the most important cause of this process—the Jewry—will be de‐ feated. Thus, he called upon the Aryan race to create, with a super‐ human effort of will, a racial “paradise on earth.” Lenin, too, was inspired by the vision of a paradise on earth; this time a social one that, similar to Chamberlain, should be built through an effort of will. He categorically rejected evolutionary solu‐ tions of the labor question, which the Western “revisionists” and their Russian fellowmen were supporting in order to improve the

31 Geller, Michail / Nekrič, Aleksandr: Utopiya u vlasti. Istoriya Sovetskogo Soyuza s 1917 goda do nashikh dnej, Vol. 1–2. London 1982.

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economic situation of the proletarians gradually. This would only distract from the actual goal, the destruction of the existing society. Lenin’s hopes of salvation were not dissimilar to those of Marx and Engels, as these can be found in the Communist Manifesto.32 He, too, seemed to proclaim in an almost Early Christian manner: Salvation is near. But who is the savior? Marx and Engels had linked their messianic hopes with the proletariat. Both turned out to be false prophets. The aim of the overwhelming majority of industrial work‐ ers was by no means the establishment of a “realm of freedom” in‐ stead of a class society, but modest affluence within the existing society, which they indeed achieved at the turn of the century, at least in the West. They could hardly be won over for the utopian plans of ivory tower intellectuals. Lenin, who spent the years between 1900 and 1917 with a brief interruption in the Western exile, could observe this “erosion of the utopian” at close range. The disappointment about the Marxian “savior” is the common thread of What Is to Be Done? Spontaneous‐ ly, on their own, the proletarian masses only attained a “trade‐ unionist” consciousness, Lenin explained. The Socialist conscious‐ ness, the striving for the creation of a new, unprecedented world, could be imparted only by an avant garde: [The] workers could not have a Social Democratic consciousness. This could only be brought to them from the outside.33

Lenin dreamed of a strictly disciplined, centrally managed conspira‐ tional organization of professional revolutionaries: “Give us an or‐ 32 Bertram Wolfe emphasized that Lenin, in his writings, tends to quote the ro‐ mantic and “voluntaristic” Marx of the revolutionary period (1848–1850) and not so much the later “deterministic” Marx, who is concerned primarily with the “laws” of the economic development of the capitalist systems (Wolfe, B.: Marxism and the Russian Revolution, in: Wolfe, B.: An Ideology in Power. Reflec‐ tions on the Russian Revolution. New York 1969, pp. 3‐41, here p. 23). This is not surprising. For, according to the laws “discovered” by Marx, the victory of a “proletarian revolution” was not possible in the agrarian Russia, at least during Lenin’s lifetime. 33 Lenin, Vladimir: Werke, Vol. 1–40. Berlin 1961 ff., here Vol. 5, p. 385. Translated into English by the translator.

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ganization of revolutionaries, and we shall overturn the whole of Russia!,” Lenin wrote in What Is to Be Done? in 1902. One year later, this party emerged as the result of a division of the Russian Social Democrats into a Bolshevist and a Menshevik wing. Fourteen years later, the Bolshevik party achieved what Lenin had predicted in 1902—“overturn[ing] the whole of Russia.”34 *** The circumstances, which led to the fact that the totalitarian groups of left‐wing and right‐wing provenance were able to move from the sociopolitical periphery to the center of power—first in Russia, then in Germany—cannot be described here, as this would be beyond the scope of this chapter. In the second part of this chapter, I would rather like to address the totalitarian movements in the so‐called regime phase; the question as to whether certain features of the totalitarian groups, which became evident in the course of the de‐ velopment phase, solidified or further developed in later, more ma‐ ture stages. First, I want to go into the typical tendency of totalitarian move‐ ments to dehumanize their opponents, deny their humanity. The representatives of the former Russian upper class, for example, were demoted to people of the “second category” right after the Bolshevik seizure of power. The Soviet Constitution of July 1918 deprived them of both active and passive electoral rights. The rep‐ resentatives of the so‐called exploiting class were poorly provided for during the Russian civil war and were generally given ration cards of the lowest category. They were repeatedly charged with special taxes—the so‐called contributions (for instance, they had to pay 10 billion rubles to the state in October 1918). Within the scope of the obligation to work, they had to do the most base and servile work. An important part of the “Red Terror” at the time of the civil war were the “hostage‐takings”—arbitrary arrests of countless citi‐

34 Lenin, Werke, Vol. 5, p. 483. Translated into English by the translator.

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zens, who were regarded as a sort of human pledge by the terror organs. Acts of resistance were often answered with mass execu‐ tions of hostages. Among those hostages, who were first executed, were the members of the formerly owning class.35 The Bolsheviks were convinced that they would succeed in build‐ ing, almost overnight, a social order that is based on the ideals of equality, justice, and fraternity, and that this would happen because they, allegedly, represented the interest of the overwhelming major‐ ity of humanity—the “exploited classes.” They considered the dep‐ rivation of rights, the expropriation, and elimination of the so‐called exploiters as a sufficient prerequisite to build a social paradise on earth. Lev Trockij writes in his memoirs that he recalls very well how Lenin, in the first period after the Bolshevik seizure of power, repeatedly emphasized: “After half a year we will have achieved Socialism and be the most powerful state on earth.”36 Thus, the Bol‐ sheviks became victims of their own utopianism. The Russian phi‐ losopher Semen Frank describes utopianism as a typical heresy, an attempt to save the world with the help of the human will. Since the utopian violates the structure of creation and the nature of man, his intentions are doomed to failure. He declares war to both creation and human nature and turns from a supposed savior into a bitter enemy of the human race.37 When the stubborn reality opposed the Bolsheviks’ radical trans‐ formation, they declared more and more groups to be enemies of the working class and questioned their humanity. In addition to the representatives of the former upper class now also the rich peas‐ ants, the so‐called kulaks were included in this category. In August 1918, Lenin stated:

35 Pipes, Richard: Die russische Revolution, Vol. 2. Berlin 1992, pp. 805–809; Volkogonov, Dmitrij: Lenin. Berlin 1994, pp. 257–259 . 36 Trotsky, Lev: Über Lenin. Material für einen Biographen. Frankfurt‐on‐Main 1964, p. 106. Translated into English by the translator. 37 Frank, Semen: Eres’ utopizma, in: Frank, Semen: Po tu storonu pravogo i levogo. Sbornik statej. Paris 1972, pp. 83–106.

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The kulaks are the most brutal, ruthless and savage of exploiters [...]. During the war these bloodsuckers grew rich out of the poverty of the people [...]. These spiders grew fat at the expense of [...] the starving workers. [...] These vampires have been gathering the land‐ ed estates into their hands [...]. Ruthless war must be waged on the kulaks!38

This declaration of war of the Bolsheviks to the owning classes be‐ gan to be extended to the so‐called small private owners, that is, to the overwhelming majority of the Russian peasantry, which consti‐ tuted about 80% of the population. In April 1918, Lenin accused them of unbridled egoism and described them as resolute enemies of the proletariat: Their weapon is the undermining of everything that the proletariat decrees and endeavors to bring about the matter of building an or‐ ganized, Socialist economy.39

And what about the party that had violently stifled the huge eman‐ cipatory process that Russia had experienced from the abolition of serfdom in 1861 to the October Revolution and incapacitated the subjugated society entirely? In the first decade and a half after the October Revolution, the Bolshevik party had become an omnipotent demiurge, capable of creating within a very short time a new, un‐ precedented social order and a new man. In a society forced into line, however, such a self‐confident party represented a foreign body. From 1936 to 1938—during the time of the “Great Terror”— this foreign body was integrated into the social organism as a whole and demoted to a compliant tool in the hands of the leadership. Now also the Bolsheviks were subjected to the process of dehumaniza‐ tion, which they themselves had initiated in 1917 with regard to their opponents. During the Moscow show trials of 1936–1938, many of Lenin’s closest companions, who had constructed the Soviet State, were labeled by the General Prosecutor of the USSR, Vyshin‐

38 Lenin, Werke, Vol. 28, pp. 42 f. Translated into English by the translator. 39 Lenin, Werke, Vol. 27, p. 275. Translated into English by the translator.

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sky, as the “watch dogs of capitalism,” as “offspring of vipers” that “has to be trampled down.”40 At the Central Committee meeting in March 1937, Mikoyan, a member of the Stalinist group, characterized some of the so‐called Lenin’s Guard and his former comrades as follows: Trotsky, Zinov’ev and Bucharin embody a new type of man, who ac‐ tually is no human being any more but a monster and beast that verbally defends the line of the party, but in fact, […] carries out subversive work against the party.41

After such a line of argument, all the psychological inhibitions of the Stalin leadership in their struggle against their inner‐party oppo‐ nents were abolished; the laws of the unwritten “Bolshevik code of honor,” which forbade the physical liquidation of inner‐party rivals, completely disregarded. Those party oppositionists now fought by the Stalinists had themselves often supported the thesis that the kulaks or the members of the former upper class were beasts and not human beings. Now they experienced firsthand the painful con‐ sequences of such a diction. After the hybris came nemesis. *** Like the Bolsheviks, the National Socialists attempted to create a new man, to whom the taboos imposed by Judaeo‐Christian ethics were altogether alien. They, too, questioned the humanity of their opponents, with one difference: Since the enemies of National So‐ cialism were primarily biologically defined, in the Third Reich, in contrast to the Bolshevik state, “false origin” could not be corrected by “correct attitude.” Transitions from one camp to another were not possible. The Jews, who were regarded as the most tenacious opponents of the Aryan race, should be completely “removed,” and 40 Lieber, Hans‐Joachim / Ruffmann, Karl‐Heinz (eds.): Der Sowjetkommunismus. Dokumente, Vol. 1‐2. Cologne / Berlin 1963, here Vol. 1, p. 381. Translated into English by the translator. 41 Voprosy istorii, 4‐5, 1992, p. 21.

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since the Wannsee Conference completely destroyed.42 This pur‐ pose was served primarily by the extermination camps Treblinka, Sobibór, Bełżec, Chełmno, and above all Auschwitz‐Birkenau, which were build on occupied Polish territory. As the Polish historians Jan Gumkowski and Kazimierz Leszczyński rightly say, using the term “camp” for these institutions is misleading. Usually people were murdered just a few hours after their arrival.43 Such factories of death were unknown in the Soviet Gulag Archipelago, where people were usually destroyed by work. Thus, the uniqueness of the Na‐ tional Socialist terror system is symbolized by terms such as Auschwitz‐Birkenau and Treblinka.44 42 The fact that the National Socialist program of the “removal” of the Jews aimed at completeness and did not tolerate any exceptions could be extracted from the words, Hitler utters in a conversation with the Croatian Minister of War on July 21, 1941: “If, for any reason, a single state would tolerate a Jewish family, this seat of bacilli would lead to a new decomposition. If there were no Jews in Europe, the unity of the European states would no longer be impaired.” (Micha‐ elis, Herbert / Schraepler, Ernst / Scheel, Günter (eds.): Ursachen und Folgen. Vom deutschen Zusammenbruch 1918 und 1945 bis zur staatlichen Neuordnung Deutschlands in der Gegenwart. Eine Urkunden‐ und Dokumentensammlung zur Zeitgeschichte, 28 Bde. Berlin 1958 ff., here Vol. 17, p. 308). The words of the "Führer" represented in a Führer state, not only a private opinion, but they were also often intended to be an instruction to action. When Hitler talked to the Croatian Minister of War about the “solution of the Jewish question,” the rapid advance of the Wehrmacht took place within the “Russian Campaign,” which was closely linked to the radicalization of the National Socialist Jewish policy. The mass murder of Jewish men in the occupied territories was fol‐ lowed, 8 weeks after the beginning of the “Russian Campaign,” by the extension of the extermination campaigns to the entire Jewish population, including women and children (Longerich, Peter: Politik der Vernichtung. Eine Gesamtdar‐ stellung der nationalsozialistischen Judenverfolgung. Munich 1998, p. 580; Bur‐ rin, Philippe: Hitler und die Juden. Die Entscheidung zum Völkermord. Frankfurt‐ on‐Main 1993, pp. 118 f.; Friedländer, Saul: Die Jahre der Vernichtung. Das Drit‐ te Reich und die Juden. Munich 2006, pp. 244 f.; Snyder, Tymothy: Bloodlands. Europe between Hitler and Stalin. London 2010, pp. 195–201. Geyer, Michael / Fitzpatrick, Sheila: Za ramkami totalitarizma. Sravnitel´nye issledovanija stalin‐ izma i nacizma. Moscow 2011, p. 495). 43 Gumkowski, Janusz / Leszczyński, Kazimierz: Okupacja hitlerowska w Polsce. Warsaw 1961, p. 69. 44 Thereby one must emphasize that the Communists were among the harshest critics of the thesis of the uniqueness of the Holocaust. It is, therefore, surpris‐ ing that Stéphane Courtois, in his introduction to The Black Book of Communism, describes the Communists as maybe the most important protagonists of this thesis. He writes: “After [the Communists] had first denied the special nature of

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The Berlin historian Jörg Baberowski, who is concerned with the comparison between National Socialism and Stalinism, asks why “the Stalinist spiral of violence did not lead to an industrially orga‐ nized mass murder.”45 The author explains this by the enormous territorial expansion of the Soviet Union, allowing the regime to banish—from its point of view—“hostile elements” to remote areas of the empire. This explanation, however, is unsatisfactory. When the National Socialists began the “industrially organized mass mur‐ der” at the end of 1941, they controlled a vast territory stretching from the Atlantic to the suburbs of Moscow. No one would have hindered them from using the Jews, who had been deported to the East, as working slaves according to the pattern of the “Gulags.” The fact that they were murdered had surely no geopolitical, demo‐ graphic, or economic, but primarily ideological reasons. The Nazi regime regarded the Jews as the universal enemy, who, for the National Socialists, embodied the “old,” the so‐called slave the persecution of the Jews by the Nazis, they soon recognized the advantage they could gain from acknowledging this uniqueness” (Courtois, Stéphane: Schwarzbuch des Kommunismus. Unterdrückung, Verbrechen und Terror. Munich 1998, p. 35 – translation into English by the translator). Thereby Courtois ig‐ nores the fact that denying the uniqueness of the Holocaust was for the Moscow headquarters of the Communist world movement virtually constitutive until Gorbachev‘s Perestroika. When Vasilii Grossman and some other Jewish au‐ thors wrote the so‐called black book in 1946, which was supposed to document the National Socialist murder of the Jews on Soviet territory, the Soviet authori‐ ties did not permit the publication of this book (Redlich, Shimon / Kostyrchen‐ ko, Gennadii [eds.]: Evrejskii antifashistskii komitet v SSSR 1941‐1948. Dokumen‐ tirovannaja istorija. Moscow 1996, p. 261). The emphasizing of the uniqueness of the Holocaust was for the Soviet propagandists now an expression of “Jewish nationalism.” Those authors trying to point out the uniqueness of the Jewish tragedy often paid this with their lives, among them were several members of the Jewish Antifascist Committee, which had been founded in 1942 and dis‐ solved in 1948. In August 1952, 13 of them were sentenced to death and exe‐ cuted (compare on this i. a. Naumov, Vladimir (ed.): Nepravednyi sud. Poslednii stalinskii rasstrel. Stenogramma sudebnogo processa nad chlenami evreiskogo antifashistskogo komiteta. Moscow 1994). The fact that Stéphane Courtois, who claims that he is revolutionizing the research on Communism, ignores this fact, which is so important to the history of Communism, is more than astonishing. 45 Baberowski, Jörg / Doering‐Manteuffel, Anselm: Ordnung durch Terror. Ge‐ waltexzesse und Vernichtung im nationalsozialistischen und im stalinistischen Imperium. Bonn 2006, p. 89. See on this also Geyer / Fitzpatrick, Za ramkami totalitarizma, pp. 206–207, 299–300.

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morality, which they wanted to replace with the new “master moral‐ ity.” The “old morality,” that is, the Decalogue, was indeed closely connected with Judaism, so the murder of the Jews represented, for the creators of “Auschwitz,” the seemingly indispensable prerequi‐ site for the triumph of the “new morality.”46 The relatively smooth functioning of the National Socialist ex‐ termination machinery was possible not least because the executors had, normally, internalized the National Socialist dogma that the Jews were not human beings: “Countless diseases have their cause in one bacillus: the Jew!,” Hitler said in one of his monologues. “We will be healthy if we eliminate the Jews” was Hitler’s conclusion.47 Zygmunt Bauman writes about this drive of totalitarian rulers for final solutions: The modern mind cherishes the dream of a complete society puri‐ fied from the remains of human weakness […]. To achieve this, all the obstacles that stand in the way of this dream must be eliminat‐ ed—including the men and women who pose problems, who are the problem.48

And indeed, countless perpetrators in the service of totalitarian regimes regarded the extermination of millions as a kind of work of salvation. About the National Socialist executors of the murder of Jews, the American historian Erich Goldhagen (not to be confused with his son Daniel) writes: The executors were particularly prone to chiliastic dreams, when they had just got over a massacre […]. Exhausted murderers, who were constantly haunted by […] unacknowledged feelings of guilt. For the conviction that the murdering of the Jews was a work of sal‐

46 See also i. a.: Śpiewak Paweł: Shoah, drugi upadek, in: Więź 7‐8, 1986, pp. 3–13, here p. 13. 47 Adolf Hitler. Monologe im Führerhauptquartier 1941–1944, ed. by Werner Joch‐ mann. Munich 2000, p. 293. Translated into English by the translator. 48 Bauman, Das Jahrhundert der Lager, p. 33. Translated into English by the trans‐ lator.

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vation was one of their most important pillars, it was a balm for their conscience.49

And also Stalin’s “willing executor,” Andrei Vyshinskii, described, during the Moscow show trials of 1936–1938, the elimination of the so‐called enemy of the people as a salvific act.50 Similar to the Bolshevik terror, the National Socialist terror could, of course, not be restricted to a particular group of victims. Ever new circles and classes were categorized as “life unworthy of life”: the mentally ill, the Polish intelligentsia, Red Army soldiers taken as prisoners. In the News for the Troop, published by the De‐ partment of Wehrmacht Propaganda, in June 1941, one could read the following: Everyone, who once has cast a glance at the face of one of the Red Commissars, knows what Bolsheviks are [...] It would be an insult to the animals, if one would call the features of these slave‐drivers, who are at a high percentage Jewish, animalistic. They are the incar‐ nation of the infernal, the personification of mad hatred against all noble humanity. In the person of these Commissars we witness the insurrection of the subhuman beings against noble blood.51

However, this extermination campaign, directed outward by the leadership of the Third Reich, would sooner or later inevitably di‐ rect itself inward. Among its last victims were, shortly before the end of the war, the Germans, which Hitler had stylized as the Her‐ renvolk. Since Hitler regarded his appearance in German history as its fulfillment, he aspired that after his death German history would come to its end.52 49 Goldhagen, Erich: Weltanschauung und Endlösung. Zum Antisemitismus der nationalsozialistischen Führungsschicht, in: Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 1976, pp. 379‐440, here p. 402. Translated into English by the translator. 50 Lieber / Ruffmann, Der Sowjetkommunismus, Vol. 1, p. 381. 51 Boog, Horst / Förster, Jürgen / Hoffmann, Joachim / Klink, Ernst / Müller, Rolf‐ Dieter / Ueberschär, Gerd R.: Der Angriff auf die Sowjetunion. Frankfurt‐on‐ Main 1996, p. 528. Translated into English by the translator. 52 See also i. a. Hitler’s conversation with armaments minister Albert Speer (19 March 1945) – quoted after Thamer, Hans‐Ulrich: Verführung und Gewalt. Deutschland 1933‐1945. Berlin 1986, p. 760.

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Hitler’s testament of April 29, 1945 does not contain a trace of regret. The real culprit for this murderous struggle was: “The Jew‐ ry!” he writes one day before his suicide. After that he pledged the leadership to “the painstaking adherence to racial laws and the re‐ lentless resistance against the international Jewry, which is poison‐ ing the peoples of the world.”53 This unparalleled self‐righteousness and inability to regret were, however, typical not only for Hitler but also for many of those be‐ lieving in the Führer, and this not only before, but also after the “zero hour.” In the recently evaluated audio recordings of the con‐ versations, Adolf Eichmann had had in his Argentinean exile with one of his fellow travelers; this expert for the question of the Final Solution stated: If we had killed all the ten million Jews Himmler had originally quoted in his statistics”, then he, Eichmann, would say: “Great, we have destroyed an enemy [...]. I don’t regret anything. I certainly don’t eat humble pie.54

In addition, the former Soviet head of government, Molotov, who, together with Stalin, signed hundreds of so‐called shooting lists and was responsible for the death of countless people, did see absolutely no reason for a vote of regret. In a conversation with the writer Fe‐ liks Chuev at the beginning of the 1970s, he stated: The year 1937 [the year, when the Great Terror reached its climax— L. L.] was essential. It is thanks to the year 1937 that we did not have a fifth column during the war.55

When totalitarian perpetrators showed feelings of compassion, these were usually not directed toward the victims, but the accom‐ plices. Heinrich Himmler, for instance, spoke, in his Posen speech 53 Quoted after Friedländer, Die Jahre der Vernichtung, p. 689 f. Translated into English by the translator. 54 Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 1.12.2000, p. 44. Translated into English by the translator. 55 Chuev, Feliks: Sto sorok besed s Molotovym. Moscow 1991, p. 390.

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from October 1943, whiny about the heavy burden of the SS‐men, who had remained decent in their fulfilling of the “world‐historical task [of] exterminating the Jewish people.”56 Listening to such inconceivable statements today, one tends to take totalitarian personalities as creatures from another planet, who have nothing in common with the European tradition. In fact, how‐ ever, the totalitarian man is a European phenomenon, or more pre‐ cisely, the result of one of the deepest crisis of values of European culture, which reached its peak in the first half of the twentieth cen‐ tury. Apart from this, the triumphs of the totalitarian movements were the result of a kind of betrayal of the European elites against the values, which had been a defining feature of European culture for centuries. In this context, the French writer Julien Benda speaks of a “betrayal of the intellectuals” (La trahison des clercs, Paris 1927). This term is much too narrow. For not only the intellectuals but also other pillars of European culture or the European system— political parties, economic and interest groups, religious communi‐ ties—fell short in their involvement with the totalitarian move‐ ments of the left and the right wing. The Hitler biographer Konrad Heiden speaks, concerning the National Socialist seizure of power, of the age of irresponsibility and of the escape of Germany’s political class from responsibility.57 The same can be said of Russia’s political class concerning the Bolshevik seizure of power. But the escape of the old elites from responsibility alone would not have been enough for the triumph march of totalitarianism. For this, their partial iden‐ tification with the objectives of the totalitarian movements of left‐ or right‐wing provenance was necessary. Paradigmatic was the be‐ havior of the old and neo‐conservative groups of the Weimar Re‐ public, which, despite their skepticism against the plebeian NSDAP, regarded the National Socialists as like‐minded, as an, in fact, indis‐ pensable part of the national front. The repugnance against the 56 Quoted after Thamer, Verführung und Gewalt, p. 703. Translated into English by the translator. 57 Heiden, Konrad: Adolf Hitler. Das Zeitalter der Verantwortungslosigkeit. Zurich 1936.

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Weimar democracy, which, in the eyes of the right‐wing groupings, embodied the national disgrace and the political impotence, repre‐ sented a common denominator, which tied all groupings of the na‐ tional camp.58 Some conservative groups, which had contributed considerably to the destruction of the “weak” Weimar Republic and the estab‐ lishment of a “strong” National Socialist state, began to change their position shortly after the National Socialist seizure of power.59 Despite the growing skepticism about the new regime, the ma‐ jority of Conservatives welcomed the elimination of the Weimar democracy and the liberation from the restrictions of the Versailles Treaty as a great achievement of Hitler. For this, one accepted the imprisonment of dissidents in concentration camps or the reduction of the Jews to human beings of the second category. The military historian Manfred Messerschmidt speaks in this context of a “partial identity of the aims,” which contributed significantly to the stabiliza‐ tion of the National Socialist rule.60 Not only the National Socialists but also the Bolsheviks benefited from the treachery of the elites, especially the intellectuals, who had partially identified themselves with the Bolshevik aims, regardless of the terrorist methods with which they were implemented. Even the collectivization of agriculture, brutally carried out by Stalin, and the famine caused by it, which cost several millions of human lives, could not shake the inclination of countless left‐wing intellectuals to partially identify themselves with the Soviet regime. Arthur Rosenberg, who had to leave the KPD in 1927 because of his oppositional attitude, wrote in 1933:

58 See on this i. a.: Buchheim, Hans: Das Dritte Reich. Grundlagen und politische Entwicklung. Munich 1958, p. 54. 59 See on this i. a.: Kuhn, Helmut: Das geistige Gesicht der Weimarer Zeit, in: Zeit‐ schrift für Politik 8, 1961, pp. 1–10, here p. 4. 60 Messerschmidt, Manfred: Die Wehrmacht im NS‐Staat, in: Bracher, Karl‐ Dietrich / Funke, Manfred / Jacobsen, Klaus‐Adolf: Deutschland 1933–1945. Neue Studien zur nationalsozialistischen Herrschaft. Düsseldorf 1992, pp. 377– 403.

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When the GPU [the Soviet security agency—L. L.] proceeded against the Kulaks, many middle‐class farmers believed that a general per‐ secution of the Russian agricultural population would now take place. Stalin and the Soviet government never had the slightest in‐ tention of waging a war against the masses of Russian peasants.

Then Rosenberg adds: “The supply of food has become unfavorable. But there is no direct famine.”61 Can such statements be attributed to the fact that Rosenberg did not have access to information on the situation in the Soviet Union at that time? Hardly likely. Western and Russian Social Democrats, for instance, often reported the horrors of collectivization. It can be assumed that at least some of these reports were known to the au‐ thor, who was one of the most profound experts of the workers’ movement. The fact that he perceived these data only selectively is evidence of the ideological narrow‐mindedness of his analysis of Soviet reality. Zygmunt Bauman speaks in this context of the “embarrassing, widespread intellectual sympathy among the most important mem‐ bers of Europe’s ‘enlightened classes’’ for the “visions of the Nation‐ al Socialists and the Communists.”62 The totalitarian regimes benefited from the fact that many sec‐ tions, which by no means solidarized unconditionally with them, were caught in a left‐wing, right‐wing pattern and regarded the totalitarian groups, despite all their malpractices, as indispensable parts of the revolutionary or national camp. The breaking out of this pattern required, especially in the 1930s and 1940s, when the con‐ frontation between right‐wing and left‐wing totalitarianism reached its climax, an extraordinary self‐conquest. Only a few were able to do so at the time. Among them was Manès Sperber, who in 1937, during the Moscow show trials, turned his back on Communism. He speaks of agonizing self‐doubts, which plagued him when he came 61 Rosenberg, Arthur: Geschichte des Bolschewismus. Frankfurt‐on‐Main 1987, pp. 243, 252. Translated into English by the translator. 62 Bauman, Das Jahrhundert der Lager, p. 33. Translated into English by the trans‐ lator.

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to the conclusion: “Only through a single door can one leave the revolution, it opens into nothingness.” This painful inner struggle was linked not least to the fact that at that time every criticism of the party’s general line within the Communist movement was con‐ ceived as an indirect support of Fascism. Sperber writes that Stalin’s propagandists had proclaimed: Whoever dares to criticize the forced collectivization [...], the op‐ pression of the opposition, [...] the Moscow trials, backs up [...] Hitler and is against the victims of Dachau, Oranienburg and Buchen‐ wald.63

A similar dilemma also existed among Hitler’s allies when they real‐ ized that the NSDAP was not renewing the country, but destroyed it. Many then went into the inner emigration, and only a few dared to leave the “national community of solidarity” openly. One of the few was Hermann Rauschning, who shortly after the invasion of the German troops in Austria—at a time when Hitler celebrated un‐ precedented foreign political achievements—warned his country‐ men of a continuation of the rampage that had begun in 1933.64 The examples of Sperber and Rauschning show that totalitarian‐ minded persons have a chance to break out of the totalitarian dead end. This, however, can only happen if they have a sense that allows them to hear the voice of conscience, which the totalitarian ideology tries to deafen. After all, the conscience of the old, Judeo‐Christian ethics is the greatest adversary of totalitarianism. And at this hur‐ dle, the totalitarian regimes, who had presented themselves as the victors of history 75 years ago, were finally broken. The twentieth century, which had begun with an unprecedented triumph march of totalitarianism in Europe, ended with its failure. The totalitarian experience, however, radically changed the political culture of the old continent. For it showed that the fall into barbarism is possible from every height, and that no nation is protected against it. Even in 63 Sperber, Manès: Zur Analyse der Tyrannis. Vienna 1977, pp. 12, 15. Translated into English by the translator. 64 Rauschning, Hermann: Die Revolution des Nihilismus. Zurich 1964.

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the countries where the totalitarian parties did not come into pow‐ er, there were and still are numerous admirers of the totalitarian ideologies. People with a totalitarian disposition, therefore, exist in every society. However, for them, in order to get to the center of power, specific historical circumstances such as 1917 in Russia or 1933 in Germany are necessary. And these circumstances are called unprecedented inner decay and deep identity crisis of the democrat‐ ic political system. For both the first Russian and the first German democracy did not break due to the strength of their totalitarian opponents, but due to their own weakness of will. Against oppo‐ nents determined to fight totalitarian forces have absolutely no chance. Against the weak, however, they develop an extraordinary brutality. Knightly behavior and nobility toward the defeated party are alien to them. The greatest crimes of both the Bolsheviks and National Socialists were committed against the vulnerable. Thus, the experience shows that only the determination of the democrats to fight can put the totalitarian enemies of the open society in their place. *** We conclude the chapter with the following remarks: The uniqueness of the totalitarian dictatorships has been re‐ searched by countless authors since the emergence of the first total‐ itarian regime of modernity in October 1917. Meticulously the dif‐ ferences between the totalitarian tyrannies and other systems of rule are described. Thereby it becomes all the more dubious when someone questions the results of this research by equating totalitar‐ ian regimes with entirely different political systems. Especially widespread is the comparison of US policy with that of the National Socialist regime. The slogan “USA‐SA‐SS,” which many members of the 1968 generation chanted, is an example of this. This tendency experienced a renaissance during Bush Junior’s admin‐ istration. The British historian Richard Overy, for instance, com‐ pares the American war in Iraq with Hitler’s war against the Soviet

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Union,65 a war that Ernst Nolte defined as “the most monstrous war of conquest, enslavement and extermination modern history knows.”66 The American cultural historian Naomi Wolf, for her part, de‐ scribed the attempts of the Bush administration to dismiss federal attorneys as “measures” similar to those of “[Joseph] Goebbels.” Concerning the American fight against terrorism, Ms. Wolf sees par‐ allels to the Stalinist hunt for the “enemies of the state.”67 Thereby the United States of today is compared to a regime, which, in 1937– 1938 alone, had executed more than 680,000 alleged “enemies of the people.”68 Israel’s occupation policy, too, is often compared with that of the National Socialist regime. The former French resistance fighter and prisoner of Buchenwald Stéphane Hessel, for instance, argues that the National Socialist occupation policy in France was much more harmless than “today’s occupation of Palestine by the Israelis.”69 Thereby Hessel ignores the fact that the National Socialist rule in France was inextricably linked with the Holocaust, with the killing of more than 73,000 Jews, who were deported from France to Auschwitz and other extermination camps. It is absolutely legitimate to criticize the Israeli occupation poli‐ cy. Many Israelis do this. Hessel, however, goes beyond all bounda‐ ries when he equates the policy of Israel with that of a totalitarian regime systematically pursuing, for ideological reasons, the com‐ plete extermination of certain populations in the occupied territo‐ ries. The repeatedly mentioned sociologist Zygmunt Bauman, who coined the term “century of the camps,” goes even further in his criticism of Israel than Hessel. In an interview for the Polish journal 65 Overy, Richard: Die Ostfront im Irak, in: Süddeutsche Zeitung, 12.5.2004. 66 Nolte, Ernst: Der Faschismus in seiner Epoche. Munich 1963, p. 436. Translated into English by the translator. 67 Ich vergleiche Bush nicht mit Hitler, ich ziehe nur Parallelen, in: Süddeutsche Zeitung, 9.11.2007. Translated into English by the translator. 68 Artizov, A.: Reabilitatsiya. Kak ėto bylo. Moscow 2000, p. 317. 69 Wie ich Buchenwald und andere Lager überlebte, in: Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 21.1.2011. Translated into English by the translator.

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Polityka in August 2011, he says the following about the wall built by the Israelis, which separates the Israeli territories from the Pal‐ estinian ones: “What is the wall built around the occupied territo‐ ries other than the attempt to surpass the wall around the Warsaw Ghetto?”70 When I first read this sentence in a German newspaper, I thought it was a mistranslation. Then I read Bauman’s statement in the Polish original and realized that the German translation presents Bauman’s thoughts word for word.71 Bauman thus compares the builders of the Israeli wall with the initiators of the Holocaust, for whom the Warsaw Ghetto essentially constituted a transit station for the complete extermination of the 430,000 Jews penned up there. This extermination process began with the famishing of the inhabitants of the ghetto. While the Ger‐ mans living in Warsaw received 2,310 calories a day, the Jews re‐ ceived only 183 calories, for which they had to pay 20 times as much as the Germans.72 In the middle of 1942, the direct extermina‐ tion began. Until October 1942, 310,000 Jews from the Warsaw Ghetto were gassed in Treblinka. And, finally, after the desperate uprising of a small group of resistance fighters, the ghetto was com‐ pletely destroyed: “The former residential area in Warsaw no longer exists,” SS‐Obergruppenführer Jürgen Stroop announced to his su‐ periors and added: “The total number of Jews registered and proven to be exterminated is 56,065”73. This was the way the builders and guards of the Warsaw ghetto as well as their principals acted. Bauman’s words that the builders of the Israeli wall were trying to “surpass the wall around the War‐ saw Ghetto” is therefore outrageous. I do not want to speculate about the motifs that caused Bauman to such an unspeakable com‐ 70 Quoted after Gnauck, Gerhard: Ist Israels Grenzmauer die Mauer eines Ghettos?, in: Die Welt, 7.9.2011. Translated into English by the translator. 71 Rozmowa Artura Domosławskiego z prof. Zygmuntem Baumanem, in: Polityka, 16.8.2011. 72 Battenberg, Friedrich: Das Europäische Zeitalter der Juden. Zur Entwicklung einer Minderheit in der nichtjüdischen Umwelt Europas, Vol. II. Darmstadt 1990, p. 292. 73 Ibid., p. 305. Translated into English by the translator.

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parison. Instead I would like to end my remarks with the following conclusion. An efficient analysis of the totalitarian challenges requires an ex‐ act definition of what is totalitarian. An inflationary use of the no‐ tion of totalitarianism inevitably leads to the point where one loses sight of the totalitarian enemies of the open society and belittles them. The same might happen to those transferring the notion “to‐ talitarian” to nontotalitarian, political phenomena as to the Com‐ munist theorists of the 1920s and 1930s, when they denounced any political group they did not like, including the Social Democrats, as “fascist.” It was only after the National Socialist seizure of power that the Communists were beginning to realize that there was in‐ deed a qualitative difference between the so‐called social fascists and the real fascists. Yet, the term “fascism” was largely eroded by its inadequate use. The same might happen to those authors who use the term “totalitarian” inflationary. If circumstances force them to define a truly totalitarian system, they will hardly be able to clas‐ sify such a system conceptually, for they have already used the darkest colors of their color palette for describing nontotalitarian states. A stronger superlative would thus hardly be possible. Translated by Jerome Schäfer

Bolshevism, Fascism, and National Socialism— Related Opponents?

Within western scholarship, the thesis of an essential relationship between Fascist and Communist regimes had been prevalent until the end of the 1950s. The fact that these dictatorships fought against the parliamentary democracy, used terrorist methods of rule, and ascribed extraordinary importance to the ideological factor was sufficient for the representatives of the “totalitarianism” theory to consider them as related.1 During the 1960s, the relationship thesis was severely shaken. The de‐escalation of the conflict between East and West demonstrated that the Soviet Union was not programmed to wage war to the same extent as the “Third Reich.” Many observ‐ ers became also disconcerted by the modified technique of rule of the regime in Moscow, for instance, by its abandonment of mass terror and ruthless economic exploitation of the population, which both had been characteristic of the Stalin era. Thereby the Soviet system lost—according to the classical definition—some of the main features of a totalitarian regime.2

1 Compare: Arendt, H.: Elemente u. Ursprünge totaler Herrschaft. Frankfurt, 1955; Friedrich, C. J. and Brzezinski, Z.: Totalitarian Dictatorship and Autocracy. Cam‐ bridge/MA., 19652; Gurian, W.: Bolshevism. An Introduction to Soviet Com‐ munism. Notre Dame and Indiana, 1952. Concerning the general development of the theory of totalitarianism, see: Jänicke, M.: Untersuchungen zum Begriff to‐ talitärer Herrschaft, Diss. Berlin 1969; Seidel, B. and Jenkner, S. (eds.): Wege der Totalitarismus‐Forschung. Darmstadt, 1968; Schapiro, L.: Totalitarismus, in: Sowjetsystem und demokratische Gesellschaft, Vol. 6. Freiburg, 1972, pp. 465– 490. 2 Concerning the discussion of the classical theory of totalitarianism, see: Barber, B. R: Conceptual Foundations of Totalitarianism, in: C. J. Friedrich and others (eds.): Totalitarianism in Perspective: Three Views. London, 1969, pp. 3–52; Cur‐ tis, M.: Retreat from Totalitarianism, in: ibid., pp. 53–121; Burrowes, R.: Totali‐ tarianism. The Revised Standard Version, World Politics, Vol. 21, 1969, pp. 272– 299; Skilling, H. G. and Griffiths, F.: Pressure Groups in der Sowjetunion. Vienna, 1974, pp. 13 ff.

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It was, however, by historiography that the relationship thesis suffered the greatest setbacks. The more detailed Italian Fascism, National Socialism, and Bolshevism were studied, the more differ‐ ences came to light. Researchers of Fascism realized how much these two extreme right‐wing regimes differed from each other. As a result, some even questioned the general notion of Fascism.3 The experts on Bolshevism for their part began to differentiate more clearly between the different development phases of the Sovi‐ et State and emphasized the qualitative leaps that became visible in the wake of both the Stalinization and de‐Stalinization of the sys‐ tem.4 The intensive study of the peculiarities of individual dictator‐ ships, which up to that point had been considered simply as “totali‐ tarian,” went, however, hand in hand with the neglect of compara‐ tive analyses. The research of Fascism and that of Communism now developed relatively independent of each other and had fewer and fewer points of contact. The renaissance of the totalitarianism theory, which can be ob‐ served in the West since the end of the 1970s5—beyond doubt a result of the “Conservative turn”—thus created no new synthesis. It rather made recourse to old arguments. The same can be said of the recent German “Historikerstreit.” In their attempt to rid the “Third 3 Turner, H. A.: Fascism and Modernization, World Politics, Vol. 24, 1974, pp. 547–564; Allardyce, G.: What Fascism Is Not: Thoughts on the Deflation of a Concept, American Historical Review (AHR), Vol. 84, 1979, pp. 367–388. 4 On this topic: Cohen, S. F.: Bolshevism and Stalinism, in: R. C. Tucker (ed.): Stalinism. Essays in Historical Interpretation. New York, 1977, pp. 3–29; Tucker, R. C.: Stalin as Revolutionary 1879–1929. New York, 1973; Hough, J. F. and Fainsod, M.: How the Soviet Union is Governed. Cambridge, MA., 1979, pp. 522 f.; Deutscher, I.: Russia in Transition, in: I. Deutscher, Ironies of History. Essays on Contemporary Communism, London, 1967, pp. 27–51. 5 See: Bracher, K. D.: Zeit der Ideologien. Eine Geschichte politischen Denkens im 20. Jh. Stuttgart, 1982; Bracher, K. D.: Demokratie u. Ideologie im Zeitalter der Machtergreifungen, Vierteljahreshefte für Zeitgeschichte (= VfZ), Vol. 31., 1983, pp. 1–24; Besançon, A.: The Rise of the Gulag. Intellectual Origins of Leninism. New York, 1981, p. 189; Kirkpatrick, J. J.: Dictatorship and Double Standards. Ra‐ tionalism and Reason in Politics. New York, 1982, pp. 96–125. On the renais‐ sance of the totalitarianism‐theory in the USA, see: Cohen, S. F.: Sovietology as a Vocation, in: S. F. Cohen: Rethinking the Soviet Experience. Politics and History since 1917. New York, 1985, pp. 3–37, here: pp. 35–36.

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Reich” of the stigma of singularity, authors like E. Nolte or J. Fest point to several parallels to the Soviet regime, yet they tend to sur‐ prisingly undifferentiated judgments and ignore, for the greater part, the specific features of Bolshevism.6 All this shows the extent the gap between the research of Fascism and that of Bolshevism has already reached. The focus of this chapter will be two questions, around which in this context many controversies lie: 1. Can the belligerent‐expansionist habitus of the extreme Right be, generally speaking, equated to that of the Communists? 2. Is the domestic political battle tactic of the Fascists and Na‐ tional Socialists a substantial imitation of the Bolshevik approach?7 1. Immediately after 1945, it was regarded as a kind of axiom that Communism was in the same way fixated on an ongoing violent expansion as Fascism and National Socialism had been.8 In recent years, this thesis has again experienced a boom.9 Thereby its sup‐ porters fail to recognize that the war had a completely different significance in the foreign policy program as well as ideological hi‐ erarchy of values of the systems that are examined here. It is, on the one hand, true that both the Bolsheviks and the Fascists owed their 6 Nolte, E.: Vergangenheit, die nicht vergehen will. Eine Rede, die geschrieben, aber nicht gehalten werden konnte, FAZ, June 6, 1986; Nolte, E.: Die Sache auf den Kopf gestellt. Gegen den negativen Nationalismus in der Geschichtsbetrach‐ tung, Die Zeit, October 31, 1986; Nolte, E.: Zwischen Geschichtslegende und Re‐ visionismus? Das Dritte Reich im Blickwinkel des Jahres 1980, in: „Histo‐ rikerstreit“. Die Dokumentation der Kontroverse um die Einzigartigkeit der nati‐ onalsozialistischen Judenvernichtung. Munich, 1987, pp. 13–35; Nolte, E.: Das Vergehen der Vergangenheit. Antwort an meine Kritiker im sogenannten Histori‐ kerstreit. Berlin, 1987; Fest, J.: Die geschuldete Erinnerung. Zur Kontroverse über die Unvergleichbarkeit der nationalsozialistischen Massenverbrechen, FAZ, August 29, 1986. 7 On this, see also: Luks, L.: Entstehung der kommunistischen Faschismustheorie. Die Auseinandersetzung der Komintern mit Faschismus und Nationalsozialismus 1921–1935. Stuttgart, 1985. 8 Arendt, Elemente, pp. 655 f.; Hook, S.: Political Power and Personal Freedom. New York, 1959; Wolfe, B.: Communist Totalitarianism: Keys to the Soviet Sys‐ tem. Boston, 1961. 9 Compare: Footnote 5.

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rapid rise to the First World War. They were also aware of how much it had facilitated their victory. Lenin even called it “the great‐ est director of world history,”10 and Mussolini and Hitler discovered their “mission” primarily through the experiences between 1914 and 1918.11 Despite this congruence, however, there were funda‐ mental differences. The Fascists and National Socialists had been successful mainly due to their unequivocal affirmation of the World War and their idealization of the wartime experiences as a precious good. The triumph of the Bolsheviks, by contrast, was not least con‐ nected to the fact that they had strongly condemned exactly the same phenomena. That the Paris Commune had been created after the collapse of the French Army and that the Russian Revolution of 1905 had followed a debacle of the Tsarist Army led Lenin to the conviction that during an “imperialistic” confrontation a revolution‐ ary party should mainly work toward the bringing about of the de‐ feat of its own government.12 Accordingly, the outbreak of the Feb‐ ruary Revolution as a result of the exceptional weakness of the Rus‐ sian monarchy due to combat actions was conceived by Lenin as a confirmation of his tactics. In March 1917, he wrote: This [revolutionary] crisis was accelerated through a number of more than heavy defeats which Russia and its allies suffered […]. Those […] who screamed against the “defeatism” and raged, now have to face the fact that the defeat […] of Tsarism is historically as‐ sociated with the beginning of the revolutionary firestorm.13

The “revolutionary defeatism” should now also accelerate the over‐ throw of the governments in the other fighting countries. Russia as 10 Lenin, V. L.: Polnoe sobranie sochinenij [Sochineniia]. Moscow, 1958–1965, Vol. 31, p. 13. 11 On this: Heiden, K.: Adolf Hitler. Das Zeitalter der Verantwortungslosigkeit. Zü‐ rich 1936, p. 53; Bullock, A.: Hitler. Eine Studie über Tyrannei. Düsseldorf, 1977, pp. 30–37; Kirkpatrick, I.: Mussolini. Berlin, 1965, pp. 55 f.; Settembrini, D.: Mussolini and the Legacy of Revolutionary Socialism, Journal of Contemporary History, Vol. 11, 1976, pp. 239–268. 12 Lenin, Sochineniia, Vol. 26, pp. 166, 327; Vol. 30, pp. 319–320. 13 Lenin: Werke. Berlin, 1961–1965., Vol. 23, p. 315. Translation into English by the translator.

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the “weakest link in the imperialistic chain” would experience as the first country a development that would then happen elsewhere in the near future.14 These expectations of Lenin show the extent to which he underestimated the euphoria that the World War had caused in Germany and Western Europe. He was all too much fo‐ cused on the situation in Russia where this emotion—except for some weak indications during the first months of war—had in fact not materialized.15 Here the World War intensified mainly the social conflicts.16 The Bolsheviks’ lack of understanding for the extent of the popu‐ larity the war enjoyed in the West cannot be traced back to their pacifist sentiments. On the contrary, they were no less aggressive than the Fascists or National Socialists. During the Civil War, the party experienced an increasing militarization. Nevertheless, even in this period, the priority of the political dimension remained un‐ challenged. The Red Army, created in 1918, was entirely subordi‐ nated to the party leadership; every attempt by the Bolshevik mili‐ tary to gain certain independence was smothered. The old Russian army with its traditional structure had been deliberately disor‐ ganized and then dissolved by the Bolsheviks.17 In his polemic against Kautsky (November 1918), Lenin wrote: Without the “disorganization” of the army no major revolution has yet occurred […]. For the army is the most ostentatious instrument

14 Lenin, Sochineniia, Vol. 31, pp. 11, l4–15, 91. Translation into English by the translator. 15 On this: Miljukov, P.: Rossija na perelome. Vol. l, Paris, 1927, pp. 11–28; Paléo‐ logue, M.: Am Zarenhof während des Weltkrieges. Tagebücher u. Betrachtungen. Munich, 1926; Buchanan, G.: My Mission to Russia and Other Diplomatic Memo‐ ries, 2 Volumes. London, 1923; Kochan, L.: Russia in Revolution 1890–1918. London, 1966, pp. 67–85; Wheeler‐Bennett, J.: Brest‐Litovsk. The Forgotten Peace, March 1918. London, 1956, p. 6; Fedotov, G.: Revoljucija idet, in: Sov‐ remennye zapiski, 39, 1929, pp. 306–359. 16 Only within the Russian educated and upper class did the enthusiasm for war last longer. This attitude was not shared by the majority of the population. 17 On this: Bucharin, N.: Das Programm der Kommunisten (Bolschewiki). Vienna, 1918, p. 55.

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with which the old regime holds its ground, the stronghold of bour‐ geois discipline.18

Officers and soldiers who believed the war to be their occupation— landsknechts of the twentieth century—which also appeared at times in Russia, were regarded with great suspicion by the Bolshe‐ vik leaders and the aim of their ambitions made unattainable.19 The modern landsknecht as a type, who did not get a chance in Russia, was the core of the right‐wing extremist mass movements in the West and was not unimportant to their success. In Western histori‐ ography, often the opinion is held that both in the left‐wing and the right‐wing voluntary combat forces, which had evolved after the First World War, the same revolutionary‐antibourgeois type had prevailed.20 Such statements, however, fail to recognize that the Fascists and National Socialists were in fact much better able to utilize the experiences of the war participants than the Marxists. The Left parties of the West, who condemned the thirst for adven‐ ture and the glorification of war not in the name of the interests of class struggle but as such, generally repelled the “modern lands‐ knechts.” Despite some hesitant attempts by the Comintern to win over the war veterans, the latter were mainly recruited by anti‐ Marxist organizations.21 This was, apart from the behavior of the Conservative elites, one of the reasons why Communists and Social‐ ists did not stand a chance in direct confrontations against the mili‐ tary‐trained and disciplined combat groups of the Right. The former CPI leader A. Tasca gives an impressive description of how much the 18 Lenin, Works, Vol. 28, p. 284. 19 On this: Trotzki, L.: Mein Leben. Versuch einer Autobiographie. Berlin, 1961, p. 371. 20 Compare: Mohler, A.: Die Konservative Revolution in Deutschland 1918–1932. Grundriß ihrer Weltanschauung. Stuttgart, 1950, pp. 54–55. 21 Communist ideologies have repeatedly complained about this. On this: Radek, K., in: Protokoll des Vierten Kongresses der Kommunistischen Internationale. Pet‐ rograd‐Moscow from 5 November to 5 December 1922, Hamburg, 1923, p. 311; Togliatti, P. (Ercoli): Welches war die soziale Basis des Faschismus?, in: Die Kommunistische Internationale 7 (April 1926), pp. 381–389. On this also: Tasca, A.: Glauben, Gehorchen, Kämpfen. Aufstieg des Faschismus. Vienna, 1969, pp. 152–57.

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military experience of the Italian Fascists helped them in the battle against the labor organizations: The Fascists are almost entirely […] former front fighters, and they are led by officers; they are deployed today here, tomorrow there, just like at the front, and they are used to finding their way every‐ where […] [the actions of the Fascists are] the continuation of the war experience adapted to the Civil War […] The maximalist Italian Socialism was by contrast a Maximalism of chaotic, amorphous masses, without spiritual cohesion and without a common perspec‐ tive.22

It must, however, be stressed that the successes of Mussolini and Hitler were not primarily the result of the militancy of their sup‐ porters. A much more important role in this context played the poli‐ tic tactics they used in their struggle for power. Did they thereby follow the example of the Bolsheviks? Advo‐ cates of the relationship thesis are convinced this is the case. Yet, some Comintern ideologists had originally thought in a similar di‐ rection. In the organ of the Comintern, the Kommunistische Interna‐ tionale, from November 1, 1922, one can read the following sen‐ tences: […] Fascism and Bolshevism have common methods of struggle. For both, it is not important whether the one or the other action is legal or illegal, democratic or not democratic. They go for their goal, trample on laws […] and subordinate everything to their purpose. This does not, of course, imply that Fascism simply imitates our methods. Without doubt, many of the innovations the Russian Bol‐ sheviks invented hang in the air like bacteria and are involuntarily imitated by the worst enemies of Russia.23

In April 1923 N. Bucharin, one of the leading Bolsheviks, put it in a similar way:

22 Tasca, Glauben, pp. 154, 156. Translation into English by the translator. 23 P. O.‐i.: Der Fascismus, in: Die Kommunistische Internationale 4 (November 1922), pp. 95–102, here: p. 98. Translation into English by the translator.

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It is characteristic for the fighting methods of the Fascists that they have taken—more than any other party—advantage of the experi‐ ences of the Russian Revolution. When viewed from a formal stand‐ point, that is, from the point of view of the technique of their politi‐ cal action, one can discover that they copy the Bolshevik tactics, as for instance the rapid concentration of forces, the creation of a pow‐ erful military organization, the relentless destruction of the enemy as soon as it is necessary and the circumstances require it.24

These perceptive observations can be regarded as a clear confirma‐ tion of the relationship thesis. Nevertheless, they contain only par‐ tial truths. The Communist authors of the time, in contrast to today’s supporters of the totalitarianism model, lacked the temporal dis‐ tance necessary to recognize that the tactics of the extreme Right differed fundamentally from that of the Bolsheviks. It might be true that both the Italian Fascists and the National Socialists were, in their respective initial phase of the movement, in no way inferior to the Communists concerning the radicalism of the rejection of the existing state and of the ruling classes.25 This situation, however, should change soon. In his history of the Russian Revolution, Trot‐ sky basically agreed with some enemies of the Bolsheviki who held the opinion that one or two disciplined regiments loyal to the gov‐ ernment would have sufficed to thwart the Bolshevik revolution.26 The fact that such troops could not be found is testimony to the de‐ gree of disintegration of the Russian state apparatus, which had taken place in the short period between the February and the Octo‐ 24 Dvenadcatyj s‐ezd RKP(b) 1923. Stenograficheskij otchet. Moscow, 1968, p. 273. Translation into English by the translator. 25 Mussolini had initially tried to compete with the SPI in the radicalism of his slogans, wrote an author of the collected volume of Landauer and Honegger (ed.), Internationaler Faschismus. Karlsruhe, 1928, p. 23. Other observers point to the attempts of the National Socialists to overtake the German workers’ par‐ ties (Bullock, Hitler, pp. 56–57); On this see also: Lyttelton, A.: The Seizure of Power. Fascism in Italy 1919–1929. London, 1973, pp. 46–47; Linz, J. J.: Some Notes Toward a Comparative Study of Fascism, in: W. Laqueur. (ed.): Fascism. A Reader’s Guide. Berkeley, 1976, pp. 4 f.; Tasca, Glauben, pp. 40, 53; Winkler, H. A.: Mittelstand, Demokratie u. der Nationalsozialismus. Cologne, 1972, p. 160. 26 Trotzki, L.: Geschichte der Russischen Revolution. Oktoberrevolution. Berlin, 1933, pp. 496–497.

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ber Revolution. In October 1917, the power in Russia was practical‐ ly lying in the street, as Lenin put it.27 There was no comparable demoralization of the ruling classes either in Italy or in Germany. The postwar crisis weakened them, yet the key positions in the re‐ spective apparatus of power were firmly in their hands. They suc‐ cessfully parried all revolutionary attacks and attempted coups from the Left as well as from the Right.28 From the fact that it was virtually impossible in the Western States to seize the power against the will of the ruling elites, the extreme Right quickly drew its conclusion and thereby turned out to be much more flexible and adaptive than the Comintern. While the Western Communists continued their frontal attacks against the state, the Italian Fascists and a little later the National Socialists began to court the holders of state authority. They now developed a two‐track tactic—ingratiatingly “legalistic” toward the upper class, uncompromisingly violent toward the “Marxists.”29 This was an innovation compared to the Bolsheviks’ actions, who had led a two‐ front war—both against the state apparatus and the other political parties. Only concerning one important point there was a parallel— namely, concerning the exploitation of the fears of the moderate forces in the country for the strengthening of their own position and the maximum isolation of the opponents. In a similar way as the 27 Lenin, Sochinenija, Vol. 34, pp. 239 ff., 281 f., 340 f. On the situation in Russia at the time, see also: Ferro, M.: The Bolshevik Revolution. A Social History of the Russian Revolution. London, 1985, pp. 224–267; Fitzpatrick, S.: The Russian Rev‐ olution 1917–1932. Oxford, 1985, pp. 54–60; Service, R.: The Bolshevik Party in Revolution. A Study in Organisational Change 1917–1923. London, 1979, pp. 37– 62; Suchanov, N. N.: 1917. Tagebuch der russischen Revolution. Munich, 1967. 28 Concerning the situation in Italy in 1920, when the postwar crisis reached its climax, Pietro Nenni noted that the state was still the master of material author‐ ity, despite an enormous loss of popularity (Nenni, P.: Todeskampf der Freiheit. Offenbach, 1947, pp. 63–65). And, as was so often the case in the twentieth cen‐ tury, it turned out that in the struggle between the unpopular power and the powerless popularity (embodied by the Italian Socialists) the former had more aces up its sleeve. Similar to Italy, three years later the postwar crisis had been overcome in Germany. The unloved and seemingly weak Weimar State could easily ward off the Communist (October 1923) and the Right (November) in‐ surrection attempt. 29 On this: Luks, Entstehung, pp. 48 f., 76 f., 193 f.

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Bolsheviks successfully exploited the excessive fear of the Russian democratic parties of a “Right,” “counter‐revolutionary” coup,30 the extreme Right benefited from the fear of the Conservative classes of the imaginary Bolshevik threat. The Fascist and National Socialists described themselves as the only force capable of preventing the victory of Communism. According to Mussolini (July 1921), the Fas‐ cist movement represented a guardian of the state, who would res‐ cue Italy from the Communist revolution.31 Ten years later, Hitler put it in a similar way. In his speech in front of the Industrieklub in Düsseldorf (January 1932), he announced with great applause that Germany owes its rescue from Bolshevism only to the NSDAP.32 When one bears in mind how miserably all revolutionary attempts from the Left in the interwar period, both in Italy and Germany, had failed, the demagogic character of these statements becomes obvi‐ ous. The Russian‐German Social Democrat A. Schifrin remarked in March 1932: In Russia, an armed minority has gained the victory against the de‐ fenseless state, in Western Europe, however, the defenseless Com‐ munist minority faces the bourgeois state that is armed to the teeth.33

In spite of all these facts, Ernst Nolte recently published some the‐ ses, which triggered particularly strong controversies among histo‐ 30 One of the leaders of the Mensheviks, I. Cereteli, later wrote that the Russian democratic revolutionaries had taken as an axiom that revolutions have their enemies only on the Right, never on the Left. This belief had also prevented them from taking more vigorous action against the Bolsheviks who had had be‐ come the main danger for the February Revolution (Cereteli, I.: Vospominanija o fevral’skoj revoljutsii, Vol. 2. Paris, 1963, p. 409). See also on this: Chernov, V.: Pered burej. Vospominaniia. New York, 1953, pp. 336–337; Stepun, F.: Byvshee i nesbyvsheesia. Vol. 2. New York, 1956, pp. 98–106; Deutscher, I.: Ironies, pp. 215–219; Schapiro, L.: The Origin of the Communist Autocracy. Political Opposi‐ tion in the Soviet State. First Phase 1917–1922. London, 1955, pp. 348–349; Suchanov, 1917; Miljukov, Rossija, Vol. l, pp. 51–53. 31 Mussolini, B.: Opera omnia. Florence, 1951 ff., Vol. 17, pp. 65–66. 32 Domarus, M.: Hitler. Reden u. Proklamationen 1932–1945, Vol. I/l. Wiesbaden, 1973, p. 87. 33 Schifrin, A.: Staatsstreiche der Gegenrevolution, Die Gesellschaft, Vol. 9, 1932, pp. 185–194, here: p. 189.

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rians: “Did the National Socialists, did Hitler perform an ‘Asiatic act’ perhaps only because they regarded themselves and their kind as potential or real victims of an ‘Asiatic act’? Was the Gulag Archipela‐ go not more original than Auschwitz?”34 Does Nolte really think that the National Socialists felt threat‐ ened by Communism? Is he not aware that this “threat” to the lead‐ ership of the NSDAP was rather a bugbear with whose help they wanted to come to power? Theodor Heuss realized this as early as 1932. The rise of the KPD was welcome to the NSDAP as the latter required the fear of broad levels of the population to present itself as the only guardian of bourgeois culture against Marxism.35 The impotence of the German Communists, which had repeatedly mani‐ fested itself between 1919 and 1933—and was in the early days hardly doubted by Nolte36—will not have remained hidden to a technician of power like Hitler.37 If it were not the German Communists, was it perhaps the Soviet Union, of whom the National Socialist leadership was afraid of, as whose “potential victim” it perceived itself? This, again, is unlikely. During the period between the two World Wars, the USSR was by no means considered a military power of the first rank in Europe. The USSR had to accept the loss of numerous provinces of the former Tsarist Empire and was unable to enforce its territorial claims, even against middle powers such as Romania and Poland. The Red Army was severely defeated by the newly reborn Polish state. Why, then, 34 Nolte, Vergangenheit, die nicht vergehen will. 35 Heuss, Th.: Hitlers Weg. Eine historisch‐politische Studie über den Nationalsozia‐ lismus. Stuttgart 1932, p. 150. Hermann Rauschning wrote in 1938: “No fate was further from the German Reich than a Bolshevist revolution, than a politi‐ cal revolt from the Left! It is especially those circles, which nowadays spread the legend of an imminent Bolshevik revolution, that know better than anyone else, and they have proved by their own tactics that in Germany a coup was possible only with the legal power as a support in the background” (Rauschning, H.: Die Revolution des Nihilismus. Zurich, 1938, p. 25). 36 Nolte, E.: Die faschistischen Bewegungen. Die Krise des liberalen Systems u. die Entwicklung des Faschismus. Munich, 1979, p. 72. 37 Compare, for instance, Hitler’s conversation with the Soviet ambassador in Berlin, Chinchuk, in: Dokumenty vneshnei politiki SSSR. Moscow, 1961 ff., Vol. 16, p. 271.

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did Hitler—despite all these signs of weakness—paint the menacing picture of a Bolshevist invasion? A plausible explanation for this was provided by Nolte himself in one of his early works. For him, Hitler was “conscious of a unique world‐historical opportunity […], the opportunity to exterminate—with bourgeois and European sympa‐ thy—the Russian Revolution and thus to create […] for Germany a completely new geopolitical situation that would by all means con‐ solidate its future.”38 Hitler’s concept of the “legal revolution,” mocked by many ob‐ servers, was—under the conditions of the Weimar Republic— clearly superior to the program of the “proletarian revolution.” Things had gone a similar way in Italy at the beginning of the 1920s. There, too, the new regime had been formed not as the result of a violent revolution but as that of a compromise. For this reason, the respective change of power lacked the imperative character, which had been an important feature of the Bolshevist advance to power in autumn 1917. Fascists, as well as the National Socialists, attempt‐ ed to obfuscate this fact as it was contrary to their claim to having initiated a new epoch in history. In both cases, the transfer of gov‐ ernment was stylized to a “seizure of power,” a “revolution”.39 The mass of supporters of the Right movement, accordingly, perceived the events around 1922 and 1933 as a kind of revolution. However, 38 Nolte, Bewegungen, p. 58. 39 Despite of this, this process, which differed fundamentally from the Bolshevik coup, was described by some authors as a kind of natural event, which could hardly have been averted (Poulantzas, N.: Faschismus u. Diktatur. Die Kommu‐ nistische Internationale u. der Faschismus. Munich, 1973, pp. 67–68, 221; De Fe‐ lice, R.: Der Faschismus. Ein Interview von Michael A. Ledeen. Stuttgart, 1977, pp. 48–49). Concerning the discussion of R. De Felice, see: Luks, Entstehung, pp. 159–161. For the majority of authors, however, there is no doubt that the con‐ siderable assistance provided by the “non‐Fascists” was the most important prerequisite for the Fascist and National Socialist seizure of power (Linz, Notes, p. 14; Lyttelton, Seizure, pp. 86, 94, 112–113.; Mommsen, H.: Zur Verschränkung traditioneller u. faschistischer Führungsgruppen in Deutsch‐ land beim Übergang von der Bewegungs‐ zur Systemphase, in: Schieder, W. (ed.): Faschismus als soziale Bewegung. Deutschland u. Italien im Vergleich. Hamburg, 1976, pp. 157–181; Bracher, K. D.: Die deutsche Diktatur. Entstehung, Struktur, Folgen des Nationalsozialismus. Cologne, 1969, pp. 185–187, 208– 209).

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in both countries the path of social upheaval remained blocked due to the alliance with the Conservative elites. The territorial expan‐ sion was in fact the only channel to discharge the bottled‐up ten‐ sion.40

2. Immediately after the March on Rome respectively after Hitler´s seizure of power on January 30, 1933, many observers expressed the opinion that the seizure of governmental responsibility would have a moderating effect on the belligerent behavior of the right‐ wing extremist parties. The famous sociologist R. Michels wrote in 1925: The history of Fascism has taught us that it […] would be wrong to expect […] a policy of coups de mains from the party members who are now governing.41

In the 1920s Mussolini was regarded as a statesman, who had led Italy out of the anarchy and created one of the most stable govern‐ ments in the history of the country.42 It was, however, rarely con‐ sidered by the leading politicians of the 1920s that these develop‐ ments contained moments, which would inevitably lead to a desta‐ bilization of Italy and Europe. The situation was different with the representatives of the Italian workers’ movement. They were one of the groups that suffered most from the consequences of the Fascist “stabilization.” That is the reason why they were aware of the foun‐ dations upon which it was built. In the mid of the peace euphoria that prevailed in Europe in the second half of the 1920s, Marxist authors were one of the few realiz‐ ing that this new political force would inevitably engulf Europe in 40 On this: Weiss, J.: Nazis and Fascists in Europe 1918–1945. Chicago, 1969; Tre‐ vor‐Roper, H.: The Phenomenon of Fascism, in: S. J. Woolf (ed.): European Fas‐ cism. London, 1968, pp. 18–38. 41 Michels, R.: Sozialismus u. Faschismus in Italien, Vol. 2, Munich, 1925, p. 316. 42 On this: Cassels, A.: Mussolini’s Early Diplomacy. Princeton, 1970, pp. 10–12., 17; Gregor, A. J.: The Ideology of Fascism. The Rationale of Totalitarianism. New York, 1969, pp. 376–380; Nolte, Bewegungen, pp. 77–79, 82–84; Michels, Sozia‐ lismus, Vol. 2.

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war. The logic of capitalist development would lead to war in Italy faster than elsewhere, for purely objective reasons, wrote A. Tasca in 1928.43 One of the leaders of the SPI, F. Turati, added in the same year that Fascism, which had been born out of war, was itself bound to produce war. It was the constant threat of war.44 It must be not‐ ed, however, that the Italian Fascism, despite its martial gestures and its longing for war, was unable to give a new dimension to the term “war.” Mussolini’s scope of action was rather limited due to the strong position of the conservatives, and the power reserves of Italy were much too modest. It was only in the case of National Socialism that the “theoretical” postulates of its Italian predecessors were put into practice and even exceeded by far. Despite its megalomania, Italian Fascism had not initiated a world revolution, as S. Neumann aptly remarked in 1941. Only National Socialism did this.45 In developing new conceptions of war, the NSDAP benefited from the fact that the militarization of political thought had a long tradi‐ tion in Germany. The English historian L. Namier even called the war a form of German revolution.46 It would certainly be wrong, however, to see in Hitler the perfector of Prussian militarism, as is often the case in both Eastern and Western historiography.47 For the ideological extermination war of the National Socialists had little in common with the Prussian tradition. Nevertheless, this new manner of warfare, which set all existing ethical and military norms on fire, was possible mainly because the German officer corps had been essentially involved.48 Already A. Bullock pointed out how little the 43 Tasca, Der Staatskapitalismus in Italien, in: Die Kommunistische Internationale 9. (September 1928), pp. 2191–2199, here: S. 2199. 44 Turati, F.: Faschismus, Sozialismus u. Demokratie, in: E. Nolte (ed.): Theorien über den Faschismus. Cologne, 1967, pp. 143–155. 45 Neumann, S.: Permanent Revolution. Totalitarianism in the Age of International Civil War. New York, 1965, p. 111. 46 Namier, L.: The Course of German History, in: L. Namier: Facing East. London 1947, pp. 25–40. 47 On this: ibid.; Feldman, J.: Problem polsko‐niemiecki w dziejach. Katowice, 1946, pp. 168–170; Grzybowski, K.: Państwo “Stanu Wyjątkowego”, Kwartalnik Histo‐ ryczny, Vol. 72, 1965, p. 622. 48 On this: Streit, C.: Keine Kameraden. Die Wehrmacht u. die sowjetischen Kriegsge‐ fangenen 1941–1945. Stuttgart, 1978; Krausnick, H. and Wilhelm, H. H.: Die

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otherwise self‐confident German General Staff had to say in the Sec‐ ond World War.49 It is also noticeable that officers, who accepted Hitler’s concept of war without considerable resistance, had great reservations about violating the laws of the Prussian code of honor when it came to their relationship to the creator of this strategy of extermination. Violent action against the tyrant was acceptable only to a few. Given the choice, either “potential turmoil and ‘anarchy’ in the case of [Hitler’s] removal or the continuation of war,” the major‐ ity chose war. For even in his National Socialist form, it constituted a sort of order. The fact that this “order” would plunge the country into a much deeper abyss than any conceivable “anarchy” could have done was recognized only by a small minority. The parallel to the behavior of the Bolshevik opponents of Stalin, whose overwhelming majority also rejected the use of violence against the looming tyranny, is unmistakable here. Again, the fear of both “anarchy” and the collapse of the system were decisive. Con‐ cerning Trotsky’s stance within the intraparty discussion, A. Avtorchanov remarked that for Trotsky the use of violence had been a categorical imperative in the fight against Kerensky’s weak gov‐ ernment, yet he perceived any violent action against Stalin’s dicta‐ torship as unthinkable.50 One might also add that Hitler and Stalin were both aware of the limits, which were almost uncrossable for their opponents, and ruthlessly played on their moral taboos.51 So these are the similarities they had. There were, however, also fundamental differences between the situation of the “old” Bolshe‐ viks, who opposed against the rule of a leader, and that of the Ger‐ man and Italian Conservatives. The latter could appeal to such ven‐ erable and institutionally anchored traditions as independent juris‐ Truppe des Weltanschauungskrieges. Die Einsatzgruppen der Sicherheitspolizei u. des SD 1938–1942. Stuttgart, 1981. 49 Bullock, Hitler, pp. 651–652. 50 Avtorchanov, A.: Proischozhdenie partokratii, Vol. 2. Frankfurt/M., 1973, p. 244. 51 On this: Heiden, K.: Adolf Hitler, Vol. 2. Zurich, 1937, p. 266; Bullock, Hitler, p. 794; Avtorchanov, A.: Technologija vlasti. Process obrazovanija KPSS. Munich, 1959; Kennan, G. F.: Memoiren eines Diplomaten. Stuttgart, 1968, pp. 282–283.; Kennan, G. F.: Sowjetische Außenpolitik unter Lenin u. Stalin. Stuttgart, 1961, pp. 335–336, 342–351.

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diction, the law‐abidance, and conscientiousness of the state offi‐ cialdom, the moral ethos of the churches, and the sense of honor of the officer corps. In their resistance the “Leninist Guard,” by con‐ trast, could only draw on the so‐called revolutionary legality and the “proletarian class morality”—highly malleable and arbitrarily inter‐ pretable concepts.52 It is therefore not surprising that Stalin’s oppo‐ nents had such great difficulties in developing a convincing and effective strategy against the establishment of a new dictatorship. Stalin was basically using the same methods in his struggle the Bol‐ sheviks themselves had developed during the Civil War. The only innovation was the transfer of this approach to the intraparty lev‐ el.53 Much more surprising than the collapse of the Bolshevik opposi‐ tion is the capitulation of the German Conservatives in the face of the “Führer.” Unlike the “Leninist Guard,” which had already lost its influence on the party and state machinery at the end of the 1920s, they controlled powerful economic, military, and official apparatus‐ es. In contrast to the Bolsheviks, they also felt bound to the tradi‐ tional ethical and legal concepts. This is the reason why the moral catastrophe, which had occurred here and whose causes cannot be discussed at this point, has an even more terrifying dimension. Only in Italy was it possible to avert the process of radicalization and frame the regime institutionally, especially dynastically. Therefore, the Italian Fascism is rightly called by many observers an “imperfect totalitarianism.”54 To this extent it might be possible to speak of a 52 On Leninist definitions of the “proletarian class morality” and the revolutionary “legality,” respectively, dictatorship, see: Lenin, Sochinenija, Vol. 41, pp. 298– 318, 369–391. 53 Avtorchanov, Proischozhdenie; Deutscher, Ironies, pp. 8–9. 54 Aquarone, A.: L’organizzazione dello Stato totalitario. Turin, 1965; Sarti, R.: Fascism and the Industrial Leadership. A Study in the Expansion of Private Power under Fascism. Berkeley, 1971, p. 69; Bracher, K. D.: Zeitgeschichtliche Kontro‐ versen. Um Faschismus, Totalitarismus, Demokratie. Munich, 1976, p. 23. In the Eastern European research on fascism too, this thesis is beginning to become more and more popular. Compare on this: Luks, L.: Grundtendenzen der nach‐ stalinistischen Faschismusforschung Polens u. der Sowjetunion, in: Tenfelde, K. (ed.): Arbeiter u. Arbeiterbewegung im Vergleich. Berichte zur internationalen historischen Forschung. Munich, 1986, pp. 817–844, here: p. 839.

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relationship, at least between the “Third Reich” and Bolshevik Rus‐ sia. Some German historians vehemently argue the case for this point.55 Nevertheless, the National Socialist genocide of the Jews cannot be equated with any crime by the Communists. The Bolshe‐ viks’ terrorist campaigns against the nobility, the bourgeoisie, or the peasants were never intended to be the physical extermination of the entire social class that was combated at the moment. A “wrong” origin could in some circumstances be corrected by the “right” con‐ viction. Regardless of the terror against the former upper class, the party leadership did not hesitate to rely on tens of thousands of “bourgeois” specialists, whose deployment made the survival of the Soviet State possible in the first place. The former Tsarist officers formed the backbone of the Red Army,56 and finally many Bolshe‐ viks, not least Lenin himself, were of noble or “bourgeois” descent.57 Even at the time of the collectivization, which cost millions of lives, the sons of peasants were on both sides of the barricades. All these facts are ignored by the advocates of the relationship thesis. They argue that those groups, against whom the “red” terror was directed, were to the same extent “irrevocably bound to their descent”58 as the victims of the National Socialist extermination policy. By this means, they “managed” to “classify” the Holocaust historically and thereby also repress the fact that in the case of the extermination of the Jews, by contrast to all the other crimes de‐ scribed here, there was no differentiation. Here the verdict, irre‐ spective of class or religious affiliation, political conviction, or age, was the same against all: “guilty.” The fact that the monstrous uniqueness of such a process is put in question by those people,

55 On this: Hildebrand, Zeitalter; Fest, Die geschuldete Erinnerung; Nolte, Vergan‐ genheit, die nicht vergehen will. 56 On this: Hough and Fainsod, Soviet Union, pp. 85, 91; Fitzpatrick, Russian Revo‐ lution, p. 68; Altrichter, H.: Staat u. Revolution in Sowjetrußland 1917–1922/23. Darmstadt, 1981, pp. 18, 90–91, 167. 57 Compare: Rigby, T. H.: Lenin’s Government. Sovnarkom 1917–1922. Cambridge, 1979, pp. 142–159. 58 Fest, Die geschuldete Erinnerung.

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whose profession is the art of differentiating and conceptual preci‐ sion can only astonish. And now a few words about the Hitler–Stalin Pact, which many authors refer to as a proof of the ideological and structural proximi‐ ty between the two regimes. But does the collaboration of two sys‐ tems presuppose their relationship? If this were the case, one could have put the Anglo‐Saxon democracies in the same political catego‐ ry as Stalinist Russia. Their alliance (1941–1945) was built on much more solid foundations and worked much smoother than the short‐ lived Hitler–Stalin alliance, which was also characterized by mutual mistrust. There can, however, and of course, be no question of ho‐ mogeneity of the systems within the anti‐Fascist coalition. The Pact of August 1939 stemmed, on both sides, from a Machiavellian pow‐ er‐political calculus, and much less from ideological sympathies. The ideological divide continued to exist despite mutual expressions of friendship, and its unequalled depth revealed itself with full clarity after June 22, 1941. For some authors, however, the fact that both regimes fought most bitterly between 1933 and 1938 as well as 1941 and 1945 weighs less heavily than the short intermezzo from 1939 to 1941. For K. Niclauss, for instance, the whole development of the German–Soviet relations after the National Socialist “seizure of power” has in fact headed toward the Pact of August 23, 1939.59 R. C. Tucker and S. Allard, too, see an almost uninterrupted con‐ tinuity line between January 30, 1933, and August 23, 1939. During this period, Stalin had, according to these authors, always thought of an alliance with Hitler. The rapprochement of Russia and the West‐ ern powers after 1934 should serve not least as the basis to prompt Hitler to abandon his anti‐Soviet course and renew the Rapallo poli‐ tics.60 59 Niclauss, K.: Die Sowjetunion u. Hitlers Machtergreifung. Eine Studie über die deutsch‐russischen Beziehungen der Jahre 1929–1935. Bonn, 1966, pp. 195–199. 60 Tucker, R. C.: The Emergence of Stalin’s Foreign Policy, Slavic Review, Vol. 36, 1977, pp. 563–589; Allard, S.: Stalin u. Hitler. Die sowjetrussische Außenpolitik 1930–1941. Bern, 1974. Similar statements are also made by a recently de‐ ceased colleague of Maksim Litvinov, Gnedin, E.: Iz istorii otnoshenij mezhdu SSSR i fashistskoj Germaniei. New York, 1977, pp. 41, 58, and the Tübinger au‐

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This would, as A. Dallin and T. J. Uldricks rightly emphasize in their polemics against Tucker, mean that the Popular Front policy respectively the policy of collective security in the alliance with the West, which is one of the greatest caesuras in the history of the Comintern and the Soviet Union, had been pursued by Stalin only in pretense.61 This is hardly credible. The Moscow leadership re‐ nounced finally its pro‐Western course only after the Munich Agreement. The concept of collective security, whose aim was the isolation of the “Third Reich,” now collapsed. Four years after its announcement not Germany but the USSR was completely isolated. The Soviet delegation was not even invited to the Munich confer‐ ence, which was concerned with the dismembering of Czechoslo‐ vakia—after all, an official ally of the USSR. All these facts contributed significantly to the circumstance that Moscow now began to compete with London and Paris in the policy of concessions to Hitler. The Western Appeasement policy found an equivalent in the East in 1939. The copy should, hwever, fail just as miserably as the original. Even after 1939, the conquest of “lebens‐ raum” in the East, the extermination of the World Jewry and of Communism—synonyms for the leadership of the Third Reich— continued to be the most important foreign policy goals of the NSDAP. And their realization did not allow any postponement; Hit‐ ler wanted to achieve them, as several authors rightly point out, in his lifetime.62 This was one of the reasons for the rapid pace and the consistency with which the National Socialists were working toward war. The breach of treaties was thereby one of their most important “principles.” As early as 1937, in the mid of the Appeasement policy, Konrad Heiden remarked that Hitler was not someone with whom a thor Pietrow, B.: Stalinismus, Sicherheit, Offensive. Das „Dritte Reich“ in der Kon‐ zeption der sowjetischen Außenpolitik 1933–1941. Melsungen, 1983, pp. 48–51. 61 Dallin, A.: Personality, Nationalism and Commitment, in: Slavic Review, 36, 1977, pp. 596–598; Uldricks, T. J.: Stalin and Nazi Germany, in: ibid., pp. 599– 603. 62 Weingartner, T: Stalin u. der Aufstieg Hitlers. Die Deutschlandpolitik der Sowjet‐ union u. der Kommunistischen Internationale 1929–1934. Berlin, 1970, p. 242; Trevor‐Roper, H.: Hitlers Kriegsziele, VfZ , Vol. 8. 1960, pp. 121–131; Haffner, S.: Anmerkungen zu Hitler. Munich, 1978, p. 142.

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reasonable person would conclude a treaty; he was rather a phe‐ nomenon that one could either slay or been slayed by.63 Hitler’s foreign policy behavior largely corresponded to the model later developed by Henry A. Kissinger to characterize the foreign policy of a revolutionary power. This power is basically not capable of self‐limitation. Diplomacy in the traditional sense, whose essence is the compromise and the acknowledgement of one’s own limits, is in fact unhinged by the revolutionary state, since the latter is constantly striving to achieve its ultimate goals.64 Many authors believe that this inability of self‐restraint and compromise, which is typical of the “Third Reich,” also characterizes the Soviet foreign policy and that this is an additional confirmation of the relationship thesis.65 Nevertheless, a closer examination reveals the limits of Kissinger’s model when applied to the Soviet Union—the revolu‐ tionary power par excellence. Foreign policy compromises were by no means foreign to Soviet Russia. Such a compromise had been at the beginning of Soviet diplomacy (the Peace of Brest‐Litovsk). Also in the 1920s and 1930s, Moscow’s foreign policy remained to be, apart from some exceptions, cautious and flexible. Even if the Bol‐ sheviks had conducted several clearly aggressive acts, they did this, usually, against isolated states, which were hopelessly inferior to the Soviet Union, so that the risk was reduced to a minimum (Arme‐ nia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia—1920–1921; Poland, the Baltic states, Finland, and Romania—1939–1940). Risky games—the characteris‐ tic feature of Hitler’s actions—were a rare occasion in the Soviet foreign policy. Did this behavior change significantly after the caesura of 1945? From the war the Soviet Union emerged as by far the most powerful military force on the continent. The European balance was now largely destroyed and could not be restored without America’s help. 63 Heiden, Konrad: Adolf Hitler. Ein Mann gegen Europa. Zurich, 1937, p. 347. 64 Kissinger, H. A.: Großmacht Diplomatie. Von der Staatskunst Castlereaghs u. Metternichs. Düsseldorf, 1962. 65 On this: Arendt, Elemente, pp. 655–656; Friedrich, C. J.: The Evolving Theory and Practice of Totalitarian Regimes, in: Friedrich and others, Totalitarianism, pp. 123–164, here: p. 129.

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A comparably dominant position had in the past often been used as a stepping stone to the establishment of a “new European order” or to a “reaching for global power” (Napoleon‘s France, the Wil‐ helmine, and National Socialist Germany).66 The thinking in histori‐ cal analogies led to the point that a similar policy was expected from the Soviet Union. In his famous Fulton speech (March 1946), Churchill even compared it with the “Third Reich.”67 Despite all these warnings, after 1945 it was not a dynamization of the postwar system that took place but a solidification. Not one single frontier was significantly altered in Europe after 1945; not one single war fought on its soil (when one leaves civil wars— Greece—or the repression of uprisings in the Eastern bloc aside— [the essay was published in 1988—L. L.]). For this stability a part of the continent, namely, the European East, had to pay a high price. The West, however, did indirectly agree with such a development, so that Stalin did not risk war when he incorporated the greater part of East and East Central Europe into his sphere of influence. After the Western powers had, by their Appeasement policy, con‐ siderably contributed to Hitler’s strengthening, the defeat of the Nazi Germany was impossible without an alliance with Stalin. And this cooperation required a high price, which the Western Allies, though reluctantly, were willing to pay (compare, that is, the parti‐ tion plan of Churchill and Stalin from October 1944).68 The peoples of Eastern Europe had to bear much higher costs than the West Eu‐ ropeans, not only for war but also for peace. Verbal protests against the suppression of democratic liberties in this part of the continent should only silence the bad conscience of the Western powers and had no practical consequences. Western statesmen, such as Church‐ 66 See: Dehio, L.: Gleichgewicht oder Hegemonie. Krefeld, 1948. 67 Churchill, W. S.: The Sinews of Peace, in: Churchill, W. S.: His Complete Speeches 1897–1963. Edited by R. R. James. New York, 1974, Vol. 7: 1943–1949, pp. 72, 85–93. 68 Churchill, W. S.: Der Zweite Weltkrieg. Mit einem Epilog über die Nachkriegszeit. Bern 1954, pp. 774–775. On this topic see also: Resis, A.: The Churchill‐Stalin Secret “Percentages” Agreement on the Balkans. Moscow, October 1944, AHR, Vol. 83, 1978, pp. 368–387; Hacker, J.: Der Ostblock. Entstehung, Entwicklung u. Struktur 1939–1980. Baden‐Baden 1983, pp. 142–155.

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ill, were by no means so naïve as to believe that Stalin would release the territories occupied by the Red Army from his sphere of influ‐ ence, or that he would respect democratic rules there. They did not, at the same time, tolerate any Soviet interference in the regions they controlled. The partition of Europe was, therefore, essentially the compo‐ nent of a treaty that was for the most part respected by Stalin. In contrast to Hitler, he usually attempted to secure conquests contrac‐ tually by drawing on the consent of strong partners. From 1939 to 1941 he obtained Hitler’s consent, and after 1941 that of the West‐ ern powers. His primary goal was a total control of the sphere of power thus secured, which he then exercised by using brutal terror‐ ist measures, but not a boundless territorial expansion, as was the case with the “Third Reich.” Was this relatively static foreign policy perhaps compensated by the world‐revolutionary activity of the Moscow‐bound parties? The fact that the Communist seizure of power in all countries of the world was Moscow’s primary goal was barely questioned in the West during the Cold War.69 Thereby, however, Stalin was basically confused with Trotsky. It is quite probable that Stalin, despite his manipulative attitude toward ideas, did not lose sight of the world revolution as an abstract final goal of Communism. Yet, this goal was by no means a priority in the dictator’s actual foreign policy ap‐ proach. I. Deutscher accused Stalin of not having sufficiently utilized the basic left‐wing mood, which had prevailed in the West after 1945, for the Communist goals.70 Indeed did Moscow at that time dampen the ideological fervor of the Western Communists in order to avoid a provocation of the Western powers. Concerning their economic and social demands, the CPI and the CPF were even more moderate than their socialist coalition partners.71 In this context,

69 Arendt, Elemente; Gurian, Bolshevism. 70 Deutscher, I.: An Obituary on Stalin, in: Deutscher, Ironies, pp. 181–186. 71 On this: Loth, W.: Europa nach 1945: Die Formation der Blöcke, in: Benz, W. and Graml, H. (eds.): Europa nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg 194–1982 (Fischer‐ Weltgeschichte, Vol. 35). Frankfurt 1983, pp. 23–57, here: pp. 35–36; Loth, W.:

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one might also mention the halfhearted support of the USSR for the Chinese Communists in their struggle against the Kuomintang.72 But even in Eastern Europe, in its own sphere of power, the Moscow leadership was at first quite cautious. It attempted to moderately influence those parties that aimed at the immediate Sovietization of their countries. This mainly concerned the Communists in Czecho‐ slovakia and Jugoslavia, whose powerbase was much stronger than in other countries of Eastern Europe.73 Stalin was more patient here. The transformation of the People’s Democracies into images of the Soviet Union then proceeded rather according to his ideas and rep‐ resented a gradual, careful process, which came to its conclusion in 1948–1949. The fact that the Soviet government differed fundamentally from the National Socialist in its foreign policy behavior became particu‐ larly obvious during the acute East–West Crisis. In his meticulous analysis of the two Berlin Crises (1948–1949 and 1961), H. Adomeit shows, for instance, how flexible the Moscow leadership behaved at that time. Threats were usually mixed with willingness to compro‐ mise. The leadership was particularly cautious when there was the danger of a direct military confrontation with the USA. Accordingly, the Soviet forces did take almost no action against the Berlin Airlift in 1948.74 One more remark on this: The fact that the most dangerous in‐ tensifications of the East–West conflict after 1945 took the form of a “Cold War,” and did not turn into a “hot” World War, shows that both systems had (and have) (the essay was published in 1988–L. L.) much better control mechanisms than the National Socialist sys‐ tem. Both sides considered the danger, which emanates from the Frankreichs Kommunisten u. der Beginn des Kalten Krieges, VfZ, Vol. 26. 1978, pp. 9–65. 72 Compare: Deutscher, Obituary, pp. 183–184. 73 Fejtö, F.: Die Geschichte der Volksdemokratien, Vol. I: Die Ära Stalin 1945–1953. Graz, 1972, pp. 91–92, 99–100. 74 Adomeit, H.: Die Sowjetunion in internationalen Krisen u. Konflikten. Verhaltensmuster, Handlungsprinzipien, Bestimmungsfaktoren. Baden‐Baden, 1983.

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opponent, as not so dangerous that they would have been prepared to act according to the alternative of “all or nothing.”75 The nuclear balance might have played an important role here. Much more im‐ portant, however, is the fact that the attitude of the super powers competing here—including the USSR—toward war is very different from that of the “Third Reich.” Th. Weingartner, at the time, ex‐ plained the extreme impatience and aggressiveness of the National Socialists with their awareness that time was working against their programmatic ideas, for the “Nordic race” was constantly corroding and this process could only be stopped with extreme efforts. The Communists, by contrast, act with the knowledge that history is on their side, for they are moving toward a proletarian revolution any‐ way. Therefore, an all too risky policy was not believed to be neces‐ sary.76 Weingartner’s plausible explanation demonstrates that the vari‐ ous ideological directions of the regimes analyzed here, which many authors dismiss as politically rather irrelevant abstractions,77 have an existential impact. The fact that the nuclear Holocaust could be avoided so far is probably due to one of these differences—the sta‐ tus of war. The “nonwar” that has prevailed in Europe since 1945 does, of course, not solve most of the problems of the continent, especially not those of the Eastern half. Nevertheless, it is this condi‐ tion that is the most important prerequisite for their solution.

Published in: Geschichte und Gesellschaft 14, 1988, Nr. 1, pp. 96–115. (revised version) Translated by Jerome Schäfer 75 For the assessment of the Soviet danger by the American leadership, see: Leffler, M. P.: The American Conception of National Security and the Beginnings of the Cold War, 1945–1948, AHR, Vol. 89, 1984, pp. 346–381; Bonwetsch, B.: Kalter Krieg als Innenpolitik: Überlegungen zu innenpolitischen Bedingungen des Ost‐West‐Konflikts nach 1945, in: F. Quarthal and W. Setzler (eds): Stadtverfassung, Verfassungsstaat, Pressepolitik. Fs. für E. Naujoks zum 65. Ge‐ burtstag, Sigmaringen, 1980, pp. 230–229. 76 Weingartner, Stalin, p. 242. 77 On this: Gurian, Bolshevism, p. 92; Arendt, Elemente, p. 601; Fest, Die geschulde‐ te Erinnerung.

Part II. Late Soviet and Post‐Soviet Russia in Search of Identity

Farewell to Class Struggle1

Although Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin have not said too many nice things about each other in the past, their actions in the perestroika period coincided productively and ensured the smooth extrication of Russia from the crisis into which it had been plunged by the Bolshevik coup in October 1917. In the 1960s, the American Kremlinologist Bertram Wolfe wrote that Nicholas II was the last legitimate ruler of Russia. The Provisio‐ nal Government did not pretend to full legitimacy and wanted to give the final decision on the structure of the state to the Consti‐ tuent Assembly. Having driven out the Constituent Assembly, the Bolsheviks refused to legitimize their power. Wolfe precisely attri‐ buted the struggle for power that began after the death of each dictator in the USSR to the absence of legitimacy. What then gave such relative stability to the communist regime during the seventy years of its existence? It was, of course, firm faith in the infallibility of the communist party. Having driven out the Constituent Assembly with its non‐Bolshevik majority, the Bolshe‐ viks legitimized their power ideologically, asserting that their party was implementing laws of historical and social development dis‐ covered and formulated in classical Marxism. Nikita Khrushchev was the last Soviet ruler to firmly believe in such arguments. His successors only imitated faith in the “bright communist future.” The erosion of faith in communism deprived the Soviet regime of its ideological legitimacy. To lead the country out of the extremely dangerous “vacuum of legitimacy,” there had to be a return to the democratic institutions thrown into the “garbage heap of history”' (Trotsky) in October 1917 to January 1918. Their return, without provoking a civil war in the country, as feared by many people, was, undoubtedly, the great achievement of the last general 1 A revised version of my article that appeared in New Times (April 2006).

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secretary of the CPSU and first democratically elected president of Russia. By changing Article 6 of the Constitution, which proclaimed the leading role of the CPSU, Gorbachev deprived the communist regime of its last legitimate foundation. At the same time, the ruling no‐ menklatura controlled absolutely all spheres and levers of power, and the new democratic institutions that came into being in the last years of perestroika had no influence on the secret services, law enforcement and the army. It looked like the democrats had no chance in this confrontation. Since October 1917, they have been used to eternal defeat. And they continued to feel it at the beginning of 1991, when opponents of the reforms began a counteroffensive (remember what happened in the Baltic countries). In mid‐February 1991, economist and sociologist Tatyana Zaslavskaya characterized the reactionary turn in the Soviet Union as a process that would last for decades. Professor Gavriil Popov, an economist and former ma‐ yor of Moscow, mocked those who only several months ago called the central bodies of the CPSU “dead.” The changes in the country’s political culture couldn’t dissipate the pessimism of the democrats. An important manifestation of these changes was a demonstration by hundreds of thousands of Muscovites in January 1991 against the events in the Baltic countries. For comparison’s sake, in August 1968, when the Prague “perestroika” was suppressed, only seven protesters came out to Red Square in Moscow. But in January 1991, the supporters of the antidemocratic coup suffered defeat not due to the opposition of the democrats but pri‐ marily due to Gorbachev’s behavior. And this despite the fact that the leader of the communist party balanced between the democratic and conservative camps, evidently not wishing to lose the support of each side in the confrontation. However, in spite of all these vacillations, Gorbachev didn’t want to abandon his offspring perestroika, although the greater part of his team wanted to stop it starting from the fall of 1990. The political fate of Gorbachev as leader of the nomenklatura, in view of these “deviations,” was predetermined.

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On June 12, 1991, Boris Yeltsin was elected the President of Rus‐ sia, which became the decisive day of perestroika. Thus, seventy‐ four years after the abdication of Nicholas II, the legitimate conti‐ nuation of power in the country was restored, despite the radical differences in the sources of this legitimacy. On August 19, 1991, the nomenklatura tried to repeat the expe‐ rience of January 18, 1918, and put an end to the democratic expe‐ riment in the country by imprisoning its leader in Foros, the Crimea, during his holiday. But it turned out that a force deprived of faith in its lawfulness was unable to oppose an unarmed idea convinced of its righteousness. In his decree No. 59 of August 20, 1991, Yeltsin declared the ac‐ tions of the so‐called State Emergency Situation Committee “high treason.” The trembling hands of committee head Yanayev at the press conference on the first day of the attempted coup confirmed that the plotters were not sure of the legitimacy of their cause. Leon Trotsky wrote in one of his works that “the Provisional Government of Russia had been overthrown before it realized it.” Something similar fell to the lot of the committee. Just as in October 1917, diffidence clashed with resolution in Au‐ gust 1991, and the latter got the upper band. But the consequences of that victory were radically different. The Bolsheviks, intoxicated by an easy victory, refused any compromises with the conquered side and created the first totalitarian regime in contemporary histo‐ ry. Their success in defending their dictatorship in a cruel civil war freed them from any public control. The communist party or, to be more exact, the party leader became the absolute authoritarian ruler. The Yeltsin team that scored a victory in August 1991 didn’t wish to make short work of the conquered Bolshevik style. Although the Communist Party of the Soviet Union was banned, the Russian communists were soon given an opportunity to make a comeback on the political scene. Compromise as the foundation of the system created after the events in August was conditioned by Gorbachev’s refusal to think in terms of class struggle. This refusal caused the

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extreme indignation of many communists. Ivan Polozkov, first se‐ cretary of the communist party of the RSFSR, organized in June 1990, held that the underestimation of class contradictions depri‐ ved the party of an important methodological instrument and politi‐ cally disarmed the broad masses of communists. However, when the communists suffered defeat in August 1991, the victors renounced Lenin’s principle “He who wins…” and acted on the basis of Gorbachev’s “new thinking.” Thus, the end of the political impasse that Russia had been plun‐ ged into by the coup of October 1917 proceeded differently from its beginning. This smooth transition from a closed society to a more‐ or‐less open political system took place primarily due to the parallel but uncoordinated complementary actions of the first (and last) president of the USSR and the first president of Russia. Despite the fact that Gorbachev and Yeltsin often accused each other of unpar‐ donable political errors, less emotional analysts sometimes agreed with them. One of these errors was the fact that no reliable mecha‐ nisms to prevent a return to the previous closed society have been created.

The Aggrieved Great Power: Russia after the Crimean War and after the Dissolution of the Soviet Union— A Comparative Outline1

Following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, Russia turned into an aggrieved colossus—anxious to restore its status as a world power. In this respect, Russia’s situation resembles that of interwar Germa‐ ny, that is, of the Weimar Republic that emerged after the First World War. The term “Weimar syndrome” has repeatedly been ap‐ plied to Russia. But in Russian history too, there were similar peri‐ ods that saw the country acting like an aggrieved great power, as it does today. Such an example from the Russian past are the years following the Crimean War of 1853–1856. To be sure, Russia’s domestic situations and international posi‐ tions in 1856 and 1991 constituted two fundamentally different settings. In contrast to the year 1991, there was, for instance, nei‐ ther a breakdown of the Russian empire nor a political, ideological, economic, and social collapse of the previous systems in 1856. Nonetheless, the behavior of Russia’s political classes shows certain similarities in these two otherwise distinct periods, indicating that Russia’s history is characterized by certain continuities along with her cataclysmic upheavals. Shortly after the defeat of the Tsarist troops in the Crimean War, Russian Foreign Minister Gorchakov said: “Rossiia sosredotachiva‐ etsia” (Russia is focusing/concentrating herself). This phrase has been repeated by many Russian authors after the breakup of the USSR in order to express that Russia’s state of shock after losing its empire and hegemonic status in Europe is not going to be perma‐ nent. Sooner or later, Russia would be renewed and it would return

1 A revised version of my article was published in History News Network in Sep‐ tember 2009.

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as a global power—just the way it did after her loss of the Crimean War. Politics in the Soviet Union were heavily shaped by ideology, as was Tsarism before the Crimean War. The USSR was an idiocrasy, embracing the principles of proletarian internationalism and pun‐ ishing so‐called counter‐revolutionary forces, within and beyond its borders, for example, in the GDR in 1953, in Hungary in 1956, or in Czechoslovakia in 1968. The Tsarist Empire was also beholden by transnational ideas during the first half of the nineteenth century—namely, by the prin‐ ciple of legitimism. It too tried to oppress any movement that re‐ volted against this principle—even outside Russia’s borders, such as in Hungary in 1849 or in the Danubian principalities in 1848. After the defeat in the Crimean War, however, the Russian lead‐ ership came to regard a policy of intervention as dysfunctional. For instance, this policy had saved the Habsburg Empire by oppressing the Hungarian insurgency in 1849; yet, later on, the Habsburg Em‐ pire became an opponent of the Tsarist Empire’s foreign affairs. Aforementioned Minister of Foreign Affairs Gorchakov noted that Russia is disliked by much of Europe because of its support for oth‐ er legitimistic powers, including Austria‐Hungary. Russia ought to abandon its role as the gendarme of Europe and merely defend its national interests. Many Russian politicians started thinking along similar lines af‐ ter the collapse of the Soviet Union. The solidarity with “Socialist brother‐states” had entangled Russia in unnecessary conflicts all over the world and made it a subject of hatred by many peoples. From now on, the country would have to focus on its own matters. Russia’s return to her own interests was accompanied by gran‐ diose domestic policy reforms, in both the Tsarist Empire after the Crimean War and the Russian Federation after the collapse of the Soviet Union. After Russia had lost the Crimean War, it experienced a domestic transformation reminiscent of the reforms of Tsar Peter the Great at the beginning of the eighteenth century. The so‐called Great Reforms of the second half of the nineteenth century can be

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seen as Russia’s second wave of Westernization or Europeanization. Serfdom was abolished, censorship significantly reduced, and im‐ partial courts were created by the legal reform of 1864. The first foundations of a separation of powers were established. Many de‐ mands that had been made earlier by critics of Russian autocracy were now implemented one after the other. After the end of the discredited Communist dictatorship, Russia’s domestic development evolved in a quite similar way. Russia began its move toward a free society after seven decades of ideological indoctrination, planned economy, and autocratic rule by the Bolshe‐ viks. Having been isolated since October 1917, these reforms sig‐ naled Russia’s gradual “return to Europe.” Moreover, in both cases, society became polarized by the re‐ formers—though in distinct ways. Left‐wing utopians posed the most immediate danger to the reforms in the epoch of Alexander II—also called the “Liberator Tsar”—since they believed that this era’s sweeping reforms were not radical enough. They were not interested in a reform of the Tsarist system; they were only inter‐ ested in destroying it. The reforms in post‐Soviet Russia, initiated after the failed Au‐ gust 1991 countercoup, faced different dangers. They were less jeopardized by utopians planning to establish an unprecedented reign of equality and social justice. Rather, they were opposed by old elite strata—the ancien régime’s representatives who sought revenge after being politically defeated and deprived of power in 1991. However, militants opposing Russia’s gradual renewal were not the only threat to the reformation process in both epochs. The inner tensions of the respective reformative camps, too, were unhelpful in the transition processes. A major factor in these intrareformist con‐ troversies was the question of nationalities—a salient issue in Rus‐ sia’s multinational state, now and then. In this regard, both periods were distinguished by liberalization. In the nineteenth century, after the accession of Alexander II to the throne, St. Petersburg suspend‐ ed several anti‐Jewish restrictions. In Poland, then a part of the

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Tsarist empire, emergency rule, which had been in effect since the November revolution of 1830–31, was abolished. In the immediate post‐Soviet period, Russia entered the path to‐ ward becoming a real federal state after it had been a pseudo‐ federation during Communist rule. The Federation Treaty of March 1992 gave Russia’s national republics a degree of autonomy, of which they could never have dreamt of during Tsarist or Soviet times. However, these concessions by the center did not suffice for some of the nationalities, neither in the first reform phase in the nineteenth century nor in the second in the late twentieth century. A number of these nations were aspiring full sovereignty; even exten‐ sive forms of autonomy within Russia would not satisfy them. This was the case with Poland, at the time of Alexander II, and Chechnya, in post‐Soviet Russia. The brutal oppression of the Polish and Che‐ chen struggles for freedom by the Russian‐armed forces under‐ mined the credibility of the reform processes and caused the re‐ formers’ factions to split. Alexander Herzen, a renowned critic of the Tsarist regime, had enthusiastically welcomed the Great Reforms. When the Polish Jan‐ uary Uprising of 1863 broke out, he wrote: “Why is this government destined to cover its hands with blood when it could have been act‐ ing all gently and humane?” Democratic Choice of Russia Chairman Yegor Gaidar’s appeal to President Boris Yeltsin when Russia start‐ ed its military intervention into Chechnya in 1994 sounded similarly desperate: “The conquest of Grozny [the capital of Chechnya] will be a blow against Russia’s integrity, against our democratic progress and against everything that we have achieved over the last years.” The conflict with the secessionist provinces boosted nationalistic emotions in the imperial nation, including significant parts of the reformers’ camp, during both the era of Alexander II and the Yeltsin period. When the borders of the state were questioned by inde‐ pendent‐minded minorities, the Russian political elite’s willingness to allow further concessions to internal as well as external (per‐ ceived) opponents decreased. Criticism of the West increased—not

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the least because it was seen as supporting the secessionist tenden‐ cies in Poland or Chechnya. The publication, in 1869, of the influential book Russia and Eu‐ rope by the once relatively liberal‐minded Russian cultural historian Nikolai Danilevskii is exemplary in this respect. Many consider Danilevskii a precursor of Oswald Spengler as Danilevskii had de‐ veloped a theory of societies’ biological ageing, which Spengler part‐ ly reproduced in the twentieth century. This theory seeks to explain why civilizations vanish from the historical stage after completing certain cycles of development. While, in Danilevski’s view, the Ro‐ man‐Germanic civilization had entered a phase of decline, the fun‐ damentally different Slavic culture was on the rise. Danilevskii as‐ cribed the anti‐Russian sentiments in Western Europe to Russia’s alien character and differences between the two culture types. He describes the expansion of the Russian Empire over the last centu‐ ries with staggering self‐righteousness and ascribed to it a quality completely different from the conquests by Western powers. In post‐Soviet Russia too, the democrats, who had been favoring “Russia’s return to Europe” before August 1991, started advocating a special path for Russia. Pro‐Western circles were accused of being too lenient with Russia’s direct neighbors. For instance, Sergei Stankevich, then political advisor to President Yeltsin, said in the summer of 1992: “Our neighbours consider Russia as some sort of relict from which one can carve out one part or another.” Ideas like national pride or national interests are natural in the West, added Supreme Soviet Foreign Relations Committee Chairman Evgenii Ambartsumov. Why should that not be the case in Russia, too? Thus, almost all of Russia’s political camps felt humiliated after both the lost Crimean War and the lost Cold War, and were longing for a res‐ toration of the country’s position as a great power. In the first case, they succeeded as little as fourteen years after the Paris Treaty of 1856, which had documented Russia’s defeat in the Crimean War. The Second French Empire, the cornerstone of the 1856 postwar order, suffered a crushing defeat during the Franco‐ German war. Already at the end of October 1870, that is, two

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months after the Battle of Sedan that sealed the end of the second Napoleonic empire, Russian Foreign Secretary Gorchakov declared that Russia does not feel any longer obliged to adhere to the neutral‐ ization of the Black Sea as determined in the Paris Treaty. Once again, the Tsarist Empire had become an equal member of the con‐ cert of European powers. Russia no longer sought a fundamental revision of the existing European order; rather, France did. Today’s post‐Soviet Russia is a different case. Moscow’s leaders feel that the West does not appreciate Russia’s national interests sufficiently. Especially the USA is heavily criticized for refusing Rus‐ sia the equal rights of a great power. The eastward enlargement of NATO, the military intervention in Yugoslavia, and the recognition of Kosovo’s independence are all examples of Western arbitrariness and disrespect. By way of recognizing the seceding provinces of South Ossetia and Abkhazia as “independent” states after the Rus‐ sian‐Georgian five‐day war, Putin’s circle, apparently, tried to prove Russia’s return to world politics as a great power and “sovereign democracy.” Moscow’s recent arbitrary actions are reminiscent of her similarly unilateral annulment of the so‐called Pontus or Black Sea clause by the St. Petersburg government in October 1870. However, when comparing these acts, one should not ignore the following fundamental differences between the two larger constella‐ tions. In 1870, the Europeans considered the national states as ab‐ solute value and pursuing national interests as a sacred duty of eve‐ ry state. Russia acted accordingly, as did Germany, France, Italy, and other European States. This view had turned Europe into a time bomb that blew up in 1914 for the first and in 1939 for the second time. It was only after the experience of two disastrous world wars that a shift of paradigm took place, which dethroned the national idea as an imperative value and fed into the European integration process. With the notable exception of the Yugoslav tragedy, it was for this development that Europe saw its longest peacetime in its history. At the beginning of Gorbachev’s Perestroika, European inte‐ gration tendencies infected Russia as well. Parts of the Russian elite now wished for the country’s “return to Europe.” Such longing

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should not be easily dismissed as mere “romantic enthusiasm”—as it is sometimes done—as it had concrete political consequences. The political miracle of the peaceful revolutions of 1989, the overcoming of the European division, and the German reunification would not have been possible if it were not for such yearning and for the abandonment of the so‐called Brezhnev Doctrine of Eastern Eu‐ rope’s limited sovereignty—a doctrine that fundamentally contra‐ dicted the idea of a “common European house” that was then guid‐ ing the foreign policies of Gorbachev’s reform team. The euphoria of 1989–1991 has faded away by now. Isolationist forces, who question Russia’s European character, are on the rise in both Russia and the West. The Russian “Europeans,” that is, pro‐ European intellectuals and politicians, to whom Europe owes the peaceful overcoming of its decades‐long divide, are on the defen‐ sive. They seem to have lost their political battle against Russia’s radical opponents of the West. At least, that is what the Kremlin duumvirate’s anti‐Western policy’s almost unanimous support by large parts of Russia’s general public, especially after the outbreak of the Russian‐Georgian war, seems to corroborate. Notwithstand‐ ing, in the postnational epoch that began in Europe in 1945, the Russian advocates of national egoism appear to be anachronistic. Failure to adapt to the spirit of the age is seldom crowned with suc‐ cess. Russia is still connected to the West through countless chan‐ nels. Thus, it cannot be ruled out that, sooner or later, Russia will resume her attempt to “return to Europe.” PS: This article was written before the events of “Euromaidan” in 2013–2014. Translated from German by Immanuel Petermeier and Andreas Umland

“Weimar Russia?”—Notes on a Controversial Concept1

All analogies are imperfect. Thus, the rule also applies to the com‐ parison between post‐Soviet Russia and Weimar Germany that Al‐ exander Yanov put into circulation at the beginning of the 1990s. Nevertheless, striking similarities are apparent between the two state formations, and I would like to indicate these in the first part of the chapter. In the second part, I shall proceed to the differences. Analogies between the Weimar Republic and Post‐Soviet Russia The Legend of the “Internal Enemy” The political culture of the Weimar Republic was poisoned from the very start by the legend of the “stab in the back.” It was invented by representatives of the ruling circles who had governed the country in dictatorial manner during the First World War and who after the failure of the spring offensive of 1918 understood very well that the military might of Germany was completely exhausted, that unless hostilities were terminated immediately catastrophe awaited the country. But in order to evade responsibility for defeat, the ruling group transferred power to the previously impotent Reichstag. Thus, the country acquired a parliamentary form of government not by means of struggle from below but as a gift from above.2 1 English translation from the Russian text “Veimarskaia Rossia?” Zametki ob odnom spornom poniatii, Voprosy filosofii, no. 2, 2008, pp. 16–28. Published in: Russian Politics and Law, Vol. 46, no. 4, July–August 2008, pp. 47–65. Translated by Stephen D. Shenfield. A slightly revised version. 2 Gurian, Walter: Um des Reiches Zukunft. Freiburg, 1932; Nipperdey, Thomas: Deutsche Geschichte 1866–1918. Machtstaat vor der Demokratie. Munich, 1992, Vol. 2, pp. 858–876; Winkler, Heinrich August: Der lange Weg nach Westen. Deutsche Geschichte vom Ende des Alten Reiches bis zum Untergang der Weima‐ rer Republik. Munich, 2000, Vol. 1, pp. 361–377; Misukhin, Gleb: Rossiia v Veimarskom zerkale, ili Soblazn legkogo uznavaniia, Pro et Contra, no. 3, 1998, pp. 111–123.

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And it was this unexpectedly empowered parliament that had to pay for the military collapse of the Reich, responsibility for which lay above all with the military command, which through its policy of total mobilization had brought the country to a condition of com‐ plete prostration. General Erich Ludendorff—the undeclared dictator of the Reich during the last two years of the war—declared in his memoirs that Germany had lost the war not on the external but on the internal front. The pacifist and defeatist mood of the democratic opposition had supposedly undermined the army’s combat morale.3 In other words, not the all‐powerful military command but the parties in the Reichstag, deprived during the war of any political influence, were chiefly to blame for defeat. In this way, the legend was born of the “stab in the back”—the belief that Germany’s bid for world hegemo‐ ny had failed not because this goal was an unrealizable dream but due to the treason of a small group of internal enemies. This “theory” is strikingly reminiscent of the argumentation of imperially inclined Russian circles during the last years of pere‐ stroika and in post‐Soviet Russia. The bard of empire Aleksandr Prokhanov wrote in March 1990: For the first time in the history not just of Russia but of the world, we see a state destroyed not by external blows … or by natural dis‐ asters but by the deliberate actions of its leaders.4

The tone was set. Now everything was clear. The Soviet empire col‐ lapsed, so it turned out, not because the party distrusted the people and smothered its striving for autonomy, nor because the Soviet Union in the era of the third (electronic) industrial revolution had turned into a living anachronism, that is, into a paradise for bureau‐ 3 Ludendorff, Erich: Meine Kriegserinnerungen, 1914–1918. Berlin, 1919; Weimar Russia: Is There an Analogy?, in: http://globetrotterberkeley.edu/pubs /james.html; Hanson, Stephen E. and Kopstein, Jeffrey S.: The Weimar/Russia Comparison, Post‐Soviet Affairs, Vol. 13, no. 3, 1997, p. 256. 4 Prokhanov, Aleksandr: Ideologiia vyzhivaniia, Nash Sovremennik, 1990, pp. 3–9; see also Ianov, Aleksandr: Posle El_’tsina: “Veimarskaia Rossiia”. Moscow, 1995; Hanson and Kopstein, The Weimar/Russia, p. 266.

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crats, based on regimentation and suppression of the creative initia‐ tive of society. No, it was all the fault of the enemies of inertia and stagnation, who had tried to bring back into the world community a country that had been cut off from the rapidly developing “First World.” However, modernization of the country was impossible without weakening the paternalistic nomenklatura structures that welded into a single whole both the “external” and the “internal” Soviet empire (the socialist camp and the Soviet Union, respective‐ ly). Nevertheless, the heart of the empire was not the managerial “new class” but the ideology inspiring it—the idea of proletarian internationalism. This idea—that is, a “superstructure”—was the “base” of the Soviet Union (an ironical reference to the Marxian dis‐ tinction between the productive base of a society and its legal, intel‐ lectual and cultural superstructure (Trans.)). After all, the Soviet Union’s name did not even hint that this country was the successor to the empire of the Romanovs. A “Union of Soviet Socialist Repub‐ lics” might have existed in any part of the world, on any continent. A very important prerequisite for the existence of this state was faith in the infallibility of the party and of its ideology. But by Brezhnev’s time no one, except perhaps for Suslov and those like him, still be‐ lieved in the “radiant communist future.” There was only a play at faith, a masquerade in which the majority of the population —with the exception of the dissidents—took part together with the party. But with the advent of perestroika, this camouflage collapsed under the impact of glasnost. And Gorbachev had no choice but to abolish Article 6 of the Constitution, which had codified the party’s leading role in the country. The Soviet empire was now in urgent need of a new ideological foundation to weld it into a single whole. But, as is well known, the feverish search for such a foundation did not suc‐ ceed. With extraordinary perspicacity, Prince Nikolai Trubetskoi, founder of the Eurasianist movement, foresaw this turn of events as early as 1927. He wrote then that due to the growing national awareness of the non‐Russian peoples the time of the exclusive domination of the Russians in Russia had gone, never to return. The Bolsheviks understood this well and found a new bearer of Russia’s

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unity: instead of the Russian people, the proletariat. But, Trubetskoi continued, this was merely an apparent solution to the problem. The national feelings of the workers are much stronger than their class solidarity. If Russia wished to remain a single state, it would have to find a new bearer of its unity; in Trubetskoi’s view, this could only be the Eurasian idea, emphasizing what the peoples of Russia‐ Eurasia share in common.5 Now as in the past, however, the weakness of the Eurasian idea is that it has failed to achieve broad recognition to “seize hold of the masses” and thereby prevent the collapse of the Soviet Union. Nostalgically inclined circles in post‐Soviet Russia attach no sig‐ nificance to all these profound historical processes that have led to tectonic shifts throughout the space between the Elbe and Vladivos‐ tok. For them the disintegration of the Soviet empire was merely the result of a plot by a clique of “internal enemies.” Rejection of the West Besides the legend of the “stab in the back,” many national‐patriotic circles in post‐Soviet Russia share with the Weimar right a radical rejection of the West. After the defeat in the First World War of the nation that alleged‐ ly had never been “vanquished on the battlefield,” the German na‐ tionalists persistently demonized both the victors and the demo‐ cratic values upheld by them. The champions of national revanche considered the harshness of the Treaty of Versailles—in which re‐ spect, incidentally, it did not differ all that much from the victorious peace concluded by the Germans in the East in March 1918 (the peace of Brest‐Litovsk)—quite sufficient grounds for sweeping away the existing European order. Insulted national self‐esteem became the dominant motif of their thinking and determined their tactics; considerations pertaining to the pan‐European and Chris‐

5 Trubetskoi, Nikolai: Obshcheevropeiskii natsionalizm, Evraziiskaia Khronika, no. 7, 1927, pp. 28–29.

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tian heritage no longer played any role. “We are an oppressed na‐ tion”—Arthur Moeller van den Bruck, one of the heralds of the so‐ called Conservative Revolution, wrote in 1923: The meager territory onto which we have been crowded conceals the enormous danger that comes from us. Should we not build our policy on the basis of this danger? (Translated from Russian.)6

The liberalism borrowed from the West was declared by supporters of the Conservative Revolution and of other nationalist groups to be a mortal enemy of the Germans. For Moeller van den Bruck, liberal‐ ism was “the moral illness of a nation” bereft of any convictions, passed off as a conviction.7 The pseudoethical orientation that was characteristic of the con‐ servative revolutionaries is manifested here with especial clarity. Those who were prepared to deride humanism and destroy the entire European order in revenge for the injustice of Versailles thoughtlessly reproached liberalism with indifference toward mo‐ rality. It is not surprising that this moralizing immoralism, which absolved the sins of its supporters in advance but portrayed its op‐ ponents as incorrigible criminals, seemed very tempting to many. The establishment of a liberal system in Germany was presented by German critics of the West as a consequence of the crafty in‐ trigues of the Western democracies. The West possessed immunity against the liberal poison, for—Moeller van den Bruck asserted—it did not take liberal principles seriously. In Germany, by contrast, liberalism was taken literally. Its corrupting principles might there‐ fore lead the country to ruin. The Western states, unable to over‐ come the Germans on the battlefield, were trying to achieve the same result by means of liberal and pacifist propaganda. And the naïve Germans were drinking up the poison.8 The self‐pity of the supporters of the Conservative Revolution was as boundless as their megalomania. It turned out that the sole 6 Moeller van den Bruck, Arthur: Das Dritte Reich. Hamburg, 1931, pp. 71–72. 7 Moeller van den Bruck, Das Dritte Reich, pp. 69–71. 8 Ibid.

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remedy capable of easing the suffering of the Germans was world domination. Moeller van den Bruck explained: Power over the world is the only chance of survival for an overpopu‐ lated country. In defiance of all obstacles, the impulse of people in our overpopulated country strains in just this direction; its aim is the space that we need (translated from Russian).9

Parliamentary democracy was presented by its German ill‐wishers as “devoid of chivalrous principles.” The revolution of November 1918, writes Ernst Jünger, was unable to defend the country from the external enemy. That is why the soldiers turned away from it. This revolution, in Jünger’s opinion, rejected such concepts as “man‐ liness, courage, and honor.”10 Oswald Spengler, for his part, speaks of “the indescribable loathsomeness of the November days”: Not a single imperious glance, nothing inspiring, not a single signifi‐ cant face, recalled word, or audacious crime (translated from Rus‐ sian).11

The demonization of Western values is also characteristic of many national‐patriotic circles in post‐Soviet Russia. For many years now Aleksandr Dugin has been a sort of mouthpiece and ideologue of 9 Ibid., pp. 63, 71–72. 10 See: Bastian, Klaus‐Friedrich: Das Politische bei Ernst Jünger. Diss. Heidelberg, 1963, p. 66. 11 Spengler, Oswald: Preussentum und Sozialismus. Munich, 1920, p. 11. On the theme of the “Conservative Revolution” in the Weimar Republic, see also: Rauschning, Hermann: The Conservative Revolution. New York, 1941; Mohler, Armin: Die Konservative Revolution in Deutschland: Der Grundriss ihrer Weltan‐ schauung. Stuttgart, 1950; Sontheimer, Kurt: Antidemokratisches Denken in der Weimarer Republik. Munich, 1968; Sontheimer, Kurt: Der Tatkreis, Vierteljahrs‐ hefte für Zeitgeschichte, no. 6, 1958, pp. 229–260; Kuhn, Helmut: Das geistige Gesicht der Weimarer Republik, Zeitschrift für Politik, 1961, no. 8, pp. 1–10; Klemperer, Klemens: Konservative Bewegungen: Zwischen Kaiserreich und Nati‐ onalsozialismus. Munich, 1962; Stern, Fritz: Kulturpessimismus als politische Ge‐ fahr. Bern, 1963; Breuer, Stefan: Anatomie der Konservativen Revolution. Darm‐ stadt, 1993; Luks, Leonid: ‘Eurasier’ und ‘Konservative Revolution’: Zur anti‐ westlichen Versuchung in Russland und in Deutschland, in: Koenen Gerd and Lew Kopelew (eds.): Deutschland und die Russische Revolution, 1917–1924. Mu‐ nich, 1998, pp. 219–239.

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these forces. The journal Elementy, which Dugin put out in the 1990s, portrays liberalism as “the most consistent and radical form […] of European nihilism,” as an embodiment of the spirit of antitra‐ dition, cynicism, and skepticism. Liberalism allegedly destroys any spiritual, historical, and cultural continuity; it is simply the enemy of mankind. According to Elementy, it is a fateful error that “liberalism” and “democracy” are often viewed as synonyms. In fact, liberalism has nothing in common with democracy in its true sense of people’s power. The defenders of liberalism constitute a small power‐hungry and unelected elite that uses democratic rhetoric only in order to give the people the illusion of involvement in the political decisions of the ruling group.12 Just like the Weimar right, the Russian national‐patriots reject the universalism propagated by the West and are fervent defenders of cultural particularism and of special national paths. Pro‐Western circles are accused of a lack of patriotism. Accusations of this kind put both the German and the Russian “Westernizers” at a direct disadvantage. They tried in every way to prove that they were not indifferent to the fate of the fatherland. The first to speak of the “army that had never been vanquished on the battlefield” was Frie‐ drich Ebert, head of the German social democrats, welcoming sol‐ diers returned from the front in the name of the revolutionary gov‐ ernment that had taken office in November 1918. But none of these 12 Elementy, no. 5, 1994, p. 5. On Dugin’s ideology and the journal Elementy, see: Ianov, A.: Posle El_’tsina. Geopoliticheskoe polozhenie Rossii. Predstavleniia i re‐ al_’nost_’. Moscow, 2000; Luks, Leonid: ‘Tretii put’’’ ili nazad v Tretii Reikh? O ‘neoevraziiskoi’ gruppe ‘Elementy’, Voprosy filosofii, no. 5, 2000, pp. 33–44; Luks, Leonid: Eurasien aus neototalitärer Sicht—Zur Renaissance einer Ideolo‐ gie im heutigen Russland, Totalitarismus und Demokratie, no. 1, Booklet 1, 2004, pp. 63–76; Mathyl, Markus: Der ‘unaufhaltsame Aufstieg’ des Aleksandr Dugin, Osteuropa, no. 52, Booklet 7, 2002, pp. 885–900; Umland, Andreas: Post‐ sowjetische Gegeneliten und ihr wachsender Einfluss auf Jugendkultur und In‐ tellektuellendiskurs in Russland: Der Fall Aleksandr Dugin (1990–2004), Forum für osteuropäische Ideen‐ und Zeitgeschichte, no. 10, Booklet 1, 2006, pp. 115– 147; Umland, Andreas: Tri raznovidnosti postsovetskogo fashizma. Kontseptu‐ al_’nye i kontekstual_’nye interpretatsii sovremennogo russkogo ul_’tranatsionalizma, Russkii natsionalizm: ideologiia i nastroenie. Moscow, 2006, pp. 223–262.

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assurances of their love for the fatherland helped either the social democrats or other democratic politicians rehabilitate themselves in the eyes of the right, for whom the democrats remained traitors, internal enemies who served the interests of the external enemy— that is, the West. Here too we see a certain similarity with the fate of the demo‐ crats in Yeltsin’s Russia. When Yeltsin and his supporters abolished the communist dicta‐ torship in August 1991, they appeared not only under democratic but also under Russian national banners. The mood of exhilaration that reigned in Moscow immediately after the defeat of the com‐ munist putsch was very reminiscent of the atmosphere in 1848 in the Frankfurt Paulskirche (where the National Assembly was sit‐ ting): the idea of freedom and the national idea were joined in a single whole. We must not, however, forget in what direction the German national movement developed, because the goal toward which it strove was not only freedom but also the might of a great power. A characteristic sign of this reorientation of the German na‐ tional movement was the discussion in the Paulskirche in July 1848 on the Polish question. Up to that time, solidarity with oppressed Poland had been a sort of litmus test for liberal circles in Europe and Germany. After the beginning of the revolution of 1848, howev‐ er, this feeling of solidarity noticeably weakened.13 A similar situation took shape in Russia after the removal of the CPSU from power. The victorious democrats began to talk more and more about Russia’s national interests and less and less about soli‐ darity with small peoples. Many democrats who before August 1991 had spoken of “Russia’s return to Europe” after the August events 13 Kaehler, Siegfrid A.: Realpolitik zur Zeit des Krimkrieges—eine Säkularbetrach‐ tung, Historische Zeitschrift, no. 174, 1952, p. 418; Gollwitzer, Heinz:Europabild und Europagedanke: Beiträge zur deutschen Geistesgeschichte des 18. und 19. Jahrhunderts. Munich, 1964, p. 262; Nipperdey, Thomas: Deutsche Geschichte, 1800–1866. Bürgerwelt und starker Staat. Munich, 1983, pp. 627–630; Wehler, Hans‐Ulrich: Deutsche Gesellschaftsgeschichte. Von der Reformära bis zur indust‐ riellen und politischen “Deutschen Doppelrevolution”. Munich, 1987, Vol. 2, pp. 743–744.

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started to speak of “Russia’s special path.” The supporters of a pro‐ Western orientation in Russian politics were portrayed by their critics as politicians without roots who had moved far away from the traditions of their country. Soon after the victory of the demo‐ crats, Evgeny Kozhokin, one of Yeltsin’s advisers, declared: “When they come into power Westernizers must stop being Westernizers. You can be a Westernizer only in opposition.”14 Nationally inclined circles within the democratic camp re‐ proached pro‐Western groups in the government with excessive willingness to compromise in relations with the West, and also with Russia’s closest neighbors. Thus, Sergei Stankevich, a political ad‐ viser to the president of Russia, asserted: Our neighbors often regard Russia not as a state but as a heap, a sort of relict from which one or another part can be cut off.15

Evgeny Ambartsumov, chairman of the Supreme Soviet Committee on Foreign Policy, added that the concepts of national pride, nation‐ al affiliation, and national interest are quite natural in the West. Why should they not be extended to Russia? This struggle of the Russian democrats in defense of national in‐ terests did not, however, rehabilitate them in the eyes of the “irrec‐ oncilable opposition.” For the national‐patriots, the democrats are, above all, destroyers of a great empire and agents of the Western victors in the Cold War who have established an antinational regime on Russian territory. So despite their national rhetoric, the Russian democrats, like their counterparts in Weimar Germany, have not managed to bridge the chasm separating them from their radical opponents. But, on the other hand, the fact that in both cases the democrats to some degree adopted the arguments of their oppo‐ nents led to them losing the initiative in political discourse.

14 Moskovskie novosti, August 16, 1992. 15 Stankevich, Sergei: Rossiia 1992‐i, Komsomol’skaia pravda, May 26, 1992.

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The New Diaspora After the First World War, Germany lost one‐seventh of its territo‐ ry—above all, Alsace and Lorraine in the west, which had been an‐ nexed to the Reich in 1871, and in the east some of the areas with a Polish majority. The Germans were especially outraged by the loss of the Polish areas because they had to cede 46,000 square kilome‐ ters of territory and the German minority living there to a state that only emerged after the First World War, a state that unlike France was not one of the victors. It was an axiom of the foreign policy of the Weimar Republic to strive for a revision of German borders in the east. The American historian Harald von Riekhoff writes that this striving acquired almost mystical features and adds: The fact that after 1918 a certain part of the German population fell under Polish rule was regarded in Germany as a sort of pathology, while the fact that for many generations previously a lot of Poles had lived under German rule was considered something natural and self‐ evident.16 It was no less of a shock to Russians that after the disintegration of the Soviet Union the Crimea, the Donbass, the Baltic republics, the Transcaucasus, and Central Asia with the Russian minority living there ended up outside Russia’s borders. Those authors who draw parallels between post‐Soviet Russia and Weimar Germany point not least to the problem of the “new diaspora” and to the attempts of both states to influence the fate of compatriots transformed from a privileged stratum of the population into—not infrequently—a minority deprived of its rights. Moscow’s stance in relation to the 25 million Russians living out‐ side Russia’s borders causes concern both in the West and in the East. Parallels are often drawn with the demagogic exploitation of 16 Riekhoff, Harald von: German‐Polish Relations, 1918–1933. Baltimore, 1971, p. 265. See also: Weimar Russia: Is There an Analogy?; Hanson and Kopstein, The Weimar/Russia, p. 256; Brubaker, Roger: Nationalism Reframed: Nationhood and the National Question in the New Europe. Cambridge University Press, 1996, pp. 125–126.

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the problem of German national minorities after 1918. In the imme‐ diate aftermath of the disintegration of the Soviet Union, the Ameri‐ can political scientist Francis Fukuyama advised Russian politicians to make use of the experience of Turkey after the First World War. Thanks to the reforms of Kemal Ataturk, the Ottoman Empire very quickly became a modern national state. The new Turkey re‐ nounced pan‐Islamic and pan‐Turkic claims and left Turkic peoples living outside its borders to their own fate.17 Presidential adviser Stankevich responded critically to Fukuya‐ ma’s advice. He declared that Ankara was by no means indifferent to the fate of Turks or of Turkic peoples living abroad. Witness to this is borne by the intervention in Cyprus in 1974, undertaken— according to the declaration of the Turkish government—for the purpose of defending the Turkish minority on the island. Nor, ac‐ cording to Stankevich, should we forget how intensive the efforts of Turkey were to include in its sphere of interest the newly independ‐ ent Turkic states on the territory of the former Soviet Union. This, from Stankevich’s point of view, is absolutely natural: the “normali‐ ty” of Turkey is manifest in the fact that it has its own geopolitical interests and strives to secure them. Stankevich sought the same rights for Russia.18 The Transition from a Half‐Closed to an Open Society The Weimar Republic—that is, the “first German democracy”—was the freest state formation in the history of Germany apart from the Federal Republic of Germany. The Germans had long dreamt of this freedom, almost since the time of the war of liberation against Na‐ poleon in 1813. The motto of the German revolution of 1848 was: 17 Fukuiama, Frensis [Francis Fukuyama]: Neiasnost_’ natsional_’nogo interesa, Nezavisimaia gazeta, October 16, 1992. 18 Stankevich, Sergei: Rossiia uzhe sdelala antiimperskii vybor, Nezavisimaia gazeta, November 6, 1992. See also: Weimar Russia: Is There an Analogy?; Bru‐ baker, Nationalism, pp. 107–109, 135–147; Lariuel´ M. [Laruelle]: ‘Russkaia di‐ aspora’ i ‘rossiiskie sootechestvenniki’, Demokratiia vertikali. Moscow, 2006, pp. 185–212.

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“Freedom and State Unity!” However, the revolution was unable to achieve either goal. True that a quarter of a century later Bismarck succeeded in uniting Germany, but he did so in an authoritarian manner. The Germans achieved complete freedom only as a result of the revolu‐ tion of November 1918, which overturned the ruling dynasties and transferred the entire plenitude of power to society. But this unex‐ pectedly won freedom evoked little euphoria, and this is not sur‐ prising. The establishment of the democratic order was associated in Germany with defeat in the world war, the humiliating Treaty of Versailles, territorial losses, reparations, and also the very deep economic crisis that reached its apogee in 1923 with hyperinflation unprecedented in the country’s history. All these processes are reminiscent of what happened in Russia after the collapse of the Soviet regime and in the period of the birth of the “second Russian democracy.” True that the “second Russian democracy,” unlike the Weimar Republic in Germany, was not the freest state formation in the entire preceding history of the country. The order that emerged in Russia after the revolution of February 1917 was no less free. In April 1917, Lenin called Russia “the freest country in the world of all the warring countries.”19 A few months later, he himself tried to rein in this freedom, and after the Bolshevik victory in the civil war he finally managed to do so. The “freest country in the world” turned into the world’s first totalitarian state. True that the character of the communist dictatorship changed substantially after Stalin’s death. The totalitarian system turned into a semitotalitarian or even paternalistically authoritarian order. But society as such remained a puppet in the hands of the ruling nomenklatura, and only during perestroika did it make the transition from a “closed” to a “semi‐open” condition. Its final liberation took place in August 1991 on the barricades at the White House. However, just as in Weimar Germany, the euphoria that followed was short lived, for 19 Lenin, V. I.: Poln. sobr. soch. Moscow, 1958–1965, v. 31, pp. 114–115.

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after “August” came “December” (the disintegration of the Soviet Union) and “January” (shock therapy, which in the first years en‐ tailed hyperinflation, a fall in gross product of 23% in 1992, and an almost 50% reduction in the living standard of the population). The Russian reformers very quickly lost their capital of trust. The democratic idea was also discredited by the confrontation between the executive and the legislative branch (the president and the Su‐ preme Soviet), which culminated in the disbandment of parliament and the bombardment of the White House. All these events inflicted a deep trauma on the public conscious‐ ness, and one of its consequences was the crushing defeat of the democrats in the Duma elections of December 1993. Russia found itself faced with the dilemma that once Weimar Germany faced when radical antidemocrats won an unexpected victory in the Reichstag elections of September 1930. Rudolf Hilferding, one of the leaders of the Social‐Democratic Party of Germany, formulated this dilemma as follows: “To affirm democracy against the will of the majority, which rejects democracy, and moreover affirm it using the political means provided by the democratic constitution—this is almost like squaring the circle” (translated from Russian).20 Revenge of the Overturned Elites The revolution that began in Germany on November 9, 1918 dif‐ fered qualitatively from the French revolution of 1789 or from the Russian revolution of 1917. Unlike the latter revolutions, it did not shift from a moderate to a more radical phase but developed in the opposite direction: it was radical at the start and grew increasingly moderate. Its main political force was the social‐democratic party, which wished at any price to prevent the revolution from develop‐ ing in accordance with the Russian model of 1917. The social demo‐ crats, therefore, constantly fought against their own left‐radical wing, bewitched by the example of the Bolshevik October. The influ‐ 20 Hilferding, Rudolf: In Krisennot, Die Gesellschaft, no. 7, 1931, p. 1.

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ence of these extremist groups on Germany’s traditionally moderate working class was marginal. Of the deputies elected to the Berlin Congress of Soviets that took place in mid‐December 1918, 80% rejected the Soviet model and voted for the transformation of Ger‐ many into a parliamentary republic.21 But despite this, the social‐ democratic majority in the Council of People’s Commissioners (CPC), which governed the country from November 10, 1918, saw the chief threat to German democracy coming not from the right but from the left. The culmination of the chaotic attempts by left‐wing extremists to bring about a revolution in Germany on the “Russian model” was the uprising in Berlin that began on January 5, 1919. The CPC sup‐ pressed this uprising without difficulty; in doing so, however, it made use not only of regular troops but also of corps of right‐radical volunteers. As Arthur Rosenberg, chronicler of the Weimar Repub‐ lic, was to note in the mid‐1930s, the use of extremist opponents of democracy to defend the republic was an unforgivable error on the government’s part.22 In fact, the uprising in Berlin was suppressed in the space of a few days, by January 12. But the social‐democratic government lost control over the soldiery, which now began to institute mob law on its own account. In addition, victims of the reprisals were Karl Lieb‐ knecht and Rosa Luxemburg, the leaders of the Communist Party of Germany that had been created on December 31, 1918, who were murdered on January 16.

21 Winkler, Der lange Weg, pp. 385–386; Blasius, Dirk: Weimars Ende: Bürgerkrieg und Politik, 1930–1933. Göttingen, 2006, pp. 17–18; Weimar Russia: Is There an Analogy? 22 Rosenberg, Arthur: Geschichte der Weimarer Republik. Frankfurt, 1961. Some contemporary authors make a similar assessment of the situation at that time. The Berlin historian Heinrich August Winkler wrote in 1990: “[The social dem‐ ocrats] aimed above all at preventing economic and political chaos; they over‐ estimated the danger from the left and underestimated the danger from the right” (translated from Russian; Winkler, Heinrich August: Die Revolution von 1918/19 und das Problem der Kontinuität in der deutschen Geschichte, Histor‐ ische Zeitschrift, no. 250, 1990, p. 307).

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The social‐democratic government overreacted to the actions of the former left wing of its own party not only due to an exaggerated fear of anarchy but also because it wished to demonstrate its patri‐ otism, the identity of its own interests with the domestic and foreign interests of the German state. The German social democrats, ac‐ cused for years by the right of having no attachment to their father‐ land, wanted to prove that the fate of Germany was not a matter of indifference to them. And so the November revolution, having overthrown the monar‐ chy and initially sown panic in the ranks of the ruling conservative elites, confined itself to mere half‐measures in the fight against the old regime. Its administrative, economic, and even military struc‐ tures (despite the constraints imposed by the Treaty of Versailles) remained almost untouched. All the prerequisites for revenge on the part of the elites overthrown in November 1918 were in place. But over time this striving for continuity, this desire to repair the break resulting from the revolution spread to broad strata of the popula‐ tion. A symbol of this growth in nostalgic moods was the election as president of the Reich in 1925 of the aged Field Marshal Hinden‐ burg, who had never reconciled himself to the republican order and remained a convinced monarchist. It is necessary to add that he was elected precisely at the moment when the Weimar Republic had managed to overcome the postwar crisis and stabilize the economy, during the period when the democratic parties of the so‐called Weimar coalition were achieving their greatest successes in parlia‐ mentary elections. This duality shows how fragile a state formation, the Weimar Republic, was: democratic rules of play had still not become “the only game in town”—to use the expression of contemporary politi‐ cal scientists J. Linz and A. Stepan. Because the president was supposed to act as a guarantor of the Weimar Constitution and in crisis situations could introduce a state of emergency in the country (Article 48 of the Constitution), Hin‐ denburg’s antidemocratic attitudes threatened the order that he was duty bound to defend. His predecessor Ebert, being a convinced

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democrat, had used his emergency powers, especially during the Ruhr crisis of 1923, but only to fight against the enemies of democ‐ racy both on the right and on the left (against both communist and Nazi attempted coup d’état). Such a consistent struggle on two fronts could not be expected from Hindenburg. The conservative circles that exerted influence on the aged president saw an im‐ portant difference between communists and Nazis. The latter they considered their potential allies. It was this orientation that eventu‐ ally led to the transfer of power to Hitler and to the destruction of the Weimar democracy. Is the revenge of overthrown elites also in store for post‐Soviet Russia? The revolution of August 1991 was, like the November revolu‐ tion in Germany, a half‐and‐half affair. Many Russian democrats did not wish to regard the August events following the suppression of the putsch as a revolution, because they associated revolution with concepts such as mass terror and dictatorship. This is why they abstained from settling accounts with their vanquished enemies in the Bolshevik manner. According to G. Popov, one of the leading representatives of the democratic camp, this decision was of ex‐ traordinary significance not only for Russia but also for the whole world. Later Yeltsin was to recall that in September and October (1991) the country was literally poised on the edge of an abyss. And none‐ theless Russia was saved from revolution and mankind from its catastrophic consequences. For a year, said the president, there were constant appeals for a decisive confrontation. But none of these appeals evoked a response in the hearts of Russian people. Yeltsin considered precisely this a common victory. Arguments continue in Russia to this day over whether Yeltsin and his supporters made a mistake in August 1991 by taking the path of compromise and not that of revolutionary struggle. It must not be forgotten in this connection, however, how modest an organ‐ izational base was at the disposal of Yeltsin and his team at the mo‐ ment of their victory. It should be added that after the defeat of the

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common foe the majority of democratic groups went into opposition to the country’s new leadership. In order not to disappear from the political scene, Yeltsin’s government was compelled to seek a com‐ promise with officials from the old structures who were prepared to accept reform. We see here a certain similarity with the behavior of the Bolsheviks after 1917. Although the Bolsheviks considered their revolution the most radical upheaval in history, within a few months of coming to power they had to seek support from the “bourgeois specialists”—that is, from representatives of the “old world” that the Bolsheviks wanted completely to destroy. Otherwise the regime would simply not have survived. However, the Bolshe‐ viks had at their disposal one extraordinarily effective means of forcing “class enemies” to work for them—the “red terror.” Such a means was not available to the victors in August 1991. In order to induce the cooperation of the most flexible people from the old structures, they had to appeal to their interests and at the same time convince them that the old regime could not be restored under any circumstances. But partial restoration took place nonetheless. In December 1992, at the Seventh Congress of People’s Deputies, Yeltsin under pressure from parliament was forced to remove Gaidar, the author of “Shock Therapy.” His successor, Chernomyrdin, a representative of the industrial lobby, distanced himself from the radical market conception of his predecessor. After recovering from the shocks of August 1991 and October 1993, managerial groups mounted a counteroffensive against the civil society that had emerged during perestroika, against the subjects of the federation that had broken free, and against the fabulous fortunes made by the oligarchs. While Yeltsin remained in power, this counteroffensive did not assume the character of a restoration of the order that had collapsed in 1991. Despite his rapprochement with the managerial structures of the old regime, Yeltsin, being a convinced reformer, was, like Ebert in Germany in his time, an obstacle to thus turning back the wheel of history. And here I would discuss the differences between the Wei‐ mar Republic and post‐Soviet Russia.

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Differences between the Weimar Republic and Post‐Soviet Russia Prehistory Pluralistic structures in Weimar Germany were at a higher level of development than in post‐Soviet Russia,23 and these differences are closely connected with the different prehistory of the two states. Weimar’s predecessor—the Second German Reich created in 1871—was, notwithstanding its semifeudal and patriarchal charac‐ ter, a state based on law with a multiparty system, independent public organizations, and a more or less free press. Although oppo‐ sition parties, especially the social democrats, and some confession‐ al and national minorities (Catholics and Poles) were persecuted from time to time, there were always legal loopholes that enabled them to survive periods of the most intense persecution and later return to the political or public scene as strong as ever. Nothing of the kind existed under the Soviet regime that preced‐ ed the “second Russian democracy,” with the exception of the Gor‐ bachev period. The civil society built in Russia after the revolution of 1905, which in February 1917 broke completely free of state con‐ trol, was destroyed by the Bolsheviks. Together with civil society (especially in the Stalin period), they destroyed the institution of private property, which guarantees society a certain degree of inde‐ pendence from the state. And so the “second Russian democracy” came onto the political scene almost without experience of political competition and of organized defense of the rights and interests of specific social groups. The democrats managed to defeat the ruling apparatus in August 1991 with such ease by virtue not of their own strength but of the weakness of their adversary, who due to the erosion of communist ideology was undergoing an extraordinarily deep identity crisis and was therefore losing his capacity for re‐ 23 See: Hanson and Kopstein, The Weimar/Russia;. Hanson, Stephen E.: Postimpe‐ rial Democracies: Ideology and Party Formation in Third Republic France, Weimar Germany, and Post‐Soviet Russia, East European Politics and Societies, Vol. 20, no. 2, pp. 343–372.

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sistance. But when the managerial apparatus recovered from the shock of defeat and embarked on the bureaucratic revanche that I have already described, it turned out that civil society in Russia had not yet managed to emerge from its amorphous condition and did not have the strength to offer effective resistance to the well‐ organized managerial class. Not least of the factors underlying these defeats of the democrats was the fact that they too were going through an identity crisis. The discrediting of democratic ideas in the eyes of broad strata of the population due to the difficulties of the transition from a “closed” to an “open” society deprived the democrats of the self‐confidence that had been characteristic of them in the last years of the Soviet regime. Now they were swim‐ ming not with but against the tide. And, indeed, the gradual disman‐ tling of pluralistic structures by means of the methods of “guided democracy” has not evoked significant protest from the population. Besides the discrediting of the democratic idea, the lack of protest may also be attributed to the fact that this process has occurred in parallel with economic stabilization (mainly thanks to high world prices for oil and other energy goods). In addition, the striving of Putin’s team to “nationalize” society has been in keeping with the traditional conceptions of many Russians concerning the role of the state as guarantor of social justice and national wellbeing. Uprisings and revolutions have broken out in Russia above all when the state has failed to cope with this role and not as a result of attempts by society to take over these functions. The Threat from the Right and the Left The Weimar democracy fought constantly against two threats—the threat from the right and the threat from the left. Hitler rose to the surface on the wave of the fear of the ruling strata in face of the Bol‐ shevik danger. This fear was hardly justified. In Germany at the be‐ ginning of the 1930s, the conflict between the social democrats and the communists, provoked mainly by the Stalin leadership in Mos‐ cow, paralyzed the workers’ movement, depriving it of practically

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any ability to act. Despite this, Germany’s ruling circles were panic‐ stricken by fear of a “mass uprising”—that is, of an independent workers’ movement. The Nazis took advantage of this fear. Speaking in January 1932 at a meeting with German industrialists in Düssel‐ dorf, Hitler declared: “Were it not for us (the Nazis—L.L.), the mid‐ dle class in Germany would have already been destroyed. And the Bolsheviks would long since have resolved the question of power in their favor” (translated from Russian).24 And although the argumentation of the Nazi leader was of a wholly demagogic kind, he finally managed to convince the German conservatives that the weakened ruling order in Germany could be saved only by relying on the NSDAP.25 Unlike their German predecessors, the present‐day Russian right‐wing extremists, as a rule, say little about a danger from the left; what is more, in the struggle against the order established in August 1991 they have often found themselves on the same side of the barricades as the communists.26 The “red‐brown alliance,” which in Weimar Germany arose only periodically, in post‐Soviet Russia is a constant phenomenon.27 This mishmash of “right” and “left” owes much to the amorphous and indistinct party‐political landscape in postcommunist Russia, which is in turn explained by 24 Domarus, Max: Hitler: Reden und Proklamationen, 1932–1945. Wiesbaden, 1973, Vol. 1, first half, p. 87. 25 See: Luks, Leonid: Entstehung der kommunistischen Faschismustheorie: Die Auseinandersetzung der Komintern mit Faschismus und Nationalsozialismus, 1921–1935. Stuttgart, 1985, pp. 158–161, 193–194; Luks, Leonid: Bolschewis‐ mus, Faschismus, Nationalsozialismus—verwandte Gegner? Geschichte und Ge‐ sellschaft, no. 14, 1988, pp. 100–103. 26 In speaking of a threat to post‐Soviet democracy from both “right” and “left,” some authors take insufficient account of this circumstance. See: Hanson and Kopstein, The Weimar/Russia, pp. 267–268. 27 Laker, Uolter [Walter Laqueur]: Chernaia sotnia: proiskhozhdenie russkogo fashizma. Moscow, 1994; Luks, Leonid: Prizrak fashizma v post‐ kommunisticheskoi Rossii, in: Leonid Luks: Tretii Rim? Tretii Reikh? Tretii put_’? Istoricheskie ocherki o Rossii, Germanii i Zapade. Moscow, 2002, pp. 256–266; Shenfield, Stephen D.: Russian Fascism: Traditions, Tendencies, Movements. Ar‐ monk, 2001; Allensworth, Wayne: The Russian Question: Nationalism, Moderni‐ zation and Post‐Communist Russia. Lanham, 1998; Sokolov, Mikhail: Natsional‐ bol_’shevistskaia partiia: ideologicheskaia evoliutsiia i politicheskii stil_’, in: Russkii natsionalizm: ideologiia i nastroenie. Moscow, 2006, pp. 139–164.

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the amorphous condition of a society that lacks classes in the gener‐ ally accepted sense of the word. But there are also other reasons why the differences between right and left are increasingly being erased in contemporary Russia. The point is that the Russian com‐ munists, perhaps for the first time since 1917, have lost faith in con‐ tinuous social progress and are no longer sure that history and its laws are on their side. Right‐wing extremists, on the contrary, have always mocked the idea of progress. They do not want, and have never wanted, to swim with the tide of history; on the contrary, they try at any price to stem it and turn it back. Everywhere they imagine symptoms of disintegration and decay, the intrigues of a mighty world conspira‐ cy. They believe that the “decline and fall of Europe” can be pre‐ vented only by the violent annihilation of the bearers of this con‐ spiracy—Jews, Masons, “plutocrats,” and Marxists. The golden age of fascism is the pagan, pre‐Christian epoch. The pathos of com‐ munism, by contrast, is directed toward the future, when the leap will be made “from the realm of necessity to the realm of freedom.” This historical optimism, however, is now a thing of the past. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the communists have been bereft of faith in progress and in a radiant future. The sudden disap‐ pearance of the second great power, which inspired the fear or at least the respect of the whole world, seems to them an inscrutable event; they refuse to see in it the action of historical laws. Their golden age is now, like that of the right‐wing radicals, in the past. Besides the displacement of right‐wing and left‐wing positions, post‐Soviet Russia also differs from Weimar Germany insofar as it does not manifest the constant radicalization of society and the ero‐ sion of centrist groups and attitudes. In Russia, on the contrary, radical groups both on the left and on the right (the CPRF on one side and the LDPR on the other) are becoming increasingly “cen‐ trist” and finding a common language with at least part of the ruling groups. This process of interpenetration between the “irreconcila‐ ble” opposition and state structures accelerated after the coming to power of Putin, whom many national‐patriots see as a new “gather‐

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er of the Russian land.” According to a newly created myth, dissemi‐ nated also by a number of semiofficial publicists, the Yeltsin period was a time of collapse and humiliation for Russia, while Putin has brought about a miraculous revival of Russian statehood. In reality, if we are to speak of a “political miracle,” we should apply this con‐ cept rather to the Yeltsin period. For that was when the country in a very short time made the transition from a planned to a market economy, from an empire to a national state, from a pseudo‐federal to a genuinely federal system and from a communist dictatorship to a constitutional order. And all this took place without the civil war that many were predicting, avoiding the Romanian or Yugoslav sce‐ nario. The Chechen tragedy is an exception in this regard. But let us recall what a painful affair the retreat from empire was even for the Western democracies (France, Britain, and Holland). Thus, the pre‐ conditions for the country’s emergence from the extraordinarily dangerous transition period had already been created under Yeltsin, and his successor has merely continued the process of consolidating the new state that began in the mid‐1990s. Comparing post‐Soviet Russia with Weimar Germany, it is neces‐ sary to emphasize that the latter also went through a process of consolidation and stabilization that began in 1924 and ended five years later as a result of the crash on the New York stock exchange in October 1929 and the onset of the world economic crisis. Will post‐Soviet Russia be able to withstand a test of its stability similar to the one that destroyed the Weimar Republic? This remains an open question. The Role of the West The emergence of the Weimar Republic was inextricably connected with the Treaty of Versailles, which morally condemned Germany, naming it the chief culprit of the world war. The Germans did not receive the territorial, economic, and military restrictions imposed by the Treaty of Versailles as painfully as they did this moral con‐

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demnation. All this exacerbated the anti‐Western moods that I have already described, the demonization of the West in the country. Relations between post‐Soviet Russia and the West have devel‐ oped in accordance with a quite different scenario. Although de fac‐ to the Soviet Union lost the Cold War, de jure there were neither victors nor vanquished in this war. Not least among the factors un‐ derlying the postwar economic crisis in Weimar Germany were the reparations demanded from it by the victors. Only after the Ruhr crisis of 1923 did the West change its policy of pressure and ultima‐ tums and offer Germany credits for the restoration of its economy (the Dawes Plan). Post‐Soviet Russia, by contrast, was able from the very start to count on loans from international financial organiza‐ tions, and also from individual Western countries, which were try‐ ing to help it overcome the consequences of “shock therapy.”28 Expectations associated with the end of the Cold War were real‐ ized only in part. The “common European home” of which people dreamed at the time of perestroika was not built. Relations between Russia and the West were again exacerbated in connection with events in the former Yugoslavia and with the eastward expansion of NATO. But this had almost no effect on the process of Russia’s par‐ tial integration into world economic and political structures. PS: This article was written before the events of the Russian‐ Georgian War of August 2008.

28 Hanson and Kopstein, The Weimar/Russia, p. 270.

A “Third Way”—or Back to the Third Reich?1

As Eurasianism is regarded to be among the most original ideological currents of the Russian emigration, association with its doctrines adds to the reputation of a given group or groups. Such is the case with the journal “Elementy: evraziiskoe obozrenie” (1992–1998) that, as this chapter shows, presents itself as an inheritor of classical Eurasianism although it heavily draws on other, often non‐Russian sources, not the least on the German “Conservative Revolution” of the interwar period. Many champions of imperial ideas in present‐day Russia regard the disintegration of the Soviet empire as a sort of apocalypse. They are unable to console themselves even with the thought that other Eu‐ ropean powers also lost their empires during the twentieth century and that the accelerated drive for liberation as a result of the Second World War turned the Soviet state into a kind of living anachronism. From another perspective, the widespread disorientation in Rus‐ sia today is quite understandable. After all, unlike Britain or France, Russia has had to part not just with an empire but also at the same time with a political and economic system that dominated the lives of several generations and with the very ideology that legitimized that system. Therefore, it is better to compare the events of 1991 that led to the collapse of the Soviet empire not with the fall of Western colonial empires but with the upheavals of 1917–1918 in Russia itself. At that time, too, from many points of view Russia ex‐ perienced a collapse. The years 1917–1918 saw the downfall not only of the Russian empire but also of its economic and political system, as well as the doctrine that provided the age‐old foundation 1 English translation © 2009 M.E. Sharpe, Inc., from the Russian text © 2000 Presidium of the Russian Academy of Sciences. “‘Tretii put´ ili Nazad v Tretii reikh?”, Voprosy filosofi, no. 5, 2000, pp. 33–44. A publication of the Institute of Philosophy, Russian Academy of Sciences. Translated from German to Russian by A.V. Markin and from Russian to English by Stephen D. Shenfield. A slightly revised version.

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of Russian statehood. This was not the least of the factors that ac‐ counted for the spread of apocalyptic moods in Russian society at that time. The philosopher Vasilii Rozanov expressed a basic feeling of his contemporaries when he titled the book that he wrote in those years The Apocalypse of Our Time (Apokalipsis nashego vremeni). Similar moods, it seems, predominate in present‐day Rus‐ sia, above all in nationalist and imperially inclined circles. As early as the concluding phase of perestroika, when the erosion of com‐ munist ideology was becoming increasingly evident, many champi‐ ons of the imperial Russian idea set out to search for a new connect‐ ing link for all the peoples and religious communities of the Soviet empire and discovered for themselves the Eurasian idea—the pro‐ gram of a movement that emerged in 1921 in the Russian emigra‐ tion and went out of existence toward the end of the 1930s.2 Many groups and periodicals in Russia today profess an Eurasianist pro‐ gram. Especially resolute in this respect is Aleksandr Dugin’s journal Elementy, which appeared in 1992 and even proclaimed itself an “Eurasianist review” (the journal existed until 1998). Given that the Eurasianist movement was one of the most original ideological cur‐ rents in the Russian emigration, recognition of its ideas may well enhance a group’s reputation. The publishers of Elementy, who re‐ gard themselves as the spiritual heirs of “classical” Eurasianism, also try to make capital out of the glory of the former “Eurasianists.” Are these pretensions justified? This question is the focus of this study. **** The ideological credo of the group around Elementy seems to corre‐ spond in every respect with the Eurasianist program. Both groups are passionate defenders of cultural particularism and radical op‐ 2 See Böss, Otto: Die Lehre der Eurasier: Ein Beitrag zur russischen Ideengeschich‐ te des 20. Jahrhunderts. Wiesbaden, 1961; Riasanovsky, Nicholas: The Emergence of Eurasianism, California Slavic Studies, no. 4, 1967, pp. 39–72; Luks, Leonid: Die Ideologie der Eurasier im zeitgeschichtlichen Zusammenhang, Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas, vol. 34, 1986, pp. 374–395.

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ponents of the ideas of universalism. The Eurasianists considered universalism as an invention of the West Europeans, of the “Roma‐ no‐Germanic” peoples, who declared their own conceptions of val‐ ues and society valid for everyone and wished to impose them on all the peoples of the world. As Prince Nikolai Trubetskoi, one of the founders of the Eurasianist movement, wrote in 1920: Europeans talk about human civilization but understand by this only West Eu‐ ropean civilization. The so‐called universalism and cosmopolitanism of the West Europeans conceal nothing more than their striving for world domination.3 The publishers of Elementy appraise the present‐day theories of globalization, the one‐world model, or ideas of a “new world order” in just this way. These “mondialist” conceptions are all inspired by the ruling circles of the West, whose goal is to achieve world domi‐ nation. Above all, they are inspired by the American ruling elite.4 Although the Eurasianists regarded the entire West—more pre‐ cisely, the “Romano‐Germanic” peoples—as an enemy of the world outside Western Europe, Elementy reduces the image of the enemy to the Anglo‐Saxon oceanic powers, whose interests are, in the opin‐ ion of these publicists, diametrically opposed to those of the conti‐ nental powers. The oceanic powers stand for the abolition of bor‐ ders, the unification of cultures, and a melting‐pot society. The Western or “Atlanticist” followers of “mondialism” pass all this off as progress. The continental powers, by contrast, rely on tradition and have deep roots. They regard the cultural specificity of different peoples as a precious heritage and by no means a distraction stand‐ ing in the way of so‐called progress. For Elementy this contradiction is insuperable. To implement their mondialist plan, the oceanic powers must strive to deprive all the world’s cultures of their speci‐ ficity and mix them together into the so‐called world culture. For 3 I rely here on the German edition: Trubezkoj, N.S. Europa und die Menschheit, trans. from Russian by S. Jacobsohn and F. Schlomer, with a foreword by Otto Hoetzsch. Munich, 1922. 4 Compare Elementy, 1992, no. 1, p. 3; 1992, no. 2, pp. 1–8; 1993, no. 3, p. 5; and 1994, no. 5, pp. 7–11.

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their part, the continental powers, if they want to survive, must resist this offensive by all possible means, even by armed force. It is a matter of life or death.5 Together with their rejection of “Western‐imposed” universal‐ ism, the group around Elementy is linked to the Eurasianists by their radical negation of the liberal‐democratic system. The Eurasianists favored a strong interventionist state and considered the “feeble” liberal state a relic of the past. A liberal state is too passive to satisfy contemporary requirements. As a result of the crisis of parliamen‐ tary democracy at that time, the state was unable to enthuse people with its ideals.6 It was therefore doomed to collapse. The Eura‐ sianists saw the Western democracies’ tolerance of rival ideologies as a sign of weakness. In their view, a viable state with a viable ide‐ ology must not permit oppositional currents. Their program of 1926, Eurasianism (Evraziistvo), calls for the establishment of a one‐party system in which an autocratic party permeates all state institutions and creates a broadly ramified network of societies and organizations. The authors of the document were fully aware that such a system resembled the fascist dictatorship in Italy or, indeed, the Bolshevik system. But this did not frighten them in the least.7 The Eurasianists also rejected the multiparty system because, for them, different parties defend the egoistical interests of their clients and take no account of the interests of society as a whole. The Eura‐ sianists regarded the defense of property interests as a typically Western phenomenon. In 1928, the legal scholar N. Alekseev, a lead‐ ing Eurasianist, wrote in this connection that belief in the fight for individual rights took shape in the West during the Renaissance, although it was accepted only after a bitter struggle.8 To the inter‐ nally fractured West, the Eurasianists tried to counterpose the an‐ 5 Elementy, 1992, no. 2, p. 27; 1993, no. 3, pp. 3, 8; 1993, no. 4, p. 48. 6 See Evraziistvo. Opyt sistematicheskogo izlozheniia. Paris, 1926, esp. p. 55; Ale‐ kseev, N.: Evraziistvo i gosudarstvo, Evraziiskaia khronika, no. 9, 1927, esp. p. 36; and Alekseev, N.: Obiazannost' i pravo, Evraziiskaia khronika, no. 10, 1928, esp.p. 23. 7 Evraziistvo, p. 52. 8 Alekseev, Obiazannost´.

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cient Russian ideal of harmony, based on orthodoxy. The central idea in orthodoxy is not that of individual struggle and constant conflict but the ideal of unification.9 The group around Elementy harshly condemns Western individ‐ ualism and egoism and radically rejects economic and political lib‐ eralism. They do so, however, differently from the Eurasianists. For Elementy liberalism is not “defeated” but the “victor of history.” In‐ deed, over recent decades, the relations between the defenders and the enemies of the “open society” have changed greatly. In the 1920s and 1930s, when the Eurasianists were branding the liberal state as passive and weak, their position appeared self‐evident. Un‐ der pressure from both the Extreme Right and the Extreme Left, the liberal state was fighting for its survival. After the fall of the Third Reich, but above all after the collapse of the Soviet empire, liberal‐ ism—defying the death sentence pronounced on it—rose like a “phoenix from the ashes.” Such liberal principles as the free market, the multiparty system, and the state based on law were estab‐ lished—more or less and with a few exceptions—throughout Eu‐ rope. For the publishers of Elementy, this victory of liberalism is an unprecedented defeat for the whole of non‐Western humanity. They want to turn back the wheel of history at any price, because for them life in a world governed by liberal principles is not worth liv‐ ing. This journal portrays liberalism as the “most consistent, aggres‐ sive, and radical form… of European nihilism,” as the embodiment of the spirit of antitraditionalism, cynicism, and skepticism.10 Liberal‐ ism destroys all spiritual, historical, and cultural continuity; it is simply an enemy of the entire human race. In the opinion of Ele‐ menty, it is a fatal error that the words “liberalism” and “democracy” are so often treated as synonyms. In fact, liberalism has nothing in 9 Shakhmatov, M.: Podvig vlasti (Opyt po istorii gosudarstvennykh idealov Ros‐ sii), Evraziiskii vremennik, no. 3, 1923, pp. 55–80; Shakhmatov, M.: Gosudarstvo pravdy (Opyt po istorii gosudarstvennykh idealov Rossii), Evraziiskii vremen‐ nik, no. 4, 1925, pp. 268–304; Suvchinskii, P.: Strasti i opasnosti, Rossiia i lat‐ instvo. Sbornik statei. Berlin, 1923, esp. p. 27. 10 Elementy, 1994, no. 5, p. 5.

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common with democracy—the power of the people. The defenders of liberalism speak for a small power‐hungry elite, elected by no one, who use democratic rhetoric only to give the people an illusion of participation in the political decisions of the elite. In reality, ac‐ cording to the journal’s chief editor, Aleksandr Dugin, in no other political system are the people so deprived of power as in the so‐ called democracies. One of the highest manifestations of this strategy of social falsehood is the application of the term “democracy” precisely to those social regimes in which “power” belongs to the people to an even lesser degree than anywhere else.11

Thus, the political and ideological adversaries of the Eurasianists and their epigones are clearly defined. Who are their allies? Above all, they are the radical opponents of liberalism and parliamentary democracy of both Right and Left, not least the Communists and Fascists. The first Russian critics of the Eurasianist program already pointed out the spiritual closeness of the Eurasianists to Bolshevism and to Italian Fascism. In 1924, Fedor Stepun wrote that the Eura‐ sianists look at Bolshevism and Italian Fascism in an absolutely pos‐ itive light. The only thing that they uncompromisingly hate and re‐ ject is democracy.12 What connects the Eurasianists, who like other emigres belonged to the losing side in the Civil War (1918–1921), with the winners — the Bolsheviks? Primarily, this devastating criticism of prerevolu‐ tionary Russia and recognition of the Revolution of 1917 as histori‐ cally necessary. The Eurasianists rejected prerevolutionary, Petrine Russia above all on cultural and ideological grounds. For them, the Europeanization of Russia begun by Peter was a false historical path. Peter, Nikolai Trubetskoi writes, destroyed the foundation on which the inner strength of Russia rested. No enemy invader was

11 Ibid., p. 8. 12 Stepun, Fedor: Evraziiskii vremennik, kn. 3, Sovremennye zapiski XXI, 1924, p. 403.

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able to destroy Russian national culture on the same scale as Pe‐ ter.13 Thus, the Eurasianists regard the Revolution of 1917 as a verdict on post‐Petrine Russia, as the just reaction of the common people to a regime that split Russia.14 Clearly, in this acknowledgment of the “inner logic and truth” of the Russian Revolution, the Eurasianists converge with the Bolshe‐ viks, although there is a fundamental difference between their opin‐ ion of the Revolution and that of the Bolsheviks. The Bolsheviks asserted that the lower strata of Russian society were protesting against economic and political oppression by the previous system, whereas the Eurasianists focused on cultural oppression. The expec‐ tations that the Bolsheviks and the Eurasianists had of the Revolu‐ tion were quite different. The basic goal of the Bolsheviks was to overcome Russia’s “backwardness,” to electrify, industrialize, and modernize the country—in other words, complete the work begun by Peter the Great. The Eurasianists, on the contrary, hoped that the upheaval of 1917 would forever close the “window on Europe” cut through by Peter. They dreamed of a return to the cultural and reli‐ gious values of the old, pre‐Petrine Russia. In their idealization of the “great” past of ancient Russia, the Eurasianists do not resemble the Bolsheviks in the least; they bear a much closer resemblance to the Italian Fascists, who also wanted to return to the great past of their country (ancient Rome, the Renaissance) and who ridiculed and despised the history of modern Italy, which had fallen under the influence of liberal ideas.15

13 I.R. (Trubetskoi): Nasledie Chingiskhana. Vzgliad na russkuiu istoriiu ne s Zapa‐ da, a s Vostoka. Berlin, 1925, pp. 35–39; Alekseev, N.: Das russische Westlertum, Der russische Gedanke, no. 1, 1929–1930, pp. 149–162. 14 Florovskii, Georgii: O patriotizme pravednom i grekhovnom, Na putiakh. Utver‐ zhdeniia evraziitsev. Moscow and Berlin, 1922, pp. 230–293. 15 See Trubetskoi, N.: U dverei reaktsiia? Revoliutsiia? Evraziiskii vremennik, bk. 3. Berlin, 1923.

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**** The Eurasianists’ kinship with both the Extreme Left and the Ex‐ treme Right of the European political spectrum of their day con‐ fused many of the observers who sought a political classification for the Eurasianist movement. The Eurasianists themselves mocked the difficulties of identifying them: they explained to their critics that they were neither Right nor Left, that no traditional division had a place for them, and that they occupied a sort of “third” position out‐ side the “left‐right” framework.16 Similar arguments come from the publishers of Elementy. They, too, want to know nothing of the “left‐right” model and pass them‐ selves off as a “third” force that takes inspiration from the ideology of both Left and Right. Their interest in these ideologies does not extend beyond attitudes toward liberalism. The more radically an ideology casts doubt on the liberal image of the world, the greater its chance of ending up in the spiritual pantheon of Elementy. For example, the journal reflects a strong interest in the so‐called Na‐ tional Bolshevik currents that try to bridge the infinitely deep chasm between communism and right‐wing extremism. Alongside the Eurasianists, these include, for instance, the “Change of Land‐ marks” (Smena vekh) movement, which at the beginning of the 1920s capitulated to Bolshevism on “patriotic” grounds—as a mark of gratitude to the Soviet authorities for restoring the territorial integrity of the Russian empire.17 The publishers of Elementy, how‐ ever, reserve a special admiration for partisans of the German “con‐ servative revolution,” who made a special contribution to the spir‐ itual emasculation of the Weimar democracy and to the glorification of Nazi ideas. Elementy defines all these currents by the term “National Bol‐ shevism.” “National Bolshevism” is called the most interesting phe‐

16 See Trubetskoi, U dverei; and Trubetskoi, N.: My i drugie, Evraziiskii vremennik, no. 3, 1923. 17 See Elementy, 1996–1997, no. 8.

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nomenon of the twentieth century. In the lead article of the eighth issue of the journal, we read: All that led these ideologies (Fascism and Bolshevism) to their downfall was, strictly speaking, their retreat from the letter and spirit of this unformulated but virtually existent doctrine.18

The components of this doctrine are said to include the following: 1. an eschatological focus, the clear understanding that contempo‐ rary civilization is approaching its end; 2. hatred for the ruling Western civilizations rooted in the spirit of the Enlightenment, the comparison of cosmopolitan developing capitalism with absolute evil, an antibourgeois pathos; 3. a Spartan (Prussian) ascetic style, recognition of the dignity of working people, an attempt to merge with popular strata that have not been spoiled by the “degenerate” elite of the “old re‐ gime,” the striving to create a new “aristocracy” united with the people; 4. the radical negation of individualism, consumerist ideology, and the “trading spirit,” which the journal calls a Semitic influence; and 5. finally, in the opinion of the journal, the most remarkable feature of National Bolshevism is its readiness for self‐sacrifice in the name of ideals, a preference for radical solutions, and its rejec‐ tion of the philistine spirit and mediocrity.19 Elementy widely identifies itself with this ideological construct, which it has dragged out of the Weimar lumber room and into the light, considering it the sole alternative to the liberal mode of thought, to the “liberal Antichrist” that reigns everywhere on earth. Liberalism has already conquered all its other enemies. There re‐ mains only National Bolshevism. We will see either the global do‐

18 Libo—my, libo—nichto, in ibid., p. 2. 19 Ibid.

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minion of liberalism and with it the end of the world or National Bolshevism. Such is the credo of Elementy.20 The journal adamantly refuses to accept the final victory of its deadly enemies, the liberals, and calls for a counteroffensive, a cruel revenge to pay the Western enemy back for the shameful defeat. The journal boundlessly glorifies war and violence, as did the con‐ servative revolutionaries in Weimar Germany. They relied on Carl Schmitt’s “concept of the political,” according to which the differ‐ ence between a friend and an enemy was the obvious criterion in politics. This difference is also the alpha and the omega for Ele‐ menty. The journal regards as enemies the “new world order,” the “open society,” world government, the global market, “one world,” and the “universalization of the West.”21 All adversaries of these “enemies” are placed by Elementy in the category of “friends.” Conciliation of the two camps is impossible: Two mutually irreducible positions, two all‐encompassing super‐ worldviews, two mutually exclusive projects for the future of hu‐ manity. Between them there can be only enmity, hatred, the harsh‐ est struggle, with or without rules, to the point of annihilation, to the last drop of blood. Mountains of corpses lie between them—Which of us will draw a line under history? Who will pump the last bullet into the flesh of his vanquished enemy? They or us? … War will de‐ cide—the “father of things.”22

This position has nothing in common with Eurasianism. The goal of the Eurasianists was not to destroy the West but to guard Russia and the whole Eurasian subcontinent against the cultural influence of the West. Their program was not expansionist but isolationist. The collapse of the Russian empire as a result of the upheaval of 1917 was for them a traumatic experience: they wanted to prevent, at any price, the further destruction of Russian statehood. The Eura‐ sianists were interested not in power over the world but in the

20 Ibid., p. 3. 21 Ruka tak i tianetsia k kobure, Elementy, no. 7, 1996, p. 2. 22 Ibid.

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search for an element capable of uniting a multiethnic empire. They were aware that the proletarian internationalism that helped the Bolsheviks to unite the collapsing empire in 1917 would not be able to hold Russia together for long. As Trubetskoi said in 1927, the national emotions of the workers are, as a rule, stronger than their class solidarity. Precisely for this reason, Russia must seek a new vehicle of unity if it wants to remain a single state. Such a vehicle can only be the Eurasian idea, because it emphasizes what all the peoples of Russia have in common.23 For Elementy there can be no question of this sort of self‐ restraint, which was typical of the Eurasianists: not the restoration of equilibrium between East and West, but total victory over the Western adversary—that for them is the sole acceptable goal. At the same time, they reconcile themselves to the prospect of the com‐ plete defeat of their own camp. A taste for fighting on to the bitter end, to the “twilight of the gods” (Götterdämmerung), finds reflec‐ tion in the boundless cultural pessimism of Elementy—a position untypical of Russia, of course, setting aside the poets and thinkers of the “Silver Age” at the turn of the century. The situation in Germany was quite different. Here, from the end of the nineteenth century and especially after the collapse of the Wilhelmine empire, cultural pessimism was a widespread phenomenon, mainly in the right‐wing nationalist camp. The conservative revolutionaries who evoke such admiration in Elementy were constantly prone to apocalyptic moods. The Eurasianists, by contrast, were not so pessimistic: they were animated by the conviction that after the “fall of the West” the cultural center of the world would shift toward Eurasia. “Will the goddess of Culture, who for so many centuries spread her tent among the hills and valleys of the European West, not depart for the East?” the Eurasianist Petr Savitskii asked in 1921.24

23 Trubetskoi, N.: Obshcheevraziiskii natsionalizm, Evraziiskaia khronika, no. 7, 1927, p. 28. 24 Savitskii, Petr: Povorot k vostoku, in: Iskhod k vostoku. Predchuvstviia i svershe‐ niia. Utverzhdenie evraziitsev. Sofia, 1921, p. 3.

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**** Thus, the publishers of Elementy, with their apocalyptic expecta‐ tions bordering on hysteria, turn out to be connected not with the Eurasianists but to a much greater degree with the Weimar Right. The demonization of liberalism also looks like an exact copy of the program of the Weimar right‐wing extremists and has little in common with the haughty ridicule that the Eurasianists poured on the liberal‐democratic state. The use by radical nationalist circles in Weimar and in post‐Soviet Russia of similar arguments in their fight against liberalism is connected, of course, with the desire of both groups to overturn not only the external enemy—the West—but in even greater measure the internal enemy—their own governments. In both cases, the domestic regime is presented as a puppet of the West, as the embodiment of national treason (this article was writ‐ ten in the Yeltsin Era—L.L.). In postcommunist Russia as in Weimar Germany, liberalism and parliamentary democracy are associated with the collapse of the hegemonic position of the respective state on the European conti‐ nent, with the loss of territory and emergence of a new diaspora. In both cases, national humiliation is accompanied by deep economic crisis and loss of clear landmarks. In both cases, moreover, collapse occurred unexpectedly, from within: neither country was prepared for it. In Wilhelmine Germany, belief in victory in the world war survived to almost the last moment. According to some historians, when, on October 3, 1918, Erich Ludendorff, in the name of the high command, informed the newly appointed chancellor Max von Baden that Germany was defeated, von Baden could not grasp what had happened. The Soviet population was equally disoriented by the collapse of the empire that right up to 1991 had together with the United States held sway over the world. As in Weimar Germany after the collapse of the Wilhelmine empire, this unexpected col‐ lapse prompted some nationalistically inclined circles in present‐ day Russia to speak of a conspiracy of dark forces both within and

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outside the country. The legend of a new “stab in the back” was spread especially zealously by the political forces that had exhaust‐ ed the strength of their own nation during the cold war and thereby prepared the ground for the collapse of the empire. Their arguments resemble those that the supporters of the thesis of the “stab in the back” put forward in Weimar Germany. The collapse of both em‐ pires is presented as the result of a cunning intrigue on the part of the Western democracies. In an open, “honest” fight, the Western powers are not capable of defeating their adversaries. Therefore, they resort to the treacherous means of psychological warfare. Through the propaganda of “Western values,” they undermined and overturned the Soviet colossus. Thus, one of the most radical upheavals in Russian history, the outcome of profound historical processes, is blamed on a small clique of conspirators. In a similar manner, many Russian emigres, above all in right‐ wing circles, regarded the Revolution of 1917 as a result of the ac‐ tions of small cliques of conspirators of all varieties. The Eura‐ sianists rejected this explanation.25 For them, as I have already said, the Revolution was a result of profound historical processes. Thus, Elementy with its “conspiracy theory” defends a worldview that has nothing in common with “classical” Eurasianism. Like all supporters of “conspiracy theories,” the authors of Ele‐ menty regard their visible political opponents as puppets in the hands of invisible and at the same time ubiquitous forces that try to control the course of history by means of subterranean action. The journal explains that it is not at all simple concretely to identify the so‐called mondialist forces—the enemies of the human race par excellence:

25 Compare, inter alia Bokhan S.: My, Utverzhdeniia, no. 3, 1932, pp. 75–78.

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The dictatorship of the present‐day elite is terrible precisely be‐ cause it is veiled. It is much more difficult to fight an invisible ene‐ my.26

Despite this, Elementy does not lose heart and sets out in search of these almost ineluctable masters of the contemporary world. In the course of its search, it encounters old acquaintances who for most of the “conspiracy theorists” throughout the ages have been the em‐ bodiment of evil—the Jews. Evgenii Morozov, the journal’s “military expert,” is almost explic‐ it in affirming the thesis of a world Jewish conspiracy. In his opinion, there is only one plausible explanation for the fact that in the Middle East conflict the United States supports small, poor Israel and not the resource‐rich Arab states: someone is compelling the United States to act against its own interests, and the United States is sub‐ ordinated to someone. This “someone” for the “expert” is the Zionist world government.27 Other authors in Elementy are even subtler than Morozov in upholding their thesis of a world Jewish conspira‐ cy. The editorial article of the second issue, for instance, discusses the religious dimension of the “new world order.” According to the authors, the “mondialists” are trying to ruin and destroy all religions and faiths in the world. This does not mean, however, that the “mondialists” have no religious ideas of any kind. Their striving for world dominion reveals messianic features; they are awaiting the advent of a shining personality who will give the world a new ap‐ pearance—the advent of some sort of “Mashiach.” Such use of the name of the Messiah in its original Hebrew form is not a matter of chance. In this way, the journal calls attention to the true religious affiliation of “most mondialists.”28 In the opinion of Elementy, the most important agents of “mondi‐ alism” in Russia include cosmopolitan forces and defenders of the small people—both concepts often used in Russia as synonyms for

26 Libo – my, p. 3. 27 Morozov, Evgenii: Plan Anakonda, Elementy, no. 4, 1993, p. 26 28 Ideologiia mirovogo pravitel ´stva, Elementy, no. 2, 1992, p. 1.

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the word “Jew.”29 The latter sobriquet was introduced by the well‐ known Soviet dissident and anti‐Semite Igor' Shafarevich. The conspiratorial image of the world, the glorification of war and violence, the striving for total victory over the West instead of guarding against its cultural influence—all this radically distin‐ guishes Elementy from its Eurasianist precursors. The journal runs directly counter to the Eurasianists of the early twentieth century in another extremely important point of its program. For the Eura‐ sianists, the future of Russia lay only in the East; only in the East did they seek allies with whom they might resist the cultural hegemony of the West. For Elementy the Eastern component plays a rather vague role. True that from time to time the publishers speak of Is‐ lamic fundamentalism, above all in its Iranian version, as a potential ally of Russia in its fight against so‐called mondialism.30 Neverthe‐ less, they find their most important allies and fellow spirits not in the East but in the West. These are, above all, Western right‐wing extremists. Articles by French, Belgian, German, and Italian right‐ wingers often appear in the journal; some of these authors even number among the official editorial committee members. Thus, the motto of Elementy sounds something like: “Right‐wing extremists of all countries, East and West, unite!”—in place of the Eurasianist motto: “Exodus to the East!” The Eurasianists never considered cooperating with Western po‐ litical forces of any stripe. They criticized both the Russian Tsars, who for the sake of their own legitimacy made common cause with Western monarchs, and the Bolsheviks, who in the name of “prole‐ tarian solidarity” gave massive support to Western Communists. In both cases, Russian regimes were drawn into unnecessary con‐ flicts.31

29 Perspektivy grazhdanskoi voiny, Elementy, no. 6, 1995, pp. 24–28. 30 Eto vopros very, Elementy, no. 1, 1992, p. 12; Geopoliticheskie problemy blizhnego zarubezh´ia, Elementy, no. 3, p. 24: Os´ Moskva‐Tegeran, Elementy, 1995, no. 6, p. 42; Iranskii vzgliad na pravoslavie, Elementy, no. 6, 1995, p. 44. 31 I. R. (Trubetskoi), Nasledie, p. 48.

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Thus, by relying on the West European Right and in other evi‐ dent ways, Elementy decisively violates the precepts of the Eura‐ sianists. Why, then, does the journal persist in recognizing the Eura‐ sianist program? One gets the impression that such recognition is a kind of deceptive maneuver designed to give the right‐wing extrem‐ ist program promoted by the journal an appearance of respectabil‐ ity, to ennoble it. If not Eurasianism, then what is the true spiritual precursor of Elementy? Without doubt, it is the Weimar Right, whose thinkers are so frequently cited in the journal. Right‐wing extremist ideas, pro‐ hibited in Soviet times, now flow into Russia through innumerable channels; Elementy is one of the most important disseminators of these ideas. Unlike postwar Germany, Russia has been unable to erect an immunological barrier against the temptations of right‐ wing extremism, and Elementy successfully exploits this circum‐ stance. Texts by Carl Schmitt, Arthur Moeller van den Bruck, Ernst Jünger, and other extremist opponents of the Weimar republic—in which the authors demonize liberalism, mock the state based on law, and call for war—are passed off by Elementy as the latest word in European thought.32 The journal carefully conceals the fact that after the fall of the Third Reich these ideas were relegated in the West, and not least in Germany itself, to the “trash heap of history.” One gets the impression that the publishers of Elementy and their fellow spirits, just like the Bolsheviks eighty years ago, want to turn Russia into an experimental site for testing outmoded Western ide‐ as. Then, too, the Bolshevik government passed off its materialist and atheist worldview, its faith in the “miracles” of industry and technology, as the last word in European culture. In the West itself, faith in science and technology was by that time already shaken. The devastation of the First World War, caused in part by products of the scientific‐technological revolution, was so great that it opened the eyes of Europeans to the ruinous aspects of technological pro‐ gress. The Bolsheviks did not notice how “unmodern” was their 32 See Elementy, no. 1, p. 51; 1993, no. 3, p. 4; no. 4, p. 55.

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faith in “progress.” The naive positivist faith that the Bolsheviks professed in the solidity of the material world was also by that time being questioned by the intellectual elite—and not only in the West, but also in Russia.33 Similarly, the publishers of Elementy not seem to have realized how outmoded the ideas of the Weimar conservative revolution appear today, especially given that they have been completely dis‐ credited by National Socialism. In the case of Marxism, we are evi‐ dently dealing with a phenomenon more ambivalent than the con‐ servative revolution. Alongside the terrorist‐utopian potential that found clear expression in Bolshevism, Marxism also contains eman‐ cipatory tendencies, which most strongly manifest themselves in European social democracy. There was no such ambivalence in the conservative revolution, with its dreams of national dictatorship, of liquidation of the state based on law “without honor or dignity” (Ernst Forsthoff),34 of boundless expansion based on war, and of a Germany focused on world dominion. The conservatives’ passionate striving for a “third reich” inevitably culminated in the real Third Reich that was established on January 30, 1933.35 Most conservative revolutionaries greeted the unexpected victory of the Nazis in the early 1930s with enthusiasm. The left‐oriented Ernst Niekisch and his group belonged to the small number of skeptics.36 At the same time, some elite circles of conservative revolutionaries derided the plebeian character of the Nazi movement, and Hitler’s attempts to seize power not by revolutionary but by legal parliamentary means. These, however, are details of no great importance. For the absolute majority of representatives of the conservative‐revolutionary camp,

33 Luks, Leonid: Entstehung der kommunistischen Faschismustheorie. Die Ausei‐ nandersetzung der Komintern mit Faschismus und Nationalsozialismus 1921– 1935. Stuttgart, 1985, pp. 197–199. 34 Forsthoff, Ernst: Der totale Staat. Hamburg, 1933, pp. 13, 20. 35 See Moeller van den Bruck, Arthur: Das dritte Reich. Hamburg, 1931. 36 Niekisch, Ernst: Hitler – ein deutsches Verhängnis. Berlin, 1932.

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the Nazis’ ascent symbolized the end of the hateful liberal age and the beginning of a national revival.37 The conservatives had justification for claiming much of the credit for the creation of the Third Reich. Only gradually, like sor‐ cerer’s apprentices, did they start to realize what kind of jinn they had let out of the bottle. Gradually their illusions collapsed. Some trailblazers of the events of January 30, 1933, fell victim to Hitlerite despotism (Edgar Jung), while others went into “internal emigra‐ tion” (Ernst Jünger). What do the publishers of Elementy think of the Third Reich? Un‐ like the conservative revolutionaries of the Weimar republic, they are in a position to recognize its character and the consequences of its apocalyptic crimes. Does Elementy condemn these crimes? We must bear in mind that the journal takes a critical attitude toward the Nazi regime. But its columnists speak, as a rule, of its errors, not of its crimes. Unlike the liberal “mondialists,” the Nazis are in no way demonized; they are regarded as fellow spirits who were simp‐ ly deluded. Hitler is criticized for his diehard nationalism and for his anti‐Russian and anti‐Slav disposition. These mistakes of his blocked the formation of a broad pan‐European alliance against the Western democracies.38 Hitler’s policy in relation to the Jews is, as a rule, passed over in silence. The publishers of Elementy regret, in general, the downfall of the Third Reich. The Third Reich distorted some postulates of the conservative revolution, “but the defeat of Germany in World War II was nonetheless a crushing defeat for the whole ideology of the Third Way.”39 Elementy perceives the Third Reich as a far from coherent structure. Alongside irreconcilable Germanocentrists, it also contained pro‐European forces that were open to the world. They appealed to almost all the peoples of Eu‐ rope, calling on them to take part in a crusade against Western “plu‐ 37 See Rauschning, Hermann: The Conservative Revolution. New York, 1941; Moh‐ ler, Armin: Die Konservative Revolution in Deutschland. Der Grundriss ihrer Weltanschauung. Stuttgart, 1950. 38 Elementy, 1992, no. 1, p. 53; 1993, no. 3, p. 21; 1994, no. 5, p. 29; 1996–1997, no. 8, p. 29. 39 Elementy, 1992, no. 1, p. 54.

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tocracy” and against communism. This ideology was represented, above all, by the SS (!), which the journal views as a sort of island of intellectual freedom in the Third Reich: “Instead of the narrowly national Germanism of external propaganda, the SS stood for a unit‐ ed Europe, divided into ethnic regions … and assigned no special role to ethnic Germans. This organization was itself international, and even representatives of ‘non white’ people belonged to it— The SS reproduced certain aspects of the medieval knightly spiritual order with its typical ideals of overcoming the flesh, renunciation of money‐grubbing, and meditative practice.”40 This glorification of the SS involuntarily brings to mind Heinrich Himmler’s well‐known speech of October 1943, in which he praised SS men for “keeping their inner decency” while fulfilling the histori‐ cal task of “extermination of the Jewish people.”41 Hitler is not only condemned. The sixth issue of the journal fea‐ tures an interview with Léon Degrelle, former leader of an extreme right‐wing (Belgian) Walloon party and at the same time command‐ er of the SS Wallonia division. Degrelle, who is one of the surviving “leaders of Nazism,” calls Hitler a great historical figure: Hitler was the greatest man in European history. He fought for an ideal, for an idea. He developed. Starting out as a narrowly national, purely German leader, he gradually learned to think in terms of Eu‐ ropean categories and eventually on a planetary scale. He is often portrayed as a hysteric and psychopath with trembling hands. That’s all propaganda. He was a surprisingly courteous and charm‐ ing man—polite, attentive, focused. By losing this war, not only Germany lost the chance of a great future but the whole of Europe, the whole world. Look what kind of world the victors, his enemies, have built today. The reign of money and violence, race mixing and degeneration, lowly, subhuman instincts. There is no supreme idea. We fought for something great. And, you know, spiritually we did not lose. There is one thing they lack—Faith … It was a war of ideal‐ ists and romantics against two types of materialism—capitalist and

40 Ibid. 41 Quoted from Thamer, Hans‐Ulrich: Verführung und Gewalt. Deutschland 1933– 1945. Berlin, 1986, p. 703.

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Marxist. They can take our lives from us. They cannot take our Faith. That is why I wrote a book with the title Hitler for a Thousand Years.42

This paean to a mass murderer from one of his collaborators re‐ ceives only the following words of commentary: The last Volksführer died as a believing Christian in the presence of a priest after being given final rites. He was loyal to his idea until his last breath.43

**** Alongside complete identification with National Bolshevik and par‐ tial identification with Nazi positions, the ideological profile of Ele‐ menty includes a certain interest in the geopolitical problem set. At first glance, the journal appears here to align itself with the Eura‐ sianists, who assigned great importance to geopolitical and geo‐ graphical factors in their works. But this impression, too, is decep‐ tive. The Eurasianists, especially the highly influential economist and geographer Petr Savitskii, were interested above all in the cul‐ tural and economic aspects of geopolitics and geography, in ques‐ tions of the geographical influence on various peoples and ethnic groups, in how this influence affects the gradual rapprochement and unification of peoples. At the same time, the Eurasianists insisted on the economic autarky of the Eurasian subcontinent and studied the geographical factors that would be conducive to the creation of an independent economic system. For Elementy such questions play a secondary role. Among the aspects of geopolitics that interest Ele‐ menty, the most important have to do with military strategy— questions of a favorable starting position in the passionately desired future war that will pit the continental against the oceanic powers.44 42 Poslednii fol´ksfiurer, Elementy, no. 6, 1995, p. 48. 43 Ibid. 44 See Geopoliticheskie problemy, p. 18; A. D. (Aleksandr Dugin): Ot sakral´noi geografii k geopolitike, Elementy, no. 3, 1993, pp. 37–39; Rossiia i prostranstvo, in: Elementy, no. 4, pp. 31–35.

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To a unipolar American world, Elementy counterposes a bipolar conception based on a new conflict between East and West. Because the publishers of the journal think in terms of the alternatives “all or nothing,” “you or us,” they conceive of a new and total confrontation between East and West. The journal recommends all adversaries of the “mondialists” or of the Anglo‐Saxon oceanic powers to put an end to all their internal quarrels and concentrate on creating a great continental alliance. Only thus can they win victory in the coming mortal clash. This alliance must unite all past, present, and future adversaries of the Anglo‐Saxon democracies—Germany and Japan, Russia and China, India and the Islamic states, and, finally, “en‐ slaved” Western Europe.45 The publishers of the journal acknowledge that such a strategic alliance with Western Europe contradicts the ideas of their Eurasianist precursors. The configura‐ tion of forces in the world has greatly changed, however, since the Eurasianists developed their theses in the 1920s. The advantage of the “mondialists” has become so overwhelming that their adver‐ saries have to mobilize all their strength—without heed to cultural contradictions, for instance, between Russia and Western Europe.46 Which states must dominate the so‐called antimondialist coali‐ tion? In the opinion of the journal, there are only two candidates: Germany and Russia. To cope with this role, however, they must completely free themselves of “mondialist” influence, both from without and from within, and revive their imperial traditions. It would be greatly to the advantage of the continental alliance, Ele‐ menty thinks, if it were headed by a revived Russian empire. Strate‐ gically Russia is located in the center of the Eurasian space; it is therefore much less vulnerable than Germany, which is situated on the periphery. In addition, if Germany restores its former might it could experience a new wave of national megalomania, as it did during the Second World War, and this could have calamitous con‐ sequences for the continental alliance. Despite this danger, an anti‐

45 Rossiia i prostranstvo, p. 31. 46 Ibid., pp. 31–35.

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American Europe dominated by Germany would be better for Ele‐ menty than Europe in its present form. The publishers of Elementy would even be prepared to stand under the banners of the Reich in its struggle with “mondialism.” Of course, Russian banners would be preferable. The revival of the Russian empire and Russian hegemo‐ ny over the whole European space is for Elementy a question of great import. If Russia renounces its own imperial claims, then oth‐ er states will exploit the power vacuum resulting from the collapse of the Soviet Union and turn Russia into their colony. The aforemen‐ tioned Germany could play such a role, and China may yet do so. So, in the opinion of the journal’s publishers, Russia faces only one al‐ ternative: again to become a province of an alien hegemon or to restore its own hegemony. But unlike those who feel nostalgia for empire in today’s Russia, the publishers of Elementy are not satis‐ fied with simply returning to the past. Restoration of the original borders of the Russian empire is only the first stage of their strate‐ gic plan. For they see the chief purpose of restoring the empire as being the struggle against American global domination, against world evil—a fight not for life but to the death. Again the journal demonstrates how far it departs from the foundations of “classical” Russian Eurasianism and how strongly reminiscent its program is of the “revolutionary territorial policy” of the Weimar Right. Many supporters of the radical wing of the Weimar Right considered that world domination was the sole means of alleviating the Germans’ suffering: “Power over the world is adequate … to easing the life of the people of an overpopulated country”—the conservative revolu‐ tionary Moeller van den Bruck wrote in 1923 in his The Third Reich. Ten years later, the “really existing” Third Reich began to implement this program. Thus, the body of ideas promoted by the journal Ele‐ menty is an imported product. It is a rotten product that started to go bad on January 30, 1933. Germany, the country where this prod‐ uct was manufactured, knows best how unpleasant it could taste.

Part III. Poland and Its Neighbors

Polish Perceptions of Russia in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries

The opposition between Poland and Russia has a centuries‐old tra‐ dition. After the November Uprising of 1830, however, it intensified to such an extent that the uprising became a kind of caesura for both nations. Until then there had been no lack of attempts in Russia to persuade the political elites of the integrated parts of Poland to be loyal to the new sovereign. It seems almost paradoxical that, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, in the autocratic Tsarist Em‐ pire—of all the partitioning powers—these efforts had been most advanced. This was—not least—attributable to the character of the political system where the policy depended to an extraordinary extent on the person of the respective ruler. In this respect, the pro‐ Polish and liberal sympathies of Alexander I had a particularly fa‐ vorable effect on Poland. Until about 1812, Petersburg’s liberal policy toward Poland could be explained by the fact that it wanted to counter the Napole‐ onic concept of Poland with an alternative of its own. But even after the conquest of France, the character of the Russian policy toward the Western neighbor hardly changed at first. The flirtation with Napoleon was forgiven. The political and military leadership of the Grand Duchy of Warsaw (1807–1813)—one of the most loyal allies of France—was for the most part adopted by the Kingdom of Po‐ land, which was constituted at the Congress of Vienna. The new state on the Vistula obtained, despite the personal union with the Russian ruler, one of the most liberal constitutions on the continent. Even when this constitution was more and more undermined in the last years of the reign of Alexander I, and especially after the acces‐ sion of Nicholas I (1825–1855), it remained a thorn in the Russian Conservatives’ flesh. This is the reason why their outrage at the “ingratitude” of the Poles was so boundless after the outbreak of the Uprising of 1830. After the suppression of the Uprising of 1830–

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1931, which, after initial hesitation, almost the entire leadership of the Kingdom of Poland had joined, the remains of the Polish inde‐ pendence were destroyed. The antagonism between state and society, which is so charac‐ teristic for Poland, became particularly apparent after 1831. Social prestige was no longer tied to state prerogatives and functions. Even after 1831 there were quite a lot Polish aristocrats, who held high offices in the country’s administrative and legal apparatus. This, however, did not contribute any more to their social prestige because they were no longer serving their own state, but a foreign ruler. The social hierarchy of values was now largely disconnected from that of the state. A social code of honor developed itself, whose prohibitions and commandments shaped the life in the country maybe even more than the state legislation did. Before 1830, the antagonism to Russia had already played a spe‐ cial role in the perception of the Polish elites. This tendency became all the more radical after the debacle of 1831. On the Vistula, the Tsarist Empire was perceived not only as a political opponent, but also as the embodiment of evil; the conflict between the two nations was interpreted as the struggle between light and darkness. With this, the conflict left the political realm and obtained an almost met‐ aphysical character. This tendency was particularly evident with the most important poets of the country, especially Adam Mickiewicz and Zygmunt Krasiński. They warned the West not to regard Russia as a normal great power, for this despotic colossus did strive not only for a total subjugation of its subjects, but also for that of the whole free world. Meanwhile, about three decades after the November Uprising, an easing of the Polish‐Russian relationship took place. The despotic system of Nicholas I, anxiously aligned to a preservation of the sta‐ tus quo, suffered a debacle in the Crimean War. The Tsarist Empire was now forced to modernize its old political structures. This also affected the Polish question. Organizational connections, which had been completely destroyed in the country in 1831, could now be re‐ established. In 1857 the founding of the so‐called Agricultural Socie‐

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ty was approved, and it became the most important voice of the Polish public within a very short time. This circumstance, however, also proved to be a major handicap. In order not to upset the Polish public, Andrzej Zamoyski, the chairman of the organization, avoided any step that could have been interpreted as a collaboration with the Russians. Thus, the anonymous power of public opinion, of which no one knew whom it actually represented, had a paralyzing effect on the only possible mediator between Petersburg and the Polish society. Russia’s policy toward Poland reached an impasse again. The atmosphere in the country became more and more radi‐ cal. Yet, the overwhelming majority of the politically active classes in the country were opposed to an armed uprising. Only a small radical minority pushed for a military confrontation. Its strength was, however, that it represented, albeit in a rigorous form, values that the entire political elite of the country also acknowledged. For the willingness to fight for the independence was a moral obligation, from which there was no escape. It was not victory, but the desire for resistance, which was of great importance here. In the rational, objectively calculating West, this behavior caused only head‐ shaking, and also in Poland it found countless critics. Thereby, how‐ ever, the following is overlooked: Given a realistic assessment of Poland’s geopolitical position and the balance of power between Poland and its opponents, it would have been quite clear that the country had in fact no chance of regaining independence. Thus, to survive, the national will had to shift from the material to the idea‐ tional level. As a historical subject, Poland existed only as long as it did not abandon hope for national self‐determination, despite its apparently utopian character.

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**** The Bolsheviks were usually regarded as the heirs of the Tsars in Poland. The Hitler–Stalin Pact, Katyń, or the Stalinist terror in Po‐ land after 1944 did not contribute to a reduction of the anti‐Russian resentments on the Vistula. Nevertheless, the horrors of the Nation‐ al Socialist occupation, which exceeded the horrors of 120 years of Tsarist rule by far within a period of five years, led to a change of mind among a part of the Polish public. Guiding in this respect was the influential Catholic weekly paper Tygodnik Powszechny. It criti‐ cized the traditional Russophobia in the country and argued the case for a reconciliation with the Eastern neighbors. In this context, some editors criticized the romantic glorification of the uprisings of 1830 and 1863; the publicist Stanisław Stomma did this with an especial passion. He described the Uprising of 1863 as an act of madness that had thrown Poland back for decades and tried to ex‐ plain this “irrational” behavior of society with a deep‐rooted “anti‐ Russian complex.” Any policy of compromise with Russia had been regarded as a kind of national treason in the Polish public of the nineteenth century. Compromises with other partitioning powers, for example, with Austria, had not triggered any comparable emo‐ tions. Stomma’s theses provoked a heated controversy within the Catholic public. Jacek Woźniakowski, who was part of the closer editorial board of Tygodnik Powszechny, formulated two weeks lat‐ er, again in the Tygodnik theses, which radically questioned Stom‐ ma’s point of view. Unlike Stomma, Woźniakowski sympathized with the rebels of 1863. In his view, their anti‐Russian complexes had been justified. The policy of the Tsarist regime had left them practically no other choice. The conflict between the Polish freedom fighters and the oppressive Tsarist regime had been inevitable. Woźniakowski did not ascribe too much importance to the fact that, on the eve of the January Uprising, the reforms of Alexander II changed the character of the Tsarist regime. These reforms had

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come too late, and they had, according to the conclusion of the pub‐ licist, lacked in consequence. Stomma’s article also provoked an angry response from Cardinal Wyszyński, who had seen in the Uprising of 1863 a rather healthy aspiration of the people for independence. The controversy between Stomma and his critics shows that Catholic authors were able to speak about the delicate issue of Polish‐Russian relations also in periods of a hardening of the government’s course, as was the case in the “later” Gomułka period of the 1960s. Although the current political debate was disguised as a historical dispute, the substitu‐ tional character of this discussion was obvious to everyone. Only the new signals that came from Moscow after Gorbachev’s accession to power allowed the open struggle against the so‐called blank spots in the history of the mutual relations, that is, against the lie that had been officially propagated by the Communist rulers. The struggle against the falsifications of history now reached a com‐ pletely new dimension. A kind of unity front of Polish and Soviet reformers arose, which took the initiative in the struggle “for our and your truth” (Adam Michnik) and pushed the dogmatists of both countries into the defensive. When looking at this alliance, one is reminded of the words of the Polish poet Cyprian Kamil Norwid, who said in 1863: In the confrontation with the Tsarist Empire, Po‐ land had a chance only if it was able to find a “pro‐Polish” party in Russia itself. Without this bridge to the East, both countries would stand side by side like two impenetrable blocks and strive for the mutual destruction. During the Perestroika, this prediction of Norwid became, in a certain sense, reality. For the first time since 1945, a “pro‐Polish” party emerged within the Soviet establishment, which ascribed a similar importance to the struggle for historical truth as the Polish reformers did. Even after the disempowerment of the Polish Communists in 1989, the democratically minded forces on the Vistula regarded the like‐minded Russians as their most important allies in the renewed Poland, for the fate of the newly acquired Polish sovereignty de‐

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pended essentially on the outcome of the struggle between reform‐ ers and dogmatists in Moscow. One of the most astute publicists of the Gazeta Wyborcza, the organ of the Polish reformers that had been founded in 1989, Józef Kuśmierek, wrote in April 1991 an open letter to Boris Yeltsin, who at that time (on the eve of the August coup) became the most important opponent of the Soviet dogma‐ tists. The letter contains the following sentences: For the Poles, You are the first Russian politician who speaks in the name of Russia and not in the name of the Russian Empire. […] You symbolize for me a Russia that I, as a Pole, do not have to fear.

There is not much left of this euphoria in Warsaw today. Moscow’s negative attitude toward the extension of the NATO to Eastern Eu‐ rope is perceived in Warsaw as a kind of return to the former Soviet doctrine of the limited sovereignty of the Eastern European states. The former Polish Foreign Minister Andrzej Olechowski said in this context: Russia had inherited an immeasurable imperial ambition from the Soviet Union, which it, however, could not satisfy due to its limited resources. This resulted in the syndrome of a “besieged for‐ tress” that could have very dangerous consequences for Russia’s neighbors. Despite such critical tones, in Poland the post‐Soviet Russia of the Yeltsin era was not only negatively perceived. Shortly after Boris Yeltsin’s voluntary resignation at the end of 1999, Adam Michnik drew the following conclusion from the activities of the first demo‐ cratically elected Russian head of state: Yeltsin had continually tried to break with the Bolshevik legacy, this had been the most im‐ portant driving force of his activities. Shortened version of the article “Russlandsehnsucht und Russlandhass” published in: Lawaty, Andreas and Orłowski, Hubert (eds.): Deutsche und Polen. Geschichte—Kultur—Politik. Munich 2003, pp. 216–227. Translated by Jerome Schäfer

Aleksander Wat about the Janus‐Faced Russia

The common thread in the life history of Aleksander Wat is his scep‐ ticism toward absolute truths and their heralds. He was untrue to this principle for only a few years when he followed an “association” that supposedly held the truth—the communist movement. Wat regarded this relatively short “dogmatic sleep” as the biggest mis‐ take of his life. Because of it, he contributed to spreading one of the most inauspicious teachings of the twentieth century and burdened himself with unforgivable guilt.1 A radical, antidogmatic revolt preceded Wat’s “conversion.” Al‐ ready by the age of 19, Wat, who was born in Warsaw in 1900, was one of Poland’s leading avant‐garde writers, to whom all dogmas and taboos were suspicious and who had no respect for national or religious sanctifications. Although Wat came from a respectable Jewish family and his forefathers included well‐known rabbis and scribes, since his early childhood he rebelled against Jewish tradi‐ tions and the “bonds” of civil society alike. Why then did he accept the bondage of Marxist ideology, and why did he subordinate him‐ self to communist dogmatics, of all things? Decades later, Wat him‐ self described the circumstances surrounding his “conversion” as follows: He was never able to come to terms with his nihilism. In his mid‐twenties, especially in novels appearing under the title “The Unemployed Lucifer,” he questioned man’s most important ideals— morals, religion, and love. One could not feel at home for long in that type of vacuum.2 In the face of his crisis of looking for true meaning and his search for security, why did Wat not return to Judaism? Such



Lecture at the conference “Jewish questions—Communist answers?” (Simon Dubnow Institute for Jewish History and Culture at Leipzig University, Novem‐ ber 2001). 1 Wat, Aleksander: Mój wiek. Pamiętnik mówiony. Warsaw, 1998, Vol. 1, pp. 56, 63. 2 Ibid., pp. 87–88.

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a solution was totally out of the question for him.3 He argued the case for uncompromising and complete assimilation. As he later self‐critically observed, his view of Jewry at that time actually showed anti‐Semitic features. And indeed, when reading his novel “The Eternal Jew” from 1925 or some passages from his memoirs, one cannot help but get the feeling that he internalized many anti‐ Semitic clichés, including the theory of the Jews’ thirst for power and their greed, their self‐centeredness, arrogance, and lack of scru‐ ples.4 However, Wat vehemently criticized half‐assimilated Jews who had alienated themselves from their own culture without hav‐ ing completely adopted the culture of the people who surrounded them. Such an accusation could not be raised against Wat. For him, the Polish culture represented the actual basis upon which he could rely on, and he also became one of its leading advocates. Why then, in light of this situation, did Wat not identify with the Polish national idea, as did other Polish writers of Jewish origin, for example, Anto‐ ni Słonimski? This question is relatively easy to answer. Polish anti‐Semitism hindered assimilated Jews from completely identifying with Poland. Exemplary for the precarious situation, in which assimilated Polish Jews found themselves, was the fate of Antoni Słonimski, who we already mentioned. As a glowing Polish patriot, he reacted with particular sensitivity to political and social deficits of the second Polish republic, which came into being in 1918 after 123 years of foreign rule. In his “Weekly Chronicle,” which appeared regularly in the influential newspaper Wiadomości Literackie, he condemned all of these frailties and thought that in doing so he was fulfilling a pat‐ riotic duty. Representatives of the so‐called national camp inter‐ preted this in a completely different way. Słonimskis’ nonconformist attitude gave them the impression that he was not a true Pole. The writer felt that this challenge of his being a Pole and the fact that the 3 Ibid., Vol. 2, pp. 218–219. 4 Wat, Mój wiek, Vol. 2, p. 193; Wat, Aleksander: Żyd wieczny tułacz, in: idem: Bezrobotny Lucyfer. Warsaw, 1960, pp. 9–26.

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hate‐filled tirades by his adversaries were written in the same lan‐ guage as his own was a great tragedy.5 Wat also reported of repeated anti‐Semitic incidents that affect‐ ed him, his family, or friends.6 For all of these reasons, it was not unusual for him to feel like a foreigner in his own country. He longed for the companionship of like‐minded people, for simple answers to the most complicated questions, and eventually (at the end of the 1920s) he found all of this in communism, for which na‐ tional barriers were secondary and which made an appeal to all of mankind. The fact that in the second Polish republic the communists were a persecuted minority and that they were viewed as national trai‐ tors only appealed to Wat’s nonconformist nature. At the same time, he felt secure in this small, conspiring association of like‐minded people. He said: Similar to early Christianity, the “communist church” in Poland at that time was made up of small groups of fol‐ lowers, in which everyone knew each other and which radiated unusual warmth.7 But how was this in accordance with the extraor‐ dinary cruelty that accompanied the establishment of the com‐ munist regime in Russia? Did this not somewhat deter the “com‐ munist church,” which was based on something very close to early Christian love? Were they even registered by the non‐Russian com‐ munists? Absolutely! In the 1920s and early 1930s, freedom of the press prevailed in Poland. Different than the Soviet citizens, who were completely cut‐off from the outside world, the Polish left‐wing —similar, by the way, to the Western left‐wing—was well informed about the real price that the Soviet population had to pay for estab‐ lishing the “socialist paradise on earth.” Already by the early 1930s, the number of five million dead, as a consequence of the collectivi‐ zation of the Soviet agriculture, circulated around Western media. Many left‐wing friends of Wat were familiar with this figure.8 How‐ 5 6 7 8

See Słonimski, Antoni: Droga na Wschód i inne wiersze. Gdansk, 1986, p. 68. Wat, Mój wiek, Vol. 1, pp. 250–252, Vol. 2, pp. 237, 285, 309. Ibid., Vol. 1, pp. 71–72, 136. Ibid., Vol. 2, p. 172.

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ever, this did not shake their belief in communist ideals at all, be‐ cause “progress has its price”—which was their motto. Wat de‐ scribed the matter, of course, of sensitive and gentle intellectuals from his area, who accepted that cruelty and boundless violence were justifiable if they served the right policies.9 However, Wat is especially appalled that, at that time, he too thought along the same lines. In a conversation with his writer colleague Czesław Miłosz, he said: No, I hate bloodshedding. However, you know, this was abstract blood on the other side of the wall—just as Pascal wrote about the other side of the river… How pure and great must the cause be, for which so much blood, innocent blood, has to be shed? That has an incredible attraction. I support communism, although I know that communism has severe consequences. However, I am not sinful, be‐ cause Lenin, my redeemer, has taken the sin upon himself.10

However, in the long run, Wat could not suppress his ethical feel‐ ings. He could not clear his thoughts of the number of five million Russian farmers, who had to pay with their lives for the removal of private land ownership in Russia (in reality, this number was even higher). Here, he differed considerably from his left‐wing minded friends, for example, from the writer Władysław Broniewski, who thought that the fate of the Russian “mushiks” (farmers) had noth‐ ing to do with them.11 Now, it turned out that Wat’s ideological blindness was not strong enough to completely silence the voice of his conscience. He awoke from his “dogmatic sleep” and left the “communist church,” where he had felt so secure for several years. Wat’s break with communism took place directly after the National Socialists took over power and the continuously growing fascist danger hindered many doubtful communists from distancing them‐ selves from communism. The Stalinist Soviet Union was considered to be the only remaining antifascist bastion. Wat reacted to this de‐ 9 Ibid., Vol. 1, p. 139. 10 Ibid., pp. 87–88. 11 Ibid., p. 237.

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velopment in a completely different way. He discovered amazing similarities between the National Socialist regime and the Stalinist regime, and these facts strengthened him in his decision to burn all bridges behind him.12 Now, he had to face an ideological wreckage. Manés Sperber, who broke with Stalinism at approximately the same time, said: You can only leave the revolution through a single door, which opens into nothingness.13

On his part, Wat stated that an extremely dismal mood came over him: Never before in my life had I been so overcome by forebodings, such as the forebodings of horrible things that were approaching me and the country. At that time, it was the most dominant of my feelings— these forebodings of total hopelessness.14

The events of 1939 confirmed Wat’s premonitions. He experi‐ enced the collapse of Poland from the Soviet occupied part of the country. So, unlike Manés Sperber, Arthur Koestler, and other for‐ mer sympathizers and later other irreconcilable critics of the USSR, he landed in the clutches of the system that he regarded, since his break with communism, as the epitome of damnation. The disenchantment process was further fueled by his longstanding confrontation with Soviet reality (1939–1946). Wat was an outsider and an insider at the same time and could observe the Soviet experiment from both a distance and from up close. As a universally educated Central European, he also belonged to the greatest authorities on Russian culture and had complete command of the Russian language in all of its nuances. This made it easy for him to integrate into Russian developments in a general European

12 Ibid., pp. 228–229. 13 Sperber, Manés: Zur Analyse der Tyrannis. Vienna, 1977, p. 15. 14 Wat, Mój wiek, Vol. 1, pp. 247–248.

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context, and at the same time to understand the most important characteristics of Russia’s “special historical way.” In Wat’s eyes, Russia is a Janus‐headed object. It has both a re‐ pulsive—as he put it—“Asiatic” face, and a charming European one. For Wat, Asia did not represent the cradle of civilization, on the con‐ trary. For him, it virtually epitomized tyranny and disregard of hu‐ man rights. He explained that his original admiration for the Bol‐ sheviks was partly due to his fascination for their ambitious project of Europeanizing an agricultural, mainly Asiatic country.15 Later, Wat changed his opinion about Bolshevism. Now, as far as he is con‐ cerned, it is also the embodiment of the culturally hostile Orient.16 Thus, in his opinion, the Red Army, which occupied East Poland as a consequence of the Hitler–Stalin pact, represented an Asian horde that was comparable to the hordes of Genghis Khan. For him, com‐ munism in any form symbolized the Orient’s rebellion against Western civilization. Wat vehemently rejected the theory, often found in the West, that Bolshevik tyranny was only a typical Russian phenomenon resulting from the century‐old Russian etatism. Com‐ munism had much deeper origins. For example, one of his conversa‐ tional partners in the prison cell of Lubianka explained all the de‐ tails of the character of a collectivist or alternatively communist system that was established in China a thousand years before Marx.17 In Wat’s opinion, czarist Russia also participated in this collectivist tradition to which the Bolsheviks later appealed. How‐ ever, for Wat, Russia is not only the allegedly culturally hostile Asia but also the cultivated Europe. The Bolsheviks, and above all the Stalinists, would have attempted to eliminate the remains of this European Russia—in vain. Many of his fellow sufferers in the pris‐ ons, but also in the distant Soviet provinces, epitomized the ever so hated sort of cultivated Russian Europeans. Innumerable advocates of this old Russian educational class fell victim to the unimaginable 15 Ibid., pp. 21, 89, 143. 16 Ibid., Vol.1, pp. 274, 300, 320, 354–355, Vol. 2, p. 30; see also Wat, Aleksander: Dziennik bez samogłosek. London, 1986, p. 47. 17 Wat, Mój wiek, Vol. 2, p. 88; see also Wat, Dziennik, p. 199.

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Stalinist barbarianism; however, also many advocated stayed alive, because their total elimination exceeded the possibilities of the per‐ fect police state that was established in Russia during the Stalin period.18 Wat even supported the heretic assumptions that repre‐ sentatives of Russia’s literary elite (Shklovskii, Paustovskii, etc.), with whom he maintained intensive contact in 1942–1943 in the capital city of Kazakhstan, Alma‐Ata, were more educated and more “European” than the authors of the Polish literary avant garde of the period between the wars, with whom he intensively associated in those days.19 (One should not forget that Wat himself was one of the central figures of this avant garde.) 20 Wat’s headstrong theory about “Asian” and “European” Russia pervades his memories like a common thread. Another central motif of the report is the representation of a “suffering” Russia, to which Wat implicitly declares his solidarity. Last but not the least, for this reason, he showed extraordinary appreciation for Boris Pasternak’s novel Dr. Shivago, even if, in Wat’s opinion, the work was written very poorly. However, regardless of all its literary weaknesses, the novel shows with unusual urgency the disaster, which befell the country as a consequence of the events in 1917.21 Besides some outstanding characters, who Wat had gotten to know in Soviet pris‐ ons, miserable, suffering Russia was one of the most important he‐ roes of his report and certainly is a type of collective hero. With outrage, he reacted to the arrogance with which his Polish compat‐ riots often looked down on the Eastern neighbors, on the “slave mentality” of Russia, as they called it. Wat thought that if Poland had suffered so long and intensively under communism, or alternatively Stalinism, as had been the case with the Russians, then even they would have not been capable of protecting their inner dignity.22 However, the fact that Polish arrogance toward Russia is almost

18 19 20 21 22

Wat, Mój wiek, Vol. 2, p. 191. Ibid., p. 282. See Wat, Bezrobotny Lucyfer; Wat, Aleksander: Poezje. Warsaw, 1997. Wat, Mój wiek, Vol. 1, p. 88. Ibid., Vol. 2, p. 236.

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ineradicable can be demonstrated using Wat himself as an example. He repeatedly reported about how often he succumbed to the temp‐ tation of berating the Russians contemptuously. In his opinion, this attitude, so prevalent in Poland, could be explained by Poland’s feel‐ ings of inferiority toward Russia.23 However, no further reasons were given for this theory. Wat did not think that it was a coinci‐ dence that communism won in Russia, of all places. The concept of communism corresponded with deep longings of certain classes in the Russian population. Here, Wat was not thinking primarily about Russian farmers or industrial workers with their egalitarian dreams, with their rejection of hierarchical principles as such. No, much more important for the success of the Bolshevist revolution were the ambitions of Russia’s petit bourgeois, half‐educated class, whose patience had been exhausted. In 1917, they wanted revenge for all the humiliations they had experienced for generations from the state, and they were now the real driving force of the revolu‐ tion.24 By the way, here Wat was in agreement with the theories of the exiled Russian historian Georgii Fedotov, who also pointed out the prominent role of the Russian petit bourgeois in the events of 1917–1920.25 But for Wat, the revolution was not only the result of petit bour‐ geois resentments but also the deeply rooted willingness in Russia to suffer contributed significantly to the Bolshevik’s victory.26 Even Russia’s victory over the Third Reich directed Wat back to the Rus‐ sian’s ability to suffer. Yet, it was not only this, but he also linked this victory to the imperial pride, which had almost become the nation’s second nature. Wat was able to find a comparable outlook only among the English. Even after the battle of Moscow (December 1941), Wat himself was convinced that Russia would lose the war. In this matter, his Russian conversational partners were generally

23 Ibid., p. 49. 24 Ibid., pp. 194–195. 25 Fedotov, Georgii: Revoliutsiia idet, Sovremennye zapiski, no. 39, 1929, pp. 306– 359. 26 Wat, Mój wiek, Vol. 2, pp. 14–15, 273.

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convinced that the empire would survive the danger, and their con‐ fidence and the matter of course with which they believed in victo‐ ry, slowly began to influence Wat.27 He reported that the war, in‐ stead of discrediting the regime, merely led to a consolidation of it. Stalin’s popularity, particularly after Stalingrad, reached unimagi‐ nable dimensions. No Russian statesman in the entire history of Russia enjoyed comparable popularity. Now, many of Wat’s conver‐ sational partners linked Stalin to a hope for liberalization of the system, a dissolution of the kolkhozes, and a dignified life. People felt that there was no chance of a return of the prewar reign of ter‐ ror.28 Only a few did not share these rosy hopes. They included, for instance, the film director Sergei Eisenstein. Wat reported that he often met his compatriots’ optimistic visions of the future with an ironical smile.29 While Wat sympathized with the “European” and the “suffering” Russia, a specific segment of Russian society evoked his disgust. These were the old Bolsheviks—the authors of Bolshevik tyranny — who later became its victims. No other group of victims behaved so miserably and undignifiedly in Stalinist prisons as the onetime he‐ roes of the revolution and the civil war. Hardly anyone surrendered to the terror as fast as they did.30 But why did many of them let themselves be humiliated in such a way during the mock trials of 1936–1938? Why did they not even try to protect at least the rest of their human dignity? Was this the result of torture? Wat asked this question to Steklov, the longstanding editor in chief of the newspa‐ per Izvestiia, whom he met in the prison at Saratov. Steklov’s an‐ swer was very revealing—much more revealing than the answer Arthur Koestler gave in his novel “The Eclipse.” It was not the belief in the party’s “higher rationality” and not the belief in communist ideals that caused their self‐abandonment; rather, it was, in fact, a total moralistic degradation. The arrested heroes of the revolution 27 28 29 30

Ibid., pp. 308, 310, 319. Ibid., pp. 189, 268, 270. Ibid., pp. 270–271. Ibid., pp. 149, 164.

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had themselves been involved in so many crimes; they had so much blood on their hands that they did not have the moral strength to oppose the terror machine, which they themselves had jointly cre‐ ated, when this machine turned on its creators.31 For Aleksander Wat, the Stalinist terror represented the actual quintessence of the communist utopia. Not until Stalinism did Marx‐ ism‐Leninism come into its own. Wat stated: I always maintained that Stalinism—in particular Stalinism of the years 1937 to 1941, i.e. the Stalinism with this incredible terror— was the only perfect and pure realisation of communist Marxism. These are old truths. The old historians, the Greeks, already discov‐ ered that plebs always choose a dictator. The plebs want a leader—a dictator—and they want the terror. This is not only true for Marx‐ ism and Leninism.32

Thereby, Wat indirectly contradicts those communist critics of Sta‐ lin, who maintain that Stalin falsified the legacy of Lenin. Indeed, many of Lenin’s visions were first realized by Stalin: the dream of eliminating private ownership and the free market; the dream of disciplining the Bolshevik party; and, finally, the dream of creating a “new people,” the realization of which encountered in‐ numerable obstacles in Lenin’s time. Not until Stalin was there any “success” at eliminating these ob‐ stacles. With particular clarity, Wat describes the means that helped the Kremlin despot to conduct the unprecedented “anthropological revolution.” In order to create a new people, the Stalin squad estab‐ lished a new fictitious world in which the laws of the “old,” so‐called objective logic no longer applied—it was a world “beyond truth and lies.” Here, a monstrous tyranny was described as the “freest coun‐ try in the world,” the brutal despot as the benefactor of humankind and the icon of progress, and so on.33 31 Ibid., pp. 225–228; see also Wat, Dziennik, p. 210. 32 Wat, Mój wiek, Vol. 1, p. 212. 33 Ibid., Vol. 1, p. 361, Vol. 2, p. 44.

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It was clear to Wat that his interpretation of Stalinism had major concurrence with the Orwellian concept. He admired the Orwellian intuition. Regardless of the fact that the author of 1984 only knew the Stalinist regime from the outside, in comparison to Wat himself, he astutely grasped its structure: One can not describe the essence of Stalinism more accurately and resourcefully. 34

According to Wat, the fact that Stalinism ascribed such great im‐ portance to fiction, or alternatively to the concurrence between practical experience and theory, resulted in writers assuming an extremely privileged position in this system. In his diary notes, Wat writes: Hence, there is a paradox in that an author earns incomparably more than a worker, because he is at the top of the “happy few” in the country of the dictatorship of the proletariat. But, woe betide him if he fails to do his job.35

Wat points out that the Stalinist “education and work camps” played an extremely important role in the creation of the “new people.” Their primary function was not to “educate” the camp inmates. No, Stalin’s primary objective was an anthropological conversion of the entire population of the Soviet Union—also of the ones not (yet) in the gulag.36 However, the permanent fear of being arrested made them into model Stalinists in quasi “hurrying obedience” (as we might say today). Wat is convinced that the originators of the Stalinist system were extremely intelligent experts in the human psyche as well as in Pav‐ lovian reflex theories. They were also very familiar with the oriental

34 Wat: Moralia, Dziennik bez samogłosek, p. 14. 35 Ibid., p. 45. 36 Wat, Mój wiek, Vol. 2, p. 115; Wat: Kartki na wietrze, Dziennik bez samogłosek, p. 181.

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train of thought, in which paradoxes and shocking absurdities play an extraordinarily important “educational” role.37 This theory of the “demonic superhuman,” which the absurd Sta‐ linist world had allegedly conceived and established, did not agree, as such, with other of Wat’s statements. He speaks of a permanent physical annihilation of Russian intelligence, and also of party intel‐ ligence; a degradation of the intellectual level of the rulers; and the Stalinist court camarilla, in which mediocrity, platitude, and cow‐ ardly meanness dominated.38 Thus, one can more easily speak of “banality” than of “demonic evil,” at least when dealing with Stalin’s closest entourage. After the renunciation of communism, Wat once again became a sceptic who not only questioned absolute truths but also longed for them at the same time. With envy, he looked at convicted Christians, who he often encountered in Soviet prisons, and who drew their confidence from their faith.39 Even for Wat himself, religious dimen‐ sions started to gain significance and he distanced himself from atheism, which he had professed since early childhood. At the end of 1941, in his prison cell at Saratov, his inner conversion to Christiani‐ ty took place. Officially, Wat was baptized in a Warsaw church in 1953.40 Why did Wat choose Christianity and not Judaism when he discovered his longing for God? Wat explained this as follows: Juda‐ ism as a religion is passé. It has completed its works. It reached its end with the arrival of Christianity.41 In spite of this conclusion, Wat was not able to completely identi‐ fy himself with Christianity: “What separates me from Catholicism?” asked Wat in an entry in his diary from 4.10.1963; what, apart from the (memories) of my fore‐ fathers, who were burned at the stake and banned to ghettos by Ca‐ tholicism. What separates me from Catholicism? Everything in it 37 38 39 40 41

Wat, Mój wiek, Vol. 1, pp. 236, 301, 364, Vol. 2, p. 114. Ibid., Vol. 2, pp. 166, 364. Ibid., Vol. 1, p. 351, Vol. 2, p. 113. Ibid., Vol. 1, p. 315; see also Wat, Dziennik, p. 159. Wat, Mój wiek, Vol. 1, p. 218.

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that is material. The personal god, the resurrection from the dead. Everything should have ended with the mystery of the crucifixion.42

In his dealings with Christianity, Wat reflected on his Jewish herit‐ age and wrote that the older he becomes, the deeper the feelings are that he has for being Jewish and the pride in his forefathers.43 He ultimately describes his conversion to Catholicism as a spiritual failure.44 Up until the end of his life (Wat died in 1967), he remained a searching person not able to identify himself with any ideal. The short “love affair” with communism represented only one episode in his biography, but it was a decisive episode. Since he personally experienced the totalitarian temptation of innumerable intellectu‐ als, he was able to warn of it in such a credible way. This is a revised version of an article first published in Forum für osteuropäische Ideen‐ und Zeitgeschichte, no. 2, 2005.

42 Wat, Dziennik, p. 61. 43 Ibid., p. 167. 44 Ibid., pp. 159–160.

The German Question in Unofficial Polish Journalism of the 1970s

The Polish perception of Germany was comparatively homogenous up until the late 1960s. It was affected not only by the memories of National Socialist terror and occupation but also by the fear for the Oder‐Neisse‐line. Inspired by the conciliatory environment of the Second Vatican Council, the Polish bishops dispatched a famous communiqué to the Germany episcopacy in November 1965. It spoke of forgiveness and in turn asked for forgiveness.1 The ruling Polish United Worker’s Party called it treason. On December 10, 1965, the paper Życie Warszawy wrote: Who in Poland empowered those Bishops, tarrying in the Vatican, to eat crow and pass national self‐criticism? On whose behalf did they speak? Perhaps in the name of the millions murdered in Auschwitz and Majdanek?2

The theoretical organ of the ruling Polish United Worker’s Party, Nowe Drogi, added in April 1966: For many years, the church has spread anticommunist slogans, hoping for a prompt collapse of the communist regime. But now, they are willing to go even further, as the letter addressed to the German bishops shows. For the very first time, the church also chooses to ignore the basic principles of Polish state reasoning.3 1 Orędzie biskupów polskich do biskupów niemieckich. Materiały i dokumenty. Warsaw, 1966; Cf. Stehle, Hansjakob: Die Ostpolitik des Vatikan. München, 1975, p. 377; Heller, Edith: Macht. Kirche. Politik. Der Briefwechsel zwischen den polni‐ schen und deutschen Bischöfen. Cologne, 1922; Stomma, Stanisław: Pościg za nadzieją. Paris, 1991, p. 188; Rohde, Gotthold: Die deutsch‐polnischen Bezie‐ hungen von 1945 bis in die achtziger Jahre, Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte. Bei‐ lage zur Wochenzeitung „Das Parlament“, Vol. 11–12, 1988, pp. 3–20. 2 Quoted in Heller, Macht. Kirche. Politik, p. 144. 3 W sprawie stosunków między państwem i kościołem, Nowe Drogi, Vol. 4, 1966, pp. 3–14; Cf. Przemówienie tow. Władysława Gomułki na uroczystej sesji Sejmu w dniu 21 lipca 1966, Nowe Drogi, Vol. 8, 1966, pp. 3–23.

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The public was swayed to some extent by the charges that had been repeated over and over again by the official media. Especially since the policy of irreconcilability with Germany had united all major parts of society in postwar Poland. Given the experience of 1939–1945, this does not come as a surprise. It was one of the few points of agreement between the majority of the population and the regime that was rejected in general. Germany’s new Ostpolitik, which was introduced by the govern‐ ment Brandt‐Scheel in 1969, led to more relaxed German‐Polish relations. And as a result, Poland’s public was no longer constrained by the need for conformity when dealing with the German ques‐ tion.4 Gradually stereotypes of thought were cut back on both sides—stereotypes that had long been in the way of a reconciliatory approach. Unofficial Polish journalism—the topic of this chapter— was particularly strong in changing the established Polish percep‐ tion of Germany. Legally published Catholic organs, critical of the government, are referred to as not only unofficial Polish journalism but also the Polish Samizdat (self‐publishing or “the second circula‐ tion,” as Samizdat was referred to in Poland) that was free of cen‐ sorship and rapidly began developing in 1976 after the foundation of the oppositional committee in defense of workers (KOR). Unofficial Polish publishers, unlike authors close to the govern‐ ment, were not forced to pay tribute to the People’s Republic of Poland’s official doctrine. That is why their voices felt more authen‐ tic than the “official” ones. What struck independent Polish publishers, in particular those of the Catholic faction in the first half of the 1970s,5 when looking at West German society? It was first and foremost the German normal‐ 4 Cf. Garsztecki, Stefan: Das Deutschlandbild in der offiziellen, der katholischen und der oppositionellen Publizistik Polens 1970–1989. Marburg, 1997; Bingen, Diet‐ er: Die Bonner Deutschlandpolitik 1969–1979 in der polnischen Publizistik. Frankfurt/Main, 1982; Więc, Józef Janusz: Die Beziehungen zwischen der Volksrepublik Polen und der Bundesrepublik Deutschland 1989–1987, Aus Po‐ litik und Zeitgeschichte. Beilage zur Wochenzeitung „Das Parlament“, Vol. 11–12, 1988, pp. 26–33. 5 Bear in mind that a process of normalization in German‐Polish relations was already underway.

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ity. They stated with both amazement and gratification that the Federal Republic of Germany was hardly any different from other Western European States—structurally and mentally speaking. The democratic changes, which took place in Germany since 1945, fig‐ uratively ploughed up that part of the German nation, Andrzej Micewski, a famous Catholic author, wrote in 1975. One shall no longer question the German ability to build a democratic communi‐ ty, even if recent history might suggest otherwise. The Federal Re‐ public of Germany has developed an authentic democracy. Germany has completely integrated herself into the Western European com‐ munity of states. In Poland, one has long ignored these new facts and circumstances, for the unsolved question of a future border overshadowed everything else. Only the Treatise of Warsaw (1970) created an environment, in which the Polish public could assess the important historical processes, which had taken place in the Federal Republic of Germany.6 The changing German or respectively West German character astounded one of the most popular Catholic authors in Poland, Stef‐ an Kisielewski. In 1974, he was surprised to state that Germans had turned away from the abstract and ideological thought, something quite common for them up until recently. He noticed that pragma‐ tism, far from any ideology, had fully become acceptable in German politics. When asking Germans on the dominating political problems of the Federal Republic of Germany, the answers were always the same, irrespective of party affiliation: inflation, prices, taxes, and crude oil. Kisielewski replied: But those are economic, not political problems. Only to hear: No, these questions are of core political interest, votes, and thus the future political direction all depend on them. “The fellow countrymen of Hegel, Fichte and Marx renounce ideology?” asked a staggered Kisielewski: “What a surprise?! But surely these are the consequences of Hitler. Hitler perverted the

6 Micewski, Andrzej: Das Deutschland in der katholischen Publizistik Polens 1969– 1974. Munich, 1976. See Stomma, Pościg, pp. 200–217, too.

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term ideology to such an extent, that they have turned to another extreme.” Even German reunification was no longer a matter of concern for the overwhelming majority of pragmatic and scientifically oriented Germans, according to Kisielewski: “The young progressives ex‐ plained to me, that nobody on the planet wanted a German state with 80 million inhabitants, not even they. Even Franz Josef Strauß, though he was not progressive, said laconically: the reunification of Germany and Germans is out of the question. Those are the times,” Kisielewski summed up his observations in 1974. Kisielewski was criticized for his coverage of Germany by the party press, for instance, in the journals Polityka and Perspektywy. He was accused of playing down the revisionist tendencies in Ger‐ many as well as being too fond of opponents of Brandt’s Ostpolitik, that is, in particular of Franz Josef Strauß.7 Despite the criticism’s propagandistic character, the critics were right in one aspect, when pointing out actual flaws in Kisielewski’s analysis. For instance, in the journal Polityka, Daniel Passent criti‐ cized Kisielewski’s claim that he was not able to observe any quali‐ tative changes in Germany since the change of government in 1969. And Kisielewski was indeed convinced that the dominance of good sense marked 1970 Germany the same way it did in the era of Adenauer. By doing so, he disregarded the pivotal idea of Brandt’s Ostpolitik: an aspiration to reconcile with the peoples of the East, which was essentially based on ideological rather than technocratic and pragmatic thoughts. From 1976 onward, the emphasis of the Polish discussion of Germany lay on the Samizdat, which was not censored. Some of the arguments that had already been laid out by censored Catholic jour‐ nals, for example, the Krakow weekly Tygodnik Powszechny, were now rephrased more concisely and poignant; for instance, the as‐ 7 Kisielewski, Stefan: Czy mają ideę?, Tygodnik Powszechny, April 14, 1974; idem.: Migawki, resztki, dziwne smaki, Tygodnik Powszechny, April 4, 1974; Cf. Garsztecki, Das Deutschlandbild, p. 170; Bingen, Die Bonner Deutschlandpolitik, p. 46.

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sumption of German adjustment to Western European normality and the profound democratization of West German society. In the Samizdat journal Zapis, literary scholar Andrzej Drawicz spoke with admiration of the functioning of West German democracy in 1979. The remnants of the National‐Socialist past or yrespectively neo‐ fascist groups, which receive permanent coverage by the official Polish press, are of little importance in contemporary Germany. Every civil servant, whose biography has a brown chapter, is forced to resign. Public outrage just will not let him be. Drawicz, writing at the time of the Filbinger affair, dreamed of a similar course of action in communist countries when dealing with civil servants who had a Stalinist past. He pointed out how proudly Germans remembered their democratic tradition and how they treasured the tradition of German resistance. Those traditions were rather humble, but it is important to stress that the Federal Republic of Germany wanted to take up these historic German moments.8 Drawicz painted his report in bright colors. He depicted the Fed‐ eral Republic as an entity virtually without any problems. But he did not address topics like unemployment, xenophobia, or the many different forms of suppressing the NS past. In his protest against the biased picture of Germany by official Polish press organs, he would fall for another bias. Instead of a vivid democracy with all its prob‐ lems and conflicts, he communicated a German utopia to the Polish readers that had little in common with reality. Several other Polish authors explained the fact that the Federal Republic of Germany integrated so well into the Western European community of states, by Germany’s turning away from its Prussian tradition. The Federal Republic is made up of areas that traditional‐ ly oppose Prussian hegemony and show a clear tendency toward the West, as Stanisław Kotowicz (= Andrzej Szczypiorski) writes in the Samizdat journal Krytyka in 1980. According to Kotowicz, these territories shared old democratic traditions that the Federal Repub‐

8 Drawicz, Andrzej: List do czytelnika „Zapisu“. W sprawie pewnego szantazu, Zapis, Vol. 9, 1979, pp. 13–32.

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lic could now build on. Military and pro‐Russian tendency were characteristic only for Prussia, Kotowicz continued. When the West German and Southern population was able to shake off Prussian influence, they returned to their generally pro‐Western and hardly military tradition. Everything that is East of river Elbe is strange and exotic for West and South Germany.9 From a Polish point of view, it is very advantageous that West Germany views the European Community as some sort of big native home, as another Samizdat author wrote under the pseudonym Timur in 1979. Germany’s new national identity weakens the forces that seek a revision of the Oder‐Neisse‐line. The Polish government needs to support the Western European integration process, which now also includes Germany. Instead, the Warsaw Pact attacks the idea of European integration wherever possible and welcomes eve‐ ry initiative to help end the European community.10 Despite Poland being a part of the Eastern bloc, it has for genera‐ tions identified itself with the values of Western civilization. Thus, the Westward integration of Germany was viewed as a return of the prodigal son to the ideological home by many Polish authors critical of the regime. Both nations now seemed to have an almost similar hierarchy of ideological and cultural values. This significantly re‐ duced Polish fears of Germany’s unpredictability. All in all, one can argue that up until the mid‐1970s, in the eyes of unofficial Polish authors Germany was a saturated nation—a nation that accepted the consequences of the Second World War no less than its division. Considering this, it seems absurd that the re‐ gime‐critical authors would provoke a passionate discussion on the German reunification in the late 1970s, but this is only on first sight. Developments in Germany did not warrant a new evaluation of the German question. The second half of the 1970s marks no break in 9 Kotowicz, Stanisław (Andrzej Szczypiorski): Niemcy, jacy Niemcy?, Krytyka, Vol. 7, 1980, pp. 159–116; cf. Ziemer, Klaus: Die Ostpolitik der Bundesrepublik Deutschland im Urteil der polnischen Oppositionsbewegung der siebziger und achtziger Jahre, in: Rocznik Polsko‐Niemiecki. Warsaw, 2006, pp. 169–192; Garsztecki, Das Deutschlandbild, p. 174. 10 Timur (= Krzysztof Wolicki): Niemcy, Krytyka, Vol. 5, 1979, pp. 59–67.

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this respect. The debate on the German reunification in Poland’s regime‐critical camp was essentially triggered by inner‐Polish rifts. At that time, a lively discussion broke out in the unofficial Polish discourse concerning Poland’s chances to gain full sovereignty. Some dissidents negated this. Jacek Kuroń, a founding member of the “Committee in defence of workers,” argued in late 1976: In light of Poland’s unfortunate geostrategic position, we can achieve Fin‐ land’s status, at best—but nothing more.11 This hypothesis caused outrage among the Polish opposition. Kuroń’s critics saw the struggle for full sovereignty as well as the separation from the Soviet sphere of influence as a categorical im‐ perative.12 They wanted to change the Yalta system. Since German partition was the basis of the Yalta system, Polish dissidents now focused on a German reunification. One of the first discussions was published in December 1977 in the Samizdat journal Opinia, which was published by the national‐minded movement for human and civil rights (ROPCIO). Of special interest are the statements of Adam Wojciechowski and Leszek Moczulski. Poland cannot live with the illusion that German will eventually settle with the partition, wrote Wojciechowski. Polish experience shows that the nation’s longing for unity cannot be extinguished. Wojciechowski opposed Polish politicians who saw the German partition and the alliance with the Soviet Union as a guarantee for Poland’s Western border. Soviet guarantees are subject to political cycles. It is foolish to take these guarantees as a basis for security and Poland’s territorial integrity. Only a united Germany can provide a legally binding acceptance of the Polish Western border in accordance with international law, ending the existing provisional character of the border. Leszek Moczulski spoke about the dilemma of the German ques‐ tion, too. On the one hand, the continuing existence of a separated Germany is unnatural. Unity is a basic right of every nation. On the 11 Kuroń Jacek: Myśli o programie działania, in: Idem.: Polityka i odpowiedzialnośc. London, 1984, pp. 124–142. 12 Cf. Luks, Leonid: Katholizismus und politische Macht im kommunistischen Polen 1945–1989. Die Anatomie einer Befreiung. Cologne, 1993, p. 101.

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other hand, given the Polish history with a united Germany, one does not like to see a fully autonomous Germany.13 In the opinion of many authors loyal to the regime, the Yalta sys‐ tem guaranteed Poland’s security for the first time in two centuries. However, for the majority of dissidents, writing in unofficial publi‐ cations, it was evil per se. The oppositional movement “Polish Agreement on Independ‐ ence” (PPN) wrote in 1978: The order of 1945, imposed on the Eu‐ ropeans, will collapse. Only the Soviet Union is interested in keeping it alive. The course of European borders will not be of importance after the collapse of Soviet hegemony. Thus, fears for the Oder‐ Neisse‐line are unfounded. In the West, borders have turned into abstract, permeable lines. Frequently, one does not even notice crossing them. Real borders only exist in the USSR’s sphere of influ‐ ence. Only Moscow is interested in shielding its dependencies from the outside world. As vehement enemies of the Yalta system, PPN authors called for the end of German partition. They believed that it was unbearable and absurd and only in the interest of the USSR. Those Polish forces welcoming the German partition are basically supporting Poland’s subjugation, too. For Soviet hegemony in East Central Europe is essentially secured by the German partition.14 The German media were amazed to see such a passionate case for the reunification of Germany, especially from Poland.15 However, the PPN’s memorandum did not trigger a broad public discourse in

13 Cf. Moczulski, Leszek: Jednośc i podział Niemiec, Aspekt, Vol. 2–3, 1979, pp. 62– 63. 14 PPN, no. 19, May 1978. 15 Cf. Die Zeit, July 14, 1978; Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, July 26, 1978; Die Welt, July 11, 1978; Polish authors loyal to the regime argued over the hypothe‐ sis of the PPN authors and accused the latter of national treachery. Cf. Mooshüt‐ ter, Xaver: Polens Nachbar im Westen: Deutschland, Osteuropa, Vol. 23, 1979, pp. 137–146; The PPN’s position was critically eyed by the exile, too. Cf. Piłsudski, Rowmund: Stosunki polsko‐niemieckie, Aspekte, Vol. 2–3, 1979, pp. 66–69; for Western reactions to the PPN writings cf. Garsztecki, Das Deutsch‐ landbild, p. 177; Ziemer: Die Ostpolitik, pp. 172–175; Mooshütter, Polens Nach‐ bar.

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Germany—to the huge disappointment of the PPN’s authors. In Feb‐ ruary 1980, they complained about the weak response from major German parties to their 1978 position paper, which dealt with a central German question: national reunification. According to the PPN, German politicians believed that the key to German unity lies in Moscow. Thus, the angle of East Central European countries is of little interest. But this is a misjudgment. In the case of a weakened Soviet Union—a prerequisite of German unity—the German reunifi‐ cation will depend on the consent of East Central European coun‐ tries, too.16 We have reason to doubt if PPN authors were interpreting the motives of German politicians correctly. The lack of interest of Bonn’s parties for the Polish dissident’s suggestions was probably rooted in the belief that any change of the European postwar order would be a gradual process. This was quite to the contrary of the PPN, who saw it as a right‐away program. PPN authors as well as other Polish proponents of a German reunification projected their own impatiens onto the Germans. Many Polish dissidents did not feel like waiting for the realiza‐ tion of their national aspirations, especially after the caesura of 1976 (the establishment of the “Committee in defence of workers” and other oppositional organizations). In their view, the existing state of affairs was untenable and intolerable. They assumed that Germans shared their view. However, they were not able to com‐ prehend that the national question ranked far behind Germany’s sociological or economic problems. Catholic authors, too, were involved in the censorship‐free dis‐ course on the triangle Russia–Poland–Germany; for instance, the aforementioned Stefan Kisielewski. In 1979, he laid out a possible scenario that would allow to overcome the German partition and published it in the unofficial journal Res Publica. According to Kisielewski, there is only one way to establish a united Germany. It

16 PPN, no. 38, February 1980; cf. Garsztecki, Das Deutschlandbild, pp. 148, 176– 178.

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would only be possible with Soviet approval. And one cannot rule out that Moscow is willing to give its permission for the price of partially neutralizing Germany. However, if that is the case, the situ‐ ation of Poland and every other East Central European state will deteriorate catastrophically, and not for the renewed German threat but for quite different reasons. Kisielewski was afraid that the Sovi‐ et leadership might transfer the troops stationed in the GDR to Po‐ land after Germany’s partition had been overcome. Moscow would then seal its sphere of power hermetically from the outside world. A process that would be of little concern to the West as they never had a huge interest in the Eastern European region. In the eyes of the West, Germany’s partition is the only evidence of the anomaly in this region. German unity would destroy the last links between East and West.17 Poland’s dissidents addressing German unity so openly—a taboo up until then—shows that Poland’s view on Germany changed fun‐ damentally after the signing of the Warsaw Treaty in December 1970. The bogeyman of a revanchist Germany was of no or little importance to the unofficial Polish press. This reflected the moods and spirits of Polish society in a more authentic way than the publi‐ cations loyal to the regime. The Polish‐Soviet or respectively Polish‐ Russian antagonism was now the subject in Poland, whereas the Polish‐German rivalry was no longer in the center of the public dis‐ course. The Solidarność revolution was inextricably linked to this change of paradigm. The revolution against the Warsaw puppet regime, as well as against its patrons in Moscow, was only able to reach an unprecedented scale as the regime was no longer able to discipline society with the German threat. The same is true for the declaration of martial law in December 1981. The German threat was immaterial to the intra‐Polish ten‐ sions. German revanchism did not cause the greatest irritations, but

17 Kisielewski Stefani: Czy geopolityka straciła znaczenie? Res Publica, Vol. 1, 1979, pp. 56–76.

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German pacifism did. The Polish opposition accused the German Federal political community to be too indulgent to Moscow. Bonn’s government settled for the suppression of the Solidarność move‐ ment, lest it endangered the détente of the East and the West. At least, those were the accusations of Polish dissidents.18 The euphoria of the 1970s’ German‐Polish rapprochement clear‐ ly faded away. On the other hand, reducing Polish fears of German revanchism and militarism was of immeasurable value to the German reunifica‐ tion process in the decisive year 1989. The United Germany was recognized as a state that drew lessons from the devastating experi‐ ence of the Third Reich and relinquished a German Sonderweg. Or as Heinrich August Winkler, a historian from Berlin, put it: Germany completed the long way to the West. The pacified and saturated Germany, which was integrated into the European community of values, helped consolidate the European order after 1989. And it did not lead to a destabilizing process as many had feared. Germany became the most important advocate for the now inde‐ pendent states of East Central Europe, including Poland, to join the European Union. That things would develop this way was already predicted by many Polish dissidents of the 1970s—despite some irritations that burdened the German‐Polish relations. A revised version of my article that appeared in Forum für ost‐ europäische Ideen‐ und Zeitgeschichte 1/2010. Translated by Immanuel Petermeier and Andreas Umland

18 Cf. Garsztecki, Das Deutschlandbild, pp. 127–128, 150–154; Ziemer, Die Ostpoli‐ tik, pp. 180–183.

Polish Antiauthoritarian Revolutions, the Euromaidan, and Putin’s Neo‐Imperial Doctrine1

Twenty‐five years ago, in April 1989, roundtable negotiations be‐ tween the government and the opposition took place in Warsaw. This turned out to be a kind of a prologue for the peaceful disman‐ tling of communist regimes in many countries of the Eastern Bloc, which was one of the most unexpected developments of the twenti‐ eth century that has recently come to an end. It is worth remember‐ ing that this “short century” has often been defined as an era of ex‐ tremities, concentration camps, or totalitarian violence. That this century’s end was generally marked by peaceful and mostly suc‐ cessful antiauthoritarian and antitotalitarian revolutions was re‐ garded by many as a kind of “political miracle.” The key incentive of these revolutions had been the aspiration of the “forgotten part” of the old continent behind the Iron Curtain to overcome the division of Europe symbolized by the Yalta Conference. The events of Euromaidan in Kyiv demonstrate that the process of getting over this division, which started 25 years ago in Poland, is not finished yet. Can one draw parallels between the Polish strife for a “return to Europe” and Euromaidan? I would like to confine myself to a few brief remarks. The first parallel concerns the role of Poland and Ukraine in heg‐ emonic structures created by the Kremlin leadership. Post‐Yalta Poland, the weakest link of the “External Soviet Empire” that emerged in 1945, was constantly undermining the empire’s power. Ukraine has been playing a similar role within Russia’s “near abroad,” especially after the Orange revolution of 2004. Just as dur‐ ing Brezhnev’s stagnation period, there were fears in Moscow that the independent Polish trade unions could prompt the unsatisfied workers of other socialist countries to follow the example of insub‐ 1 A revised version of my article that appeared in openDemocracy (April 1, 2014).

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ordinate Poles, the Kremlin’s supporters of the “managed democra‐ cy” fear that the upsurge of civil disobedience in “fraternal Ukraine” may affect other post‐Soviet states, including Russia. Indeed, the rudiments of Maidan could already be traced at the Bolotnaya square in Moscow. The second parallel that brings together the Solidarity’s “self‐ limiting revolution”2 and Maidan is the heterogeneity of the political groups participating in both revolutions. In Poland such controver‐ sial union turned out to be short lived. After the Solidarity’s victory at parliamentary elections in June 1989, when the ruling Communist party was literally swept from the political arena, the founding un‐ ion that was keeping Solidarity together also broke apart. That was the union between Catholic intellectuals and independent left‐wing groups, workers and intelligentsia, the leader of independent trade union Lech Wałęsa, and his advisors. However, the very fact that Solidarity, which since its inception has brought together different ideological strands, broke apart after the victory over the common adversary, is not very surprising. Break‐ups of controversial allianc‐ es of this sort that happen after victory over the common enemy have been almost a historical pattern. Similar processes were taking place in Ukraine after the victory of the Orange revolution in 2004. As one knows, the winning coalition fell apart rapidly, which even‐ tually facilitated Viktor Yanukovych’s political return in 2010. Most likely, the winning coalition that emerged at Euromaidan will not be long lasting. The contradictions between its liberal‐ democratic and radical nationalist wings are too strong. At this point, while comparing Polish and Ukrainian events, I would like to consider the key difference between them. On December 13, 1981, when the Polish generals introduced martial law, putting an end to the 16‐month “carnival” of freedom organized by Solidarity, the country seemed to be on the brink of a civil war. That this war did not break out was to a large extent due to the Polish Catholic Church, which was respected both by the gov‐ 2 See Staniszkis, Jadwiga: Poland´s Self‐Limiting Revolution. New Jersey 1984.

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ernment and the opposition, and was calling both sides of the con‐ flict for moderation. As a mediator between almost completely iso‐ lated regime and oppositional public, it contributed significantly to the de‐escalation of the situation.3 There is no authority of a similar weight in politically and culturally split Ukraine. And it is precisely at this moment of Euromaidan’s triumph over Yanukovych’s corrupt regime that the lack of such authoritative body is felt sharply, con‐ sidering the heterogeneity of the victorious coalition as well as the dangerous tensions between particular regions of the country. At this point, another major difference between Solidarity and Euromaidan catches the eye. Like Euromaidan, Solidarity relied upon a wide coalition of liberal, left‐wing, and nationalist groups. However, Solidarity’s alliance did not include any radical national‐ ists of Oleh Tyahnybok’s party “Svoboda” type. For the left wing of Solidarity in particular, which was headed by political activists like Jacek Kuroń and Adam Michnik, as well as for left‐wing Catholics like Tadeusz Mazowiecki, a union with radical nationalists would have been unacceptable. At Euromaidan, however, things are differ‐ ent. That radicals from “Svoboda” party and radical‐nationalist groups of the quite influential at the Maidan “Pravyi Sector” play such an active role in managing the Ukrainian revolution compli‐ cates the reception of the revolution in the West—despite Euro‐ maidan is no less popular there than Solidarity back in those days. Certainly, radical nationalist movement represents just a small segment of Maidan. Still, in spite of the euphoria caused by the vic‐ tory of the democratic revolution in Ukraine, one shouldn’t turn a blind eye to the possibility of a serious threat to the young Ukraini‐ an democracy coming from the right‐wing segment of Maidan. Finally, I’d like to add a few more words about Russia. While since the beginning of the confrontation at Maidan the EU has been keeping in touch with both sides of the conflict, Kremlin has identi‐ fied itself exclusively with Yanukovych’s camp. The Ukrainian oppo‐

3 See Luks, Leonid: Katholizismus und politische Macht im kommunistischen Polen 1945–1989. Die Anatomie einer Befreiung. Köln, 1993, S.135–157.

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sition as a political actor did not exist for Kremlin. Here, Vladimir Putin made the same mistake that his soviet predecessors had been making in their Poland politics until the very beginning of Gorba‐ chev’s perestroika. As one knows, they placed their stakes exclusive‐ ly on their partners—Polish Communists. It is for this reason that immediately after communists were stripped of power, Warsaw was wary about Moscow. Repetition of the previous intervention threats was deemed possible at that stage. However, nothing of that kind happened. The reason behind that was that Leonid Brezhnev was not in charge of the Soviet state’s fate. In his place was Mikhail Gor‐ bachev who announced nonintervention in the neighboring coun‐ tries’ politics as one of the key principles of his foreign policy. The current advocates of “managed democracy” in Moscow are acting in a completely different way, trying to punish Ukraine for the “European choice” that it has made. Thus, they are following not Gorbachev but Brezhnev who spoke about the limited sovereignty of the “fraternal” socialist countries. Putin transfers this doctrine to some of the countries of the “near abroad.” Back in the days (in April 2005), Putin has called the break‐up of the Soviet Union the “greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the centu‐ ry.” But at the same time, he has warned against the attempts at restoring the collapsed empire, and accused those trying to revive the bygone structures of naivety, or utopianism. By meddling into the internal affairs of Ukraine and encouraging separatism in the East of the country and in the Crimea, the Russian president seems to be forgetting his own warnings and trying to implement the uto‐ pian scenario that he himself has previously criticized—at least the part of it regarding the partial restoration of the collapsed empire. Such attempts at turning back the wheel of history have usually had little success. The fate of Yugoslavia can serve as a graphic example. PS: By showing solidarity with Putin’s Crimean policy, Mikhail Gor‐ bachev seems to have turned his back on his former principle of noninterference in the internal affairs of neighboring countries. Translated from the Russian by Anton Shekhovtsov

Part IV. The Jewish Question

The Craving for “Organic National Unity” and the “Jewish Question” in the Writings of Fedor Dostoevsky and Heinrich von Treitschke

In Russia and Germany, during the 1870s and 1880s, there were discussions on “the Jewish Question” taking place, which would later determine the Russian‐Jewish and German‐Jewish relations. Their extraordinary explosive force was, not least, connected to the fact that among their most important protagonists were two au‐ thors who were highly influential in their times—Fedor Dostoevsky and Heinrich von Treitschke. When comparing the arguments of Dostoevsky and Treitschke, their similarity is striking. This was the case despite the fact that the situation of the German Jews was fundamentally different from that of their brethren in Russia. In Germany, at that time, the process of the emancipation of the Jews had almost been completed. In Russia, by contrast, it has just started under the rule of the liberal Tsar Al‐ exander II. Nevertheless, both authors were convinced that the Jews constituted a nonassimilable “state within the state,” both in Ger‐ many and in Russia. This “state within the state” posed, according to Dostoevsky and Treitschke, an unpredictable danger. How can one explain the parallels in the thinking of these two authors? Was their Judophobia, perhaps, linked to their common dream of a general national reconciliation, and their perception of the Jews as troublemakers, as one element on their way to reaching this aim? This question will be the subject of this chapter. At first, however, it will deal with the domestic political situation in Russia and Germany during the 1870s and at the beginning of the 1880s, that is, concerning the moment when the aforementioned contro‐ versies took place. Among the national peculiarities of Germany and Russia had been, for centuries, the deep inner division of both nations. The

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division in Germany had, above all, political‐confessional reasons, while the division in Russia had sociocultural ones. In the second half of the nineteenth century, nevertheless, both countries went through short phases of national reconciliation linked to “revolu‐ tions from above.” Both in Russia and in Germany, it seemed possi‐ ble that the generation‐old dream of a bridging of the social or polit‐ ical divisions would come true. In the Tsarist Empire, the liberal monarch Alexander II (1855–1881) initiated his Great Reforms, at the center of which stood the abolition of serfdom. In Germany, Otto von Bismarck ended the political division of the nation and thus solved a problem that the revolution of 1848 had not been able to tackle. Both “presents from above” were, at the beginning, gratefully accepted by society. A general reconciliation between the rulers and the ruled seemed possible, and the still existing domestic political contradictions started to loose their edge. In Russia, even radical enemies of the existing system, such as the anarchist Mikhail Baku‐ nin, were temporarily infected by this atmosphere of national rec‐ onciliation. He called upon those political groups that wanted to continue their revolutionary struggle to moderate their demands.1 There was, in Russia, not only the abyss between the ruling bu‐ reaucracy and the forces critical of the regime—a division that had continued to intensify ever since the rising of the Decembrists in 1825. Since the 1830s, that is, since the publication of Petr Chaa‐ daevs “Philosophical Letters” in 1836, Russia was also shaken by a fierce controversy between the Westerners and the Slavophiles. The Westerners regarded Peter the Great’s opening of Russia to Europe as a blessing, whereas the Slavophiles perceived this as a curse. During the “thaw” of the first years of rule by Alexander II, there were attempts to bridge these divisions. The group of the so‐called pochvenniki (pochva—soil) or nativists, whose most important rep‐ resentatives were the poet Appolon Grigor’ev, Fedor Dostoevsky,

1 Polonskii, Viacheslav: Zhizn´ Mikhaila Bakunina 1814–1874. Leningrad, 1926.

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and his brother Mikhail, argued, with special verve, for the reconcil‐ iation of the two antagonistic groups.2 The pochvenniki unveiled the weaknesses of both Westernism and Slavophilism and pointed out several misunderstandings that had, in the first place, led to the emergence of the controversy. The Canadian historian Wayne Dowler, who studied the program of the pochvenniki in detail, mentions that the ambition of them and of their press organ Vremia, namely, to play the role of a judge in the Russian debate, was perceived as pretentious by their opponents. Instead of reconciling both parties, the pochvenniki got themselves into a sort of two‐front war with both the Westernists and the Slav‐ ophiles.3 The rapid rise and equally fast fall of pochvennichestvo was symptomatic for the short‐lived liberal hopes of the first years of rule of Alexander II and for the disillusionment that followed. In‐ stead of managing to overcome her divisions and reach for a general reconciliation, Russia was heading toward a total confrontation. The most irreconcilable enemy of the Tsarist regime, the revolutionary intelligentsia, was getting ever more radical in spite of the fact that St. Petersburg’s government had now begun to meet, one by one, many of the demands, which, for generations, had been put forward by the critics of the Russian autocracy: liberation of the peasants, weakening of censorship, legal reforms, and the creation of a rela‐ tively independent local self‐government. However, for the radical enemies of monarchy this became irrelevant. On the contrary, the more liberal the existing regime became, the more radically it was attacked by the intelligentsia. The belief in the healing power of the revolution, which had ceased in the West after the failure of the 1848–1949 revolution, now began, at full speed, to take hold of the opposition wing of the Russian public. The Russian philosopher Semen Frank remarked that in prerevolutionary Russia one needed unusual civic courage to speak out, in public, for a policy of com‐ 2 See: Dowler, Wanyne: Dostoevsky, Grigor´ev, and Native Soil Conservatism. Toronto, 1982. 3 Ibid.

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promises.4 The historian Theodor Schieder added: The uncondition‐ ality and absoluteness, which were characteristic of the revolution‐ ary belief of the intelligentsia, were practically unknown in the West.5 In 1869, at a moment when the government of Alexander II was thoroughly renewing Russia and thereby even making it to a certain extent “unrecognizable,” one of the most radical enemies of the re‐ gime, Sergei Nechaev, wrote his “Revolutionary Catechism,” in which he states: The revolutionary is a blessed human being. He has no personal in‐ terests, […] feelings or inclinations, no property, not even a name. Everything in him is consumed by a single […] thought, a single pas‐ sion—the revolution. […] If he continues to live in this world, this is only to destroy it for sure […]. Between him and society, there is war to the death, an open or secret battle, but always permanently and irreconcilably.6

The irreconcilable extremism and even revolutionary mania of a part of the Russian intelligentsia was vividly exposed by Fedor Dos‐ toevsky in one of the greatest novels of world literature—The De‐ mons. Dostoevsky, confronted only with the first seeds of this de‐ ranged world view, saw, in fact like a prophet, with a stunning clari‐ ty the grave consequences such a mode of thinking would have in the future. The fanatical devotion, with which the revolutionaries served their ideals, their absolute belief in the future social paradise on earth was perceived by Dostoevsky as a perverted form of religiosi‐ ty, as a sort of idolatry. For him, Socialism was only on the surface a

4 Frank, Semen: Krushenie kumirov. Paris, 1924, pp. 15–16. 5 Schieder, Theodor: Das Problem der Revolution im 19. Jahrhundert, in: Schie‐ der, Theodor: Staat und Gesellschaft im Wandel der Zeit. Studien zur Geschichte des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts. Munich, 1970, pp. 11–57. 6 As quoted in: Marx, Karl and Engels, Friedrich: Werke, Vol. 1–39. Berlin, 1959– 1968, here: Vol. 18, pp. 427–431.

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sociopolitical doctrine. Much more important than its political ob‐ jective was its yearning to become an alternative to Christianity.7 This definition laid claim to universal validity, yet it described, in the first instance, Russian circumstances rather than Western ones. In The Demons, Dostoevsky turned not only against socialist, but also against nationalist idols. The novel’s character representing the idea of the chosenness of the Russian nation, Shatov, is in a dispute with Stavrogin accused of the following: [You] reduce God to a simple attribute of nationality” […] “I reduce God to the attribute of nationality?”, cried Shatov. “On the contrary, I raise the people to God […]. The people is the body of God. Every people is only a people so long as it has its own god and excludes all other gods on earth irreconcilably; so long as it believes that by its god it will conquer and drive out of the world all other gods […]. A nation which loses this belief ceases to be a nation. But there is only one truth, and therefore only a single one out of the nations can have the true god […]. Only one nation is “god‐bearing,” that’s the Rus‐ sian people.

And when Stavrogin asks Shatov after this tirade if he believes in God, the bewildered Shatov answers: “I … I will believe in God.”8 In view of the relentless disavowment of the nationalist aberra‐ tion of the hero of his novel, the ideology, which Dostoevsky himself advocated in his journalistic writings, is all the more incomprehen‐ sible. In many respects it reminds of the Shatovian concept. For Dostoevsky hoped to overcome, with the help of his national senti‐ ment, the ever deeper social and national divide that segregated Russia. In January 1877, he put down the following postulate in his Writer’s Diary: “Every great people believes and must believe, if it wants to survive long, that in it and in it alone is contained the means to save the world; that it lives in order to stand at the head of the nations, to

7 See, on this, above all his novels The Demons and The Idiot. 8 Dostoevsky, Fyodor: The Possessed (translated by Constance Garnett, 1916). URL: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/8117/8117‐h/8117‐h.htm.

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bring them all to communion with it and to lead them, in a harmoni‐ ous choir, toward the ultimate goal for which they are destined.”9

This belief, which had characterized the ancient Rome, France, and Germany, Dostoevsky continues his line of argument, does of course also influence the Russian people, especially the Slavophiles, who believed that Russia, together with the Slavic world and at its head, will pro‐ nounce the greatest word the world has ever heard and that this world will be the mandate for the unity of all humanity, and that this will happen not in the spirit of personal egoism […]. The ideal of the Slavophiles was unity in the spirit of genuine, broad love, without lies and materialism […]. Our entire salvation lies only in not argu‐ ing in advance about how to realize this idea and in what form— yours or mine—but for all of us together to leave our writing desks and get directly down to business.10

Dostoevsky had high hopes for the Russian‐Turkish War, which had broken out at the beginning of 1877 and was later described by the historian Reinhard Wittram as the first and only Pan‐Slavist war of Russia.11 Dostoevsky hoped that this war, which had been triggered by the suppression of the Southern Slavs’ uprising by the Ottomans, would unite the divided Russian society: We also need this war for ourselves; we rise up not only for our “brother Slavs” who have been suffering at the hands of the Turks but for our own salvation as well: war will clear the air we breathe […]. The wise men shout that we are perishing and suffocating from our own internal disorganization and that therefore we should seek not war but, rather, a prolonged peace […]. In such a case, it would

9 Dostoevsky, Fyodor: A Writer’s Diary, Vol. 2, 1877–1881. Evanston, 2000, p. 826. 10 Ibid., pp. 829 f. 11 Wittram, Reinhard: Das russische Imperium und sein Gestaltwandel, in: Histori‐ sche Zeitschrift 187,1959, pp. 568–593, here: p. 588.

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be interesting to know how they […] acquire any honor for them‐ selves through a clearly dishonorable act.12

At the Russian skeptics, as well as the Western adversaries of Rus‐ sia, Dostoevsky replied the following: And the beginning of the current People’s war, and all the recent cir‐ cumstances that preceded it, have merely made it patently obvious to everyone who knows how to look that the People truly are one, that we are fresh, and that our People’s strength has not been touched to any real extent by the decay that has spoiled our wise men. […] They have overlooked the entire Russian People as a living force and have overlooked a colossal fact: the union of the tsar with his People! It’s only this they have overlooked!13

It is striking how much the visionary Dostoevsky, who had in his literary work anticipated the tragedies of the twentieth century with an unequalled edge, lagged in his journalistic work far behind the present developments. He let himself be deceived by the façade of national unity, which accompanied the war of 1877–1978, and overlooked the actual extent of the nation’s dividedness. Four years after Dostoevsky had spoken of the “union of the tsar with his People,” the presumably most liberal Tsar of recent Russian history was murdered by the terrorist organization “Narodnaya Volya.” The victorious war over Turkey did in no way contribute to a national reconciliation. On the contrary, after this event the pro‐ cess of the polarization of society entered an even more radical phase. *** Like Russia, Germany experienced at that time a period of develop‐ ment that was not all too pleasant for the advocates of national harmony. The German unity, perceived by many as a kind of com‐ 12 Dostoevsky, A Writer’s Diary, Vol. 2, p. 930; see also: Vinogradov,V. N: Kantsler M. Gorchakov v vodovorote vostochnogo krizisa 70‐kh godov XIX veka, Slavja‐ novedenie, vol. 5, 2003, pp. 16–24, here: p. 18. 13 Dostoevsky, A Writer’s Diary, Vol. 2, pp. 932 f.

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pletion of national history, had been associated with euphoric ex‐ pectations. Some even asked themselves why their generation had deserved to be witness to such epochal events. In this sense, for example, the historian Heinrich von Sybell wrote: “Through what has one earned the mercy of God, to be allowed to live through such great and mighty things? And how will one live after?” and contin‐ ued in his letter to his colleague Hermann Baumgarten, dated from January 27, 1871: That which was the content of all desires and efforts for twenty years, is now fulfilled in such an infinitely magnificent way! From what should one as advanced in age as I still draw new content for living on?14

History, however, has, in contrast to Francis Fukuyama’s thesis, no end. It moves on. The euphoria ceased quickly, for the hoped‐for national reconciliation did not take place, despite Bismarck’s un‐ precedented foreign policy successes. On the contrary, the confron‐ tational domestic policy of the “Iron Chancellor,” his Machiavellian playing off of several political movements against others, intensified only the already existing and did not overcome tensions and con‐ flicts of interest. Constantly new groups were classified as enemies of the Empire—Catholics, Social Democrats, and Particularists. After the Conservative turn of the Reich Chancellor in 1878, even those parts of the German public, which had accepted Bismarck’s “pre‐ sent” for the Germans—the foundation of the German Reich—with particular gratitude, came in conflict with the government: the Na‐ tional Liberals, mainly their left wing. The “Greek gift” of the defeated Frenchmen—their unexpectedly quick payment of the war contributions, by the way one of the caus‐ es for the founding crash of 1873—contributed to the depressive mood. The rapid modernization process of the country, which ac‐ companied Bismarck’s revolution, suffered its first setback. Many

14 As quoted in: Gall, Lothar: Bismarck. Der weiße Revolutionär. Frankfurt, 1980, p. 467. Translated into English by the translator.

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began to doubt the sense of modernity and especially the liberal values that were regarded as the synonym of modernity: “The [lib‐ eral] Manchester policy is dangerous to the public and the state,” wrote the journalist Otto Glagau, who was one of the most radical critics of the liberal idea, after the founding crash, and added: All honest, well‐meaning people must fight it vigorously and join up for this purpose, no matter what political party or direction they be‐ long to otherwise.15

A similarly vehement campaign against liberal values was led by the orientalist Paul de Lagarde, who anticipated in his cultural pessimis‐ tic “German Writings” many ideas of the Weimar Conservative Revolution.16 For Lagarde and his fellow campaigners, the Jews were the most important spearhead of liberalism, and as a result the rebellion against modernity they inspired was directed mainly against the Jews. In 1881, Lagarde wrote: Jews and Liberals are natural allies, both are not products of nature but artificial products. Whoever does not want the German Reich to

15 Claussen, Detlev: Vom Judenhaß zum Antisemitismus: Materialien einer verleug‐ neten Geschichte. Darmstadt, 1987, p. 97. Translated into English by the transla‐ tor. 16 On the “conservative revolution” see, among others: Rauschning, Hermann: The Conservative Revolution. New York, 1941; Mohler, Armin: Die Konservative Revolution in Deutschland: Der Grundriß ihrer Weltanschauung. Stuttgart, 1950; Sontheimer, Kurt: Der Tatkreis, in: Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 6 (1958), pp. 229–260; Sontheimer, Kurt: Antidemokratisches Denken in der Weimarer Republik. Munich, 1968; Kuhn, Helmut: Das geistige Gesicht der Weimarer Re‐ publik, in: Zeitschrift für Politik 8, 1961, pp. 1–10; von Klemperer, Klemens: Konservative Bewegungen: Zwischen Kaiserreich und Nationalsozialis‐ mus.Munich, 1962; Stern, Fritz: Kulturpessimismus als politische Gefahr. Bern, 1963; Breuer, Stefan: Anatomie der Konservativen Revolution. Darmstadt 1993; Luks, Leonid: “Eurasier“ und „Konservative Revolution“. Zur antiwestlichen Versuchung in Rußland und in Deutschland”, in: Koenen, Gerd and Kopelew, Lew: (eds.), Deutschland und die Russische Revolution 1917–1924. Munich, 1998, pp. 219–239.

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become the playground of Homunculi must act […] against Jews and Liberals.17

By identifying modernity with the Jews, Lagarde and his fellow campaigners apparently managed to free themselves from a vicious cycle. The hopeless struggle against the omnipotent and anonymous forces of modernity was turned into a struggle against specific and indeed vulnerable Jews. The defeat or “removal” of the Jews should automatically lead to the creation of the patriarchal idyll and the so painfully missed organic unity of the nation. The contours of an un‐ precedented “biologistic” resp. racist revolution took shape. The Israeli historian Jacob Talmon characterized them as follows: Racist antisemitism focused on the Jews as the solvent of the integri‐ ty of the nation (or race) and the destroyer of its unerring instinct. As capitalist or socialist, the Jew was the bearer of alien abstract values, the destroyer of national solidarity, fomenter of class war and internal strive, a cosmopolitan exploiter plotting world domina‐ tion. The elimination of the Jews assumed the dimension of a social and national revolution and of a moral renaissance. On the universal plane, the Jew was made to appear as the eternal inciter, ever since Moses, of all the mobs of lower breeds against the national elites of the superior races.18

What methods did the fighters against the alleged “Jewish suprema‐ cy” in the Bismarck‐Reich want to use to contribute to the internal consolidation and the “recovery” of the German nation? Otto Glagau proposed the following “therapy”: I do not want to kill or slaughter the Jews or drive them out of this country; I do not want to confiscate anything of what they possess,

17 de Lagarde, Paul: Deutsche Schriften. Göttingen, 1920, p. 349. Translated into English by the translator. On Lagarde’s world view, see: Stern, Kulturpessimis‐ mus; Pulzer, Peter, G. J. : Die Entstehung des politischen Antisemitismus in Deutschland und Österreich 1867–1914.Gütersloh, 1966, pp. 75–77.; Nipperdey, Thomas: Deutsche Geschichte 1866–1918: Erster Band. Arbeitswelt und Bürger‐ geist. Munich, 1990, pp. 825–826. 18 Talmon, Jacob: The Myth of the Nation and the Vision of Revolution: The Origins of Ideological Polarisation in the Twentieth Century. London, 1981, p. 13.

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but I want to revise them, revise them completely. No longer shall false tolerance and sentimentality, weary weakness and fear keep us Christians from acting against the excesses, outrages and preten‐ tiousness of the Jews. We can no longer tolerate that the Jews are pushing themselves to the fore, to the head, that they are seizing power everywhere, are also seizing the word. They always push us Christians aside, they push us to the wall, they take from us the air and the breath […]. The whole of the world’s history knows no oth‐ er example where a people without a home, a physically and psycho‐ logically most degenerate race, dominates the world, just due to its cunning and slyness, its usury and haggling.19

And Paul de Lagarde added: Every alien body in another living body produces discomfort, illness, often even purulence and death […]. The Jews as Jews are alien in every single European state, and as alien nothing but bearers of de‐ cay. If they want to become members of a non‐Jewish state, they must, with all their heart and all their power, reject the law of Mo‐ ses, whose purpose it is to make them aliens everywhere outside Ju‐ dea […]. For this law and the exacerbating arrogance, which comes from it, retains them as an alien race: but we cannot tolerate a na‐ tion within the nation.20

This campaign against “Jewish troublemakers,” who allegedly stood in the way of the imagined national unity, reached a particularly strong vigor when Heinrich von Treitschke, the most famous Ger‐ man historian and author of the day, joined in. In his article “Our Prospects,” from November 15, 1879, which opened a new chapter in the history of the German hostility towards 19 Claussen, Vom Judenhaß zum Antisemitismus, pp. 103–104. Translated into English by the translator. 20 Lagarde, Deutsche Schriften, p. 278. Translated into English by the translator. On antisemitism in the German Kaiserreich, see, among others: Pulzer, Die Ent‐ stehung des politischen Antisemitismus; Jochmann, Werner: Gesellschaftskrise und Judenfeindschaft in Deutschland 1870–1945. Hamburg, 1991; Zechlin, Eg‐ mont: Die deutsche Politik und die Juden im Ersten Weltkrieg. Göttingen, 1969; Stern, Fritz: Gold und Eisen: Bismarck und sein Bankier Bleichröder. Frankfurt /M.1980; Volkov, Shulamit: Jüdisches Leben und Antisemitismus im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert: Zehn Essays. Munich, 1990; Poliakov, Léon: Geschichte des Antise‐ mitismus, Vol. 7 (Worms, 1988), pp. 13–43.

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Jews, Treitschke first turned against the so‐called rowdy‐anti‐ Semitism, yet asked whether the occurrence of this phenomenon, the public anger directed against the Jews, was without a cause, and gave the following answer: No, the instinct of the masses has in fact clearly recognized a great danger, a serious sore spot of the new German national life; the cur‐ rent expression “the German Jewish question” is more than an emp‐ ty phrase.

Then Treitschke comes to conclusions, which should turn out to be even more devastating for the further development of political cul‐ ture in Germany than many of the demagogic slogans of the “rowdy‐ anti‐Semites.” He writes: It is already a gain that an evil which everybody sensed but which nobody wanted to touch is now discussed openly. Let us not deceive ourselves: The movement is deep and strong. A few jokes about the words of wisdom from the mouths of Christian‐Socialist soap‐box orators [Treitschke here refers to the appearances of the anti‐ Semitic Christian‐Social (Workers’) Party of the court chaplain Adolf Stoecker—L. L.] will not be sufficient to suppress it. Even in the best educated circles, among men who would reject with horror any thought of Christian fanaticism or national arrogance, we hear today the cry, as from one mouth, “the Jews are our misfortune!”21

Treitschke’s critic of the Jews was in certain points extremely simi‐ lar to that of the “rowdy‐anti‐Semites.” He wrote: […] it cannot be denied that the Jews have contributed their part to the promoting of business with its dishonesty and bold cupidity, that they share heavily in the guilt for the contemptible materialism of our age which regards every kind of work only as business […]. In many thousands of German villages we have the Jewish usurer. Among the leading names of art and science there are not many Jews. The greater is the number of Semitic hustlers among the third‐ 21 von Treitschke, Heinrich: A Word About Our Jewry, in: Paul Mendes‐Flohr and Jehuda Reinharz (eds.): The Jew in the Modern World. A Documentary History. New York and Oxford, 1995, pp. 343–346, here: pp. 343, 345.

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rank talents […]. The greatest danger, however, is the unjust influ‐ ence of the Jews in the press.22

And how did Treitschke want to solve the so‐called German‐Jewish question? He objected a renewed deprivation of rights of Jews, which many radical anti‐Semites demanded: [the] abolition […] of the Emancipation […] would be an open injus‐ tice, a betrayal of the fine traditions of our state, and would accentu‐ ate rather than mitigate the national contrasts.

Treitschke regarded as the only possible means of overcoming the German‐Jewish opposition a total assimilation of the Jews, the com‐ plete abandonment of their identity: they [shall] become Germans, regard themselves simply and justly as Germans, without prejudice to their faith and their old sacred past which all of us hold in reverence; for we do not want an era of German‐Jewish mixed culture to follow after thousands of years of German civilization.23

At the same time, however, Treitschke knows that his demanding of the Jews “that they become Germans, regard themselves simply and justly as Germans,” can never be completely fulfilled: “There has always been an abyss between Europeans and Semites […]. There will always be Jews who are nothing else but German‐speaking ori‐ entals.”24 These theses of a respected scholar led to a general outrage among the Jewish public, thereby not only among those Jews, whom Treitschke had categorized as “German‐speaking orientals,” but also those whom Treitschke had awarded the attribute of honor “Ger‐ man.” The latter also included the historian Harry Breßlau. Treitschke’s thoughts were nothing unusual for Breßlau. They reflected the generally popular tendency to 22 Ibid., p. 344. See also: von Treitschke, Heinrich: Briefe, Vol. 3. Edited by M. Cor‐ nicelius (Leipzig, 1920), pp. 468, 502–503, 515. 23 Treitschke, A Word About Our Jewry, pp. 343 f., 345. 24 Ibid., p. 345.

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find a scapegoat that one can burden with one’s own and the other’s guilt. In Germany the Jews had always had to serve this purpose. In a similar way as one could blame on them that in the 13th century Germany had been betrayed to the Mongols, or that in the 14th cen‐ tury the plague had raged, today they are the comfortable scapegoat for everyone. To them the Conservatives attribute the main share of the blame for the liberal legislation, and the Ultramontanists for the cultural struggle; they are made responsible for the alleged corrup‐ tion of our press and our publishing industry, for the economic cri‐ sis, for the general emergency and the decay of music.25

The fact that Treitschke, despite his scientific rank and reputation, used similarly simplistic patterns of thought shocked Breßlau. Treitschke, who was bursting with self‐righteousness, in turn, as‐ cribed Breßlau’s reaction to the article, in which he had supposedly spared the Jews to the “sick,” “exaggerated sensitivity” of the Ger‐ man Jew.26 Thus, even those Jews who, from Treitschke’s point of view, ex‐ perienced themselves “without reservation as Germans,” ultimately proved to be Jews and thus basically nonassimilable alien bodies in the German people’s organism. Within a very short time, Treitschke’s views on the “German Jew‐ ish question” became more and more radical. In January 1880, only two months after the beginning of the “anti‐Semitism debate” he had himself induced, he described the thesis of one of his Jewish opponents (M. Lazarus), namely, that “Judaism is German in the same sense as Christianity,” as outrageous: The most cultured nations of the present, the Western European na‐ tions, are all Christian nations. That living consciousness of unity, which is the condition of nationality, cannot, as a rule, establish itself

25 Breßlau, Harry: Zur Judenfrage: Sendschreiben an Herrn Professor Dr. Heinrich von Treitschke, in: Walter Boehlich (ed.): Der Berliner Antisemitismusstreit. Frankfurt /M.1965, pp. 52–76, here: p. 74. Translated into English by the trans‐ lator. 26 Treitschke, Noch einige Bemerkungen zur Judenfrage, in: von Treitschke, Hein‐ rich: Aufsätze, Vol. 4, pp. 494–503, here: p. 494. Translated into English by the translator.

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among men who think fundamentally different about the greatest and holiest questions of mental life.27

According to his dictum, the Jews had in principle no right of exist‐ ence on German soil, not only as a nation but also as a religious community. With this Treitschke contradicted his own theses, which he had put down a couple of weeks earlier, in December 1879: Our state has never seen anything else in the Jews other than a reli‐ gious community, and it can not leave this single legal concept under any circumstances; it has entitled them to the civil equality expect‐ ing that they would strive to be equal to their fellow‐citizens. [… If Judaism even demands] the approval of its nationality, then the ground of rights, on which the emancipation rests, collapses. […] On German soil there is no room for a double‐nation.28

A few weeks later, Treitschke questioned the status of the Jews as a religious community. The political scandal, which Treitschke’s anti‐Semitic theses pro‐ voked, might in some respects be compared to the Dreyfus affair a decade and a half later. Thereby the failure of the anti‐Semitic con‐ spiracy against Alfred Dreyfus is often regarded as a sign of the ma‐ turity of French political culture. Here the ideals of 1789 retained their formative and identity‐establishing significance in the late nineteenth century. On the other hand, it must not be forgotten that Treitschke’s provocations prompted many Germans to solidarize with the Jews attacked. Émile Zola’s “J’accuse” of 1898 has its counterpart in the Berlin Declaration of November 12, 1880, which was signed by 75 persons and strongly condemned anti‐Semitism and contained, among other things, the following passages: In an unexpected and profoundly shameful manner the racial hatred and fanaticism of the Middle Ages are now being re‐established in

27 Ibid., pp. 500–501. Translated into English by the translator. 28 Treitschke, Herr Graetz und sein Judentum, in: Treitschke, Aufsätze, Vol. 4, pp. 483–493, here: p. 492. Translated into English by the translator.

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various places, especially in the largest cities of the Reich, and di‐ rected against our Jewish fellow‐citizens. […] Now, if envy and re‐ sentment are speechified only abstractly by the leaders of this movement, the masses will not miss to turn this talk into actions. People rattle at Lessing’s legacy, who should proclaim in the pulpit and on the lectern that our culture has overcome the isolation of that tribe, which once gave the world the worship of the one God.29

The signers of the declaration included leading representatives of the liberal spectrum of the German public, that is, famous colleagues of Treitschke such as Theodor Mommsen, Johann Gustav Droysen, Rudolf Virchow, and Rudolf von Gneist. However, this commitment of the German Liberals to tolerance and the recognition of such universal values as legal equality and human rights could only to a limited extent moderate the disastrous consequences of Treitschke’s anti‐Jewish campaign. This had to do with the general erosion of universal values and triumph of the par‐ ticularist, “linguistic” nationalism (Lewis Namier), which was to be observed throughout Europe, not least in Germany, in the second half of the nineteenth century. As Jakob Talmon emphasizes, Euro‐ pean nationalism was in the beginning romantic and effusive. Eve‐ rywhere one enjoyed the vision of a natural solidarity and fraterni‐ zation of free peoples.30 This vision, however, failed miserably dur‐ ing the revolution of 1848, and so the absolute national egoism, which was not subject to universal values, prevailed. The maximal display of power of the own nation at the expense of others was now regarded as a sort of categorical imperative. It was only in this atmosphere that a specific concept of realpolitik could be developed by Ludwig August von Rochau—a member of the 1848 movement —who, after the collapse of the idealistic dreams of his generation,

29 Berliner Antisemitismusstreit, p. 203. Translated into English by the translator. On Treitschke’s reaction to this declaration, see: Treitschke, Briefe, Vol. 3, pp. 524 ff., 528. 30 Talmon, Jacob: Political Messianism: The Romantic Phase. London, 1960.

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now idolized power and dismissed ideas, which were not backed by power, as mere chimeras.31 It was the weak and the oppressed, wrote Jacob Talmon in this context, who had originally spoken of rights. The power of rights had been a kind of shield for them. Later, however, one began to speak of the right of power.32 Since the despisers of universal values regarded their own na‐ tion as the crown of creation and their maximal inner cohesion and organic homogeneity as maybe the most important moral impera‐ tive, they defamed all political forces, who did not give the same importance to this goal, as “unpatriotic journeymen.” And this mor‐ alizing amoralism had to a certain extent impressed the opponents of a rigid nationalism. For they, too, in spite of all their doubts, par‐ ticipated in the nationalist zeitgeist, which Thomas Nipperdey char‐ acterized as follows: The nation is [for it] the […] most important individual group—not the social rank, the confession, the territory of the state, the land‐ scape and region, and not the class or the political direction in the world’s civil war; the nation is the group, which demands and is al‐ lowed to demand the greatest loyalty, which rewards and demands the risk of life, which carries and shapes culture and education, the entire interpretation of the world, even more, the sense and mean‐ ing of collective and individual life as the role of religion is fading […]. This is European common ground and […] no “German Sonderweg”33

It must, however, be emphasized that the divide between the uni‐ versal and the particular (national) values was particularly great in Germany. This was the case not least because German nationalism celebrated its greatest triumphs during an epoch in which realpoli‐ tik, the glorification of power as such, reached its climax. In this 31 von Rochau, Ludwig August: Grundzüge der Realpolitik angewendet auf die staatlichen Zustände Deutschlands. Stuttgart, 1853. 32 Talmon, Jacob: The Unique and the Universal. London, 1965, p. 165. 33 Nipperdey, Thomas: Deutsche Geschichte 1866–1918. Zweiter Band: Machtstaat vor der Demokratie. Munich, 1992, p. 84 – translated into English by the transla‐ tor; see also Nipperdey, Deutsche Geschichte 1866–1918. Erster Band, p. 814.

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context, Thomas Nipperdey writes of the surprising intensity, with which the political “idealism” and the “policy of principles” in Ger‐ many—also in national‐liberal circles—changed into a belief in power as the result of the unprecedented success of Bismarck’s realpolitik. Even if the turn to realpolitik had actually been legiti‐ mate, it was radicalized by theoretical reflections and was glorified as a new principle. The opposition to the policy of principles had itself become a principle.34 Ludwig Dehio writes of the lacking universal “mission,” which characterized the hegemonial policy of the German Reich, and adds: How different was it with the earlier hegemonic powers, that were able to use in the Counter‐Reformation [Spain—L. L.], in French world culture or in the achievements of the revolution ideas, which preceded their armies and did not completely exhaust themselves when too much was expected of them in fights without a victory, which survived defeats. […] We, however, did not manage to present a plausible “mission from God” in the sense of Ranke, to embody a ‘moment of the idea of the Weltgeist’ in the sense of Hegel, “which is at present its step and therefore can demand to exercise absolute right over others”. […] Needless to say that it cannot have been a constitutive weakness of our national spiritual energies, which has been responsible for the weakness of our mission. On the contrary: At the beginning of the 20th century, Germany outshines with its wealth of spirit all other nations and remains behind not a single one at the beginning of the 20th century. No, it is the specifically German distance between spirit and power that is expressed here.35

As the German national state, which had emerged so late, was in search of its identity, the nation‐minded were particularly eager about the inner cohesion of the people and did not regard cosmo‐ politan parts of the nation as an enrichment for their own culture but as a great danger. The Jews, who embodied the universal and

34 Nipperdey, Thomas: Grundprobleme der deutschen Parteigeschichte im 19. Jahrhundert, in: Nipperdey, Thomas: Gesammelte Aufsätze zur neueren Ge‐ schichte. Göttingen, 1976, pp. 89–112. 35 Dehio, Ludwig: Deutschland und die Weltpolitik im 20. Jahrhundert. Munich 1955, pp. 104–105. Translated into English by the translator.

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the particular at the same time in a unique way, were now stylized as such a threat by the advocates of the “organic” unity of the nation. Surprisingly, the fear of the “cosmopolitan danger,” which the Jews allegedly represented, seized not only radical nationalists such as Treitschke, but also some of his liberal opponents, for instance, Theodor Mommsen. Despite his indignation at Treitschke’s anti‐ Jewish insults, Mommsen asked the German Jews to assimilate themselves completely and give up their own identity: The admission to a great nation has its price […]. And also for the Jews there is no Moses to lead them again to the promised land. [… it] is their duty as much as they are able not to act against their con‐ science, but also for their part to shed their separate nature, as much they can, and to cast down all obstacles between themselves and all other German citizens.36

By adapting to the vocabulary of the radical nationalists, many Ger‐ man Liberals also accepted, after the political setback (the Con‐ servative turn of Bismarck 1878), a spiritual setback. In the dis‐ course on the “German‐Jewish question” Treitschke’s position pre‐ vailed to an ever greater extent. This despite the fact that the anti‐ Semitic parties did not enjoy an impressingly large clientele in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century—they represented only a marginal phenomenon in the Reichstag. On the other hand, the anti‐Semitism within the political class of Germany, not least the academic circles, gained a more and more threatening dimension. In her essay “Anti‐Semitism as a Cultural Code,” the Israeli histo‐ rian Shulamit Volkov writes: The heated sermons of the 1870s were replaced with the business‐ like tone of the 1890s. The large‐scale anti‐Semitism that was earlier considered a novelty, carrying an exciting new gospel, became later a routine part of the familiar public discourse. […] The worst social and economic crisis of the 1870s and the period of political disorien‐ 36 Mommsen, Theodor: Auch ein Wort über unser Judentum, in: Berliner Antisemi‐ tismusstreit, pp. 210–225, here: p. 225. Translated into English by the transla‐ tor.

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tation during the first decade of the new Kaiserreich were over by then. The possible therapeutic function of anti‐Semitism was losing significance. Antisemitism became […] a permanent fixture in the aggressively nationalistic and anti‐modern discourse of the Second Reich.37

Treitschke, one of the most influential academic lecturers at the University of Berlin, contributed greatly to the fact that anti‐Semitic clichés became more and more socially acceptable. In his lectures on “Politics,” he described the alleged shortcomings of the “Jewish na‐ tional character” with a similar hatefulness as the one he had al‐ ready displayed in his journalistic work. Some examples should suffice: As certain as the fatherland is the foundation of all political great‐ ness, a nation without a fatherland shows the exact opposite of true political talent. This includes bravery and a lively love for the people and the country. The modern Jew has the opposite of what is called political sense; that is the reason why it is so monstrous that Jews now rule the political press.38

Then Treitschke speaks of a “drive to trade” of the Jews that is “ex‐ aggerated to the point of wildest passion,” and adds: The Jews have always been “an element of national decomposition,” in plain German: national corrosion. Trade no longer wants to acknowledge any boundaries in the world. It is not hard to grasp the fact that a part of the European big business forms an international alliance, in order to force through its interests against the small business and the land ownership. On the other hand, by marrying among themselves, the Jews pre‐ serve their nationality so tenaciously that they do not disappear into another nation. […] The majority of them […] only wears the for‐

37 Volkov, Shulamit: Antisemitism as a Cultural Code, in: Shulamit Volkov: Ger‐ mans, Jews, and Antisemites, pp. 13–36, here: p. 33. See also Nipperdey, Deutsche Geschichte 1866–1918. Erster Band, p. 405. 38 von Treitschke, Heinrich: Vorlesungen gehalten an der Universität zu Berlin, Vol. 2. Leipzig, 1922, p. 27. Translated into English by the translator.

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eign nationality like a coat. Hence the well‐known fact that the mod‐ ern Jews show real genius in only one art, the art of acting.39

Treitschke’s audience, which internalized the eloquent university lecturer’s message, included many students, who later became the most active fighters against the so‐called Jewish threat, not least the long‐standing chairman of the Pan‐German League, Heinrich Claß.40 The American historian Georg Iggers writes in this context: “In [Treitschke‘s] lecture hall sat the future leaders of the Pan‐Germans […] as well as hundreds of students who later became high officials, secondary‐school teachers, officers and so on. He managed to give his resentments, his hatred against Socialists, Jews, Englishmen, non‐whites the appearance of scientific respectability.” 41 *** At about the same time as in Germany, there was also an anti‐ Semitism controversy taking place in the Tsarist Empire. One of the protagonists was Fedor Dostoevsky, whose reputation in Russia was comparable with that of Treitschke in Germany. In the edition of his Writer’s Diary from March 1877, Dostoevsky wrote that some of his Jewish readers had accused him of hostility toward Jews. This accu‐ sation was rejected by Dostoevsky with indignation; this, however, did not prevent him from starting a massive attack on Judaism and the “Jewish character” as such shortly after.42

39 Treitschke, Vorlesungen gehalten an der Universität zu Berlin, Vol. 1, p. 295. Translated into English by the translator. See also the numerous anti‐Jewish statements in Treitschke’s magnum opus Deutsche Geschichte im Neunzehnten Jahrhundert. Leipzig, 1927, e. g. Vol. 2, pp. 409 ff., Vol. 3, pp. 685–94, 697; Vol. 4, pp. 287–288, 413. 40 Dorpalen, Dorpalen: Heinrich von Treitschke. New Haven, 1957, p. 234. 41 Iggers, Georg: Heinrich von Treitschke, in: Wehler, Hans‐Ulrich (ed.): Deutsche Historiker (Göttingen, 1973), pp. 174–188, here: p. 186. See also Langer, Ulrich: Heinrich von Treitschke: Politische Biographie eines deutschen Nationalisten. Düsseldorf, 1998, p. 335. 42 Dostoevskii, Fedor: Dnevnik pisatelia za 1877 god. Paris n. y., pp. 97–117. See also: Leonid Grossman, Leonid: Ispoved’ odnogo evreia. Moscow, 1999.

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Dostoevsky’s arguments remind in many ways of those of the German anti‐Semites, not least Treitschke. Dostoevsky speaks of the refusal of the Jews to mingle with the other peoples, and describes them as alien bodies in every nation surrounding them. Dostoevsky explains the reason why the Jews preserved their unique character in the course of thousands of years, despite all the persecutions they had to suffer in the diaspora, with the “fact” that they always consti‐ tute “a state within the state” in each nation.43 Thereby he indirectly builds on the theses of The Book of the Kahal, which was—written by the Jewish apostate Jakov Brafman44—first published in 1869 in Wilna and later repeatedly republished, and today is regarded as a kind of precursor of the “Protocols of the Elders of Zion.” According to Dostoevsky, the supposed idea of the Jewish “state within the state” is characterized by the following: alienation and estrangement on the level of religious dogma; no in‐ termingling; a belief that there exists but one national individuality in the world – the Jew, and though there may be some others, one still has to think of them as nonexistent, as it were. “Go forth from the other nations, form thine own entity and know that henceforth thou art the only one before God; destroy the others or enslave them or exploit them. Have faith in thy victory over the whole world; have faith that all will submit to thee. Shun everyone resolutely, and have no communion with any in thy daily life. And even when thou art

43 Ibid., pp. 107–114. See also: Fichte, J. G.: Beitrag zur Berichtigung der Urteile des Publikums über die Französische Revolution. Leipzig, 1922, pp. 114–115. 44 See: Klier, John Doyle: Imperial Russia’s Jewish Question 1855–1881. Cambridge, 2005, pp. 169 ff., 263–283. On the situation of the Jews and on anti‐Semitism in the Tsarist Empire, see, among others: Dubnow, Semen W.:Weltgeschichte des jüdischen Volkes. Berlin, 1929, Vol. 9, pp. 174–262, 395–451; Vol. 10, pp. 119– 225, 368–405, 427–437; Poliakov, Geschichte, Vol. 7, pp. 85–162; Löwe, Heinz‐ Dietrich: Antisemitismus und revolutionäre Utopie: Russische Konservative im Kampf gegen den Wandel von Staat und Gesellschaft 1890–1917. Hamburg, 1978; Cohn, Norman: Die Protokolle der Weisen von Zion: Der Mythos von der jü‐ dischen Weltverschwörung. Köln et al. 1969; Hagemeister, Michael: Sergej Nilus und die ‘Protokolle der Weisen von Zion:’ Überlegungen zur Forschungslage, Jahrbuch für Antisemitismusforschung, vol. 5, 1996, pp. 127–147; Hildermeier, Manfred: Die jüdische Frage im Zarenreich: Zum Problem der unterdrückten Emanzipation, Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas, Vol. 32, 1984, pp. 321– 357; Chicherin, Boris: Pol’skii i evreiskii voprosy. Berlin, 1901.

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deprived of thy land, thy political individuality, even when thou are scattered over the face of the earth and among all the other peoples —pay no heed; have faith in all these things that have been prom‐ ised unto thee; believe, once and for all, that all this will come to pass; and meanwhile thou must live, shun, cling together, exploit and—wait, wait….”45

According to Dostoevsky, the idea of the “state within the state” gives the Jews such superiority over all other peoples of the world that the legal equality of the Jews in the Tsarist Empire must be vehemently rejected: Naturally, everything required by humaneness and justice, every‐ thing required by compassion and Christian law—all this must be done for the Jews. But if they, fully equipped with their particularity and their own special makeup, their racial and religious segregation; if they, armed with laws and principles entirely opposed to the idea by which the entire European world has developed until now, at least—if they should demand complete equality of all possible rights with those of the native population, then will they not receive some‐ thing more, something extra, something beyond that of even the most native of native populations?46

To this extent, Dostoevsky’s line of argument differs from that of Treitschke, who, in contrast to many of his students, for example, Heinrich Claß,47 did not want to question the emancipation of the Jews, which had already taken place in Germany. Dostoevsky’s theses thereby show a contradictoriness that is typical for many anti‐Semites. On the one hand, the Jews are asked to give up their special existence, and on the other hand, the most important prerequisite for Jewish assimilation—legal equality—is outrightly rejected. Similar to Treitschke, Dostoevsky is intoxicated by his own line of argument and becomes more and more radical in his hatred 45 Dostoevsky, A Writer’s Diary, Vol. 2, p. 910. 46 Ibid., p. 192. 47 Daniel Frymann (pseudonym of Heinrich Claß), Wenn ich der Kaiser wär’: Politi‐ sche Wahrheiten und Notwendigkeiten. Leipzig, 1914, pp. 74–78.

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against Jews. At the beginning of his article, as already mentioned, he vehemently opposes the accusation that he is “a hater of the Jews,” but then continues to state the following about Jews: the Jew, wherever he has settled, has humbled and corrupted the people even more; humaneness in such places declined even fur‐ ther; the level of education fell still lower; hopeless, inhuman pov‐ erty spread even more abominably, and with it, despair. Ask the na‐ tive population in our border areas: what is it that drives the Jew and what is it that has driven him for so many centuries? You will always get the same answer: mercilessness; “They’ve been driven for so many centuries by their mercilessness to us, solely by their thirst for our sweat and our blood. ” And, in truth, the entire activity of the Jews in these border areas of ours has consisted only in making the native population as hopelessly dependent on them as possible by taking advantage of the local laws.48

The Jews, who were confined in the Pale of Settlement in the West‐ ern part of the Russian Empire and were—by a series of discrimi‐ nating laws—prohibited from both the freedom of movement and the free choice of employment, are portrayed by Dostoevsky not as persecutes but persecutors: Just point out any other tribe among Russia’s aliens that could com‐ pete in this sense with the terrible influence of the Jew. You will not find any.49

Yet, the Jews are stylized by Dostoevsky not only as the rulers of the weakly developed Western territories of the Tsarist Empire, but also as the masters of the highly developed West. Godless material‐ ism and unbridled egoism had prevailed in the West as the domi‐ nant principles. To this development the Jews had allegedly con‐ tributed, and they had—according to Dostoevsky—profited most from it:

48 Dostoevsky, A Writer’s Diary, Vol. 2, p. 913. 49 Ibid.

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And so it is not without significance that the Jews reign over all the stock exchanges there; it is not without significance that they con‐ trol the credit, and not without significance […] that they are the ones who control the whole of international politics as well; and what will happen hereafter is, of course, known to the Jews them‐ selves: their reign, their complete reign, is drawing nigh! Coming soon is the complete triumph of ideas before which feelings of love for humanity, the longing for truth, Christian feelings, the feelings of nationhood and even of national pride of Europe’s peoples must give way.50

Dostoevsky identifies this development with the triumph of the “Yiddish” idea, which is “creeping over the whole world in place of ‘unsuccessful’ Christianity.”51 It must be emphasized that Dostoevsky speaks here not of a “Jewish” but of a “Yiddish” idea. He uses the pejorative term “Yid” (zhid), which is common among Russian anti‐Semites. Also in the letters and notes, in which Dostoevsky gives his anti‐Semitism an even more free rein than in his journalistic work, he tends to use the word “zhid.” In a letter from February 1878, he complains about the pro‐Jewish attitude of the “backward” Russian Liberals, who were unable to grasp the character of the new epoch, whose essence al‐ legedly consisted in the fact that not the Russians persecuted the “Yid” but vice versa: “The Yid triumphs and oppresses the Rus‐ sian.”52 Dostoevsky perceived the supposed dominance of the Jews in the Russian press as a particular danger: The Yid spreads at an unusual pace: And the Yid with his Kahal means—a conspiracy against the Russians.53

50 Ibid., pp. 914–915. 51 Ibid., p. 915. 52 Dostoevskii, F. M.: Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v tridtsati tomakh. Tom tridtsatyi. Kniga pervaia: Pis’ma 1878–1881 (afterward: Dostoevskii, Pis’ma). Leningrad, 1988, p. 8. Translated into English by the translator. 53 Ibid. Translated into English by the translator.

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And in another letter (to Julia Abaza, from June 15, 1880), Dostoev‐ sky described the Jews as the enemies of the human race, the am‐ bassadors of the Antichrist, who were about to be—even if only temporarily—victorious: This is so obvious that you can’t argue over it: They prevail, they march, they have enslaved the whole of Europe; everything, that is selfish and hostile, all condemnable passions are on their side. There is nothing standing in the way of their triumph, which will lead to the perdition of this world.54

In view of these tirades of hate, it is not really comprehensible why Felix Philipp Ingold, in his monograph “Dostoevsky and Judaism,” calls at least partially into question the clearly anti‐Semitic attitude of Dostoevsky his “deeply organic anti‐Semitism” (Simon Dubnow), which so many authors have detected. The fact that Dostoevsky, in his text about the Jewish question, namely, A Writer’s Diary, gets his Jewish opponents a chance to speak and from time to time puts into perspective his exaggerated theses is referred to by Ingold as proof for Dostoevsky’s nuanced attitude toward Judaism, for the doubt, which he attempted to remedy in a continuous dialogue with his opponents. For Ingold, Dostoevsky’s text on the Jewish question bears the same polyphonic character as his ingenious novels.55 With this, Ingold contradicts the thesis of the famous literary scholar Mi‐ khail Bakhtin, stating that Dostoevsky had written his journalistic articles—in contrast to his artistic prose—consistently in a “systematic‐monologic” or “rhetori‐ cal‐monologic” […] form, in order to verbalize only those “ideas, from which he was himself convinced. ”56

In fact, however, Ingold confuses journalistic devices, which Dosto‐ evsky used in his texts about the Jewish question, with a genuine polyphony. The publicist’s alleged readiness to engage in a dialogue, 54 Ibid., pp. 19 ff. Translated into English by the translator. 55 Ingold, Dostojewskij, pp. 157–161. Translated into English by the translator. 56 As quoted in: Ibid., p. 158.

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the portrayal of the arguments of his opponents, served only to compromise his adversaries and add more credibility to his anti‐ Semitic position. As Dostoevsky’s anti‐Semitism can scarcely be doubted, the question arises how such a brilliant writer and, at the same time, astute visionary could become the advocate of an ideology that would cause one of the greatest breaches of civilization in the histo‐ ry of mankind. Sometimes Dostoevsky’s anti‐Semitism is associated with his general xenophobia. His literary and journalistic works, as is well known, are almost brimming over with characters, which he catego‐ rizes, for national or religious reasons, as enemies of “Russianness” and caricatures them with an extraordinary wickedness—Poles, Frenchmen, occasionally Germans, Catholics, and so on. Neverthe‐ less, anti‐Semitism is, not only in the case of Dostoevsky, usually more than xenophobia. The Jews are often portrayed as the evil per se, which is responsible for almost all evil in the world. Anti‐ Semitism, therefore, contains mystical and mythical features, which are generally lacking in the xenophobia of other kinds. A particular intensity, however, characterized the anti‐Semitism of the advocates of messianic ideas, who under no circumstance are willing to accept the Jewish “chosenness.” This message, which can be found in the Holy Scripture, is a permanent annoyance for them. In order to get rid of the “Jewish competition,” they try to repress many things, for example, the fact that civilized mankind owes both the Ten Com‐ mandments and the Sermon of the Mount to the Jews. The conse‐ quences of this process of repression are highly remarkable, for the Jews are still regarded as a “chosen people,” yet not with a plus sign but with a minus sign; they are stylized as the epitome of the uncre‐ ative and infernal. Also Dostoevsky’s anti‐Semitism was closely linked to his un‐ shakable belief in a special mission of the Russian people. The idea of a mission, which he disavowed concerning the Jews as a sign of immeasurable arrogance, is proclaimed by him with an unusual

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pathos in connection with Russianness. This, particularly, in his famous Puškin speech on June 8, 1880: Yes, the Russian’s destiny is incontestably all‐European and univer‐ sal. To become a genuine and all‐round Russian means, perhaps […], to become brother of all men, a universal man, if you please. Oh, all the Slavophilism and Westernism is a great, though historically inevitable, misunderstanding. To a genuine Russian, Europe and the destiny of the great Aryan race are as dear as Russia herself, as the fate of his native land, because our destiny is universally acquired not by the sword but by the force of brotherhood and our brotherly longing for fellowship of men57

What lacks the “idea of a unity on earth,” which Dostoevsky pro‐ claimed so pathetically, is a genuine universality, for the aim of Rus‐ sianness is supposed to be the “reunion of all peoples of the great Aryan race [my emphasis].” Dostoevsky experts such as Aaron Shteinberg and Felix Ph. Ingold have already referred to this charac‐ teristic feature of Dostoevsky’s idea of reconciliation. The latter writes: Dostoevsky’s utilization of all‐humanity, the all‐worldly desire for reconciliation and empathy to justify an imperial, Great Russian mission idea, which should at least help the Aryan tribes of the hu‐ man race to achieve fraternal harmony, is to be called rather utopian (or propagandistic) than evangelical, for particularly the Jews are excluded from the universal fraternization.58

Dostoevsky’s anti‐Semitism was, however, not only caused by the messianic trait of his thinking, but it also reflected the frantic quest of the Russian Conservatives for an ideology that would immunize the people against the revolutionary agitation of the radical oppo‐ nents of the regime.

57 Dostoevsky, A Writer’s Diary, Vol. 2, p. 979. 58 Ingold, Dostojewskij, p. 138. See also Shteinberg, Aaron: Dostoevsky and the Jews, in: History as Expierence .New York, 1983, pp. 247–260, here: pp. 251– 252. Translated into English by the translator.

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An unprecedented polarization of society, which was—in ef‐ fect—a proleptic civil war, took place in Russia at that time. The Russian reformers, who, after the defeat of the country in the Cri‐ mean War, had initiated a major work of renewal, now began to gradually lose control of the events. The revolutionary part of the Russian public did not want to participate in these reforms. Their aim was not a gradual change of the existing system but its complete abolition. Their thinking was Manichean—the Tsarist regime, re‐ gardless of its reformatory turn, embodies the evil, and the simple Russian peasants, which they strived to liberate from all oppression, are the good. In this context, the Russian philosopher Semen Frank wrote in the famous collection Vekhi (1909), which relentlessly dealt with the revolutionary credo of the intelligentsia: The Russian intelligentsia rejects the belief in transcendence and absolutizes the immanence, the only human. It believes that it is possible to achieve absolute happiness on earth by a mere mechanical elimination of the enemies of the people whom they deify—the exploiting minority and the Tsarist autocracy protecting it. Despite their atheism, the intelligentsia cleaves to religious categories of thought—their “God” being the people, their “devil” the autocracy.59 The increasing radicalization of some parts of the Russian edu‐ cated class was connected by many Russian Conservatives to the liberal experiments of Alexander II. They believed that the reforms had led to a weakening of state control mechanisms and blurred the boundaries between the permitted and the forbidden. The Con‐ servatives were particularly outraged by the procedures of the jury courts, which had been established in 1864 and resulted in surpris‐ ingly mild judgments in many political trials. In the 1870s, for ex‐ ample, 211 defendants were acquitted in such trials, including the terrorist Vera Zasulich (1878), who had attempted to assassinate Fedor Trepov, the city captain of Petersburg.60

59 Frank, Semen: Etika nigilizma, in: Vekhi: Sbornik statei o russkoi intelligentsii. Moscow, 1909, pp. 175–210. 60 Kulešov, S. et al. in: Nashe otechestvo, Vol. 1–2. Moscow, 1991, here: Vol. 1, p. 53.

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Despite their indignation at the consequences of the reform, the Conservatives still had a consolation. They were convinced that the simple Russian people did not want to know anything about liberal experiments, and that they were, in contrast to the intelligentsia, absolutely loyal to the Tsar. At least with regard to the epoch of Alexander II (1855–1881) they were on partially solid ground with this assumption. The revolutionary movement of the Narodniki could assure themselves of the still existent loyalty of the Russian peasants to the Tsar in the 1870s. Many Narodniki moved to the countryside (“into the people”) to raise the peasants against the regime. As they offended the Tsar during their agitation, they were frequently delivered to the policy by the peasants—this despite the fact that the Russian peasantry was, even after the abolition of serf‐ dom in 1861, extremely dissatisfied with its social situation. It still believed the agrarian question to be not solved and dreamed of a complete expropriation of the landowners, whom it regarded as parasites, of the so‐called Black Redistribution. However, in spite of its dissatisfaction, the Russian peasantry felt no inclination to entrust the intelligentsia the leadership in the struggle for its interests. The Russian economist and journalist Petr Struve writes, concerning this matter, in the already mentioned collection Vechi that in the seventeenth and eighteenth century the Cossacks—the socially most restless and at the same time most belligerent element in Russian society—occupied an undisputed claim to leadership in all attempted revolts of the lower class against the rulers. After the suppression of the last great popular uprising (Pugachev—1773–1775) the monarchy had managed to tie the Cossacks with the help of generous social privileges to its inter‐ ests and “nationalize” them. As a result, the peasantry had lost its leaders in the struggle against social oppression.61 The intelligentsia, one could add, was, as already shown, not able to occupy the empty place despite its ceaseless efforts. The deep‐ rooted political Conservatism of the peasantry stood in the way of a 61 Struve, Petr: Intelligentsiia i revoliuciia, in: Vekhi, pp. 156–174.

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union of the two rebellious groups. And the conservative defenders of the Russian autocracy tried to rigidify this segregation. They knew that the fate of the regime depended on the question who would win the struggle for the “soul of the people.” What played a more and more important role in this struggle for a binding of the social classes to the regime was the anti‐Jewish component, the tendency of the Conservatives to link the increasingly harsh social and political conflicts in the country as well as the foreign‐political setbacks the Tsardom had to suffer (Congress of Berlin, 1878) to the activities of the international Jewry. Dostoevsky, too, who would become one of the most important ideologists of Russian Conserva‐ tism in the 1870s (despite his revolutionary past, which had cost him ten years of imprisonment and banishment), was prone to such theses. Regardless of the fact that the Jews had played almost no role in the revolutionary movement of the 1870s, Dostoevsky began in some statements to emphasize their importance. This interpreta‐ tion pattern becomes particularly obvious in his letter to the editor of the newspaper Grazhdanin, Pucykovich, from August 29, 1878: “Odessa, the city of Yids, became the center of our militant Socialism. In Europe, things are the same: The participation of Yids in Social‐ ism is monstrous […]. And this is reasonable: Every radical upheav‐ al and every revolution is an advantage for the Yid, because he him‐ self constitutes a state within the state, […] which cannot be shaken by anything but always benefits from every weakening of the [non‐ Jewish world].62

This line of argument, too, shows the abyss that separates Dostoev‐ sky’s prose work from his journalistic‐political writings. The revolu‐ tion, which takes the form of an almost transcendent mystery in his great novels and is the result of human hubris, the decline of faith in God, is explained in his political statements with the help of a con‐ spiracy theory that is both philistine and simplistic.

62 Dostoevskii, Pis´ma, p. 43. Translated into English by the translator.

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*** What connects Dostoevsky’s political program with that of Treitschke? First of all, it must be emphasized that both authors were recently converted Conservatives, who had—in a rather radi‐ cal way—said farewell to the revolutionary resp. liberal dreams of their early years. From their point of view, liberal methods were no longer suitable for efficiently taking action against the enemies of the Tsar resp. German Empire. Liberalism, they believed, with its laissez‐fair principle, leads to an erosion of statehood, of the tradi‐ tional values, and above all, because of its cosmopolitical‐ universalist orientation, to the dissolution of the “organic” unity of the nation. Both regarded the Jews as the symbol of cosmopolitan‐ ism resp. internationality as well as that of a nonassimilable nation‐ al peculiarity and therefore as an extraordinary danger. By trying to define Judaism, they encountered unsolvable problems described by the British historian Lewis Namier as follows: In every attempt to classify the Jews, one encounters puzzles that are irritating to non‐ Jews. For the Jews are both a nation and a church, yet a church of flesh and blood.63 In addition, in the case of Treitschke and Dostoevsky, this am‐ biguous character of Judaism evoked great irritations, which gradu‐ ally turned into a growing anti‐Semitism. The fact that these radical critics of Judaism were former revolutionaries resp. Liberals was nothing unusual. Jacob Talmon, for instance, pointed out that many radical anti‐Semites, not least Richard Wagner, had come from the camp of disappointed Democrats.64 As I already mentioned, Dostoevsky’s rejection of Judaism was closely linked to his belief in the universal mission of his own na‐ tion. This was one of the reasons why he could not accept the idea of a Jewish chosenness. The same can be said of Treitschke, for he too

63 Namier, Lewis B.: Facing East. London, 1947, pp. 129–141. 64 Talmon, The Myth, p. 208.

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was convinced of the mission of his own nation.65 There was no place for a Jewish sense of mission in his concept of the nation. So these were the similarities between the two thinkers. Now, some words on the differences. The most important difference was that Dostoevsky’s political program mostly failed. His formula for the recovery and renewal of Russia was not accepted by the majori‐ ty of the Russian intelligentsia. As a writer and visionary, he was generally admired. The so‐called religious‐philosophical renais‐ sance, which took place in Russia at the beginning of the twentieth century, had been inspired not least by his literary work. His politi‐ cal ideas and that of his conservative fellow campaigners, however, did not have the same success. The conservative forces in the coun‐ try were, despite their attempts to gain proximity to the people with the help of a chauvinist and anti‐Semitic agenda, unable to stop the triumph of their revolutionary opponents. This became particularly apparent at the beginning of the twentieth century —about two generations after the abolition of serfdom—when the Russian un‐ derclasses broke their “silence” and got caught up in the maelstrom of political passions. Faith in the Tsar was now being replaced by an increasing degree of faith in the revolution. The tireless educational work of the intelligentsia was now crowned with success, the Rus‐ sian philosopher Sergei Bulgakov wrote ironically in 1908. The peo‐ ple had joined the worldview of the intelligentsia; it had achieved “consciousness.” This success of the intelligentsia could, however, have incalculable consequences for Russia.66

65 See on this, for instance: Treitschke, Die ersten Versuche deutscher Kolonialpo‐ litik, in: Treitschke, Aufsätze, Vol. 4, pp. 665–676; Treitschke, Unser Reich, in: Ibid., pp. 712–731; Bußmann, Walter: Treitschke: Sein Welt‐ und Geschichtsbild. Göttingen, 1952, pp. 352–353; Dorpalen, Treitschke, pp. 180–269; Meinecke, Friedrich: Die Idee der Staatsräson in der neueren Geschichte. Munich, 1924, pp. 508–510; Kohn, Hans: Propheten ihrer Völker. Bern, 1948, pp. 123–151; Braatz, Werner A.: Antisemitismus, Antimodernismus und Antiliberalismus im 19. Jahrhundert, Politische Studien, Vol. 22, 1971, pp. 20–33, here: pp. 31–32; Mordstein, Friedrich: Heinrich von Treitschkes Etatismus, Zeitschrift für Politik, Vol. 8, 1961, pp. 30–53, here: p. 33. 66 Bulgakov, Sergei: Dva grada. Moscow 1911, Vol. 1–2, here: Vol. 2, pp. 159–163.

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The Russian underclasses, which the conservative ideologists of the Tsarist Empire, not least Dostoevsky, had believed to be one of the most important pillars of the Tsarist Regime, turned out to be its greatest threat. In the elections of the first and second State Duma, which took place in Russia in 1906 and 1907 (as a consequence of the revolution of 1905 the separation of powers was introduced in Russia), almost the complete Russian peasantry voted for revolu‐ tionary and other oppositional and nonconservative parties. The political dream of Dostoevsky and his fellow campaigners for the unity of the people with the Tsar had finally lost its bedrock. Treitschke’s chauvinist and anti‐Semitic program, on the other hand, determined, even after his death, to a considerable extent the political culture of his home country. For many of his admirers, however, it was not radical enough. The presentation of the further evolution of this program would obviously go beyond the scope of this chapter. Published in: F. Anton and L. Luks (eds.): Deutschland, Rußland und das Baltikum. Beiträge zu einer Geschichte wechselvoller Bezi‐ ehungen. Festschrift zum 85. Geburtstag von Peter Krupnikow. Co‐ logne 2005, pp. 155–186. Translated by Jerome Schäfer

Cosmopolitanism as an Anti‐Jewish Stereotype under Stalin 1

The Communist world movement came into being not least as a reaction to the so‐called nationalist sin of the Second International, which had occurred immediately after the outbreak of the First World War. Up until the summer of 1914, the parties of the Second International were on the whole committed to the thesis that Marx and Engels had formulated in the Communist Manifesto, namely: "The workers have no fatherland. One cannot deprive them of some‐ thing they do not have."2 The harsh social democratic critique of excessive nationalism, which turned Europe into a powder keg, orig‐ inated above all in this conviction. Immediately prior to the onset of war, many European governments contemplated with trepidation how the socialists would react to the war. They expected antiwar demonstrations, mass strikes, and other revolutionary activities. It came as a surprise, therefore, how easily the majority of socialists were persuaded by the patriotic argumentation of their respective governments. At the beginning of the war, the left‐wing critics of these tendencies belonged to an insignificant minority. Among the most unrelenting critics of the “nationalist sin” of the Second Inter‐ national was the founder of the Bolshevik Party, Vladimir Lenin. The Bolshevik Revolution of October 1917 as well as the Com‐ munist International, which was founded in March 1919, advanced unconditionally the principles of “proletarian internationalism” and rejected so‐called social chauvinism, that is, the identification of the majority of parties of the Second International with the respective national aims of their countries. Although the Bolsheviks considered the upheaval of October 1917 as the greatest revolution in the history of mankind, they re‐ 1 Revised version of my article that appeared in Jahrbuch für Historische Kommu‐ nismusforschung in 1997. 2 Marx, Karl and Engels, Friedrich: Werke. Berlin, 1959–1968, Vol. 4, p. 479.

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fused, from the very outset, to idealize Russia. They repeatedly spoke of the fundamental structural differences between Russia, which to their minds was one of the most backward countries in Europe, and the highly developed industrial nations. Thus, Lev Trot‐ sky opined in October 1922 that it would have been best had the proletarian revolution first succeeded in the United States. On his list of states with optimal preconditions for the establishment of socialism, Great Britain took second place, while Russia figured as one of the least promising countries in this respect.3 By contrast, Iosif Stalin, general secretary of the Bolshevik Party since April 1922, held a diametrically opposed position. In 1924, he put for‐ ward the thesis that Russia could establish socialism on its own and that it did not require the assistance of a proletarian revolution in the highly industrialized countries. In doing so, Stalin appealed to Russian national pride among the Bolsheviks and was able to gain ground on his inner party rivals, especially Trotsky, who constantly spoke of Russia's backwardness. No nation, class, or party could live with the feeling of its own inferiority, as the Sovietologist Isaac Deutscher commented in this connection.4 At the end of the 1920s, Stalin was finally able to achieve victory over his opponents by suc‐ ceeding Lenin. *** Early in the 1930s, two books penned by the Soviet turncoat S. Dmitrievskii appeared in Berlin, creating a great stir in the Russian emigrant community.5 The author, a pronounced anti‐Semite, tried to interpret the recent victory of the Stalinist fraction over its inner party rivals as a victory of the Russian patriots over Jewish predom‐ inance. He now expected a national rebirth in the Soviet Union, which Communists of Jewish descent had supposedly prevented.

3 Trotsky, Lev: Piat' let Kominterna. Moscow, 1924, pp. 429–430. 4 Deutscher, Isaac: Der unbewaffnete Prophet. Stuttgart 1962, p. 280 5 Dmitrievskii S: Stalin. Berlin 1931; idem.: Sovetskie portrety. Berlin, 1932.

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Similar hopes to the ones expressed by Dmitrievskij were voiced by nationalist emigrant circles. In fact, during this time national ideals, which had been frowned upon in the 1920s, were being gradually rehabilitated. To a certain extent, the Soviet Union became part of a general development in Europe, which had emerged with the advent of the world economic crisis. At the time, social and enlightened ideas increasingly gave way to ever‐growing nationalist emotions. As the Russian historian in exile G. Fedotov explained in 1931, the notion of social justice and the defense of the oppressed were clearly losing their appeal, whereas extreme national egoism as well as the pursuit of the max‐ imum expansion of one's own nation at the expense of other peoples were growing everywhere in Europe.6 This development spilled over to Russia, especially after the vic‐ tory of the National Socialists in Germany. The demise of the histori‐ cal school of M. Pokrovskii, which had dominated Bolshevik histori‐ ography until 1934, was a clear indication of this change. Pokrovskii interpreted Russian history above all from the vantage point of the revolutionary class, according to which the prerevolutionary Rus‐ sian state was the epitome of oppression, making it out of the ques‐ tion to identify with the past glory of the Russian Empire. Already in the 1920s, Stalin had been averse to this interpreta‐ tion of Russian history. He belonged to those Bolshevik leaders who had realized early on that a complete break with the Russian past was, on the one hand, unachievable and, on the other hand, hardly advantageous for the Soviet regime. The successes of the National Socialists since the beginning of the 1930s intensified the Bolshevik “process of nationalization.” After 1934, the authorities increasingly attacked the Pokrovskii school, accusing it of one‐sidedness and simplification. The idea of Russia's national greatness was now al‐ lowed to be officially propagated.7 6 Fedotov, Georgii: Social’nyj vopros i svoboda, Sovremennye zapiski, no. 47, 1931, pp. 421–438; idem.: Sumerki otechestva, Novyi Grad, no. 1, 1931. 7 Souvarine, Boris: Stalin. Anmerkungen zur Geschichte des Bolschewismus. Mu‐ nich, 1980, pp. 554–557; Heller, Michail and Nekrich, Alexander: Geschichte der

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Some chauvinist groups of emigrants were convinced that the recourse to Russia's prerevolutionary traditions would coincide with a campaign against the Jews, since Jew hatred had played no insignificant role in these traditions. Nevertheless, the anti‐Semitic campaign so longed for by these groups failed to materialize; for the time being, prerevolutionary anti‐Semitism remained a taboo. How can one explain these misinterpretations? Why was Bolshe‐ vism misjudged time and again? One reason was, of course, its Ja‐ nus‐faced nature, its ability to transform itself, and yet remain true to itself at the same time. Since the days of the October Revolution, the Bolsheviks had displayed considerable flexibility, repeatedly adapting their ideology to societal reality. Those critics who charged Bolshevism with doctrinaire stubbornness only saw one side of the phenomenon and underestimated its amazing sense of reality. But the observers who admired the party's pragmatism were equally deceived, underestimating, as they did, the utopian side of Bolshe‐ vism. After all, even in times when pragmatic considerations deter‐ mined the course of the party, it never gave up its objective to adapt reality to the Bolshevik doctrine. Aside from this tension between the ideological and pragmatic poles of Bolshevism, the latter contained another ambivalence that made it so difficult for outsiders to analyze the phenomenon. Alt‐ hough the Bolsheviks erected a terrorist regime of unparalled bru‐ tality, they continued to consider themselves as the defenders of the weak and oppressed, as the champions of social justice and national equality. This emancipatory phraseology not only confused but also bewitched many observers, who either played down the terrorist character of the regime or refused to acknowledge it altogether. This was also true for many representatives of Jewish public opinion. In January 1931, when the Soviet regime led a ruthless war against the Russian peasantry and sought to make the peasants into Sowjetunion. Erster Band: 1914–1939, Königstein/Ts., 1981, pp. 255, 282–288; Oberländer, Erwin: Sowjetpatriotismus und Geschichte. Eine Dokumentation. Co‐ logne, 1967.

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serfs of the state, Stalin responded to a question posed by a Jewish news agency and regarding the subject of anti‐Semitism: National and racial chauvinism is a vestige of the inhuman customs and practices of the period of cannibalism. Anti‐Semitism as the ex‐ treme form of racial chauvinism is the most dangerous vestige of cannibalism… In the USSR the law prosecutes anti‐Semitism as a phenomenon deeply opposed to the Soviet order.8

This comment by Stalin was initially published only in the Western media. In the Soviet Union, it was first mentioned in November 1936, namely, in a speech by the chairman of the Council of People's Commissars, V. Molotov.9 And this occasion was no coincidence. At the time, the Stalinist regime was waging a campaign of destruction against the so‐called old Bolshevik guard. The instigators of the “Red Terror” of 1918–1921 and the vanquishers of the Soviet peas‐ antry in 1930–1933 now saw themselves caught in the machinery of destruction they themselves had set up some time ago. It was at this stage that the Soviet regime disclosed the true extent of its murder‐ ous nature. For unlike the terror of the civil war or its pendant dur‐ ing the period of collectivization, the war of destruction led by the ruling clique was not directed against the enemies of the system or particular social groups, but rather against the entire population, from the lowest social sectors to the marshals of the Red Army or the members of the Politbureau. Yet, even in this phase of events, the Moscow leadership was able to combine the practice of mass murder with pseudodemocratic and pseudohumanist rhetoric. The attempt by the Stalinist elites to portray the Soviet Union as the bastion of the struggle against anti‐Semitism can also be seen in this light. On the world stage, the Soviet Union was largely isolated during the “Great Terror” (1936–1938). In spite of the fact that Soviet‐ friendly Popular Front governments were in power both in France and Spain, the “Third Reich” and its allies were everywhere on the 8 Shvarts, Solomon: Antisemitizm v Sovetskom Soiuze. New York, 1952, p. 100. 9 Ibid.

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advance. At the time, the demoralized European democracies pur‐ sued a politics of almost total appeasement toward Hitler. As a re‐ sult, the Soviet Union became the last hope for many antifascists, including some Jews, who took Stalin's declaration of war against anti‐Semitism at face value. Several opponents of Stalin, primarily Trotsky, tried to counter Moscow's appeal to Jewish sympathies. Time and again Trotsky pointed out that Stalin was not only curry‐ ing favor with the Jews, but also with the anti‐Semites. He expressed this view in an interview with the Yiddish newspaper “Forwarts” of New York in January 1937,10 as well as one year later, when he wrote: It is difficult to find an example in history where reaction was not in‐ fluenced by anti‐Semitism. This strange law is being completely con‐ firmed today in the Soviet Union… How could it be otherwise? Bu‐ reaucratic centralism is inconceivable without chauvinism, and for chauvinism, anti‐Semitism has always been the path of least re‐ sistance.11

Trotsky's remarks gave rise to indignation in certain Jewish circles. The New York Yiddish paper “Tog” wrote in January 1937: In the Soviet Union we have seen our only ray of hope with regard to anti‐Semitism. It is unforgivable that Trotsky is putting forward un‐ founded accusations against Stalin.12

And indeed, in the 1930s the Stalinist regime did not exhibit clear‐ cut anti‐Semitic features. Jews were found among the victims as well 10 Trotzki, Leo: Schriften 1. Sowjetgesellschaft und stalinistische Diktatur, Vol. 1.2 (1936–1940), in: Helmut Dahmer et al. (ed): Hamburg, 1988, p. 1040; Vetter, Matthias: Antisemiten und Bolschewiki. Zum Verhältnis von Sowjetsystem und Ju‐ denfeindschaft 1917–1939. Berlin, 1995, pp. 303–309; Kessler, Mario: Der Sta‐ linsche Terror gegen jüdische Kommunisten, in: Hermann Weber, Dietrich Sta‐ ritz, Siegfried Bahne, and Richard Lorenz (eds.): Kommunisten verfolgen Kom‐ munisten. Stalinistischer Terror und “Säuberungen” in den kommunistischen Par‐ teien Europas seit den dreißiger Jahren. Berlin, 1993, pp. 87–102 11 Trotzki, op. cit., p. 1140. 12 Trotzki, op. cit., p. 1041; Nedava, Joseph: Trotsky and the Jews. Philadelphia, 1972, p. 186; Deutscher, Isaac: Der verstossene Prophet. Stuttgart, 1963, p. 344.

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as the perpetrators. The persecution of Jewish religion and Jewish culture did not differ at all from the repressive measures undertak‐ en against other religions and cultures. Still, with his keen percep‐ tion, Trotsky recognized the seeds of processes that were as yet in a state of germination but would come to the fore a decade later. Ear‐ ly on, he understood that a repressive regime that was “following a revolutionary upswing” was dependent on fanning the flames of chauvinism and anti‐Semitism. Otherwise, the leadership would hardly be able to discipline the populace and tie it emotionally to the regime. However, since Trotsky expressed his concern at such an early stage, his remarks were rejected out of hand and soon for‐ gotten. The process, by which Bolshevism or Communism was national‐ ized, continued unabated in the late 1930s and early 1940s. Even shortly before the outbreak of the Soviet‐German war, Stalin played with the idea of dissolving the Communist International. The gen‐ eral secretary of the Comintern, Dimitroff, reported on Stalin's thoughts in May 1941: Stalin has explained that there is no and can not be a contradiction between a properly understood nationalism and proletarian inter‐ nationalism. A (homeless) cosmopolitanism that negates both na‐ tional feelings and the idea of a homeland has nothing in common with proletarian internationalism. Such a cosmopolitanism prepares the ground for the recruitment of hostile spies and agents… At the present stage, it is necessary that the Communist parties develop as independent national parties.13

Immediately after the outbreak of the German‐Soviet war, Stalin, with the finely tuned sense of someone who overcomes all setbacks, appealed to Russian patriotism as a source of power that had helped many Moscow leaders survive fatal dangers. The Soviet leadership now described the German‐Soviet war as the great patriotic war. Soon, however, this appeal to Russian patriotism became mixed 13 Dimitroff, Georgi: Tagebücher 1933–1943: B. H. Bayerlein. Berlin, 2000, Vol. 1, p. 387.

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with anti‐Semitic tones. Before the partial opening of the Soviet archives, the majority of scholars was convinced that the anti‐ Semitic turn of the Soviet regime had taken place in the late 1940s. The newly released documents reveal that the shift occurred several years earlier. Already in the summer of 1942, when German troops were advancing on Stalingrad, a number of memoranda were penned in the Department of Propaganda of the Bolshevik Central Committee that bore an anti‐Semitic character. The Jews were de‐ scribed as “national nihilists” and the “grave‐diggers of Russian culture,” who were incapable of fathoming the Russian national character.14 In 1942–1943, the Kremlin leadership planned purges on a racial basis in order to free certain Soviet institutions of so‐ called Jewish domination. The basic outlines of the anti‐ cosmopolitan campaign that erupted several years later were al‐ ready foreshadowed in these developments. *** About three years after the defeat of the “Third Reich,” the Soviet Union began a public anti‐Jewish campaign whose diction disclosed remarkable similarities with National Socialist vocabulary. World opinion was flabbergasted over the fact that a power that in 1944– 1945 had opened the gates of Majdanek and Auschwitz could ap‐ propriate some of the propagandistic clichés of the vanquished right‐wing enemy. All the more so, it should be added, as the Soviet Union and some of its satellites in Eastern Europe were simultane‐ ously helping to make the age‐old Jewish dream of a national home‐ land a reality. The massive diplomatic and political support on the part of the Soviet Union and the military one on the part of Soviet‐ controlled Czechoslovakia contributed to the establishment as well as the survival of the state of Israel. At about the same time (January 1948), Stalin gave the order to have the “symbol” of Soviet Jewry, the actor and chairman of the Jewish Anti‐Fascist Committee (JAC) 14 Rossijskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv sotsial´no‐politicheskoi istorii—RGASPI, fond 17, opis´ 125, delo 123, list 21–23.

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Solomon Michoels, murdered. Why was Soviet policy toward the Jews in the last Stalinist decade of the 1940s and early 1950s marked by such ambivalence? This question leaves the researchers with many riddles, the partial opening of the archives notwithstand‐ ing. In contrast to the fanatic anti‐Semite Hitler, for whom, especial‐ ly after the outbreak of the German‐Soviet War, the physical de‐ struction of the Jews had absolute priority, Stalin was first and foremost a power seeker. He was clearly able to check his hatred when it undermined the safeguarding of his despotic rule. Despite his personal dislike of the Jews, which can already be discerned at the beginning of his political career, he attempted for a rather long time to back the Jewish horse. This was to change only in the last years of his life. *** The transformation in the late 1940s of Communism as a power, which had condemned anti‐Semitism and even turned it into a pun‐ ishable offence, to one of the most important advocates of the strug‐ gle against Zionism and “cosmopolitanism,” that is, against the Jews, occurred at a time when the Soviet population had to endure an unprecedented disappointment. After the victory over the “Third Reich,” it was generally considered to be inconceivable that the reign of terror of the prewar era would return. The country had experienced a spontaneous de‐Stalinization during the war, as the late Moscow historian Michail Gefter has remarked.15 The Soviet population experienced the victory, for which it had paid so dearly, as a new beginning. Even faithful servants of Stalin, such as the pop‐ ular writer Aleksei Tolstoi, drew up bold visions of the future. On July 22, 1943, he wrote the following words in his notebook:

15 Gefter, Michail: Iz tech i ėtikh let. Moscow, 1991, p. 418.

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The people will fear nothing anymore after the war. It will make new demands and develop initiatives of its own … The Chinese wall separating Russia … (from the outside world) … will fall. 16

The soldiers returning from the front, who had seen a lot, would now, according to the poet Aseev in October 1944, set new stand‐ ards in the country.17 The primary goal of the Stalinist clique, however, was again to discipline the nation that was so proud of its victory and transform it into a mere cog in the machinery of totalitarianism. The Stalinist system could not exist without the hermetic isolation from the out‐ side world, without war hysteria and the psychosis of isolation. Only during the war, when it was faced with a real as opposed to an imag‐ inary enemy, did it have to make certain concessions to reality. Im‐ mediately after the deadly danger had been overcome, the Stalinist leadership again began to erect a chimerical world, with imaginary “enemies of the people” and powerful “centers of conspiracy.” In February 1947, marriages between Soviet citizens and for‐ eigners were forbidden. The West was demonized ever more; the people were continually warned of corrosive Western influences. With extreme severity, Stalin attacked the tradition of emulating the West, which had originated with Peter the Great. The latter, Stalin maintained in a dispute with the film director Sergei Eisenstein in February 1947, had been too liberal in his approach toward foreign countries. He had opened the gates too wide to foreign influence in the country.18 Stalin continued this train of thought in a confidential conversa‐ tion with several Soviet writers in mid‐1947: If one considers our average intelligentsia, … one discovers a com‐ pletely unfounded worship of foreign culture. They all see them‐ selves as immature … eternal students. This is a backward tradition

16 Oklianskii, Yuri: Roman s tiranom. Moscow, 1994, p. 69. 17 Babichenko, Denis: Pisateli i cenzory. Sovetskaia literatura 1940‐ch godov pod politicheskim kontrolem TsK. Moscow, 1994, p. 98 18 Moskovskie Novosti, 7.8.1988, p. 8.

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based on Peter … Are we indeed worse? What does that mean? We must fight … this spirit of self‐degradation.19

The Stalinist leadership now strove to restore the state of affairs that had prevailed in the country before the war. The reference to warmongering American and British imperialism, to a domineering “world capital” that sought to destroy the homeland of the dictator‐ ship of the proletariat, was merely a means to legitimate this plan. Yet, unlike in the 1930s, the slogans of class warfare had lost their persuasiveness. During the Soviet‐German war, one had primarily fought for the protection of the fatherland. In search of a threat that was to justify the restorative, postwar course of the regime, the Sta‐ linist leadership tried to pay tribute to this national turn. The new enemy not only had to threaten the principles of socialism, but also the very existence of what it meant to be Russian; it had to embody all those things that were supposedly alien to the Russians— including a lack of national pride, the idealization of foreign values, deceitfulness, cowardice, and the lust for power. Gradually, the Jews were made into such kind of an enemy. Compared to Western “im‐ perialism,” the Jews had a further advantage: They not only repre‐ sented a foreign “threat” but also a domestic one. One could fight them both as universal and concrete enemies who were busy pursu‐ ing their harmful activities within Soviet institutions. The “anticos‐ mopolitan” campaign that had begun in 1946 as a war against the admirers of “foreign values” was now directed predominantly against the Jews. In a lead article in the central organ of the party, Pravda, which was most probably coedited by Stalin himself, “cos‐ mopolitans” were compared to parasites that sought to destroy everything that was healthy in the organic world.20 The imitation of National Socialist language was unmistakable. 19 Simonov, Konstantin: Glazami cheloveka moego pokoleniia [Razmyshleniia o I.V. Staline], Znamia, 1988, no. 3, pp. 59f. 20 Ob odnoi antipatrioticheskoi gruppe tetral’nych kritikov, in: Pravda, 28.1.1949; Bezrodnye kosmopolity. Ob antipartijnoj gruppe teatral’nych kritikov, in: Izves‐ tiia, 10.2.1949; Posledyshi burzhuaznogo estetstva, in: Vecherniaia Moskva,

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In the course of its history, Bolshevism had often tended to ap‐ propriate the basic positions of its defeated enemies. Lenin, for ex‐ ample, used the agrarian program of the Socialist Revolutionary Party immediately after the Bolshevik takeover of power. During the civil war, the Bolsheviks took up the “idea” of a united Russia from their “white” opponents and restored the Russian empire. Finally, the Soviet regime adopted some elements of National Socialist ide‐ ology after the defeat of the “Third Reich,” including its biological vocabulary. In National Socialist propaganda, too, the Jews were often compared to agents of disease, whose destruction was pro‐ moted as a measure of social hygiene. While the Stalinist propagan‐ dists did not speak of the destruction of the Jewish “race” but rather of the eradication of cosmopolitan attitudes, the essence of Stalin‐ ism entailed not only the tendency to liquidate specific stances but also to liquidate many bearers of these positions. Another fact char‐ acteristic of Stalinism was that it not only tried to unmask the so‐ called enemies, but that it also appeared behind a mask. Thus, Jew‐ hatred was renamed “Struggle against Cosmopolitanism,” although all those who could read between the lines—and in the Soviet Union that meant everyone—knew very well against whom the “anticos‐ mopolitan campaign” was directed. To be sure, occasionally, Russian admirers of “alien” values were included in the campaign, but, with a wink, the regime gave its subjects to understand that the deviation from healthy behavior among Russians was usually an exception, whereas among Jews it was by and large a rule. In order to point out the object of the hate campaign, the Russian press uncovered the Russian pseudonyms of certain Jewish authors. As early as January 28, 1949, the heading of an editorial in “Pravda”—“Concerning the Anti‐patriotic Group of Theatre Critics”—indicated that the struggle against so‐called cosmopolitanism had reached a qualitatively new dimension. In the Stalinist vocabulary, an “antipatriotic” bearing was synonymous with “traitor to one's country” and the term “an‐

11.2.1949; V.Nikolaev/A.Rogatchenko, Kosmopolity na professorskoj kafedre, in: Komsomol’skaja Pravda, February 12, 1949.

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tipatriot” synonymous with “enemy of the people.” In the eyes of the propagandists, the theatre critics therefore embodied a stance that represented the epitome of perversion. The fact that the theatre critics, moreover, appeared as a group and not individually made their behavior all the more reprehensible. It is, one might add, even surprising that the central organ of the party commenced its ideo‐ logical campaign with a section of the front that was as peripheral as theatre criticism. Nevertheless, it was part of the essence of the Sta‐ linist system that the leadership decided arbitrarily which section of the front was to be considered peripheral and which central. The regime tended to standardize and simplify the most complicated facts. As a result, an ideological reorientation—whether in theatre or literary criticism or history—always meant a paradigm shift on the entire ideological front. With concentrated might, the huge ideo‐ logical apparatus of a totalitarian superpower took action against the eight theatre critics in order to intimidate all potential antipatri‐ ots, which could literally mean every Soviet citizen. This also ex‐ plains the escalation of the attacks that were deliberately intended to cause hysteria, for the theatre critics were gradually being made into a fatal danger that was threatening to shake the very founda‐ tions of the Soviet empire. On February 12, 1949, for example, the organ of the Soviet writers’ association, Literaturnaja gazeta, called them “ideological deviants” who were trying to subvert the defense efforts of the country: “It is our patriotic duty to open fire at them.”21 “Theatre represents a very important part of the ideologi‐ cal battle,” the government organ Izvestija added on February 26, 1949, continuing: “In the present Cold War, which the international forces of reaction are leading against the Soviet Union and the peo‐ ple's democracies, the attempt is being made to disarm and confuse intellectually the Soviet citizen.”22 According to Izvestiia, the unpat‐ riotic activities of the theatre critics constituted one aspect of this 21 Ljubov’ k rodine, nenavist’ k kosmopolitam, in: Literaturnaia gazeta, February 12, 1949. 22 Do konca razgromit’ antipatrioticheskuiu gruppu kritikov, in: Izvestiia, Februa‐ ry 26, 1949.

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tactic. The cosmopolitans had tried to besmirch everything that Soviet people were proud of: the homeland, the ideology, the party, and Soviet art. And the writer Safronov added that, in their unpatri‐ otic actions, the theatre critics had relied on the experience of the anti‐Soviet underground.23 Such an accusation boded ill. The theo‐ retical organ of the party, Bolshevik, wrote in a similar vein, estab‐ lishing a direct link between the “Trotskyites” of the 1930s and the “rootless cosmopolitans” of the 1940s. Both groups had allegedly defamed and spat at the Russian people and Russian culture. The party had already taken care of the Trotskyites who befouled their own nest, the Bolshevik emphasized, intimating that the “rootless cosmopolitans” would be next.24 Fire was now opened at the “antipatriotic forces” in the entire Soviet Union, using the very arguments that had proved successful in the confrontation with the “antipatriotic theatre critics,” including unmasking “antipatriotic” writers, scientists, or engineers. As part of the “anticosmopolitan” campaign, racist purges took place through‐ out the country. Many Soviet institutions and government offices were almost “judenrein.” The propaganda campaign against the “rootless cosmopolitans” contained a striking contradiction. On the one hand, the Soviet me‐ dia maintained that the “antipatriotic” circles comprised small groups that were completely estranged from the people and hated by it, while, on the other hand, these circles were depicted as a le‐ thal danger for the second most powerful state in the world. Since the creation of pseudorealities, in which the real facts were literally turned upside down, was one of the central features of Stalinism, this contradiction was not untypical of Stalinist fictionalism. From autumn 1948 onward, Moscow's attitude toward Israel al‐ so began to change. Among Soviet Jews, the creation of the state of Israel in May 1948 was greeted enthusiastically. Even duty‐bound 23 Za patrioticheskuiu sovetskuiu dramaturgiiu!, in: Literaturnaia gazeta, Februa‐ ry 26, 1949. 24 Razvivat' i kul’tivirovat’ sovetskii patriotizm—vazhneishaia zadacha partiinykh organizacii, Bol'shevik, no. 5, 1949, pp. 5–10.

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party functionaries of Jewish background joined the boisterous mood, feeling, as they did, that it was permitted in light of the re‐ gime’s pro‐Israeli policy. Thus, they praised the wise politics of the Soviet leadership, which was determined to defend the right of the Jewish people to self‐determination. Indeed, the euphoria vis‐à ‐vis Israel managed to infect the very top of Soviet Establishment. “Now we too have a homeland,” Ekaterina Gorbman, wife of Kliment Vo‐ roshilov, is reported to have said.25 This confession is surprising, for Ekaterina Gorbman was known to be a fanatic Communist who had burned all bridges to her Jewish past. An even stronger engagement for the Jewish state could be discerned in the case of Polina Zhem‐ chuzhina, the wife of foreign minister Molotov. She was a professed Jew, who, in an oft‐quoted conversation with the Israeli ambassador to the Soviet Union, Golda Meir, on November 8, 1948, remarked: May matters go well with you (in Israel). If everything is o.k. with you, the Jews in the whole world will be equally well off.26

The Jewish Anti‐Fascist Committee was now bombarded with let‐ ters from Soviet Jews, who asked how one could help Israel or im‐ migrate to the land27. On the occasion of the Jewish New Year on October 16, 1948, an enthusiastic welcoming ceremony for Golda Meir took place in front of Moscow's main synagogue. Thousands of Jews participated in this spontaneous demonstration and thereby contravened the central principle of Stalinism, which only condoned “spontaneity” if it was controlled and manipulated from above. The last time a meeting had been held without the express authorization of the government was in early November 1927, when the Trotsky‐ ite opposition had organized a counterdemonstration commemorat‐ ing the tenth anniversary of the October Revolution. At the time, 25 Vasil'eva Larisa: Kremlevskie zheny. Moscow, 1994, p. 236. 26 Rapoport, Louis: Hammer, Sichel, Davidstern. Judenverfolgung in der Sowjetuni‐ on. Berlin, 1992, p. 129; Krammer, Arnold: The Forgotten Friendship. Israel and the Soviet Bloc 1947–1953. Urbana, 1974, p. 127. 27 Redlich, Shimon and Kostyrchenko, Gennadii (eds.): Evreiskij antifashistskii komitet v SSSR. Dokumentirovannaia istoriia. Moscow, 1996.

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however, the Stalinist system with its rejection of all personal initia‐ tive was still in the making, its mechanisms of control not yet as perfect as they would be twenty years later. The events of October 16, 1948 were, therefore, all the more irritating, despite the fact that the pro‐Israeli demonstrations of Moscow's Jews did not go against the official policy of the government. Yet, they were spontaneous and consequently “subversive” in the eyes of the rulers. In order to subdue the pro‐Israel euphoria of Soviet Jewry, one of its most prominent representatives, the writer Il'ya Ėrenburg, had already on September 21, 1948 published an article in Pravda, in which he claimed that the situation of the Jews had not fundamen‐ tally changed with the establishment of the state of Israel. Not this state, only socialism could solve the “Jewish question”: The citizens of a socialist society view the inhabitants of all bour‐ geois states, also the citizens of Israel, as wanderers who are roam‐ ing around in a dark forest. The citizen of a socialist society will nev‐ er envy those people who are suffering under the yoke of capitalist exploitation.28

The frightened leadership of the Jewish Anti‐Fascist Committee also tried to distance itself from Israel. Time and again, the officials of the committee emphasized that the homeland of the Soviet Jews was the USSR rather than Israel. All these professions of faith, how‐ ever, were to no avail, given that Stalin’s decision to liquidate the JAC and to embark on a public campaign against the Jews had long been taken. On November 20, 1948, the JAC was dissolved, and in late 1948 to early 1949 its leading members were arrested. The anti‐Semitic campaign, begun in January 1949, was appar‐ ently intended as a kind of preparation for a show trial of Soviet Jewry’s leading representatives. Already in spring 1949, almost all arrested members of the JAC confessed, upon special treatment by the security forces, to their “crimes.” The Soviet population, having gone through similar developments in the 1930s, now anticipated 28 Ėrenburg, Il´ya: Po povodu odnogo pis’ma, Pravda, September 21, 1948.

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the first postwar show trial in the country. The script had already been written, nothing stood in its way. Yet, suddenly Stalin gave the all‐clear signal, thereby not only puzzling contemporaries but also later historians. Again, one could convince oneself that Stalin, unlike Hitler, was able to control his Jew‐hatred and administer it only in small doses. For merely a few months after the beginning of the anti‐Semitic press campaign, he ordered for it to be halted. For instance, in April 1949, Stalin reproved the popular practice among Russian anti‐Semites to disclose the Russian pseudonyms of certain Jewish intellectuals and politicians. The writer Aleksandr Fadeev reported on a comment by Stalin that resembled a com‐ mand: Comrades, the revelation of pseudonyms is inadmissable; it smells of anti‐Semitism.29

The leadership’s change of course of early 1949 was immediately noticed in the country as well as by several foreign observers. As the well‐known expert on Russia Solomon Schwarz remarked: Since the spring of 1949 the anti‐cosmopolitan campaign took on a more muted character', adding that the 'openly anti‐Semitic practice of revealing pseudonyms of Jewish authors was given up.30

After a short pause, the anti‐Semitic campaign was revived; this time, however, with much greater force. For Stalin, the anti‐Semitic campaign of 1949 presumably was a kind of experiment. He wanted to discover how the population would react to the appropriation of extreme right ideology, a doctrine the fight against which had cost the country 27 million lives. Whether the experiment turned out well is difficult to say. Yet, one thing is certain, namely, that the campaign against the “rootless, antipatriotic cosmopolitans” of 1949, which removed the taboos from anti‐Semitism, was only the 29 Ėrenburg, Il´ya: Liudi, gody zhizn’. Kniga piataia i shestaia. Moscow, 1966, p. 456. 30 Shvarts, Solomon: Antisemitizm v Sovetskom Soiuze. New York, 1952, p. 225.

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verbal prologue to the second, bloody campaign of Stalin against the Jews that was to begin in 1951–1952. In the middle of 1952, the supreme military court held the trial against the members of the Jewish Anti‐Fascist Committee, a trial that was closed to the public. The chairman of the court, A. Cheptsov, was told before the begin‐ ning of the first session that the Politbureau expected 12 of the 13 defendants to be sentenced to death. In August 1952, these people were executed.31 Unlike in 1949, Stalin did not restrict the 1951–52 campaign against the Jews to the Soviet Union, but extended it to his entire sphere of influence. At the end of 1952, the first anti‐Semitic show trial of the Eastern bloc—the Slánský Trial—took place in Prague, culminating in the execution of 11 defendants. The hunt for “Zionist agents” and “cosmopolitans” also shook the GDR, Hungary, Romania, and Poland. The role of Poland's Slánský was to be played by the second most powerful man in the party, Jakub Berman. Sur‐ prisingly, however, he was defended by the general secretary of the PVAP, Bolesław Bierut, who otherwise was slavishly obedient to Stalin. This totally unexpected show of solidarity with a party com‐ rade was due to the memories of the tragic fate of the Polish Com‐ munist Party (CPP), whose leadership had been almost completely liquidated in 1937–1938. The Polish rulers did not wish to allow for a repetition of these events. Later Berman recalled: Without a doubt, had comrade Bierut not defended me so steadfast‐ ly I could now at best be exhumed.32

Soviet propaganda gradually turned the Jewish people into a collec‐ tive persona non grata. It had been demonstrated that the Jews were unreceptive to socialist ideas, as the party ideologue Chesnokov remarked in early 1953.33 On the eve of the Slánský trial, 31 Naumov, Vladimir: Nepravednyi sud. Poslednii stalinskii rasstrel. Stenogramma sudebnogo processa nad chlenami evreiskogo antifashistskogo komiteta. Mos‐ cow, 1994. 32 Nowe Drogi, no. 10, 1956, p. 88. 33 Ėtinger, Jakov: Delo vrachei sorok let spustja, Novoe vremja, 1993, nos. 2–3, p. 47; idem.: K sorokaletiiu dela vrachej, Russkaia mysl', January 15, 1993.

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one of the codefendants, Eugen Loebl, had heard a similar theory from judge Drozd: The party is not against the Jews, but rather the Jews are against the party. Therefore, the party must fight the Jews in order to defend socialism.34

The arrests of prominent Kremlin doctors, of whom the majority were Jews, also commenced at this time. The entire “socialist camp” thus represented a unified mechanism, each part being assigned certain functions by the controllers in the Kremlin. Stalin was inter‐ ested in all details of the Slánský trial as well as the “Doctor's Plot,” and continually gave stage directions. The script for the show trial of the Kremlin doctors was also his work. He read the interrogation records daily, demanding harsher treatment in order to force the accused to make confessions. As Chrushchev commented in his se‐ cret speech at the XX. party conference: Stalin summoned the investigating judge, gave him instructions as to the methods of investigation: these methods were very simple: beat‐ ing, beating, and beating yet again.35

Did the Kremlin leadership plan a mass deportation of Soviet Jews in connection with the “Doctor's Plot”? Even today, following the revelations that have come to light since the beginnings of Gorba‐ chev's Perestrojka, it is not easy to give a definite answer. But one thing is obvious: In the final year of Stalin's rule, an extreme radical‐ ization of the regime's anti‐Semitic course could be observed, as several sources made available to researchers have recently shown. Thus, for example, V. Malyshev, member of the Presidium of the Central Committee, recorded the following statement by Stalin on December 1, 1952:

34 Loebl, Eugen: Die Aussage. Hintergründe eines Schauprozesses. Stuttgart, 1978, p. 179. 35 Chruschtschews historische Rede, Ost‐Probleme, no. 25/26, June 22, 1956, p. 888.

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Every Jew is a nationalist and an agent of the American secret ser‐ vice. The Jewish nationalists are of the opinion that their nation has been saved by the USA … they feel obliged towards the Americans.36

This association of the Jews with the most dangerous foreign enemy of the Soviet Union is reminiscent of a similar construction that Sta‐ lin had already made in the 1930s. At the time he had also led a two‐ front war—against the foreign threat “fascism” and the domestic threat “Trotskyism.” According to Stalinist propaganda, these ene‐ mies had allied themselves against the Soviet Union. Despite its obvious absurdity, the “two‐enemy” theory had cost countless lives during the time of the Great Terror. It is difficult to judge what con‐ sequences this theory, at least in its modern guise, would have had for the Jews, since its initiator did not have the time to develop it as part of the persecution of Soviet Jewry. He died shortly after its proclamation.

36 Dnevnik, narkoma. “Proidet desiatok let i eti vtrechi uzhe ne vosstanovish' v pamiati,” Istochnik, no. 5, 1997, pp. 140–141.

The Catholics in Postwar Poland and the Jews1

The Catholic Church is seen, by many observers, as the greatest moral force in present‐day Poland. After all, the opposition bodies were disbanded by the Communist regime in the latter half of the 1940s, and only the Church was successful in evading the State’s determination to take its citizens’ decisions for them. Since 1945, it has acted as a protector of a section of the forces critical of the re‐ gime and protested against the suppression of democratic freedoms taking place in the country. But has its protection also extended to the Polish Jews—the survivors of the Holocaust—who have fallen victim to repeated anti‐Semitic rioting since 1945? Have Polish Catholics succeeded in overcoming prewar prejudice and resent‐ ment directed against the Jews? These are sensitive questions and painful ones too. And how explosive they can be was recently made clear by the controversy unleashed among both Polish and Western cinema‐goers by Claude Lanzmann’s film “Shoah,” which showed an image of Poland that failed to conform to the widespread idea of the Polish national character. For generations westerners have admired the Poles for their drive for freedom and justice, their readiness to fight not only for their own freedom but also for those of other peo‐ ples. But little of these qualities are discernible in Lanzmann’s film. Here, with a few exceptions, what is seen above all is the indiffer‐ ence of those questioned to the tragic fate of their Jewish fellows, and not infrequently their anti‐Semitism too. As the vast majority of the respondents are peasants—the firmest bastion of Polish Cathol‐ icism—the following questions demand consideration: how repre‐ sentative of Polish Catholics, who account for some 90% of the pop‐ ulation, is the image painted by Lanzmann? And what is the attitude of the country’s leading Catholic authorities to the Jewish problem? 1 A revised version of my articles that appeared in Süddeutsche Zeitung, 1./2.11.1986, and in “Bedenken, was trägt!”. Themenheft der Gesellschaft für Christlich‐Jüdische Zusammenarbeit, 1999.

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But first here are a few preliminary remarks. The opinion occa‐ sionally expressed in the West that very many Poles actively assist‐ ed in the National Socialist extermination of the Jews is certainly unjustified. The Poles were among the few occupied nations not to have produced a Quisling. Of course, there were lesser Polish col‐ laborators, but these were in constant fear for their lives. Many of them were condemned to death and executed by the Polish army of resistance, the so‐called Home Army. In 1942, the Home Army had created a special organization known as the “Council for Jewish Assistance,” whose task was to rescue Polish Jews,2 although there was not a great deal that this organization could do. It was unable to prevent the murder of three million Polish Jews, and its importance should not be overestimated, as is often the case in Poland. Never‐ theless, it must be said that, of around 55,000 Jews who survived the Holocaust in occupied areas of Poland,3 many owed their lives to the Polish Resistance. Against this, however, there were tens of thousands of Jews who died because Polish informers revealed their hiding places. Overall, the activities in support of the Jews, as well as their opposite—active collaboration in the murder of Jews—can be seen as involving in each case a marginal section of Polish society. The majority of the population observed the Jewish tragedy with indifference, some even with malicious satisfaction. We read of this in a number of works of Polish authors.4 The well‐known Polish writer Kazimierz Brandys, who is of Jewish descent, not only men‐ tions with gratitude the willingness of his non‐Jewish compatriots to help, but also tells of the appalling remarks he was forced to hear during the occupation—to the effect, for example, that Hitler had 2 Bartoszewski, Władysław: Stosunki polsko‐żydowskie w okupowanej Polsce 1939–1945, Puls, Vol. 24, 1984–1985), pp. 47–58; Prekerowa, Teresa: Konspir‐ acyjna Rada Pomocy Żydom w Warszawie 1942–1945. Warsaw, 1982. 3 See Encyclopedia Judaica, Vol. 13. Jerusalem, 1971, p. 771. 4 See Lipski, Jan Józef: Dwie ojczyzny – dwa patriotyzmy, Kultura, Vol. 10, 1981, pp. 3–29; Gross, Jan Tomasz: Ten jest z ojczyzny mojej…, ale go nie lubię, Aneks 41–42, 1986, pp. 13–35; Smolar, Aleksander: Tabu i niewinność, Aneks, Vol. 41– 42, 1986, pp. 89–133; Wat, Aleksander: Mój wiek. Pamiętnik mówiony. London, 1981, Vol. II, p. 177; Leski, Marek: Glossa do „Żydów Polskich“ Normana Da‐ viesa, Arka, Vol. 10, 1985, pp. 102–108.

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cleansed Germany of the Jewish plague, or that the extermination of the Jews was a punishment for the suffering of Christ.5 Such com‐ ments, of course, do not present us with anything particularly Polish: they could also be heard a thousand times over outside Po‐ land. All the same, this merciless coldness in representatives of a people that had itself suffered brutal persecution is disconcerting. The fact that (beside Spain and Ireland perhaps) Poland is the Cath‐ olic nation par excellence leads us back to the question we raised at the beginning: whether the negative image of the Jews shared by a part of the Polish population might not reflect certain tendencies inside the Church. It is not my purpose here to elucidate the historical root of Catholic anti‐Semitism in Poland. I wish to concentrate on the peri‐ od since the war—the period in which the Holocaust would seem to have made an uninhibited anti‐Semitism impossible. The attitude of Polish Catholics to the Jews is highly varied. Thus, for example, the image of the Jew held by the liberal wing of Polish Catholicism, centered round the weekly paper Tygodnik Powszechny (Weekly Universe), is distinctly different from that of the Polish bishops, the majority of whom are conservative in outlook. Tygodnik Powszechny, founded in March 1945 and now Poland's leading Catholic journal, has criticized all expressions of anti‐ Semitism with the utmost severity since its earliest issues. It reacted with horror to the anti‐Jewish rioting that occurred immediately after the war.6 It must be said in this connection that feelings in some sections of the population in the months after the end of the war ran strongly against the Jews. The survivors of the Holocaust, emerging from their hiding places or returning from Soviet exile, were not infrequently given a hostile reception. It was feared, for example, that the Jews might demand the return of their property,

5 Brandys, Kazimierz: Miesiące 1878–1979. Paris, 1981, pp. 130–131. 6 See Nasze stanowisko, in: Tygodnik Powszechny, August 19, 1945; Zbrodnia kielecka, in: Tygodnik Powszechny, July 21, 1946.

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which had in the meantime been divided among their Polish neigh‐ bors.7 In addition, it was held against the Jews that they took a rather more benevolent stance to the new Communist regime than the majority of Poles. This led to repeated rioting, which resulted in the deaths of more than 350 Jews in 1945 alone.8 The worst pogrom of the postwar years occurred in the town of Kielce in July 1946, when more than forty Jews fell victim, and was triggered by the rumor that Jews had committed a ritual murder. In fact, the supposedly murdered Polish child reappeared the next day.9 A suspicion frequently heard expressed in Poland is that the Kielce pogrom was the consequence of provocation by Polish security forces, an attempt by the regime to divert public attention from other problems.10 But even if this provocation theory should turn out to be correct, this still has not answered the real question: How is it that the inhabitants of Kielce were so easily provoked? The editors of Tygodnik Powszechny reacted to all such pogroms and riots directed against the Jews with indignation and disgust.11 They described anti‐Semitism as an ideology of hate in glaring con‐ tradiction to the fundamental tenets of Catholicism, and found espe‐ cially shameful the fact that these outbreaks of violence by anti‐ Semitic Poles were taking place immediately after the murder of millions of Jews under National Socialism. At the same time, some authors expressed concern that certain circles in Germany might try to use the anti‐Semitic outbreaks to remove the burden from them‐ selves, which did indeed happen: an attempt to make the unprece‐ 7 Borwicz, Michał: 1944–1947, Puls 24, 1984–1985, pp. 58–66; Gross, op. cit., p. 28. 8 Encyclopedia Judaica, vol. 13, p. 753; see also Borwicz, op. cit.; Kersten, Krystyna: Narodziny systemu władzy. Polska 1943–1948. Paris, 1986, pp. 169– 170; Hiller, Marc: Le massacre des survivants en Pologne aprés l´holocauste (1945–1947). Paris, 1986. 9 Borwicz, op. cit., pp. 60–61. 10 See Kersten, Krystyna: Kielce 4 lipca 1946 roku, in: Tygodnik Solidarność, 4.2.1981; Borwicz, op. cit., p. 61; Smolar, op. cit., p. 106; PPN 32/1979, Polacy‐ Żydzi. 11 See Zbrodnia kielecka, Tygodnik Powszechny, July 21, 1946.

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dented crime of the Third Reich seem relative by drawing attention to the violent events in Poland, and to implicate the Polish popula‐ tion in the genocide. The editors of Tygodnik Powszechny could condemn anti‐ Semitism with a clear conscience. Most of its staff and its editor‐in‐ chief, Jerzy Turowicz among them, had been members of the Catho‐ lic groups fighting anti‐Jewish sentiment in the 1930s. As a group, however, Polish Catholics cannot be said to have been favorably disposed to the Jews before the war, and this applies especially to the Church hierarchy. As an example of a highly negative attitude to the Jews, I would like to quote some passages from a sermon given by Cardinal Hlond in 1936. Hlond, the predecessor of Cardinal Wyszyński, was Primate of the Catholic Church in Poland up to his death in 1948. Speaking of the Jews in 1936, Hlond said: …It is a fact that the Jews have a disastrous influence on morals and that Jewish publishers are spreading pornographic literature. It is a fact that Jews are cheats and profiteers. … But we must be fair. Not all Jews are like this … We may value our own people more highly than others, but we may not hate anyone …12

The views represented here by Cardinal Hlond were widespread among Polish clergy between the wars. True, the tragedy of Polish Jewry during the German occupation helped to reduce the strength of anti‐Semitism. Many Polish Jews owed their survival to Catholic priests. But despite this a not insignificant part of the Catholic hier‐ archy remained true to their anti‐Jewish prejudice after 1945. Car‐ dinal Hlond, for example, refused to express any clear condemna‐ tion of the anti‐Jewish rioting of the early postwar years, despite repeated demands from various Jewish organizations. He justified this refusal with the claim that the Jews were supporting the new Communist regime, which was spurned by the majority of the Polish people. Hlond and other Polish bishops ascribed anti‐Jewish re‐

12 August Kardynał Hlond. Prymas Polski: Listy Pasterskie. Poznań, 1936, p. 192.

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sentment and pogroms to this pro‐Communist attitude, and thus to some extent excused them.13 Communist ideals did in fact meet with considerable response from many Polish Jews, and this dated back to the years between the wars. As representatives of a minority disadvantaged on both national and religious grounds, they were attracted to an ideology that claimed to be fighting for international solidarity and social justice. But membership of the Communist Party did not provide them with entry to a career, as it was often claimed it would. Quite the opposite: they now had to suffer reprisals not only for their ori‐ gins, but for their political sympathies too. Many immigrated to the Soviet Union, only to suffer during the Stalinist purges of the later 1930s, to which almost the entire leadership of the Polish Com‐ munist Party (PCP) fell victim. In 1938, the PCP was officially dis‐ solved by Stalin on the grounds of its alleged crimes. Despite these terrible experiences, many Polish Communists— Jews and non‐Jews—remained true to their ideals. Faced with the growing dangers of National Socialism, they simply saw no alterna‐ tive to Communism. The monstrous crimes of Nazism during the war and the Soviet Union’s subsequent victory over the Third Reich seemed to confirm that they had made the right choice. As will be remembered, immediately after the war, there was a slide to the left throughout Europe, which led, not least, to an increase in Com‐ munist sympathies. Poland was no exception to this. Here too, many observers noted increased leftward tendencies. But in spite of all, Polish Communists were still a small minority in the country when they assumed power. Without Soviet support they would hardly have been able to govern Poland. The Catholic majority found it humiliating to be ruled by a government they had not elected. This humiliation was all the harder to bear in view of the enormous scale of Poland’s contribution to the victory over the Third Reich. In their despair, many cast about for someone to blame for this turn of af‐ fairs. The fact that a sizeable proportion of Polish Communists were 13 Borwicz, op. cit., pp. 62–63; Smolar, op. cit., pp. 112–115.

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227

of Jewish origin and that many of them occupied responsible posi‐ tions in the party and state machinery led many opponents of Com‐ munism to identify the new system with the Jews.14 Conspiracy the‐ ories (already enjoying considerable currency on the Polish Right, and among Catholics too, before the war) once more came into their own—despite the fact that the new Polish regime, supposedly dom‐ inated by the Jews, was largely dependent on Russia, a state whose rulers had engaged in an increasingly bitter campaign against the Jews since the end of the 1940s, whipping up a pogrom atmosphere across the country. Once into the 1950s, Stalin's anti‐Semitism changed to a kind of persecution complex. He extended his battle against “cosmopolitanism,” that is, against the Jews, to other coun‐ tries in the Eastern bloc. All of this speaks against the theory of Jewish ascendancy in the states ruled by Communism. Why, then, was it nevertheless vehe‐ mently proposed by many Catholic opponents of Communism? The reason may lie in a desire among these Catholics to find the same clear separation of good and evil in a Communist Poland as was evident during the German occupation or at the time of the parti‐ tions. At that time, Polish society stood totally unite against the oc‐ cupiers. Any Pole, who accepted the system forced on the country by the occupiers, was seen as a traitor. But the situation in postwar Poland was decidedly more complicated. Membership of the Communist Party continued its uninterrupt‐ ed growth. In January 1945, there were only 30,000 Communists in the country. By the end of 1946, their numbers had climbed to 550,000, and two years later, after union with the Polish Socialist Party, there were one and a half million.15 At the same time, there were around 90,000 Jews living in Poland.16 On a purely logical basis, then, it is

14 See Kersten, Narodziny systemu władzy, pp. 172–174; Kainer, Abel: Żydzi a komunizm, Krytyka 15, 1983, pp. 214–247; Smolar, op. cit., pp. 109–110. 15 Hacker, Jens: Der Ostblock. Entstehung, Entwicklung und Struktur 1939–1980. Baden‐Baden, 1983, p. 217. 16 Nowakowska, Irena: Zagadnienia ojczyzny, Więź, Vol. 4, 1983, p. 110.

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difficult to see Polish Communism as an exclusively Jewish affair. Hundreds of thousands and, later, millions of Poles from all sections of the population participated in the establishment of the new re‐ gime.17 However, it was extremely hard for the opponents of Com‐ munism to swallow this. In the conviction that Communism was totally alien to the Polish character and could only be the result of Jewish conspiracy and seduction, they tried to draw a clear line be‐ tween occupiers and occupied. In reality, however, such a clear divi‐ sion was no longer possible. And also the establishment of a Communist regime in Poland was the result of an all‐embracing historical process, which, as we know, affected not only Poland but also all of Eastern Europe. A complicat‐ ed and powerful process of this nature is very difficult to resist. It is far easier to fight a physical enemy. Hence, the tendency to personi‐ fy the evil, for which the Jews appeared particularly well suited. On the one hand, they were seen as all‐powerful, but, on the other, eve‐ ryone knew how vulnerable they really were. History has proved this repeatedly. An apparent opportunity to hold up this distasteful process could thus be discerned: by removing power from the Jews who supposedly were its personification. That this was an illusory hope had become clear back in the 1930s to Russian anti‐ Communists, who favored the same conspiracy theory. At that time, Stalin had succeeded in deposing nearly all the Bolshevik leaders of Jewish descent. However, the Bolshevik regime had not suffered any loss of strength as a result. What happened in Bolshevik Russia, as in Communist Poland, was that excessive concern with the Jewish question simply distracted attention from the real problems. There‐ fore, there came into being a kind of “surrogate front,” where noth‐ ing could be gained, but which intensively occupied a section of the opposition forces and, thus, to some degree, relieved pressure on the regime.

17 See Hirszowicz, Maria: Śladami mitu (w odpowiedzi Panu Stefanowi Kisie‐ lewskiemu), Kultura, Vol. 10, 1974, pp. 114–124.

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This exaggerated occupation with the supposed Jewish ascend‐ ancy in postwar Poland had a further consequence, however, which was that the majority of Polish Catholics were unable to properly digest the events of the Holocaust. The Jews were almost universally regarded as culprits rather than victims. The very recent murder of millions of their number did little to inject a sense of proportion. In the 1960s, the Jewish question in Poland was again to come to a head. A new anti‐Semitic mood arose, fueled this time, in contrast to the events of the 1940s, by the government rather than the socie‐ ty. In 1956, it will be remembered that a comprehensive process of de‐Stalinization took place in Poland. The new Party Secretary, Go‐ mułka, promised that an end would be put to the mistakes of the past and a far‐reaching democratization of society would be carried out. This democratization, however, was shelved after only a few years, for which the regime paid with a sharp drop in popularity. The dead end, in which the party now found itself, allowed the so‐ called National Wing of the party leadership under Minister of the Interior Moczar to take the stage. Adopting a populist and anti‐ Semitic platform, the national faction sought to restore the party’s popularity among the people. The fact that a number of Jews were members of the liberal wing of the party was taken by Moczar's followers as sufficient cause to discredit the movement for liberaliz‐ ing the regime.18 This movement was depicted as part of a Jewish conspiracy aimed at damaging Poland’s interests. By the mid‐1960s, this campaign of defamation had helped to eliminate the liberal wing of the party, whose members, of course, were not only Jews. Similar arguments were used to discredit the student demonstra‐ tions of March 1968 in support of freedom of opinion. Here adept use was made of the fact that the demonstrators included sons of some of the recently deposed Jewish party functionaries.

18 See Jedlicki, Witold: Klub Krzywego Koła. Paris, 1963.

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In this way, the students' protests could be interpreted as an at‐ tempt by the sons to revenge their Jewish fathers' removal from power.19 The result of the anti‐Semitic campaign of 1968 was a thorough purge of all state institutions on racial principles and a mass emigra‐ tion of Jews.20 What was the Catholic reaction to the anti‐Jewish campaign? The liberal coalition, centered on the journal Tygodnik Powszechny, re‐ acted, as in the 1940s, with indignation at the anti‐Semitic attacks. The five representatives of the group in Parliament signed a protest note on March 11, 1968, in which they most strongly condemned the militia's brutal behavior toward the students. While the regime's anti‐Semitic campaign was not directly mentioned in the document, it was clear to those who could read between the lines that the Catholic members of Parliament were condemning the behavior of the regime in its entirety, that is, the hounding of the Jews includ‐ ed.21 However, it must, at the same time, be mentioned that the new direction taken by the Polish regime was not given a negative recep‐ tion throughout the Catholic camp. Many Catholics, attributing the negative aspects of Communism to Jewish influence, saw the exclu‐ sion of the Jews from the party as a source of hope. Now at last, they thought, the party could begin to serve the real interests of Poland. Among the leading advocates of this nationalist current among Catholics were the influential journalists Janusz Zabłocki and An‐ drzej Micewski. Both criticized the March 1963 protest note men‐ tioned earlier, especially the fact that the Catholics who signed it were distancing themselves from the regime's “anti‐Zionist” cam‐ paign, as it was known. The Catholic parliamentarians were fighting a battle that was not theirs, both writers asserted. In other words,

19 W 10 lat po wydarzeniach marcowych, Krytyka 1, 1978, pp. 6–66. 20 Nowakowska, op. cit., p. 110. 21 Micewski, Andrzej: Współrządzić czy nie kłamać? Pax i Znak w Polsce 1945– 1976. Paris, 1978, pp. 209–211.

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Catholics should remain neutral on the persecution of Jews, since the struggle did not concern them.22 It is interesting to note that the article, in which the two authors developed these thoughts and which was written for a liberal Catho‐ lic paper, Więź (The Bond), was rejected by its editor, Tadeusz Ma‐ zowiecki.23 Despite the increasing severity of the regime's anti‐ Semitic campaign, the pages of the liberal Catholic journals were still barred to expressions or suggestions of anti‐Semitism. On the whole, it can be said that the anti‐Semitic campaign of 1968 did not achieve its object: the regime did not gain in populari‐ ty as a result. Two years later, the Gomułka regime was toppled after labor unrest on the coast. However, one thing should be men‐ tioned in this connection. There have been repeated revolts against the regime since 1956 among specific sections of Polish society, and these revolts have generally enjoyed a good deal of sympathy among the population at large. The protest movement of 1968 was the only one left isolated. In the view of some contemporary wit‐ nesses, the fact that the government defamed the demonstrations at that time as element in a Jewish conspiracy contributed in some ways to this isolation.24 This was the real result of the anti‐Semitic campaign of 1968. The events of 1968 drew a line under a long chapter of history— the centuries‐long history of Polish‐Jewish coexistence. But there was now something odd to be seen. The interest of a section of the Polish Catholics for Jewish culture, which up to then had never been particularly strong, began—now that the Jews had disappeared—to grow. The gap brought about by the absence of Jews was felt by many Catholic intellectuals to be something painful. In some Catho‐ lic circles, a true wave of nostalgia broke out. Jewish cemeteries and memorials were restored; countless discussions and books on the history of the Jewish people were published. Even more painful for 22 Micewski, op. cit., pp. 215–216; Woźniakowski, Jacek: Micewski przeciw am‐ nezji, Res publica, Vol. 4, 1980, pp. 160–161. 23 Micewski, op. cit., pp. 215–216. 24 See Bocheński, Jacek: Marzec, Puls, Vol. 18, 1981, pp. 109–116.

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these Catholics had been the opinions of their compatriots they heard expressed in the film “Shoah.” Some authors have indeed ac‐ cused the film of one‐sidedness. Lanzmann, they claim, says nothing of the fact that Polish resistance against the Nazi extermination of the Jews was markedly stronger than in other countries—stronger, for example, than in France, the film‐maker's own country.25 In the Avenue of the Righteous in Jerusalem, dedicated to those who have saved Jews, most trees were planted by Poles. But, at the same time, some writers were prepared to admit that this self‐sacrificing atti‐ tude was typical of only a small section of the nation; the majority remained indifferent. And these Catholics are particularly con‐ cerned at the fact that this indifference and anti‐Semitism are still so widespread today. Clearly, liberation from anti‐Semitic prejudices is a many‐layered and very slow process, even in countries where there are few Jews left. As a writer of the Catholic journal Więź not‐ ed: The hate of the anti‐Semitic elements of yesterday was deadly. The anti‐Semites of today, however, … hate even the memory of those who were killed. They wish to extinguish … the only kind of Jewish existence remaining (in Poland—L. L.), the existence in memory.26

In recent years the number of Polish Catholics writing and thinking in this way, especially from the younger generation, has been on the increase. Their concern is awakening concern in others, who were up to now indifferent. But this rethinking has so far failed to achieve any broad base: the Catholic intellectuals, with their new attitude to the Jews, are still relatively isolated within the population. Translated by Eric Lowery

25 Turowicz, Jerzy: “Shoah” w polskich oczach, Tygodnik Powszechny, November 10, 1985. 26 Matywiecki, Piotr: Fotografie pamięci, Więź, Vol. 4, 1983, p. 56.

Concluding Remarks: Does Russia Belong to Europe?1

When Peter the Great “cut a window through to Europe” in the early eighteenth century, Russia became an inseparable part of Europe and a full‐fledged member of the European “concert of powers.” The main drama of subsequent Russian history was predetermined in this way. From then on, Peter’s Western vision was forced to com‐ pete with Russia’s Byzantine and Mongolian legacies. Neither Peter nor his successors were able to turn Russia into a “normal” Europe‐ an country. But at the same time, the way back to pre‐Petrine antiq‐ uity was closed for good. Peter’s radical critics, the Slavophiles and Eurasianists, claimed that his reforms effectively destroyed the foundation of Russian power. Nikolai Trubetskoi, one of the founders of Eurasianism, wrote that no foreign invader had ever before succeeded in destroy‐ ing Russia’s centuries‐long national culture and lifestyle to such an extent.2 The Eurasianists failed to notice that the Muscovite Russia that they idolized so much had begun to suffocate under its own autarchy and self‐content, leading to an unprecedented crisis of Russian identity whose beginnings dated back to at least the reign of Ivan the Terrible. In order to overcome its increasingly deep cultur‐ al stagnation, Russia was in dire need of a cultural stimulus from abroad—and the natural place to get it was from the West. Accord‐ ing to the Russian emigre historian Vladimir Veidle, it’s no accident that Peter the Great opened his window precisely to Europe, and not to the Middle East or Asia. The unparalleled achievements of Petrine Russia were the direct results of “Peter’s pivot” to the West.3

1 Revised version of my article that appeared in Center on Global Interests April 29, 2016. 2 I. R. ( Trubetskoi, Nikolai): Nasledie Chingiskhana. Vzgliad na russkuiu istoriiu ne s Zapada, a s Vostoka. Berlin, 1925, pp. 35–39. 3 Veidle, Vladimir: Zadacha Rossii. Paris, 1956.

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When the Bolsheviks came to power in 1917, they tried to con‐ tinue Peter's vision and transform what they viewed as a backward country into a leading industrial European power. But in contrast to Peter's revolution, which brought Russia closer to the West, the Bolshevik revolution had the reverse effect. The new regime launched a merciless campaign against Europeanism in Russia with the help of the Red Terror and later the Stalin Terror, forced hun‐ dreds of thousands of pro‐European Russians to flee the country, and closed the window to Europe that Peter had opened. The hope of overcoming the break between East and West and “returning to Europe” was the driving force behind Gorbachev's perestroika. The most radical members of the reformist camp, like the radical Westerners of Peter's time before them, strove with a particular zeal to transform Russia into a “normal” European state. But like their predecessors, they underestimated Russia's distinc‐ tiveness. Every attempt to transfer Western models and institutions onto Russian soil, without taking into account Russia's unique fea‐ tures, was doomed to end in failure. Russia “is a European power, ” as Catherine the Great once said. But it should be noted that Russia’s idea of Europeanism differs from that of the West. When observers in both the East and West claim that Russia is a European country in mere geographical but not cultural terms, they forget that Europe itself is a two‐faced Janus, with its own "East" and “West” that can‐ not exist without each other. In a similar vein, it's impossible to im‐ agine Western culture without Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov, and Kandinsky, while Russian culture is unimaginable without Shake‐ speare, Cervantes, Goethe, and Hegel. Any attempt to isolate these interflowing vessels from one another will lead to the wilting of both cultures. When the Berlin Wall came down and brought to an end the con‐ test between the Western and Eastern blocs, Europe had a new op‐ portunity to become united. But this unity did not take place so far, because isolationists on either side of the vanished “Iron Curtain” continue trying to prove that the paths of Russia and the West are incompatible.

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Judging by the “tsunami of patriotism” (as the newspaper Novaya Gazeta called it) that erupted in Russia following the annexation of Crimea, the supporters of a special path for Russia—which com‐ pletely reject the Western model of development—have achieved a complete victory in the country. However, as a rule, nothing is ever final in history. It is by no means impossible that those who side with Russian Europeanism, despite their marginal role in Russian politics today, will be able to return to the political stage under more favorable conditions, as has already happened more than once in the country’s history. Translated from Russian by Olga Kuzmina

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SOVIET AND POST-SOVIET POLITICS AND SOCIETY

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Edited by Dr. Andreas Umland ISSN 1614-3515

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Taras Kuzio Ukraine – Crimea – Russia Triangle of Conflict ISBN 978-3-89821-761-3

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Sonja Schüler Die ethnische Dimension der Armut Roma im postsozialistischen Rumänien Mit einem Vorwort von Anton Sterbling ISBN 978-3-89821-776-7

Ileana Petroniu Privatisierung in Transformationsökonomien Determinanten der RestrukturierungsBereitschaft am Beispiel Polens, Rumäniens und der Ukraine Mit einem Vorwort von Rainer W. Schäfer ISBN 978-3-89821-790-3

57

Christian Wipperfürth Russland und seine GUS-Nachbarn Hintergründe, aktuelle Entwicklungen und Konflikte in einer ressourcenreichen Region ISBN 978-3-89821-801-6

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Togzhan Kassenova From Antagonism to Partnership The Uneasy Path of the U.S.-Russian Cooperative Threat Reduction With a foreword by Christoph Bluth ISBN 978-3-89821-707-1

Марлен Ларюэль (ред.) Современные интерпретации русского национализма ISBN 978-3-89821-795-8

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Marlies Bilz Tatarstan in der Transformation Nationaler Diskurs und Politische Praxis 1988-1994 Mit einem Vorwort von Frank Golczewski ISBN 978-3-89821-722-4

Галина Кожевникова и Владимир Прибыловский Российская власть в биографиях III Руководители федеральных служб и агентств РФ в 2004 г. ISBN 978-3-89821-798-9

Claudia Šabić "Ich erinnere mich nicht, aber L'viv!" Zur Funktion kultureller Faktoren für die Institutionalisierung und Entwicklung einer ukrainischen Region Mit einem Vorwort von Melanie Tatur ISBN 978-3-89821-752-1

Галина Кожевникова и Владимир Прибыловский Российская власть в биографиях II Члены Правительства РФ в 2004 г. ISBN 978-3-89821-797-2

Geopolitical Pawns or Agents of Change? ISBN 978-3-89821-743-9

47

Галина Кожевникова и Владимир Прибыловский Российская власть в биографиях I Высшие должностные лица РФ в 2004 г. ISBN 978-3-89821-796-5

Legislation and Application in 1996-2006 With a foreword by Françoise Hampson ISBN 978-3-89821-639-5

46

Галина Кожевникова Радикальный национализм в России и противодействие ему

59

Alexander Höllwerth Das sakrale eurasische Imperium des Aleksandr Dugin Eine Diskursanalyse zum postsowjetischen russischen Rechtsextremismus Mit einem Vorwort von Dirk Uffelmann ISBN 978-3-89821-813-9

60

Олег Рябов «Россия-Матушка»

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Национализм, гендер и война в России XX века С предисловием Елены Гощило ISBN 978-3-89821-487-2

61

Ivan Maistrenko Borot'bism A Chapter in the History of the Ukrainian Revolution With a new introduction by Chris Ford Translated by George S. N. Luckyj with the assistance of Ivan L. Rudnytsky ISBN 978-3-89821-697-5

62

Post-Communist Democratic Revolutions in Comparative Perspective ISBN 978-3-89821-820-7

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Maryna Romanets Anamorphosic Texts and Reconfigured Visions

Paul D'Anieri and Taras Kuzio (Eds.) Aspects of the Orange Revolution I

Bohdan Harasymiw in collaboration with Oleh S. Ilnytzkyj (Eds.) Aspects of the Orange Revolution II

71

Ingmar Bredies, Andreas Umland and Valentin Yakushik (Eds.) Aspects of the Orange Revolution III The Context and Dynamics of the 2004 Ukrainian Presidential Elections ISBN 978-3-89821-803-0

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Ingmar Bredies, Andreas Umland and Valentin Yakushik (Eds.) Aspects of the Orange Revolution V Institutional Observation Reports on the 2004 Ukrainian Presidential Elections ISBN 978-3-89821-809-2

Christine Teichmann Die Hochschultransformation im heutigen Osteuropa Kontinuität und Wandel bei der Entwicklung des postkommunistischen Universitätswesens Mit einem Vorwort von Oskar Anweiler ISBN 978-3-89821-842-9

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Ingmar Bredies, Andreas Umland and Valentin Yakushik (Eds.) Aspects of the Orange Revolution IV Foreign Assistance and Civic Action in the 2004 Ukrainian Presidential Elections ISBN 978-3-89821-808-5

Taras Kuzio Theoretical and Comparative Perspectives on Nationalism New Directions in Cross-Cultural and PostCommunist Studies With a foreword by Paul Robert Magocsi ISBN 978-3-89821-815-3

Information and Manipulation Strategies in the 2004 Ukrainian Presidential Elections ISBN 978-3-89821-699-9

65

David Rupp Die Rußländische Föderation und die russischsprachige Minderheit in Lettland Eine Fallstudie zur Anwaltspolitik Moskaus gegenüber den russophonen Minderheiten im „Nahen Ausland“ von 1991 bis 2002 Mit einem Vorwort von Helmut Wagner ISBN 978-3-89821-778-1

Democratization and Elections in PostCommunist Ukraine ISBN 978-3-89821-698-2

64

Tim Bohse Autoritarismus statt Selbstverwaltung Die Transformation der kommunalen Politik in der Stadt Kaliningrad 1990-2005 Mit einem Geleitwort von Stefan Troebst ISBN 978-3-89821-782-8

Improvised Traditions in Contemporary Ukrainian and Irish Literature ISBN 978-3-89821-576-3

63

Taras Kuzio (Ed.) Aspects of the Orange Revolution VI

Julia Kusznir Der politische Einfluss von Wirtschaftseliten in russischen Regionen Eine Analyse am Beispiel der Erdöl- und Erdgasindustrie, 1992-2005 Mit einem Vorwort von Wolfgang Eichwede ISBN 978-3-89821-821-4

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Alena Vysotskaya Russland, Belarus und die EUOsterweiterung Zur Minderheitenfrage und zum Problem der Freizügigkeit des Personenverkehrs Mit einem Vorwort von Katlijn Malfliet ISBN 978-3-89821-822-1

75

Heiko Pleines (Hrsg.) Corporate Governance in postsozialistischen Volkswirtschaften

83

The Role of Historical Regional Development in Kazakhstan’s Post-Soviet Economic Transformation ISBN 978-3-89821-831-3

ISBN 978-3-89821-766-8

76

Stefan Ihrig Wer sind die Moldawier? Rumänismus versus Moldowanismus in Historiographie und Schulbüchern der Republik Moldova, 1991-2006 Mit einem Vorwort von Holm Sundhaussen ISBN 978-3-89821-466-7

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Galina Kozhevnikova in collaboration with Alexander Verkhovsky and Eugene Veklerov Ultra-Nationalism and Hate Crimes in Contemporary Russia

84

Florian Küchler The Role of the European Union in Moldova’s Transnistria Conflict

85

86

Bernd Rechel The Long Way Back to Europe

Peter W. Rodgers Nation, Region and History in PostCommunist Transitions

87

Stephanie Solywoda The Life and Work of Semen L. Frank

88

Vera Sokolova Cultural Politics of Ethnicity Discourses on Roma in Communist Czechoslovakia ISBN 978-3-89821-864-1

Thomas Borén Meeting-Places of Transformation Urban Identity, Spatial Representations and Local Politics in Post-Soviet St Petersburg ISBN 978-3-89821-739-2

A Study of Russian Religious Philosophy With a foreword by Philip Walters ISBN 978-3-89821-457-5

82

Sabine Jenni Wie stark ist das „Einige Russland“? Zur Parteibindung der Eliten und zum Wahlerfolg der Machtpartei im Dezember 2007 Mit einem Vorwort von Klaus Armingeon ISBN 978-3-89821-961-7

Identity Politics in Ukraine, 1991-2006 With a foreword by Vera Tolz ISBN 978-3-89821-903-7

81

Konstantin Sheiko in collaboration with Stephen Brown Nationalist Imaginings of the Russian Past Anatolii Fomenko and the Rise of Alternative History in Post-Communist Russia With a foreword by Donald Ostrowski ISBN 978-3-89821-915-0

Minority Protection in Bulgaria With a foreword by Richard Crampton ISBN 978-3-89821-863-4

80

Stefan Meister Das postsowjetische Universitätswesen zwischen nationalem und internationalem Wandel Die Entwicklung der regionalen Hochschule in Russland als Gradmesser der Systemtransformation Mit einem Vorwort von Joan DeBardeleben ISBN 978-3-89821-891-7

With a foreword by Christopher Hill ISBN 978-3-89821-850-4

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Martin Malek, Anna SchorTschudnowskaja (Hrsg.) Europa im Tschetschenienkrieg Zwischen politischer Ohnmacht und Gleichgültigkeit Mit einem Vorwort von Lipchan Basajewa ISBN 978-3-89821-676-0

The 2004-2006 Annual Reports of Moscow’s SOVA Center With a foreword by Stephen D. Shenfield ISBN 978-3-89821-868-9

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Natalya Shevchik Ketenci Kazakhstani Enterprises in Transition

89

Aygul Ashirova Stalinismus und Stalin-Kult in Zentralasien Turkmenistan 1924-1953 Mit einem Vorwort von Leonid Luks ISBN 978-3-89821-987-7

90

Leonid Luks Freiheit oder imperiale Größe?

97

Essays zu einem russischen Dilemma ISBN 978-3-8382-0011-8

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Eine vergleichende Untersuchung der politischen Entwicklung Lettlands und Aserbaidschans 1985-2009 Mit einem Vorwort von Leonid Luks Ediert von Sandro Henschel ISBN 978-3-8382-0103-0

Christopher Gilley The ‘Change of Signposts’ in the Ukrainian Emigration A Contribution to the History of Sovietophilism in the 1920s With a foreword by Frank Golczewski ISBN 978-3-89821-965-5

Philipp Casula, Jeronim Perovic (Eds.) Identities and Politics During the Putin Presidency

98

Marcel Viëtor Europa und die Frage nach seinen Grenzen im Osten

99

Ben Hellman, Andrei Rogachevskii Filming the Unfilmable

100

Eva Fuchslocher Vaterland, Sprache, Glaube Orthodoxie und Nationenbildung am Beispiel Georgiens Mit einem Vorwort von Christina von Braun ISBN 978-3-89821-884-9

96

Vladimir Kantor Das Westlertum und der Weg Russlands Zur Entwicklung der russischen Literatur und Philosophie Ediert von Dagmar Herrmann Mit einem Beitrag von Nikolaus Lobkowicz ISBN 978-3-8382-0102-3

Michael Minkenberg (ed.) Historical Legacies and the Radical Right in Post-Cold War Central and Eastern Europe With an afterword by Sabrina P. Ramet ISBN 978-3-8382-0124-5

101

Casper Wrede's 'One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich' Second, Revised and Expanded Edition ISBN 978-3-8382-0594-6

95

Кирилл Галушко, Лидия Смола (ред.) Пределы падения – варианты украинского будущего Аналитико-прогностические исследования ISBN 978-3-8382-0148-1

Zur Konstruktion ‚europäischer Identität’ in Geschichte und Gegenwart Mit einem Vorwort von Albrecht Lehmann ISBN 978-3-8382-0045-3

94

Tatiana Zhurzhenko Borderlands into Bordered Lands Geopolitics of Identity in Post-Soviet Ukraine With a foreword by Dieter Segert ISBN 978-3-8382-0042-2

The Discursive Foundations of Russia's Stability With a foreword by Heiko Haumann ISBN 978-3-8382-0015-6

93

Kamran Musayev Die postsowjetische Transformation im Baltikum und Südkaukasus

David-Emil Wickström Rocking St. Petersburg Transcultural Flows and Identity Politics in Post-Soviet Popular Music With a foreword by Yngvar B. Steinholt Second, Revised and Expanded Edition ISBN 978-3-8382-0600-4

102

Eva Zabka Eine neue „Zeit der Wirren“? Der spät- und postsowjetische Systemwandel 1985-2000 im Spiegel russischer gesellschaftspolitischer Diskurse Mit einem Vorwort von Margareta Mommsen ISBN 978-3-8382-0161-0

103

Ulrike Ziemer Ethnic Belonging, Gender and Cultural Practices Youth Identitites in Contemporary Russia With a foreword by Anoop Nayak ISBN 978-3-8382-0152-8

104

Ksenia Chepikova ‚Einiges Russland’ - eine zweite KPdSU?

110

Aspekte der Identitätskonstruktion einer postsowjetischen „Partei der Macht“ Mit einem Vorwort von Torsten Oppelland ISBN 978-3-8382-0311-9

105

Леонид Люкс Западничество или евразийство? Демократия или идеократия?

Examinations of Russian Terrorist Attacks at the Onset of Vladimir Putin's Rule Second, Revised and Expanded Edition ISBN 978-3-8382-0608-0

111

Сборник статей об исторических дилеммах России С предисловием Владимира Кантора ISBN 978-3-8382-0211-2

106

Anna Dost Das russische Verfassungsrecht auf dem Weg zum Föderalismus und zurück

Philipp Herzog Sozialistische Völkerfreundschaft, nationaler Widerstand oder harmloser Zeitvertreib? Zur politischen Funktion der Volkskunst im sowjetischen Estland Mit einem Vorwort von Andreas Kappeler ISBN 978-3-8382-0216-7

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Bernd Kappenberg Zeichen setzen für Europa Der Gebrauch europäischer lateinischer Sonderzeichen in der deutschen Öffentlichkeit Mit einem Vorwort von Peter Schlobinski ISBN 978-3-89821-749-1

114

Marlène Laruelle (ed.) Russian Nationalism, Foreign Policy, and Identity Debates in Putin's Russia

Michail Logvinov Russlands Kampf gegen den internationalen Terrorismus

Андрей А. Ковалёв Свидетельство из-за кулис российской политики II Угроза для себя и окружающих (Наблюдения и предостережения относительно происходящего после 2000 г.) ISBN 978-3-8382-0303-4

Ivo Mijnssen The Quest for an Ideal Youth in Putin’s Russia I Back to Our Future! History, Modernity, and Patriotism according to Nashi, 2005-2013 With a foreword by Jeronim Perović Second, Revised and Expanded Edition ISBN 978-3-8382-0578-6

New Ideological Patterns after the Orange Revolution ISBN 978-3-8382-0325-6

109

Андрей А. Ковалёв Свидетельство из-за кулис российской политики I Можно ли делать добрo из зла? (Воспоминания и размышления о последних советских и первых послесоветских годах) With a foreword by Peter Reddaway ISBN 978-3-8382-0302-7

Zum Konflikt von Rechtsnormen und -wirklichkeit in der Russländischen Föderation von 1991 bis 2009 Mit einem Vorwort von Alexander Blankenagel ISBN 978-3-8382-0292-1

107

John B. Dunlop The Moscow Bombings of September 1999

115

Eine kritische Bestandsaufnahme des Bekämpfungsansatzes Mit einem Geleitwort von Hans-Henning Schröder und einem Vorwort von Eckhard Jesse ISBN 978-3-8382-0329-4

Jussi Lassila The Quest for an Ideal Youth in Putin’s Russia II The Search for Distinctive Conformism in the Political Communication of Nashi, 2005-2009 With a foreword by Kirill Postoutenko Second, Revised and Expanded Edition ISBN 978-3-8382-0585-4

116

Valerio Trabandt Neue Nachbarn, gute Nachbarschaft? Die EU als internationaler Akteur am Beispiel ihrer Demokratieförderung in Belarus und der Ukraine 2004-2009 Mit einem Vorwort von Jutta Joachim ISBN 978-3-8382-0437-6

117

Fabian Pfeiffer Estlands Außen- und Sicherheitspolitik I

124

Lukashenka‘s Belarus and the Great Patriotic War ISBN 978-3-8382-0674-5 (Paperback edition) ISBN 978-3-8382-0675-2 (Hardcover edition)

Der estnische Atlantizismus nach der wiedererlangten Unabhängigkeit 1991-2004 Mit einem Vorwort von Helmut Hubel ISBN 978-3-8382-0127-6

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Jana Podßuweit Estlands Außen- und Sicherheitspolitik II Handlungsoptionen eines Kleinstaates im Rahmen seiner EU-Mitgliedschaft (2004-2008) Mit einem Vorwort von Helmut Hubel ISBN 978-3-8382-0440-6

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Mykhaylo Banakh Die Relevanz der Zivilgesellschaft bei den postkommunistischen Transformationsprozessen in mittelund osteuropäischen Ländern Das Beispiel der spät- und postsowjetischen Ukraine 1986-2009 Mit einem Vorwort von Gerhard Simon ISBN 978-3-8382-0499-4

122

Michael Moser Language Policy and the Discourse on Languages in Ukraine under President Viktor Yanukovych (25 February 2010–28 October 2012) ISBN 978-3-8382-0497-0 (Paperback edition) ISBN 978-3-8382-0507-6 (Hardcover edition)

123

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Nicole Krome Russischer Netzwerkkapitalismus Restrukturierungsprozesse in der Russischen Föderation am Beispiel des Luftfahrtunternehmens "Aviastar" Mit einem Vorwort von Petra Stykow ISBN 978-3-8382-0534-2

Simon Geissbühler (Hrsg.) Kiew – Revolution 3.0 Der Euromaidan 2013/14 und die Zukunftsperspektiven der Ukraine ISBN 978-3-8382-0581-6 (Paperback edition) ISBN 978-3-8382-0681-3 (Hardcover edition)

127

Ruslana Vovk Die Offenheit der ukrainischen Verfassung für das Völkerrecht und die europäische Integration Mit einem Vorwort von Alexander Blankenagel ISBN 978-3-8382-0481-9

Ulf Walther Russlands "neuer Adel" Die Macht des Geheimdienstes von Gorbatschow bis Putin Mit einem Vorwort von Hans-Georg Wieck ISBN 978-3-8382-0584-7

Karin Pointner Estlands Außen- und Sicherheitspolitik III Eine gedächtnispolitische Analyse estnischer Entwicklungskooperation 2006-2010 Mit einem Vorwort von Karin Liebhart ISBN 978-3-8382-0435-2

David R. Marples 'Our Glorious Past'

Andrey Makarychev Russia and the EU in a Multipolar World Discourses, Identities, Norms ISBN 978-3-8382-0529-8

128

Roland Scharff Kasachstan als postsowjetischer Wohlfahrtsstaat Die Transformation des sozialen Schutzsystems Mit einem Vorwort von Joachim Ahrens ISBN 978-3-8382-0622-6

129

Katja Grupp Bild Lücke Deutschland Kaliningrader Studierende sprechen über Deutschland Mit einem Vorwort von Martin Schulz ISBN 978-3-8382-0552-6

130

Konstantin Sheiko, Stephen Brown History as Therapy Alternative History and Nationalist Imaginings in Russia, 1991-2014 ISBN 978-3-8382-0565-6

131

Elisa Kriza Alexander Solzhenitsyn: Cold War Icon, Gulag Author, Russian Nationalist? A Study of the Western Reception of his Literary Writings, Historical Interpretations, and Political Ideas With a foreword by Andrei Rogatchevski ISBN 978-3-8382-0689-9 (Paperback edition) ISBN 978-3-8382-0690-5 (Hardcover edition)

132

Serghei Golunov Elephant in the Room

140

Corruption and Cheating in Russian Universities ISBN 978-3-8382-0670-7

133

Manja Hussner, Rainer Arnold (Hrsg.) Verfassungsgerichtsbarkeit in Zentralasien I

Externe bildungspolitische Akteure in der Russischen Föderation Mit einem Vorwort von Frank Ettrich ISBN 978-3-8382-0751-3

141

Sammlung von Verfassungstexten ISBN 978-3-8382-0595-3

134

Aus dem Russischen übertragen von einem Übersetzerteam unter der Leitung von Larisa Schippel

142

Manja Hussner, Rainer Arnold (Hgg.) Verfassungsgerichtsbarkeit in Zentralasien II

143

Sammlung von Verfassungstexten ISBN 978-3-8382-0597-7

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Manfred Zeller Das sowjetische Fieber Fußballfans im poststalinistischen Vielvölkerreich Mit einem Vorwort von Nikolaus Katzer ISBN 978-3-8382-0787-2

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Boris Popivanov Changing Images of the Left in Bulgaria The Challenge of Post-Communism in the Early 21st Century ISBN 978-3-8382-0717-9

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Bernd Kappenberg Setting Signs for Europe Why Diacritics Matter for European Integration With a foreword by Peter Schlobinski ISBN 978-3-8382-0703-2

Johann Zajaczkowski Russland – eine pragmatische Großmacht? Eine rollentheoretische Untersuchung russischer Außenpolitik am Beispiel der Zusammenarbeit mit den USA nach 9/11 und des Georgienkrieges von 2008 Mit einem Vorwort von Siegfried Schieder ISBN 978-3-8382-0837-4

David R. Marples, Frederick V. Mills (Eds.) Ukraine’s Euromaidan Analyses of a Civil Revolution ISBN 978-3-8382-0700-1 (Paperback edition) ISBN 978-3-8382-0740-7 (Hardcover edition)

Инна Чувычкина (ред.) Экспортные нефте- и газопроводы на постсоветском пространстве Aнализ трубопроводной политики в свете теории международных отношений ISBN 978-3-8382-0822-0

Kristin Schreiter Stellung und Entwicklungspotential zivilgesellschaftlicher Gruppen in Russland Menschenrechtsorganisationen im Vergleich ISBN 978-3-8382-0673-8

David J. Smith (eds.) Latvia – A Work in Progress? 100 Years of State- and Nation-Building ISBN 978-3-8382-0718-6

ISBN 978-3-8382-0024-8

135

Juri Plusnin, Yana Zausaeva, Natalia Zhidkevich, Artemy Pozanenko Wandering Workers Mores, Behavior, Way of Life, and Political Status of Domestic Russian labor migrants Translated by Julia Kazantseva ISBN 978-3-8382-0713-1

Nikolay Mitrokhin Die "Russische Partei" Die Bewegung der russischen Nationalisten in der UdSSR 1953-1985

René Lenz Internationalisierung, Kooperation und Transfer

Lenka Krátká A History of the Czechoslovak Ocean Shipping Company 1948-1989 How a Small, Landlocked Country Ran Maritime Business During the Cold War ISBN 978-3-8382-0716-2

147

Alexander Sergunin Explaining Russian Foreign Policy Behavior Theory and Practice ISBN 978-3-8382-0782-7

148

Darya Malyutina Migrant Friendships in a Super-Diverse City

155

Russian-Speakers and their Social Relationships in London in the 21st Century With a foreword by Claire Dwyer ISBN 978-3-8382-0702-5

149

Alexander Sergunin and Valery Konyshev Russia in the Arctic

The Russian Orthodox Church and Web 2.0 With a foreword by Father Cyril Hovorun ISBN 978-3-8382-0881-7

156

Hard or Soft Power? ISBN 978-3-8382-0783-4

150

John J. Maresca Helsinki Revisited

Jardar Østbø The New Third Rome

157

Simon Kordonsky Socio-Economic Foundations of the Russian Post-Soviet Regime The Resource-Based Economy and EstateBased Social Structure of Contemporary Russia With a foreword by Svetlana Barsukova ISBN 978-3-8382-0875-6

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How Informality Replaces, Renegotiates, and Reshapes Governance in Contemporary Ukraine With a foreword by Colin C. Williams ISBN 978-3-8382-0885-5

Timm Beichelt, Susann Worschech (eds.) Transnational Ukraine? Networks and Ties that Influence(d) Contemporary Ukraine ISBN 978-3-8382-0964-7

160

Duncan Leitch Assisting Reform in Post-Communist Ukraine 2000–2012

Abel Polese Limits of a Post-Soviet State

Edmund Griffiths Aleksandr Prokhanov and Post-Soviet Esotericism ISBN 978-3-8382-0963-0

Mieste Hotopp-Riecke Die Tataren der Krim zwischen Assimilation und Selbstbehauptung Der Aufbau des krimtatarischen Bildungswesens nach Deportation und Heimkehr (1990-2005) Mit einem Vorwort von Swetlana Czerwonnaja ISBN 978-3-89821-940-2

The Illusions of Donors and the Disillusion of Beneficiaries With a foreword by Kataryna Wolczuk ISBN 978-3-8382-0874-9

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Vladimir V. Karacharovskiy, Ovsey I. Shkaratan, Gordey A. Yastrebov Towards a new Russian Work Culture Can Western Companies and Expatriates Change Russian Society? ISBN 978-3-8382-0962-3

Readings of a Russian Nationalist Myth With a foreword by Pål Kolstø ISBN 978-3-8382-0900-5

152

Leonid Luks Zwei „Sonderwege“? Russischdeutsche Parallelen und Kontraste (1917-2014) Vergleichende Essays ISBN 978-3-8382-0823-7

A Key U.S. Negotiator’s Memoirs on the Development of the CSCE into the OSCE With a foreword by Hafiz Pashayev ISBN 978-3-8382-0872-5

151

Mikhail Suslov (ed.) Digital Orthodoxy in the Post-Soviet World

161

Olga Bertelsen (ed.) Revolution and War in Contemporary Ukraine The Challenge of Change ISBN 978-3-8382-1056-8

162

Natalya Ryabinska Ukraine's Post-Communist Mass Media Between Capture and Commercialization With a foreword by Marta Dyczok ISBN 978-3-8382-1051-3

163

Alexandra Cotofana, James M. Nyce (eds.) Religion and Magic in Socialist and Post-Socialist Contexts

170

Historic and Ethnographic Case Studies of Orthodoxy, Heterodoxy, and Alternative Spirituality With a foreword by Patrick L. Michelson ISBN 978-3-8382-1039-1

164

Nozima Akhrarkhodjaeva The Instrumentalisation of Mass Media in Electoral Authoritarian Regimes

Studies on the Building of Nation-States and Their Cooperation in the 20th and 21st Century With a foreword by Petr Vágner ISBN 978-3-8382-1115-2

171

Yulia Krasheninnikova Informal Healthcare in Contemporary Russia

172

Peter Kaiser Das Schachbrett der Macht

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Die Handlungsspielräume eines sowjetischen Funktionärs unter Stalin am Beispiel des Generalsekretärs des Komsomol Aleksandr Kosarev (1929-1938) Mit einem Vorwort von Dietmar Neutatz ISBN 978-3-8382-1052-0

167

Oksana Kim The Effects and Implications of Kazakhstan’s Adoption of International Financial Reporting Standards A Resource Dependence Perspective With a foreword by Svetlana Vady ISBN 978-3-8382-1037-7

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Faksimile der 1933 erschienenen ersten Ausgabe Mit einem Vorwort von Dmitrij Chmelnizki ISBN 978-3-8382-0515-1

Barbara Kunz Kind Words, Cruise Missiles, and Everything in Between The Use of Power Resources in U.S. Policies towards Poland, Ukraine, and Belarus 1989–2008 With a foreword by William Hill ISBN 978-3-8382-1085-8

175

Anna Sanina Patriotic Education in Contemporary Russia

Rudolf Wolters Spezialist in Sibirien

Alexandra Cotofana, James M. Nyce (eds.) Religion and Magic in Socialist and Post-Socialist Contexts II Baltic, Eastern European, and Post-USSR Case Studies ISBN 978-3-8382-1090-2

Eduard Klein Bildungskorruption in Russland und der Ukraine Eine komparative Analyse der Performanz staatlicher Antikorruptionsmaßnahmen im Hochschulsektor am Beispiel universitärer Aufnahmeprüfungen Mit einem Vorwort von Heiko Pleines ISBN 978-3-8382-0995-1

Sociological Studies in the Making of the Post-Soviet Citizen ISBN 978-3-8382-1033-9

169

Maria Shagina Joining a Prestigious Club Cooperation with Europarties and Its Impact on Party Development in Georgia, Moldova, and Ukraine 2004–2015 With a foreword by Kataryna Wolczuk ISBN 978-3-8382-1104-6

Sociographic Essays on the Post-Soviet Infrastructure for Alternative Healing Practices ISBN 978-3-8382-1030-8

166

Philip Gamaghelyan Conflict Resolution Beyond the International Relations Paradigm Evolving Designs as a Transformative Practice in Nagorno-Karabakh and Syria With a foreword by Susan Allen ISBN 978-3-8382-1117-6

Evidence from Russia’s Presidential Election Campaigns of 2000 and 2008 ISBN 978-3-8382-1043-8

165

Michal Vít, Magdalena M. Baran (eds.) Transregional versus National Perspectives on Contemporary Central European History

177

Anton Oleinik Building Ukraine from Within A Sociological, Institutional, and Economic Analysis of a Nation-State in the Making ISBN 978-3-8382-1150-3

178

Peter Rollberg, Marlene Laruelle (eds.) Mass Media in the Post-Soviet World Market Forces, State Actors, and Political Manipulation in the Informational Environment after Communism ISBN 978-3-8382-1116-9

179

Mikhail Minakov Development and Dystopia Studies in Post-Soviet Ukraine and Eastern Europe ISBN 978-3-8382-1112-1

180

Aijan Sharshenova The European Union’s Democracy Promotion in Central Asia A Study of Political Interests, Influence, and Development in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan in 2007–2013 With a foreword by Gordon Crawford ISBN 978-3-8382-1151-0

181

Andrey Makarychev, Alexandra Yatsyk Boris Nemtsov and Russian Politics Power and Resistance With a foreword by Zhanna Nemtsova ISBN 978-3-8382-1122-0

182

Sophie Falsini The Euromaidan’s Effect on Civil Society Why and How Ukrainian Social Capital Increased after the Revolution of Dignity With a foreword by Susann Worschech ISBN 978-3-8382-1131-2

183

Andreas Umland (ed.) Ukraine’s Decentralization Challenges and Implications of the Local Governance Reform after the Euromaidan Revolution ISBN 978-3-8382-1162-6

184

Leonid Luks A Fateful Triangle Essays on Contemporary Russian, German and Polish History ISBN 978-3-8382-1143-5

185

John B. Dunlop The February 2015 Assassination of Boris Nemtsov and the Flawed Trial of his Alleged Killers An Exploration of Russia’s “Crime of the 21st Century” With a foreword by Vladimir Kara-Murza ISBN 978-3-8382-1188-6

186

Vasile Rotaru Russia, the EU, and the Eastern Partnership Building Bridges or Digging Trenches? ISBN 978-3-8382-1134-3

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