Circles of the Russian Revolution: Internal and International Consequences of the Year 1917 in Russia 042976362X, 9780429763625

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Circles of the Russian Revolution

This volume provides the English-speaking reader with little-known perspectives of Central and Eastern European historians on the topic of the Russian Revolution. Whereas research into the Soviet Union’s history has flourished at Western universities, the contribution of Central and Eastern European historians, during the Cold War working in conditions of imposed censorship, to this field of academic research has often been seriously circumscribed. Bringing together perspectives from across Central and Eastern Europe alongside contributions from established scholars from the West, this significant volume casts the year 1917 in a new critical light. Łukasz Adamski is a historian (PhD) and foreign policy expert, and also an author/editor of academic works devoted to Polish political thought, the history of Polish-Ukrainian and Polish-Russian relations. He is currently deputy director of the Centre for Polish-Russian Dialogue and Understanding since 2016 (a public institution, established by an act of the Polish parliament). Bartłomiej Gajos is a historian, research fellow at the Centre for Polish-Russian Dialogue and Understanding and at the Institute of History (Polish Academy of Sciences). He specializes in the history of the Russian revolution and politics of memory.

Routledge Studies in Modern European History

Greeks without Greece Homelands, Belonging, and Memory amongst the Expatriated Greeks of Turkey Huw Halstead The Mediterranean Double-Cross System, 1941–1945 Brett E. Lintott National Indifference and the History of Nationalism in Modern Europe Edited by Maarten Van Ginderachter and Jon Fox Refugees, Human Rights and Realpolitik The Clandestine Immigration of Jewish Refugees from Italy to Palestine, 1945–1948 Daphna Sharfman Food and Age in Europe, 1800–2000 Edited by Tenna Jensen, Caroline Nyvang, Peter Scholliers and Peter J. Atkins Utopia and Dissent in West Germany The Resurgence of the Politics of Everyday Life in the Long 1960s Mia Lee Mobility in the Russian, Central and East European Past Edited by Róisín Healy From Revolution to Uncertainty The Year 1990 in Central and Eastern Europe Edited by Joachim von Puttkamer, Włodzimierz Borodziej and Stanislav Holubec Circles of the Russian Revolution Internal and International Consequences of the Year 1917 in Russia Edited by Łukasz Adamski and Bartłomiej Gajos For a full list of titles in this series, please visit www.routledge.com/history/ series/SE0246

Circles of the Russian Revolution Internal and International Consequences of the Year 1917 in Russia Edited by Łukasz Adamski and Bartłomiej Gajos

First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 selection and editorial matter, Łukasz Adamski and Bartłomiej Gajos individual chapters, the contributors The right of Łukasz Adamski and Bartłomiej Gajos to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Gajos, Bartłomiej, 1992- editor. | Adamski, Łukasz, 1981- editor. Title: Circles of the Russian Revolution : internal and international consequences of the year 1917 in Russia / edited by Bartlomiej Gajos and Lukasz Adamski. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2019. | Series: Routledge studies in modern European history ; 69 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019005598 (print) | LCCN 2019009888 (ebook) | ISBN 9780429763649 (adobe) | ISBN 9780429763625 (mobi) | ISBN 9780429763632 ( epub) | ISBN 9781138385122 (hardback) | ISBN 9780429427329 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Soviet Union–History–Revolution, 1917-1921. Classification: LCC DK265 (ebook) | LCC DK265 .C548 2019 (print) | DDC 947.084/1–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019005598 ISBN: 978-1-138-38512-2 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-42732-9 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd.

Contents

List of contributors Acknowledgments Editorial note 1 The Russian Revolution and its many circles

vii xi xii 1

ŁUKASZ ADAMSKI AND BARTŁOMIEJ GAJOS

2 “A ravaged century”: Did the Russian Revolution define the 20th century?

11

MAREK KORNAT

3 Violence in the Russian Revolution and Civil War, 1914–20: A survey of recent historiography

25

STEVE A. SMITH

4 From utopia to a lawless state: Russian Marxism and Russian Revolutions as a totalitarian project

40

ADAM BOSIACKI

5 Loci of political power: The 1917 Russian Revolution from regional perspectives

60

SARAH BADCOCK

6 The Karaims: Political and social activities during the Russian Revolution and civil war

82

PETR KALETA

7 The 1917 Russian Revolution and Belarusian national movement ALAKSANDR SMALANČUK

94

vi Contents 8 Great Britain and the 1917 revolution in Ukraine

109

JAN JACEK BRUSKI

9 “Finexit”: The Russian Revolution and Finnish independence

122

KARI ALENIUS

10 Rebellion: Social conflict in Central and Eastern Europe in 1917–1920

137

WŁODZIMIERZ BORODZIEJ AND MACIEJ GÓRNY

11 French political circles and the consequences of the Russian Revolution in Eastern Europe

157

FREDERIC DESSBERG

12 The consequences of the Russian Revolution on the Polish question from the Western powers’ point of view

172

ISABELLE DAVION

13 Austria-Hungary and the Russian Revolution

182

LOTHAR HÖBELT

14 Great Britain and the Russian Revolution of 1917

191

YEVGENY SERGEYEV

15 Idle memory? The 1917 anniversary in Russia

202

BORIS KOLONITSKY AND MARIYA MATSKEVICH

16 A quiet jubilee: Practices of the political commemoration of the centenary of the 1917 revolution(s) in Russia

220

OLGA MALINOVA

17 (R)evolutionary memory in Tambov (1991–2017)

242

BARTŁOMIEJ GAJOS

Index

270

Contributors

Łukasz Adamski is a historian (PhD) and foreign policy expert, and also an author/editor of academic works devoted to Polish political thought, the history of the Polish-Ukrainian and Polish-Russian relations. He is currently deputy director of the Centre for Polish-Russian Dialogue and Understanding since 2016 (public institution, established by an act of the Polish parliament). Kari Alenius is professor in general history with a specific focus on international and cultural interactions, and head of the department of history at the University of Oulu, Finland. He is also head of the Transcultural Encounters Research Center (TCERC). He has specialized in the history of Eastern Europe (Baltic countries in particular), history of ethnic relations and minority issues, and the history of mental images and their importance in the relations between human communities. He is the author of six monographs. Sarah Badcock is an associate professor at the University of Nottingham. Her research focuses on Russia in the late imperial and revolutionary periods. Her most recent book, A Prison Without Walls? Eastern Siberian Exile in the Last Years of Tsarism was published by Oxford University Press. Her research on ordinary people’s experiences of the Russian Revolution culminated in a book published by Cambridge University Press, Politics and the People in Revolutionary Russia: A Provincial History. Włodzimierz Borodziej is a professor of contemporary history at the University of Warsaw, 2010–2016. He is co-director of Imre Kertész Kolleg, Jena and, since 2003, the editor in chief of Polskie Dokumenty Dyplomatyczne, published by the Polish Institute of International Affairs (23 volumes). He is chairman of the Academic Committee, House of European History, Brussels. Adam Bosiacki is a professor, the director of the Institute of Theory of State and Law and the head of the Department of History of Political and Legal Thought in the Law and Administration Faculty, University of Warsaw. His research interests include: history of the legal system and

viii Contributors law of Central-Eastern Europe, Russia and USSR, history of administration, and the history of legal thought. He is the author of various books and articles, including Utopia – władza – prawo. Doktryna i koncepcje prawne bolszewickiej Rosji 1917–1921, Konstytucjonalizm rosyjski: historia i współczesność, and he is also the editor in chief of the Klasycy Myśli Prawnej series. Jan Jacek Bruski, assistant professor, works at the Institute of History, Jagiellonian University. He is a specialist in modern history of Central and Eastern Europe, in the particular history of Ukraine and Polish-Ukrainian relations. He is the author of following books: Petlurowcy. Centrum Państwowe Ukraińskiej Republiki Ludowej na wychodźstwie, 1919–1924 (2000), Hołodomor 1932–1933. Wielki Głód na Ukrainie w dokumentach polskiej dyplomacji i wywiadu (2008), Między prometeizmem a Realpolitik. II Rzeczpospolita wobec Ukrainy Sowieckiej, 1921–1926 (2010); English edition: Between Prometheism and Realpolitik.Poland and Soviet Ukraine, 1921–1926 (2017). He also received the award of “Przegląd Wschodni” and the award of Wacław Felczak and Henryk Wereszycki Polish Historian Community. Isabelle Davion is assistant professor at Sorbonne University. Her book Mon voisin, cet ennemi [My Neighbour, My Enemy: French Security Policy facing the Polish-Czechoslovak Relations between 1919 and 1939] received an award from the Académie des Sciences Morales et Politiques. Her more recent publications include the publication of the French committee’s papers on peace treaties, Les Experts français et les frontières d’Après-guerre in 2015, and a contribution to Russian and Slavonic Studies on “USSR Recognition in 1924: Accelerating the French Security System?” in 2016. Frédéric Dessberg is assistant professor at Paris Panthéon-Sorbonne University and also works at Saint-Cyr Military Academy. He is interested in French policy in Central and Eastern Europe between 1918–1939. He has recently published and co-edited: Les Européens et la guerre [The Europeans and Wars]; Militaires et diplomates français face à l’Europe médiane. Entre médiations et constructions des savoirs [French Military and Diplomats Facing Central Europe. Between Mediation and Building of Knowledge], in collaboration with I. Davion. Bartłomiej Gajos is a historian, research fellow at the Centre for Polish-Russian Dialogue and Understanding and at the Institute of History (Polish Academy of Sciences). He specializes in the history of the Russian revolution and politics of memory. Maciej Górny is assistant professor, adjunct at the Tadeusz Manteuffel Institute of History, Polish Academy of Sciences. His research interests include the history of Central-Eastern Europe in the 19th and 20th century and the history of science. He is the author of several books including Między Marksem a Palackým. Historiografia w komunistycznej

Contributors

ix

Czechosłowacji, Przede wszystkim ma być naród. Marksistowskie historiografie w Europie Środkowo-Wschodniej, Wielka Wojna profesorów. Nauki o człowieku (1912–1923), and co-author (together with Włodzimierz Borodziej) of the book Nasza wojna, t. I:Imperia 1912–1916. Lothar Höbelt is a professor of modern history at the University of Vienna. His research interests include: Austrian, British and German foreign policy in 19th and 20th Century. He is the author of numerous books and articles including Die Habsburger. Aufstieg und Glanz einer europäischen Dynastie, Landschaft und Politik im Sudetenland. Petr Kaleta is assistant professor at the Charles University in Prague. His research interests include the history of national minorities (Sorbs, Karaites, Kashubians), studying ethnohistorical regions in Europe (Lusatia, Galicia, Kashubia) and Czech emigrants (19th and 20th century). Boris Kolonitsky is a professor in the Faculty of History at the European University in St. Petersburg, and a leading researcher at the Institute of History, Russian Academy of Sciences. He is the author of the following books: Interpreting the Russian Revolution: The Language and Symbols of 1917 (co-author with O. Figes) Пог оны и борьба за в ласт ь в 1917 г од у, Си мв олы в ласти и борьба за в ласт ь: К и зучени ю п олити ческой культ уры Россий ской рев олюции 1917 г од а, Траги ческая эрот и ка: Образы и мперат орской семьи в г од ы Перв ой миров ой в ой ны, Тов арищ Керенский : анти монархи ческая рев олюци я и форми ров ани е культ а “в ожд я народ а”. Marek Kornat is professor at the Institute of History (Polish Academy of Sciences) and at the Faculty of Law and Administration at the Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński University in Warsaw. He has written numerous books and studies on Polish sovietology, Polish political thought and Poland’s foreign policy in the interwar era. In 2012 he published two monographs: Polityka zagraniczna Polski 1938–1939. Cztery decyzje Józefa Becka and Polen zwischen Hitler und Stalin. Studien zur polnischen Außenpolitik in der Zwischenkriegszeit. Olga Malinova is professor at the Higher School of Economics in Moscow, Faculty of Social Sciences. She is also the chief research fellow of the Institute of Scientific Information for Social Sciences, Russian Academy of Sciences. She is the author and editor of several books and articles about political discourse and political ideologies, including Constructing Meanings: Study of Symbolic Politics in Modern Russia (2013) and The “Actual” Past: A Symbolic Policy of the Governing Elite and Dilemmas of Russian Identity (2015). Mariya Matskevich is a senior research fellow at the Institute of Sociology of the Russian Academy of Sciences. Her research interests include: collective memory, sociological methodology and the sociology of drug use.

x

Contributors

Yevgeny Sergeyev is a professor, he works at the State Academic University for Humanities. His research interests include the history of British-Russian relations and the history of Russian and British intelligence. He is the author of following books: Russian Military Intelligence in the War with Japan, 1904–1905: Secret Operations on Land and at Sea and The Great Game, 1856–1907: Russo-British Relations in Central and East Asia. Alaksandr Smalančuk is a professor in the Institute of Slavic Studies, Polish Academy of Sciences. His research interests include: national relations, social and political history on the territory of the former Grand Duchy of Lithuania in 19th and 20th century, social and cultural memory and oral history. Steve A. Smith is a senior research fellow at All Souls College, Oxford, and a professor in the Faculty of History, University of Oxford. He is a historian of modern Russia and China. His most recent book is Russia in Revolution: An Empire in Crisis, 1890–1928. He is currently writing an archivally based book entitled Communism in an Enchanted World: Supernatural Politics in Stalin’s Russia and Mao’s China.

Acknowledgments

We would like to express our gratitude to translators: Nataliya Mamul and Zbigniew Szymański. Nataliya Mamul translated the following chapters into English from Russian: 1. “A quiet jubilee: Practices of the political commemoration of the centenary of the 1917 revolution(s) in Russia” by Olga Malinova. 2. “Idle memory? The 1917 anniversary in Russia” by Boris Kolonitsky and Mariya Matskevich. 3. “The 1917 Russian Revolution and Belarusian national movement” by Alaksandr Smaliančuk. Zbigniew Szymański translated the following chapters into English from Polish: 1. “The Russian Revolution and its many circles” by Łukasz Adamski and Bartłomiej Gajos. 2. “‘A ravaged century’: Did the Russian Revolution define the 20th century?” by Marek Kornat. 3. “From utopia to a lawless state: Russian Marxism and Russian Revolutions as a totalitarian project” by Adam Bosiacki. 4. “The Karaims: Political and social activities during the Russian Revolution and Cvil War” by Petr Kaleta. 5. “Great Britain and the 1917 revolution in Ukraine” by Jan Jacek Bruski. 6. “Rebellion: Social conflict in Central and Eastern Europe in 1917–1920” by Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny. 7. “(R)evolutionary memory in Tambov (1991–2017)” by Bartłomiej Gajos.

Editorial note

For transcription of Russian and Ukrainian names and other proper nouns in the core text of the chapters the editors applied a simplified version of BGN/PCGN of romanisation system, omitting hard and soft signs, as well as shortening Cyrillic endings "йи" to "y". Cyrillic letters were left only in endnotes, when referring to sources or literature printed originally in that alphabet. Belarusian names were given in Belarusian Latin alphabet, in so called Biełaruskaja Łacinka, having been frequently used in the early 20th century and after minor modification serving as official transcription of Cyrillic words in contemporary Belarus.

1

The Russian Revolution and its many circles Łukasz Adamski and Bartłomiej Gajos

Through me the way is to the city dolent; Through me the way is to eternal dole; Through me the way among the people lost. Thus, in the late medieval vision by Dante Alighieri, the Inferno welcomed cursed souls consigned to eternal damnation. The poet himself, or rather his alter ego, upon crossing the threshold of hell, travelled through successive circles of the netherworld and described them in this way: There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud Resounded through the air without a star, Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat. Languages diverse, horrible dialects, Accents of anger, words of agony, And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands, Made up a tumult that goes whirling on Forever in that air forever black, Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes. Similar thoughts may have occurred after 1917 to many former members of the elite in the Russian Empire, a country which – after the revolution of 1905 and the subsequent reforms by Prime Minister Pyotr Stolypin – not only began to recover economically but which also, as many believed, took the road of slow-paced alignment with Europe’s dominant model of government. Starting in 1914, though, in a brief span of just several years, the average Moscow merchant, St. Petersburg clerk, Tambov-region landowner, or monk from Kiev-Pechersk Lavra monastery was to experience a series of violent tremors, each bringing momentous change to Russia. First came the war against the Central Powers, with all its consequences: human losses, an economic downturn, and problems with the provision of food and other necessities. Then the tsar was toppled, and eight months later the

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Łukasz Adamski and Bartłomiej Gajos

Provisional Government, which had declared an intention to build a democratic Russia, fell to a Bolshevik coup. As civil war engulfed the country, Russia lost vast territories to Germany and to the newly emerging nation states. Simultaneously, the Bolsheviks began implementing their revolutionary ideas in the economy, bringing about radical social and legal changes. And finally, the civil war between Reds and Whites was accompanied by a bloody terror that spared virtually no one. Division lines in the domestic conflict often ran across families, as exemplified by General Pyotr Makhrov and his brother Nikolai – the former serving under Anton Denikin, and the latter commanding the Bolshevik 28th Rifle Division – who, incidentally, did not consider their presence in hostile camps to be an obstacle when attempting to cultivate family ties.1 Still, for the greater part of the former elites, the revolution that began in 1917 caused pauperisation, a fall in social status, and often death or emigration. Little wonder, then, that many Russians saw themselves as descending into ever lower and lower circles of the hell in which they found themselves. Obviously, things might be viewed from a different perspective by beneficiaries of the revolution and supporters of the Bolsheviks – basically, workers, peasants (especially the poor among them), and craftsmen – if only they survived the terror ensuing from the internal conflict. The revolution gave them a chance to improve economic and social standing, which they were unlikely to receive in normal circumstances. The bulk of the party apparatus was recruited from among them, including all the leaders of the Soviet state in the post-Stalin era. Georgy Malenkov, Nikita Khrushchev, Leonid Brezhnev, Yuri Andropov, Konstantin Chernenko, and Mikhail Gorbachev – all of them came from either worker or peasant families. A still different view of the events of 1917 and later years was taken by people in those nations where the revolution greatly helped in gaining or regaining statehood (e.g. Poles, Finns) or where it accelerated nation-building processes, as was the case with the Ukrainians. Whatever those peoples’ own effort, there can be no doubt that without Russia’s political collapse, postrevolution, the course of these process would have been different, and the goals of national movements would have been more difficult to achieve. Here, the impact of the revolution, even if hard to establish accurately – “alternative history” being a quack-science with no analytical tools for empirical study – is unquestionable. And what about the outside world? What about the West? The takeover by adherents to a communist utopia, seeking to realise it by totalitarian means, came as a shock indeed. But while Germany and Austria-Hungary managed to turn the ensuing chaos to their own advantage and bring their war against Russia to a victorious end (pushing the country back to the 17th-century borders of Muscovy), for the Entente Powers the revolution meant the loss of a military ally and a thorny internal problem. Their fears that the Central Powers might avoid defeat and that the “Bolshevik disease” might spread into other European countries effected the stance they took and the policies

The Russian Revolution and its many circles

3

they pursued. And it looks like the Bolsheviks skilfully fed those fears, purposely breaching the diplomatic conventions of the time and ostentatiously demonstrating the “unpredictability” of their government, with concrete political benefits in mind. In a letter to Lev Kamenev, dated 23 October 1918, on the eve of the revolution’s first anniversary, Leon Trotsky wrote: We should popularise Wilson domestically. I propose not to forget about Wilson, Lloyd-George, Mikado, Clemenceau and others during the anniversary celebrations. We will do well, I believe, if we burn Wilson in effigy and then broadcast this news around the world. Such rituals may truly impress America’s democratic scoundrels.2 The metaphor of the circles of the revolution, though, could also be read without references to the Renaissance masterpiece. The revolution also had its geographical dimension. Its first circle could be described as the territory of the former Russian Empire. Within it, one could identify the second circle, namely the areas inhabited by the peoples who aspired to have their statehood established or regained. The third circle would be defined as Central European countries outside the reach of pre-revolutionary Russia. And finally, the fourth one would comprise countries in Western Europe. Those circles of the revolution – surely not all of the many circles that could perhaps be identified – are discussed in the articles collected in the present publication. *** One thing remains indisputable: the epoch-making events sparked by the revolution left an indelible mark on the history of not only the Russian state, with its multiple peoples, but almost the whole of humanity. The attempted construction of a communist utopia coupled with a creeping territorial expansion, the transplanting – on Red Army bayonets – of the Soviet model of government, and the ideological rivalry with the old imperialist and capitalist world engaged attention, in a greater or smaller degree, across the entire globe. Even with the Soviet system imploding towards the end of the 1980s and the Bolshevik-created statehood finally breaking up in 1991, the repercussions of the 70-plus-year rule by Lenin and his successors continue until today to have a political and mental impact on those nations who themselves tasted the power of the Soviets and those who maintained any kind of relations with them – meaning everybody. Obviously, then, discussions about the Russian Revolution, and especially about communism, are by no means confined to a narrow group of academic historians, but are also being held by intellectuals, politicians, and the public in general. Round-year anniversaries offer a good opportunity – and a temptation, rarely resisted by researchers and academic institutes – to publicise their outcomes and, consequently, increase recognisability, sum up the findings so far, and sometimes present an original interpretation or new

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insights, adding to the existing body of knowledge about the subject. The numbers of publications about the Russian Revolution have indeed been rising fast with each successive anniversary. One hundred years on, a separate library would now be needed to encompass all articles, documents, diaries, books, reports, and memoires devoted to the events taking place between 1914 and 1922 on the vast spaces of the Russian Empire and what was left of it. The Cold War rivalry between two superpowers, especially, was the time of full bloom for Soviet studies literature, reflecting the enormous demand in the West for any titbit of information about the communist state. But it was not only in the West that such literature was being written. Polish pre-war Sovietologists, their findings and conclusions, are hardly known in the outside world. But as it happens, the works by those Western researchers of totalitarianism and Soviet history who did not conceal their negative attitudes towards the subject of their studies – including, e.g., Zbigniew Brzeziński and Richard Pipes – were in large part a continuation, as well as a broadening, of the ideas and postulates of researchers from countries lying west of the U.S.S.R. and finding themselves behind the Iron Curtain after World War II. The obscurity of Polish pre-war Sovietologists was due to factors other than merits. Most of their texts were written in a language other than French, German, or English – and never translated into these – and besides, the more than 40 years of Soviet domination in Central and Eastern Europe made it difficult, if not outright impossible, to conduct free debates, write without interference from censors, or exchange views with colleagues from the other side of the Iron Curtain. Prior to the 1939 aggression by Germany and the Soviet Union, Poland was a country with a great number of publications about the U.S.S.R., including brochures, articles in newspapers and magazines, travel reports, and academic analyses. Around a thousand of them were cited by Marek Kornat, a leading specialist on the subject.3 Writers Jan Parandowski (1895–1978) and Antoni Słonimski (1895–1976), literary critic Rafał Blüth (1891–1939), jurist Wiktor Sukiennicki (1901–1983), historian Jan Kucharzewski (1876–1952), historian of ideas Marian Zdziechowski (1861–1938), historian of philosophy Bogumił Jasinowski (1883–1969), historian of law Konstanty Grzybowski (1901–1970), economist Stanisław Swianiewicz (1899–1997), and sociologist Ludwik Kulczycki (1866–1941) – these are but a few names of those who before 1939 wrote and published about the Soviet system, economic situation, social transformations, Stalinist purges, and Bolshevik ideology. Some of them worked for the Research and Study Institute for Eastern Europe in Wilno (now Vilnius), a specialist analytical institute that existed between 1930 and 1939.4 Most of those scholars, irrespective of their political beliefs and sympathies, were in agreement on one key conclusion: the changes in Russia were profoundly influenced by the historically shaped Russian political culture and mentality, so different from what could be seen in the West. This diagnosis

The Russian Revolution and its many circles

5

led to the next observation, about huge problems with, or actually the impossibility of, building a Western European-style democracy or launching reforms and building communism in accordance with Marx and Engels’s recipes. It was emphasised that neither the Provisional Government nor the Council of People’s Commissars could ignore the post-imperial determinants, namely the social anomie, the fact that prior to 1917 an overwhelming majority of society did not participate in public life (or participated only marginally), and the police-centred nature of Tsarist Russia. The Polish experts were known for their aversion to, and moral condemnation of, Bolshevik Russia and the U.S.S.R. – in which they did not differ from Polish public opinion at large. Delivered in fine emotional language, the following passage by Parandowski mirrors the perception of the ongoing changes in Russia, as shared by most of his contemporaries: Under their rule, everything that gives life sense and elegance is gone. Following their two years in power people suffer from hunger, and are stupefied by terror, incapable of effective work in any field, and morally fallen. The will to work and a sense of duty have disappeared among the masses. Those intelligent people who, by Bolsheviks’ mercy, have stayed alive see their hopes for human progress ruined. The Russian people, bereft of those of noble thinking and feeling, will for years plunge into a purely animal-like life, confined to rummaging for food and pleasure-seeking.5 The story of Stanisław Swianiewicz provides perhaps the best illustration of the role played by these researchers and their appreciation of sorts by the Soviet state. Born in 1899 in Dyneburg in Russia (now Daugavpils, Latvia), in the northern part of the former Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, Swianiewicz had to discontinue his law studies at Moscow University due to the revolution. In newly independent Poland, he lectured on political economy and the economic doctrine of communism at Wilno University and the Research and Study Institute for Eastern Europe in the same city. Taken prisoner by the Red Army following the German and Soviet aggression of Poland, he was carried to the railway station of Gnezdovo, just outside Katyn, but – very likely, because of his earlier involvement in Soviet studies6 – was then withdrawn from the transported group, which spared him the fate of more than 4,000 Polish officers executed by the NKVD in the Katyn forest. Following an eight-month investigation, during which he was kept in Lubyanka prison, Swianiewicz was sentenced to eight years in the Gulag, but after the Polish–Soviet agreement of 30 July 1941 and the so-called “amnesty” he left the Soviet Union. He died in 1997, having lived, first, in the United Kingdom and later in the United States. In the period leading up to 1939, Swianiewicz published multiple works on the history of ideas and economics. He was truly fascinated by what we might call today the history of emotions, namely the irrational factors

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influencing the psychology of social groups.7 He recognised mass mobilisation as a constituent characteristic of Fascist and Soviet-type regimes and he realised that this type of mobilisation is made possible thanks to the myth of the past: “The spread of this myth awakens among the masses a certain sense of the sublime, and the belief that they live and strive for a greater cause. They are ready to exert themselves and make sometimes heroic sacrifices.”8 Today, mobilisation is the subject of a wide range of Soviet-studies publications.9 In 1930, Swaniewicz’s most seminal work was published, Lenin jako ekonomista (Lenin as an Economist), which later secured him the habilitation.10 In it, he asked questions that intrigued the whole of Europe, wondering how far the Russian changes complied with the message of Marx. In his own opinion, the reception of the German thinker’s theories and their implementation were profoundly influenced by the cultural heritage of Russia. In Western academia, interest in the U.S.S.R. was triggered by the Cold War. Important studies, published back in the 1950s, included Merle Fainsod’s How Russia is Ruled11 and the first three volumes – dealing with the revolution – of the 14-volume A History of Soviet Russia by Edward Hallet Carr.12 Obviously, an impulse to come up with new interpretations of what happened in 1917 was provided by the forthcoming anniversary year of 1967. That year a book was published by Isaac Deutscher (1907–1967) – who came from the Polish town of Chrzanów, then part of the Austrian Empire – under the telling title The Unfinished Revolution: Russia 1917–1967.13 Richard Pipes (1923–2018), who in turn was born in the town of Cieszyn, subsequently organised a conference featuring some outstanding scholars, including Isaiah Berlin (1909–1997), Edward Hallett Carr (1892–1982), George Kennan (1904–2005), Leonard Shapiro (1908–1983), and Hannah Arendt (1906–1975).14 Just ahead of 1967, The East Slavic Review carried two important articles by Leopold Haimson (1927–2010), providing an inspiration for many about the ways in which the Russian Revolution could be researched.15 New research opportunities emerged with the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 and the opening up of its archives. The perception of the 1917 turmoil was considerably changed by findings of studies into the course the revolution took in the provinces. Most importantly, Peter Holquist and Aaron Retish, in their studies covering, respectively, the areas inhabited by the Don Cossacks and the Vyatka Governorate, convincingly demonstrated that for many processes previously portrayed as initiated by the revolution, the watershed should be shifted back, at least to the year 1914. As it turned out, it was the First World War that let loose the social forces that – through the activeness of Russian citizens and self-organisation on an unprecedented scale – led to the changes of 1917.16 In a parallel research stream in the past quarter-century, researchers turned to the cultural history of the Russian Revolution. They investigated how new symbols had been invented and their meaning had been defined and redefined. Some of the weightiest works in this field were authored by

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a contributor to the present volume, Boris Kolonitsky. His extensive studies take up the “language” used by actors on the 1917 political scene, the image of the tsarist family, and the portrait of Alexander Kerensky, the prime minister of the provisional government.17 The next round-year anniversary – the centenary of the Russian Revolution – took place in diametrically different circumstances, with the Soviet state no longer in existence. Built on its ruins, the Russian Federation has engaged in a politics of memory where it seeks to reconcile the ideological supporters of the “Whites” – cherishing Russia’s big-power status and imperialism, and seeing in communism a disaster of apocalyptic dimensions – and those who indulge in nostalgia for the Soviet era. In practice this approach means promoting – even if quite timidly – the concept of a Great Russian Revolution (Velikaya Rossiyskaya Revolutsiya). A broader treatment of the subject is provided later in the present volume. Along with the official endeavours to reconcile the two extremes – i.e., to condemn the revolution for having dismantled the great Russian empire, while at the same time escaping the wrath of Soviet-nostalgia buffs and those living in the cult of the Red Army and its battles “for Motherland and for Stalin” – work on new insights and interpretations of the 1917 events has been going on uninterruptedly, both in Russia and at the best European and American research centres whose focus concerns Russia and Eastern Europe. This work draws on archival material that was all but unavailable prior to 1991, as well as employing a research approach that reflects the latest tendencies in world historiography. Steve A. Smith, a contributor to this publication, is the author of the book, Russia in Revolution: An Empire in Crisis, 1890–1928.18 Sheila Fitzpatrick’s The Russian Revolution19 ran into its fourth, amended edition, having influenced a plethora of students of the subject. Mark Steinberg wrote about how the Russian Revolution is seen through the eyes of a cultural historian.20 Laura Engelstein, in her Russia in Flames, combined the perspective of top-down (political) history and bottom-up (social) history.21 Catherine Merridale conducted an interesting experiment, retracing in person the route of the famous sealed train that brought Lenin to Petrograd in April 1917.22 Dominic Lieven, drawing on new sources, looked at Russia as one of the actors in a great game of empires in the early 20th century, which turned out to be a contributory cause behind the developments of 1917.23 And perhaps the most original approach was taken by Yuri Slezkine, presenting the vicissitudes of the revolution as it was experienced by residents of the famed “government house” on the River Moscow, one-third of whom were executed during the time of Great Terror in 1937 and 1938.24 *** The 100th anniversary of the revolution occasioned a huge number of conferences and seminars. One of them, the largest conference of its kind in

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Central Europe, was organised by the Centre for Polish-Russian Dialogue and Understanding, a Polish public institution established in 2011 by an act of the parliament with the aim of helping Poles and Russians to get to know each other better. Conducting studies of the past is one line of the Centre’s activity. The two-day meeting, held under the motto “CIRCLES OF THE REVOLUTION: The year 1917 in Russia – domestic and international consequences”, discussed topics such as the revolution’s political, social, ideological, and cultural impact on Central and Eastern Europe (including Poland); reactions to it and reception in Western Europe; developments in the Russian provinces and on territories of what today are: Ukraine, Belarus, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, and Finland; and the image of the revolution, as remembered by people in countries that in the past constituted provinces of the Russian empire. The present publication reflects the outcome of that conference. The articles in the first part, by Marek Kornat, Steve S. Smith, and Adam Bosiacki, provide reflections on, respectively, the place of the Russian Revolution in world history; terror and its historiography; and the Bolsheviks’ concept of law and legal revolution, an indispensable part of the broader revolution. In the second part, the reader will find studies into the revolutionary state’s selected internal aspects. Sarah Badcock takes up provincial developments in the oblasts of Kazan and Nizhny Novgorod, in Russia proper. Petr Kaleta looks at the revolution through the prism of a very small group of people, the Karaims. And Alaksandr Smalančuk discusses the revolution’s impact on the Belarusian nation-forming process. The next two parts are devoted to the event’s external implications. Lothar Höbelt writes about the position taken by Austria-Hungary. Jan Jacek Bruski and Yevgeny Sergeyev, in their separate contributions, present Great Britain’s attitude towards the revolutionary developments in Ukrainian lands. Chapters by Isabelle Davion and Frederic Dessberg discuss the Russian Revolution’s impact on how Western countries addressed one of the key problems of 19th-century Europe, namely the Polish striving to restore their statehood, lost towards the end of the 18th century. Kari Alenius analyses the influence that the Russian Revolution exerted on the Finnish independence process, while Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny write in their study about the interdependence between the Russian Revolution on the one hand, and on the other, the social conflicts and protest and strike actions in Central Europe. Contributors to the last part, Boris Kolonitsky with Mariya Matskevich, Olga Malinova and Bartłomiej Gajos, analyse the Russian historical memory and how the question of the Russian Revolution was handled by the authorities, post-1991. The subject is discussed generally, in the first two texts, and Bartłomiej Gajos’ study in a local context. This present publication is submitted for the reader’s judgement in hopes of being received sympathetically and comprises findings of multiple studies into the Russian Revolution –conducted at different research institutes in Russia,

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and in Central and Western Europe – and also analyses of its international implications and the political and ideological impact left on subsequent European history. We hope that the book will add many fresh interpretations to debates about the revolution’s causes, course, and significance.

Notes 1 See А. Ганин, Повседневная жизнь генщтабистов при Ленине и Троцком, Москва, 2017, pp. 21–22. 2 Trotsky’s telegram to Kamenev of 23 October 1918, Центральный государственный архив Московской области (CGAMO) ф. 66, оп. 1, д. 814, л. 5. 3 For the most extensive list of references see M. Kornat, Bolszewizm - totalitaryzm rewolucja - Rosja. Początki sowietologii i studiów nad systemami totalitarnymi w Polsce (1918–1939), Warszawa, 2004, passim. 4 For more see M. Kornat, Instytut Naukowo-Badawczy Europy Wschodniej w Wilnie (1930–1939) i jego wkład w rozwój polskiej sowietologii, “Kwartalnik Historyczny” 2000 (3), pp. 43–89. Cf. R. H. Szawlowski, Polish Sovietology 1918/19–1939, “The Polish Review” 1972 (17), pp. 3–36. 5 J. Parandowski, Bolszewizm i bolszewicy w Rosji, Lwów, 1920, p. 140. 6 The most probable explanation why Swianiewicz was separated from the group of those headed for execution is that until 1939 he was engaged in research on the economies of Germany and the Soviet Union, and could therefore be very valuable to the NKVD. Another reason, which Swianiewicz himself indicated to the Madden Commission (1950–1951), set up to investigate the Katyń massacre, could have been the fact that his name was invoked in one of the Great Purge trials in 1937. See W. Wasilewski (ed.), Mord w Lesie Katyńskim. Przesłuchania przed amerykańską komisją Maddena w latach 1951–1952, vol. 2, Warszawa, 2018, p. 105. Also see the memoires, S. Swianiewicz, W cieniu Katynia, Warszawa, 1990. 7 See, in particular, S. Swianiewicz, Wpływ momentów irracjonalnych na kształtowanie się marksowskiej teorii wyzysku, “Rocznik Prawniczy Wileński”,1928 (2), pp. 141–158. 8 S. Swianiewicz, Rzut oka na zasadnicze problemy sowieckiej polityki gospodarczej, “Rocznik Instytutu Naukowo-Badawczego Europy Wschodniej w Wilnie”, 1934 (2), p. 21. 9 See, e.g., K. Petrone, Life Has Become More Joyous, Comrades!, Indiana University Press, 2000; and D. L. Hoffmann, Cultivating the Masses: Modern State Practices and Soviet Socialism, 1914–1939, Cornell University Press, 2014. But studies seeking to present the history of Russian Revolution’s emptions are still in short supply. See the classic text, B. Rosenwein, Worrying about Emotions in History, “American Historical Review”, 2002 (3), pp. 821–845. 10 S. Swianiewicz, Lenin jako ekonomista, Wilno, 1930. 11 M. Fainsod, How Russia is Ruled, Harvard University Press, 1953. 12 See E. H. Carr, A History of Soviet Russia: The Bolshevik Revolution 1917–1923, vol. 1–3, London, 1950–1953. 13 I. Deutscher, The Unfinished Revolution: Russia 1917–1967, Oxford University Press, 1967. 14 R. Pipes (ed.), Revolutionary Russia, Harvard University Press, 1968. Cf. R. Pipes, Żyłem. Wspomnienia niezależnego, Warszawa, 2004, p. 109. 15 L. Haimson, The Problem of Social Stability in Urban Russia, 1905–1917 (Part One), “Slavic Review”, 1964 (4), pp. 619–642. Leopold Haimson, The Problem of Social Stability in Urban Russia, 1905–1917 (Part Two), “Slavic Review”, 1965 (1), pp. 1–22.

10 Łukasz Adamski and Bartłomiej Gajos 16 P. Holquist, Making War, Forging Revolution: Russia’s Continuum of Crisis, 1914–1921, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA, 2002. A. B. Retish, Russia’s Peasants in Revolution and Civil War: Citizenship, Identity, and the Creation of the Soviet State, 1914–1922, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK, 2008. 17 See O. Figes, B. I. Kolonitskii, Interpreting the Russian Revolution: The Language and Symbols of 1917, Yale University Press, New Haven, CT, 1999. Б. Колоницкий, «Траги ческая эрот и ка». Образы императорской семьи в годы Первой мировой войны, Москва, 2010. Б. Колоницкий, «Тов арищ Керенский ». Антимонархическая революция и формирование культа “вождя народа”, Москва, 2017. 18 S. A. Smith, Russia in Revolution: An Empire in Crisis 1890–1928, Oxford University Press, 2017. 19 S. Fitzpatrick, The Russian Revolution, Oxford Univeristy Press, 2017. 20 M. D. Steinberg, The Russian Revolution, 1905–1921, Oxford University Press, 2017. 21 L. Engelstein, Russia in Flames: War, Revolution, Civil War, 1914–1921, Oxford University Press, 2018. 22 C. Merridale, Lenin on the Train, London, 2016. 23 D. Lieven, Towards the Flame: Empire, War and the End of Tsarist Russia, Allen Lane/Penguin, 2015. 24 Y. Slezkine, The House of Government: A Saga of the Russian Revolution, Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ, 2017.

2

“A ravaged century”1 Did the Russian Revolution define the 20th century? Marek Kornat

As renowned Polish historian Emanuel Rostworowski wrote in the introduction to his chronicle of the 18th century,2 “History is like a river where one can delineate the banks, but where cutting into segments the endless flow of causes and effects would be a brutish act indeed”. And yet, successive centuries do have their identities that set them apart and which inspire historians to attempt to capture their defining spirit. The quest for an “organising idea” behind particular centuries has been historians’ time-honoured pastime.3 The 17th century is generally associated with Europe’s religious war, coming in the wake of a historical breakthrough known as the Reformation. The 18th century was marked by enlightened absolutism, a term that has long provoked debates among historiographers. The processes that underpinned the 19th century included industrialisation, liberal constitutionalism, and – perhaps, its most potent driving force – nationalism. And what about the 20th century? It brought about a disruptive technological revolution and the head-on confrontation of great powers in two world wars, but what left an indelible imprint on human memory is that it was a time of totalitarianisms and genocide, including the crime of crimes: the Holocaust. Lenin was inarguably the first founder of a new model state. Promising universal liberation, he built a tyranny of unprecedentedly repressive force. That totalitarian creation involved the mono-party, mass terror, the ideological mobilisation of human masses, and – last but not least – it aspired to universal ascendancy. The big question of whether the Bolshevik revolution predetermined the course of the past century is certainly not without point. I believe that taking it up again on the 100th anniversary of the Petrograd coup is really worth it – and hence these reflections.

I. For communist historiography and politics of memory, the importance of Lenin’s revolution as a global breakthrough has been a foregone conclusion

12 Marek Kornat and a matter of course. It represented a great leap forward for humanity, and offered a prospect of liberation for the working class. Any comparison of the “Great Socialist October Revolution” to fascism – whether Italian or German – has been, and still is, blasphemous to followers of the communist idea. The masses’ celebrated push for freedom and equality must never be associated with the last breath of “rotting capitalism”. But the perspective from which to view Bolshevism and its role in history will change if we reread 20th-century history as a chronicle of that period’s totalitarian experiences. The first world-class historian to argue that the Bolshevik revolution engendered totalitarianisms and thus left its own terrible mark on the 20th century was the German professor Ernst Nolte. His 1987 book, Der europäische Bürgerkrieg 1917–1945. Nationalsozialismus und Bolschewismus, published two years before the collapse of the communist system in Europe, offered a new vision of the 1990s. To present his views in a nutshell, one should emphasise that, first, he saw “the Mussolinian fascism” as a “‘reaction’ to the threat of Italian-style Bolshevism, arising out of the war and following more or less the Russian example.” In Nolte’s opinion, Mussolini, just as Lenin “came from ultra-revolutionary socialism”, which only meant that “it was easier to imitate Lenin in order to fight him with his own weapon.” As for Hitler, he followed the same path in founding German Nazism – much more radical than “Mussolinism” and, unlike the latter, exceedingly murderous. Second, the author of Europäische Bürgerkrieg 1917–1945, concluded that: the victory of Russian Bolshevism in October 1917 can be made the point of departure for a chain “reaction” by which Italian fascism first, Nazism later, appear as responses to the communist threat, modelled on the revolutionary and dictatorial mode of communism.4 Third, Nolte did not seek in any way to clear or “absolve” Hitler of the crimes that had been committed. In keeping with his concept of “historical phenomenology”, he appealed for history to be explored and elucidated, whatever course it had taken. And fourth, within this reasoning, the Bolshevism of Lenin and Stalin provided the prototype of totalitarianism. In the words of Aleksander Weissberg-Cybulski, “the history of this planet knows no other example of a power that was so thoroughly totalitarian.”5 Its “matrix” and “genetic code” were provided by the Russian coup. Thus, the Bolshevik triumph in Russia, on the periphery of western civilisation, had so tragic an impact on the 20th century. Nolte’s theory posits that between 1917 and 1945 Europe was in the throes of a civil war. Communism triggered a counteraction in the form of fascism and national socialism. At its roots lay the precedent of the Russian October – a historic turnabout that had such a pervasive effect on the world. We are thus offered an explication of the 20th-century drama as a “chain reaction”, sparked off in October 1917.6 Nolte’s interpretation that fascism and

“A ravaged century” 13 national socialism constituted a response to Bolshevism is widely known, also in Poland, and – being razor-edged and controversial – it has come under heavy fire from numerous critics. Among the charges raised against Nolte, the weightiest one is about relativizing the evil that was the Nazi genocide. Since the publication of the brilliant work Faschismus in seiner Epoche, Nolte was always seen as a leading scholar on fascism.7 Faced with outspoken attacks for attempting to “exonerate Nazism”, he stood firm in defence of his concept. He presented his arguments in Germany’s celebrated “historians’ quarrel” (Historikerstreit), and never disowned his vision of Bolshevism as the driving force behind the totalitarian epoch. Eight years after Nolte’s pronouncements, the French historian François Furet published his book, Le passé d’une illusion.8 Both books produced long debates and many controversies. The view of the 20th century taken by Furet was different from Nolte’s. He saw an unbreakable two-way relationship between communism and fascism. Bolshevism did provide an inspiration for fascists and Nazis, but fascism and national socialism could not be reduced to a mere reaction to communism. He saw in Bolshevism and fascism (both Italian and German) “two potential figures of modern democracy in both movements, which arise from the same history.” To Furet, “the fascist movement fed on anticommunism, the communist movement on antifascism. But both shared a hatred for the bourgeois world, which allowed them to unite.”9 Furet went on: [T]he fear of communism fed fascist parties, but to me only partially, because it has the disadvantage of masking what was endogenous and particular to the fascist regimes while overemphasizing what they both fought against. The cultural elements from which they fashioned a doctrine for themselves existed before the First World War and therefore the October Revolution. Mussolini did not wait until 1917 to invent the union of the revolutionary and national idea. The German extreme Right, and even the entire Right, did not need communism to hate democracy. The national Bolsheviks admired Stalin. I concede that Hitler privileged the hatred of Bolshevism, but as a final product of the democratic bourgeois world.10 The French historian thus disputed the idea of a single cause behind the emergence and expansion of fascism and national socialism. Opposition to liberal democracy, he argued, played no smaller role than the imperative of fighting communism. The doctrinal “substance” of fascism and national socialism contained ideas born prior to Lenin’s takeover of power in Russia in the course of the Great War. To Nolte, on the other hand, the key to understanding the origins of Italian fascism and German national socialism lay in the Russian communist revolution’s proclaimed goal of destroying the propertied classes. He wrote:

14 Marek Kornat Auschwitz is not primarily a result of traditional anti-Semitism. It was in its core not merely a “genocide” but was above all a reaction born out of the anxiety of the annihilating occurrences of the Russian Revolution… . It is true that the Red terror, in the number of victims, was hardly much worse than the White terror.11 In a letter to Nolte, Furet responded: “The claim that ‘the Gulag preceded Auschwitz’ is neither false nor insignificant, but it is not a cause-effect link.”12 As the reader will notice, Furet’s criticism of the position taken by the German historian zeroed in on its one-sidedness. The perception of fascism as a reactive movement against communism “only explains part of the phenomenon; it fails to explain the differences between Italian and German fascism. Above all, it does not allow us to understand origins and traits that the two fascisms share with the detested regime.”13 In studying communism and fascism, the author of The Passing of an Illusion believed, one should examine these ideologies and totalitarian movements in unison, as “two sides of liberal democracy’s severe crisis, which manifested itself in the course of World War I.” Fascism, while rejecting “abstract” (liberal) democracy, harkened back to the ideological legacy of the Right, where “organic society” was put on the pedestal. Bolshevism, on the other hand, rejected “formal freedom” in the name of a future “socialist society”, a historical ideal of the Left. The Europe of the 20th century will not be understood, Furet argued, unless one realises that “the communist nourishes his faith with antifascism, and the fascist his with anticommunism. And both fight the same enemy, bourgeois democracy.”14 Antifascism imparted an attractive quality to communism. Therefore, through the defeat of Hitler, history seemed to give a certificate of democracy to Stalin, as if antifascism, a purely negative definition, sufficed for freedom. By this, the antifascist obsession added a disastrous effect to its necessary role; it made the analysis of communist regimes difficult, if not impossible.15 And the word “fascism”, as rightly pointed out by Robert Conquest,16 turned into a catch-all term in the language of politics. Borrowing from Nolte’s style, one could say that Furet made of the “communist ideal” the central force of his times, communism being the “most powerful ideology of the 20th century.” The French historian did not confine his exposition to communism in Russia, where it became the ruling system of the state, but he also showed “October’s universal charm”, attracting many a western intellectual, especially in France. As Maurice Merleau-Ponty wrote, “we ought to prefer revolutionary violence because it has a future of humanism.”17 Thus, by manufacturing antifascism, the Bolshevik revolution did achieve its “worldwide impact”. Filling the 20th century, this impact lasted until it

“A ravaged century” 15 “lost its internal strength, exposed as something which – given its utopian nature – it was from the beginning, an illusion.” That, however, required a prolonged process of delegitimisation of Soviet totalitarianism in the eyes of people in the West. “It is beyond the power of philosophy to destroy the political myths. A myth is in a sense invulnerable. It is impervious to rational arguments; it cannot be refuted by syllogisms.” This reflection by the German philosopher Ernst Cassirer, the acclaimed author of The Myth of the State (1945), must never be forgotten when discussing the phenomenon of totalitarianism.18 In Nolte’s optics, obviously, the Bolshevik takeover of power in Russia assumes the proportions of an event defining the new era, and leaving an unmistakable imprint on the century. He was not the only one to attach such great importance to the Russian Revolution. Here is what Eric Hobsbawm, proceeding from an entirely different set of values, wrote in his work, The Age of Extremes: In short, the history of the Short Twentieth Century cannot be understood without the Russian revolution and its direct and indirect effects. Not least because it proved to be the saviour of liberal capitalism, both by enabling the West to win the Second World War against Hitler’s Germany and by providing the incentive for capitalism to reform itself and – paradoxically – through the Soviet Union’s apparent immunity to the Great Depression, the incentive to abandon the belief in free market orthodoxy.19 In his vision of the “Short 20th Century from 1914 to the end of the Soviet era”, Hobsbawm formulated his own theory of the “world revolution”, which he saw as continuation of the Russian Revolution. The “Short 20th Century,” the British historian argued, “virtually coincides with the lifetime of the state born of the October revolution.” Its successive stages included the interwar confrontation between Soviet communism and liberal capitalism, the “temporary and bizarre alliance” (of liberal capitalism and communism) and finally the Cold War. In an 1995 essay, Three Whys of The Russian Revolution, Richard Pipes wrote: It is my considered judgment, that, had it not been for the Russian Revolution, there would very likely have been no national socialism; probably no Second World War and no decolonization; and certainly no Cold War, which once dominated our lives.20 Pipes was surprised that Karl-Dietrich Bracher, in his book on the emergence of Hitler’s regime in Germany (Die deutsche Diktatur), failed to even mention Lenin and his rule in Russia.21 But it was Lenin who created a political organisation of the new model, and it was his party that blazed

16 Marek Kornat the trail as an instrument of totalitarian rule. Totalitarianism could not be explained without invoking that experience and according it pride of place. The U.S. professor clearly – if cautiously – subscribed to the opinion that fascism and Nazism emerged as a reaction to Bolshevism. In his view, Mussolini and Hitler used the spectre of communism to scare their respective countries’ populations into ceding dictatorial powers to them. They borrowed the “new-model party” concept from the Bolsheviks. Taking a much more cautious line than Nolte, Pipes nevertheless concluded that the system created by Lenin had all the attributes of totalitarianism, including “an official all-embracing ideology”, a single party dominating the state, mass-scale police terror, the Bolshevik party’s full control of the means of communication and the armed forces, and also the central command of the economy. Pipes argued that the Bolshevik experiment provided the model to follow for anti-democratic forces in Italy and Germany. Stéphane Courtois, even if taking a position diametrically opposite to Hobsbawm’s, also believed that the Russian Revolution was of key importance for the course of the 20th century across the world. Towards the conclusion of his The Black Book of Communism, he wrote about Stalin that: [t]o the eyes of history he might well appear as one of the great men of the century, transforming the weak Soviet Union of 1922 into one of the two world superpowers, and for decades causing Communism to appear to be the only real alternative to capitalism.22 Discussing the differences and similarities of fascism, Nazism and Bolshevism, Pipes rightly pointed out that both Hitler and Mussolini used the “spectre of communism” in their march to power, and that their tactics proved successful. He also observed that – in terms of methods of political struggle – no person in interwar Europe resembled Lenin better than Mussolini. In Nazi ideology, the Darwinian idea of natural selection was to be served by violence, whereas in the philosophy of 19th-century revolutionaries, class distinctions were to be abolished by means of class struggle. It also seems proper to mention the opinion of the Israeli-German historian Dan Diner, whose book, Cataclysms: A History of the 20th Century from Europe’s Edge – little noticed in Poland – offers a valuable and thought-provoking panorama of the 20th century. He describes the great ideological conflict, triggered by the Russian coup in 1917, as a “universal civil war.”23

II. Nolte had no doubt that the Second World War came as a logical consequence of the first, representing a continuation of the battle opened by the Bolshevik coup. According to his theory, Europe had its “Thirty Years’ War” in the 20th century, beginning in 1917 and ending in 1945.

“A ravaged century” 17 “There is a strong case for regarding the Second World War as the most radical stage of the European civil war, which gradually unfolded – and increasingly in the open – in the period from 1917,” the German historian averred. “And this should be viewed as the critical factor in a mix of multiple causes of the War.”24 It is obviously correct that “every war is but a continuation” of a previous one, as observed by the Polish writer Andrzej Bobkowski.25 But advocates of the European civil war theory insist that Bolshevism, as the prefiguration of totalitarianism, set off ideological hatred of an intensity without precedent in world history. Bolshevism threw down the gauntlet to the order of the entire world, which it faced upon taking over power in Russia. What the victorious Russian Bolshevism brought about to the world was a war of worldviews that was later to morph into a war of extermination. In Nolte’s opinion, the “worldview war”, waged in Europe from 1917, was crowned in 1941 with a previously unknown escalation of ideological hatred.26 Europe’s civil war was not about gaining a political advantage, but about advancing a worldview by means of annihilation of the enemy. The imitation of Bolshevism by fascism and Nazism did not prevent their enmity and the subsequent life-or-death struggle. But tactical alliances were by no means impossible, as tellingly exemplified by the Ribbentrop-Molotov pact of 23 August 1939. “Imitation and enmity are not irreconcilable. Mussolini copied Lenin’s strategy in order to fight Italian communism, and Hitler-Stalin relations offer many examples of war-time concord.”27 The post-1917 world was on course for a differently conceptualised totalitarian epoch. But whether referred to as an “era of tyrannies” (Élie Halévy), an “anti-liberal revolution” (Kazimierz Zakrzewski), or a “totalitarian revolution” (Franz Borkenau),28 it was always viewed as having been sparked by the 1917 developments in Russia. In this line of reasoning, communism provoked a reaction because it posed a challenge to the civilisation with which it was faced. This reaction – in the form of fascism and Nazism – employed methods that were first used in Russia. Such is the essence of the first concept seeking to explain the course of developments in the 1900s. It does apply to the first half-century. But what about the other half ? Its explication is sought by another concept, also invoking the “chain reaction” model. In this view, communism not only claimed to be a depositary of mankind’s Enlightenment legacy, but also presented itself as an effective opposition to fascism. Thanks to industrialisation and the capacity to produce modern weaponry on its own, Russia contributed enormously to the defeat of Hitler. Communism thus gained an extraordinary privilege, being able to project an attractive image to the world, whereas it was only, and exclusively, a murderous tyranny. As far as I can tell, there is no major contradiction between these two concepts, which actually complement one another, offering an insight into the 20th century in its entirety.

18 Marek Kornat It must not be forgotten that Bolshevism, which influenced world history so profoundly, was not a Russian idea but an import from the West.29 Obviously, the dispute about whether or not Bolshevism was made possible by “Russianness” has been held for a long time, but one thing remains certain. In Russia, the imported Marxism gave rise to revolutionary maximalism, whereas in Germany it led to social democracy. At the roots of Bolshevism lay the revolutionary ideas of the European Left, of unambiguously Western provenance. Lenin thus had a long tradition behind him. In Hobsbawm’s words, “Bolshevism absorbed all other social-revolutionary traditions, or pushed them on to the margin of radical movements,” as, for example, was the case with anarchism.30 The attack on the established order, it may be added, was made in the name of the utopia of the final liberation of man, to be achieved by ending his alienation. At this point, it is surely in order to quote Leszek Kołakowski’s conclusion, formulated in the final parts of his Main Currents of Marxism: “The self-deification of mankind, to which Marxism gave philosophical expression, has ended in the same way as all such attempts, whether individual or collective; it has revealed itself as the farcical aspect of human bondage.”31 Russia in the 20th century was the scene of a painful, two-part history lesson – first, the victory of a totalitarian experiment and, then, its fiasco and internal decay. This experience may have echoed Peter Chaadayev’s prophecy about his country’s teaching a great lesson to the world sometime in the future. The author of the Philosophical Letters, it may be recalled, argued that Russia’s mission was to provide mankind with an object lesson. There can be no doubt that the totalitarian experience – of which Russia was the first victim, and which brought tragedy for the country – was indeed such a lesson. A similar message came from Maxim Gorky, who towards the close of his life wrote in his Untimely Thoughts that “the people’s commissars treat Russia as material for experiments.”32 Back in the interwar period, pondering the future of Soviet Russia, the Polish jurist Antoni Peretiatkowicz repeated the question asked previously by the French political writer Anatole Leroy-Beaulieu, who wondered “at what price, and with how heavy sacrifices in culture and civilisation” would Russia “show to the world something original, new and Slavic.”33 That question could not yet be answered at the end of the 19th century. Then came the Russian October, but a definitive judgement on Bolshevism remained unavailable until the Soviet experiment ended in the dustbin of history. Following the collapse of the Soviet state, Martin Malia asked the question about Russia’s contribution to this self-inflicted drama, and he gave this answer: Her role was hardly to pervert the experiment, as a convenient scapegoat theory of history would have it. Rather, Russia’s role was to provide to the experiment with a social tabula rasa in the form of a civil society pulverized by modern war.34

“A ravaged century” 19 That created a void of countervailing power. Revolutionary maximalism got the upper hand, permitting the Party to “realize its fantasy.” I will not take issue here with Malia, an opponent of continuation theory in Bolshevik studies, but one thing remains unquestionable. Advocates of diverse schools of thought and virtually all Polish scholars in this field agree that Russia provided a large “testing ground” for an experiment without precedent in history, and that Soviet-style communism totally enslaved the individual – “both spiritually and materially”, as Antoni Peretiatkowicz put it.35 The lesson that Russia gave to the world was a negative one – a lesson of defeat and self-destruction – but a certain grain of truth could perhaps be found in the opinion attributing the modification of Western capitalism to the frightening example of the U.S.S.R.36 **** As early as the end of the 1930s, the Polish historian Franciszek Bujak distinguished between two sources of “totalist ideas”, which he identified as: “unquestionably Marxism, seeking to change the world’s social system,” and also the World War, which shook the foundations of the previous order. Bujak pointed out that “Italian fascism, German national socialism and kindred formations in other countries, in pursuit of their goal of putting up defences against communism, opted for the dictatorship of the high command of an armed party.” He argued that the victory of fascism occurred in circumstances marked by “the perception of a threat – coming from communism – to the existing social order and future development of the Italian state and people.”37 Was, then, fascism and Nazism just a reaction to Soviet communism, or perhaps something more than that? In answering these questions, let it be noted that this interpretation often rests on the post hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy. The interwar Polish jurist Wacław Komarnicki was aware of that. While rightly pointing out in his 1938 article “Nowy ustrój Związku Sowietów” that the “communist tendencies”, as a threat to the existing social system, “encountered an opponent in the form of fascism in Italy, Nazism in Germany, and an array of authoritarian varieties in other countries,”38 he insisted that the “European totalism” (fascism, Nazism) “cannot be reduced to anti-communist reaction.”39 Using this theory to explain the origins of fascism and Nazism, without identifying the many other complex causes, was a simplification, he argued. Anticommunism was an important – and, probably, irreplaceable – weapon in the political battles of fascism and Nazism, but it did not suffice to explain their emergence and ascendancy. Nor was it the only ideological component of those regimes, where antiliberalism was perhaps the weightiest one. Turning a blind eye to the push to defeat liberalism, which fascism and national socialism saw as a destructive force, it is not possible to understand

20 Marek Kornat their emergence. As the Frankfurt School philosopher Herbert Marcuse wrote in 1934, the fight against liberalism was the fulcrum of totalitarian movements.40 The perception of fascism and national socialism as manifestations of an anti-liberal revolution clashes with the theory of Bolshevism as the prefiguration of totalitarianism, which ignores the circumstance that for Italian fascists and German Nazis, liberalism was the principal enemy or – to cite the Polish historian and jurist Franciszek Ryszka – an “objective enemy”.41 The opinion that I find more plausible than Nolte’s is that both sides were learning from one another – Hitler from Lenin and Stalin, and Stalin from Hitler. It does not look like a coincidence that Germany’s Night of the Long Knives, in June 1934, made a strong impression on Moscow and was soon followed by the murder of Kirov in Leningrad (on the 1st of December in the same year). And finally, a historian of the 20th century would not be forgiven for brushing aside modern nationalism, the factor which back in the 19th century was seen as a “neglected power”, to quote Isaiah Berlin.42 Its momentum gathered pace in the climate of positivism, when national egoisms displaced the Romanticist vision of a brotherhood of men. The German doctrine of Machtpolitik came as the culmination of this trend. Back in 1848, it may be recalled, the Austrian poet Friedrich Grillparzer, inspired by the “Springtime of the Peoples” in Vienna, Berlin, and elsewhere across the German Reich, prophesied that the rise of nationalism would lead Germany and Europe astray – from liberal humanism (marking the triumph of the national idea), through the emergence of a system of nation states, and eventually to new wars and criminal nationalist abuses – which he expressed in this succinct formulation: Von Humanität durch Nationalität bis zur Bestialität (from humanism, through nationality, to bestiality). In the course of the Second World War that prophecy was fulfilled in the form of what Friedrich Meinecke called the “German catastrophe”. Meinecke used Grillparzer’s 1908 adage as the motto to his seminal book, Weltbürgertum und Nationalstaat.43 Indeed, one could hardly imagine Italian fascism or German Nazism without nationalism. One more aspect still needs to be discussed. The Soviet system in its Stalinist incarnation proclaimed itself a depositary of the traditions of the 1789 French Revolution, whereas it was in fact a modern tyranny, destroying anything that might lead to human emancipation. Promising liberation, it brought back slavery. While attempts could be made (as was indeed the case in the West) to seek an explanation for Stalinist terror in the logic of the revolution, Stalin’s leadership – and especially his “fabricated charisma”, as Bronisław Baczko put it – provides evidence of the powerful role played in the Soviet system by an irrational “myth” factor.44 Fascism-imitating features of Stalin’s leadership were plain to see for many foreign observers. Probably the first one to vividly present the subject – in his collection of essays, Szkice o totalitaryzmie, in the 1930s – was the Polish sociologist

“A ravaged century” 21 Aleksander Hertz. In his theory, a “militarised mono-party” is common to national socialism, fascism, and the Stalinist variety of Bolshevism.45 **** Questions about when the 20th century began and what defined its course have been asked by historians of diverse worldviews and opposing positions, all of them attempting to convincingly explain the origins of totalitarian regimes. There is certainly much truth to the theories seeking to explain the totalitarian phenomenon with a single cause, but none of these should be absolutised. Just as capturing the “essence” of historical developments looks very much like a wild goose chase, so it is not possible to explicate the history process with an isolated single factor. Likewise, accepting Nolte’s theory of the “European thirty years’ civil war” and the claim that the consequences of the World War I contained the definite causes of World War II would be equally debatable. History is by no means determined, and historians should never lose sight of pure chance. The operation of impersonal social forces, masses of people, and classes does not rule out human agency. The debate about the origins of totalitarianism – synonymous with a debate about the 20th century and its place in universal history – is not yet over, as amply demonstrated by the heated arguments over Furret’s and Hobsbawm’s books, by the German Historikerstreit, and especially by the discussions provoked by The Black Book of Communism. A perfect interpretation, free of any worldview influences, is very likely unfeasible. “There is no such thing as ‘innocent’ historical interpretation,” François Furet wrote, and written history is itself located in history, indeed is history, the product of an inherently unstable relationship between the present and the past, a merging of the particular mind with the vast field of its potential topics of study in the past.46 In mankind’s collective history, the 19th century is remembered as the time of peace and salutary progress. The great Italian philosopher and history writer Guglielmo Ferrero referred to that century – which, in his concept, began with the Congress of Vienna – as “one hundred years of continuous development”.47 And the French historian of diplomacy, Pierre Renouvin, went even further, describing the end of the long 19th century as “Europe’s apogee”.48 The 20th century, on the other hand, will rather be viewed as one of severe, probably irreversible regression in Europe, involving genocide (the Holocaust) and totalitarianism. Its opening and closing dates – either 1914–1989 or 1917–1989 – speak for themselves. We cannot do anything about that, while remembering that, in the words of Wereszycki, each “judgement on history” is almost always of “relative value”.49

22 Marek Kornat Polish historiography has yet to produce such panoramic presentations of the 20th century as have been provided by Conquest, Hobsbawm, Furet, Nolte, Judt, Snyder, and others. The only purpose of these supplementary comments on the Bolshevik revolution’s place in history is to emphasise the need for such reflection, which should prod us to cogitate on the grand, challenging questions to which we will never stop returning.

Notes 1 I borrow this exquisite description from Robert Conquest, whose book was published in Polish translation 16 years ago: Uwagi o spustoszonym stuleciu, Poznań, 2002. [R. Conquest, Reflections on a Ravaged Century, New York, 2000]. 2 E. Rostworowski, Historia powszechna. Wiek XVIII, Warszawa, 1980, p. 7. 3 This is in reference to the French notion of idée organisatrice. 4 All quotes in the presented dialogue are taken from the article Przekleństwa chodzą parami. Wielki spór historyków, Gazeta Wyborcza, 5–6 December 1998. 5 A. Weissberg-Cybulski, Wielka czystka, Warszawa, 1990, p. 549. 6 E. Nolte, Der europäische Bürgerkrieg 1917–1945. Nationalsozialismus und Bolschewismus, Frankfurt/M, 1989. 7 E. Nolte, Faschismus in seiner Epoche, München, 1963. 8 Furet’s volume, published in the French language as La passée d’une illusion, was translated into the Polish in 1996, by M. Ochab and J. Górnicka-Kalinowska (Warszawa 1996). F. Furet, The Passing of an Illusion: The Idea of Communism in the 20th Century, translated by Deborah Furet, University of Chicago Press, 1999. 9 Przekleństwa chodzą parami, op. cit. 10 Ibid. 11 Ibid. 12 Ibid. 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid. 15 Ibid. 16 R. Conquest, Uwagi o spustoszonym stuleciu, p. 39. 17 M. Merleau-Ponty, Les aventures de la dialectique, Paris, 1955, p 117. 18 E. Cassirer, The Myth of the State, New Haven, 1946, p. 296. 19 E. Hobsbawm, The Age of Extremes: The Short 20th Century, 1914–1991, London, 1994, p. 55. 20 R. Pipes, Three Whys of the Russian Revolution, New York, 1990, p. 3. 21 R. Pipes, Komunizm, faszyzm i narodowy socjalizm [Communism, fascism and national-socialism] in idem, Rosja, komunizm i świat. Wybór esejów, translated into the Polish by A. Nowak, S. Czarnik, Kraków, 2002, p. 27. K.-D. Bracher, Die deutsche Diktatur, Köln-Berlin, 1969. 22 S. Courtois, N. Werth, J.-L. Panné, A. Paczkowski, K. Bartosek, J.-L. Margolin, Czarna księga komunizmu. Zbrodnie, terror, prześladowania, foreword by K. Kersten, Warszawa, 2000, p. 704. [S. Courtois, N. Werth, J.-L. Panné, A. Paczkowski, K. Bartosek, J.-L. Margolin, The Black Book of Communism: Crimes, Terror, Repression, translated by Jonathan Murphy and Mark Kramer, Harvard University Press, 1999]. 23 D. Diner, Zrozumieć stulecie, translated into the Polish by X. Bukowska, Warszawa, 2009, pp. 17–70. [D. Diner, Cataclysms: A History of the 20th Century from Europe’s Edge, University of Wisconsin Press, 2008].

“A ravaged century” 23 24 Nolte’s answer in the questionnaire of Arcana bimonthly: II wojna światowa – alternatywy i konsekwencje, Arcana 1999 (4), pp. 6–7. 25 See A. Bobkowski, Potłuczona mozaika. Andrzeja Bobowskiego myśli o epoce, Warszawa, 2002, p. 39 (the quotation comes from the author’s essays written during World War II, Szkice piórkiem). 26 II wojna światowa – alternatywy i konsekwencje, pp. 6–7. 27 Przekleństwa chodzą parami, op. cit. 28 E. Halévy, The Era of Tyrannies: Essays of Socialism and War, transl. R. K. Webb, note F. Stern, New York, 1966; F. Borkenau, The Totalitarian Enemy, London, [1940]. Zakrzewski’s concepts are discussed extensively in my article: M. Kornat, Kazimierz Zakrzewski wobec reżimów totalnych. Pisma i idee z lat 1929– 1935, in Kazimierz Zakrzewski. Historia i polityka, ed. M. Dąbrowska, WarszawaŁódź, 2016, pp. 218–262. 29 A. Walicki, Rewolucja październikowa jako projekt komunistyczny, “Przegląd Polityczny” 2017 (145/146), pp. 102–109. The reprint of this text, first appearing in W. Kozub-Ciembroniewicz, B. Szlachta (eds.), Totalitaryzmy XX wieku. Idee– instytucje–interpretacje, Kraków, 2010, was amended by Walicki with a new, valuable commentary, “Dziesięćlat później”, pp. 110–122. 30 E. Hobsbawm, The Age of Extremes, p. 74. 31 L. Kołakowski, Main Currents of Marxism: Its Origins, Growth and Dissolution, New York, 2005, p. 1212. 32 M. Gorki, Myśli nie na czasie, Warszawa, 1986 (Russian edition: Несвоевременные мысли. Статьи 1917–1918 гг., сост. Г. Ермолаев, Paris, 1971.), p. 37. 33 A. Leroy-Beaulieu was the author of the three-volume work L’empire des Tars etles Russes, Paris, 1981–1989. 34 M. Malia, The Soviet Tragedy: A History of Socialism in Russia, 1917–1991, New York, 1994, pp. 503–504. 35 A. Peretiatkowicz, Kryzys państwa współczesnego, “Przegląd Współczesny”, 1938 (64), p. 23. 36 This was recently argued by Walicki, Dziesięć lat później, pp. 121–122. 37 F. Bujak, Wieś a totalizm, “Wieś i Państwo” 1939, p. 89. 38 W. Komarnicki, Nowy ustrój Związku Sowietów, “Rocznik Prawniczy Wileński”, 1938 (10), p. 185. 39 Ibid, p. 186. 40 H. Marcuse, Walka z liberalizmem w totalitarnej koncepcji państwa [The struggle against liberalism in the totalitarian view of the state], in J. Łoziński (ed.), Szkoła frankfurcka, vol. 1, part 2, Warszawa, 1985, pp. 381–408. 41 F. Ryszka, Państwo stanu wyjątkowego, Państwo stanu wyjątkowego. Rzecz o systemie państwa i prawa w III Rzeszy, Wrocław, 1985, p. 23. 42 I. Berlin, Nacjonalizm: zlekceważona potęga [Nationalism: Past Neglect and Present Power], in idem, Dwie koncepcje wolności i inne eseje, selected by J. Jedlicki, Warszawa, 1991, pp. 193–231. 43 F. Meinecke, Weltbürgertum und Nationalstaat. Studien zur Genesis des deutschen Nationalstaates, München, 1908. (Many other editions followed.) 44 B. Baczko, Stalin, czyli jak sfabrykować charyzmę, in idem, Wyobrażenia społeczne. Szkice o nadziei i pamięci zbiorowej [B. Baczko, Les imaginaires sociaux. Mémoires et espoirs collectifs, Paris, 1984], translated into the Polish by M. Kowalska, Warszawa, 1994, pp. 173–192. Baczko’s observation is wellchosen, remembering that Stalin, unlike Hitler or Mussolini, had no qualities of a charismatic leader and was a typical party bureaucrat. 45 A. Hertz, Szkice o totalitaryzmie, selected by J. Garewicz, W. Lamentowicz, Warszawa, 1994.

24 Marek Kornat 46 F. Furet, Interpreting the French Revolution, Cambridge, 1981, p. 1. 47 G. Ferrero, Przemowy do głuchych, translated into the Polish by J. Kuryłowicz, Poznań [1920], p. 3. 48 P. Renouvin, Le XIX siècle: de 1871 à 1914. L’apogée de l’Europe [vol. VI Histoire des relations internationals], Paris, 1955. 49 H. Wereszycki, Niewygasła przeszłość. Refleksje i polemiki, selected by W. Felczak, Kraków, 1987, pp. 295–297.

3

Violence in the Russian Revolution and Civil War, 1914–20 A survey of recent historiography Steve A. Smith

Richard Bessel, a British historian of Germany, has suggested that violence has become a preoccupation of historians in inverse proportion to its presence in our lives.1 Historians, for the most part, are fortunate to live insulated from violence, yet they have become fascinated by the prevalence of violence in past societies, such violence serving as a powerful marker of their alterity. Mark Mazower has noted with regard to the historiography of the twentieth century that violence has moved centre stage, so that it has become axiomatic to see the last century as one of historically unprecedented bloodshed. Genocide, ethnic cleansing, the killing of untold millions of civilians through war and political repression now dominate the landscape of twentieth-century history.2 Historians offer different explanations for this violence, some pointing to nationalism and the rise of the nationstate: “Ethnic cleansing is a product of the most ‘advanced’ stage in the development of the modern state,” writes Norman Naimark.3 Others see violence as engendered by the growth of the bureaucratic state – the Holocaust being paradigmatic in this regard. Still others see extreme levels of violence as deriving from modern ideologies, such as Marxism and fascism or, more sweepingly, from utopian schemes for social improvement that originate in the Enlightenment.4 In this chapter we shall touch on some of these issues, but at the outset it is worth nothing that it is unlikely that any one macro-level explanation will satisfactorily account for the scale and multiplicity of forms of violence that characterized the twentieth-century or, in our case, the Civil War in Soviet Russia. The Russian Civil War was a period of extreme social strife, when economic, social and political structures collapsed alarmingly, giving way to levels of conflict that had not been seen since the early seventeenth century. The Civil War not only comprised a fierce battle between the Red Army and the White armies, and between the Red Army and the armies of the Allied interventionists, it also extended to conflict between Reds and the Komuch, i.e. the Socialist Revolutionaries who won the Constituent Assembly elections of November 1917 and who had the military backing of the Czech Legion, and conflict involving armies of non-Russian nationalists seeking various degrees of independence from the former empire. In addition to

26 Steve A. Smith conventional warfare, warlords (atamany) rampaged in Ukraine, Siberia and the Far East, seizing territory and resources and terrorizing populations; the anarchist army of Nestor Makhno acted largely independently in Ukraine; and there were Red partisans behind White lines in Siberia. Across almost the whole of European Russia there were localized and later mass uprisings by peasants resisting food requisitioning and conscription; and local communities took advantage of generalized lawlessness to settle historical scores. Finally, as law and order broke down, the crime rate soared and, in some regions, bandits preyed on local communities. At times this was a war of almost unimaginable barbarity: one in which peasants boiled alive “commissars”; in which rampaging soldiers slaughtered tens of thousands of Jews; in which Red and White terror ran amuck.5 All statistics for the loss of population and for military casualties in the years between 1918 and 1922 are highly approximate and much contested. If we take the territory of the Soviet Union as it was at the time of the 1926 census, the population had fallen from about 142 million in 1917 to 132 million in 1922, not including emigration. Of this roughly 10.5 million population drop, more than two million died of epidemic diseases (typhus, typhoid fever, smallpox, dysentery) between 1918 and 1921, and almost a further million in 1921–1922.6 Droughts and bad harvests in 1920 were the prelude to a catastrophic famine in 1921, in which some five million died in the Volga provinces, southern Ukraine, Kazakhstan and western Siberia, the Urals, the North Caucasus and Ukraine. Deaths due to combat were far smaller than those due to disease and starvation: some 800,000 Red Army soldiers died, and perhaps 225,000 White soldiers.7 It should not be forgotten that in eastern, north-east and south-east Europe the collapse of the Russian, Austro-Hungarian, Hohenzollern and Ottoman empires had left what Donald Bloxham has called “shatter zones” – large tracts of territory where the disappearance of frontiers created spaces without order or firm state authority.8 In some of these regions the level of turmoil was not much less than in Russia.9 The First World War had left millions dead and injured and populations were devastated economically and psychologically. Robert Gerwarth reckons that well over 4 million people died in Europe (not including Russia) as a result of armed conflict in the period between November 1918 and 1923 (and this excludes the millions of victims of “Spanish influenza” and those who starved to death as a result of the continuance of the Allied blockade).10 Class struggles to bring about social revolution coexisted with the struggles of new nation-states to carve out territory, both sometimes involving civil war. Moreover, the opportunistic application of Woodrow Wilson’s principle of national self-determination by the Allies at Versailles stoked popular anger and military and para-military mobilization in the defeated powers, which saw territory and kin excised from their polities, egregiously so in the cases of Hungary and Bulgaria.11 The levels of unparalleled violence, in Russia especially but also in eastern Europe, have stimulated much new historiography and in the rest of the

Violence in the Russian Revolution 27 chapter I wish to review some recent influential perspectives on this violence and point to interesting new topics of research.

Theoretical approaches to violence in the Russian Civil War As the interest of historians in violence has grown, so has the level of conceptual sophistication. During the Cold War, it was axiomatic for those who subscribed to a totalitarian view of the Soviet regime that the Bolsheviks consolidated their power primarily through violence, or through a combination of violence, ideology and party organization, since they lacked any legitimacy. Whilst there is plenty of evidence that may be mobilized to support such a view, the pervasiveness of violence in the Civil War – the fact that it was characteristic of all sides in the conflict (although not, of course, necessarily to the same degree) – has forced historians to widen their analytical lens. Some of the most interesting work has been done by German historians, influenced by the theoretical work of philosophers and sociologists who have explored the ways in which the experience of bodily harm is made meaningful.12 Historians working on the Civil War have widened the conceptualization of violence beyond a purely instrumental understanding, to think about how violence served as a mechanism that creates, dramatizes and challenges hierarchies of power. Their work differentiates types of violence, attends to its contexts, explores its meanings and its social effects.13 That said, the pioneer in this field, Jörg Baberowski, has in his most recent work reverted to a more conventional understanding, arguing that violence occurs because people use it to achieve their goals when an opportunity arises; and once violence is in play, others have no choice but to succumb to it or use it to survive.14 Yet his own work shows that violence in the Russian Civil War performed many functions other than simply crushing enemies and expanding power. It could serve to form bonds of association and to create identities, to send powerful messages to intimidate and demoralize enemies.15 One of the developments in late-Soviet historiography, which had no parallel among western social historians of the Russian Revolution, who approached the mass movements that played such a key role in the eight months between the February and October Revolutions in terms of rational calculation and conscious norms, was an interest in the social psychology of the masses. Building on this tradition, Vladimir Prokhorovich Buldakov has focused on the “psycho-mental” processes that powered the descent into the chaos of the Civil War. He construes the period from 1914 to 1921 as a second smuta, a “time of troubles,” brought on by the fact that the First World War desacralized royal power at the same time as it sacralized violence. With the February Revolution, ethical restraint was cast aside and aggressive lumpen elements were given their head.16 Buldakov argues that at all levels of society there was a resurgence of an atavistic communalism (obshchinnost’) that worked in favour of the Bolsheviks, who were successful

28 Steve A. Smith not because they appeared to champion the interests of the people but because they projected an image that accorded with the desires for vengeance and for order among the masses. It is heady stuff, but his generalizations about mass psychology are sweeping, and his image of the populace as a rabble that craves political mastery will not persuade everyone. A very different approach to thinking about violence has been taken by a group of scholars in the USA, sometimes dubbed the “modernity school”. Drawing on the work of Michel Foucault on governmentality and biopolitics, they construe the Soviet regime as a variant of European modernity, drawing attention to elements such as planning, the welfare state, the valorization of science, forms of social surveillance, governmentality and the “disciplines of the self” – elements supposedly common to the Soviet regime and to dissimilar regimes in interwar Europe.17 They accept that the specificity of the Soviet regime lay in its use of violence as a technique of rule, but they locate its roots in practices of categorization, information gathering, policing, incarceration and deportation, designed to shape the “social body”, that were common to modernizing nineteenth-century European states.18 The First World War marked a watershed that led to a massive expansion and militarization of these practices. Peter Holquist’s impressive study of the revolution and Civil War in the Don region, for example, sees Bolshevik violence as arising not only from the drive to suppress political enemies but also from an aspiration to create a society purged of contaminating elements, notably during the brief episode of “decossackization.”19 His stress is on what he calls “excisionary” violence, i.e. on violence designed to remove specific groups perceived to be socially harmful or politically dangerous from the social body, although this seems more appropriate to the Stalin era than to a period when the Bolsheviks’ prime concern was to establish a monopoly of violence.

Violence and the First World War One of the most significant developments in historiography in the twentyfirst century has been the move to position the 1917 revolutions squarely in a narrative that commences with the outbreak of war in 1914 and ends with the establishment of the Soviet Union in 1922. Its most sophisticated exponent is once again Peter Holquist, whose idea of a “continuum of crisis” from 1914 to 1922 has been influential. In the second half of the nineteenth century, European states had more or less managed to assert a monopoly on violence, with national armies becoming the norm, and to establish through international conventions (not always respected) a distinction between combatants and non-combatants.20 The First World War saw that distinction severely eroded, as civilian populations were deliberately targeted through weapons such as blockade, as Jews and others were forced out of Galicia in 1915 by the Russian army21 and as internment of and information gathering on the civilian population were normalized.

Violence in the Russian Revolution 29 One influential explanation of the levels of social conflict in Europe from 1918–1923 was to see it as a consequence of the “brutalization” of men by the First World War. George Mosse argued that trench warfare normalized violence and left a deep-rooted militarist legacy that fuelled the dynamic of post-war conflict between left and right.22 Certainly the First World War inured men to sickening levels of violence, and the value of human life plummeted. Nevertheless, most soldiers, once removed from combat, settled back into civilian life without too much strain.23 Moreover, horrible violence was characteristic of civil wars in societies that had not been involved in the First World War, such as Spain and Finland. In the latter country, for example, some 10,000 suspected communists were executed during the brief civil war of January to May 1918, and another 13,500 died from exposure and starvation in prison camps.24 One may note, too, that some of the most flagrant forms of violence that flourished in the Russian Civil War had antecedents that stretched well back before 1917. The pogroms of 1919, for example, were the third such wave of anti-Jewish violence, the earlier waves being in 1881–1884 and 1905–1906.

New technologies of warfare It is often argued that the scale of violence in the First World War was a consequence of new technologies of killing, including improved machine guns, heavy artillery, tanks, aircraft bombing and poison gas. These certainly made war more horrible and complex than ever before, and military and civilian leaders were slow to adapt their strategies and tactics to these new technologies. Nevertheless during the Civil War combat was in some respects more traditional than that on the Eastern Front during the First World War. Most of the fighting was a war of manoeuvre, entailing much advance and retreat along railways, and reliance on the mobility provided by cavalry. And much killing relied on close combat, using the rifles and sabres, although armoured trains, bearing two to four artillery pieces and four to sixteen machines guns, were common. Initially, the Reds had an advantage in this area, although by mid-1919 the Whites had bridged the gap, thanks to the Allies. The Allies also supplied tanks to Denikin’s Armed Forces of Southern Russia, a weapon that the Reds lacked, but tank warfare remained limited. Both sides engaged in aerial bombardment – for example, during the battle for Kazan’ in August and September 1918 – but generally it was limited. Both sides used poison gas to a small extent (notoriously, but rather ineptly, by the Red Army when suppressing Antonov’s rebellion in Tambov in summer 1921).25 There was considerable use of internment camps, but mass deportations, such as had occurred in 1915, were rare. There was, therefore, some continuity of military practice with the First World War, especially in the use of machine guns, but the widespread use of cavalry and rifles and sabres suggest that this was warfare that in many respects looked backwards rather than forwards.26 Incidentally, although

30 Steve A. Smith little research has been done on this, it appears that the disintegration of the army in 1917–1918 meant that weaponry – mainly rifles – were widely available among the civilian population.

Ideology as the begetter of violence In 1994, Martin Malia wrote an influential book in which he argued that the Soviet Union was an “ideocracy”, whose development was driven by a millenarian vision of a total transformation of man and society. He contended that tyranny was the inevitable outcome of the Bolshevik determination to abolish private property, profit and the market, since it necessarily entailed the suppression of civil society and individual autonomy.27 He suggested that the origins of Bolshevik violence lay in Marx’s notion that violence is the “midwife” of any new society, necessary to destroy the institutionalized violence of the old social order and bring into existence a higher stage of human development. The Bolsheviks were certainly familiar with this way of thinking, although more likely to justify violence by more pragmatic arguments, such as that they were engaged in a life-and-death struggle in which their enemies would give them no quarter (they had not forgotten the Paris Commune). They claimed – sincerely or otherwise – that terror had not been part of their initial project, that it had been forced on them by the machinations of those opposed to the socialist revolution; at the same time, they denounced the hypocrisy of the Allies, who had presided over the slaughter of millions of soldiers during the First World War. Some suggest that the Bolsheviks “sacralized” violence, yet although they justified it ideologically, there was no glorification of violence per se as there was in fascism.28 That said, one must take seriously the argument of Stéphane Courtois and others, who insist that the Bolsheviks were committed to what he calls a “genocide of class” that adumbrated the racial genocide of the Nazis.29 This is not entirely without justification. Martin Latsis, second-in-command of the Cheka, boasted: “we do not conduct war against individuals but exterminate the bourgeoisie as a class,” a view for which he was quietly censured by Lenin.30 Yet the discourse of Bolshevism was saturated with the idea of class enemies – internal and external – who would fight to the death to crush the proletarian revolution. And Lenin himself was not averse to using terms such as istreblenie, or “annihilation”. When Czech forces seized Kazan on 7 August 1918 and executed scores of Soviet sympathizers, Lenin wrote to Trotsky: “In my opinion it is wrong to spare the city and delay things further, because merciless annihilation is essential.”31 On 24 January 1919, the Orgbiuro of the Central Committee ordered “merciless mass terror against wealthy Cossacks, exterminating all of them; carry out merciless mass terror against any and all Cossacks taking part in any way, directly or indirectly, in the struggle against Soviet power”, an order that led to mass executions and attempts to deport the Don Cossack population.

Violence in the Russian Revolution 31 This onslaught triggered an uprising that led to the expulsion of the Red Army, and the order was rescinded relatively soon.32 Some would see such rhetoric as grimly reflective of a totalitarian conception of society as, in the words of Zygmunt Bauman, “an object of designing, cultivating and weedpoisoning.”33 Whether even the dismal episode of “decossackization” is sufficient to justify the idea of “genocide”, however, is debatable (and the numbers who perished in “decossackization” are hugely contentious: ranging from a few thousand to incredible claims of hundreds of thousands). The violence of the Whites in the Civil War sprang much less from political ideology than that of the Reds, which is not to say that they had no ideology. White leaders, such as Denikin or Kolchak, were first and foremost nationalists who aspired to re-establish “Russia One and Indivisible”. This meant suppressing “anarchy” and restoring a strong state, along with traditional military and religious values. What captivated the Whites emotionally was a passionate detestation of Bolshevism, which they saw as a “German-Jewish” conspiracy inflicted on the Russian people. Naturally, they detested class conflict, fearing the revolutionary masses (that “wild beast”, as the journalist and Kadet politician Ariadna Tyrkova-Williams called them). Such passionate hatred, though lacking clear political articulation – some Whites were monarchist, others republican – was quite sufficient to generate extreme violence. In Siberia, the Supreme Ruler Kolchak categorized all resisters as “enemies of the people”. As many as 2,500 such “enemies” were executed when the new government violently overthrew the Komuch regime in Omsk. Kolchak’s “all-Russian” state formally sanctioned summary executions of those suspected of Bolshevism and of “traitors” hoarding goods, and condoned mass floggings.34

Red and White terror In the post-Communist era there has been a considerable body of literature by Russian historians on the Cheka, much of it taking the form of regional studies. Brought into existence in December 1917 to combat counter-revolution and speculation, the Cheka came into its own with the declaration of the Red Terror, following the attempt on Lenin’s life on 30 August 1918 (although some argue that terror was part of the Bolshevik programme from the start). There is considerable controversy regarding the numbers who perished at the hands of the Cheka over the course of the civil war, with many thinking that numbers were at their highest in 1918. A careful estimate is that between October 1917 and February 1922, 280,000 were executed either by the Cheka or by the Internal Security Troops, about half of this number dying in the course of operations to suppress peasant uprisings.35 The Red Terror was most intense in the central and north-western provinces, with the Volga and the western provinces (centred on Smolensk) also seriously affected.36 In theory, the Cheka operated according to bureaucratic procedure, being required to organize trials of those arrested before they

32 Steve A. Smith were shot. Yet there were endemic abuses, and from the first, there were complaints from local soviets who demanded that county (uezd) and provincial chekas become departments of soviets at the same level.37 Each attempt to curb the Cheka – beginning with VI Congress of Soviets’ resolution of 6–8 November 1918 “On observing legality” and ending with the third commission of investigation in January 1921 – succeeded in limiting the powers of the Cheka only temporarily, these being quickly restored, often with the blessing of Lenin himself. When Russian historians began to research White terror after 1991,38 they faced opposition from colleagues who insisted that “White terror” was no more than a Soviet myth. Yuri Felshtinsky pointed out that on the territories they controlled, the Whites did not organize anything analogous to the Cheka, the revolutionary tribunals or the revolutionary military councils (revvoyensovety). This is true, but the Whites did have surveillance and counter-intelligence agencies.39 More broadly, Felshtinsky contends that White leaders never advocated shootings, terror or the taking of hostages because they were fighting against the Bolsheviks, not against the people, and he repeats an oft-cited statement to the effect that, insofar as it existed, White terror was a response to Red Terror. This is hardly credible. In early 1918, Lavr Kornilov, commanding the Volunteer Army in the Don, urged its troops to “Take no captives. The greater the terror, the greater will be our victory.”40 It is true that White terror was different in nature from Red terror, yet there is absolutely no doubt of its existence. Rather than being bureaucratic in nature, it frequently occurred when officers allowed their men to go on the rampage. In the north-west the troops of General Nikolai Yudenich hanged dozens of Communists in Pskov and razed 135 villages to the ground in 1919.41 In 1919, 100,000 Jews were killed in Ukraine, largely though by no means exclusively by the nationalist forces of Petlura: it was Denikin’s Cossacks who buried Jews up to their necks and then rode over them on horseback.42 Among the most wanton perpetrators of terror were the “atamans” of the Far East, the “bloody baron”, Roman Ungern von Sternberg, who unleashed a reign of terror across the Amur and Ussuri regions, and Grigory Semenov, who boasted of personally supervising the torture of 6,500 people.

Bolsheviks and the peasantry Nicolas Werth argues that the largest episode of violence in the Civil War was the war that the Bolsheviks waged against the peasantry. He sees this as primarily ideological in nature, arising from the deep-seated hostility of the Bolsheviks to a petty-bourgeois force they saw as hostile to socialism. On 14 May 1918, lacking a rural base, they brought class struggle into the village, seeking to organize poor peasants into kombedy against the kulaks, in the hope that this would provide them with a much-needed rural base.43 Certainly, there was deep ideological mistrust of the peasantry, but the roots

Violence in the Russian Revolution 33 of the conflict with the rural population lay far more in the collapse of the entire economy and, particularly, in the plummeting supplies of food to the cities and consumer provinces.44 In the cities life was reduced to an unremitting search for food, fuel, shelter and warm clothes, and to avoiding disease and crime. Faced with starvation in the major cities and lacking the means to induce peasants to part with their grain voluntarily, the Bolsheviks intensified the coercive policy of grain requisitioning that was already in place. Food detachments, consisting of some 76,000 workers, of whom around one-third were Bolsheviks or sympathizers, barged into the villages. Needless to say, peasants responded by hiding grain or by violent resistance: over the course of 1918, 7,309 members of food detachments were killed.45 Recent work by Russian historians has uncovered the wide extent and forms of peasant resistance. In 1919 there were hundreds of uprisings, mostly small in scale, prompted by the seizure of grain, conscription, labour or cartage obligations or by abuses on the part of soviet officials. Only after the threat of a White restoration had been removed, however, did massive peasant movements come into being that genuinely threatened the regime.46 For about a year from autumn 1920 there were over fifty large-scale peasant uprisings in regions as far-flung as Ukraine and Belarus, the North Caucasus and Karelia. What worried the Bolshevik government was that the different regions saw themselves as united in a common cause to overthrow the dictatorship, yet they were able to take advantage of the physical separateness of the rebellions to put down the movements with utmost ruthlessness.47

Popular violence It is hardly surprising that in situation of extreme scarcity in which people were struggling to survive – increasingly without success – ordinary people should have contributed their fair share to the violence that beset society. Crime rates soared, as deserters and refugees took advantage of the breakdown of order, and professional gangs and bandits used the rhetoric of class war against the “burzhui” to enrich themselves. In the press there were daily reports of hideous mob lynchings (samosudy) by the urban poor, directed against thieves and, especially, at merchants suspected of hoarding. As one newspaper put it: “Mob justice occurs when there is no justice, when the people has lost confidence in government and the law.”48 These acts of violence were often spectacularly barbaric, with a strong antisemitic tinge. In a huge riot at Kazanskaya Stanitsa in Kuban in early 1918, forty presumed speculators were killed, four of their bodies being hacked to pieces.49 Much of this popular violence was rooted in customary patterns of justice, practices of samosud (“self-judgement”) being historically meted out by peasant communities to horse thieves and others who transgressed communal norms. Tsuyoshi Hasegawa writes: “Violence became a regular and constitutive feature of everyday life … Eventually the Bolsheviks used unprecedented coercion to suppress crime, but by characterizing ordinary

34 Steve A. Smith crime as counter-revolutionary … they imposed their own hegemonic power over the citizenry”.50 In addition, much popular violence derived from the disintegration of settled patterns of quotidian authority, creating a situation in which pre-existing social tensions, community rivalries and the struggle for resources could erupt into intra- and inter-village conflicts. Villages that had long felt themselves cheated by neighbouring villages would use the opportunity of the breakdown in law and order to wreak revenge.51

Violence and state-building In the course of 1917, state authority had fragmented, but over the course of the Civil War the capacity of the rival administrations to mobilize resources, to coerce populations and to command armies was highly variable across space and over time. In a situation where the belligerent parties exercised different levels of (weak) control, Erik Landis argues that violence served as a positive means of state-building.52 He draws on Stathis Kalyvas’ rationalchoice model of insurgent violence, which posits that violence used selectively can shape the behaviour of populations by attaching a cost to particular actions. He argues that violence used rationally in areas where those seeking a monopoly of power have secure but incomplete control will deter potential defectors and assist in consolidating complete control.53 Landis uses these insights to propose that the widespread use of armed coercion and violence against civilians by the Bolsheviks was vital to suppressing localism and facilitating short-term collaboration in order to eliminate armed rivals and resolve many of the centre–periphery conflicts that had found institutional expression after 1917. He concludes that state-building was an “externality” of the endemic violence of the Civil War.

Conclusion The Civil War was, alas, only one of the episodes in the history of the twentieth century in which societies sank into mass internecine violence and barbarism. This chapter has sketched some of the ways in which recent scholars have shown how violence manifested itself and sought to deepen our understanding of its meanings and dynamics. It is by no means a comprehensive overview: scholars are in the process of researching ethnic violence during the Civil War, not least in the context of how would-be nations dealt with their own minorities (for example in the Caucasus); some are researching gender and violence (exploring the construction of masculinity through violence, or the use of rape as a weapon of war); still others are looking at symbolic violence, as it was manifest in political iconoclasm or in sacrilegious actions against the Orthodox Church. Nevertheless, the survey is sufficient to suggest the diversity of approaches that typify current scholarship: from anthropological approaches to rational-choice theory, from macro-level explanations to micro-level analysis.

Violence in the Russian Revolution 35 My own view is that recent work has tended to overplay the extent to which violence emanated from ideology; the view that violence emanated directly from political intention and clearly defined ideological goals is far too reductive. I have deliberately avoided discussing parallels between Civil War violence and that of the Great Terror of 1937–1938. But, in general, those who emphasize the primacy of ideology see seamless continuity between these two periods. The willingness of the Bolsheviks to justify violence as an instrument of revolution is seen as the original sin that inevitably propelled Leninism into Stalinism. The historian Nicolas Werth upholds this continuity thesis, but sees it not so much as driven by ideology as by the willingness of the Bolsheviks to use violence against the peasantry. Others, more specifically, see the “excisionary violence” at work in decossackization as prefiguring the violence against “social aliens” under Stalin. Without doubt, there were ways in which the violence of the civil war adumbrated that of the Great Terror, yet the contexts in which violence was unleashed were radically different. As Kalyvas reminds us, there is something very particular to the dynamics of civil war, in which sovereignty breaks down and the nature of the state is contested (and one might add, in relation to the Russian case, there is direct intervention by foreign powers). This is very different from the situation in 1937–1938 in which a powerful sovereign state – in the person of its untrammelled dictator – choses to unleash terror against its people out of fear and insecurity. 54 Ideology was a crucial vector of violence, especially for the Bolsheviks, but we should be cautious in identifying it as the primary cause of Civil War violence. As we have seen, the latter had deep structural causes in generalized scarcity and the breakdown of state authority, and from the point of view of agents, it had many functions and meanings, sometimes calculated, sometimes pragmatic or entirely opportunistic. Violence could be a means of threatening or suppressing enemies in warfare, or a predatory means of grabbing resources or territory. It could be a way in which combat groups cemented bonds and forged identities and communicated messages of solidarity or of intimidation to others. It could be a desperate reaction by people whose subsistence was under severe threat or by a local community to external threat. Carl von Clausewitz famously opined that there are three factors at work in all warfare, factors often summarized as passion, chance and reason: “War”, he wrote, is composed of primordial violence, hatred, and enmity, which are to be regarded as a blind natural force; of the play of chance and probability within which the creative spirit is free to roam; and of its element of subordination, as an instrument of policy, which makes it subject to reason …55 This seems to sum up the dynamics of violence in the Russian Civil War very nicely.

36 Steve A. Smith

Notes 1 R. Bessel, Violence: A Modern Obsession, London, 2015. 2 M. Mazower, Violence and the State in the Twentieth Century, “American Historical Review”, 2002 (4), p. 1158. Typically, Eric Hobsbawm wrote: “More human beings had been killed or allowed to die by human decision than ever before in human history.” E. J. Hobsbawm, The Age of Extremes: The Short Twentieth Century, London, 1994, p. 12. 3 N. M. Naimark, Fires of Hatred: Ethnic Cleansing in Twentieth-Century Europe, Cambridge, MA, 2001, p. 8. 4 K. R. Popper, Utopia and Violence, “World Affairs”, 1986 (1), pp. 3–9. 5 S. A. Smith, Russia in Revolution: An Empire in Crisis, 1890–1928, Oxford, 2017, ch.4. 6 Ю.А. Поляков (отв. ред.). Население России в XX веке. В 3-х т. Том 1. 1900–1939, Москва, 2000, pp. 102–103. 7 These are the figures in J. D. Smele, The ‘Russian’ Civil Wars, 1916–1926: Ten Years that Shook the World, London, 2016. However, they are considerably lower than some others. Poliakov reckons that the total number of killed on all sides – i.e. including partisan forces, nationalist armies and the victims of warlord bands – was close to 2.5 million. He puts total Red Army and partisan losses at 1,150,000 to 1,250,000. Ю. А. Поляков, Население России, p. 97. 8 D. Bloxham, The Final Solution: A Genocide, Oxford, 2009, p. 81. 9 P. Wróbel, The Seeds of Violence: The Brutalization of an East European Region, 1917–1921, “Journal of Modern European History”, 2003 (1), p. 125–49; V. G. Liulevicius, War Land on the Eastern Front: Culture, National Identity and German Occupation in World War One, Cambridge, 2000. 10 R. Gerwarth, The Vanquished: Why the First World War Failed to End, 1917–1923, London, 2017, p. 7. 11 R. Gerwarth and J. Horne, Bolshevism as Fantasy: Fear of Revolution and CounterRevolutionary Violence, 1917–1923, in War in Peace, R. Gerwarth and J. Horne (eds.), War in Peace. Paramilitary Violence in Europe after the Great War, Oxford, 2012, pp. 40–51. 12 T. von Trotha (ed.), Soziologie der Gewalt (Sonderheft 37, Kölner Zeitschrift für Soziologie und Sozialpsychologie), ed. T. von Trotha, Wiesbaden, 1997; W. Sofsky. Traktat über die Gewalt, Frankfurt/M., 1996. 13 F. Schnell, Räume des Schreckens. Gewalt und Gruppenmilitanz in der Ukraine, 1905–1933, Hamburg, 2012; D. Beyrau, Der Erste Weltkrieg als Bewährungsprobe. Bolschewistische Lernprozesse aud dem ‘imperialistischen’ Krieg, “Journal for Modern European History”, 2003 (3), pp. 96–123; S. Plaggenborg, Gewalt und Militanz in Sowjetrußland 1917–1930, “Jahrbucher fūr Geschichte Osteuropas”, 1996 (44), pp. 409–430. 14 J. Baberowski, Verbrannte Erde. Stalins Herrschaft der Gewalt, München, 2012, p. 476. 15 J. Baberowski, Der rote Terror: die Geschichte des Stalinismus, München, 2003. 16 В. П. Булдаков, Красная смута. Природа и последствия революционного насилия, Москва, 1997. 17 D. L. Hoffmann and Yanni Kotsonis, (eds.), Russian Modernity: Politics, Knowledge, Practices, Basingstoke, 2000; D. L. Hoffmann, Cultivating the Masses: Modern State Practices and Soviet Socialism, 1914–1939, Ithaca, 2011. 18 P. Holquist, Violent Russia, Deadly Marxism? Russia in the Epoch of Violence, 1905–1921, “Kritika”, 2003 (3), pp. 627–52. 19 P. Holquist, Making War, Forging Revolution: Russia’s Continuum of Crisis, 1914–1921, Cambridge, MA, 2002, ch. 6; J. Sanborn, Drafting the Russian

Violence in the Russian Revolution 37

20 21 22 23

24 25

26 27 28

Nation: Military Conscription, Total War and Mass Politics, 1905–1925, Dekalb IL, 2003. E. Hobsbawm, Barbarism: A User’s Guide, “New Left Review”, 1994 (206), pp. 44–54. P. Gatrell, A Whole Empire Walking: Refugees in Russia during World War One, Bloomington, IN, 1999, p. 3. G. Mosse, Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars, Oxford, 1990. A. Prost, Les Limites de la brutalisation. Tuer sur le front occidental 1914–1918, “Vingtième siècle,” 2004 (81), pp. 5–20; D. Beyrau, Brutalization Revisited: The Case of Russia, “Journal of Contemporary History”, 2015 (1), pp. 15–37; R. Bessel, Germany after the First World War, Oxford, 1993; B. Ziemann, War Experiences in Rural Germany, 1914–1923, Oxford, 2007. R. Alapuro, State and Revolution in Finland, Berkeley, CA, 1988, p. 177. Poison gas was not used extensively but the issue of whether it was used only by the Reds, and on what scale, has generated much polemic. For a relatively dispassionate account, which shows that Whites as well as Reds used chemical weapons (assisted by British interventionists in the former case), see Н. Заяц, К вопросу об использовании химического оружия в Гражданской войне в России, http://scepsis.net/library/id_3821.html. Twenty brief documentary extracts that support use by both sides can be found at https://colonelcassad.livejournal.com/ 1186910.html. In respect of the Tambov uprising, Sennikov argues that the use of chemical weapons was “constant”. He cites the chilling order of Mikhail Tukhachevskii of 12 June 1921: “The woods where the bandits are hiding out must be cleansed with poison gas, taking care that the cloud of suffocating gas is spreads fully over the entire wood, destroying all who are hiding there”. Б. В. Сенников, Тамбовское восстание 1918-1921 гг. и раскрестьянивание России 1929–1933 гг, Москва, 2004, p. 88, p. 83. For a scholarly article that argues that the use of the chemical weapons in the Tambov uprising was “very modest” see https://damadiluma.livejournal.com/858956.html. J. D. Smele, Historical Dictionary of the “Russian” Civil Wars, 1916–1926, 2 vols., Lanham, MD, 2015, pp. 138–141, 1142–1143, 92. I would like to thank Dr Erik Landis of Oxford Brookes University for advice on this matter. M. E. Malia, The Soviet Tragedy: History of Socialism in Russia, 1917–1991, New York, 1994. J. Ryan, The Sacralization of Violence: Bolshevik Justifications for Violence and Terror during the Civil War, “Slavic Review”, 2015 (4), pp. 808–831. Compare Lenin’s speech in memory of Y. M. Sverdlov, 18 March 1919: There is no doubt that … revolutionary violence was a necessary and legitimate weapon of the revolution only at definite stages of its development, only under definite and special conditions, and that a far more profound and permanent feature of this revolution and condition of its victory was, and remains, the organisation of the proletarian masses.

V. I. Lenin, Collected Works, 4th Edition, vol. 29, Moscow, 1972, pp. 89–94. For Lenin’s thinking on terror in general, see J. Ryan, Lenin’s Terror: The Ideological Origins of Early Soviet State Violence, London, 2012. 29 S. Courtois, Introduction: The Crimes of Communism, in S. Courtois et al. (eds), The Black Book of Communism: Crimes, Terror, Repression, Cambridge, MA, 1999, p. 16. 30 V. I. Lenin, A Little Picture in Illustration of Big Problems, Collected Works, 4th ed., vol. 28, Moscow, 1972, at www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/works/1919/jan/ x02.htm.

38 Steve A. Smith 31 Cited in E. Mawdsley, The Russian Civil War, London, 1987, p. 67. 32 P. Holquist, Conduct Merciless Mass Terror: Decossackization on the Don, 1919, “Cahiers du monde russe”, 1997 (1–2), p. 135. 33 Z. Bauman, Modernity and the Holocaust, Cambridge, 1989, p. 13. 34 J. Smele, Civil War in Siberia, Cambridge, 1996, p. 169. Г. А. Бордюгов, А. И. Ушаков, В. Ю. Чураков, Белое дело: идеология, основы, режимы власти, Москва, 1998. 35 G. Leggett, The Cheka: Lenin’s Political Police: The All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combatting Counter-Revolution and Sabotage, 1917–1922, Oxford, 1981, p. 467. Nicolas Werth, although emphasizing the scale of the Red Terror, offers numbers that would not be as high as Leggett’s total. N. Werth, “The State against its People: Violence, Repression, and Terror in the Soviet Union”, in The Black Book of Communism, 33–268 (p. 79). There are some well-researched local studies by Russian scholars: М. Н. Петров, ВЧК-ОГПУ: Первое десятилетие (На материалах Северо-Запада России), Новгород, 1995; А. В. Рыжников, Чрезвычайные комиссии Верхней Волги, 1918–1922, Москва, 2013; В.Н. Уйманов, Ликвидация и реабилитация: Политические репресии в Западно-Сибире в системе большевистской власти (конец 1919-1941гг.), Томск, 2012; Л. Новикова, Провинциальная “Контрреволюция”: Белое движение и гражданская война на русском Севере, 1917–1920, Москва, 2011. See also Russia’s Home Front in War and Revolution, 1914–22: Russia’s Revolution in Regional Perspective, eds. S. Badcock, L. G. Novikova and A. B. Retish, Bloomington, IN, 2015. 36 И. С. Ратьковский, Красный террор и деятельность ВЧК в 1918 году, СПб, 2006, p. 5. 37 M. Melancon, Revolutionary Culture in the Early Soviet Republic: Communist Executive Committees versus the Cheka. Fall 1918, “Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas”, 2009 (57), pp. 1–22. 38 А. Литвин, Красный и белый террор в России, 1918-22гг., Казань, 1995. 39 Ю. Фельштинский, Красный террор в годы гражданской войны: по материалам особой следственной комиссии по расследоганию злодеяании большевиков, Лондон, 1992; Viktor G. Bortnevski, White Administration and White Terror (The Denikin Period), “Russian Review”, 1993 (3), p. 366. 40 В. П. Федюк, Белые: Анти-большевистское движение на Юге России, 1917– 1918гг., Москва, 1996, p. 35. 41 М. Н. Петров, ВЧК-ОГПУ…, p. 64. 42 О.В. Будницский, Российские евреи между красными и белыми (1917–1920), Москва, 2006, pp. 275–277. 43 N. Werth, A State against its People, in The Black Book of Communism, ch. 3–4. 44 W. G. Rosenberg, Paramilitary Violence in Russia’s Civil Wars, 1918–1920 in Horne and Gerwarth, War in Peace, ch. 2. 45 И. С. Ратьковский, Красный террор…, p. 116. 46 E. Landis, Bandits and Partisans: The Antonov Movement in the Russian Civil War, Pittsburgh, 2008. 47 В. В. Москвин, Восстание крестьян в Западной Сибири в 1921 году, “Вопросы Истории,” 1998 (6), pp. 46–64; В. И. Шишкин, Западно-Сибирский мятёж 1921 года: достижения и искажения российской историографий, “Acta Slavica Iaponica,” 2000 (17), pp. 100–129. 48 S. A. Smith, Popular Culture and Market Development in Late-Imperial Russia, in Reinterpreting Russian History (eds.) Geoffrey Hosking and Robert Service, London, 1999, pp. 142–155. 49 Красная Газета, 15 марта 1918, p. 2. 50 T. Hasegawa, Crime and Punishment in the Russian Revolution, Harvard, 2017, p. 276.

Violence in the Russian Revolution 39 51 L. G. Novikova, Northerners into Whites: Popular Participation in the CounterRevolution in Arkhangel’sk Province, Summer-Autumn 1918, “Europe-Asia Studies”, 2008 (2), pp. 277–293; L. G. Novikova, Russia’s Red Revolutionary and White Terror, 1917–1921: A Provincial Perspective, “Europe-Asia Studies”, 2013 (9), pp. 1755–1770. 52 E. Landis, Bolshevism Enforced, 1917–1921 in Simon Dixon (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Modern Russian History. Oxford Handbooks Online, 2014. 53 S. Kalyvas, The Logic of Violence in Civil War, Cambridge, 2006. 54 For a trenchant critique of the continuity thesis, see Ronald G. Suny, Russian Terror/ism and Revisionist Historiography, “Australian Journal of Politics and History”, 2007 (1), pp. 5–19. 55 C. von Clausewitz, Unfinished note, presumably written in 1830, in C. von Clausewitz, On War, Princeton, 1989, p. 79 (emphasis added by author).

4

From utopia to a lawless state Russian Marxism and Russian Revolutions as a totalitarian project Adam Bosiacki

An idiosyncrasy shared by as many as three Russian Revolutions (1905– 1906 and, twice, in 1917) was their radical egalitarianism. In all of these revolutions, just as with the earlier one in England,1 explicitly utopian slogans – to which the more mature among politically active circles in society paid no more than lip service – were raised to the status of systemic arrangements and became the permanent feature of a new standard setup of public institutions, previously unknown to humankind.2 They were also transposed (usually by force) into other countries’ legal and political systems. This “utopia in power”, as classic researchers described it (choosing the most favourable line of interpretation),3 very soon turned into a totalitarian state, though. Its architects, one might expect, should have known better and realised – even prior to taking over power – that a state run in that way would morph into an arch-tyranny. Thus, in system-of-government terms, the legacy of the Russian Revolutions is thoroughly totalitarian, unlike the outcome of the English and French revolutions – even though in the latter case similarly radical events did take place.4 The system that arose from the Russian Revolutions turned into the opposite of the slogans chanted during the Bolshevik coup in 1917 (even if, in many aspects, the negative consequences could have been predicted prior to the revolt). The radicalism and egalitarianism of the Russian Revolutions went hand in hand with their anti-statist slant, reflecting the distrust in the state and its ruler that has been traditionally held in modern times, and which harkens back to the French Enlightenment’s classic doctrine of anti-absolutism. In Russia, unlike in France, this sentiment sometimes went as far as to negate the state or argue for its forceful destruction – something that only a handful of thinkers on the Seine actually advocated (e.g., Gracchus Babeuf). Anarchism in Russia thus had a stronger following and was more radical than in France. Another concept, present in Russia from the 1870s and interwoven with anarchism, was land socialisation – a utopian peasant idea of allocating land to those who wished to till it. Such ideas were espoused in what Soviet historiography refers to as the first Russian Revolution (1905–1906), with its as-yet sporadic institution of sovets (councils), comprising representatives of

From utopia to a lawless state 41 so-called non-propertied classes and run along the simplest rules of direct democracy. Similar institutions were sometimes formed during the French Revolution, but in that case they simply took over the powers of local popular assemblies, and they mostly consisted of representatives of the so-called bourgeoisie, rather than – as was the case in Russia – wealthy peasants and, sometimes, also workers (whose numbers in the Russian Empire are known to have been fairly small). In contrast to the 1905–1906 event, the toppling of the tsar by the February 1917 revolution was followed by the establishment of the Petrograd Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies, operating as an organ of central authority alongside the parliament (State Duma) and the Provisional Government.5 Citing the anti-absolutist objective, it took over control of the military but in the next six months – as is known – the control was extended to a whole host of other walks of life, leading to a de iure assumption of authority by the Petrograd Soviet and its equivalents in the other regions where Bolsheviks were in the majority, at least from the autumn of 1917. The Petrograd Soviet nominally came under the influence of Marxism, even though this ideological current was hardly influential in pre-1917 Russia. Prior to the Bolshevik takeover, Russian Marxism – going under the name of social-democracy that was already common in the West – was very much in a nascent state. Its founder, Georgy Valentinovich Plekhanov (1856–1918), never a supporter of Lenin, was described by the latter as a Menshevik (which he was for a brief time only). Plekhanov initially cherished the traditions of narodnichestvo (populism) and – even after parting with the so-called Legal Marxism, which was officially tolerated in pre-revolutionary Russia – he, just as many other fellow Social Democrats, was not averse to the populist ideas promoted by supporters of the Narodnaya Volya party. But unlike the Narodniks he was never a terrorist. As the leader of a minor movement and follower of similar ideas, Lenin for a long time did not get any serious attention on the Russian political scene.6 He was viewed as an innocuous populist, just like many Russian social and popular democrats, who might have sometimes written about terror or liquidation of the bourgeoisie but who in practice eschewed such methods (except for pilfering savings, societies and sometimes banks in the Caucasus). But it was only Lenin who created his political party and who, against all odds, led it to victory. As Richard Pipes wrote, the regime which he established in October 1917 institutionalised, as it were, his personality. The Bolshevik Party was Lenin’s creation: as its founder he conceived it in his own image and, overcoming all opposition from within and without, kept it on the course he had chartered. (…) Communist Russia, therefore, has been from the beginning to an unusual extent a reflection of the mind and psyche of one man: his biography and its history are uniquely fused.7

42 Adam Bosiacki Lenin’s programme, or formally the programme of his branch of the party, was initially fairly democratic.8 Despite declarations about a party run along military lines, about imposing a dictatorship, or militarising labour relations, the early 1917 manifesto of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party (RSDLP) – which was endorsed by its Bolshevik faction – provided for tsarist autocracy to be replaced by popular self-rule (samoderzhaviye naroda), local government to be vested with extensive powers, and judges to be elected by local communities. The demands added after the February Revolution included immediately signing a peace treaty and launching an extensive agrarian reform (transferring land to peasants without compensation). The party’s programme offers many leads as to the concepts of “newmodel” (Lenin’s favourite term) governance, from which stemmed demands for changes in social relations. Workers’ rights attracted the utmost attention, and the demands in this field included an eight-hour working day (and a 42-hour week), curbs on the employment of minors and women in hazardous jobs and on night shifts, providing child-care facilities in places of women’s employment, etc.9 But other demands had to do with the system of governance, and the main focus was on the Constitution of the future state – a workers’ state, as it was stressed. Some of the proposed regulations were indeed included after the coup in the Bolshevik-drafted first Soviet Constitution that was enacted in July 1918. Other demands, such as, e.g., the broad powers for local government, actually proved to be on a collision course with the new system and were soon abandoned. The Social Democratic Party’s so-called minimum programme was defined as the immediate task the abolishment of tsarist autocracy and its replacement with a democratic republic, whose Constitution would lay down the following: 1.

2.

3.

4. 5. 6.

Popular self-rule [samoderzhaviye naroda], whereby the entire state power is vested with a single-chamber legislative assembly, comprising representatives of the people. Universal, equal and direct voting rights, both in elections to the legislative assembly and all bodies of local government [samoupravleniye], for all citizens, male and female, of more than 20 years of age; voting in election by secret ballot; each voter’s right to be elected to all representative institutions; two-year terms of parliament; compensation for people’s representatives. Extensive powers for local government [shirokoye mestnoye samoupravleniye]; regional government for those areas [mestnosti] which stand out in terms of living conditions and population make-up. Personal inviolatility and privacy of homes. Unfettered freedom of conscience, expression, print, assembly, strike action [stachki]10 and associations [soyuzy]. Freedom of travel and occupation.

From utopia to a lawless state 43 7. 8.

9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

Abolishment of estates [sosloviya] and full equality for all citizens, irrespective of their sex, religion or nationality. The people’s right to receive education in mother tongue, to be guaranteed by the provision of necessary schools, funded by central and local government; each citizen’s right to speak at assemblies in their native language; making the native language equal with the official language of the state in all localities [vo vsekh mestnostiyakh] and at social and state institutions. Right to self-determination for all nationalities in the state. Each person’s right to sue any official in a court of law in ordinary proceedings. Election of judges by the people [vybornost sudey narodom]. Replacing the professional army with a universal armament of the people [vseobshcheye vooruzheniye naroda]. Separation of church and state, and separation of church and school. Free and compulsory education – general and specialist – for all children of both sexes aged 16 and less; providing poor children with food, clothing and school utensils, to be funded by the state.11

The Bolshevik programme, in part populist and casuistic, set forth a number of commitments on the system of governance that were of quite considerable significance for that time (with all but a few of them broken after the revolution). It was also quite original – compared to other parties’ manifestoes – in espousing many ideas which in 1917 were seen as very democratic: broad powers (even if only in a broad outline) for local government, which had grown continually since the 1864 reform of central government; judicial review of administrative bodies; a catalogue of basic civil rights; and respect for national identity and rights. Many provisions of the programme evoked Russia’s specific traditions such as, e.g., the original idea of elected judges, reflecting the institution of justices of the peace that were named by zemstva, the pre-revolutionary liberal and reformatory bodies of local government introduced as part of the 1864 reform. The programme’s catalogue of fundamental civil liberties was inspired by the liberal circles but – unlike in bourgeois states, oft-times criticised by Lenin – it was not to be accompanied by clearly stated guarantees of their fulfilment. The only exception was about the proposal to introduce institutions of administrative courts, where the RSDLP programme was very similar to the concept propounded by the Constitutional Democratic Party (referred to by Lenin as the Kadets). In other areas, too, the Bolshevik programme called for measures that in 1917 could not be found in any other official documents of the Russian liberal circles. This is especially true of the so-called agrarian question (agrarnyy vopros), which was present in the programmes of all political parties of the time, reflecting the structure of Russian society where peasants – angered by the government’s policies – accounted for at least 60% of total

44 Adam Bosiacki population.12 Here, the demands made by the RSDLP(b) were very radical indeed, and they included not only terminating all kinds of peasant obligations to landowners, but also confiscating church and monastery-owned land, and – something without precedent in Russia (save for the most extraordinary laws of the state of emergency in the 19th century) – sequestering privately owned land (chastnovladelcheskiye zemli) without compensation.13 Also present in the programme were elements of direct democracy, an idea to which Russian left-wingers were widely attracted starting from the mid1800s, and with which Lenin himself toyed prior to 1917.14 After taking over power, the Bolsheviks reneged on an overwhelming majority of the proposed regulations, taking a course that was the exact opposite of their promises. They immediately started with suppressing freedom of expression, which was followed by dissolving the constituent assembly and, finally, clamping down on local self-rule. The wide powers of local government in the first stage of the new system were incompatible with Lenin’s call, made in the so-called April Theses, for all power to be vested in the sovets, which were to function as uniform – meaning the only – organs of authority. A restriction on local self-government (contrary to nominal assurances) can also be found in the party programme’s provision that self-government was to be overseen by unspecified organs “elected by local worker communities.”15 As it happened, the Soviet historiography only rarely invoked the programme’s particular points adopted prior to the takeover. Other than the RSDLP’s programme, the Bolsheviks’ new approach to the future form of government and constitutional guarantees was laid out in 1917 in what was probably the only theoretical article published prior to the revolution. Marxist lawyer Pyotr Ivanovich Stuchka (1865–1932), writing in the party’s official newspaper Pravda – which resumed publication in Russia on 1 April 1917 – openly admitted that the norms of the established legal order and the most elementary statutory guarantees of civil rights can find themselves on a collision course with the revolution. In that case, he warned, the Bolsheviks would without the slightest hesitation take the side of the revolution. In presenting his perception of the new order Stuchka pointed out that society is not founded on the law [zakon]. This is a lawyers’ delusion.16 Conversely, it is the law that should be founded on society, expressing its interests and requirements – which arise from a given mode of material production – as opposed to individuals’ unlimited license. (…) Whenever the law ceases to correspond with the social relations, it will no longer be worth the paper it is written on. Addressing the post-February Revolution lawmakers, Stuchka went on: “You must not proceed from the old laws in building the new social order, just as those old laws could not have created the old social relations.”

From utopia to a lawless state 45 To support his assertions, Stuchka cited Marx, who posited that the forces of the old regime should be stripped of legal protection.17 Proceeding from that quote, Stuchka proposed “to begin with searches [rozyski] in old and new codes of law [ulozheniya] for articles that would suit the purpose of sentencing the toppled tsar and his arrested henchmen.” Citing “certain existing concepts”, the Marxist lawyer proposed that, to this end, a special retroactive decree (osobyy dekret s obratnoy siloy) be issued – and he left no doubt as to the severity of the future penalty. He actually called for penalties to be administered without any legal process. “Karl Marx took up this question, too,” Stuchka argued: When a revolution is successfully carried out, its enemies may be hanged but you mustn’t impose court sentence on them [nelzya proiznosit nad nimi sudebnyy prigovor]. You may get them out of the way [ubrat]18 as defeated enemies, but you mustn’t try them in court as criminals. Such arrangements, in Stuchka’s opinion, would prevent losing time searching for articles and crime categories for the arrested “wretched informers and provocateurs.” The Pravda article anticipated an approach to the system of governance that was entirely novel among the programmes of the fast multiplying political parties of the time (perhaps with the exception of the Socialist Revolutionaries). Previously, the author was seen as a liberal lawyer who specialised in penal law and who criticised restrictive regulations being enacted in Russia. The views laid out in the article could only harken back to the most extraordinary regulations of the previous epoch, issued by the tsar in time of revolutionary upheaval. What Stuchka proposed was an arrangement with two separate legal systems, involving separate regulations for political offences. These offences would be examined outside of legal process and with no legal guarantees – the Bolshevik lawyer failed to mention evidentiary hearings, appellate procedure, etc. – and the group of suspects to be tried in this way was defined in very vague terms. It would comprise opponents of the revolution or, in actual fact, opponents of the revolutionaries. Furthermore, for crimes in that category Stuchka wanted the death penalty – a very harsh proposal indeed, especially given the abolition of capital punishment by the Provisional Government.19 One of two major documents the new rulers issued after the takeover was the Decree on Peace, calling on all warring parties to immediately engage in negotiations – with no preconditions – for “a just, democratic peace”, without annexations and without indemnities. It went on: “The government proposes an immediate armistice to the governments and people [narody] of all the belligerent countries, and, for its part, considers it desirable that this armistice should be concluded for a period of not less than three months”, in which time the peace talks could be undertaken and ratified.

46 Adam Bosiacki In addition to the call to end the war, the Decree on Peace also dealt with questions of international law. In particular, it vested in representatives of all peoples and nationalities [narodnosti ili natsii] the right to determine their postwar future and it declared abolishing secret diplomacy forever. Further in the document, Lenin wrote that the government “announces its firm intention to conduct all negotiations quite openly in full view of the whole people [sovershenno otkryto pered vsem narodom]”. This Bolshevik leader, incidentally, reneged on this commitment no later than in four months’ time, by engaging in secret talks with Germany prior to the Brest-Litovsk peace treaty, and by recommending secret diplomacy methods to his associates.20 The Decree on Land abolished landed proprietorship with immediate effect and without any compensation.21 That was to be achieved through the confiscation of “all crown lands [zemli udelnyye], monastery lands, and church lands, with all their livestock, implements, buildings and everything pertaining thereto.” The new government, known as the Council of People’s Commissars, comprised 15 ministries, or commissariats. It was manned by Bolsheviks and their decorative coalition partners, the Left Socialist Revolutionaries, who were assigned the commissariats for agriculture, food supplies, and justice, and also the position of deputy head of the All-Russian Extraordinary Commission (Cheka). Revolutionary slogans spoke of the right to remove a member of government at any time, but in practice no such instance ever occurred. Several months after post-February Revolution spontaneous actions by workers to take over industrial plants – which actually affected a small fraction of all such enterprises in the country – the government issued a decree on “workers’ control”, to be exercised by all shop-floor and technical personnel, either directly or through elected representatives. Their decisions were to be unconditionally binding on company owners, whose property rights – unlike those of the landlords – were not taken away for the time being. But the pace of confiscations was gathering momentum. Next after land came urban real property, all of which was expropriated in December 1917.22 The relevant decree – Lenin’s brainchild – was regarded by the contemporary Soviet lawyers as the most important regulation on property rights in urban settings.23 The document abolished private ownership of all – without exception – land lots [uchastki], whether built-up or not, owned by private individuals, industrial enterprises, associations and institutions within the boundaries of all urban settlements. The decree also put an end to the institution of leasehold and to property rights in respect of buildings erected on agricultural land (but these could be used by the leaseholder of land for a fee to be defined by the local soviet).

From utopia to a lawless state 47 The property law regulations were crowned with the Decree on Abolishment of Inheritances.24 While the previous measures dealt with the relations of ownership that had developed in pre-revolutionary times, this one was intended to help shape a post-revolution society.25 It was written – just as the decree abolishing urban property – by Lenin,26 working with a group of employees of the People’s Commissariat for Justice. The first paragraph of the decree abolished both statutory and testamentary inheritances. On the testator’s death the property was to be taken over by the state. Local sovets were to take care of an inheritance, and then transfer the property to “institutions dealing locally with the relevant class of property”, in terms of its geographical location or the place of the testator’s death. Some exceptions from these restrictive rules were provided, but only to a limited extent. In the countryside, for example, only those working jointly with the testator could continue holding an agricultural estate – but not inherit it in the strict sense of the word. Partial inheritance of a decedent’s estate was allowed for relatives in direct and collateral lines, but only when they were not possessed of any means of living and incapable of working. Where several heirs were thus determined and the estate proved insufficient to satisfy all of them, it went to the “most needy” one (a notion not explained in greater detail). But none of these avenues stayed open for longer than the middle of 1919, when the Act for Insurance of All People in Employment was passed. The decree allowed inheritance only in certain instances, with just one article (No. 9) devoted to exceptions from the inheritance ban. Only personal belongings and implements needed for farm work could be inherited, and the value of the decedent’s estate could not exceed 10,000 roubles. The estate was shared by means of voluntary agreement among the decedent’s spouse and children – the only group permitted to inherit. As admitted by a chief promoter of the decree, the narrowing of the scope of those eligible to inherit was due to the exigencies of the moment.27 Disputes among heirs were examined and settled by local people’s courts. The family’s rights had precedence over third-party claims. It is very likely that the idea of limiting the group of eligible heirs had its roots in the French Revolution of 1789, even if – as available sources suggest – that linkage was lost on Bolshevik lawmakers. As it happened, a surprisingly similar view on inheritance was propounded by Saint-Just, a Jacobean leader: [T]he right to inheritance is confined to relatives in direct line. These are: grandparents, parents, children, brother and sister. Collateral-line relatives are ineligible to inherit. Where the decedent leaves no descendants in direct line, the estate goes to the Republic.28 This pattern of thinking underpins the Decree on Abolishment of Inheritances, which in actual fact provided for a still narrower category of eligible heirs. The provisions of the new law were also applied to cases where inheritance was previously not accepted by heirs, or where it was accepted but not yet released.

48 Adam Bosiacki That was hardly what people meant by the notion of inheriting, and in fact it amounted to the maintenance (soderzhaniye) of the decedent’s immediate family, usually those who had lived with him under the same roof. Inheritance proceedings were opened when a local soviet made an announcement about the testator’s death, and those eligible could present their claims within the following year. Any dispute between relatives of the deceased and the authorities were examined and settled by people’s courts. The abolishment of inheritances was among the most radical regulations enacted in the Bolshevik state. Its theoretical foundation was sought in the idea put forward in the Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx, whose recommendation to proletarian government was thus summarized by a Bolshevik writer of the time: […] abolish the right to inheritance, or in other words make private property lifelong [pozhiznennaya], to be protected only until a person’s death, and then to be transferred to the proletarian state.29 In providing a theoretical substantiation for the Decree on Abolishment of Inheritances, the author cited constraints that bourgeois law imposed on inheritance rights. Inheritance in a fragmentary share might not suffice for a decent living, he argued and went on to claim that in such cases the bourgeois state left heirs to their own devices. In contrast, the Bolshevik state immediately took over the role of citizens’ keeper, making inheritance unnecessary.30 The abolishment of inheritances in the socialist state was also intended to serve ameliorative functions, by weaning society off individualistic instincts31 and reducing to a minimum the practice of settling disputes in court.32 The writer praised the restriction of inheritance rights to the immediate family – whom he regarded as being actually connected with the testator – and he adduced examples of similar provisions in German laws of 1908 and 1913,33 as well as claiming that in German legislative writing of the time the question of the state’s participation in inheritances was given prominent attention. The author’s reasoning, though, did not go so far as to provide arguments for the institution of expropriation which – except for the Decree on Abolishment of Inheritances – could be found in all property-law regulations, addressed en bloc to the new system’s potential (rather than real) class enemies. Obviously, there was no use playing up the advantages of the new property environment to those whose pre-revolution property rights were being glaringly curtailed by the successively passed new regulations. This function of property law was all the more repressive as it contradicted the previously championed concepts that emphasised socialisation and municipalisation. Now it was the state that began to turn into the weightiest property-rights actor.

From utopia to a lawless state 49 At the theoretical level, the Bolshevik state also negated the concept of separation of powers, which from the beginning was seen as incongruous with the new system. Lenin himself, in his “Ten Theses on Soviet Power”, presented to the 7th Extraordinary Congress of the RCP(B) in early March 1918, did not fudge the issue and named these among the new system’s features: “abolition of parliamentarianism (as the separation of legislative from executive activity); union of legislative and executive state activity; fusion of administration with legislation.”34 What Montesquieu and an array of his fellow thinkers saw as tyranny soon received firm support from a well-known lawyer and a future senior official at the People’s Commissariat for Justice, Mikhail Reysner (1868–1928). Speaking a month later at the 1st All-Russia Congress of Justice Commissars, he argued that although the principle of separation of powers “was adopted almost universally abroad, including in some democratic republics, it is unacceptable in the Russian Soviet Republic.” That was because “its objectives are mostly political: in a bourgeois state the main emphasis is placed on the balancing of main political forces – that is, the propertied classes on the one hand and the proletarian masses on the other.” Reysner went on: The bourgeois state represents a forced compromise between the exploiters and the exploited; it always demands a balancing (uravnovenie) and separation of powers, a separation between representation and governance on the one hand and society on the other – meaning, in effect, the separation of powers. As Reysner saw it, none of these factors was present in the Soviet system, thus making the separation of powers unnecessary.35 In the Bolshevik state, a system based on the separation of powers was replaced with the concept of union of powers,36 in line with Lenin’s call made upon his return to Russia in 1917: “All power to the sovets!”37 This notion rejected any institutions intermediating in the exercise of power (such as, e.g., local government bodies) and, most importantly, it rejected the pluralism of political parties. Despite their intention to break with the pre-revolutionary system, the Bolsheviks failed to provide a new cohesive doctrine of legislative power. In respect of the central administration, the only original aspect was a two-tier design for the new parliament, involving the All-Russia Central Executive Committee (ARCEC) and the Congress of Deputies. It was the former that played the strictly legislative role, while the Congress – vested with nominally unrestrictive competences – was reduced to opinion-making and declaration-issuing functions. The Sovets of Deputies did not play the declared role, neither – and also against earlier assertions. A normative reflection of the concepts discussed previously is provided by a circular of the People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs Grigory Petrovsky (Ukrainian: Hryhoriy Petrovsky), issued on 24

50 Adam Bosiacki December 1917 – two months after the Bolshevik takeover – and addressed to all local Soviet bodies. It also demonstrates that towards the end of 1917 the formation of the system of authorities and administrative bodies in the Bolshevik state was still far from over, even if its well-thought-out concept was already in place. Because of its rank, the document did not make it to the official journals. It reads that “all previous bodies of municipal self-government, the regional, provincial and off-site commissars of social organisations, off-site boards (volostnyye pravleniya) should be replaced by respectively regional, provincial and off-site, district and municipal Sovets of Workers’, Soldiers’ and Peasants’ Deputies.” The document goes on: The whole country should be covered by a network of organisationally interlinked Soviet organisations. Each such organisation, even of the lowest rank, is fully autonomous in respect of local matters, but aligns its activities (soobrazuyet) with the central authorities’ decrees and decisions, and with the decisions of higher-level Soviet organisations, in which it belongs. The Soviet Republic, uniform in all its parts, is thus being formed.38 It is further stated, possibly for the first time in an official document, that the entirety of administrative activities in the state is overseen by the People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs.39 The most pronounced changes in the Soviet state, though, were introduced by the Decree on Courts (referred to as Decree on Courts No. 1, because two other acts carried the same designation). In its best-known Article 5, it said: In their decisions and rulings (resheniya i prigovory) the court shall be guided not by written laws of the toppled governments, but by the decrees of the Council of People’s Commissars, by revolutionary conscience and by revolutionary legal awareness.40 (…) Local courts shall adjudicate on behalf of the Russian Republic, and in their decisions and rulings they shall be guided by laws of toppled governments only to the extent that these have not been rescinded by the revolution and are not in conflict with revolutionary conscience and revolutionary legal awareness.41 To this paragraph, Lenin added the following explanation: These shall be regarded as rescinded: all laws contravening the decrees of the Central Executive Committee of the Sovets of Workers’, Soldiers’ and Peasants’ Deputies, and of the Workers’ and Peasants’ Government, and laws contravening the minimum programme of the RSDLP and the Party of Socialist Revolutionaries.42

From utopia to a lawless state 51 That ex definitione led to the politicisation, and also a major dismembering, of the legal system. The decree dissolved “all existing” courts of law, including “regional courts, court chambers, (…) the governing senate [spelled with lower-case] with all its departments, military maritime courts of all levels (…) and commercial courts, replacing all of these with democratically elected courts.”43 Also abolished were “previously operating institutions of investigating judges and prosecutors, and institutions of certified and private advocates.” The same fate fell on justices of the peace, in whose place there were established “local courts [mestnyye sudy], comprising one judge and two lay assessors [ocherednyye zasedateli]” who were called to serve in accordance with a list compiled by local sovets of deputies. The local courts were to be appointed “based on democratic direct elections” to be held by commissions “set up by local sovets of workers’, soldiers’ and peasants’ deputies.” The justices of the peace were asked to join the new system – the decree allowed them to perform their duties “on a temporary basis”, being appointed by local sovets and “eventually to assume their posts based on democratic elections.” Local courts’ scope ratione materiae was confined to civil disputes over objects worth up to 3,000 roubles, and criminal cases involving penalties of up to two years’ imprisonment. Other cases were shifted to the jurisdiction of revolutionary tribunals. The Decree on Courts No. 1 also removed, ipso facto, all institutions of legal process: procedural stages, substantive law, prosecution, defence, appellation. Judgements were as a rule non-appealable, and only rulings issued in breach of the law were subject to appeal. Paragraph 9 of the Decree stated that with the aim of fighting the forces of counterrevolution, isolating them from the revolution and its achievements, and eradicating marauding, vandalism, sabotage and other fraud by merchants, industrialists, officials and others, there shall be established Workers’ and Peasants’ Revolutionary Tribunals, comprising the chairperson and six lay assessors, selected by Governorate-level or Municipal Sovets of Workers’, Soldiers’ and Peasants’ Deputies. The tribunals were authorised to conduct preliminary proceedings, through investigative commissions, whose members were to be appointed and dismissed by local sovets. In the absence of appellate procedure, with undefined penalties and no regulatory constraints, the revolutionary tribunals enjoyed broad powers indeed. They operated in such an environment until the end of the civil war, acting as an instrument of so-called administrative repression. But what the Bolshevik state’s populace feared most was mass terror, whether deriving from formal regulations – such as Decree on Courts No. 1 – or not. Lenin insisted on using such measures as soon as he took over power .44 By

52 Adam Bosiacki rescinding the old laws – which could be applied only if not contradicting revolutionary conscience and revolutionary legal awareness – and by setting up the revolutionary tribunals (in its last paragraph), the Decree on Courts actually introduced a two-tier legal system. The tribunals meted out only one sentence, in line with recommendations to that effect frequently provided in successively passed laws. The tribunals’ investigative commissions (sledstvennyye komissii), were a pure fiction, if only because they lacked members trained in law. The most widely known among the institutions of oppression was the All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution, Sabotage and Profiteering (abbreviated as VChK, and commonly referred to as Cheka). Its establishment was not preceded by any founding act, and even its name is differently given in various sources. The earliest definition of the VChK’s terms of reference was provided by Dzerzhinsky’s second deputy, Martin Latsis (Latvian: Mārtiņš Lācis, born Jānis Sudrabs, 1888–1938). In a booklet published in December 1920, he wrote that the Cheka is not an investigating commission, nor a court or tribunal. It is a combat organ, operating on the internal front of the civil war and using in this battle the combined powers of investigating commissions, courts, tribunals and military units. Its task is not to pass judgement on the enemy but to smite them; not to show mercy, but to reduce to ashes anyone who stands on the other side of the barricade, arms in hand, and who cannot be in any way used by us.45 Further on, moving to the penalty part, Dzerzhinsky’s deputy writes that what the Cheka does is “liquidating the enemy on the spot without court process or isolating him from society, by placing him in a concentration camp and transferring the case to a tribunal – for adjudication and also for reasons of publicity.”46 Latsis’ description leaves no doubt that immediately after its establishment the Cheka acquired combined competences to investigate, judge and enforce sentences. And the last mentioned role included not only the ability to physically execute the enemy – this term was used by the Cheka deputy director throughout his pamphlet – but also to send them to a Cheka-controlled concentration camp. The Cheka was not constrained by any formal requirements, and as a result, as R. Pipes noted, not even rudimentary procedure was ever observed.47 It was for this reason that, as Latsis tells us, Lenin regarded the Cheka as an institution of the utmost importance. The formal pretext for launching state terror was provided by the Decree on Red Terror, issued by the Council of People’s Commissars on 5 September 1918. Obviously, politically motivated murder was common in Bolshevik-controlled territory even earlier – and, starting from around February 1918, on a mass scale at that.48 The decree read that “in the present circumstances, protecting the operational rear is absolute necessity” and it therefore ordered posting in the rear

From utopia to a lawless state 53 “huge numbers – as large as possible – of committed Party comrades.” The decree also found it necessary to “protect the Soviet Republic against class enemies, by means of isolating them in concentration camps” and by executing “all those who have contacts with White Guard organisations, conspiracies and mutinies.”49 Speaking a year after the promulgation of the Decree on Red Terror, Dzerzhinsky adopted a similar style. Admitting that many people were misled by “enemies” of the new regime and had to pay the highest price, he made this appeal to “all citizens of Soviet Russia”: Know that the proletariat are constantly on their guard. Know that anyone assaulting the proletarian republic will be destroyed without mercy. In time of war, war-time rules apply. Espionage, assistance in spying, participation in a conspiracy – all of these will carry only one penalty: execution by firing squad.50 And these were by no means empty threats. Thus the direct outcome of Russia’s revolutionary autumn of 1917 was the rule of state terror – unanimously backed by revolutionary politicians and lawyers. In a flagship regulation, Guidelines on Penal Law of the RFSSR – passed by resolution of the People’s Commissariat for Justice in December 1919 – an attempt was made to give systemic definitions of the new state’s penal instruments. No exhaustive descriptions were provided, though, and instead the principle of analogy – shunned in civilised criminal law systems – was adopted, whereby it was possible to impose virtually any penalty for a behaviour that was regarded as crime (while no detailed list of criminal acts was available). The Bolshevik state had at its disposal the following instruments: a) suggestion [vnusheniye], b) public reproach, c) enforcing a non-insulting activity (e.g., taking a training course), d) announcing a person’s boycott [obyavleniye pod boykotom], e) exclusion from the community [obyedinenyie] for a specified period or indefinitely, f) restitution or, if not possible, compensation for the damage, g) dismissal, h) prohibition on performing certain activities or undertaking certain jobs, i) confiscation of all property or part thereof, j) stripping of political rights, k) declaring someone an enemy of the revolution or enemy of the people, l) compulsory labour outside of institutions of imprisonment, m) imprisonment for a specific period or indefinitely, until a known event [izvestnoye sobytiye] occurs, n) outlawing someone, o) execution by firing squad, p) a combination of previously listed penal instruments.51 The document further read that: the penal law of the RFSSR is applicable on the whole territory of the republic, to citizens and foreigners alike who have committed criminal

54 Adam Bosiacki offences on said territory, and also to citizens of the RFSSR and foreigners committing criminal offences on territory of another state.52 Similar recommendations for executioners were also provided in the previously launched VChK Ezhenedelnik, which, however, having had glorified terror too openly, discontinued after several issues. This is what readers could find in the opening one: While it is not yet too late, now is the time to launch – by deeds, not words – the most merciless, coherently conducted mass terror. By bringing death to thousands of White lazybones, relentless enemies of socialist Russia, we will save millions of working people and we will save the socialist revolution. The wheel of history has turned, and historical truth has changed. In order to put an end to class-based murders in the war, numbered in the millions, and a slow and steady sucking of the people’s blood by the capitalist spider’s web – suiting the interests of the ruling minority – we have undertaken a merciless struggle, where we do not rule out the death penalty for all intransigent enemies of workers’ and peasants’ Russia, those who want to bring her to destruction before she consolidates and grows invincible. This is because we value and love life – this sacred gift of Nature – and cannot resign to passively witnessing mass killings in the war and the continuing systematic killings by the capitalist system of production, which sucks the life-blood of the working people. Let us draw the sword and not put it down until “the sun above us begins to shine with the fire of its rainbows”. We will conquer the sun for the benefit of the working people, in their millions. Let cannons roar, bringing death to, and clearing the earth of these black locusts which have covered up the source of life and happiness, the shining sun of the future – socialism! Tremble, oppressors of workers’ and peasants’ Russia! Our hand will not quiver. Just wait. Your turn is near.53 As Trocki put it, the only reason why the Bolsheviks managed to stay in power (…) was that in the end they created the exact opposite of their initial programme (…). The revolution “logically” does not demand terrorism. Just as “logically” it does not demand an armed insurrection. What a profound commonplace! But the revolution does require of the revolutionary class that it should attain its end by all methods at its disposal – if necessary, by an armed rising: if required, by terrorism. (…) Intimidation is a powerful weapon of policy, both internationally and internally. War, like revolution, is founded upon intimidation. A victorious war, generally speaking, destroys only an insignificant part of the

From utopia to a lawless state 55 conquered army, intimidating the remainder and breaking their will. The revolution works in the same way: it kills individuals, and intimidates thousands.54 The bloodthirsty concepts were a direct consequence of having cast aside institutions of representative democracy, and they gave rise to revolutionary theories that were being imposed outside the Soviet Union’s territory until its collapse. Following the end of “War Communism” (1921–1922) and the launch of New Economic Policy, the repressiveness of the system subsided perceptibly, only to intensify again in the period of forced collectivisation (with respect to peasants) and in 1937–1938, the years of the great purge (with respect to all). Some institutions, though, stayed intact until the fall of the communists system (officially referred to as “socialist”, meaning an interim stage on the road to communism). Later, many ideas of that time were to be reintroduced in other states – especially those referred to as people’s democracies – leaving behind an oppressive and burdensome legacy that many societies still struggle with. A problem that remains relevant even after the fall of communist regimes is the contemporary reception of the system created by the Bolsheviks, and especially the continued impact of the revolution’s legacy on the functioning of public authority and political systems. In the period that ended in 1989 (in satellite countries) or in 1991 (the fall of the USSR), the reception of socalled socialist law, at a general level, involved the assumption about the written law’s inability to solve many aspects of societal life and about inexpediency of constraining regulations – reflecting the Marxist doctrine of the ruling class. As a solution, extraordinary organs were always being set up, enjoying quite a lot of regulatory leeway. They were supposed to counter unrestrained arbitrariness on the part of the administration, but they themselves happened to act in a highly arbitrary manner. Alongside the concept of the rule of terror, this legacy includes the very wide range of (declarative) social rights, coupled with the negation of other private- and public-law prerogatives, especially the political rights. In a general sense, that provided an illustration of the concept of unlimited sovereignty, which, however, had to be exercised by lower-level organs (local council’s presidiums – in Poland and in the USSR). From time to time, though, we could witness a revival of the idea of supra-sovereignty – in the form of so-called direct democracy, to be primarily pursued at the national level – and of decentralisation. This is connected with proposals for rather unspecified movements – political or civic – that have been arising in many post-communist countries, to take up the role of political parties.55 Also coming as part of the contemporary reception of the communist system is the widespread public preference for harsh penalties to be imposed for breaches of law, including for politically tinged offences. This has been influenced – a contrario – by the officially adopted very liberal approach to

56 Adam Bosiacki punishment, but it also provides a testimony to society’s immaturity, when it comes to the overall question of penalisation. Sadly, these and similar maladies of the time of transition and transformation, including fairly unfledged concepts of customary law, still remain – despite having been reformed in and outside Russia for almost three decades now – as remnants of the communist and totalitarian system that was so strongly present in that country for over seventy years. The Bolshevik coup led to the most profound consequences among modern-time revolutions.56 In addition to crushing the infant idea of a Russian republic – such a republic having emerged from the revolution that toppled the tsar in February (new style: March) 1917 – it brought about massive changes in an exceptionally short time, and on a scale without precedent in history. A hundred years on, the consequences of that coup are still to be found in the political systems of post-communist states, still waiting for permanent eradication.

Notes 1 Cf. more broadly A. Bosiacki, Źródła prawa a rewolucja in T. Giaro (ed.), Źródła prawa. Teoria i praktyka, Warszawa, 2017, pp. 66ff. 2 M. Heller, Maszyna i śróbki. Jak hartował się człowiek sowiecki, Paryż, 1982, p. 9. 3 M. Heller, A. Niekricz, Utopia u władzy. Historia Związku Sowieckiego, trans. into the Polish by Andrzej Mietkowski, vols. I–II, Londyn, 1987. 4 The legacy of the French Revolution, though, includes the protection of individual (private) property and, most importantly, equality before the law. That notwithstanding, the Jacobin reign of terror was the subject of analysis and fascination by Lenin and by a broader Bolshevik leadership. They copied a number of the French Revolution’s institutions, laws and even descriptions (e.g., the “Motherland in danger!” declaration of February 1918). 5 Among recent titles, see, e.g., A. Bosiacki, H. Izdebski, Konstytucjonalizm rosyjski: historia i współczesność, Kraków, 2013, pp. 98ff. 6 Some parts of the text that follows were included in this author’s previous publications (Utopia – władza – prawo. Doktryna i koncepcje prawne bolszewickiej Rosji 1917–1921, 2nd edition, Warszawa, 2012; Bosiacki, Izdebski, op. cit., in the part contributed by A. Bosiacki, A. Bosiacki, Ustrojowe i prawne dziedzictwo rosyjskich rewolucji, forthcoming). 7 R. Pipes, The Russian Revolution, Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2011, p. 341. 8 Bosiacki, Utopia – władza – prawo, op. cit., pp. 55ff. 9 Сборник программ российских политических партии. Издание новое с изменениями и дополнениями последних партийных съездов, Петроград 1917, pp. 10–11. 10 The world “strike” soon completely disappeared from the post-revolutionary Russian language, replaced with descriptions such as “sabotage” or “loitering”. Cf. Heller, Maszyna i śrubki …, op. cit. and A. Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago, op. cit., vol. I. 11 Сборник программ …, op. cit., pp. 9–10. 12 The Soviet-source data are compared by, e.g., B. Lewickyj (Terror i rewolucja, Paryż, 1965, p. 10). 13 Сборник программ …, op. cit., p. 13, para. 3 & 4. The first to make such radical demands about agrarian reform was the Party of Socialist Revolutionaries (to

From utopia to a lawless state 57

14

15 16

17

18 19

20 21

22

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

whom Lenin referred as the SRs). They called for “all private land [chastnovladelcheskie zemli] to be taken into public ownership [obshchestvennoe vladenie]”. That meant the so-called land socialisation, which lacked an explicit definition in the programme (Сборник программ …, op. cit., p. 16). A still greater emphasis on direct democracy concepts could be found in the programme of the Socialist Revolutionary Party, which called for “direct law-making by the people [pryamoe narodnoe zakonodatelstvo] in the form of referendum and legislative initiative” (Сборник программ … , op. cit., p. 15). Ibid, p. 12. All excerpts from the article cited from P. I. Stuczka, На почве закона или на почве Революции, Правда, 24 May 1917, pp. 1–2; P. I. Stuchka, Избранные произведения по марксистско-ленинской теории права, Рига, 1964, pp. 225–227. The indicated excerpt is also discussed by M. I. Blum (П. И. Стучка об уголовном и исправительно-трудовом праве, in О теоретическом наследии П. И. Стучки в Советской правовой науке. Сборник статей, Рига, 1965, pp. 190–191). The quote in question included this passage: “[The laws referred to in the preceding paragraph] arose from the old [social] relations, and with them should die, too. (…) By sticking to the letter of the law, the aim is to preserve these vested interests as still relevant, while in fact they no longer are.” П. И. Стучка, Избранные произведения …, op. cit., p. 226; Правда, No. 48, 24 May 1917, p. 2 (emphasis added). The Russian word ubrat can be translated as either “remove” or “kill”. The latter, it seems, was the meaning suggested to the reader in that time of revolutionary fervour. Cf., e.g., R. Pipes, The Russian Revolution, op. cit., p. 791. Capital punishment was reinstated in September 1917 (confined to the offence of deserting from the frontline), and then abolished again at the 2nd Congress of the Soviets, against Lenin’s advice. Cf. Lenin’s several letters to A. Joffe, contained in vol. 50 of his collected works, Collected Works, Moscow, 1972. Excerpts from the Decree quoted from Собрание узаконений и распоряжений Рабочего и Крестьянского правительства, 1917/1918, No. 1, item 3, para. 1. The text of the document is wholly reprinted in Декреты советской власти,, Москва 1957, vol. I, p. 17, and a Polish-language summary is provided, e.g., in Encyklopedia Rewolucji Październikowej, Warszawa, 1977, p. 82. Об отмене права частной собственности на недвижимости в городах, принятный на заседании Президиума Всероссийского Центрального исполнительного комитета от 20 августа 1918 г., SU 1918 No. 62, item 674, Декреты советской власти …, op. cit., vol. III, pp. 232–237; Bosiacki, op. cit., pp. 298ff. Bosiacki, op. cit., ibid. Декрет об отмене наследования, SUiRRiKP 1918 No. 34, item 456, Декреты Советской власти…, op. cit., vol. II, pp. 187–190. Among the latest Polish-language publications, cf. K. Sójka-Zielińska, Historia prawa …, op. cit., pp. 359–360. А. Г. Гойхбарг, Отмена наследования, “Пролетарская революция и право” 1918 (2); А. Г. Гойхбарг, Пролетариат и право (сборник статей), Москва 1919, pp. 49–57. Cf. the first version of the document in Декреты Советской власти, vol. II, pp. 185–187. А. Г. Гойхбарг, Отмена наследования, p. 54. [A.] Saint-Just, Wybór pism …, op. cit., p. 255. А. Г. Гойхбарг, Отмена наследования, p. 49. Ibid., p. 50. Ibid., p. 55. Ibid., p. 57.

58 Adam Bosiacki 33 Ibid., p. 52. 34 V. Lenin, Rough Outline Of The Draft Programme, Extraordinary Seventh Congress of the R.C.P.(B.), March 6–8, in V. Lenin, Collected Works, op. cit. Volume 27, p. 154. [www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/works/cw/pdf/lenin-cw-vol-27.pdf]. Excerpts of pronouncements made by the chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars are quoted in O. Znamienski, W. Szyszkin, Lenin, ruch rewolucyjny i parlamentaryzm, Warszawa, 1981, pp. 151–152. 35 Quoted after Основные тезисы доклада М. А. Рейснера на Всероссийском съезде Комиссаров юстиции, in Материалы Народного комиссариата юстиции, vol. I, Москва, 1918, p. 49. 36 S. Ehrlich, Ustrój Związku Radzieckiego, Warszawa, 1954, p. 38, 257; K. SójkaZielińska, Historia prawa, 5th edition, Warszawa, 1995, p. 358. 37 Ehrlich, ibid.; M. Sczaniecki, Powszechna historia państwa i prawa. Opracowanie K. Sójka-Zielińska, 8th edition, Warszawa, 1995, p. 491. 38 Сборник приказов, постановлений, распоряжений, циркулярных телеграмм Народного комиссариата внутренних дел. Выпуск I, с 25 окября 1917 г. по 1-е августа 1918 г., Москва, 1918, pp. 5–6. 39 Ibid., p. 7. 40 The first draft of the Decree on Courts No. 1 was published in Материалы Народного комиссариата юстиции, 2nd edition, Москва, 1918, pp. 103–104. For more cf. Bosiacki, Utopia – władza – prawo, op. cit., pp. 115ff. (The text of the Decree in the Polish language, op. cit., pp. 405–407). 41 Decree on Courts No. 1, op. cit., ibid., para. 5. 42 Lenin’s amendments to the Decree on Courts No. 1 were first published in Ленинский сборник, vol. 21, Москва, 1933, p. 217. 43 Quotes from the Decree on Courts No. 1 are taken from the text of the document published in Собрание узаконений и распоряжений Рабочего и Крестьянского правительства, 1917/1918, No. 4, item 50 (Bosiacki, op. cit.). 44 Cf. Lenin writings from that period (Collected Works, Moscow, op. cit.) and, e.g., R. Pipes, The Russian Revolution, op. cit.; И. З. Штейнберг, Нравственный лик революции, Москва, 2017. 45 [М. Я.] Лацис (Судрабс), Чрезвычайные комиссии по борьбе с контрреволюцией,, Москва, 1921, p. 8. Several statements by Latsis are quoted, e.g., by R. Pipes (op. cit., p. 817). 46 Ibid. 47 R. Pipes, op. cit., p. 804. 48 In particular, that period saw the promulgation (on 23 February 1918) of the government decree “The Socialist Motherland in danger!”, modelled upon the terrorist measure adopted during the French revolution (see Bosiacki, Utopia – władza – prawo, op. cit., p. 246). 49 Постановление РКЛ и красном терроре, SU 1918 No. 19, item 710. Reprinted in Декреты Советской власти, Москва, 1964, vol. III, pp. 291–292. 50 Ф. Э. Дзержинский, Избранные произведения в двух томах, 2nd edition, revised and enlarged, Москва 1967, vol. 1, p. 281. Cited from: Bosiacki, op. cit., pp. 426–427. 51 Руководящие начала по уголовному праву РСФСР, SU 1919, No. 66, item 590, Chapter VI, para. 25 (cited from Bosiacki, op. cit.). 52 Ibid., para. 27. 53 Я, К вопросу о смертной казни, “Еженеделник Чрезвычайной Комиссии по борьбе с контрреволюцией и саботажем”, 1918 (1), p. 6. 54 Л. Троцкий, Терроризм и коммунизм, Москва, 1920, p. 57 (cf. Bosiacki, op. cit.). 55 In post-1989 Poland, for example, presence in parliament was won – in their nature as surrogates of political parties – by trade unions (thrice) and by two political movements of which one, having morphed into a political party, stayed

From utopia to a lawless state 59 in power for the longest time during the country’s post-communist transition. For more see Bosiacki, Pomiędzy państwem prawnym a autorytaryzmem. Z polskich rozważań nad poszukiwaniem optymalnego ustroju państwa po odzyskaniu niepodległości w III Rzeczypospolitej, “Studia nad Autorytaryzmem i Totalitaryzmem” 2017 (4), p. 97–118. 56 Bosiacki, Źródła prawa a rewolucja, op. cit., p. 76.

5

Loci of political power The 1917 Russian revolution from regional perspectives Sarah Badcock

Introduction When I began my graduate studies in 1996, one eminent professor in the field suggested that I abandon my ambitions to study specific regions of Russia in 1917, and do something more tangible, like a political biography. His final words encapsulated something of the old attitudes to the revolution: “When the bell tolls in Petersburg, the bell tolls all over Russia.” This idea suggested that the course of the revolution was absolutely defined in the capitals (Petrograd, and to a lesser extent Moscow), and that the revolutionary path percolated evenly from the centre to the peripheries. I ignored his advice, and my subsequent research has fitted into a growing body of regional studies that have sought to complicate and reconceptualise our understandings of the revolutionary period by moving their focus away from Russia’s capital. Regional histories of Russia’s revolutionary period have intersected with broader historiographical trends. Scholars exploring themes in social history from the 1960s sought to emphasise the experiences of workers, soldiers, and peasants, but soviet restrictions on travel and access to archives limited the source base for research.1 The opening of access to archives after the collapse of the Soviet Union enabled a new wave of scholarship to emerge which followed the tradition of Russian regional studies, but is grounded in deep local archival research. Historians have used specific case studies in the provinces to examine how state practices devised in the centre were implemented, and to show how provincial politics and experience influenced decisions in the centre and the pace of the revolution.2 This work on revolution in Russia’s provinces fits into a broader scholarship that focuses on the provinces in a broader temporal frame.3 Regional studies incorporate a range of approaches, including national, rural, and lower class emphases. The insights that they have offered on the shape and course of Russia’s revolution have percolated into more general understandings of the revolutionary period. They have done this both by providing new Empirical evidence about the ways in which the revolution was experienced and interpreted, and by offering some challenges to the notion that the outcomes of the revolution were decided primarily at the

Loci of political power 61 centre. This is reflected in the ways that regional perspectives on the revolution have been explicitly incorporated into the excellent scholarly syntheses of the revolutionary period published for the 2017 centenary.4 What have regional studies of the revolution taught us so far? First, they emphasise the Russian Empire’s diversity of local experience, and the importance of local context and local actors. Second, they challenge the notion that political power was held exclusively in the capital, and that the course of the revolution was defined by a handful of elite actors. Local studies show us that the options open to Russia’s political elites in 1917 were in part defined by the behaviour of local people in the peripheries. Finally, regional studies have rehabilitated Russia’s rural population, for so long utterly marginalised in the scholarship as passive bystanders or irrational actors in the revolution. Local studies go some way towards unravelling the diversity and complexity of rural dwellers, and demonstrate that rural people engaged with the state and were rational political actors.5 Rational, in this context, is understood as political behaviours that related to rural people’s own perceptions of their best interests and their own world view, rather than driven by inchoate furies. This notion of rationality is presented as a counter to the notion fostered by Russia’s educated elites in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries of rural people as irrationally violent, anarchic, and destructive.6 Scholars no longer study 1917 in a temporal wilderness. The chronology of the revolutions has been subject to intense scrutiny, and many scholars have adopted the rationale, presented by Peter Holquist, that Russia’s revolutions can be better understood by integrating the First World War and the Russian civil wars into Russia’s revolutionary experience.7 This broader framework allows Russia to be placed in a comparative context with other European powers, by exploring the ways in which Russian state power was shaped and constructed in response to the requirements of total war. At the same time, however, a number of scholars recognise the importance of focusing on 1917 distinctly as well as placing it in a broader chronology.8 This chapter will retain a focus on the period from February to October 1917, and will tell the story of the locations of power in 1917, based on the case studies of Nizhny Novgorod and Kazan provinces. It will focus on three key areas – structures of power in 1917, people on the margins of power, and aspects of the food crisis.

Structures of power in the regions When talking about the location of political power in 1917, historians have often focused on power within Petrograd, and in particular on the relative power and authority of the Provisional Government and the Petrograd soviet. The model of so-called “dual power” articulated for Petrograd has dominated scholarly understandings of revolutionary power structures. “Dual power” is generally seen to have undermined the legitimacy and authority of the Provisional Government,

62 Sarah Badcock and contributed to the Provisional Government’s inability to govern effectively.9 This axis has been used as shorthand to describe the loci of political power in a more abstract sense – the division between fading “bourgeois” authority, as manifested in the Provisional Government and its inability to govern effectively, and “democratic” authority, as manifested in the Petrograd soviet specifically, but in soviets more broadly as well. Evidence from Nizhny Novgorod and Kazan supports the findings of other studies from Russia’s regions, which indicate that the dual power model was not evident away from the capital.10 Rather than conceptualising power relationships as dualistic between “bourgeois” and “democratic” bodies, it is more illuminating to frame the loci of power in multiple and shifting spaces. Indeed, the regions were often characterised by an absence of central or state influence over politics and events. The Provisional Government devolved power and authority to newly elected local government bodies in a process often referred to as democratisation. Multiple and overlapping seats of power developed in the regions. Democratisation described the attempts of local and central government bodies to bring ordinary people, who had previously had little or no popular representation, into local government. This process drew the population into conscious engagement with the state and provided mechanisms for interactions between grassroots and the political elite. Individuals selected their representatives to speak for them at regional and national levels, through multiple different organisations including committees, soviets, and individual delegations. Political power, if we are to define it as the institutions that have the authority to govern, and the ability to govern effectively, was difficult to define, to shape and to exercise, at the local level. Multiple institutions with some perceived authority to govern emerged, and these institutions made attempts to exercise that political power through a range of conduits, some built and approved by the State, and some developing organically at the local level. All the different competing sources of political power struggled to exercise power in practice, that is, to enforce their decrees and decisions. Democratistion enabled local people to be represented politically, but it drastically limited the central State’s ability to dictate or dominate the shape and terms of political discourse. The new networks of democratisation varied from province to province. In Nizhny Novgorod and Kazan, the committee structures put in place by the Provisional Government sat alongside alternative structures of power, in particular the soviets, which developed according to local personnel and demands. Power did not move fluidly from centre to periphery through the new administrative networks. The centre was unable to dictate policy, and the desires and directions of the grassroots did not often make a substantive impact on the direction of policymaking. Ordinary people sought to be involved in the polity and to engage in their communities’ political decision-making but in so doing, they drew power away from the centre. We can look at the example of land use to see how power was drawn centrifugally away from the centre and towards the regions. The vast majority

Loci of political power 63 of Russia’s population in 1917 made their living in agriculture as small farmers. For many rural dwellers, the 1917 revolution offered the opportunity to resolve perceived injustices in local land use and ownership. All over Russia, the norms of private ownership were transgressed, as the rural population took local power into their own hands. They grazed their cattle in privately owned fields, took their carts and axes to the forests to harvest timber for building and fuel, seized arable land, and in some places forcibly removed gentry landowners. Every locality across the great expanse of the Empire experienced its rural revolution differently. A broad range of locally defined features determined land relations, including the types of agriculture that were practiced there and personal antagonisms between local landowners and rural communities. Both the Provisional Government and the Petrograd Soviet appealed repeatedly to peasants to wait calmly for the convocation of the Constituent Assembly before the land question could be resolved. These appeals were ignored. The norms of private ownership were repeatedly transgressed in the countryside during 1917, as peasants seized land and wood. The rural population was not a random and arbitrary violent force in 1917. Where local communities infringed on private owners, they often sought to couch their actions in the new revolutionary language and appealed to revolutionary justice. The rural revolution is not easily categorised – forms of action depended on local factors, including the historic relationship between landowner and peasants and the forms of agriculture in the region. In some regions, like Vyatka, there was neither significant land hunger nor high levels of non-peasant land ownership, so there the land question was less prominent in national discourse.11 Much of the rural revolution concerned disputes among peasants. Wealthier individuals who had separated from communal landholding were reintegrated, sometimes forcibly, into communal structures. Neighbouring villages disputed the fair use of common and noble land. Violence was often threatened but less often deployed. Rather than resort to violence, rural people sought to validate their actions with the support of the new revolutionary norms, and avoided actions that brought them into open conflict with local, regional, and national authorities. Provisional Government mandated land committees and provincial commissars, regional, and local committees of Public Safety, and regional and local soviets variously represented these authorities.12 Political elites represented the actions of the rural population as “disorder” and “misunderstandings.” The political elites were unable to grasp that the rural population were rational and empowered actors. The political elite did not recognise that the nexus of power had slipped away from its traditional home, the capitals and established political forums, and towards those who were able to enact policy decisions. Control of land was determined by local communities in the course of 1917, and not by political elites. In the first months of revolution, the political elite faithfully repeated the mantra that representative local government was fundamental to the

64 Sarah Badcock establishment of rural order, and that “peasant disorders” could be resolved through transforming the system of local government on a democratic basis. The statement issued by the Kazan soviet of workers and soldiers’ deputies in April, for example, declared that “it was necessary to liquidate peasant lawlessness by means of changing the system of local self-government and zemstva on a democratic basis.”13 This belief was supplemented by the idea that peasant actions against state decrees were founded on misunderstanding and ignorance, and could therefore be resolved through education. In March and April in the Nizhny Novgorod province, the political elite frequently noted peasant incomprehension at the meanings and limitations of their newfound revolutionary freedom.14 Peasants flexed their newfound political muscle in the course of 1917 and increasingly directed their affairs in wilful transgression of central policy.15 Peasant “disorder” was often based on well-informed interpretations of the new order. Land relations illustrate the ways in which the rural population sought both to engage with the state, and to form a nexus of power in their own localities. The patterns of peasant action both in the Nizhny Novgorod and Kazan provinces share characteristics shown in other regional and national studies of peasant direct action, which included seizure of land and wood, attacks on peasant separators, and enthusiasm to “validate” peasant actions and infractions.16 These general trends, when explored more closely, reflected local conditions, and varied from uyezd to uyezd within each province. The Kazan land law issued in May 1917 illustrates the disjoint between national, regional and local priorities, and the impotence of the centre in implementing decisions. Kazan had an exceptionally radical and proactive soviet of peasants’ deputies. The Kazan soviet of peasants’ deputies was influential in shaping and legitimising land relations in the region. The May 1917 land law issued by the Kazan soviet of peasants’ deputies was used as a basis for land seizure across the province.17 The soviet issued a decree on 13 May that pre-empted the Provisional Government’s prognostications and transferred all land, privately held and otherwise, into the hands of the local volost committees prior to the decision on land by the Constituent Assembly.18 The Kazan provincial land committee supported this decree. In many respects the May land decree validated and confirmed statements already made by local land committees who sought to regulate land seizure through regional control.19 The move enraged local landowners and drove a rift between the soviet and the infuriated Provisional Government authorities, but also had the effect of ameliorating the violence and irregularity of land seizure. All local reports from Kazan province point to diminished rural unrest as a result of orderly transfer of land to peasant hands.20 This contradicts statistics for peasant unrest in 1917, which indicate that Kazan saw among the highest levels of agrarian unrest in the country, topped only by Saratov and Astrakhan on the lower Volga.21 In Kazan, the high levels of reported unrest in fact indicates, however, that the figures reflected the

Loci of political power 65 number of complaints from disgruntled landowners, rather than levels of “disorder” in terms of land use and public unrest. The evidence presented here from local administrators indicates that while transgression of private landownership was high in the Kazan province, land use was relatively orderly and efficient, and levels of violence and disorder were low. The extent to which land seizures constituted “anarchy” is very much a matter of perspective. For the victims of the seizures, the loss of their private property constituted anarchy. The Kazan regional administration, on the other hand, argued that the law enabled controlled and systematic utilisation of land stocks, and regulated land seizures, reducing the risk of violence. An undated report from the provincial commissar to the minister for land declared that the soviet decree had spread across the province very rapidly, and there had been a swell of land seizures, woodcutting, and violence against landlords as a result.22 A meeting of the Kazan provincial land committee on 15 June noted that there was no anarchy in the province, and that this vindicated their decision to go along with the peasant soviet’s land decree.23 The main land committee wrote to protest about events in Kazan on 16 October, but the Kazan land committee stood by its actions, again pointing to the much improved land relations in the region.24 The Kazan soviet of peasants’ deputies sent a telegram to the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the Ministry of Land and the All-Russian soviet of Peasants’ Deputies in an attempt to justify their actions to central authority. The telegram reiterated that the land law had produced calm in land relations, and had averted rural anarchy.25 In some volosts there had been “misunderstandings” between commune peasants and separators, but these had been resolved.26 These positive reports do not of course reflect the experiences of landowners, who were no doubt forced to relinquish their property. Overall, the picture was one of controlled and economical land use, and total transgression of the norms of private land ownership.27 This example of land use in Kazan demonstrates that practical political power lay in the ability to enact policy decisions, and the Provisional Government lacked this power. It also shows that where local administration was responsive to popular needs, it retained support and authority.

The margins of political power The democratic process diffused power from the centre to the peripheries, and from the urban political elites to local working people. This process was however incomplete and imperfect. The nominal power structures that emerged, under the aegis of both Provisional Government and soviets, were unable to represent and speak for all their constituents effectively. Though Russia’s political leaders proudly advertised that Russia was the “freest country in the world,” ethnically Russian urban males dominated regional power structures. The soviet structures that formed alongside Provisional Government bodies evolved predominantly from workers and soldiers, and

66 Sarah Badcock only affiliated with the (always later-forming) peasant soviets as an afterthought. The vast majority of the provincial population was rural based and was decidedly under-represented in regional power structures. Factories and garrisons, already organised into tightly functioning units, were quick to form their own committees, which could then feed representatives into the regional power structures. The network of committees that could provide delegates for regional power structures was much thinner in rural than in urban areas. The formation of revolutionary organisations in the countryside went on patchily, and rural dwellers were sometimes left isolated from the revolution’s new political structures. Ethnic minority populations in the provinces often lived predominantly in rural areas, which left them disproportionately under-represented in formal power structures. Kazan province incorporated large non-Russian populations, but ethnic Russians dominated local administration. Russians made up 38% of the Kazan province’s population, but 77% of the province’s urban population. The three largest non-Russian groups in the Kazan province were the Tatars, the Chuvash, and the Cheremis (Marii). Tatars made up 31% of Kazan province’s population, but only 19% of its urban population. Chuvash and Cheremis peoples were almost entirely absent from the province’s urban spaces. Chuvash made up 23% of Kazan province’s population, but less than 1% of its urban population. Cheremis made up 5.7% of the province’s population, but just 0.3% of the urban population.28 If we drill down to a specific uyezd, we can illustrate this disparity between urban and rural populations further. The population of Kozmodemyansk uyezd in the north of Kazan province was dominated by Cheremis and Chuvash peoples, who together made up 84% of the population, but only 5% of Kozmodemyansk town’s population. Russians accounted for 16% of the county’s population, but 94% of Kozmodemyansk town’s population.29 This meant that Russians dominated the administration of the uyezd. This pattern of under-representation of non-Russians in urban space is replicated in other provinces around the Empire. In Odessa for example, Ukrainian peasants were the majority in the province, but a minority in the urban space.30 Non-Russian communities’ lack of connection to urban culture was to have important implications for them in 1917, when formal power structures crystallised around towns, leaving non-Russian groups effectively isolated from the political elite centred in the towns. The diversity of languages and letters seen among Kazan’s non-Russian community incidentally meant that communication of central and regional policies to nonRussian communities was impaired by shortages of native language print material. As the revolutionary tides swirled around Kazan, non-Russian communities were left to some extent isolated because of the difficulties the political elite faced in communicating with them. The Provisional Government incorporated women into universal franchise, and passed laws on gender equality. Women, despite these concrete gains in political and personal rights and freedoms did not, except in

Loci of political power 67 exceptional circumstances, participate in formal power structures. Women were mostly absent from all levels of administration, from the village assembly up to delegates for the Constituent Assembly. Of the ninety-two Socialist Revolutionary party candidates to the Constituent Assembly from the provinces of Nizhny Novgorod, Tambov, Penza, Kazan and Simbirsk, only three were women. Uyezd and volost executive committees in Nizhegorod province were almost exclusively male.31 While some women played leading roles in their communities and even in political life, they did not usually figure among those who stood as candidates or were elected to local administrative posts. Women were very rarely elected as deputies to the soviet, and correspondingly very rarely participated in the soviet’s higher committees. Local working men and soldiers dominated electoral politics, particularly at the grassroots level. The course of democratisation appealed explicitly to the electorate in 1917, and the electorate responded by returning almost entirely male representation on the democratised bodies of 1917. Despite the fact that women made up around 47% of the total factory workforce, men dominated the factory committees and soviets in 1917. Shop floor culture was inherently masculine, and women were regarded as “intruders into the male club.”32 Even the labour activists who paid lip service to gender equality made little effort to include women in labour organisations.33 Peasant committees at every level from village to province in Kazan and Nizhny Novgorod provinces were almost exclusively male. Where there was any female participation in volost and uyezd level committees, it was always a teacher’s representative. So for example, of the eleven members of Palets volost executive committee, the only woman was Lydia Snezhevskaya, a teacher’s representative34 Of the thirty-seven members of the Simbilyesk volost provisional administration, Nizhny Novgorod uyezd, there was only one woman. At thirty-five, she was also by far the youngest member of the committee, which was dominated by men in their late forties and fifties.35 Bogoiavlensk volost provisional executive committee had one woman of its twenty-one members, and she was the representative from the regional teachers.36 The Yurasovo volost executive committee, Semenov uyezd, had fifty-two members, all of whom were men working in agriculture with the exception of two female teachers, Natalya Andreyeva Ulyanicheva and Natalya Alekseyevna Nishchenuova. A third woman, Olga Krylova, was in the unusual position of being vice-president of the committee, and a male teacher, Ivan Kulakov, served as secretary.37 Since guidelines issued from the centre specified the need to include a teacher’s representative, these women’s presence in the committees does not indicate that their standing in the village was established. Indeed, Ben Eklof ’s work indicates that women teachers enjoyed very low status in the villages, based on their youth, unmarried status, and lack of established household.38 How are we to explain the absence of women from positions of power? While the baggage of patriarchal society offers some explanation for the

68 Sarah Badcock lack of ordinary peasant women among local leaders, it does not explain the low participation even of women who had been very active in the prerevolutionary political underground. One possible explanation is that women activists moved to support and non-elected roles in 1917. Barbara Clements Evans’ study of Bolshevik women showed that they took on the technical and propaganda roles they had fulfilled prior to the revolution, as well as engaging in public speaking.39 Before the February Revolution, the revolutionary underground provided a relatively welcoming and egalitarian space for women socialist activists. This sheltered environment allowed women to take up the prominent positions within party organisations that their varied talents deserved. The February Revolution significantly altered the climate and membership of radical political parties. The realities of Russian political life in 1917 showed that the electorate largely speaking voted for local working men, and not women, to be their political representatives in 1917. Men dominated the documented political life of factories, even though women made up an absolute majority of the workforce in 1917.40 Mariya Kashmenskaya is an example of the sort of woman that one might have expected to participate in the administrative structures of 1917, but did not. Kashmenskaya, twenty-three years old in 1917, worked as a clerk, but was an initiator and founder member of the influential Sormovo Socialist Revolutiaonry Party (PSR) group, and the only woman on its Central Committee.41 She initiated the creation of a workers’ circle in Nizhny Novgorod, and was entrusted by the group to arrange the purchase of typography. Kashmenskaya’s opinions and judgements were clearly valued by her male comrades, and she was able to speak up on a range of issues. At a mass meeting in September 1916, she gave a report on the attitude of German Social Democrats toward the war that according to one of the listeners, Zinoviya Magergut, was “interesting and rich in content.”42 The Sormovo group sent Kashmenskaya, along with the group’s most experienced member, Dmitry Tyurikov, to Voronezh to establish links with other PSR organisations in the Volga region in December 1916, and to discuss the formation of a party conference. This was a delicate and dangerous commission, and the hopes of the Sormovo group rested on her.43 Forced to leave Sormovo in January 1917 as a result of police surveillance, Kashmenskaya returned to Sormovo in April 1917. Kashmenskaya’s record in the Sormovo PSR group may be exceptional, but is testament to the active and full role women could play in party organisations prior to 1917. How did Maria Kashmenskaya respond to the climate of the PSR after the February Revolution? She was put forward as a candidate for Nizhny Novgorod’s Duma, but she was placed right down the list, at number fortyeight out of fifty candidates, and subsequently withdrew her candidacy. The only other trace of her existence to be found in the local press was a letter she wrote to the PSR newspaper Narod, published in December 1917, in which she denounced one of the SR Town Duma deputies, whom she accused of disloyalty to the party.44 Based on this letter, we can infer that

Loci of political power 69 Kashmenskaya continued to be active in the party, and to take a passionate interest in the politics of the moment, as one would have expected of her, based on what is known of her underground activities. Kashmenskaya’s conspicuous absence, however, from reports of party activity in the local press, and indeed in the lists of contributors to the local paper, suggests that she did not play the role her political experience and ability merited. This is in contrast to the other main protagonists of the Sormovo PSR group of which she was a part, many of whom were regularly mentioned by the party press in various party and public capacities. The non-participation of women in the elected bodies of 1917 cannot be pinned on a lack of politically committed and experienced women who could become involved in these organisations. Kashmenskaya had exactly the sort of skills that were so sorely required in 1917’s administration, and yet she did not play an active public role. Despite their abilities and experience in the political and organisational spheres, women were relegated to backroom positions. They did not serve on elected committees and institutions, either because the electorate rejected them, or because their party organisations did not select them. This was to deprive the new administration of some if its most experienced workers, and only accentuated the shortage of personnel that was faced. The partial exclusion of women, ethnic minorities, and rural people from formal power structures did not however exclude them from political voice and influence. The example of soldiers’ wives (soldatki) shows how power could operate outside the constraints of formal power structures. Despite relatively low levels of formal organisation, soldiers’ wives made a significant mark on revolutionary politics at local level across the Empire.45 Soldiers’ wives, like the vast majority of women, did not secure much direct representation in the formal structures of power. This did not prevent them from engaging with revolutionary discourse, and seeking to secure their own “rights and freedoms.” Their lack of direct participation in the administration meant that they placed pressure on, rather than acting within, existing organisations. They marched, organised, petitioned, and protested to have their political demands heard. Such challenges to local and national authority were endemic in 1917, and an important part of the ways in which power was shaped and challenged by popular actions. The soldiers’ wives of Kazan presented their demands directly to the provincial administration, sometimes in violent or threatening forms. The direct action of soldiers’ wives during 1917 was in some respects a continuation of wartime food riots, which were often led by women.46 In Kazan there was an atmosphere of open hostility, as soldiers’ wives consistently undermined and challenged decisions made by both town committees and the soviet. Soldiers’ wives demanded more state support, in the form of increased allowances of money, food, and fuel, and assistance working their land. They demonstrated publicly and vociferously to have these needs met, and succeeded in having their plight acknowledged, and material support offered by regional authorities. Their demonstrations of dissatisfaction with the

70 Sarah Badcock soviet’s actions in defending the working people, however, were potentially damaging to the soviet’s reputation. The plight of the Kazan soldiers’ wives was a real public issue, and their marches and noisy participation in meetings contributed to their prominent public profile. Authorities, be they central, regional or party political, struggled and ultimately failed to define revolutionary discourse and control political power. Recognising the blurred lines and ambiguity of locations of power helps us move towards a more nuanced understanding of 1917.

Food supply The challenge of food distribution is one of the defining features of the revolutionary period. By looking at this problem from regional perspectives as well as from national ones, a series of issues are exposed – the dominance of localism and economic interests in shaping the problem, the failure of the central state to define the discourse, and the potential for both power, from local communities, and powerlessness, from regional and national authorities. Russia was not fundamentally short of foodstuffs, but problems of administration and transport conspired to produce food shortages and threats of famine in some areas. Provisions problems steadily worsened through 1917. Russia followed nineteenth-century trends in famines, in that human and institutional factors were more significant than natural scarcity in causing distress and starvation.47 The government faced concerted resistance from peasant producers in implementing the grain monopoly, and hostility from consumers who were threatened by famine. The split between consumers and producers was between surplus and deficit regions among the peasantry, as well as between town and country. The food crisis also accentuated vertical and horizontal tensions in regional administration, and was the issue that provoked most hostility and violence against administrators. Peter Gatrell’s work provides a valuable synthesis of Russia’s provisions situation during World War One, while Lars Lih’s study of the provisions crisis during 1917 lucidly explained why and in what form the crisis manifested itself.48 Democratisation, or as Lih calls it the “enlistment of the population”, was the means utilised by the Provisional Government to administer the grain monopoly. This faith in the population relied on the presumption that the population would choose to strengthen central power over defending local interests, the decision Lih aptly described as “Hobbes” choice. This study of provision questions confirms that centrifugal forces overwhelmed reconstituting forces, as the population rationally chose to protect their own interests in so far as was possible, and refused the many sacrifices asked of them by the fledgling state. The provisions crisis was one of supply and distribution rather than production. National figures on Russia’s grain output are misleading. They indicate that though food production reduced steadily from 1914 to 1917, it was still only 30% below the pre-war average by 1917.49 As Russia was one of the

Loci of political power 71 world’s biggest grain exporters at the turn of the century, a drop of 30% in production should not have left Russia in shortfall for domestic consumption. These figures are misleading however, not least because local conditions in terms of geography, population, and forms of agriculture, defined the problems that were faced from region to region. There are three fundamental explanations for the food crisis, all of which were intimately connected to Russia’s involvement in the First World War. First, the needs of providing for the army increased demand for food products and other goods compared to the pre-war period. Second, transport of provisions around Russia, from her surplus provinces, and to her deficit provinces and the front, proved to be a serious logistical problem. Most of Russia’s consuming provinces were situated in northwest European Russia, and most of the producing provinces were in southeast Russia. It is less generally understood that even in the parts of surplus provinces that needed to import grain, supply, and transport of provisions were a serious problem. Finally, perhaps most significant in driving Russia’s provisions crisis was the disruption of trade, because of government intervention in grain prices and movement, and because of a shortage of consumer goods available for producers to buy. Nizhny Novgorod and Kazan provinces illustrate these problems. Nizhny Novgorod was an importer of grain, and Kazan an exporter, though both were on small scale. Based on averages between 1909 and 1913, Nizhny Novgorod province needed to import 5.82 puds of grain per person to satisfy consumer needs, while Kazan province exported 5.79 puds per person. Nizhny Novgorod was one of the smallest importers of grain of the consuming provinces, thirteenth out of sixteen, and Kazan was in the lower ranks of Russia’s exporting provinces, twenty-first out of thirty-three. Nizhny Novgorod was in a strong geographical position to acquire grain, as most of its neighbouring provinces, with the exception of Astrakhan and Viatka, were big exporters of grain.50 Some uyezds in Nizhny Novgorod province were exporters of grain, which offered another important source of grain for the province as a whole. Despite these advantages, Nizhny Novgorod province faced serious shortages and extreme difficulties in acquiring food products. Kazan province, meanwhile, was expected to export significant quantities of grain for the army, as well as feeding itself. In fact its towns, especially the capital Kazan, faced serious shortages throughout 1917. Provisions shortages had been a problem in Kazan town before the revolution. Police reports in January 1917 stated that the provisions crisis in Kazan town was “critical”, and that there were widespread fears of famine.51 The tsarist regime had restricted its involvement in wartime food supply to supplying the army, and fixed grain prices only on army supplies.52 The Provisional Government took over the tsarist government’s provisioning structures, but vastly expanded their scope and superseded the needs of supplying the army with the needs of supplying the country at large. There had been consensus for a grain monopoly, with fixed prices on all grain, not just that supplied to the army, before the February Revolution.53 A comparison

72 Sarah Badcock of the government’s fixed grain prices with market values, however, immediately reveals the problems such a system faced. The Provisional Government established its first fixed price on 25 March 1917, which at 235 kopeks per pud was forty-eight kopeks lower than market price in Kazan. The increase of fixed prices on 27 August to 470 kopeks did not keep pace with market prices, which by the end of August were 847 kopeks above the fixed price.54 Prices were higher in the mid-Volga region, which included Kazan and Nizhny Novgorod, and increased more rapidly in the course of 1917 than almost anywhere outside the industrial region and Belorussian lands.55 These figures show the chronological dynamic of the food crisis, which became progressively worse in the course of 1917. The Volga region’s spiralling prices came in part from the intermingling of surplus and deficit regions. Kazan, with its unrealisable surpluses, and Nizhny Novgorod, with its unfulfilled wants, were located alongside one another. The movement of walkers and “sack men” between provinces and uyezds was identified as a feature of 1917 by Lars Lih, and characterised relations between the two provinces.56 Alongside formal requests from one provincial commissar to another to provide grain, and personal letters from starving Nizhny Novgorod citizens printed in the local press appealing to the Kazan peasants to release their grain, Kazan was inundated with individuals seeking to buy grain.57 Administrators in Yadrinsk uyezd, Kazan province, were unable to prevent speculation on grain, as Nizhny Novgorod citizens were “ready to pay any prices so that they can receive grain. The fixed prices seem too low.”58 Despite one hundred soldiers sent, and permanent watches being set on all roads leaving the uyezd, the administration was unable to prevent “leakage” of grain into Nizhny Novgorod province.59 Chistopol town, the capital of Chistopol uyezd in Kazan was “flooded by more than a thousand walkers from hungry provinces every day.” All these walkers had permissions from their volost administration to seek grain, as they were hungry, but instead of approaching the Chistopol authorities, they bought from illicit traders at high prices, preventing any grain from reaching army supplies or the hungry parts of Kazan province.60 Kazan’s provincial commissar complained to Nizhny Novgorod provincial commissar in September about Nizhny Novgorod citizens coming to Kazan to try to buy grain, which threatened to cause civil disturbance.61 The provincial provisions committee in September blamed speculators explicitly for Kazan’s failure to fulfil its grain quotas.62 Nizhny Novgorod blamed the problem on Kazan’s refusal to supply provisions.63 Vladimir Ganchel, Nizhny Novgorod’s town mayor, gloomily reported in September that attempts to purchase grain from Kazan had been fruitless. Even within Nizhny Novgorod province, volost and uyezd provisions committees did not work to ease hunger in the province generally, but protected the interests of their own local citizens. Makaryev uyezd commissar complained bitterly in a report to the provincial commissar in September about the selfishness of the uyezds surrounding the dangerously Makaryev uyezd.64

Loci of political power 73 Where regional administrations did not meet popular needs and demands, the population directly challenged them with responses ranging from disobedience, through open hostility, to outright violence. Allegations of incompetence and corruption followed uyezd and volost provisions committees, especially in the areas most seriously threatened with hunger. The problem was not widespread incompetence on the part of these committees, but rather a complex interaction between the population’s high expectations of their new administration to deliver, and the newly elected representatives’ accountability. The peasants of Sotnur volost, Tsarevokokshaisk uyezd, told their village provisions commissar, “We elected you, you must listen to us.”65 Minutes from Lukoyanov uyezd provisions committee meeting in May exposed the extreme mistrust and hostility the uyezd provisions committee provoked.66 Peasants accused them of inactivity and corruption, and threatened with violence. They denied the charges against them, blaming the provisioning problems in the area on the national situation and the policies of the provincial provisions committee. The committee struggled to obtain grain, even though they had funds available, and waited for deliveries from neighbouring regions. Reports came in from all over Nizhny Novgorod province of attacks on the provisions administration. In Gorbatov uyezd, provisions provoked open public disorder by July 1917,67 which persisted through August and September. The geographical location of the uyezd meant that after the river navigation season closed at the onset of autumn, there were no effective means of getting grain into the uyezd.68 Orchestrated demonstrations against the provisions administration in Gorbatov town went on for four days in August, and culminated in the crowd demanding the resignation of the provisions administration.69 Individuals came from different volost’s in the uyezd to participate in the protest, and the crowd met at ten o’clock in the morning for four consecutive mornings. The demands of the crowd were “Give us grain. You will make us starve.” The crowd would not accept explanations from members of the administration. A voice was heard from the crowd, cursing foully, and threatening members of the administration with murder. At that moment several members of the administration ran away. The crowd seized the president of the administration, intending to lynch him, but the commissar and armed soldiers persuaded the crowd to leave him untouched. He was then arrested by the militia, together with another administration member, Sokolov, who, on the way to the guardhouse, had his beard pulled by the crowd, and the key of the provisions warehouse taken.70 Popular resistance to census taking and the grain monopoly was fearsome in Kazan province. Of all Russia’s surplus provinces, Kazan was one of the worst providers of grain for the front in 1917. For February and March 1917, Kazan provided 12% of its grain quota to the army. Only the Don region performed worse.71 Kazan province offered virulent and often violent resistance to the grain monopoly. Surplus areas with non-Russian populations were more likely to come into conflict with the provisions administration, and were more likely

74 Sarah Badcock to be violent.72 A meeting of Kazan province’s provisions committee on 5 July offered detailed reports on the provisions situation in eight of Kazan’s twelve uyezds. In many areas provisions committees had not been organised at all, and all accounts reported fierce resistance to the grain monopoly. Some volost’s in Kozmodemyansk uyezd destroyed the whole provisions administration.73 Cheboksary, Kozmodemyansk, and Tsarevokokshaisk uyezds in the north-west of the province were the most unruly of all, and “there was in practice no grain monopoly.”74 These three uyezds had a significantly lower sown area than the rest of the province.75 The Provisional Government did not have the wherewithal or the practical authority to administer the grain monopoly. The Provisional Government’s decision to claim all grain above subsistence norms as state property relied on local food supply organs to take successful inventories and establish sound links with producers. Data collection problems were central to the subsequent crises in food collection. A survey from the Moscow soviet of workers and soldiers’ deputies revealed that only two of thirty-eight provinces had completed a census.76 There is strong evidence that the rural population openly resisted the collection of data. In Kazan, census taking, sometimes undertaken alongside the updating of electoral registers, met with fierce resistance. A volost provisions committee in Tsarevokokshaysk uyezd noted that the population refused to abide by its decrees and was unwilling to give any information about the number of residents and quantity of grain. The report noted the refusal of villagers there to consider national interests: “Russia is forgotten: the word rodina (motherland) is understood only as their village.”77 The evidence presented here suggests that Russia was not forgotten, but was denied; peasants chose to refuse national government requests. In Mamadysh uyezd, the explanation for refusals of census taking in a number of volost’s was that the population, many of whom were soldatki, lived solely on black bread and were being asked to give more than they had.78 The uyezd committee responded by increasing the allowance of retained grain.79 Some peasant resistance shown to census-takers demonstrated their consciousness and awareness. Paperwork was targeted in attacks on administration, which reflected a neat awareness of the importance of being counted. In Sandyrsky volost, the provisions administration had its paperwork, with details of the census, particularly targeted by crowds of rioters who broke into buildings and destroyed all books, papers, and documentation on 18 September.80 Destruction of paperwork was a common feature of peasant attacks on provisions administration in surplus areas. The captain of the soldiers sent to carry out the census in Tsarevokokshaisk uyezd reported that in one volost, Arbany, not a single resident would give any information, even their names. They threw stones at soldiers, burnt all the paperwork of the volost provisions administration, and threatened to murder those who defended the grain monopoly.81 In the Chuvash village of Bolshoy Sundyr, Kozmodemyansk uyezd, the president of the provisions administration, a fellow called Zapolsky, was murdered on 14

Loci of political power 75 August. Peasants had gathered outside the administration building and demanded the destruction of land and provisions census listings. When Zapolsky refused, the crowd dragged him out onto the street and beat him to death with sticks and stakes.82 In Torayevо volost, Yadrin uyezd, Kazan, soldiers were sent in September to protect the beleaguered provisions administration and carry out censuses. Despite soldier presence, however, on 28 September crowds dispersed the provisions committee, and destroyed all its paperwork. A further eighty soldiers were sent to quell the disorder.83 Contemporaries’ explanations for this heated resistance tended to emphasise that peasants “misunderstood” or were “ignorant” of the grain monopoly, or were led astray by “dark” forces operating in the villages, or wealthy peasants.84 The non-Russians were singled out in the regional press as being particularly “dark” and especially hostile to the imposition of the grain monopoly. Complaints were also made of excessive demands for grain being made on villagers, who were not left enough to feed themselves and their livestock.85 The political elite claimed that the solution to these problems was education and understanding, the Soviet government blaming ignorance rather than wilful resistance for failure to meet provisions targets. As 1917 progressed, peasant communities repeatedly rebuffed attempts at educating villagers on provisions matters, and peasants made increasingly “conscious” statements of resistance to the grain monopoly. From summer onwards, we correspondingly see explanations for provisions disorder being given as the evils of market forces and of dark counter-revolutionary force in the villages, and the solution was seen increasingly to be the use of armed force. The peasants’ titular leaders became increasingly disillusioned with the people they had looked towards to help the country out of provisions crisis. In the Tsarevokokshaisk uyezd, reports initially talked of “misunderstandings.” These so-called misunderstandings escalated into “open risings against the provisions and land committees and against the militia captain” by mid-September. The only solution open to the provincial commissar was to send in more soldiers.86

Conclusions This chapter has explored the loci of power during the 1917 Russian Revolution by looking at case studies from Nizhny Novgorod and Kazan provinces. The examples developed here, of power structures, land use, food supply, and the participation of marginalised groups in political developments, together support a series of key theses. Study of the provinces enhances and sophisticates our understandings of how political power operated in 1917. By drawing focus away from the capitals and the well-recognised political elites, both “bourgeois” and “democratic,” we are able to discern the limitations of formal political power. The inability of the State to impose policy directives on the population empowered local people to take initiative and make the revolution in their own model. We see this in the ways that rural people

76 Sarah Badcock directed land and forestry use in 1917. They transgressed the norms of private property and ignored appeals from the centre, but their actions should not be seen as anarchic or irrational. Rather, the revolution in land use was locally and sometimes regionally directed and managed in ways that sought to meet local needs and expectations, even though these local needs were in conflict with national directives and agendas. In their responses to the food crisis, ordinary people in the provinces proved mostly unwilling to conform to State policy. Instead, they acted pragmatically to defend their community’s best interests. In so doing, they undermined both Provisonal Government and Soviet attempts to govern Russia. Finally, ordinary people participated in the new political world through a range of conduits. Some, particularly urban, ethnically Russian men, were empowered to participate in newly democratised structures of local government. Others participated in political power from the margins, using direct action, protest, and resistance to make their voices heard.

Notes 1 For example, A. Wildman, The End of the Imperial Russian Army, 2 vols., Princeton, 1980 and 1987; D. Koenker, Moscow Workers and the 1917 Revolution, Princeton, 1971; S. A. Smith, Red Petrograd: Revolution in the Factories, Cambridge, 1983; R. G. Suny, The Baku Commune, 1917–1918: Class and Nationality in the Russian Revolution, Princeton, 1972; G. Gill, Peasants and Government in the Russian Revolution, London, 1979; R. Wade, Red Guards and Workers’ Militias in the Russian Revolution, Stanford, 1984; J. Keep, Russian Revolution: A Study in Mass Mobilization, New York, 1976. On the need for a social history of the revolution, see R. G. Suny, Toward a Social History of the October Revolution, “American Historical Review” 1983 (88), pp. 31–52. 2 Orlando Figes and Donald Raleigh were pioneers in the Western scholarship. O. Figes, Peasant Russia, Civil War; The Volga Countryside in Revolution, Oxford, 1989; D. J. Raleigh, Revolution on the Volga: 1917 in Saratov, New York, 1986; D. J. Raleigh, A Russian Civil War Diary, Durham, 1988; D. J. Raleigh, Experiencing Russia’s Civil War, Princeton, 2002. Among recent regional studies, see M. Baker, Peasants, Power, and Place: Revolution in the Villages of Kharkiv Province, 1914–1921, Cambridge, MA, 2016; S. Badcock, Politics and the People: A Provincial History, Cambridge, 2007; Russia’s Home Front in War and Revolution, 1914–1922, Book 1: Russia’s Revolution in Regional Perspective, ed. S. Badcock, A. Retish, and L. G. Novikova, Bloomsburg, 2015; P. Holquist, Making War, Forging Revolution: Russia’s Continuum of Crisis, 1914–1921, Cambridge, MA 2002; M. Hickey, Local Government and State Authority in the Provinces: Smolensk, February-June 1917, “Slavic Review” 1996 (4), pp. 863–881 and M. Hikey, Paper, Memory, and a Good Story: How Smolensk Got Its ‘October’, “Revolutionary Russia” 2000 (1), pp. 1–19; И. В. Нарский, Жизнь в катастрофе: Будни населения Урала в 1917–1922 гг., Москва, 2006; Л. Г. Новикова, Провинциальная "контрреволюция". Белое движение и Гражданская война на русском Севере, 1917–1920, Москва, 2011. T. Penter, Odessa 1917: Revolution an der Peripherie, Vienna, 2000; M. Rendle, Defenders of the Motherland: The Tsarist Elite in Revolutionary Russia, Oxford, 2010; A. B. Retish, Russia’s Peasants in Revolution and Civil War: Citizenship, Identity, and the Creation of the Soviet State, 1914–1922, Cambridge, 2008.

Loci of political power 77 3 See, for example, M. Cavender, Nests of the Gentry: Family, Estate and Local Loyalties in Provincial Russi, Neward, DE, 2007; C. Evtuhov, Portrait of a Russian Province: Economy, Society, and Civilization in Nineteenth-Century Nizhnii Novgorod, Pittsburgh, PA, 2011; R Geraci, Window on the East: National and Imperial Identities in Late Tsarist Russia, Ithaca, 2001; L. Holmes, Grand Theater: Regional Governance in Stalin’s Russia, 1931–1941, Lanham, 2009; T. McDonald, Face to the Village: The Riazan’ Countryside under Soviet Rule, 1921–1930, Toronto, 2011; D. J. Raleigh, ed., Provincial Landscapes: Local Dimensions of Soviet Power, 1917–1953, Pittsburgh, 2001; R. Wade and S. J. Seregny, eds. on Saratov, Politics and Society in Provincial Russia, Saratov, 1590–1917, Columbus, 1989; P. Werth, At the Margins of Orthodoxy: Mission, Governance, and Confessional Politics in Russia’s Volga-Kama Region, 1827–1905, Ithaca, 2001. 4 See, for example, L. Engelstein, Russia in Flames: War, Revolution, Civil War, 1914–1921, Oxford, 2018; S. Smith, Russia in Revolution: An Empire in Crisis, 1890 to 1928, Oxford, 2017; M. D. Steinberg, The Russian Revolution, 1905–1921, Oxford, 2017; G. Swain, A Short History of the Russian Revolution, London, 2017. 5 See in particular A. B. Retish, Russia’s Peasants in Revolution and Civil War: Citizenship, Identity, and the Creation of the Soviet State, 1914–1922, Cambridge, 2008. 6 For a discussion of elite perceptions of rural people as “backward” and irrational, see C. A. Frierson, Peasant Icons: Representations of Rural People in Late Nineteenth Century Russia, Oxford University Press, 1993; Y. Kotsonis, Making Peasants Backward: Agricultural Co-Operatives and the Agrarian Question in Russia, 1861–1914, Palgrave Macmillan, 1999. 7 P. Holquist, Making War, Forging Revolution: Russia’s Continuum of Crisis, 1914–1921, Cambridge, MA, 2002. 8 See, for example, this recent special issue: S. Lyandres (ed.), Journal of Modern Russian History and Historiography. Russia’s Failed Democratic Revolution, February-October 1917: A Centennial Reappraisal, Leiden, 2016. 9 For treatments of dual power in Petrograd, see C. Read, From Tsar to Soviets: The Russian People and Their Revolution, New York, 1996, p. 47; R. A. Wade, The Russian Revolution 1917, Cambridge, 2000, p. 56ff. 10 Donald Raleigh’s study of Saratov found that despite the formation of a local organ of the Provisional Government and a soviet in Saratov, the soviets not only cooperated with but actually participated in the new executive committees that were formed to govern the region. (D. Raleigh, Revolution on the Volga…, 92ff.) Michael Hickey’s work on Smolensk’s local government explored the relationship between local government and the centre, and presented a picture of administration forming as hybrid institutions, under pressure from local popular organisations. (M. C. Hickey, Local Government and State Authority in the Provinces: Smolensk, February–June 1917, “Slavic Review” 1996 (4), pp. 863–881. 11 A. Retish, Russia’s Peasants in Revolution and Civil War: Citizenship, Identity, and the Creation of the Soviet State, 1914–1922, Cambridge University Press, 2012. 12 For a detailed discussion of the ways in which rural people responded to the land question in 1917, see Sarah Badcock, Politics and the People in Revolutionary Russia: A Provincial History, Cambridge University Press, 2007, pp. 181–210. 13 Казанская рабочая газета 5, 14 April 1917, p. 3. 14 [Protocol of the meeting of uyezd commissars in Nizhegorod province] 10–11 April 1917, Центральный архив Нижегородской области (ЦАНО), ф. 1882, оп. 1, д. 13, л. 155–159. 15 There were a series of national peasant congresses in the summer of 1917 that offered peasants opportunities to engage with the polity and to articulate their demands.

78 Sarah Badcock 16 See, for example, M. Baker, Peasants, Power, and Place: Revolution in the Villages of Kharkiv Province, 1914–1921, Cambridge, MA: Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute, 2016; M. C. Hickey, Urban Zemliachestva and Rural Revolution; Petrograd and the Smolensk Countryside in 1917, “Soviet and Post Soviet Review”, 1996 (3), pp. 143–159; A. B. Retish, Russia’s Peasants in Revolution and Civil War: Citizenship, Identity, and the Creation of the Soviet State, 1914–1922, Cambridge University Press, 2008. 17 For example in Marasinsk volost, Spassk uyezd, as reported in Известия казанского губернского совета крестьянских депутатов, 7 October 1917, pp. 2–3. 18 [Kazan soviet of peasants’ deputies decree on land, 13 May 1917, Национальный архив Республики Татарстан (НАРТ), ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 51, л. 275–277. 19 [Telegram from Trekh ozera village, declaring that all land was to be transferred to land committees prior to the decision of the Constituent Assembly] 15 April 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 41, л. 52. 20 See for example [The journal of the meeting of the Kazan provincial land committee] 23–24 September 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 183, л. 34–46. See also [Meeting of Kazan provincial land committee, 22 June 1917] НАРТ, ф. 174, оп. 1, д. 9, л. 9. For an example of exceptionally orderly and equitable decisions about land use see also [Report of Chistopol uyezd committee of Public Safety] 15 June 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1351, оп. 1, д. 10, л. 38. 21 А. Малявский, Крестьянское движение в России в 1917 г. март -октябрь, Москва, 1981, pp. 374–380. 22 [Telegram from Kazan soviet of peasants’ deputies to the minister of land] undated, НАРТ, ф. 983, оп. 1, д. 23, л. 209. 23 [Journal of the meeting of the Kazan provincial land committee] 23–24 September 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 183, л. 34–46. See also [Meeting of Kazan provincial land committee] 22 June 1917, НАРТ ф. 174, оп. 1, д. 9, l. 9. For an example of exceptionally orderly and equitable decisions about land use, see [Report of Chistopol uyezd committee of public safety] 15 June 1917, НАРТ ф. 1351, оп. 1, д. 10, л. 38. 24 [Journal of the meeting of Kazan provincial land committee] 16 October 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 183, л. 47–50. 25 [Telegram from Kolegayev, president of Kazan soviet of peasants’ deputies, to the All Russian soviet of peasants’ deputies, Chernov, and the Ministry of Internal Affairs] undated, НАРТ, ф. 983, оп. 1, д. 21, л. 121–122. 26 [Journal of the meeting of general meeting of members of Cheboksar uyezd land committee] 1 August 1917, НАРТ, ф. 174, оп. 1, д. 55, л. 50–52. 27 [Journal of the meeting of the Kazan province land committee] 22–23 July 1917, НАРТ, ф. 174, оп. 1, д. 9, л. 23–28. 28 Первая общая перепись населения Российской Империи 1897 г. Том XIV. Казанская губерния., ed. Н. А. Тройницкий, Санкт-Петербург 1904, pp. 1–2. 29 Ibid. pp. 1–2. 30 T. Penter, “The Unemployed Movement in Odessa in 1917: Social and National Revolutions between Petrograd and Kiev,” in Russia’s Home Front in War and Revolution, 1914–1922, Book 1: Russia’s Revolution in Regional Perspective, eds. S. Badcock, A. Retish, and L. G. Novikova, Russia’s Great War and Revolution, Bloomsburg: Slavica, 2015. 31 For an illustration of this phenomenon, see ЦАНО, ф. 815, оп. 1, д. 16, [Protocols of the volost zemstvo meetings and electoral commissions, list of elected representatives. 30 June – 12 December 1917 (155ll.)] This delo lists names for those elected onto volost committees, and they are almost exclusively male. The electoral lists are included in this delo, and they are also absolutely dominated by men. To take a single example, on л. 100, [General list of volost representatives of Viniak- Smolkov

Loci of political power 79

32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49

50 51 52 53 54 55

volost, Semenov uyezd, Nizhegorod guberniya. Elected 27th April and 3 September 1917] Of the 35 representatives elected, only one, Yelizaveta Kashitonova Yablonskaya, aged 30, was a woman. Ibid, pp. 1439, 1497. R. L. Glickman, Russian Factory Women, Berkeley 1984, p. 203, pp. 276–277. [List of individuals elected to Palets volost Executive Committee] undated, ЦАНО, ф. 830, оп. 1, д. 5, л. 39. [List of individuals forming the provisional administration of Simbileisk volost, Nizhegorod uyezd] undated, ЦАНО, ф. 830, оп. 1, д. 5, л. 97. [List of members of the Bogoiavlensk volost provisional Executive Committee] undated, ЦАНО, ф. 815, оп. 1, д. 18, л. 8. [List of members of the Yurasov volost Executive Committee] undated, ЦАНО, ф. 815, оп. 1, д. 17, л. 35. B. Eklof, Russian peasant schools…, p. 188ff. B. C. Evans, Bolshevik Women, Cambridge, 1997, pp. 125–130. D. Koenker, Moscow Workers…, p. 207. [List of candidates to Nizhegorod Town Duma] undated, ЦАНО, ф. 27, оп. 638a, д. 94, л. 11. [Writings-recollections of a member of the Sormovo organisation of the PSR, April 1916–April 1917] Российский государственный архив социальной и политической истории (РГАСПИ), ф. 274, оп. 1, д. 26, л. 93. [Writings-recollections of a member of the Sormovo organisation of the PSR, April 1916–April 1917] РГАСПИ, ф. 274, оп. 1, д. 26, л. 97. Народ 114, 1 December 1917. For other work on soldiers’ wives, see S. Badcock, Women, Protest, and Revolution: Soldiers’ Wives in Russia During 1917, “International Review of Social History” 2004 (1), pp. 47–70; E. E. Pyle, Village Social Relations and the Reception of Soldiers’ Family Aid Policies in Russia, 1912–1921, University of Chicago, 1997; B. A. Engel, Not by Bread Alone: Subsistence Riots in Russia During World War 1, “Journal of Modern History” 1997 (4), pp. 696–721; M. Baker, Rampaging Soldatki, Cowering Police, Bazaar Riots and Moral Economy: The Social Impact of the Great War in Kharkiv Province, “Canadian-American Slavic Studies” 2001 (2–3), pp. 137–155; B. Farnsworth, The Soldatka: Folklore and Court Record, “Slavic Review” 1990 (1), pp. 58–73; R. A. Wade, The Russian Revolution, 1917, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000, pp. 121–123, discusses soldiers’ wives activities in Petrograd. See B. A. Engel, Not by Bread Alone: Subsistence Riots…, pp. 696–721; M. Baker, Rampaging Soldatki, Cowering Police, Bazaar Riots and Moral Economy…, esp. p.150ff. M. Ravallion, Markets and Famines, Oxford, 1987, p. 6. P. Gatrell, Russia’s First World War…, ch. 7; L. T. Lih, Bread and Authority in Russia, 1914–1921, Berkeley, 1990. Ibidem, p. 311. Н. Д. Кондратьев, Рынок хлебов и его регулирование во время войны и революции, Москва 1991 pp. 124–5; figures cited here differ from Demosthenov’s, suggesting that 1914 and 1917 were rather weak years, 1915 and 1916 were well above the average from the period 1909–1913. Н. Д. Кондратев, Рынок хлебов…, pp. 95–96. [Report of reasons for strike at Alafuzov factory] 30 January 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 140, л. 106; [Report on the state of Kazan] 20 January 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 140, л. 107. Ibidem, pp. 5–17. L. Lih, Bread and Authority…, p. 84. Н. Д. Кондратев, Рынок хлебов…, p. 400. Ibidem, pp. 269, 271, 275, 278.

80 Sarah Badcock 56 L. Lih, Bread and Authority…, pp. 77–81. 57 An example of such letters can be found in Казанская рабочая газета, 30 September 1917, p. 3; Казанская рабочая газета, 15 July 1917, p. 3. 58 Казанская рабочая газета, 13 July 1917, p. 3. 59 [Letter from Yadrin uyezd commissar to provincial commissar] 12 August 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 44, л. 111; [Telegram from Kazan provisions administration to provincial commissar] 14 July 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 44, л. 16. 60 Казанская рабочая газета, 11 October 1917, p. 4. 61 [Report from Kazan about the provisions crisis, with a note written by Nizhegorod provincial commissar on the reverse] 26 September 1917, ЦАНО, ф. 1882, оп. 1, д. 22, л. 87. 62 Казанская рабочая газета, 7 October 1917, p. 3. 63 [Letter from Nizhegorod provincial commissar to the Ministry of Internal Affairs] undated but probably September 1917, ЦАНО, ф. 1882, оп. 1, д. 28, л. 305. 64 [Makar’ev uyezd commissar report] 23 September 1917, ЦАНО, ф. 1882, оп. 1, д. 45, л. 170; uyezd. 65 [Note to Tsarevokokshaisk uyezd provisions committee from Sotnursk volost provisions administration] 1 September 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 73, л. 146. 66 [General meeting of Lukoyanovsk uyezd executive committee] 27 May 1917, ЦАНО, ф. 1887, оп. 1, д. 18, л. 27–33. 67 Известия совета рабочих и солдатских депутатов, 16 July 1917, p. 4. 68 Известия совета рабочих и солдатских депутатов, 27 July 1917, p. 4. 69 Народ, 3 September 1917, p. 4. 70 Народ, 3 September 1917, p. 4. 71 Н. Д. Кондратев, Рынок хлебов…, pp. 419–421. 72 This correlates with Retish’s findings for Viatka. A. Retish, Russia’s peasants…, p. 103. 73 Казанская рабочая газета, 13 July 1917, p. 3. 74 Казанская рабочая газета, 15 July 1917, p. 3. 75 For details, see: S. Badcock, Politics and the People, p. 185, Table 7. ii. 76 K. I. Zaitsev, N. V. Dolinsky, Organisation and Policy, in Food Supply in Russia during the War, ed. P. Struve New Haven: Yale University Press, p. 105. 77 [Note from volost provisions committee to Tsarevokokshaisk uyezd provisions administration] September 1917, НАРТ ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 73, л. 145. 78 [Report of outside agitator brought to Mamadysh uyezd to resolve conflict in Kabyk-Kupersk volost] 16 July 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 43, л. 77. 79 [Letter from Mamadysh uyezd commissar to provincial commissar] 18 July 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 43, л. 30. 80 [Letter from Sandyr volost provisions administration to provincial provisions administration] 18 September 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 73, л. 148. 81 [Report of military command regarding resistance to grain monopoly] 27 September, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 73, л. 176. 82 Казанская рабочая газета, 19 September 1917, p. 4. 83 [Telefonogram from captain of militia to Iadrin uyezd commissar] 19 September 1917 НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 44, л. 167; [Telegram from Provincial Commissar to uyezd commissar] 20 September 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 44, л.169; [Telegram from Provincial Commissar to uyezd commissar] 21 September 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 44, л.171; [Telefonogram from Provincial Commissar to uyezd commissar] 28 September 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 44, л. 188; [Telegram to Provincial Commissar from captain of militia] 7 October 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 44, л. 211. 84 Казанская рабочая газета, 13 July 1917, p. 3; see also Казанская рабочая газета, 19 September 1917, p. 4.

Loci of political power 81 85 See for example Казанская рабочая газета, 2 June 1917, p. 4; Казанская рабочая газета, 27 July 1917, p. 4; [Report from volost in Mamadysh uyezd about village response to delegate from Provincial provisions administration] 18 July 1917, НАРТ, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 43, л. 77. 86 [Note from Provincial Provisions Administration to Provincial Commissar requesting 25 soldiers to be sent to assist in the requisition of cattle and grain in Tsarevokokshaisk uyezd] September 1917, NART, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 73, л. 90; [Note from Tsarevokokshaisk uyezd commissar to Provincial Commissar] 16 September 1917, NART, ф. 1246, оп. 1, д. 73, л. 137.

6

The Karaims1 Political and social activities during the Russian Revolution and civil war Petr Kaleta

Introduction Until the last three decades of the 18th century, the traditional communities of the Karaims in Crimea and in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth – primarily in Troki (Lithuanian: Trakai), Łuck (Ukrainian: Lutsk) and Halicz (Halych) – did not maintain close contacts with Tsarist Russia. The picture changed after 1783, a year in which Russia – invoking the Treaty of Küçük Kaynarca – annexed the Crimean peninsula, thus bringing under its control most of the Karaim population of the time. Russian rule was further extended to cover the Karaim communities in Lithuania (led by Troki) and in Łuck in the Volhynia region after the third partition of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in 1795.2 Following the Russian takeover, the Crimean Karaims feared that they might share the fate of quite many local Tatars, and also Armenians, Greeks, Georgians and residents of Italian colonies in the peninsula, displaced in the late 1770s. But in the end, they were allowed to stay, and did not have to seek assistance from the Ottoman Sultan Abdul Hamid I (1725–1789), whose ordinance (issued in response to a Karaim request) named areas in the Balkans reserved for their settlement.3 The successive decades were hardly a period of decline for the Karaims in the Russian Empire. As a small religious community, they did not pose any threat to Russian interests and therefore did not have to cope with any major obstacles from the authorities. As early as 1795, by an ordinance of Catherine II (1729–1796), the Karaims were accorded special status and granted further privileges and exemptions as well as the right to own land. In 1837, in response to Karaim aspirations for equal rights with the Muslim population, the status of Karaim clergy was officially defined and a Karaim Religious Board (Russian: Karaimskoye dukhovnoye pravleniye) was set up, with the seat in Yevpatoriya. The jurisdiction of this Taurida hakhamat4 was later extended to also cover the Karaims in Russia’s western governorates (until the establishment of a separate hakhamat in Troki in 1863). Another regulation of great importance for Karaims, issued in 1852, gave them the right to settle freely in Russian towns and cities, thus paving the

The Karaims 83 way for migrations to the Russian Empire’s largest urban centres of Moscow, St. Petersburg, Kiev and Odessa. And finally, the Karaims were recognized as being fully equal with the Russian population under a measure passed in 1863, which provided that “the Karaims protected by general laws of the Empire shall enjoy all the rights vested in the Russian subjects, in accordance with the respective estate in which they belong.”5 In the late 19th and early 20th century the Crimean Karaims occupied a relatively high position in Russian society. Opportunities for a further development and consolidation of national identity opened with the February Revolution of 1917 and the subsequent social changes which brought a leading Karaim figure in the peninsula, Solomon S. Krym, to the premiership in the second government of the Crimean Republic.6 Activities by members of Karaim communities in that period and the person of Solomon S. Krym will form the subject of the present chapter.

The Karaims in early stages of World War I Having won the status of full-fledged Russian citizens in the latter half of the 19th century, the Karaims – even if retaining their distinction in terms of religion and (Turkic) language – proved to be true Russian patriots. The bulk of them spoke Russian, the command of which was a prerequisite to acquiring knowledge and education. A distinctive feature of the Karaims among Russian society was the large proportion of them with university diplomas. Immediately after the outbreak of World War I, the Russian Karaims joined the national relief campaign. On August 3rd, the Karaim religious boards in Taurida (Crimea) and Odessa ordered that every day until the end of the war the liturgy would begin with prayers for the well-being and prosperity of the imperial couple. Simultaneously, a committee was set up to organise collections for the war effort at kenesas (Karaim prayer houses). On 19 August 1914, the general meeting of the Yevpatoriya community assigned to that purpose 150,000 roubles, of which 50,000 roubles was to be spent on setting up a hospital ward in the town. An appeal issued to other Karaim communities produced a response in the form of collections for the Red Cross and the Relief Committee, held at kenesas to finance convalescence centres for wounded and sick soldiers. In 1917, Tsar Nicolas II paid a visit to one such centre, while also calling in at the local Karaim kenesa. The centre had received a 100,000 rouble donation from the Yevpatoriya community, of which 20,000 roubles came from the town’s acting mayor, Semen Ezrovich Duvan (1870–1957). Interestingly, the Russian Karaims also provided funds for the Military Order of the Saint Grand Martyr and the Triumphant George.7 The Karaim communities in the western parts of the Russian Empire – the scene of heavy fighting – suffered terribly during the first two years of the war, which forced many to flee eastward and seek refuge in Kharkov, Moscow, Odessa, Melitopol, Simferopol, Sumy and elsewhere in Russia.8

84 Petr Kaleta The small town of Sumy played host to 108 displaced Karaims, who – in a letter to the new Taurida Hakham, Seraya Shapshal, dated 11 November 1915 – described their predicament in these words: Each of us receives 5–6 roubles a month, which is much too little. A single small room may be occupied by 10–12 people, with one after another falling ill due to dirt, cold and humidity. There is no money to buy wood, coal, even a tiny a piece of meat to cook a soup. We only can afford bread. Three-fourths of us are the elderly and children, unable to earn anything, and only between 10 and 12 are capable of earning. We are trembling at the expectation of freezing weather. And we do not have any place of worship, where we could heal our homesickness.9 The refugees asked the hakham for help in mobilising support from other Karaim communities. Still, before the letter was written, a 15-strong commission was appointed in Yevpatoriya to provide relief to Karaim refugees.

Karaim communities in Russia after the 1917 February Revolution – their functioning and socio-political changes Following the outbreak of the February Revolution, little time was needed for democratic ideas to take hold among all of new Russia’s ethnic and confessional communities. The Karaims were no exception, soon undertaking to promote their compatriots’ cultural and political development.10 On the initiative of Hakham Seraya Shapshal (1873–1961), a Russian-language Karaim periodical was launched in Yevpatoriya in May 1917, under the title News of the Taurida and Odessa Karaim Religious Board (Izvestiya Tavricheskogo i Odesskogo Karaimskogo Dukhovnogo Pravleniya). Articles published in the paper – which today provide one of the main sources for studies into Karaim life in Russia in 1917–1919 – reflect the intention to make the most of the ongoing political democratisation in order to satisfy the community’s national hopes and aspirations, but all within the framework of the Russian state, perceived as the Karaim homeland. The editorial in the paper’s first issue read: “From now on, Russian and Tatar, Pole and Karaim, Jew and Greek – all are equal sons of one mother, the great and mighty Russia.”11 Karaim goals were also specified in greater detail: Brothers, we have to demonstrate that – although small in numbers – we, the Karaims, have the right to self-determination; that we have our own religion, history, literature and arts; and that we can make our own, original contribution to the treasure house of all-Russian culture.12 For the first time in history, Karaims could form their own political party. The founding group for the Karaim National-Democratic Party for Cultural Self-Determination (Russian: Karaimskaya natsionalno-demokraticheskaya

The Karaims 85 partiya kulturnogo samoopredeleniya) had its first meeting on 18 May 1917 in Yevpatoriya, at Alexander’s Karaim Spiritual Religious College. Among those present was Sima Saadevich Elyashevich (1879–1933), who later became the party’s chief ideologue. Providing a conduit for the Karaims to express and realise their cultural aspirations, the party showed certain similarities with the programmes of the Constitutional Democratic Party (unconditional support for the Provisional Government and its decisions) and the Party of Social Revolutionaries (demands for land socialisation, removal of estate-linked restrictions, calls for social egalitarianism).13 The new party’s manifesto, presented in the News of the Taurida and Odessa Karaim Religious Board, argued – in line with the self-determination paradigm – that the Karaims are a separate people, within the “Turkic-Semitic race”. But with questions of nationality and faith so tightly interwoven in the Karaim mindset, the institution of religion was proclaimed by party ideologues as a historical foundation for the Karaim community’s self-identification. Confessional affinity with the Karaim in Turkey, Egypt and Palestine was emphasised, and in the case of the Karaims from Halicz and Lithuania there was also an added linkage of shared ethnicity. The manifesto recognised two national languages – the historical language of Old Testament writings (Biblical Hebrew) and the Karaim language, referred to as “Chaltay, close to the contemporary Tatar language” – and it described the Karaim “national territory” as Chufut-Kale with environs, the areas endowed to the Karaims in Troki, the Karaim cemeteries in Troki, Łuck, Poniewież (Panevėžys), Halicz and elsewhere, and also the kenesa in Jerusalem, founded by Anan ben David. But the manifesto clearly emphasised that the Karaims were citizens of the Russian state, without any separatist inclinations.14 In one of its declarations, the Yevpatoriya group made a call for the Karaims to develop their own identity: “We must become a nation, we have to participate more actively in our national and cultural revival, in the forging of our identity.”15 The party did not survive the outbreak of civil war and frequent changes in Crimean government. Its chief ideologist, Sima Elyashevich left in 1921 for Moscow, where his political views radically adjusted to the new conditions, turning the former champion of religious, nationalist and patriotic ideas into an atheist and a committed internationalist.16 Such turnabouts, though, were an exception rather than the rule among members of the Karaim community. In the period after the February Revolution, several important events took place. Between the 18th and 27th of June 1917, a conference of Karaim popular representatives and clergy (Russian: Syezd karaimskoy obshchestvennosti i dukhovenstva) was held in Yevpatoriya, the traditional venue of such gatherings. The topics discussed were incorporated into the programme of the Karaim National Congress, convened two months later. These topics, discussed in June, included an attempt to define Karaim identity, with two options put forward. Some wanted to recognise as Karaim all people of Karaim religious confession, irrespective of their ethnic background. Others

86 Petr Kaleta argued that in addition to Karaim confession, the other condition for being a Karaim is to belong to the historically developed national community. In this reasoning, the “Karaim nationality” comprised the Crimean Karaims and their descendants (including lineages going back to the time preceding Crimea’s annexation by Russia), and the Karaims from Constantinople, Egypt, Jerusalem, Baghdad, Syria and Lithuania nurturing spiritual ties with Crimea. The Congress chose the latter definition, based on ethnicity but also taking into account the confessional aspect.17 The second Karaim National Congress was held in Yevpatoriya between 27 August and 3 September 1917. Preparations for the event, its proceedings and results were covered in detail by the News of the Taurida and Odessa Karaim Religious Board (similarly as with the first congress). The 49 delegates were appointed at general meetings of individual Karaim communities which, in proportion to their numerical strength, could send one or more representatives. Electoral rights, to vote and stand for election, were enjoyed by all members of the community aged no less than 20, of both sexes – for women it was the first time they could exercise these rights18 – who stayed in the community’s territory for at least two months.19 The Congress once again took up the question of Karaim self-determination. In an adopted resolution, the Karaims were described as not only a religious group but primarily a nation, understood in terms of ethnicity.20 Another important item on the agenda was to transform Alexander’s Karaim Spiritual Religious College – seen as a crucial element of Karaim national education – into an institution where secular subjects would be more widely represented in the curriculum. The delegates agreed that the educational activity of the college should be continued without interruption. Regarding liturgy in languages other than Hebrew, a resolution adopted on the 28th of August – with 34 votes in favour, 11 against and one abstention – called for the publication of a Karaim prayer book with parallel transliteration into Cyrillic, and translations into Russian and Turkish.21 On the cultural front, Moysey Yakovlevich Firkovich (1846–1918), inspired by Hakham Shapshal, embarked in mid-1916 on the creation of the Karaim national library, Karay Bitikliği, at the Karaim Religious Board. After a slower start, to reach around 1,200 precious books and manuscripts in mid1917,22 the collection almost doubled – to 2,266 volumes23 – in the next several months. The national library, which soon came under the directorship of Sima Elyashevich, played an important role in promoting the Karaim identity. It was supported, as we can learn from a note in the News of the Taurida and Odessa Karaim Religious Board, by many members of the Karaim community who endowed it with national archives and book collections, as well as providing financial contributions.24 The library, which continued growing in 1918 – when it acquired, e.g., some precious old prints and manuscripts of Abram Yufudovich Michri – survived until 1929.25 An attempt was made to regulate matters related to oversight of the Yevpatoriya community’s assets and finances. It was to be taken care of by a

The Karaims 87 proposed 20-strong Council of Electors – Esrim, or “twenty” in Hebrew – to be chosen from among members of the community. Two treasurers (gabay) would manage community finances on a day-to-day basis.26 The Council, however, soon after its appointment on 23 April 1917, saw its mandate rescinded by the community’s general assembly on the 14th of May of the same year.27 Throughout 1917, Karaim cultural and educational associations were springing up in most towns and cities of the Taurida Governorate, including Odessa, with the goal of popularising this ethnic group’s history, religion, literature and arts. One of them was the Karaim National Club in Theodosia, established on 3 May 1917, with multiple thematic sections. Other active educational establishments included the Sevastopol Cultural and Educational Association, set up in June 1917, with a membership of more than 200 (headed by Dr. I. A. Teryaki), the Karaim Youth’s Cultural and Educational Circle in Simferopol (headed by A. Zajączkowski from Troki, later a leading Turkic studies scholar in Poland) and the Youth Circle in Yevpatoriya (headed by the educator, A. I. Khodzhash). Organisational activity was also taken up by Karaims from the Empire’s western provinces, who found themselves in Crimea as internally displaced persons, fleeing war. On the initiative of a Vilna-born campaigner and journalist, Owadiasz I. Pilecki, the NationalDemocratic Circle of Lithuanian Karaims for Cultural Self-Determination was formed in 1917, declaring to comply with the programme, and operate within the structures, of the Karaim National-Democratic Party for Cultural Self-Determination.28 The role played in the life of the Karaim community by the News of the Taurida and Odessa Karaim Religious Board would be hard to exaggerate. In the period after the February Revolution, it provided a platform for an exchange of views on matters of religion and – even more importantly – on topical social and political issues. Five volumes (Nos 1, 2, 3, 4, 5–6) were brought out between May and November 1917, before the paper was suspended for seven months as a result of fierce political clashes in Crimea, which brought Bolsheviks to power for a short period in early 1918. In the paper’s last stage, from July 1918 to February 1919, three volumes were irregularly published (Nos 1 and 2 in 1918, and No. 1 in 1919).29

The Crimean Peninsula and Solomon S. Krym For quite a long time during World War I, it might seem that the Crimean Peninsula – and, with it, the local Karaim communities – would stay relatively safe. But in 1917–1920 the picture was darkened by the revolution of October 1917, a series of changes of Crimean government and, most painfully, by the bloody civil war which actually reached its culmination on the territory of Crimea. No story about Crimean elites of the last three decades of the 19th century would be complete without presenting the contribution of Karaim families,

88 Petr Kaleta whose members occupied high positions in state administration, educational institutions, etc. The Kryms, hailing from Theodosia, were among those traditional, well-positioned and affluent Crimean clans. One of them, in particular, left his mark on the history of a disintegrating Russia, namely Solomon Samuilovich Krym (1867–1936), an agronomist, social campaigner, politician and an active representative of the Karaim community.30 He was born in Theodosia as one of twelve children of Samuil Avraamovich Krym (1835–1898) – a landowner, businessman, educator and the city’s mayor in 1863–1869 – and Adzhikey Shabataevna Khadzhi. After completing education in Theodosia’s Gymnasium, Solomon Krym moved to Moscow where he graduated from Peter’s Agricultural Academy. His main interest was in horticulture and cultivation of grapes, a discipline in which he authored two academic publications. Solomon Krym was active in multiple fields, combining membership of many agrarian associations with sitting on Theodosia’s municipal council and councils of local government bodies (zemstva) for the Theodosia county and the Taurida Governorate. A philanthropist and promoter of learning, he financed archaeological excavation projects and initiated the foundation in 1918 of Taurida University in Simferopol, the first institution of higher learning in Crimea. As a member of the Constitutional Democratic Party (also called the Party of People’s Freedom), he headed its committee in Theodosia and was elected to the first and fourth State Duma, representing the Taurida Governorate and its zemstvo. Krym actively contributed to the First All-Russia Karaim National Congress in Yevpatoriya in 1910, and after the death of the Taurida and Odessa Hakham, Samuil Pampulov (1831–1911), he was seriously considered as a possible successor, reflecting the widespread respect he earned within and without the Karaim community. But eventually Krym decided not to announce his candidacy.31 The February Revolution and the subsequent changes in 1917 could not but provide an outlet for the energies and capabilities of this venerable person of considerable influence on Crimean affairs. Solomon Krym, as one of Crimea’s leading Constitutional Democrats (abbreviated to: “Kadets”), was appointed a commissioner at the Ministry of Agriculture in the Provisional Government. The chaos that ensued in the aftermath of the Bolsheviks’ October coup d’état also spread to Crimea. Exploiting the dire economic conditions of the time, the Bolsheviks worked to consolidate their position on the peninsula. The Crimean Tatars seized the opportunity, too, and in November they proclaimed the Crimean People’s Republic. When the civil war came to Crimea in December 1917, and following a military intervention by Soviet forces in January 1918 (de facto crushing the state of Crimean Tartars), Solomon Krym, as a Constitutional Democrat, found himself in grave danger. But the government of the Soviet Socialist Republic of Taurida – in existence from March to April 1918, comprising Bolsheviks and Socialist Revolutionaries – was overthrown, and in May 1918 Crimea was taken over by the German army. In talks on the formation of a local government, Krym was

The Karaims 89 a potential candidate for a ministerial portfolio. The Kadets then represented a potent political force in Crimea, where local activists were joined by party members from other regions of the country, fleeing Bolsheviks. Many of the newcomers had relatives, friends and summer houses in Crimea. The Kadets’ steadfast opinions were not always in line with the aspirations of some of Crimea’s political forces (nationalists, Social Revolutionaries, Mensheviks, Tatar national movement). The Kadets did not support the cause of Crimean independence and wanted the peninsula to stay in Russia. They accepted the idea of provisional government, but only until the Bolshevik regime was ousted and the All-Russia state restored. Nor did they consent to such a government being led by a senior representative of the Crimean Tatars’ national movement, Dzhafer Seydamet (Cafer Seydamet, 1889–1960), who was backed by the German command. In the course of negotiations held in Simferopol in June 1918 between the assembly of Crimean Tatars (Qurultay) and representatives of the Kadets, the idea was put forward of forming a coalition government that would comprise Crimean Tatars, Crimean Germans and the Kadets. Krym’s candidacy for the minister of finance was proposed but it proved untenable, given the Kadets’ opposition to a Crimean independence in the form championed by Crimean Tatars with the backing of Germany and Turkey. In these circumstances, having the permission of the command of the German forces – who occupied Crimea from early May to 15 November 1918 – Tatar delegates began preparations to form the so-called first government of the Crimean People’s Republic, which was to be headed by Matvey Aleksandrovich Sulkevich (1865–1920), a Russian army lieutenant general and a Lithuanian Tatar by birth. Inaugurated in June 1918, the cabinet survived until Crimea’s capture in November by the Volunteer Army of General Anton Denikin (1872– 1947). The formation and activities of this government were fiercely criticised by the Kadets. The situation changed diametrically in mid-November, when the Germans left Crimea.32 As early as October 1918 everybody saw that the end was near for the first government of the Crimean People’s Republic, which had been descending into total inertia since September. Solomon S. Krym, popular among various groups of the population, was then proposed for the prime ministerial post by the central committee of the Kadets, who sought cooperation with the Volunteer Army. After Krym’s confirmation by the Taurida Governorate’s zemstvo in Simferopol, the new cabinet began its duties on the 15th of November. Importantly, Krym commanded respect among many in the Crimean Tatar community, who perceived him as one of theirs (in part because of the linguistic and cultural affinity between Crimea’s Tatars and Karaims). But there was also no shortage of his firm opponents among Tatar champions of Crimean independence.33 Doubling in his cabinet as minister of agriculture and people’s estates, Salomon Krym never ceased to emphasise that he led only a provisional government, until Russia

90 Petr Kaleta reunited and flourished as a free, democratic state. Among the government’s goals was to protect the interests of all Crimea’s ethnic groups, and especially the numerous group of Crimean Tatars.34 Facing tough conditions and lacking military support, the Karaim politician turned to Denikin, which soon resulted in the presence of Volunteer Army troops on the peninsula. Simultaneously, Entente warships carried out a landing operation in the port of Sevastopol. The command of the Volunteer Army demanded martial law be declared throughout Crimea, which would mean ceding all power to the military. Arrests, murders of innocent people and anti-Semitic attacks provoked growing anger among the population, and the government’s timid protestations remained ineffective. The Volunteer Army command feared Crimean separatism and was wary of the democratic ideas propounded by the Krym cabinet. That benefited neither the society nor the government. The peninsula became a sheltering ground for Bolshevik campaigners, former commissars, who switched into semi-legal activities. Krym and his cabinet were criticised, ever more vocally, by the Tatars, put off by the forced conscriptions into the Volunteer Army. These developments were taking place amidst steadily deteriorating economic conditions. By April 1919, the Crimean civil society and the Krym cabinet found themselves in a deep crisis, which only contributed to the successes of the Red Army. A Bolshevik military offensive in Crimea toppled the government on 11 April 1919. Solom Krym emigrated the same month to settle in France, in the footsteps of many other Russian – and Karaim – émigrés. He no longer engaged in politics, returning to his early interests in horti- and viticulture. But he did not withdraw from Karaim social life. He headed the Karaim Society in France, which he founded in 1923 in Paris. In 1925, Solomon Krym published a Russian-language collection, The Crimean Legends, which includes an allegorical portrait of Russia’s 1917 revolution and civil war, The Hakham’s Prayer (Russian: Molitva Gakhama). He died in 1936, outside Toulon.35

In conclusion The two Russian Revolutions of 1917 and, most profoundly, the civil war represented a total refutation of the Russian state’s previous form. For the small community of Russian – and East European – Karaims, it was a rough time indeed. Following the February Revolution, it could be expected that the democratisation of political life in Russia would help preserve and promote Karaim culture and teachings, and that – most importantly – it would help complete the decades’ long intense process of developing a Karaim national identity, which began to replace the previously dominant religious self-identification. The October Revolution supressed this process, but a final blow to the hopes for a better future cherished by Russian – and especially Crimean – Karaim was dealt by the civil war, which affected virtually every Karaim family in Crimea (just as the Karaim families were affected in other parts of Russia, especially in big cities). After the peninsula was for yet another time

The Karaims 91 captured by the Red Army in November 1920, a prolonged period of “red terror” forced not only Volunteer Army officers and men but also thousands of citizens of different ethnic backgrounds to seek ways of escaping the turmoil. Danger also loomed for the Karaims – Russian patriots of liberaldemocratic persuasion, often wealthy merchants, businessmen and intellectuals – who had sided with the “Whites”. Seeing no place left for them in the homeland, very many – mostly men – now joined the wave of Russian émigrés leaving for new homes in France, the United States, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria and Germany. Karaim families were thus separated for ever and ever. The Karaim population, registering a total of 14,000 across Russia in 1914 (including 8,000 in Crimea), began to shrink with the outbreak of World War I. The decline was even sharper in the diaspora, where small, dispersed communities found it most challenging to hold back assimilation. Little wonder, then, that today’s estimates for the East European Karaim population speak of only 1,000–1,500 people. Those staying in Crimea – and forcefully assimilated in Soviet Russia – forgot all but completely their native language, which even previously was almost wholly identical with the language of Crimean Tatars. Religious and cultural idiosyncrasies in their life disappeared, and ethnic identity, at best, turned into cultural identity. Even though the émigré Karaim community included many people of learning and culture, their Karaim roots fell into oblivion, especially among the younger generations. Apart from scholars specialising in the Karaim language and history, few remember the background of the prime minister in the second government of the Crimean People’s Republic, Solomon Krym – a Russian patriot and, at the same time, a member of the traditional Karaim community. Many in his extended family settled abroad, mostly in the United States and France, but also in, e.g., Germany and Czechoslovakia. Starting a new, post-war life in France, Solomon Krym symbolises the vicissitudes of those Crimean Karaims whom the winds of political change forced to leave their home country.

Notes 1 In this chapter the term “Karaims” has been used to refer to Turkic adherents of Karaite Judaism in Eastern Europe. 2 The Karaim communities in Halicz and Kukizów fell under Austrian rule after the first partition of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in 1772. 3 S. Szyszman, Karaimizm. Doktryna i historia, Wrocław, 2005, p. 112. 4 It was headed by a spiritual leader, known as hakham. 5 М. С. Сарач [et al.], Караимская народная энциклопедия, vol. 1, Москва, 1995, p. 119. 6 The Karaim religious life from the mid-19th century to the early 20th century is discussed in Д. Прохоров, Органи караїмського конфесійного самоврядування та питання освіти караїмів Таврійської губернії, “Сходознавство” 2008 (41–42), pp. 130–146.

92 Petr Kaleta 7 E. I. Lebiediewa, Karaimi w Rosji podczas I wojny światowej (w okresie 1914–1916), in M. Abkowicz, H. Jankowski (eds), Karaj kiuńlari. Dziedzictwo Narodu Karaimskiego we Współczesnej Europie / Наследие Караимов в Современной Европе /Heritage of Karaims in Present Europe, Wrocław, 2004, pp. 119–122. 8 О. И. Пилецкий, “О караимах-беженцах Литвы”, Известия Таврическаго и Одесскаго караимскаго Духовнаго правления, No. 4, 5 августа 1917, pp. 23–26. 9 E. Lebiediewa, Karaimi w Rosji …, pp. 122–123. 10 Д. А. Прохоров, Общественные, национально-культурные объединения и органыконфессионального самоуправления крымских караимов в 1917–1920 гг., “Материалы по археологии, истории и этнографии Таврии. Вып. XV”, Cимферополь 2009, pp. 573–621. 11 “От редакции”, Известия Таврическаго и Одесскаго караимскаго Духовнаго правлени, No. 1, 20 мая 1917, p. 1. Original quote: “Отныне русский и татарин, поляк и караим, еврей и грек – все они равноправные сыны одной общей матеры, великой и могучей России.” 12 “От редакции”, Известия …, No. 1, 20 мая 1917, p. 2. Original quote: “Братья! Нам нужно доказать, что мы, караимы, несмотря на свою малочисленность, имеем право на самоопределение; что у нас есть собставенная религия, история, литература, искусство; что мы тоже внесли и можем внести в сокровищницу общерусской культуры нечто свое, самобытное.” 13 Д. А. Прохоров, Караимские общественно-политические объединения и органыконфессионального самоуправления крымских караимов в 1917–1920 гг., in V. Bushkov, Валентин Бушков [et al.] (eds), Proceedings of the Fifteenth Annual International Conference on Jewish Studies Part 2. In Memoriam of Rashid Kaplanov / Материалы Пятнадцатой ежегодной международной междисциплинарной конференции по иудаике. Часть 2. Памяти Рашида Мурадовича Капланова. Академическая серия. Выпуск 23, Москва, 2008, p. 362. 14 “Проект Программы Караимской национально демократической партии культурнаго самоопределения”, Известия …, No. 2, 10 июня 1917, pp. 4–5. For more on the Karaim National-Democratic Party see Сима Ельяшевич: “Граждане Караимы!”, Известия Таврическаго и Одесскаго караимскаго Духовнаго правления, No. 1, 20 мая 1917, pp. 12–13. 15 “От Евпаторийской организационной группы”, Известия …, No. 1, 20 мая 1917, p. 15. Original quote: “Мы должны стать народом, мы должны принять живейшее участие в органзации своего национальнаго и культурнаго возрождения и самоопределения.” 16 Д. Прохоров, “Караимские общественно-политические объединения …”, p. 363. 17 “2-ий день сезда”, Известия …, No. 3, 10 июля 1917, p. 6. Cf. the annex: Samookreślenia uchwalone przez Karaimów pod przewodnictwem S. M. Szapszała na zjazdach w 1917 roku, in Karaj kiuńlari. Dziedzictwo Narodu Karaimskiego…, p. 165. 18 Seraya Shapshal spoke in favour of women’s suffrage (in the context of the hakham election), see С. Шапшалъ, “Боговозлюбленные братья и сестры!”, Известия …, No. 1, 20 мая 1917, p. 4. 19 “5-й день савещания”, Известия …, No. 4, 5 августа 1917, p. 7. 20 The Congress adopted the following resolution: “Караимы, являясь коренными обитателями Крыма, представляют собой объединенную общностью веры, крови, языка и обычаев особую народность, издревле сохраняющую неразрывную духовную связь со своими Константинопольскими, Иерусалимскими и Египетскими единоверцами.” [The Karaims, as an indigenous people of Crimea, constitute a separate nation, united by the community of faith, blood, language and custom, and maintaining since times immemorial an unbreakable spiritual bond with their co-religionists in Constantinople, Jerusalem and Egypt.”] “Протоколы заседаний Общенациональнаго Караимскаго Съезда, происходившаго в г. Евпатории от 27

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26 27 28 29 30 31

32 33 34 35

августа по 3 сентября 1917 года”, Известия …, Nos 5–6, 1 ноября 1917, p. 8. Cf. the annex: Samookreślenia uchwalone przez …, p. 165. А. И. Катык, “Национальный Караимский съезд”, Известия …, Nos 5–6, 1 ноября 1917, p. 3. М. Я. Фиркович, “Национальная Караимская Библиотека при Духовном Правлениию”, Известия …, No. 2, 10 июня 1917, pp. 8–9. М. Я. Фиркович, “Национальная караимская Библиотека при Духовном Правлениию, Карай Битиклиги’”, Известия …, Nos. 5–6, 1 ноября 1917, p. 41. С. Ельяшевич, “Карай-Битиклиги”, Известия …, No. 2, декабр 1918, pp. 11–13. In 1929 the Karay Bitkligi collection was divided between the V. I. Lenin State Library of the USSR in Moscow (now: Russian State Library) and the M. E. Saltykov-Shchedrin State Public Library in Leningrad (now: National Library of Russia in St. Petersburg). “Проект положения. Об Управлении делами Евпаторийской Караимской общины”, Известия …, No. 2, 10 июня 1917, pp. 7–8. “Хроника”, Известия …, No. 1, 20 мая 1917, pp. 10–11. Д. А. Прохоров, Молодіжний національно-просвітницький рух серед караїмів Російської імперії на початку XX століття, “Вісник ЛНУ імені Тараса Шевченка” 2009 (21), pp. 88–91. Н. В. Яблоновская: Журнал `Известия караимского духовного правления' (1917–1919) в контексте караимской прессы начала XX века, “Культура народов Причерноморья” 2004 (56), pp. 37–41. В. В. Шелохаев [et al.] (eds): Государственная Дума России. Volume 1: Государственная Дума Российской империи, 1906–1917, Москва, 2013, p. 314. Various authors give different dates of S. S. Krym’s birth. For more on Solomon Krym see В. Г. Зарубин, Соломон Крым и второе Крымское краевое правительство (1918–1919), in Valentin Bushkov / Валентин Бушков [et al.] (eds), Proceedings of the Fifteenth Annual International Conference on Jewish Studies Part 2. In Memoriam of Rashid Kaplanov / Материалы Пятнадцатой ежегодной международной междисциплинарной конференции по иудаике. Часть 2. Памяти Рашида Мурадовича Капланова. Академическая серия. Выпуск 23. Moscow/Москва, 2008, pp. 328–330. On the person of S. S. Krym also see М. Б. Кизилов, Караим Соломон Крым: жизнь и судьба. Историческое Наследие Крыма 10, Симферополь 2005, pp. 86–96; В. A. Ельяшевич: Крым, Соломон Самуилович: Энциклопедия крымских караимов. http://karaimbook.com/?p=1447 [29 August 2017]. Cf. В. Г. Зарубин, Соломон Крым и второе Крымское краевое правительство (1918–1919), pp. 330–331. D. Sejdamet, Krym. Przeszłość, teraźniejszość i dążenia niepodległościowe Tatarów krymskich, Warszawa, 1930, pp. 112–114. В. Г. Зарубин, Соломон Крым и второе Крымское краевое правительство (1918–1919), pp. 331–334. В. Г. Зарубин, Соломон Крым и второе Крымское краевое правительство (1918–1919), pp. 334–344.

7

The 1917 Russian Revolution and Belarusian national movement Aliaksandr Smalančuk

Russia was unrecognisable following the 1917 revolution. The February unrest in Petrograd resulted in the downfall of the autocracy and political freedom unheard of in Russia. The new authorities were more cautious about the national issue but they could no longer suppress the legalisation of national movements. In what way did revolutionary events influence the growth and nature of the Belarusian movement? What new opportunities for resolving national problems did the revolution offer? To what extent did leaders of the Belarusian national movement manage to take advantage of them? Could this movement have been more successful? This chapter attempts to answer the aforementioned questions. An ‘unusual’ representative of the Belarusian national revival of the early 20th century, landlord and public official Roman Skirmunt, will be at the centre of the narrative. He became the head of the only legal Belarusian organisation in Minsk – the Belarusian Society for Assistance to War Victims – in January 1917. This society was in the vanguard of the national movement in the aftermath of the February unrest. Roman Skirmunt (1868–1939) was one of the founders of the ideology of krajowość (‘fellow countrymen’ or ‘natives’) and a prominent representative of its conservative wing. The Krajowcy put forward the idea of a nation as a political notion as opposed to the national movements of an ethno-cultural nature. They tried to preserve the territorial integrity of the former Grand Duchy of Lithuania (‘historical Lithuania’) and ensure the fulfilment of the political and economic interests of the community of Lithuanian Poles on Belarusian and Lithuanian lands. In this chapter, the revolutionary events in Russia are treated as stages of the same Russian Revolution that started in February 19171 after the overthrow of the Romanov dynasty and ended in January 1918 with the dissolution of the Constituent Assembly by the Bolsheviks. The latter event is regarded as the end of the revolution by renowned American historian Richard Pipes,2 and the author of this chapter fully agrees with him in that regard.

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What was the Belarusian national movement like on the eve of the revolution? It became organised as late as at the beginning of the 20th century when the first political party, Biełaruskaja Sacyalistycznaja Hramada (the Belarusian Socialist Assembly – BSA), was established along with the legal press: newspapers Naša Dola and Naša Niva. It was a time of rapid development in elite Belarusian culture and the dissemination of the national idea. As regards the latter, the Belarusian movement failed. The ethno-cultural version of the national idea was not very popular among the Belarusian masses due to, among other things, Polonisation (self-Polonisation) of the Belarusian elite in the 17th–18th centuries as well as the Russification policy of the 19th century. In the early 20th century, the authorities of imperial Russia managed to separate the Belarusian national intelligentsia from the masses, having juxtaposed its ideology with the concept of zapadnorusizm (Westernrussism) and Great Russian chauvinism. Belarusian politicians found it difficult to compete ideologically with the more advanced Polish and Lithuanian national movements. The Belarusian movement became more active as late as during the First World War in territories occupied by the German troops. Vilna became the centre of the Belarusian movement. The first Belarusian schools were opened in the Grodno region. The Belarusian representatives declared the right of Belarusians to self-determination for the first time at an international forum at the 3rd Congress of the Peoples of Central and Eastern Europe in Lausanne in June 1916. However, one swallow does not make a Belarusian spring. Belarus was divided by the frontline. Nearly 3 million residents of its western part became displaced persons forced to move eastwards in 1915, and frontline governorates were flooded with troops and refugees from the Kingdom of Poland. The latter did not understand nor want to understand and take into account the national, cultural and historical specifics of Belarus. A telling example is that of Minsk where the number of newcomers exceeded the pre-war population by more than three to one in early 1917.3 In January 1917, Roman Skirmunt became the head of the Belarusian Society for Assistance to War Victims,4 which was in the vanguard of the Belarusian movement after the overthrow of the Romanov dynasty, as noted above. News of the February events in Petrograd was greeted with joy and enthusiasm in Minsk. One correspondent for a Minsk newspaper describes the sentiments in the following way: Festivities kicked-off in the city; lively and ardent enthusiasm overwhelmed the population … the entire city. The abolition of the government and police, the demolition of the ‘nests of autocracy’ was carried out peacefully and without violence, within sensible bounds. Only the gendarmerie managed to burn their files in order to consign to oblivion the ‘glorious’ past of Minsk guards and provocateurs having reduced their ‘honourable’ names to ashes’.5

96 Alaksandr Smalančuk Many were struck by the pace of the changes. Thus, the irreplaceable chairman of the Minsk Agricultural Society Edward Woyniłłowicz spoke of the ease with which the overthrow of the czarist rule had been achieved in his memoirs. Tsarism, which had seemed untouchable yesterday, had no supporters among the military, public officials or the clergy today.6 Meanwhile, it was precisely Roman Skirmunt who became the initiator of the transformation of a modest charitable organisation into a temporary Belarusian National Committee (Biełaruski Nacyjanalny Kamitet, BNK), which immediately embarked on intensive organisational and propaganda work. The BNK comprised representatives of the Socialist wing of the Belarusian movement, which was indicative of Skirmunt’s intent to unite all wings of the Belarusian movement. His gravitas contributed to the fact that the BNK immediately became an active participant in political life in the city and its representative became a member of the city Public Security Committee. The BNK and its leader Roman Skimunt delivered the first public address containing a slogan of Belarusian sovereignty within the borders of the federative and democratic Russian republic back in March 1917.7 Autonomous Belarus was supposed to comprise the Minsk, Mogilev, Vitebsk and Grodno governorates, most of the Vilna governorate and several districts of the Smolensk and Chernigov governorates. It was precisely this idea that became the dominant slogan of the 1917 national movement and marked the next step forward. The Belarusian national-and-cultural revival was then bolstered by vigorous political activity. The first and most important BNK task was to organise and hold the Congress of Belarusian parties and organisations in Minsk on March 25–26, 1917. It was attended by more than 150 participants who represented the entire spectrum of the Belarusian movement eastwards of the frontline. The congress elected a permanent Belarusian National Committee vested with the main task of ‘organising Belarus’ in collaboration with the Provisional Government, organising elections to the Belarusian National Council (Biełaruskaja Krajovaja Rada) and canvassing for the elections to the Constituent Assembly in line with the principles of the federative and democratic Russian Republic. It was planned to establish a governorate, district and even (rural) volost BNK. Apart from Roman Skirmunt, Arkady Smolicz, Pavał Alaksiuk, Lavon Vitan-Dubiejkovski, Źmicier Żyłunovič and others were elected members of the BNK. These were mostly socialists. Still, they elected Roman Skirmunt head of the BNK Committee. No one expected rapid radicalisation of public sentiments since the Provisional Government of Prince Georgy Lvov seemed relatively stable. In the aftermath of the debates, it was decided that negotiations with the Cadets over the sovereignty of Belarus would better be conducted by Skirmunt than Belarusian socialists.8 Thus, at the end of March 1917, the congress of Belarusian organisations together with the BNK announced their readiness to ensure the institution

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of Belarus as a political entity as part of the democratic Russian Federation. However, it was extremely difficult for the BNK to become the root of all national governance in Belarus at the time. It could only be the centre for consolidation of the part of the Belarusian population under the jurisdiction of Russia.9 This was what BNK members together with Skirmunt focused on. They were also looking for allies among other peoples of Belarus. Skirmunt also sought support for the sovereignty on behalf of large landowners. And he was quite successful at that. Thus, Princess Maria Madeleine Radziwiłł and the above-mentioned Edward Woyniłłowicz provided the Belarusian organisation with significant assistance. Prince Stanisław Radziwiłł from Stolin sent a telegram of welcome to the Belarusian Congress and Prince Hieronim Drucki-Lubecki participated in BNK meetings. It was critical to assess the prospects of the Belarusian movement conservatively at that moment. The Belarusian movement was in a state of euphoria for a few weeks after the overthrow of the Romanov dynasty. However, very soon, Belarusian politicians became convinced of the powerful tendencies of centralism both in the capital of Russia and Belarus. New Russian officials helped them realise that. In April 1917, the Belarusian delegation went to Petrograd for talks with the Provisional Government over the sovereignty of Belarus. The visit was unsuccessful. As a member of the delegation Pavał Alaksiuk later recalled, Provisional Government ministers listened carefully, showed sympathy and … did nothing. Nothing ‘at all’,10 as he summed up the outcomes of the negotiations. The failure of the visit was due to the lack of real military force available which could be used to defend the idea of sovereignty. However, the trip to Petrograd testified to the presence of political forces in Belarus that sought its sovereignty and the federalisation of Russia. ‘The Belarusian question’ was raised for the first time within the borders of the former empire. The BNK also played an important role in promoting Belarusian culture and the national idea. Skirmunt knew the history of the Polish national movement and realised that a modern nation could not be created without long-term propaganda campaigns aimed at promoting a national culture as the basis for the new identity of mass population. In April 1917, the BNK contributed to the establishment of the Belarusian Culture Society and in May 1917, a theatre was opened (the First Society of Belarusian Drama and Comedy).11 In June, the first two premieres of the Belarusian theatre took place in Minsk.12 Public lectures on Belarusian studies which highlighted various aspects of Belarusian history and culture were also held in Minsk. For example, on May 14, 1917, the Minsk newspaper Novoye Varshavskoye Utro ran an invitation to a lecture on the importance of national life for Belarusians.13 The Belarusian National Fund was created in order to finance cultural development projects. Preparations to launch a new Belarusian newspaper began. The first issue of Volnaja

98 Alaksandr Smalančuk Biełaruś was published following Skirmunt’s resignation and it became one of the most influential newspapers of the Belarusian national movement. The Days of Free Belarus were held in a number of cities in late June. On these occasions, BNK leaflets were distributed, lectures on history and culture were delivered and contributions to the National Fund were collected. Aside from Minsk, such Days were also held in Borisov and Mogilev. It is noteworthy that the intensification of national movements and the popularity of the idea of Russia as a federal state in the borderlands caused concern among the Russian political elite from conservatives to socialists. Despite differences of opinion regarding social reforms, they were united in terms of preserving the unitary and centralised Russian state. In Minsk, one of the initiators of the consolidation of statists was Sergey Kovalik, the legend of the Narodnichestvo movement. A similar stance was held by the Minsk Governorate Peasant Committee headed by Mikhail Frunze. On April 20–23, 1917, the 1st Congress of Peasant Deputies of Minsk and Vilna governorates was held in Minsk. More than 800 participants took part in the congress directed by the Bolsheviks. One of the organisers (Filip Korotkevich) noted afterwards that the main objective of the congress was to undermine the Belarusian movement as well as BNK activities.14 It should be recognised that most of the Belarusian peasantry were indeed concerned not about the issue of national self-identity or state sovereignty but were rather preoccupied with the day-to-day concerns of the socioeconomic reality. Propaganda of Russian socialist parties which promoted the integrity of Russia criticised the allegedly ‘bourgeois and land-lordly’ character of the BNK and ‘Polish-mindedness’ of the BSA. According to this quite effective propaganda, virtually all the existing problems were to be resolved. It fuelled the social instincts of the lower strata of society and the Belarusian idea went up in flames, having lost out to more attractive ideas. The anti-Belarusian campaign conducted by the leftist political parties also resonated with the peasantry, because in spring 1917 the BNK did not combine the idea of Belarusian sovereignty and cultural revival with finding solutions to urgent socio-economic problems. Belarusian historian Stanisłaŭ Rudovič rightly pointed out that an absence of an agrarian agenda as well as Roman Skirmunt who had a reputation as an adherent to landlordism being the head of the BNK could not win the support of the population for the Committee and the organisations associated with it.15 Regional Belarusian organisations voiced their discontent and an opposition comprising representatives of the BSA was gradually forming within the BNK. It is noteworthy that socialists did not trust their ‘socially alien’ colleague even though they voted for Skirmunt. His desire to rally all Belarusian forces and attract large landowners to BNK initiatives caused

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discontent among the BSA. However, the main reason behind the split and the resignation of Skirmunt as the head of the BNK in May 1917 was rapid radicalisation of public sentiments. Skirmunt’s failure was accompanied by the failure of the idea of consolidating the Belarusian movement. This marked the advent of the period when social differences were stronger than the national idea. That was ‘the road to nowhere’ since only the single-mindedness of the national elite had a chance of success in the absence of substantial social support for a revival. The new socialist leadership in the BNK paid far less heed to national cultural work. The ultimate distancing from Skirmunt and BNK traditions occurred in July 1917 when the subsequent Congress of Belarusian Parties and Organisations was held in Minsk. At the congress, socialists decided to dissolve the BNK, which was replaced by the Central Council of Belarusian Organisations with only BSA members at the helm. The national idea receded into the background supplanted by the prospect of success in the class struggle. Head of the BSA Źmicier Żyłunovič commented on the decision later on: ‘The bourgeoisie, albeit our own bourgeoisie inspired by the idea of revival, it is still the bourgeoisie. So it is the enemy’.16 There is widespread belief in Belarusian historiography that the ‘democratisation’ of the key organisation of the Belarusian movement as well as an exacerbation of the systemic crisis in the country deepened this dire predicament. However, in reality, it was not a ‘democratisation’ but a radicalisation of this organisation. These changes might indeed have increased the number of BSA supporters who were obviously attracted by the socialist rather than the national idea. Pro-national activity by the Central Council was almost non-existent. It was dissolved during its second meeting on October 17, 1917. The Great Belarusian Council (Vialikaja Biełaruskaja Rada) took over the leadership of the Belarusian movement. Although attempts were made to revert to the idea of consolidating different political forces in the fight for the sovereignty of Belarus, that ship had sailed. The fight between the socialist doctrine represented by all-Russian political parties and the national idea and concept of national unity runs like a ‘red’ thread through the 1917 history of the Belarusian movement. Obviously, this was rather a formal fight in 1917. However, form also matters in historical events, especially when history ramps up its pace and months or even days become turning points. Right-wing forces began to dominate the political life of revolutionary Russia in the aftermath of the events of July 3–5, 1917, when the Bolshevist plan to seize power in Petrograd failed. It did not last long. The situation changed dramatically after the suppression of the Kornilov putsch in late August. The Bolsheviks took advantage of the failed coup d’état in order to re-emerge in the political arena as major actors. On the night of October 25, 1917, the Bolsheviks overthrew the Provisional Government. As a member of the Pre-Parliament of Russia, Skirmunt was in

100 Alaksandr Smalančuk Petrograd at the time. He witnessed the intimidation of the ‘bourgeoisie’ and crimes committed by soldiers and sailors who supported the Bolsheviks in the capital. The Minsk newspaper Volnaja Biełaruś covered these events as late as November. It is noteworthy that the coup d’état went unnoticed in Minsk and the borderlands. Most people in Russia did not understand the significance of the event. In order to legitimise their deeds, the Bolsheviks proclaimed the well-known Decrees on Peace and Land during the 2nd Congress of Soviets of Workers’, Soldiers’ and Peasants’ Deputies in the evening of October 26, 1917. The congress adopted them without discussion. The government (the Council of People’s Commissars) headed by Vladimir Ulyanov (Lenin) was established. The term was supposed to last until the convocation of the Constituent Assembly scheduled for November 1917. The Bolsheviks’ plans to destroy the old bourgeois (democratic) order and the formation of the Socialist state were implemented not only due to the efforts of party members. In order to clear the field, the Bolsheviks wanted to attract citizens from the lower strata of society; common workers and peasants who knew nothing about socialism or the dictatorship of the proletariat. As noted by Richard Pipes, the Bolsheviks put across a clear and attractive message: ‘Loot the loot!’17 The former empire was practically handed over to the masses to rob. The Bolshevik Decree on Land introduced the redistribution of all arable land amongst the peasantry. It triggered another peasant revolt that strongly impacted Belarus. The proclaimed workers’ rule meant that workers began to distribute all incomes of enterprises amongst themselves. Front-line soldiers plundered military storage sites and incited peasants of front-line villages to loot landlords’ estates and kill their owners. In fact, the ideas of state and national agency disappeared together with the notion of private property. While the masses were busy looting the property, the Bolsheviks, under the leadership of Lenin and Trotsky, were gradually wiping out their political opponents. As a result, two weeks after the Bolshevik coup no traces of the 12-year-long constitutionalism were left. The Bolshevik version of the dictatorship of the proletariat actually meant the reinstatement of the autocratic rule. The decrees of the Council of People’s Commissars (Sovnarkom) immediately came into force. The Bolsheviks seized power in Minsk and eastern Belarus in the first half of November. Military Revolutionary Committees based on Bolshevik troops of the Western Front were emerging everywhere. The Minsk Council of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies headed by Bolshevik Kārlis Landers was in pole position. In order to legitimise their rule, the Bolsheviks held the 3rd Congress of Peasant Deputies of Minsk and Vilna governorates as well as the Congress of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies of the Western Region and the 2nd Congress of the Armies of the Western Front in mid-November in Minsk.

The Belarusian national movement 101 Meanwhile, the situation in Belarus grew tragic. Landowners with their entire families became victims of revolts by soldiers and peasants. Deserters turned into active participants initiating robberies in front-line areas. Thus, in February 1918, the estate of Savichi owned by Edward Woyniłłowicz was raided. Warned by a servant, he and his wife escaped death but their house and other buildings were ransacked. The family archive comprising 16th–17th century documents – many of them written in Belarusian – was also destroyed. Edward Woyniłłowicz always remained true to his Belarusian origin and supported cultural initiatives by the Belarusian movement. Neither this nor his traditionally good rapport with peasants in nearby villages helped him escape a sad fate.18 Robberies were even more tragic for many landowners in Minsk, Mogilev and the Vitebsk governorates. Thus, the newspaper Dziennik Wileński reported that Count Marian Brzostowski along with his guests, who had tried to defend themselves, was burnt alive during an assault by peasants on the estate of Shepelovo, in the Disensky district. In the Drissensky district, the entire Zajkowski family was murdered by bandits and in the Mogilev region one landowner had all his limbs broken before he was murdered and so on.19 The Bolsheviks turned a social conflict into a fully fledged war which put an end to the traditional benevolence and restraint of the Belarusian peasantry along with the patriarchal and paternalistic attitude of the local nobility. By mid-February 1918, approximately 13,000 estates and private households had been looted.20 Reading newspaper coverage of pogroms and murders of late 1917 to early 1918 in central and eastern Belarus brings to mind the eerily poignant words of Alexander Pushkin from his novel The Capitan’s Daughter – ‘God save us from witnessing a Russian revolt, senseless and merciless’. Pushkin’s drafts contain a continuation of this sentiment which was not included in the published version of the novel: ‘Those who plot impossible upheavals among us, are either young and do not know our people, or are hardhearted men who do not care a straw either for their own lives or those of others’.21 The peasant revolt of the period laid the foundations for a Belarusian society and the state without the Skirmunts and Radziwiłłs. The Bolshevik propaganda that promoted social hatred, guaranteed impunity and encouraged violence and murder undoubtedly played a decisive role. Still, local Belarusians also shoulder historical responsibility for the crimes committed as pogroms of the time dealt a blow to their own future. The blow was dealt not by members of the Central Committee of the Russian Communist Party of the Bolsheviks but by Belarusian peasants and soldiers themselves. Social hatred triumphed over the national idea and solidarity. This was the principal achievement of the Bolshevik phase of the Russian Revolution. It is noteworthy that Skirmunt continued to act as a Belarusian politician even though he initiated a rapprochement with Polish organisations in

102 Alaksandr Smalančuk Belarus in November 1917. He was likely seeking an ally to defend the country against the onslaught of Bolshevism. He perceived a Polish–Belarusian concord as one of the most promising options for such protection. Even more so, since the combat-ready Polish corps under the command of Józef Dowbor-Muśnicki were deployed in Belarus at the time. Meanwhile, in November 1917, an election for the Constituent Assembly was held. The result proved extremely unfortunate for the Belarusian movement represented only by the BSA party in the Minsk district. The Bolsheviks won: thanks to the Western Front soldiers and bloc agreements with the Social Democrats of the Kingdom of Poland and Lithuania, the Polish Socialist Party – Left (PPS-L) and the Latvian Social Democratic Party, the Bolsheviks garnered 63.1%. The Socialist Revolutionary Party (the SRs) along with the Bund and Mensheviks came second with 21.7%. The BSA registered a mere 3,000 votes (0.3%).22 The newspaper Volnaja Biełaruś reported that as few as 161 voters out of 35,600 voted for the BSA in Minsk.23 Belarusian parties and organisations attracted approximately 19,000 votes out of 1,614,000 in three Belarusian constituencies (Mogilev, Minsk and Vitebsk) and the Western Front area.24 This was a serious blow dealt to the reputation of the Belarusian movement. When analysing the reasons behind this failure, Stanislav Rudovich draws attention not only to the hypnotising effect of Bolshevist promises but also to the lack of political experience, differences in opinion and divides in the Belarusian movement. However, the main reason lay in the fact that the Belarusian national idea was much more popular among Belarusian refugees abroad than in Belarus itself.25 Moreover, the idea of convening the Belarusian Constituent Assembly shifted the focus of Belarusian politicians. The success of the Bolsheviks accompanied by the demolition of estates and reprisals against political opponents as well as the Brest peace talks once again brought to the fore the issue of the state and political choice in terms of the agenda of the Belarusian movement. By mid-November, a proposal had already been put forward to convene the All-Belarusian Congress. The disappointing results of the Constituent Assembly election lit the blue touch paper for the acceleration of organisational activity against the backdrop of tough confrontation between the Belarusian movement and the Bolshevik authorities in Minsk. The latter perceived Belarusian revival as a further threat to their unyielding rule in Belarus. Despite all these problems, the Congress, which was attended by nearly 1,900 delegates from all over Belarus, commenced its work on December 5, 1917, in Minsk. Representatives of socialist parties and organisations representing the Belarusian movement were most numerous. Skirmunt’s name cannot be found in the congress materials as he was forced to hide from the Bolsheviks, but he undoubtedly followed the debates closely. His former colleagues and ideological allies such as Pavał Alaksiuk did participate in the congress, however. As regards the issue of Belarusian self-determination, the congress discussed the concept of independence, which gradually rallied increased support, as

The Belarusian national movement 103 opposed to the concept of autonomy within the boundaries of federative and democratic Russia. It is no coincidence that the phrase ‘the Republic of Belarus’ appears countless times in the minutes and shorthand reports from the meetings of the congress and its commissions. The delegates no longer perceived Belarus as the Northwestern Krai of Russia. For many, it had become a stand-alone entity of the future Russian Federation with its own culture, history and traditions. All this led national activists to seriously consider the idea of state independence, which was raised during the congress, although the idea was met with criticism. Nevertheless, supporters of the idea of autonomy were in the majority at the congress. The Brest peace talks contributed to their success. Many believed that the Soviet delegation would defend the interests of Belarus and its peoples. In fact, the Bolsheviks were instead more concerned with staying in power. Power was the focus of attention of the Bolshevik leadership in the socalled western region. On the night of December 18, garrison units surrounded the theatre in Minsk where the congress was being held and dispersed its participants at gunpoint. The members of the congress presidium were arrested. These criminal deeds demonstrated that the attitude of the Bolsheviks towards the idea of Belarusian independence was unambiguous and, thus, the leaders of the Belarusian movement were taught an important lesson. According to Rudovich, the violent dispersal of the All-Belarusian Congress halted the natural transformation of Belarusians as an ethnic group into a modern political nation. Further transformation ‘had twists and turns, and was delayed and deformed’.26 However, the Bolsheviks failed to completely erase the results of the AllBelarusian Congress. The congress managed to make a decision on the transfer of power to the elected Council of the All-Belarusian Congress. On the morning of December 18, at an illegal meeting, the Council elected an Executive Committee headed by the BSA member Tomash Hryb who committed himself to implementing all the decisions of the congress. Truth be told, the Executive Committee and the Great Belarusian Council had to go underground. After the All-Belarusian Congress, few cited the results of the election for the Constituent Assembly that had been unsuccessful for the Belarusian movement. The Belarusian national revival had fully manifested its potential and had to be taken seriously by all political forces operating on Belarusian land. In contrast to the Council of the All-Belarusian Congress, which united supporters of Belarusian autonomy within the borders of federative, socialist Russia, Skirmunt associated the future of Belarus with the democratic tradition and was against the Bolshevik version of socialist transformation. An activist of the Polish movement in Belarus, Jerzy Osmołowski, stated in his memoirs that Skirmunt created and headed the conservative Belarusian Committee as an alternative to the Congress Council in December 1917.27 Information about this committee can be found in later documents. In February 1918, when the Bolsheviks had already left Minsk, it was another organisation led by Skirmunt, namely the well-known Minsk Belarusian

104 Alaksandr Smalančuk Representation (Belarusian National Representation),28 which was destined to play a prominent role in the history of the Belarusian People’s Republic. The position of Lenin’s and Trotsky’s party strengthened significantly in January 1918, as became apparent following the dispersal of the Constituent Assembly on January 5, 1918. The population of Russia was largely indifferent to the dispersal. It seemed that people were tired of the chaos and anarchy of 1917. There was a demand for ‘an iron fist’, which contributed to legitimising the Bolshevik dictatorship in people’s minds. This event can also be regarded as the final chord of the Russian Revolution. In Minsk, the Bolsheviks quickly managed to turn even their early sympathisers against them. On the first day of 1918, Minskaya Gazeta published an essay entitled ‘In the dark days’. The author reminded readers of the most important events of the preceding year including the Bolshevik repressions, the closings of newspapers, the arrests and the dispersal of the AllBelarusian Congress, and rhetorically quizzed at the end of the article: ‘Where are you, the sun of freedom? Rise again over the tormented and tortured homeland and warm our home Minsk with your beams of light’.29 Apart from the crackdown on democratic freedoms, the threat of famine became part of everyday reality in Minsk in late 1917. As always, the Bolsheviks fought against economic problems with political decrees and repressions against the ‘bourgeoisie’. They failed to provide the city and its inhabitants with food. In January 1918, soldiers carried out pogroms outside Jewish shops and private houses in Radashkovichy and Rakov near Minsk.30 In late January, the Bolsheviks launched an offensive. They dissolved the Minsk City Duma that had been elected in May 1917, and arrested prominent representatives of the Belarusian movement. However, in February, the situation on the front-line changed dramatically. Since the Soviet delegation refused to accept German conditions of capitulation, the Germans resumed their offensive at the deserted theatre of war. In panic, the Bolsheviks left Minsk. The first echelon of German troops arrived in the capital on February 21. A delegation of the representatives of Belarusian and Polish organisations appeared at the train station. Skirmunt was among them. It was he who welcomed the German command on behalf of Belarusians and expressed hope that the German authorities would show generosity and goodwill with respect to the civilian population. Based solely on press information, it should be acknowledged that Minsk had genuinely welcomed the German troops. Here is what Minsky Golos noted: During the day and in the evening, the streets of the city were flooded with people welcoming German officers and soldiers. Groups of curious inhabitants followed the Germans walking the streets of the city in an attempt to talk to them. Of course, refugees inquired about their hometowns and were desperate to hear details. Females were interested in

The Belarusian national movement 105 prices of cloth, shoes etc. The Germans answered all questions willingly and cordially, satisfying the curiosity of the inhabitants. The city was in perfect order.31 Volnaja Biełaruś wrote: All of Minsk is happy since the Bolsheviks with strangers (Lander, Berson, Myasnikov or Rezavsky – Latvians, Russians and Jews) in the lead had treated Minsk residents like the Tatars during the invasion of Batu Khan. Arrests, fines and shootings had rained down on people in quantities reminiscent of the horn of plenty.32 Obviously, Minsk residents had had enough of Bolshevik rule and treated the onset of the German occupation as a chance for normalisation. Belarusian politicians decided to take advantage of the opportunity afforded by another shift in power. They had learned the political lesson the Bolsheviks had taught them in December 1917 in Minsk. The gravitas of proponents of the independent national state was boosted in early 1918. An important role in this process was played by renowned Belarusian politicians including the Vilna brothers Ivan and Anton Łuckievič, and Vacłaŭ Łastoŭski. Under the conditions of the German occupation (since September 1915) they saw no other alternative way to ‘organise Belarus’. On February 21, 1918, the Executive Committee of the Council of the All-Belarusian Congress issued the First Statute, which announced the establishment of the People’s Secretariat as the provisional government in Belarus and convened the All-Belarusian Constituent Assembly. Here is the key paragraph of this document: The Executive Committee of the Council of the First All-Belarusian Congress, together with representatives of the revolutionary democracy of national minorities, is fulfilling the task entrusted to it by the Congress and hereby declares itself the provisional government of Belarus which begins governance in the Krai and convenes the All-Belarusian Constituent Assembly immediately based on universal, direct, equal, secret and proportional suffrage among the entire adult population without discrimination either on grounds of nationality, religion or gender. The people’s provisional government in the Krai which sets the task of protecting and consolidating the achievements of the revolution will be carried out by the People’s Secretariat of Belarus, elected by us, which is entrusted with the duties as of this date.33 The German occupation authorities did not recognise this document. However, relations between them and the People’s Secretariat (Jazep Varonka) gradually improved.

106 Alaksandr Smalančuk On March 9, 1918, the Belarusian People’s Republic was proclaimed and on March 25, 1918, the People’s Secretariat announced its independence. Since then, the independent Belarusian state as the most complete implementation of Belarusians’ right to self-determination has been the key component of the national idea. **** The overthrow of autocracy in Russia in early March 1917 brought about grounds for intensifying the Belarusian movement in the interests of Belarusian autonomy within the boundaries of a democratic and federative Russia. The democratisation of political and national life seemed to have created conditions for resolving the most acute problems standing in the way of Belarusian national and cultural revival. Indeed, in the spring and summer of 1917, the Belarusian issue made its way into the political, social and cultural life of Minsk and eastern Belarus. At the same time, forces that perceived the Belarusian revival as a threat of separatism and also to ‘united and indivisible’ Russia became more active. Their camp united representatives of Russian socialist parties as well as right-wing and conservative organisations. The activities of the camp posed a serious threat to the Belarusian movement. Political changes promoted the consolidation of national forces, which was typical of the activities of the Belarusian National Committee and its first chairman Roman Skirmunt. Thus, Socialists Arkadź Smolič and Fabijan Šantyr met with Princess Maria Madeleine Radziwiłł and Prince Hieronim Drucki-Lubecki at BNK meetings. However, Belarusian unity did not last long. The advent of the Russian Revolution was accompanied by the growing popularity of Socialist ideology and radical leftist political forces. Consequently, Skirmunt abandoned his post in the BNK leadership and receded into the background. His resignation was the result of a confrontation between the doctrines of socialism and national idea. In the Belarusian case, social hatred turned out to be stronger than national solidarity, which served to weaken the potential of the Belarusian movement. It interfered with the use of potential of the Russian Revolution. The coup d’état of October 25, 1917 was perceived by Skirmunt to be threatening of chaos and anarchy in Belarus. The peasant revolt of late 1917 to early 1918 confirmed his worst fears. Belarusian socialists who had pinned their hopes on Lenin’s government were shocked at the dispersal of the All-Belarusian Congress carried out by the Bolsheviks in December 1917. The Bolsheviks made it crystal clear they were not going to put up with the national expression of the will of the people while it undermined their power in Belarus. That was a decisive moment for the new agenda of the Belarusian movement, focusing on state independence as its major task. The Bolshevik dictatorship accelerated the formulation of that agenda. In February–March

The Belarusian national movement 107 1918, the idea of state independence united the divided forces of the Belarusian movement once again. Leaders of the Belarusian movement from Vilna, along with Roman Skirmunt and his illegal Belarusian Committee, had a role to play. Under the conditions of German occupation, it was impossible to fully implement the national idea.

Notes 1 All the dates in the text are according to the Julian calendar. 2 Р. Пайпс, Русская революция. Часть вторая, Москва, 1994, p. 230. 3 Гісторыя Беларусі: 6 volumes, Vol. 4. Беларусь у складзе Расійскай імперыі (канец XVIII-пачатак ХХ ст.). Рэдактары В. Яноўская, С. Рудовіч Мінск, 2005, p. 445. 4 С. Рудовіч, Час выбару. Праблема самавызначэння Беларусі ў 1917 г., Мінск, 2001, p. 78. 5 Минск в 1917 г., “Минская газета”. 1.01.1918, No. 1924, p. 2. 6 E. Woyniłłowicz, Wspomnienia. 1847–1928. Część pierwsza, Wilno, 1931, p. 197. 7 Пратакол з’езду беларускіх нацыанальных арганізацый у Мінску 25–27 марца 1917 г., “Спадчына”, 1990 (4), pp. 29–33. 8 В. Гадлеўскі, Зь беларускага палітычнага жыцьця ў Менску, «Спадчына», 1997, No. 5, pp. 21–22. 9 С. Рудовіч, Час выбару. Праблема самавызначэння Беларусі ў 1917 г., Мінск, 2001, pp. 92–93. 10 З’езд дэлегатау ад беларускіх партыйных і грамадзянскіх арганізацый 8–10 ліпня у Мінску, “Вольная Беларусь”. 21.07.1917, No. 8, p. 4. 11 Гісторыя Беларусі: у 6 т. Том 4. Беларусь у складзе Расійскай імперыі (канец XVIII-пачатак ХХ ст.). Рэдактары В. Яноўская, С. Рудовіч. Мінск 2005, p. 429. 12 У рампы. Белорусский спектакль, “Новое Варшавское утро”. 16.06.1917, No. 386, p. 4. 13 Белорусская лекция, “Новое Варшавское утро”. 14.05.1917, No. 333, p. 3. 14 Нацыянальны архіў Рэспублікі Беларусь (НАРБ), ф. 4, оп. 1, д. 98, л. 188. 15 С. Рудовіч, Час выбару. Праблема самавызначэння Беларусі ў 1917 г., Мінск 2001, p. 126. 16 Ж. Х. З. [З. Жылуновіч], Уступамі да Акцябра (Матэр’ялы да гісторыі Савецкай Беларусі), “Полымя”, 1923 (7–8) p. 89. 17 Р. Пайпс, Русская революция. Часть вторая, Москва 1994, p. 184. 18 E. Woyniłłowicz, Wspomnienia. 1847–1928. Część pierwsza, pp. 202–206. 19 Rządy bolszewickie, “Dziennik Wileński”, 21.03.1918, No. 68, p. 1. 20 Гісторыя Беларускай ССР, Пад рэд. І. Ігнаценкі і інш., t. 3, Мінск 1973, p. 94. 21 С. Никольский, В. Филимонов, Русское мировоззрение. Смыслы и ценности российской жизни в отечественной литературе и философии XVIII – середины XIX столетия, Москва, 2008, p. 142. 22 А. Воробьев, Выборы в Учредительное собрание на территории северо-западных губерний России (Витебской, Минской, Могилёвской, Псковской и Смоленской). Могилёв, 2013, pp. 42–43. 23 Па Беларусі, “Вольная Беларусь”. 8.12.1917, No. 33, p. 3. 24 С. Рудовіч, Час выбару. Праблема самавызначэння Беларусі ў 1917 г., Мінск, 2001, p. 164. 25 Ibidem, p. 163. 26 Ibidem, p. 189. 27 J. Osmołowski, Wspomnienia, Biblioteka Jagiellońska, Oddział rękopisów, rkps 9818, t. 1, p. 211.

108 Alaksandr Smalančuk 28 29 30 31 32 33

Мінскае Беларускае Предстауніцтво, “Беларускі шлях”. 8.03.1918, No. 1, p. 3. Минск в 1917 г., “Минская газета”, 1.01.1918, No. 1924, p. 2. Хроника Минска, “Минский голос”, 21.01.1918, No. 2633, p. 3. Прибытие в Минск германских войск,”Минский голос”, 25.02.1918, No. 2650, p. 4. Што робіцца ў Мінску, “Вольная Беларусь”, 19.02.1918, No. 6, p. 3. Ф. Турук, Белорусское движение: очерк истории национального и революционного движения белоруссов: с приложением образцов белорусской нелегальной литературы, важнейших документов белорусских политических партий и национальных организаций и этнографической карты белорусского племени, составленной акад. Е. Ф. Карским, Минск, 1994, p. 111.

8

Great Britain and the 1917 revolution in Ukraine1 Jan Jacek Bruski

The news of the February Revolution and the abdication of Nicholas II were received on the Thames with satisfaction. An alliance with the autocratic regime had long been a cause of embarrassment for British liberal public opinion, with the inept Tsar and his camarilla being blamed for Russia’s defeats on the battlefield and its internal chaos. The newly formed government was widely expected to launch a series of thorough reforms that would release new energy and inspire enthusiasm among Russians, thus offering hopes for a continued effective conduction of the war.2 These hopes, though, materialised only in part. Also, as a “side effect” – something few observers actually expected – the Petrograd revolution aroused emancipation sentiments among peoples of the Empire, and therefore developments in non-Russian peripheries were to take a different course than those at the heart of the country. This is especially true of Ukraine where the Central Rada (Central Council) was formed in March 1917, a civic committee comprising representatives of various parties and social organisations who would quite unexpectedly turn into a real power centre, throwing down the gauntlet to the Provisional Government. It must be emphatically stated that neither the ruling circles nor public opinion on the British Isles were intellectually prepared to follow and correctly interpret the events taking place on the Dnieper. Despite attempts to arouse British interest in the Ukrainian cause, taken in the lead-up to the World War, Eastern Slavs continued to be perceived by London as a monolith. A certain separateness of the Ukrainians was indeed noticed, but they were seen just as part of the pan-Russian nation, an ethnographic group speaking a regional dialect of Russian. Nor was it clear how far the borders stretched of what was known as Ukraine, but the British unquestionably interpreted that notion much more narrowly than the Ukrainian nationalists did. On the British mental map, Ukraine was confined to the area of Russia’s Southwestern Krai plus two governorates on the left bank of the Dnieper: Poltava and Chernigov. Occasionally the term “Austrian Ukraine” would make it to the British discourse, describing the eastern part of Galicia, but its traditions and present situation were seen as quite different, its inhabitants being referred to as Ruthenians, unlike the Little Russians living in the Russian Empire.

110 Jan Jacek Bruski Following the outbreak of the war, Britain began to treat Ukrainians with a still greater distance than before. The Ukrainian lobbying effort on the international scene was widely perceived – and not entirely wrongly – as a case of anti-Russian subversion backed by the Central Powers.3 The Ukrainians could count as their friends on the Thames just a handful of personalities with rather limited political clout. They included the House of Commons’ enfant terrible, liberal pacifist Joseph King, and a respected Slavic scholar, the founder of The New Europe magazine, Robert William Seton-Watson.4 The latter, in October 1916, named the Ukrainian question among the three main causes of the European conflict, and he described Taras Shevchenko as a “Ruthenian Burns” – and yet he saw no other future for the Ukrainians as a close, harmonious union with brotherly Russia. The fortunes of the Ukrainian cause in Great Britain declined further towards the end of 1916, with the British government banning pro-Ukrainian publications in November, on the grounds that “the Ukrainian agitation is favoured by the Austrian Government in order to embarrass Russia.”5 Keeping track of the 1917 events on the Ukrainian soil was quite difficult for the British because of the shortage of vantage points. A large portion of the reports reaching London – written by Ambassador George Buchanan and his aides – reflected Petrograd’s point of view. In Ukraine proper (or rather on the territory which began to be so named in 1917), Britain had a consulate general, headed by John Picton Bagge, which however, was located far from centre stage, in Odessa. In these circumstances, an increasingly important source of intelligence was provided by reports of people occasionally sent to Kiev, including officers on various kinds of military missions and the renowned historian, Professor Bernard Pares, serving as British observer on the Russian front. Given the dispersal and incompleteness of data received from Ukraine, an important role was played by analytical work conducted in London, especially by the Department of Information’s Intelligence Bureau (DIIB), an independent government agency whose reports were sent to the top state officials: the prime minister, the foreign secretary, and other members of the War Cabinet. The DIIB recruited Seton-Watson (in May 1917), and with him also a group of other contributors to The New Europe – young Oxbridge graduates at the beginning of their respective careers – among them Arnold J. Toynbee, Lewis Namier, the brothers Allen and Reginald (Rex) Leeper.6 The Intelligence Bureau’s “Weekly Reports on Russia” exerted considerable influence on Cabinet members’ opinions about Russian affairs. Starting in June 1917 they included a regular section on Ukraine, with Rex Leeper the chief writer, occasionally substituted by Professor J.Y. (James Young) Simpson and, very likely, Seton-Watson himself. The incoming information was very much delayed. Probably the first detailed account of the Ukrainian movements’ demands came from John Picton Bagge, whose report of 30 April 1917 reached London only after a month.7 The Odessa consul wrote about resolutions of the Ukrainian

Great Britain and the 1917 revolution in Ukraine 111 National Congress of 19–21 April, convened by the Central Rada, which left no doubt as to Ukrainian aspirations for a great deal of autonomy within a federal Russian state, and also for a presence at the future peace conference (“at the coming peace congress not only should belligerents be represented but also those nations whose territory, including the Ukraine, had been fought over”). Bagge also reported on a teachers’ congress in Kiev, where demands were made for a radical Ukrainisation of education at all levels. A Foreign Office’s clerk, in his commentary on the Bagge’s report, noticed the very wide territorial extent of the envisaged autonomous Ukraine, which was to stretch from the ethnically mixed, Polish-Ruthenian counties in the governorates of Lublin and Siedlce in the West to lands on the Don and the Kuban in the East.8 It was probably only in June 1917 that London began to fully realise the magnitude of the problem which the rising national awareness among peoples of the former Empire posed for the Provisional Government.9 But Britain’s Russia watchers made no mistake in naming the two most urgent issues waiting for solution: Finland and Ukraine. While the weight of the Ukrainian question aroused no doubts, the real potential of the national movement remained an enigma. As Rex Leper put it, “[i]t has always been a matter of great difficulty to judge the extent of the Ukrainian national movement in Russia, as every manifestation of it was sternly suppressed under the old regime.”10 The fault lines of the increasingly pronounced conflict between the Petrograd government and the Central Rada were identified correctly on the Thames, where analysts realised that – notwithstanding the outward acceptance of the self-determination principle – none of the Russian parties (with the significant exception of the Bolsheviks) was able to bear the thought of political autonomy for Ukraine. The Provisional Government’s mantra was that the decision on the matter could only be taken by an All-Russia Constituent Assembly, and they reacted allergically to the ideas, emerging in Kiev, about an earlier convocation of a Ukrainian Constituent Assembly. Plans for separate Ukrainian armed forces provoked a still stronger reaction and resistance, which the authorities in Petrograd put down to fears of disorganising the army just ahead of a planned new offensive. But according to British assessments, the most important motive was the apprehension of Russian socialists, believing that “the formation of a national army would greatly strengthen the chauvinistic elements in the Ukraine and might be used by the Russian counter-revolutionaries in order to organise a movement against Petrograd.”11 The authors of British reports seemed to share some of the charges levelled on autonomists by the Russians. They repeated without a comment the accusations about the Rada’s intention to build a “Ukraine for the Ukrainians” and about an unrepresentative nature of that body, which initially did not include representatives of ethnic minorities. They also pointed to the Ukrainians’ anti-Semitism, purportedly much stronger than the Russians’.

112 Jan Jacek Bruski In talks with British diplomats, members of the Provisional Government sought to downplay the Ukrainian movement and its demands. On 29 June, the day when Russian forces launched an offensive on the Galician front, Foreign Minister Mikhail Tereshchenko told Ambassador Buchanan that the Ukrainians would keep loyal to Petrograd and that the autonomy movement “would [not] take separatist shape.” Tereshchenko said that he was a Ukrainian himself, knowing his people well, and that the radical slogans in Kiev were only aired by a small bunch of “Austrian agents.”12 But British observers would very soon conclude that such narrative was made only for Western allies. Intelligence Bureau analyses include a quite accurate description of the clash that broke out between the Provisional Government and the Central Rada at the turn of June and July 1917. It led to the collapse of negotiations, the Rada’s unilateral declaration of autonomy (First Universal), and the formation in Kiev of a Secretariat-General, as the nucleus of a future Ukrainian government. London concluded correctly that these developments were underpinned by the Provisional Government’s erroneous assessment of the Ukrainian situation, in addition to its overall weakness.13 The situation was retrieved by ministers Aleksandr Kerensky, Mikhail Tereshchenko, and Irakli Tsereteli who arrived in Kiev on 12 July and negotiated a compromise with the Central Rada. The agreement was a matter of necessity, most notably due to developments on the front, but it soon provoked a political crisis at the national level, when its terms were protested by the Kadet Party who withdrew their ministers from the Provisional Government. Lviv historian Roman Syrota rightly points out that the fall of the first coalition cabinet in Petrograd exerted a decisive influence on Great Britain’s position on the Ukrainian question. As this question made it to the political agenda in Russia, London could no longer pretend not notice it. The British themselves began to realise that the events unfolding in Ukraine, and in Finland, too, followed a different logic than the developments going on in Russia proper, in that they signified a revolution founded on nationalism. There is another important point noticed by Syrota. As he further notes, by July 1917 the Foreign Office understood that the Ukrainians, having been disappointed by Petrograd, might seek support from the Central Powers. That had to be prevented.14 The fears began to materialise in the latter half of the month, when the Kerensky offensive broke down and the Germans launched a counterattack. In early August 1917, Kiev’s proximity to the frontline came to London’s attention. As Professor Simpson reported, “the country presents no great difficulties to a successful advance and the recent agitation in the Ukraine may weaken the defence.”15 Orders to put up resistance to the enemy, given to Ukrainian troops by the Rada’s secretary for military affairs, Symon Petliura, were well received in London but it could not be ruled out that these only served as a smokescreen. Rex Leeper warned that it was “not impossible that the Ukrainian leaders are reinsuring themselves with Germany in case the German army succeeds in overrunning the country.”16 The

Great Britain and the 1917 revolution in Ukraine 113 British were worried by rumours of preliminary peace talks allegedly held in Switzerland by Central Rada representatives. They originated from a private letter sent from Vevey to a Daily Mail editor in which the author – sparking a panic in Whitehall, after the mail was intercepted by censors and disclosed to quite a few government offices – averred that “[t]he Ukrainian news I sent you was something more than mere propaganda,” adding that “Ukrania [sic] in the present time is the crux of the situation in the East.”17 In these circumstances London was ready to back far-reaching arrangements that would meet the political ambitions of the Ukrainians without destroying the Russian state and the common anti-German front. A trusted person was sought, with the highest hopes pinned on the Head of the Central Rada, Professor Mykhailo Hrushevsky, described by Leeper as the proponent of a federation with Russia who distanced himself from “the extreme separatists.” Hrushevsky was said to believe that the “position of the Ukraine should be much the same as that of Bavaria in the German Empire, except that the Ukraine must have better guarantees for her economic rights.”18 Little wonder then that reports from Professor Pares, who met Hrushevsky in person in Kiev, aroused a great deal of enthusiasm in London. The Central Rada leader assured his interlocutor that advocates of Ukrainian independence and sympathisers of the Central Powers were in minority, with most activists supporting a union with Russia: “The Ukrains [sic] are all for the continuance of the war in full union with the Alliance till peace is secured on the basis of the frontiers of peoples.”19 The Intelligence Bureau workers, Rex Leeper, Simpson, and Seton-Watson, found Pares’ report highly satisfactory, and they proposed to publish an account of the conversation with Hrushevsky in the British press.20 That coincided with the final removal – as late as July 1917 – of the British ban on publications about Ukraine, which incidentally came as a result of behind-thescenes endeavours by Seton-Watson. In the weeks to follow, Seton-Watson and Leeper published extensive articles in The New Europe, sympathetic to the Ukrainian cause.21 In late August and throughout September 1917, the British saw the situation in Ukraine as fairly stable. The Congress of the Peoples of Russia, held in Kiev in late September and widely covered in British reports,22 seemed to confirm the appraisal that the Ukrainians played the key role among national movements on the territory of the former Empire, and that these movements sought not so much a separation from the Russian state as its transformation in a federalist spirit. In the final effect, Russia was expected to morph into a kind of United States of Eastern Europe, a scenario which seemed optimal for Britain. Until the autumn of 1917, the Foreign Office was focused on Ukrainian battles for nationalist concessions, which somehow diverted attention from the agrarian question in Ukraine, even though its importance and certain specific features were indeed realised. As early as May 1917, it was assessed in London that peasants throughout Russia found the parcelling out of

114 Jan Jacek Bruski large estates a foregone conclusion, which meant they would keep calm for some time, at least in the several months to come. “If there is trouble among the peasantry,” Rex Lepper wrote, it is likely to become serious after the harvest especially in the South of Russia among the Ukrainians who are much more excitable than the Great Russians of the North. Owing to their ignorance peasants can easily be excited by all kinds of false prophets and agents, and the real danger zone in the future may be in the country between Kiev and Odessa together with Bessarabia.23 Ukraine’s idiosyncrasies were again taken up by Leeper in a late August 1917 report. In describing the Provisional Government’s agrarian programme, he noted that it was based on the Russian Socialist Revolutionary Party’s (SR’s) idea of distributing landowner estates among village communities. That programme, Leeper argued, did not suit the Don Cossacks and the Ukrainians, who valued private land property, and was among the factors provoking their enmity towards the Provisional Government.24 An indirect conclusion from these comments was that in “the South of Russia” the success of any authority – whatever its political or national hue – might be contingent on understanding the specific interests of local peasantry. The events in Ukraine picked up pace following the Bolsheviks’ coup in Petrograd. An unavoidable clash between competing power centres in Kiev initially ended up with a victory for the Central Rada. Rejecting the authority of the Council of People’s Commissars, it announced on 20 November 1917 its Third Universal and proclaimed the formation of the Ukrainian People’s Republic – staying, for the time being, within a Federal Republic of Russia. British watchers directly reported these developments, and they were impressed by the effective takeover of power on the Dnieper. They also appreciated the circumstance that the Ukrainians – even if taking steps that de facto led towards independence – left a door open to federalist arrangements in the future.25 Initially, the Bolsheviks’ final victory seemed improbable. Several days after the coup in Petrograd British analysts concluded that “it may be taken for granted that the Bolshevik Government is probably already on its last legs.”26 Although that assessment soon had to be revised, it was long believed in London that the Bolsheviks would not try and would not be capable of taking Ukraine by force – and this despite the realisation of a growing conflict between the Lenin government and the Central Rada.27 The Bolsheviks launched military activities against the Ukrainian People’s Republic in mid-December 1917, but the British observers downplayed their scale at least until early January. “Neither side has any real desire to fight, and it is not unlikely that they may soon come to terms, the Ukrainian Government being given permission to manage its own affairs without molestation,” wrote an Intelligence Bureau worker.28

Great Britain and the 1917 revolution in Ukraine 115 Keeping the Eastern front alive was key to the Entente Powers, and therefore the attitude toward continuation of the war proved to be the chief criterion for either friendliness or enmity of the Allies towards individual political centres in the former Empire. The British cherished no illusions as to the potential for resuming anti-German operations in Russia, but it was important that the benefits of Germany and its allies from probable ceasefire be as small as possible. In respect to the front’s south-western – or Ukrainian – section, the Allies were mostly interested in protecting the rear positions of the Romanian army, which found itself in increasingly dire straits.29 That is why the declarations by the government of the Ukrainian People’s Republic seemed so promising to the British. It is true that these declarations spoke of starting peace talks – but in consultations with the Entente.30 The Central Rada’s proclamation read unequivocally: “Until peace […] is concluded every citizen must stay at his post both on the Front and in the rear.”31 Consequently, in early December 1917, London opted to support the Ukrainians and Don Cossacks under Ataman Aleksey Kaledin – “the soundest elements of the nation,” with whom to start the process of Russia’s restoration.32 The support was financial in nature, but there were also plans for raising mutual political relations to a higher level. Following the agreement of 23 December 1917, by which Great Britain and France delineated their respective spheres of activity in Southern Russia, Ukraine found itself in the French zone. The British, though, did not give up on their interests in the area, and it was so arranged that the French commissioner, General Georges Tabouis, was to be accompanied in Kiev by the British representative, Consul Bagge (transferred from Odessa).33 It remained an open question whether Great Britain – or, more broadly, the Entente – should engage more actively in Ukraine. Major Rome (a member of the General Frederick C. Poole’s mission to Russia) on his return from Kiev, where he stayed in late November and early December 1917, had mixed feelings. Having closely watched the local situation, and after a long conversation with Symon Petliura, the minister for military affairs of the Ukrainian People’s Republic, he reported: “I gathered the impression that the Ukraine were playing a double game and waiting to see which way the cat jumped.” He also wrote: “It might be worth the allies’ while to throw their weight into the scale, but it would be a big gamble.”34 Major J. K. L. Fitzwilliams, dispatched to Kiev two weeks later, had similar thoughts but, against all his doubts, he recommended a de facto recognition of the Ukrainian government in an attempt to bring it around to the Allied side.35 On the other hand, influential quarters in London expressed doubts about such a move. An Intelligence Bureau analysts argued, and not without reason, that there is always a danger that any recognition on the part of the Allies might be used by the Ukrainians simply to get better terms out of the

116 Jan Jacek Bruski Germans, while the Germans on their part might use it in order to complicate still further the relations between Britain and Russia.36 As a result, the instructions given to Bagge on his departure for Kiev as an unofficial British envoy to the government of the Ukrainian People’s Republic were fairly cautious: You should let the Rada know that His Majesty’s Government cannot at present recognise officially the independence of the Ukrainian Government but they are anxious to assure them of their goodwill and to assist them in the maintenance of order and good Government in the Ukraine and in resisting attack by the Central Powers.37 The Foreign Office’s dilemmas were aggravated by doubts about the actual strength of the Ukrainian national movement. Major Rome, on his return from Kiev, saw it as “one to be taken seriously, at any rate the desire for ‘Ukrainism’ is there,” but he also doubted if the Central Rada had sufficient support to stay in power. He was particularly critical of the value of the purportedly Ukrainised army of the People’s Republic.38 Rome’s report and an almost simultaneous analysis by the Intelligence Bureau39 had one thing in common. The British authors, while noticing the clear differences between Ukrainians and Russians in terms of language, culture and customs, concluded that the Ukrainian masses did not have any sense of national identity, but only of provincial distinction. Consequently, the British observers reasoned, the Ukrainian nationalism remained a minority current, its influence confined to a handful of intellectuals who drifted further and further away from the sentiments shared by the mainstream of the community. The Central Rada did achieve short-term success, the British writers pointed out, with its November 1917 land reform, which was of “the most sweeping character, expropriating the landlords and handing their estates over to the peasants.”40 That generated countryside support for the government at a critical moment, but the Britons doubted its durability. From December 1917 on, London increasingly realised that the paths of an intelligentsia-led national revolution and a peasant agrarian revolution were getting further and further apart. That was manifested, for example, in a widespread wave of attacks on large land estates – especially in Right-bank Ukraine – which the Kiev government was unable to prevent.41 The David Lloyd George Cabinet’s position on Ukraine finally crystallised in January 1918. While at the beginning of that month the Foreign Office informed its ambassador to Paris that Great Britain was ready to recognise the Ukrainian government if the French did so and actually found such a move desirable,42 the middle of January saw a withdrawal from such declarations, with the British agent in Kiev concluding that an official recognition of the People’s Republic was inopportune.43 The sudden reversal in

Great Britain and the 1917 revolution in Ukraine 117 London’s, and also in Paris’s, sympathies was caused by Ukraine’s decision to send its own delegation to Brest-Litovsk for separatist peace negotiations with Germany. Towards the end of January, there emerged in British analyses of a bizarre claim that the Bolsheviks were the strongest anti-German force in Russia. The Intelligence Bureau wrote in its weekly report that “the spread of Bolshevism to the Ukraine would be a blow to the Central Powers and an advantage to the West.”44 The i’s were dotted by the British prime minister himself, when he told his Cabinet at the session of 8 February that “the Ukrainians, whom we had regarded as our friends, had failed us.”45 On the next day Central Rada delegates signed in Brest-Litovsk a peace treaty with the Quadruple Alliance. The move had important consequences, both short- and long-time. In particular, the treaty was to seriously affect the subsequent attitudes to Ukrainian independence aspirations on the part of Great Britain and the other Entente Powers. Interestingly, the separatist peace reached on 3 March by Soviet Russia was received with apparently a greater dose of understanding, with much of the blame put on the Central Rada whose actions, it was claimed, had weakened the Bolsheviks and forced them to seek agreement with Germany.46 Britain’s attitude towards the young Ukrainian state was also visibly influenced by that latter’s weakness, exposed by the easy victories of “the Reds” in January and February 1918. When Central Rada envoys were signing the treaty in Brest-Litovsk, Kiev was already in the hands of the Bolsheviks, who were to be repelled only by an intervention of Austro-German forces. That strengthened London’s conviction about a limited extent of the nationalist movement and separatist sentiments on the Dnieper. The lesson to be drawn from the unfolding events was that political control of Ukraine was contingent on winning over the local peasantry, which was however an unpredictable, anarchistic-leaning, and self-centred element. From then on, the Ukrainian countryside was to be in the centre of British analyses examining the situation in the south of the former Empire. In conclusion, mention should be made of several aspects related to Great Britain’s interest in the revolutionary developments on the Dnieper, which largely – as previously noted – took London by surprise. It was not until the summer of 1917 that the British noticed a different pattern of events taking place in Ukraine, compared to those in ethnic Russia. The breakthrough came with the July 1917 crisis over the Provisional Government’s position on Ukrainian demands for autonomy. From then on, Kiev’s efforts in favour of a federal Russia elicited sympathy in Britain. The weight of the Ukrainian question increased after the Bolsheviks coup in Petrograd, with an intense discussion about a possible British recognition for the Ukrainian People’s Republic taking place in late 1917 and early 1918. But the key factor was Ukraine’s position on the continuation of war, and therefore the signing of the Brest-Litovsk treaty by Central Rada representatives was bound to prevent London from backing the Ukraine cause for quite a

118 Jan Jacek Bruski long time. Further developments only provided more arguments to convince the British that the Ukrainian national movement had a limited following, and that the major revolutionary current on the Dnieper drew its strength from anarchic peasantry. In fairness, it must be noted that London at that time neglected most of the national movements in Eastern Europe. A Foreign Office analyst wrote in May 1918: The power or influence of the Ukrainian Radas, Lithuanian Tarybas, or Polish National Councils is exceedingly small, even of those on the spot, to say nothing of their counterparts abroad. They rise if they succeed in adjusting themselves to the circumstances of the moment; they thrive if they find a foreign government to finance them. If used as mere tools they may occasionally prove useful. But they never count at home. … [T]he upper classes in Eastern Europe, the intelligentsia and its politicians are mere flies on the wheel.47 It was only the developments of the autumn of 1918 that forced western observers to partially revise this opinion.

Notes 1 I would like to express my gratitude to the De Brzezie Lanckoronski Foundation for supporting my research stay in London, which enabled me to prepare this chapter. 2 According to a British writer, “the March Revolution [New Style calendar] was conceived at first in Britain as a revolt, not against the war, but against Tsarist inefficiency in conducting it.” See F.S. Northedge, 1917–1919: The Implications for Britain, “Journal of Contemporary History” 1968 (4), p. 195. The idea that a democratised Russia would be a more effective and more trusted ally of the Entente had long, and successfully, been instilled in British diplomats by representatives of Russia’s liberal opposition. See L.P. Morris, The Russians, the Allies and the War, February–July 1917, “The Slavonic and East European Review” 1972 (118), pp. 29–31. 3 D. Saunders, Britain and the Ukrainian Question (1912–1920), “The English Historical Review” 1988 (406), pp. 40–59; see also A.A. Zięba, Lobbing dla Ukrainy w Europie międzywojennej. Ukraińskie Biuro Prasowe w Londynie oraz jego konkurenci polityczni (do roku 1932), Kraków, 2010, pp. 66–67, 69–76. 4 On Seton-Watson and the role played during the war by the paper he founded, see H. Seton-Watson, Ch. Seton-Watson, The Making of a New Europe. R.W. SetonWatson and the Last Years of Austria-Hungary, Methuen, London, 1981; H. Hanak, The New Europe, 1916–20, “The Slavonic and East European Review”, 1961 (93), pp. 369–399; Р. Сирота, ‘The New Europe’ і британський дискурс України 1916–1920 років: перепроектування Європи, “Записки Наукового Товариства ім. Шевченка”, т. CCLI: Праці Історично-філософської секції, Львів, 2006, pp. 240–302. 5 Quoted from D. Saunders, Britain and the Ukrainian Question, p. 59. 6 The Intelligence Bureau was established in April 1917, and its activities have yet to be chronicled in an extensive monograph – unlike those of its successor, the Political Intelligence Department (PID), operating within the Foreign Office

Great Britain and the 1917 revolution in Ukraine 119

7 8

9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

20 21

22

23 24 25

from March 1918. Most of Intelligence Bureau analysts continued their job at PID, with a significant exception of Seton-Watson himself, who stayed with the Department of Information. See E. Goldstein, Winning the Peace. British Diplomatic Strategy, Peace Planning, and the Paris Peace Conference, 1916–1920, Oxford, 1991, pp. 57–61. As indicated by a note on the document’s file, the report was registered in Foreign Office on May 26th, and DIIB analysts read it only in late May/early June 1917. Bagge’s report No. 31 of 30 April 1917, The National Archives of the UK [hereafter: TNA], FO 371/3012, ff. 531–534. For a summary of this document see: Р. Сирота, Роберт Вільям Сітон-Вотсон і Українска революція (З історії британскої політики у Східній Європі в 1917–1918 роках), “Вісник Львівського університету: Серія історична”, 2002, вип. 37, ч. 1, p. 428; J. Reginia-Zacharski, Sprawa ukraińska w polityce Wielkiej Brytanii w latach 1917–1923, Toruń, 2004, pp. 43–44. This was reflected, e.g., in an in-depth analysis provided by Rex Leeper who – in an introductory part of his remarks on the national question in Russia – wrote this to his superiors: “The attitude of the non-Russian nationalities may have an important effect upon the Central Government in Petrograd.” R.A.L., Weekly Report on Russia. IX, 18 June 1917, TNA, CAB 24/16/87, f. 307. R.A.L., Weekly Report on Russia. XIV, 23 July 1917, TNA, CAB 24/20/92, f. 409. R.A.L., Weekly Report on Russia. VIII, 11 June 1917, TNA, CAB 24/16/13, f. 31. Buchanan’s cypher telegram No. 985, Petrograd, 29 June 1917, TNA, FO 371/3012, f. 536. R.A.L., Weekly Report on Russia. XIV, 23 July 1917, TNA, CAB 24/20/92, ff. 406–411. Р. Сирота, Роберт Вільям Сітон-Вотсон і Українска революція, p. 429. J.Y.S., Weekly Report on Russia. XVI, 4 August 1917, TNA, CAB 24/22/18, f. 74. R.A.L., Weekly Report on Russia. XVIII, 20 August 1917, TNA, CAB 24/23/89, f. 481. Excerpted from a letter by Harold Challinor James to F. Macpherson, Vevey, 7 August 1917, TNA, FO 371/3012, f. 547A. R.A.L., Weekly Report on Russia. XIV, 23 July 1917, TNA, CAB 24/20/92, f. 411. Excerpts from Pares’ letters, attached to Ambassador Buchanan’s report of 12 July 1917, TNA, FO 371/3012, ff. 538–541. Also see D. Saunders, Britain and the Ukrainian Question, p. 61; J. Reginia-Zacharski, Sprawa ukraińska w polityce Wielkiej Brytanii, p. 44. DIIB memo of 28 July 1917, TNA, FO 371/3012, f. 542. Intelligence Bureau collaborators wrote their articles under aliases: Seton-Watson as “Rubicon”, and Rex Leeper as “Rurik”. For more about the rescinding of the ban on pro-Ukrainian publications and about articles in The New Europe, see D. Saunders, Britain and the Ukrainian Question, pp. 61–62; Р. Сирота, Роберт Вільям СітонВотсон і Українска революція, с. 432–433; idem, “‘The New Europe’ і британський дискурс України”, pp. 273–277. See J.Y.S., Weekly Report on Russia. XXIII, 1 October 1917, TNA, CAB 24/27/74, f. 313; R.A.L., Weekly Report on Russia. XXVI, 23 October 1917, ibid., CAB 24/29/75, ff. 308–309; R.A.L., Weekly Report on Russia. XXVII, 29 October 1917, ibid., CAB 24/30/42, ff. 272–274. R.A.L., Weekly Report on Russia. VI, 28 May 1917, TNA, CAB 24/14/65, f. 312. R.A.L., Weekly Report on Russia. IX, 27 August 1917, TNA, CAB 24/24/68, ff. 242–243. Consul Bagge’s cypher telegrams No. 144 and 150, Odessa, 15 and 21 November 1917, TNA, FO 371/3012, ff. 553, 555; Weekly Report on Russia. XXXI, 3 December 1917, ibid., CAB 24/34/60, ff. 256–258; Weekly Report on Russia. XXXII, 18 December 1917, ibid., CAB 24/36/30, ff. 115–117.

120 Jan Jacek Bruski 26 Weekly Report on Russia. XXIX, 12 November 1917, TNA, CAB 24/31/89, f. 453. 27 See e.g. Ambassador Buchanan’s cypher telegram No. 2086 of 22 December 1917, conveying information from the British military attaché in Petrograd, TNA, FO 371/3012, f. 574. 28 Weekly Report on Russia. XXXIV, 1 January 1918, TNA, CAB 24/37/63, f. 180. 29 Sir George Head Barclay, the British Minister to Romanian government, wrote in his telegram to London: “I quite understand that our first object is to assist to establish some power or force in South of Russia as for instance Ukraine Rada, on which the Roumanian Army can then retire.” See Barclay’s cypher telegram No. 810, Jassy, 22 December 1917, TNA, FO 371/3019, f. 313. The question was formulated even more emphatically during simultaneous Franco-British talks in Paris: “In Southern Russia our principal object must be, if we can, to save Roumania.” See Memorandum prepared by Lord Milner and Lord R. Cecil on Suggested Policy in Russia, and accepted by M. Clemenceau and M. Pichon on 23 December 1917 (appendix to the minutes of the War Cabinet session of 26 December 1917), TNA, CAB 23/4/80, ff. 270-270v. 30 Ambassador Buchanan’s cypher telegram No. 2060, Petrograd, 18 December 1918, TNA, FO 371/3012, f. 571. 31 Consul Bagge’s cypher telegram No. 152, Odessa, 22 October 1917, TNA, FO 371/3012, f. 561. 32 For more on the subject, see J. Reginia-Zacharski, Sprawa ukraińska w polityce Wielkiej Brytanii, pp. 48–52. 33 For the agreement of 23 December and its consequences, see ibid., pp. 55–57. 34 Major Rome’s report, n.d. (appendix to Ambassador Buchanan’s letter of 7 December 1917), TNA, FO 371/3012, ff. 585–588. 35 D. Saunders, Britain and the Ukrainian Question, p. 63; Р. Сирота, Роберт Вільям Сітон-Вотсон і Українска революція, p. 440. 36 Weekly Report on Russia. XXXII, 18 December 1917, TNA, CAB 24/36/30, f. 117. 37 Key to understanding the intentions behind the British actions on the Dnieper is the next sentence in the brief: “Every effort must be made to prevent the Ukraine giving assistance to the Central Powers or allowing supplies to reach them by Odessa and Constanza or Constantinople or in any other way.” Foreign Office cypher telegram No. 164 to Consul Bagge, 26 December 1917, TNA, FO 371/3019, f. 366. 38 Majora Rome’s report, n.d. (appendix to Ambassador Buchanan’s letter of 7 December 1917), TNA, FO 371/3012, ff. 586, 588. 39 Weekly Report on Russia. XXXI, 3 December 1917, TNA, CAB 24/34/60, ff. 256–258. 40 From the Political Intelligence Department’s document summarising the course of revolutionary developments in Ukraine as of May 1918, Memorandum on the revolt in the Ukraine, 7 May 1918, TNA, CAB 24/52/30, f. 93. 41 On this subject, see e.g. Weekly Report on Russia. XXXVIII, 5 February 1918, TNA, CAB 24/41/41, ff. 242–243. 42 Foreign Office cable No. 37 to Lord Francis Bertie, 5 January 1918, TNA, FO 371/3283, f. 32. 43 Consul Bagge’s cypher telegram No. 4, Kiev, 19 January 1918, TNA, FO 371/ 3283, f. 299. 44 Weekly Report on Russia. XXXVII, 25 January 1918, TNA, CAB 24/40/52, f. 203. 45 He went on to say: “The only people in Russia who could definitely be regarded as our friends were those who were willing to fight, not against the Bolsheviks, but against the Austrians and Germans.” Minutes of the War Cabinet’s session of 8 February 1918, TNA, CAB 23/5/33, f. 92v. 46 An PID analyst wrote:

Great Britain and the 1917 revolution in Ukraine 121 Ukrainian delegates … negotiated with the Central Powers at Brest Litovsk behind the backs of the Russians, and on February 9 concluded a separate peace, thus leaving the Russians in a much weaker position during the final stages of the peace negotiations. Memorandum on the revolt in the Ukraine, 7 May 1918, TNA, CAB 24/52/30, f. 92. 47 PID Report, The position in the Ukraine, 17 May 1918, TNA, CAB 24/52/36, f. 118v.

9

“Finexit” The Russian Revolution and Finnish independence Kari Alenius

Introduction This review focuses on the political debate that took place on the restoration of autonomy and possible establishment of independence in Finland during 1917. The discussion includes an examination of the policies of all major parties in Finland and their internal, Russian–Finnish bilateral and broader international implications. Opinions were split both between and within different parties, and the second Russian Revolution in November 1917 produced further overturns of viewpoints. This chapter provides a comprehensive overview of why the question of supreme authority in Finland was interpreted by different parties the way it was. Even though independence was declared and formally recognized by the Soviet government and several other states at the beginning of 1918, Finland nevertheless was at war with Soviet Russia. It took more than four additional years until a peace treaty was signed and the conflicts ceased between the two countries. Another goal of this chapter is to describe and explain the most essential features of the unstable phase (1918–1922) in Russian–Finnish relations that followed the Finnish declaration of independence. In March 1917, the provisional Russian government declared null and void all the oppressive measures that the tsarist regime had directed against Finland during the period of Russification since 1890. By this, Russia restored Finland to her constitutional, autonomous status. Nevertheless, there were a number of unanswered questions. Since there had existed a personal union between Finland and Russia, had the bonds been wholly cut after the overthrow of the tsar? If the provisional Russian government was entitled to resume the full authority of the sovereign in Finland, did that mean that the same authority must automatically pass on to any organ whatsoever that exercised the ruling power in Russia? At any rate, should a greater share than before of the “supreme authority” be delegated to Finnish organs of government? If so, how much should go to the senate (or Finnish government, in modern terms) and how much to the parliament?

“Finexit” 123

Finnish de facto recognition of the provisional Russian government The Russian monarchy collapsed under the weight of social unrest and military defeat including huge casualties and territorial losses, and Emperor Nicholas II abdicated on 15 March. Already the next day, Prince Michael, his brother and successor, shifted the highest power to the provisional Russian government under Prince Georgiy Lvov. Many members of the liberal provisional government expressed support for Finland’s autonomy in principle. Nevertheless, the idea was that the provisional government would hold the power until a constitutional assembly created Russia’s new form of government. Among other major topical issues, the constitutional assembly would also resolve the question of Finland’s relationship with Russia.1 Under these circumstances, the Provisional Government was seemingly reluctant to support any extension to Finnish self-rule or readjustment of the powers of the Finnish senate. Rather, it aimed to keep Finland as well all other areas inhabited by minority nationalities in the empire.2 The Provisional Government proclaimed the restoration of Finland’s constitutional rights on 20 March. In this March Manifesto, the Provisional Government voided several previous manifestos, ordinances and decrees that had established an unconstitutional situation since the early 1890s. Political prisoners and deportees were released and freedom of press was declared. Among them was Pehr Evind Svinhufvud, the Speaker of the Finnish Parliament (1907–1912), who, after a three-year-long exile in Siberia now returned in triumph to Helsinki.3 Instead, the Provisional Government now arrested the most influential persecutor, Governor-General Franz Albert Seyn and sent him to jail in Russia.4 At the end of March, Alexander Kerensky, who, after all, can be considered as the most influential nonBolshevik political leader of revolutionary Russia, took a trip to Finland to exhort the Finns to be loyal towards Russia but he did not succeed. Soon after the collapse of the tsarist regime, already in March in practice, it had become evident that the restoration of Finnish autonomy was no longer adequate, or sufficient for a growing number of Finns. Even independence, which earlier had only been discussed in trusted company, was pondered rather openly.5 To all the aforementioned questions, however, different answers were given, which eventually crystallized into political programs. Many Finns assumed that anarchy would inevitably follow the downfall of the tsarist government, but contrary to the expectation, it did not materialize to the extent of chaos. The course of the Russian Revolution in the spring of 1917 was relatively peaceful. Paradoxically, it meant that opposition to Finnish independence aspirations could be more likely, as the Russian government that was not paralyzed by domestic anarchy would have a better opportunity to give attention to Finnish issues and resist any separatist movements. That is why many Finns were in doubt as to whether it would be better to accept the concessions the Provisional Government made and be satisfied with a return to full autonomy.6 This would mean, at least

124 Kari Alenius for the time being, abandoning the idea of complete independence. On the other hand, how realistic would such an unprecedented aim be at any rate? Finland gave de facto recognition to the Provisional Government as the power that exercised “supreme authority” by carrying out its rulings. Thus, the Russian-dominated senate resigned and the Provisional Government appointed a new senate for Finland. The previous general parliamentary elections had taken place as scheduled in July 1916 but the tsar had announced in advance that the parliament would not convene until the war was over. Probably for this reason, the turnout at the polls was relatively weak and the socialists won an absolute majority in the elections of 1916, albeit not of the votes but of the parliamentary seats. As a result, the Social Democratic Party held 103 seats out of the 200, the largest majority ever received by any party in Finnish parliamentary history. This exceptional distribution of power in domestic politics later had a most significant impact on Finland’s future development, owing to the disappointment felt by the Social Democrats on losing their majority position at the following election in late 1917.7 The Social Democratic Party was ideologically opposed to what they called “ministerial socialism”. They wanted the power centered in the parliament and not an independent executive organ (senate/government). However, after lengthy negotiations a compromise solution was reached by 24 March. In the end, the parliamentary strength of the socialists encouraged them to change their established tactics, and they agreed to accept seats in the government of a capitalist country. All the most nominate political figures of Finnish political life were represented in the new senate. There were an equal number of ministers, six Socialists and six from non-socialist parties (the Old Finns, the Young Finns, the Agrarian Union and the Swedish People’s Party), but the deputy chairman, Oskari Tokoi, belonged to the former. Tokoi’s Senate was the first government in the world to have a Socialist prime minister.8 In addition, the first socialist parliamentary majority also backed it at the same time. Nonetheless, there was a deep political division within Senate, and therefore, one could call Tokoi’s senate both a government of national discord as well as a government of national unity.9

The fate of the “power act” The leftists’ dominant position tempted them to transfer to the parliament as great a share of the tsar’s authority as possible. Here they also wanted to be assured of the Russian socialistic parties’ consent. The All-Russian Congress of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies convened in June and called for full internal independence for Finland. However, the congress also insisted that the final resolution of this question lay within the competence of the constitutional assembly that was to convene later.10 It was generally expected that the assembly would create a “Democratic Russian Republic” and secure Finland’s freedom in one way or another. At any rate, the

“Finexit” 125 socialists in Finland deliberately hid this restrictive aspect as they presented their own program in the Finnish parliament a few weeks later.11 On 18 July, the Finnish Social Democrats pushed through the so-called Power Act, by which the parliament declared itself to be vested with “supreme authority” in Finland. This included the right to appoint the senate and confirmed that the Tokoi’s government was the executive power for the time being. Otherwise, the Act stated that: the powers of the monarch having ceased to exist, the Legislature of Finland hereby resolves that the following is in force: The Legislature of Finland alone has the power to enact, confirm, and promulgate all Finnish laws, including laws regarding public economy, taxation, and custom duties. The Legislature also has the final power of decision in all other matters that the Tsar – Grand Duke according to rules and regulations formerly in force had been competent to decide. The provisions of this law do not apply to foreign affairs, military legislation, or military administration.12 Thus, the Power Act left foreign policy and military affairs in the hands of the Russian government. Non-socialist representatives criticized the Power Act on grounds of domestic politics, as it threatened to lead to the dictatorship of a single party; in this case that of the Social Democratic Party. In a longer perspective, it would have created a state completely lacking a chief executive body. Under the prevailing circumstances, the government would only have amounted to a parliamentary committee. As such, the Act was more an attempt to transform Finland into an ultra-parliamentary democracy than an attempt to declare Finland wholly independent.13 Anyhow, the nonsocialist parties did not block the passage of the Act in the senate, even though they were in a position to do so, because the alternative would have been to leave the “supreme authority” in the hands of the Russian government. Besides, the law, in spite of its weaknesses, was likely to take the country closer to its goal of a full national independence. The non-socialist parties were also under a heavy extra-parliamentary pressure from their political opponents, as the extreme left organized violent strikes and mass demonstrations throughout Finland. The Social Democrats believed that the Bolsheviks would succeed in their coup d’etat in July and take power in Russia. Contrary to this expectation, the Provisional Government did not surrender but remained in power, from now on under Kerensky. Although the Finnish Social Democrats did not agree with the Russian Bolsheviks on all social and political issues, the Social Democrats welcomed the Bolsheviks quite favourably. Indeed, there were many ideological similarities between the two parties. Therefore, the Finnish Social Democrats assumed it would be easier to agree on matters that concerned Finland with the Russian Bolsheviks than with the Russian

126 Kari Alenius Provisional Government. The Social Democrats refused to send the Act to the Provisional Government for ratification, which led to an open conflict between the holders of power in Finland and Russia. The Act thus became a test of the Finnish parliament’s and its socialist majority’s real ability to use the power they had defined. Against the recommendations of the All-Russian Congress of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies, the Provisional Government did not ratify the Power Act but ordered the dissolution of the Finnish parliament on 31 July; simultaneously, it also called for new elections.14 The Finnish political parties now had to decide whether to accept the orders of the Provisional Government or those of the parliament. In the senate, there were six votes for and six votes against publishing the manifesto of the Kerensky government. The dead-lock was resolved by the vote of Governor-General Mikhail Stakhovich, which was quite exceptional. Normally the governor-general did not attend senate meetings even though he had the right to do so and to take part in the decision-making. Accordingly, the holders of power in Finland decided to obey the order, although with an extraordinarily narrow margin. In this context, it is also important to mention that numerous Finnish non-socialist politicians secretly rejoiced Kerensky’s call for new elections, as this opened an opportunity to put an end to the socialist majority in the Finnish parliament.15 The decision had the effect of bringing the Finnish socialists closer to the Russian extreme left who were outside the Kerensky government: the Bolsheviks. Parliament dissolved, although the Social Democrats still found that the dissolution was illegal. As Russian troops barred the entrance to the parliamentary meeting hall, the Social Democrats under the leadership of their spokesperson, Kullervo Manner, even tried to continue the parliamentary session in another building. The police barred their entry into this house as well.16 Non-socialist members of parliament, for their part, voluntarily stayed away from the parliament, as they believed in the legality of the order for new elections. Because of these decisions, the Social Democratic senators gradually resigned from the government, while non-socialist senators kept on working as usual.17

The road towards full independence The new elections were held on 1–2 October. No political landslide took place, but the most significant result was that the socialists lost their absolute majority position. The Social Democratic Party remained the largest single party with 92 seats and polled 45 per cent of the total poll, but the socialists were surprised, disappointed and bitter toward the non-socialists, who had cooperated with Kerensky’s government in enforcing the dissolution order. The centrist Agrarian Union was the biggest winner: in the new parliament, they had 26 seats instead of a former 19. Other non-socialist parties combined gained four seats more than before.18 The campaign had been partly on the Power Act and partly on other issues. It seems

“Finexit” 127 probable that the non-socialists won a majority by convincing voters that the left bore the heaviest responsibility for the growing unrest in Finland.19 The overall situation was seriously deteriorating indeed. Finland was close to famine, and ill-disciplined Russian troops committed acts of violence in all parts of the country. The paralysis of the export trade during the world war had caused heavy unemployment, which was no longer alleviated, as in earlier war years, by fortification works paid for by the Russian army. The act passed by the preceding parliament to democratize communal administration had not been ratified by the “supreme authority”. In addition, the situation of tenant farmers was weak, and many of them feared what would happen when the temporary ban on evictions was expired in the near future. There were gangs of unemployed workers in towns and of landless workers in the countryside. In general, social reform remained at a standstill.20 After the Social Democrats had lost its majority position in parliament, it became increasingly difficult for the parliamentary wing of the party to restrain the revolutionary wing. The majority of the party members may have been in between; in other words, they did not directly demand violent revolution but they did not oppose the use of force, either. A similar development was evident in the ranks of their opponents as well. The non-socialist parties had drawn closer together throughout the second Russification period from 1909 onwards, and the division between the Compliants (The Old Finns Party) and Constitutionalists (The Young Finns Party) in relation to Russification was rapidly losing significance. Thus, after the October elections, the Social Democrats faced a more resolute and hostile non-socialist bloc, who made the restoration of law and order in Finland a clear priority.21 Because the Russian gendarmerie had been disbanded after the March revolution, Finland lacked an official military organization and a sufficient and effective police force in autumn 1917. Partly in order to fill the gap, two private armies were forming in the country. These were the socialistic Red Guards and the non-socialist Civil Guards, or White Guards. The Finnish national activists had organized the Civil Guards to drive the Russian troops out of the country and to keep public order. The Red Guards initially served for the latter purpose but they also worked as a leftist pressure vehicle. The weak parliamentary wing of the socialists actually disliked the formation of the Red Guards, but it was either too ignorant or incapable of preventing their organization. Until November, both private armies were more defensive than offensive.22 The revolutionary elements among the Finnish Socialists gained strength by the radical trends in Russia. The influence spread either directly from Petrograd or through Russian troops stationed on Finnish soil. Naturally, broader international influences affected the situation in the same manner as in every other country with socialist movements. The division between reformist evolutionary and “orthodox” revolutionary wings became evident

128 Kari Alenius in Finland during 1917 at the latest. The core question was whether socialist goals could be better achieved through participating in elections and power sharing with other “progressive” political parties, or if only a violent revolution was sufficiently effective to bring societal changes the “orthodox” wing considered necessary. On 7 November, the Bolsheviks seized power in Russia, and after this new revolution, the pace of events in Finland was higher, too.23 The Bolshevik takeover transformed attitudes towards national independence and the means that could be used to achieve it. The cautious nonsocialist parties that up till then had repudiated the activists’ ideal of national independence immediately wanted to separate from a Russia where radical socialists hold the highest power. The non-socialists were ready to explain that Russia was in chaos and therefore the exercise of “supreme power” there had ceased. The Social Democrats, for their part, were now willing to wait and negotiate with the new leadership in Russia.24 In the opinion of non-socialist parties in Finland, the question of the supreme power in the country had to be finally resolved without any delay. A proposal to transfer the power to an elected regency council (three regents, according to the provisions of the 1772 act of government) was accepted in the parliament on 8 November, i.e. as little as one day after the Bolshevik coup. It turned out, however, that this was not a long-lasting solution.25 The desire for independence of the revolutionary wing of the Finnish Socialists dwindled. The party as a whole primarily wanted to hold tight to the Power Act, for reasons connected with domestic politics. It drew up a program under the title of “We demand”, which contained the Power Act and a collection of resolutions of principle in the sphere of social legislation. For instance, an eight-hour workday, universal suffrage in communal elections and the end to tenant farming were on the list. In addition, the given reforms were to be put into effect without any delay or unnecessary formalities.26 During the autumn, the Finnish central trade union organization had fallen under the control of extremists. The union called a political general strike on 13 November, and the weak police force was helpless to prevent violence; the Red Guards and other leftist gangs murdered approximately 30 citizens. Perhaps due to the shock the violence aroused among the public, the socialist parliamentary elements temporarily gained the upper hand over the revolutionaries. Having consulted the moderate wing of the socialists, a few non-socialist deputies submitted a compromise solution. On 15 November, parliament resolved, by 127 votes to 68, to take over the “supreme authority … for the time being … inasmuch as it has not yet been possible to elect the regents”. A significant step forward towards a full national sovereignty was that no reservation was made on this occasion in respect to foreign policy and military affairs. In practice, this meant that Finland had declared herself de facto independent.27

“Finexit” 129 To meet the demands for social reforms and to stabilize the political situation, the parliament also ratified certain laws the next day, on 16 November. These included the establishment of an eight-hour workday and a large-scale reform of local government, which satisfied the majority of strikers. The strike was called off, but the revolutionary ferment continued among the “orthodox” wing of socialists. The Central Revolutionary Council set up by the extremists issued a proclamation that contained threats (“the fight continues”), although the council was not yet in the position to continue with revolutionary activities immediately. During the strike, the Red Guards had occupied public buildings, railway stations and telephone exchanges. In all, it seemed that the Finnish extreme left was prepared to follow the Russian Bolsheviks.28 The change of government was necessary in the new situation, but forming a wide coalition was difficult. The bloodshed perpetrated by the strikers during the strike had severely damaged possibilities of collaboration between the “Whites” and the “Reds”. It may also be assumed that the entire Social Democratic Party had to a certain extent become compromised in the eyes of the non-socialists, although there was relatively wide inner dissension within the party. The Socialists formally proposed a purely socialist government, but the idea had no chance of winning majority support in the parliament. On 26 November the parliament appointed a new government that consisted of non-socialist representatives alone. Pehr Evind Svinhufvud (later the third president of Finland), a veteran of passive resistance against Russification and someone who enjoyed a reputation of unyielding firmness took the chair. The powers assumed by parliament were concentrated in the hands of the government, and Svinhufvud promised firm measures to restore law and order.29

Independence declared and recognized The resolution of 15 November was, in fact, a declaration of independence, but neither Finnish politicians nor foreign audiences considered it such an act. In forming the cabinet, Svinhufvud insisted that all its members agree that Finland be declared independent in due form. The formal decision was made on the day following the formation of the cabinet, and the declaration was submitted to the parliament on 4 December. Kaarlo Ståhlberg, a representative of the liberals (and later the first president of Finland, 1919–1925), drafted the proposal. Parliament accepted the declaration two days later, and its commemoration on 6 December is annually celebrated as Finland’s Independence Day. The wording was as follows: In view of the fact that the Government has submitted a proposal for a new Constitution which incorporates the principle that Finland is an independent Republic, the Legislature, as the repository of supreme power, for its part accepts the principle and also agrees that the Government shall

130 Kari Alenius proceed to the measures which in its judgment are essential for obtaining recognition by foreign Powers of the political independence of Finland.30 Illustrative of the already deep confrontation between the “Whites” and the “Reds”, it was not possible to arrive at a wording that would have been satisfactory to both camps. The non-socialist majority of the parliament rejected the leftists’ proposal that stressed the necessity of reaching an agreement with the Bolshevik government on Finnish independence. This would have meant the creation of a Russo–Finnish joint committee that produced proposals for establishing relations between Finland and Soviet Russia. The winning non-socialist declaration of independence was accepted by a vote of 100 to 88. The Social Democrats were not categorically opposed to independence, but rather to the way Svinhufvud’s government was pursuing it.31 As the parliament accepted the declaration of independence on 6 December, the wording contained three essential points in relation to the question of supreme power in Finland. First, the supreme power in the country belonged to the Finnish parliament without any reservations. Second, Finland wanted to secede from Russia and establish full national independence. Third, merely giving a declaration was not sufficient but the realization depended on other actors as well. At any rate, independence could become a reality only after the foreign powers had granted recognition to it and the Russian troops had withdrawn from the country. The withdrawal depended on Russia alone, and in regard to foreign recognition, Russia also held the key position.32 Svinhufvud’s government tried first to gain recognition of Finland’s independence from her democratic neighbors and the most important Western powers – the Scandinavian countries, Germany, France, Great Britain and the United States. The Finnish government did not succeed in this, however, as no other country was ready to give a recognition before a favorable decision had come from Russia. Svinhufvud was unwilling to turn to the Soviet government, because he feared that the Bolsheviks would not remain in power long. He also feared that entering into relations with the Bolsheviks might make it difficult to gain recognition from a non-socialist successor regime in Russia. An important push factor in the situation was that Germany was engaged in peace negotiations with the Soviet government, and Germany put pressure on Svinhufvud to ask Lenin to recognize Finnish independence.33 On the other hand, the Soviet government wanted to show the world that it alone possessed full power in Russia. Moreover, the Bolsheviks had stated that all nations had the right for self-determination. The emergence of independent nation-states was not a true aim of Bolshevik nationalistic policies, but the principal freedom to secede was rather designed to lay a foundation for other nations to rejoin the Russian Socialistic Federation. The Bolsheviks believed that after a socialistic revolution in Finland that would take place soon the

“Finexit” 131 Finns would be among the first to freely join Russia again. Due to this kind of calculation, the Soviet government was ready to recognize a non-socialist Finnish senate and Finnish national independence.34 A Finnish diplomatic delegation under the guidance of Svinhufvud traveled to Petrograd in late December. After week-long negotiations, the Council of People’s Commissars recognized the sovereignty of Finland, and recognitions by most of the other countries followed during the next days and weeks. Among them were neutral Sweden, France of the Entente powers and Germany of the central powers. The Finnish parliament announced that the country would pursue a policy of neutrality in the world conflict that was still raging. The United States and Great Britain, for their part, continued to wait for the collapse of the Bolshevik regime. The anti-Bolshevik successor government would then continue the war against central powers and, after the end of the war, decide whether it wanted to recognize the independence of Finland and other small nationstates.35

War, peace and epilogue However, Finland’s independence continued to be circumscribed by the presence of Russian troops in the country. In mid-January of 1918, the country’s strength, including the fleet anchored off Helsinki, was 76,000 men, and the senate was unable in its negotiations to extract a promise of complete demobilization. On 23 January 1918, The Russian Commissar for Military Affairs, Nikolai Podvoisky, ordered the 42nd Army Corps, stationed in Finland, to strip the Civil Guards of their weapons.36 Meanwhile, the senate declared that the Civil Guards were the country’s army, so lifting a hand against them meant, in practical terms, declaring war against the Finnish state. As a countermeasure, General Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim, who had been named commander in chief of the Finnish army, began a systematic attack against the Russians on 28 January. The majority of the Russian troops, who actually had no desire to fight, were disarmed after only a few slight skirmishes.37 The Soviet government sought to make an impression that it did not officially participate in the Finnish Civil War during 1918, as no declaration of war was issued by either country. Nevertheless, Russians and Russian aid played a significant role in the Red revolt in Finland. The Red Guards were armed by the Russians and were in part led by Russian commissioned and non-commissioned officers, as well as considerable number of Russian “volunteers” who chose to fight in certain battles of the war.38 The Finnish Civil War was short, but bloody. It only lasted slightly more than three months, but nearly 9,000 soldiers (3,400 on the White side and 5,200 on the Red side) were killed in action. In addition, some 1,400 more civilians and soldiers were victims of the Red terror, and 7,400 were killed by the White terror, respectively. This latter figure was high because many

132 Kari Alenius of the Whites viewed the Reds as guilty of treason, and according to martial law, it was, therefore, possible to impose a death sentence on them. Exaggerated rumors of atrocities committed by the enemy also led to extensive retaliation that was especially directed at any captured Reds immediately after the battles.39 The number of deaths also greatly increased due to the miserable conditions of the prison camps in the summer of 1918 after the end of the war. There was a serious food shortage in Finland then, even a famine, and in the prison camps, the lack of food was particularly desperate. At the same time, the country was ravaged by the Spanish flu, which spread rapidly in the prison camps. Nearly 12,000 prisoners died of illness during the summer of 1918. Overall, the Finnish Civil War cost in just a few months nearly 37,000 victims or about 1 per cent of Finland’s total population. In relative terms, this war was one of the most devastating civil wars in modern history. Civil wars are always raw and consuming in a society, but in Finland, a bad situation was further aggravated by the two circumstances noted here.40 The decisive battles occurred in April of 1918, and the last Red units surrendered at the beginning of May in southern Finland. The Civil War was thus over, but the war against Soviet Russia continued as military expeditions from Finland to Russian Karelia. The most important of these were the Viena expedition from March to October 1918 and the Aunus expedition from April to September 1919. These are two the so-called “kinship wars” fought near Finland during the Russian Civil War. Russian East Karelia was never a part of the Swedish Empire or the Grand Duchy of Finland, but it was at the time mostly inhabited by Karelians. Many advocates of a Greater Finland considered these Karelians either Finns or at least a “kindred” Finnish nation and thus supported the annexation of Russian East Karelia by Finland.41 In the end, all these expeditions failed, and Finnish volunteer groups were forced to retreat to Finland after heavy fighting against the Russian Red Army that was superior in numbers. During 1918–1919, two Karelian parishes (Repola, Porajärvi) held a vote to join Finland; however, Finland gave up all claims to East Karelia in the 1920 Treaty of Tartu.42 While the Soviets, as we noted, were never officially at war with Finland, a state of war had in fact existed between the countries, and it could only be formally ended by a peace treaty. Quite apart from the question of whether the two countries had been at war or not, Finland’s independence and the events that occurred in the spring of 1918 created boundary questions, economic and financial problems, state and privately owned property issues located in the neighboring country, questions about the rights of nationals and the like. They required what only a solution of normal relations between Finland and the Soviets could produce.43 The first proposal for a treaty was initiated by the Soviet government in August of 1918, but the discussions produced no concrete results because of

“Finexit” 133 the ambitious and contradictory demands of both parties. The second unsuccessful round of peace discussions was held in autumn of 1919. A formal peace conference finally convened in Tartu (Estonia) in June of 1920, and after a lengthy process, its efforts produced the signing of the peace treaty on 14 October 1920.44 That treaty stated that Finland had proclaimed herself an independent republic in 1917 and Soviet Russia recognized its independence within the borders of the former Grand Duchy. The treaty contained an important territorial change in Finland’s favor, however. The Petsamo area was formally ceded to Finland as compensation for two districts on the Karelian Isthmus ceded by Finland to the Russian Empire in the late 19th century. At that time the Empire had agreed to turn over areas on the Arctic Ocean to Finland. The agreement had been ignored by Russia until the Soviet leaders recognized it. Another point worth mentioning as well was that the Soviets proclaimed in the peace treaty that East Karelia would be organized as an autonomous area and would enjoy the rights of national selfdetermination.45 The failure of the Soviets to keep this promise resulted in the final conflict between Finland and Russia over “Finexit”. In 1921, when the Soviet system began to be enforced in East Karelia, the local people revolted, and the rebels requested assistance from Finland. The Finnish government could not involve itself in the matter, but it did allow the recruitment of volunteers. It also turned to the League of Nations and requested that an independent commission be sent to East Karelia to investigate the issues. The Soviet government flatly refused all forms of cooperation, re-iterating that it viewed the League of Nations as no more than a tool of Western imperialism. The uprising was eventually crushed by March 1922, and almost 30,000 refugees fled to Finland.46

Conclusions In conclusion it can be said that with the collapse of the Russian monarchy in spring 1917, all of Finland’s political parties wanted greater autonomy if not total independence for Finland. A division arose over the means to achieving this end. The majority of non-leftist parties wanted to negotiate any new autonomy or independence with Russia’s new rulers. This desire for a negotiated settlement rested on the understanding that the Russian Provisional Government was the legal successor to the monarchy. For their part, the Social Democrats and some national activists argued that the end of the monarchy ended the bond between Finland and Russia. In addition, the parties fought over whether the senate or parliament should exercise supreme authority. As the Social Democrats had an absolute majority in parliament, they strongly proposed an act making parliament the supreme body of state. Respectively, the non-leftist parties wanted the senate to be the supreme authority as it represented a compromise coalition

134 Kari Alenius with six socialist and six non-socialist ministers. Finally, the Bolshevik takeover transformed attitudes towards full national independence. Finland’s non-socialist parties immediately wanted to get out of a Russia run by radical socialists, but the Social Democrats were now willing to wait and negotiate. However, after the formal recognition of Finnish independence, it took almost three years before a peace treaty between Finland and Russia could be signed in October of 1920. The delay was, for the most part, due to the Russian Civil War in its entirety and the strained relations between the Soviet government and democratic governments in Western Europe. The East Karelian uprising was the last incident in a five-year-long period of agitation that started in Finland because of the Russian February and October Revolutions and ended in the stabilization of Finnish independence.

Notes 1 J. Lavery, The History of Finland, Westport, 2006, p. 82; A. F. Upton, The Finnish Revolution 1917–1918, Minneapolis, 1980, pp. 27–28; T. Polvinen, Venäjän vallankumous ja Suomi 1917–1920. I Helmikuu 1917 – toukokuu 1918, Helsinki, 1987, pp. 8–9. 2 O. Jussila, S. Hentilä, J. Nevakivi, From Grand Duchy to a Modern State. A Political History of Finland since 1809, London, 1999, pp. 92–93; D. Kirby, A Concise History of Finland, Cambridge, 2007, p. 158; T. Polvinen, Venäjän vallankumous…, pp. 26–30. 3 Julistuskirja Suomen Suuriruhtinaanmaan valtiosäännön vakuuttamisesta sekä jälleen saattamisesta täysin toteutetuksi (AsK 20/1917) [March Manifesto], http:// extranet.narc.fi/juhlavuosi/kuva.php?alid=7&kuid=15; F. Singleton, A Short History of Finland, Cambridge, 1999, p. 104; A. F. Upton, The Finnish Revolution 1917–1918, pp. 28, 38. 4 E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, Helsinki, 2003, p. 385. 5 D. Kirby, A Concise History of Finland, p. 158; A. F. Upton, The Finnish Revolution… pp. 42–46; T. Polvinen, Venäjän vallankumous…, pp. 33–37. 6 J. A. Wuorinen, A History of Finland, New York, 1965, pp. 211–212. 7 Suomen Virallinen Tilasto (1916), 29 A 8, p. 35; E. Jutikkala, Pirinen, A History of Finland, p. 388; F. Singleton, A Short History of Finland, p. 104. 8 Tokoin senaatti, www.eduskunta.fi/FI/tietoaeduskunnasta/kirjasto/aineistot/yhteis kunta/historia/eduskunta-ja-itsenaistyminen-1917/Sivut/tokoin-senaatti.aspx; O. Jussila, S. Hentilä, J. Nevakivi, From Grand Duchy to a Modern State…, pp. 94–95; A. F. Upton, The Finnish Revolution…, pp. 21, 29–36. 9 J. Lavery, The History of Finland, pp. 82–83. 10 F. Singleton, A Short History of Finland, p. 105; D. Kirby, A Concise History of Finland, p. 158; A. F. Upton, The Finnish Revolution 1917–1918, p. 80. 11 O. Jussila, S. Hentilä, J. Nevakivi, From Grand Duchy to a Modern State…, p. 97; A. F. Upton, The Finnish Revolution 1917–1918…, pp. 78–81; T. Polvinen, Venäjän vallankumous…, pp. 78–83. 12 Laki Suomen korkeimman valtiovallan käyttämisestä [Power Act], https://fi.wiki source.org/wiki/Valtalaki; J. A. Wuorinen, A History of Finland, pp. 213–214; R. Alapuro, State and Revolution in Finland, Berkeley, 1988, pp. 158–160. 13 D. Kirby, A Concise History of Finland…, p. 159; D. Kirby, A Concise History of Finland…, p. 88.

“Finexit” 135 14 Manifesti Eduskunnan hajoittamisesta heinäkuun 18/31 päivänä 1917 ja uusien vaalien toimittamisesta. Suomen Suuriruhtinaanmaan Asetuskokoelma. N:o 50; E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, p. 387; O. Jussila, S. Hentilä, J. Nevakivi, From Grand Duchy to a Modern State…, p. 97. 15 F. Singleton, A Short History of Finland, pp. 105–106; A. F. Upton, The Finnish Revolution 1917–1918, pp. 93–96. 16 Pöytäkirja, pidetty erinäisten edustajain kokouksessa 28 päivänä syyskuuta 1917 ynnä liite, www.eduskunta.fi/FI/tietoaeduskunnasta/kirjasto/aineistot/yhteiskunta/ historia/eduskunta-ja-itsenaistyminen-1917/Documents/PTK_1917_I_liite.pdf; Jussila, Hentilä & Nevakivi, p. 97; Upton, pp. 105–106. 17 E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, pp. 387–388; J. Lavery, The History of Finland, p. 83. 18 Suomen Virallinen Tilasto (1917), 29 A, 8, p. 35; E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, p. 388; F. Singleton, A Short History of Finland, p. 106. 19 J. Lavery, The History of Finland, p. 83. 20 E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, p. 389; F. Singleton, A Short History of Finland, pp. 106–107. 21 D. Kirby, A Concise History of Finland, p. 159; E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, pp. 388–389. 22 E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, p. 389; R. Alapuro, State and Revolution in Finland, pp. 162–163. 23 J. Lavery, The History of Finland, pp. 83–84. 24 J. Lavery, The History of Finland, p. 84; O. Jussila, S. Hentilä, J. Nevakivi, From Grand Duchy to a Modern State…, p. 101. 25 1772 Hallitusmuoto, https://histdoc.net/historia/su1772_2.html; D. Kirby, A Concise History of Finland, p. 160; A. F. Upton, The Finnish Revolution 1917–1918, pp. 141–142. 26 Valtiopäiväasiakirjat (8.11.1917), https://histdoc.net/historia/su1772_2.html; J. Lavery, The History of Finland, p. 85; A. F. Upton, The Finnish Revolution 1917–1918, pp. 134–150. 27 Valtiopäiväasiakirjat (15.11.1917), www.eduskunta.fi/FI/tietoaeduskunnasta/kir jasto/aineistot/yhteiskunta/historia/eduskunta-ja-itsenaistyminen-1917/Docu ments/PTK7-1917IIs119-145.pdf; E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, pp. 390–391. 28 D. Kirby, A Concise History of Finland, p. 160; O. Jussila, S. Hentilä, J. Nevakivi, From Grand Duchy to a Modern State…, p. 102. 29 Valtiopäiväasiakirjat (24./26.11.1917), www.eduskunta.fi/FI/tietoaeduskunnasta/kir jasto/aineistot/yhteiskunta/historia/eduskunta-ja-itsenaistyminen-1917/Documents/ PTK11-1917II11s180-183.pdf; E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, p. 391; D. Kirby, A Concise History of Finland, p. 160. 30 Eduskunnan Herra Puhemiehelle (6.12.1917), www.eduskunta.fi/FI/tietoaeduskun nasta/kirjasto/aineistot/yhteiskunta/historia/eduskunta-ja-itsenaistyminen-1917/ Documents/alkio1917.pdf; J. A. Wuorinen, A History of Finland, pp. 215–216; A. F. Upton, The Finnish Revolution 1917–1918, p. 182. 31 Valtiopäiväasiakirjat (6.12.1917), www.eduskunta.fi/FI/tietoaeduskunnasta/kir jasto/aineistot/yhteiskunta/historia/eduskunta-ja-itsenaistyminen-1917/Docu ments/PTK20-1917IIs365-367.pdf; E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, p. 392; Lavery, p. 84. 32 Valtiopäiväasiakirjat (6.12.1917), www.eduskunta.fi/FI/tietoaeduskunnasta/kir jasto/aineistot/yhteiskunta/historia/eduskunta-ja-itsenaistyminen-1917/Docu ments/PTK20-1917IIs365-367.pdf; D. Kirby, A Concise History of Finland, p. 161; T. Polvinen, Venäjän vallankumous…, pp. 160–161.

136 Kari Alenius 33 E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, p. 393; J. Lavery, The History of Finland, p. 84; T. Polvinen, Venäjän vallankumous…, pp. 172–177. 34 O. Jussila, S. Hentilä, J. Nevakivi, From Grand Duchy to a Modern State…, pp. 104–105; T. Polvinen, Venäjän vallankumous…, pp. 50–57. 35 Kansankomissaarien Neuvosto, Pietari 18. joulukuuta 1917, No 101 (18./31.12.1917), https://histdoc.net/historia/itsen.html; O. Jussila, S. Hentilä, J. Nevakivi, From Grand Duchy to a Modern State…, pp. 105–106; E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, p. 394; T. Polvinen, Venäjän vallankumous…, pp. 193–195. 36 E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, p. 394; A. F. Upton, The Finnish Revolution 1917–1918, p. 252. 37 O. Jussila, S. Hentilä, J. Nevakivi, From Grand Duchy to a Modern State…, p. 108; E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, pp. 396–397; D. Kirby, A Concise History of Finland, p. 162. 38 A. F. Upton, The Finnish Revolution 1917–1918, pp. 293–297, 398–404, 417–420; J. A. Wuorinen, A History of Finland, p. 220. 39 The Registry of Names of the War Dead between 1914–1922, vesta.narc.fi/cgi-bin/ db2www/sotasurmaetusivu/stat2; see also J. Lavery, The History of Finland, p. 87; E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, pp. 402–403. 40 The Registry of Names of the War Dead between 1914–1922, vesta.narc.fi/cgi-bin/ db2www/sotasurmaetusivu/stat2; see also O. Jussila, S. Hentilä, J. Nevakivi, From Grand Duchy to a Modern State…, pp. 111–112. 41 Miekkavalapuhe (23.2.1918), www15.uta.fi/yky/arkisto/suomi80/v18v9a.htm; O. Jussila, S. Hentilä, J. Nevakivi, From Grand Duchy to a Modern State…, pp. 116–119; J. Niinistö, Heimosotien historia 1918–1922, Helsinki, 2016, pp. 16–22. 42 Rauhansopimus Suomen Tasavallan ja Venäjän Sosialistisen Federatiivisen Neuvostotasavallan välillä (1920), https://fi.wikisource.org/wiki/Tarton_rauhansopimus; J. Niinistö, Heimosotien historia 1918–1922, pp. 70–71, 266–267. 43 J. A. Wuorinen, A History of Finland, pp. 224–225. 44 Rauhansopimus Suomen Tasavallan ja Venäjän Sosialistisen Federatiivisen Neuvostotasavallan välillä (1920), https://fi.wikisource.org/wiki/Tarton_rauhansopimus; E. Jutikkala, K. Pirinen, A History of Finland, pp. 411–412; J. A. Wuorinen, A History of Finland, p. 225. 45 Rauhansopimus Suomen Tasavallan ja Venäjän Sosialistisen Federatiivisen Neuvostotasavallan välillä (1920), https://fi.wikisource.org/wiki/Tarton_rauhansopimus; J. A. Wuorinen, A History of Finland, p. 226. 46 O. Jussila, S. Hentilä, J. Nevakivi, From Grand Duchy to a Modern State…, pp. 139–140; J. Niinistö, Heimosotien historia 1918–1922, pp. 239–261.

10 Rebellion Social conflict in Central and Eastern Europe in 1917–1920 Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny

Logical contradictions, including one that actually deals with the subject of the present volume, have never been fundamentally alien to Marxist-Leninist historiography. While its major axiom was that momentous social and political changes are usually triggered by domestic – not foreign – factors, this line of reasoning did not extend to the foundation myth of the Great Socialist October Revolution. The Bolshevik revolution, it was argued, left its imprint on the developmental path followed not only by Russia and other countries incorporated into the Soviet Union, not only by the close and the less-trusted allies, but even by those states where anti-Soviet elites were unwilling to admit this relationship. The absurdity of claims about the revolution’s crucial impact on, e.g., the emergence of independent states in 1918 has been exposed many times over, but the snag is that such interdependencies are not entirely fabricated. The social rebellion that swept Central and Eastern Europe between 1917 and the early 1920s indeed fed on rumours from Russia. And even still more strongly, the spectre of the revolution – meaning in the first instance the earlier one, of February 1917 – influenced the reactions from the authorities and social elites. The linkage between both rebellions was by no means unequivocal. Let us take a look at the subject from a regional perspective, focusing on the territories that in the autumn of 1915 came under the control of the Central Powers. **** Even if all social classes were affected to a similar degree by the impoverishment that came with the protracted armed conflict, the perception of growing income differentials had never been as widespread as in the final years of the war economy regime. This observation is confirmed by reports from the military authorities in Berlin, one of which, made in the summer of 1918, read: Entertainment establishments of any kind are playing to full houses, with the best seats booked many days in advance. Every day long queues form in front of ticket booths, and trains to Baltic resorts are packed, even despite a rise in fares.1

138 Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny That was not just a peculiarity of the German capital. In the days of the February Revolution, Zinaida Gippius saw an increased interest in elitist and expensive entertainment in Petrograd, too: Poor Russia! There is no hiding that she contains some vile layer. Take those terrible people who fill out theatres today. Yes, there are packed audiences at the production of ‘Masquerade’ in the Imperial Theatre – and they have come there on foot, no other transport being available. They revel in Yuryev and the mise-en-scène by Meyerhold: ‘the proscenium alone must have cost eighteen thousand.’ Meanwhile, machine guns are being fired on Nevsky Prospect.2 The embarrassment felt at the sight of people visiting those places at a time when the populace at large suffered dire poverty could easily turn into anger and fury against the elites. If conspicuous displays of luxury goods and services (assuming that going to the theatre is one) posed no problem for the authorities, the allergic reactions they provoked did carry a potentially dangerous threat of upending the public order. Indeed, it was the perception of injustice that prodded people against the authorities. It mobilised men and women – workers, peasants, and soldiers to action – both in the closing years of the Great War and in the nascent period of newly emerged countries in Central-Eastern Europe and the Balkans. The rebellion had its own momentum in each social group but – with unequal access to food constituting the most decisive factor – the first to rise up were people who depended for survival on the legal sources of provisions.3 First revolts in Russia and Austria-Hungary broke out in 1916 and were driven by housewives, infuriated by steep price increases and shortages in the marketplace. These, however, were but a prelude to a powerful wave of protests that presented a serious threat to Austria-Hungary’s war effort. A painful blow was dealt by workers of the country’s chief arms producer, Škoda Works in Pilsen. It all began in May 1917, with the most horrific industrial incident in the history of the Czech lands. An explosion in the ammunition factory, one of the largest in the Habsburg empire, killed more than 200 female workers – women were strongly overrepresented in the workforce producing explosives and projectiles – several dozen working children, and an unspecified number of male workers on repair and janitorial assignments. The victims reflected a cross-section of Austria-Hungary’s nationalities, with locals accompanied by e.g. Croats and – in fairly large numbers – inhabitants of the Galicia region. The hospital in Pilsen struggled to attend to all the wounded, with operations and amputations conducted in improvised makeshift wards. Once the debris from the explosion was removed – which took quite a long time and the lives of another several dozen people, killed by unexploded ordnances – the military commission investigating the incident issued its recommendations on improvements in the working conditions.

Rebellion 139 But in June, instead of putting them into practice, the authorities opted for what they thought was an easy way out and militarised the factory, which meant an instantaneous imposition of military discipline on workers. Their reaction took everybody by surprise. The entire Škoda Works came to a standstill on June 27th and in the next several days, the workforce of nearly 30,000 – gathered in the commons outside the factory walls – listened to twice-daily speeches by social democratic members of parliament, translated on the spot into most of the languages spoken across the empire. Over a hundred of those present were arrested after the first day, yet the next day they were freed. Between the meetings, workers stayed on factory grounds but did not return to work.4 Not only the scale and efficient organisation of the strike was surprising, it also turned out that most of workers’ demands were actually met. The working time was cut down, wages increased, the quality of food in the factory canteen improved, and outstanding overtime pay was disbursed. The improvements benefited all groups of the workforce, including women and children. Only the Russian and Italian prisoners of war – as forced labourers, not allowed to take part in protest action – were left out.5 The Pilsen strike was a harbinger of other problems to come. Soon afterwards a strike wave swept across Prague, followed by protest actions in other cities of the empire, and also in Germany. Their outcomes were highly diversified. Rudolf Kučera, who studied these developments and compared them to events in Pilsen, distinguishes between two different types of strike action. Success came to those protests where pre-war barriers were overcome, with men and women of various ethnic backgrounds uniting around common economic goals. Women’s participation in the strike movement was of key importance. Unlike men they could not be drafted, which deprived the authorities of an effective tool of blackmail. The ministry of war had long resisted employing larger groups of women in the armaments industry, perceiving them as being of an “innate disposition to agitate.”6 Seasoned social democratic politicians had their fears, too, uncertain if they would be able to control female workforces. Both were absolutely right. The commitment of woman workers tended to enhance strikers’ determination and helped in firmly sticking to specific economic demands. Even non-working women were seen as dangerous agitators. This potential was fully tapped by leaders of the Škoda strike. But it was only in the short run that the strikers’ demands could be met. In order to “improve the provisions” of food and other necessities – such calls were made in every protest action – the war would have to be ended. And obviously the authorities were unable to remove the rebellion’s direct cause, namely the “popular discontent over state rations and irritation at the lifestyle of the better-off classes.”7 In August, the largely female and juvenile workers vented their frustration with wartime misery by plundering and destroying commercial quarters in downtown Pilsen. Rocks and cobblestones were thrown, hotel windows broken, and shops looted. In the evening, the protesters’ anger turned to

140 Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny Jewish merchants, and now their apartments, too, came under attack. Clashes with the police erupted in several places, many were wounded, and one person died.8 During the riots, the police carefully watched for any signs of sympathy with the Russian Revolution. The findings of these searches can be viewed in two ways. On the one hand, references to the February Revolution did appear at the protests and in overheard private conversations. One Franz Michalek, for example, declared: “I am fed up to the teeth with this unending war. Another Kerensky or Kornilov would not be unwelcome here ….”9 Shouts “long live the revolution” could be heard at the demonstrations, and those present let their hatred of the bourgeoisie be known, in word and in deed. But on the other hand, even the inquisitive investigators had to admit that the protests were stirred by economic, rather than political, factors and that among the slogans raised, very many were nationalist (i.e. pro-Czech) and anti-Semitic. Any communication between the Czech rebels and Russian revolutionists was obviously out of the question. In trying to understand the mechanisms of worker protests in the Habsburg realm a key factor on which one should focus are the local conditions, which changed radically in the years preceding the Pilsen strike. The wareconomy experience thoroughly transformed the working class, where the proportion of women increased radically, influencing a change in occupational and political demands. Previous hierarchies began to break down, and skilled workers saw their economic conditions worsening, bringing them closer to the level of unskilled labour. Using the privileges bestowed on them by the authorities, industrialists ruled heavy-handedly in factories – which only radicalised strikers. They learned their lesson from previous smaller-scale and unsuccessful protests, such as a demonstration of several thousand seamstresses held soon before the Pilsen strike in a town of Prostějov, where eleven women and six boys between 13 and 18 years of age were killed by the troops called to restore order.10 When successive protests unfolded, the authorities found themselves short of sufficient resources to suppress these by force, in addition to increasingly harbouring doubts about the rationale for violent reaction. The wartime revolts and strikes demonstrated that workers were a force to reckon with. And workers soon realised that the penalties that threatened them for strike action were increasingly toothless. Even the most militant Pilsen strikers who went to jail were released soon afterwards, under a July 1917 amnesty. A relative peace set in for the next several months, with successive stoppages affecting Škoda only in December (and that was due to discontinued coal supplies, rather than worker discontent).11 The quiet period definitely ended in January 1918, when a series of worker protests spread like wildfire, almost totally paralysing the arms industry in Germany and Austria-Hungary. As reported by authorities in the latter country, virtually all workers in a number of major industrial centres laid down their tools. In the middle of the month, 15,000 workers in

Rebellion 141 Vienna’s giant Arsenal factory, and four times as many throughout the Austrian capital, did not report to work. A couple of days later, 30,000 at Škoda in Pilsen went on a sympathy strike, as did several thousand steel industry workers in Kladno and also coal miners in Ostrava district, who staged a sit-in in their mines. The upheavals spread into Lower Austria, Styria, Trieste, and Brno. In Cracow, hunger riots flared up on January 16th, and when three days later the largest factories in Hungary came to a standstill, the continuity of armaments production was put into question. In all, almost one million workers were involved in the protest actions.12 It was of little consolation to the authorities that workers of the Hapsburg Monarchy acted in unison, over and above ethnic divisions, supporting the demands of their comrades from other industrial centres, and thus displaying something like affinity with the existing political order. The way the factory worker protests were organised demonstrated that the lesson of the summertime strike at Škoda was not wasted. Calm prevailed, and there was no need for army intervention because the workers kept order themselves. Attempts to intimidate workers with threats of conscription proved ineffectual, because any such move met with effective resistance. In what was previously unthinkable in a time of war, a strike could even occur in response to workers having been offended by factory management.13 Given the giant scale of the movement, the strikers’ initial demands look fairly modest. The spark that lit the fire was the authorities’ decision to lower flour rations. Calls for its revocation were later being repeated like a refrain. One of the first to negotiate with the authorities was the delegation of railway workers from the Floridsdorf workshops in Vienna who, in addition to flour, also wanted boots, working clothes, and higher piece rate payments.14 In other factories, the desiderata included making up for flour shortages with supplies of bins and pulses (or with cereals), higher wages, shorter working time, and better conditions. Just as in Pilsen, the frightened authorities were inclined to meet many of these demands, but as the strike wave rose the major dilemma was growing ever more acute: who should be deprived of provisions so that these could be used to placate the striking workers? The obvious conflict of interests between various groups of striking workers could only be avoided if the lists of demands were so extended as to solve at one go the shortage of provisions across the country. The solution was prompted by none other than Vladimir Lenin, the author of a decree of the All-Russia Congress of Soviets where a call was made for immediate and just peace, without annexations and war contributions. This call, which at least on the surface looked to be very simple indeed, was getting increasingly popular – even despite the absence of Lenin’s direct influence, or any close contacts with social democrats in Austria-Hungary and Germany. The launch of ceasefire talks, and then peace negotiations, between Central Powers and Soviet Russia in November 1917 was seen by strikers as crucially important, offering hopes that peace was indeed within reach. The negotiations

142 Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny were covered in the press and everybody could read that it was Russia who wanted an unconditional end to war, while the Central Powers, and Germany in particular, pressed for territorial gains. Interestingly, the government of the Hapsburg Monarchy basically shared the workers’ opinion about a close linkage between both demands of the January strikes, i.e., peace and bread. The Minister of Foreign Affairs, Ottokar Czernin, who represented Austria-Hungary at BrestLitovsk, became convinced – in response to reports from back home – that the situation could only be retrieved by immediate peace and food supplies from Russia or Ukraine. He therefore pressed Germany for making peace with Russia as soon as possible, and then he desperately clung to hopes for a “bread peace” with Ukraine, thus choosing a negotiating posture that bordered on sabotage of the Central Powers’ strategy. While Germany, and even Turkey and Bulgaria, posed their conditions and expected concrete concessions, Czernin was in a hurry to come back home at the earliest with the good news that problems with provisions would soon end. He evidently overrated the beneficial consequences of the Brest-Litovsk peace.15 Meanwhile, following the Russian example, workers councils began to spring up in some of German, Austrian, and Hungarian factories, even if no one knew what exactly they were expected to do. On the second day of the Floridsdorf workshops’ strike, a representative of the protesters sent this communication to the authorities: The workers were alarmed by the recent reports [on the Central Powers’ ultimatum to Bolsheviks] indicating that the peace talks with Russia, the world’s most democratic country today, are endangered. At stake is not just a quarter-kilogram of flour, but it is the soonest possible conclusion of peace. We therefore are not prepared to return to work unless we receive a guarantee to the effect that the Austrian authorities are ready to negotiate a peace without open or concealed annexations, based on the nations’ right to self-determination.16 Striking in sympathy with their Austrian colleagues, the Hungarians presented a somewhat broader roster of demands, but for them, too, peace with Russia remained the key condition. The regional high command in Pozsony (to be renamed Bratislava several months later) reported: According to another source, the strike is of an internationalist and socialist nature, and it was provoked by the annexations sought by Germany, which could potentially postpone the conclusion of peace. In yet another version, the reason for taking the strike action was that the Hapsburg Monarchy could then pressure Germany, which purportedly opposes any concessions during the Brest-Litovsk negotiations. Bringing home to our ally how dramatic situation we are in would, in this reasoning, influence their conduct at Brest-Litovsk.17

Rebellion 143 The January strikes indeed forced Central Power governments into making numerous concessions and influenced their negotiating position at BrestLitovsk, but it was a radical change in the handling of domestic political issues that proved to be the most significant consequence in the long run. Previously, the authorities’ gut reaction to working class revolts was resorting to violence. The striking factories were taken under military command, workers were mercilessly disciplined, and anti-government attitudes were crushed down with full force. The magnitude of the strike wave, however, showed that workers grew to become a strong and well-organised political force which could no longer be treated in the old way. The workers demonstrated their power. Other, previously well-tested methods ceased to work, too. Back in the spring of 1917 the authorities in the Oppeln district (Regierungsbezirk Oppeln) sought in advance to come to terms with trade union leaders, meet some of their demands and avoid work stoppages.18 A year later, Germany’s problems with provisions were too acute to permit such concessions. Successive mass protests burst out in Hungary in March 1918, with a general strike announced to be staged on May 1st. This time the authorities managed to take the situation under control, conscripting the most active leaders and sending them to the frontline.19 In Cisleithania, the protest wave resurged in the autumn of 1918, sweeping Czech lands just before the fall of Austria-Hungary. In the meantime, the methods used by factory workers were embraced by other occupational groups. All postal workers in Pilsen, for example, went on strike in the summer (except for the manager and the supervisory staff).20 The know-how on strike organisation was spreading ever wider, defying the attempts by press censors to obstruct the flow of information from one protest centre to the other.21 The lesson that the working class taught Central Power monarchs was also closely watched – and apparently well learned – by pretenders to power in the post-imperial world, the leaders of national movements. Their reaction to post-1918 industrial actions leaves little doubt as to the caution and delicacy with which they treated this newly emerged, dangerous force. In many places, the wartime series of strikes continued without any major break until the early 1920s and, moreover, protests tended to erupt in predominately agricultural regions and those affected by wartime deindustrialisation. Even prior to the war, the territories occupied by Central Powers were hardly at the forefront of industrial development. Congress Poland and Baltic governorates, which were economically most developed territories in those areas, first suffered in the course of evacuation and devastation by the retreating Russian troops, and later were subject to a planned disassembly of the industrial plants, coupled with the sequestration of raw materials, which obstructed normal operations even at enterprises capable of resuming production. An important exception were the mines in the Dąbrowa Coal Basin, where the German authorities sought to intensify production. Historians estimate that, all over the Kingdom of Poland, no more than a third of

144 Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny workers kept their jobs after 1915.22 In the Baltic governorates, the worst hit was the most advanced industrial centre of Riga. But, even so, much decimated and under strict control, the local proletariat moved in 1917 to follow the trail blazed by the Pilsen workers. A report from the AustroHungarian regional high command in Radom, although permeated with official optimism, reveals that, even under such conditions, strikes and protest actions could make themselves felt: On the 22nd of January, at 15:00 hrs, a 2,000-strong demonstration marched through the city carrying red flags and banners with diverse slogans, such as “Down with the Regency Council”, “Long live the revolution”, “Long live the Polish republic”, “Down with the occupiers”, “Down with Beseler”, etc. On January 23rd, all was quiet except for the closure of shops, but on January 24th, around 11 a.m., another demonstration was staged, heading for the building of the Workers’ Union, where party leaders dissolved the gathering and announced the end of the general strike. […] The general strike and the demonstrations were entirely of a political nature, seeking the soonest possible conclusion of peace.23 Strikes and demonstrations for “bread and peace,” rolling over the occupied territories in January and February 1918, were sparked by news of German and Austro-Hungarian developments. Their scale, obviously, was lower – reflecting differences in working-class numbers – but their course and slogans were similar. An astute observer could notice a certain change, compared with previous protests which – resembling the developments at the imperial centre – took the form of organised demonstrations to wrench more provisions and better working conditions. In January 1918, the Warsaw protest assumed a political character.24 Józef Piłsudski’s socialist followers proved most effective in tapping the workers’ discontent for political purposes. The leader of the movement was then kept in a German prison, which surely added to his credibility. It seems that in the occupied territories protests became politicised sooner than in the German and Austro-Hungarian hinterland, where demonstrators still perceived the government as their own. In the Kingdom of Poland, the agitators could more convincingly present social conflict as an integral part of a struggle for independence from foreign occupiers. The German and Austro-Hungarian authorities learned of this in early February 1918, when protests against the Brest-Litovsk treaty with the Ukrainian People’s Republic surged through the Polish lands. Indignation over the assignment of the Chełm region to Ukraine was expressed by the Regency Council, by Polish politicians in Vienna and Lwów (tendering their resignations), and by troops under the command of Józef Haller, who mutinied and crossed the frontline into Russian-held territory. The Polish members of the Council of State in Vienna declared that from then on, the

Rebellion 145 goal for Polish policy would be to have the full independence of an undivided country. The working-class rebellion turned out to provide a useful instrument of national protest, which came as an unpleasant surprise to the Central Powers, who needed some time to grasp the logic of this interdependence. Back in January, just like their Czech, Austrian, and German comrades, the Polish workers demanded peace and bread, but a few weeks later – during which time both peace and shipments of Ukrainian grain were successfully negotiated – there came not calm and reassurance but another wave of discontent, sometimes voiced by the same workers. Still worse, in step with the protests becoming more politicised, the demonstrations only grew in strength, rather than subsiding: Throughout the territory of imperial-royal occupation, strikes were organised by the right wing of the PPS (Polish Socialist Party), and in many places they were backed by the PSL (Polish Peasants’ Party), POW and Piechur youth military organisations, and Women’s League chapters. Everywhere the strikes were in the same nature of a political manifestation, using identical slogans as those in Warsaw (i.e., against the Central Powers’ position at Brest-Litovsk, against the Regency Council, and against the government).25 By February 1918, the working-class protest became part of a tidal wave of national dissatisfaction with the policy of the Central Powers. On February 18th, a general strike began in Galicia. Protest actions united civil servants, professionals, and shop-floor workers – and they had very little in common with the class-driven strike in Škoda Works: After the government’s resignation, street demonstrations were staged in Warsaw, with windows broken in Austrian and German offices. In a ceremonial session held on February 13th, the Warsaw City Council condemned the new division of Poland. The governor-general imposed on the city a contribution of 250,000 marks. On February 14th, Warsaw’s public life came to a standstill: trams stayed put, factories and workshops suspended operations, shops, restaurants and cafés were closed, as were banks, offices and public institutions, classes were discontinued in all types of schools, from the lowest to the highest level, there were no performances at theatres and cinemas, and crowds took to the streets to demonstrate. A charge by the German military left several dozen wounded in the streets.26 However, the solidarity and sympathy aspect of the mass protests that broke out after the Brest-Litovsk treaty proved to be an exception rather than the rule. By and large, the politicisation of the movement which had its roots in workers’ demands about the living conditions did not turn it into a common front of various social classes and groups. Quite the opposite,

146 Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny strikes and demonstrations increasingly tended to serve particular goals. As early as February, those on the left wing of the Polish working-class movement protested against the tenor of demonstrations, with slogans like these: “No to the independence farce” and “Long live the international workers’ revolution.”27 Beginning as a weapon with which to press for workers’ rights, the strike actions later increasingly became the scene of competition between political camps, and also between occupational groups. The fall of the three empires changed surprisingly little in this respect. In all countries of Central and Eastern Europe and the Balkans, individual social groups, and sometimes narrower interest groups, resorted to this weapon so frequently that strikes almost became a norm. They even spread to areas – most notably in the countryside – where access was previously restricted by the imperial police and military. Until as late as the 1920s, in the Baltic states, Poland, Yugoslavia, Romania, and Bulgaria, the provinces were repeatedly shaken by strikes of farm workers. Sometimes, as in the Mazowsze region in late 1918 and early 1919, a so-called “black strike” was staged, where farm hands ceased to feed cattle and swine. With time, the strike experience was shared by almost everybody. The bakers in Kielce, for example, called a stoppage in January 1919, which in turn angered hungry workers. In March, the strike option was taken by inmates remanded in Kraków’s Montelupich prison, and also by janitors in Łódź (for two weeks). A railway workers’ strike paralysed Romania in 1918, and roughly in the same time commuter trains were grounded in Łódź and Warsaw. When the Czechoslovak army fought Hungarian communists in Slovakia, the Ostrava district was the scene of industrial action taken by miners and steel industry workers. A couple of months later, Ostrava came to a halt again, this time in response to rumours about Western powers’ purportedly intending to cede Cieszyn/Těšín Silesia to Poland. Similar motives were behind the protest action by German railway workers in Katowice in January 1920. The Borysław Oil Basin went on strike in December 1919, several weeks ahead of typesetters in Poznań and also printers in that city (striking in February) and tramway operators in Łódź. The same negotiating method was practiced by civil servants, including those in uniform. The Dąbrowa Coal Basin miners staged protests many times in 1919–1920. Members of the Czechoslovak Legion announced a strike alert in early 1920, disenchanted with plans for them to be disarmed and partly incorporated into the regular army of the newly created state. And in Hungary, during the country’s first revolution which brought to power a liberal government led by Mihály Károly, the police force first refused to intervene and demanded improved provisions, then set up their own trade union, and eventually, joining forces with postmen and telephone operators, went over to the revolutionary side.28 And that was hardly the most idiosyncratic among strikes of the period. In January 1919, the socialist trade unions in the Tworki asylum outside Warsaw staged a protest by refusing to take care of the inmates. The surprised authorities could not immediately meet the

Rebellion 147 demands and had to resort to emergency measures, sending soldiers to Tworki to substitute for the nursing personnel.29 The striker demands sometimes comprised a mix of political slogans and calls to have the most basic economic needs satisfied. In some cases, protesters’ banners proclaimed support for “the world’s first state of workers and peasants” or for another experiment in the field, the Hungarian Soviet Republic. Communist sympathies were still more frequently indicated in unofficial conversations about how bad it was and what would have to be done to change things at least a bit. This is what a police informer reported from Mazowsze region: People take strong interest in Bolshevik ideas, and this is the main topic of conversations in each and every railway carriage, waiting room, tea house or even in the course of field work. Among ardent Bolshevik supporters are lower-level railway and office workers, artisans (especially locksmiths and fitters), landless peasants, and manorial labourers.30 The degree to which such sentiments took an organised form, however, must not be exaggerated. The “Bolshevik sympathies” of locksmiths, fitters, and other potential rebels did not necessarily have to denote ideological affinity with the Russian Revolution. The ears of undercover agents were set to pick out such opinions and distil them from overall complaints of the new authorities, who proved not very much different from the old ones. In a way, the omnipresence of complaints, and even protests, had the effect of blunting their force. And it should be remembered that the most revolutionised parts of the former Russian Empire suffered from widespread unemployment that followed Russian evacuation and German deindustrialisation. Consequently, the working-class protests were not attended by so many people as they could have been back in 1915. In the new circumstances, even large, radicalised industrial centres were not capable of staging such an effective protest action as that of the Pilsen workers. In Żyrardów, where before the war factories had a combined workforce of over a dozen thousand, a workers’ council took over power in November 1918 and even managed to collect some of the weapons left by the retreating German forces. And yet, the leading role in protests that erupted in March and May 1919 was played not by workers but by the unemployed. Even if the latter could indeed threaten social order, there was definitely no threat of a strike action on their part.31 That was the case, for example, with the “unemployed workers of Baniocha brick making plant,” who just ahead of the harvest in 1919 were touring local landed estates demanding potatoes.32 When reading the official reports, one cannot but conclude that with the passage of time the protests became somehow ritualised. In certain cases, it would be hard to say anything more concrete than that the demonstrators expressed their dissatisfaction with the authorities. No demands were

148 Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny involved, for example, in the demonstration at Słupca in Wielkopolska region: In Słupca, Kalisz county, some 300 people with a red flag emerged in front of the building of local government offices, singing, shouting and making no demands. What fomented the upheavals was their anger with the decrees of county authorities, poor security and shortage of jobs.33 On the other extreme were demonstrations and strikes with very concrete programmes, most frequently demanding higher pay. Bent on avoiding a revolution at any price, the authorities tended to make concessions, and they satisfied the demands for higher wages with freshly printed banknotes. But it was a taller order when they had to respond to calls for improved provisions. Such was the motto of a 24-hour work stoppage in October 1920 at all factories in Łódź, accompanied by a demonstration of nearly 80,000.34 This ritualisation of workers’ pay-related protests and official concessions provides at least a partial explanation of the post-war inflation and hyperinflation that raged across the region. In some instances, the slogans used in fight for worker rights offer testimony no so much to the weight of political and economic problems, as to the decreasing quality of communication between individual social groups. In a regular process of employer-employee dialogue, many issues would have surely been resolved without turning into anti-government slogans. But with social conflicts growing sharper since at least 1917, protest action began to be seen as a normal form of presenting people’s sentiments, even in cases such as one involving northern Mazowsze farm hands, whose demands included: “1. Floors to be made of wooden-panels, not clay. 2. Windows to be fitted out with vents, to let fresh air into flats. 3. Families to be each provided in the future with a two-room flat.”35 The reaction of the authorities – whether central or local – and private landowners depended on the protesters’ potential. The demands put forward from the position of force were usually met. But in respect of the weaker, the historically tested method of dealing with rebellion was deployed, namely resorting to violence: On January 2, 1991, in a large, industrialised manorial estate of Cegliński family in Janów, farm workers who served on the committee (council) were beaten in an unprecedented way. The owner, Madam Ceglińska, invited a 60-strong cavalry squadron of the Mińsk Mazowiecki-stationed 5th regiment, led by a drunk officer. And she ordered in advance to prepare bundles of birch rods, wet red linen, and a special bench for hiding. The oppressors forced the farm workers to lie on the bench and then flogged them through the red linen.”36

Rebellion 149 After 1917, strikes and demonstrations by workers and farmhands turned into an almost everyday reality across Central and Eastern Europe and the Balkans. But they did not exhaust the potential for distrust and enmity between the region’s individual social strata that had accumulated during the war. From the viewpoint of villagers and residents of small provincial towns, it was unruliness and upheaval that proved a much more dangerous manifestation of this radicalisation of social conflict. Here, too, the Czech lands were at the forefront of the process. Soon after the large-scale strike at Škoda Work, Pilsen was the scene of one of the first – and the fiercest – riots in the country. As pointed out by Rudolf Kučera, they had a popular character and reflected the “moral economy” of the working majority, outraged by the inequities of post-war capitalism. While shops and warehouses were indeed looted during these riots, disobedience typically manifested itself in other ways, such as giving the loot away or destroying displays of luxury. The robbery motive, even if it might be present, did not offer a sufficient explanation of this form of protest. The workers bursting into the centres of Czech cities portended an end to the old order. They threw down a challenge not only to the state apparatus, but also to the bourgeoisie. In June and early July, the upheavals spread into Upper Silesia. The ransacking in Gliwice and Świętochłowice closely followed the previous pattern. The demonstrators not only engaged in pilfering, they also distributed the merchandise on the spot, in accordance with their own sense of justice. The number of defendants brought to Silesian courts following the riots neared one thousand.37 In regions where the middle class in smaller towns was predominantly of different ethnicity and religion than the local villagers, the upheavals sometimes turned into pogroms. In such an environment, the “moral economy” – manifesting itself in the humbling of the propertied and redistribution of goods – had a very special local flavour. Therefore the post-war states, especially those newly emerged in 1918, faced a major challenge of reconciling popular justice with the maintenance of social and economic order. It was not only labourers and salaried employees who claimed their rights. Soldiers coming back from war also expected some form of support, and where it was unavailable they were taking matters in their own hands. Attacks on food stores by demobilised ex-servicemen – especially at railway stations located at important junctions – were common in late 1918 and early 1919. In the first week of November several Austrian railway hubs were affected, including Gnigl outside Salzburg and Amstetten. Each time the scenario was similar. Enraged by the food rations received on their way back home – and in most cases, rightly so – a crowd of soldiers, sometimes including released Russian POWs, burst out of the carriages and stormed food warehouses. The stocks were defended by a freshly formed Austrian Volkswehr, sometimes with exchanges of fire and casualties on both sides. In every instance, the defenders eventually managed to stop the pillage – until the arrival of the next rebel transport. To the Austrian press these events

150 Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny were politically tinged, and the blame was usually put on the Hungarians. Amstettner Zeitung reported: It looked as if the savage crowd wanted to take the railway buildings by storm. But the robbers very likely failed to reach agreement as to what to do next, and raised hands could be seen in the rear of the crowd. The rebelled mob was surrounded by gendarmes and the Volkswehr, who in the meantime appeared on the scene, arms at the ready. NonGerman soldiers were then disarmed, but German platoons were allowed to keep their weaponry. The soldiers complained of the Hungarians who – being in much larger numbers – behaved badly, by seizing food and ‘exchanging’ their threadbare boots and clothes for the soldiers’ good-quality stuff. This band of robbers have stirred turmoil five times already, meeting no resistance. […] The conduct of the German soldiers and many of the Russian POWs, travelling with them, was beyond reproach.38 The authorities’ reactions to protest actions were contingent on their real potential. A group of farm hands could be talked out their dreams of a revolution by means of beating. Where demobilised soldiers captured provisions from a railway station storehouse, it was only possible to limit the damage. And the authorities remained utterly defenceless when faced with thousands-strong masses of workers. While it would be hard to take an accurate measurement of the degree of lawlessness in countries of Central and Eastern Europe and the Balkans, it is possible to reconstruct the hierarchy of chaos which accompanied the imperial order’s recession into the dustbin of history. One extreme must have been taken by Ukraine, hit most strongly by the privatisation of violence, and the other by relatively stable Czechoslovakia, the first to witness outbreaks of organised working-class protests. Even while the Great War was still going on, the Austro-Hungarian police reported a very fast increase in women’s and juvenile criminality.39 This naturally reflected the circumstance that many potential male perpetrators had gone to war, thus disappearing from statistical tables. When they were back, the criminal statistics in what was now Czechoslovakia revealed a giant leap in the crime rate, which obviously was not against logic and common sense: the returnees from the frontline had only added to the group of potential law-breakers. Similar processes were seen in Austria. An overwhelming majority of registered crimes and offences were offences against property. Some of these were ignored by the police, as in the case of expropriation campaigns by the worker organisation “Černá ruka,” engaged in defending low-income families against expropriation attempts, and evicting mostly German burghers from their houses to make room for Czech workers.40 Outside Prague, the Czech lands were the scene of two waves of looting and plundering: in November 1918 and in mid-1919. The Czech historian Václav Šmidrkal

Rebellion 151 describes those events as typical eruptions of “popular justice,” noting the special meaning which the perpetrators assigned to the notions of “republic” or “democracy.” “Well, what a republic!” was a joyous expression of satisfaction with the state of lawlessness, in which power belonged in the stronger group, who were also convinced of their moral right to redress past wrongs. Caught by this “justice” were the local “exploiters,” meaning owners of shops, inns, and sometimes of land. In August 1919, peasant housewives from outside Minsk (in today’s Belarus) were surprised to hear from members of the Morgenthau commission that this time an act of “justice” in respect of local Jewish shopkeepers would not take place. On that day the Americans talked with local village women, who did not conceal the purpose of their visit to Minsk, namely to take Jewish property. Upon learning that soldiers were under order to arrest the thieves, they grew angry and disappointed.41 More frequently, though, the plundering did take place. A case in point is the Czech village of Francova Lhota in the eastern part of the country. After a church mass a group of locals, raising militant slogans, headed for the inn. They ordered beer but did not pay. Joined by neighbours from more distant areas, they later slaughtered the inn-keeping lady’s poultry and proceeded to plunder private rooms. With their appetite and thirst satiated, they moved towards another inn in the nearby village of Střelná. There, to the shouts of “Turn up at the bar, Czechoslovaks!” they poured beer for themselves, obviously without any intention of paying.42 Meting out justice to actual and purported beneficiaries of war was perhaps the key component of such upheavals. It was not uncommon that, in addition to ransacking, the mob herded together those believed to be usurers or profiteers and brought them to the town market or village centre – there to be shamed and forced to swear that they would not raise prices in the future.43 Other motives behind “popular justice,” though, were making themselves felt, too. In both cases mentioned above, the Czech inns were owned by Jews, a circumstance of which the perpetrators were fully aware. It would be hard to sort out how much the drunken crowd went by social motives and a sense of having been wronged, and how much by antisemitism. But this can be ascertained with much greater likelihood in respect of the series of organised pogroms that erupted in Polish lands – first in the summer of 1918 and then, just as in Czechoslovakia, in May 1919. In the initial attacks, which to some extent could have represented an aftermath of protests against the Brest-Litovsk treaty, it was the hungry town dwellers who turned against Jews, perceived as the main culprits behind the exorbitant prices and shortages of goods.44 The second wave of pogroms was, to a much greater degree, the work of peasants, in respect of whom the claim of being responsible for townspeople’s penury would perhaps be more warranted. The main difference between Poland and Czechoslovakia lay not so much in typology as in the mass-scale nature of

152 Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny these events. In Poland, it was not the individual victims that were being targeted but entire communities, who only in exceptional cases, could have profiteered from the war. They often were poorer than their tormentors, the rich farm owners from nearby villages. Their only “fault” was being Jewish, and the only chance of deliverance from such “acts of justice” could be provided by firm action on the part of the military or the police. On May 2, 1919, “in Miechów, the civilian population carried out a pogrom of the Jews, with the government commissioner failing to bring the situation under control. Two people were killed, and seven wounded.”45 The next day, tensions did not subside. Daily reports coming from the town illustrate the drama: In Miechów, the mob unleashed a repeat pogrom of the Jews at 3 o’clock in the morning. Preparations were being made to slaughter them. The military gendarmerie, upon entry, faced a barrage of stones. One gendarme was wounded with a knife. The gendarmerie fired, killing two civilians and wounding a woman. The government commissioner requests reinforcements.46 The additional troops helped to pacify the town, and on May 4th the commissioner reported: “The situation in Miechów taken under control by the military. Yesterday the rabble hauled out a Jew from the hospital and killed him. Perpetrators arrested by the gendarmerie.”47 The Galician peasants and townspeople carrying out pogroms in Miechów and, several days later, in Kolbuszowa were unlikely to rationalise their action through reference to patriotic duty. In their eyes, the Jews were not traitors of the Polish Motherland, but just the reverse – henchmen of the nobles and officials. The pogrom was staged under the motto of fighting an unjust state. That, obviously, was pointless for the victims, but the army command saw the peasant revolt as a still greater challenge than the widespread violence that Jews suffered at the time from the military. The peasant riots in the area of Rzeszów in May 1919 grew to proportions so serious that troops had to be relocated there from Cieszyn Silesia, thus weakening Polish presence in that still disputed region. The biggest pogrom took place in Kolbuszowa on May 6th: In the morning people from the surrounding countryside began to gather with the intention to stage a pogrom, and threatened that if they were not let into the town, then – after receiving reinforcements from their villages – they would attack the troops. Despite pleadings and threats from officials, the crowd did not give in – it only grew larger, assumed a threatening posture and surrounded the troops, aiming to disarm them. To an attack made with sticks, shots were fired in response. As of now, the death toll is 8 peasants, plus there are many wounded. On the military side, gendarme Szczupak and private Guzik were killed. Troops from the 20th infantry regiment – their numbers too

Rebellion 153 small – were forced to retreat towards the town’s centre. The crowd was about 8,000-strong, and their circle was getting tighter and tighter. They began to snatch rifles from soldiers, who stepped back, responding with fire to the attacks and retreating to a gendarmerie station where they successfully held out. Some in the crowd began laying siege to the station, while others rushed to plunder. Around a dozen Jews were killed and a 16-year-old girl was raped.48 **** In 1917, the Great War truly morphed into a World War, and to the affected communities it was no longer a short-term anomaly. Food rationing, ersatz products, longer working hours at factories employing women and children, kilometres’ long shopping queues, hunger – all these assumed features of permanence in areas behind the frontlines. The new normal involved developing a new social hierarchy and redefining the notions of privileged and underprivileged. The differences between the two were put into stark relief by the omnipresent shortages. After all, what sharper distinction can there be than between those with access to food and those without? Where previously indifference had reigned, now enmity took over, reinforced by the experience of having to compete for staples – and further strengthened by a pervasive sense of injustice, coupled with distrust in the authorities’ willingness and capacity to rectify this injustice. The awareness of tight limits on the available resources and the exacerbation of social differences also contributed to deteriorating the employeeemployer conflict. The notions of strike action and worker protest entered for long into the language of Central and Eastern European politics. Where strikes were unfeasible – in villages, and also in small, sometimes even midsized, towns – the discontent and social conflict tended to burst out in the form of lynches. In their most dangerous and most thorough manifestation, these lynches turned into pogroms, seen by their perpetrators as fair retribution on the collective exploiter, the Jews. On this battlefield, where should the Russian Revolution be located? There can be no doubt that it resounded fairly strongly among workers – also outside of Russian industrial centres – and that the striking Czechs and Germans knew about it. It should be kept in mind, though, that even as late as the summer of 1917 this knowledge was scanty and fragmentary, as is demonstrated – paradoxically – by the results of the gendarmes’ and secret agents’ strenuous efforts to collect evidence of sympathy with Russia. It turns out that the manifestations of this sympathy did not go further than slogans, where the notion of “soviet/council” could carry the same value as “Kerensky” or “Kornilov.” Professional revolutionaries bemoaned this ignorance on the part of workers, as can be seen in the following passage, written by Maria Koszutska (a.k.a Wera Kostrzewa) in the summer of 1918:

154 Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny There can be no denying that the vicissitudes of the Russian revolution are for the most part incomprehensible and that they come as disappointment to the masses, who greeted the revolution with rapture and who subsequently became confused when faced with the tangle of unsolved outstanding issues.49 It was only the POWs and refugees returning Austria-Hungary and Germany after the conclusion of peace with Bolshevik Russia in March 1918 who brought more accurate news, and who – more importantly – shared their personal experiences. Thus, the situation was different when subsequent protests were staged, even if their mechanism did not change in any perceptible way. Rather, the difference reflected the local conditions, such as protests in Polish lands after the Brest-Litovsk treaty, or pogroms coming as part of countryside upheavals. A next turn came with the war against Soviet Russia. Invoking the revolution at the time when the Polish army defended Warsaw and counterattacked to the east was tantamount to an act of treason – and therefore ceased to be so obvious and natural as it was not so long previously, in 1918–1919. Does all that mean that the epoch-making developments in Russia left no imprint on Central and Eastern Europe? It doesn’t, obviously. The horizon of protesting workers’ expectations was surely influenced even by revolutions not experienced in person. The workers drew strength and determination from the awareness that protest action was indeed capable of bringing down oppressive, all-powerful governments. But the most profound impact made by the events in Russia could be seen in the authorities’ almost hysterical alertness to any mention of that country, and in the manner – very often, surprisingly subdued – of the state’s reaction to social rebellion. The fear of a repeat of the apocalypse prodded both the declining monarchies and the emerging nation states to make concessions, thus paradoxically calming down tempers and cooling off the revolutionary ferment.

Notes 1 Jürgen Kocka, Klassengesellschaft im Krieg. Deutsche Sozialgeschichte 1914–1918, Göttingen, 1978, p. 32. 2 Zinaida Gippius, Dzienniki petersburskie (1914–1919). Dziennik warszawski (1920–1921), edited by Henryk Chłystowski, Warszawa, 2010, p. 88. 3 Péter Hanák, The Garden and the Workshop: Essays on the Cultural History of Vienna and Budapest, Princeton, 1988, p. 211. 4 Richard Georg Plaschka, Nationalismus, Staatsgewalt, Widerstand. Aspekte nationaler und sozialer Entwicklung in Ostmittel- und Südosteuropa, edited by Horst Haselsteiner, Walter Lukan, Karlheinz Mack, Arnold Suppan, München, 1985, pp. 307–308. 5 Rudolf Kučera, Život na příděl. Válečná každodennost a politiky dělnické třídy v českých zemích 1914–1918, Praha, 2014, pp. 137–150. 6 Gabriella Hauch, “Sisters and Comrades. Women’s Movements and the ‘Austrian Revolution’: Gender in Insurrection, the Räte Movement, Parties and Parliament”, in

Rebellion 155

7 8 9 10 11 12

13 14

15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

Ingrid Sharp, Matthew Stibbe (eds), Aftermaths of War. Women’s and Female Activists, 1918–1923, Leiden and Boston, 2011, pp. 221–243, quote p. 223. Souhrnná hlášení presidia prážského místodržitelství o protistátní, protirakouské a protiválečné činnosti v Čechách 1915–1918, document 2231, quote from: Richard Georg Plaschka, op. cit., p. 309. Ibid. Ibid., p. 307. Milena Lenderová, Martina Halířová, Tomáš Jiránek, Vše pro dítě! Válečné dětství 1914–1918, Praha-Litomyšl, 2015, p. 34. Richard Georg Plaschka, op. cit., p. 310. Reinhard Sieder, “Behind the Lines: Working Class Family Life in Wartime Vienna”, in Richard Wall, Jay Winter (eds), The Upheaval of War: Family, Work and Welfare in Europe, 1914–1918, Cambridge University Press 1988, pp. 109– 138, here p. 125. Richard Georg Plaschka, op. cit., p. 311. “Sammelakt des Mdl. Über die Streikbewegung unter den Eisenbahnern”, in Rudolf Neck, Arbeiterschaft und Staat im Ersten Weltkrieg 1914–1918 (A. Quellen), I: Der Staat (2. Vom Juni 1917 bis zum Ende der Donaumonarchie im November 1918), Wien, 1968, pp. 249–250. Borislav Chernev, Twilight of the Empire: Brest Litovsk and the Remaking of East Central Europe, 1917–1918, Toronto, 2017, passim. Sammelakt des Mdl. über die Streikbewegung unter den Eisenbahnern …, p. 252. Bericht des Mil. Kdos. Pozsony an das KM. über die Streikbewegung im Gebiet von Preßburg, in ibid., pp. 304–305, quote on p. 305. Wolfgang Schumann, Oberschlesien 1918/19. Vom gemeinsamen Kampf deutscher und polnischer Arbeiter, Berlin, 1961, p. 43. József Galantai, Hungary in the First World War, trans. Éva Grusz, Judit Pokoly, Budapest, 1989, p. 294. Richard Georg Plaschka, op. cit., p. 312. For an example in Lower Silesia, see Wolfgang Schumann, op. cit., p. 57. Irena Kostrowicka, Zbigniew Landau, Jerzy Tomaszewski, Historia gospodarcza Polski XIX I XX wieku, Warszawa, 1984 (4th edition), p. 248. “K. u. K. Kreiskommando Radom. Monatsbericht der Verwaltung – Abteilung Jänner 1918, Beilage 1. Politischer Bericht”, in Jerzy Gaul, Alicja Nowak (eds), Społeczeństwo polskie w świetle raportów politycznych austro-węgierskiego Generalnego Gubernatorstwa Wojskowego w Polsce 1915–1918. Wybór źródeł, Warszawa, 2014, pp. 244–245. K.u.k. MGG in Polen, Nachrichtenabteilung nr 356/res./1918, Politischer Bericht vom 3. Februar 1918, in ibid., pp. 246–255, quote pp. 252–253. Ibid., p. 253. Memoirs of Cardinal Aleksander Kakowski, Z niewoli do niepodległości. Pamiętniki, edited by Tadeusz Krawczak, Ryszard Świętek, Kraków, 2000, p. 551. Mieczysław Ryba, Środowiska i ugrupowania polityczne na Lubelszczyźnie 1914–1918, Lublin, 2007, p. 330. A. Siklós, Ungarn im Oktober 1918, “Acta Historica Academiae Scientarum Hungaricae”, 1977 (23), pp. 1–41, here pp. 30–34. Ludwik Hass, “Robotniczy Pruszków w latach 1918–1920”, in Odgłosy Rewolucji Październikowej na Mazowszu i Podlasiu. Praca zbiorowa, Warszawa, 1970, pp. 155–181, here p. 172. Ibidem, p. 42 (report of October 4, 1918). “21 marca 1919, Raport polityczno-informacyjny Sztabu Generalnego WP o sytuacji w okręgach warszawskim i łódzkim”, in Marek Jabłonowski, Piotr Stawecki, Tadeusz Wawrzyński (eds), O niepodległą i granice, vol. 2. Raporty i komunikaty naczelnych

156 Włodzimierz Borodziej and Maciej Górny

32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

władz wojskowych o sytuacji wewnętrznej Polski 1919–1920, Warszawa – Pułtusk, 1999/2000, pp. 134–137, quote p. 135. Benon Dymek, “Rady delegatów robotniczych na Mazowszu w latach 1918–1919”, in Odgłosy Rewolucji Październikowej … , pp. 63–131, here p. 73. “15 marca 1919, Raport polityczno-informacyjny Sztabu Generalnego WP o sytuacji w okręgach łódzkim, krakowskim i lubelskim”, in ibid., pp. 119–120. “15 października 1920, Komunikat informacyjny (sprawy polityczne) nr 61 (128)”, in ibid., pp. 613–620. Benon Dymek, op. cit., p. 104. Ibid., pp. 93–94. Wolfgang Schumann, op. cit., pp. 50–51. Hannes Leidinger, Verena Moritz, Gefangenschaft, Revolution, Heimkehr. Die Bedeutung der Kriegsgefangenenproblematik für die Geschichte des Kommunismus in Mittel- und Osteuropa 1917–1920, Wien, 2003, p. 595. Milena Lenderová, Martina Halířová, Tomáš Tiránek, op. cit., p. 143. Václav Šmidrkal, Fyzické násili, státní autorita a trestní pravo v českých zemích 1918–1923, “Český časopis historický” 2016 (1), pp. 83–109, here p. 89. Przemysław Różański, Stany Zjednoczone wobec kwestii żydowskiej w Polsce 1918–1921, Gdańsk, 2007, p. 293. Václav Šmidrkal, “Fyzické násili, státní autorita a trestní pravo v českých zemích 1918–1923”, … p. 90. Ibid., p. 92. William W. Hagen, Murder in the East: German-Jewish Liberal Reactions to Anti-Jewish Violence in Poland and Other East European Lands, 1918–1920, “Central European History” 2001 (1), 1, pp. 1–30, here pp. 10–12. “2 maja 1919, Raport polityczno-informacyjny MSWojsk. o sytuacji w kraju”, in O niepodległą i granice, vol. 2, pp. 180–182, quote p. 180. “3 maja 1919, Raport polityczno-informacyjny MSWojsk. o sytuacji w kraju”, in O niepodległą i granice, vol. 2, p. 182. “4 maja 1919, Raport polityczno-informacyjny MSWojsk. o sytuacji w kraju”, in O niepodległą i granice, vol. 2, pp. 182–183. “7 maja 1919, Raport polityczno-informacyjny MSWojsk. o sytuacji w kraju”, in O niepodległą i granice, vol. 2, pp. 186–187. Maria Koszutska, “Rewolucja rosyjska a proletariat międzynarodowy”, in Pisma i przemówienia, edited by Aleksander Zatorski, Anna Żarnowska, Warszawa, 1961, vol. I, pp. 237–255, quote p. 239.

11 French political circles and the consequences of the Russian Revolution in Eastern Europe Frederic Dessberg

When Tzar Nicholas II abdicated in March 1917, the Western Powers had many interests to defend in Russia; particularly, regarding France, her prominent economic and commercial position. Even though a lot of Western European nationals had left the Russian Empire since 1914, Paris and London sent more and more military men. A permanent French military mission was present in Petrograd in order to strengthen the Russian ally, following previous civil and military missions sent to Russia. The purpose was also for France to keep her privileged position near the new Russian government.1 Thus, rather soon, the diplomatic and military staffs in Petrograd were changed between spring and summer 1917. For instance, the French ambassador Maurice Paléologue and the military attaché, General Maurice Janin, were replaced because they were known to be close to the previous regime. For the French Third Republic, for the British Empire, but also very soon for the US government, the most important stakes were to keep the Russian Empire fighting among the Entente, to reinforce the Russian military capacities and to rely on Russia’s support on the Western front. At the same time, that means in 1917 and not before, the Allied Powers began to put forward the topic of the self-determination of the peoples. At first, the French behaviour about this remained very ambiguous, especially regarding the autonomy and independence of Poland.2 The weight of the French–Russian alliance is the best explanation for the modest French support of self-determination for Poland. It is pertinent to underline both the influence of the Russian Revolution and the Polish national issue because from 1917 to 1921, France and her Allies had moved in assessing revolutionary Russia and the borders of the new Polish state. They had moved sometimes in the same way and sometimes in divergent ways. The perspective of a social revolution in Europe and, above all, the German military threat accompanied this development. The French political circles had to suddenly a new strategic situation and a chaotic political configuration in Eastern Europe. The question of the perception of the Bolshevik revolution has usually been studied in its ideological dimension. The study of the French political and military archives validates the relevance of this approach, but they reveal the larger importance

158 Frederic Dessberg both of the strategic issues and of inner politics, not only during wartime but even later. Therefore, it is on the basis of the successive strategic ambitions of the French political circles that this chapter will provide an analysis of a difficult adaptation to the new situation in Eastern Europe.

From February to October 1917: French hopes towards the early Russian Revolution and half-hearted support to the Polish cause In the early weeks of 1917, the deterioration of the inner situation of the Russian Empire was a major disappointment for its Western allies. Admittedly, the revolution that occurred in March 1917, mainly because of food shortage, had not cancelled the Russian participation in the Entente. As a matter of fact, the provisional government remained loyal to its commitments, but the revolutionary situation still persisted all over Russia and particularly in the army. The problems connected with the inner situation of the army, notably the declining morale of the soldiers, prohibited any major offensive. When an offensive had been actually launched in July 1917, the success of the operation lasted no more than three days. It became very difficult to lead offensives on different fronts taking into account an allied joint agenda, as was initially planned for 1916.3 Even before the outbreak of revolution, the Russian authorities had confessed that they were experiencing great difficulties in preparing operations that could correspond to the big offensive that the British and the French allies provided in spring 1917. They had been adamant on this specific point in February.4 Moreover, the Franco–British decision to keep the Eastern Army in Salonica annoyed intensely the Russian allies. A cordial but profound disagreement was taking root inside the Entente. The French political circles were firmly committed to ensuring that the French–Russian alliance was developed enough to keep Russia away from the German influence as much as possible. It is worth adding that among the events that convinced the US president to declare war was the overthrow of the tsar. A perspective was thus open to act for the protection of the new Russian government against the German influence, to avoid a separate peace and to gain commercial advantages in Russia.5 The fall of Tsarism was received as good news in the narrow French and British political spectrum of the peace movement and of the socialists. The pacifist socialists, the tiny minority of socialists who refused to approve war credits, were the only ones to be publicly enthusiastic about a social revolution intended to spread in Europe.6 Yet, these Western revolutionaries were not the only ones to show satisfaction toward the 1917 “February Revolution”. In France, it was possible to hear negative calls about the political changes in Russia. They were numerous at the Quai d’Orsay, but they came particularly from Maurice Paléologue, the French ambassador in Petrograd. More generally, positive statements could be heard. On 21st March, Paul Deschanel, President of the Chamber of the Deputies, offered on behalf of its

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members “ardent and brotherly” wishes in a context of overall enthusiasm. He showed particular insistence that Russian armies continue to fight until final joint victory.7 Behind this official speech was hidden a real concern towards Russia’s abilities to act like a true ally, considering the country was generally falling apart. Besides, newspapers would echo new possibilities that were offered to new democratic Russia to keep on fighting, since the allegedly pro-German Petrograd court had collapsed.8 This was the reason, why the French Minister of Armament, Albert Thomas, who was sent to Russia in April 1917, along with Arthur Henderson, socialist member of the British War Cabinet.9 They both supported the Russian provisional government. During the same period, a group of French Parliamentarians (among them were Marcel Cachin and Marius Moutet) were also sent to Petrograd by the Committee on Foreign Affairs of the Chamber. The parliamentary mission report of this mission had been delivered in June 1917, being presented in the frame of a secret committee. This report emphasized Russia’s capacities and willpower to keep fighting along with the Entente. In order to convince the French Assembly, Marius Moutet insisted on the exhortations of the delegation members who had gone “as Socialists and as Frenchmen” to continue the fight against Germany. Marcel Cachin (the future leader of the French Communist Party) even criticized Lenin’s arrival to Petrograd inside a “sealed railcar”. He explained that not only would the Russian provisional government not seek a separate peace but also that the revolution was the safest guarantee to prevent Russia from failing.10 The revolution was not only social but also patriotic. Therefore, the fall of the Tsarist regime was perceived as a rather positive development in political circles. It also represented an opportunity to favour the principle of self-determination regarding the Polish claims. Before the February Revolution, the French government had always avoided offending the Russian imperial government. The few political leaders who demanded a really “Polish Poland”, like Édouard Herriot, were conspicuous exceptions.11 The French cabinet actually agreed with Prince Lwow’s declaration on independence of Poland in the end of March 1917,12 but Paris remained very cautious about it. Alexandre Ribot, President of the Council, gave up any claim about newly recovered Poland for fear that the Russian declaration was beneficial for the Central Empires. Only from May 1917, did France resolutely supported the building of a new Polish state while favouring the National Polish Committee and supporting the establishment of a Polish army in France. It is worth noting that at the same time, the Russian provisional government had refused the establishment of a Polish army in Russia.13 Petrograd had granted independence to Poland within the frame of a wartime alliance in the last days of March, while the French government approved the Russian declaration without any reference to the borders of Poland. However, since May and June 1917, Paris decided to change its strategy regarding the relationship with Poland and Russia. The establishment of a Polish army in France

160 Frederic Dessberg was a means to make a political and symbolic gesture towards Poland, and to put pressure on the Russian provisional government as well.14 It is worth noting that the French government had decided to support the party of the Poles who had chosen the camp of the Entente before 1917, when the Russian alliance was very restrictive for the Polish patriots. To summarize the way the political and military leaders perceived the Russian Revolution at this moment, we could say that it was welcomed but that the Russian government was reminded to honour its commitments. Nevertheless, the Western perception of events in Russia was soon to become very hostile, due to the worsening of social crisis in the West, and due to the Bolshevik Revolution which preceded Russia’s withdrawal from war.

Western questioning and divergences towards revolutionary Russia and the Polish issue during the last phase of the Great War The political division regarding Russia became obvious only when the Bolsheviks seized power in Petrograd. At first, the revolutionary aspect of the October events was not clearly visible, especially because what happened in Petrograd was mainly perceived as a coup d’état.15 Following this, the diplomatic rupture that occurred was at first mainly due to communication difficulties. News from Russia took days and weeks to arrive to the Western countries. The break became more effective when Russia and Germany signed the December 1917 armistice. The new French President of the Council, Georges Clemenceau, in concert with his British counterpart David Lloyd George, talked about military intervention in Russia and they soon defined in which Russian areas Western military operations could be conducted. However, a huge difference separated the French and the British political leaders: contrarily to Lloyd George, Clemenceau was not prepared to maintain “official” relations with the new Russian regime.16 But during the last weeks of 1917, the French government was advised not to show too much hostility towards the new Soviet rule, in order to encourage Russia to remain at war against Germany. The first grievance against the Bolshevik Revolution appeared during this period among the political and military circles: peace between Russia and Germany meant a de facto cooperation between them. Because of the peace negotiation between Russia and Germany, the Russian Revolutionaries extended their power in the northern part of the empire’s former territory, while the French and the British Allies, along with their American associates agreed on extending around Russia the naval blockade already set up against Germany.17 The Western Powers showed different attitudes. President Woodrow Wilson and his secretary of state, Robert Lansing, agreed with the extension of the naval blockade. They refused any help for the Bolsheviks against Germany, precisely because they feared the extension of the revolutionary ideas.18 This ideological statement was frequent among the Western diplomatic and political circles from the very beginning of the Bolshevik revolution.

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On the contrary, in the early weeks of 1918, even if the Russian government was negotiating peace with Germany and had cancelled the tsarist debts, Lloyd George wished to provide support to the Bolsheviks in order to make them fight the Germans. But his cabinet and the Foreign Office were against him. In France, the divide between the military and the diplomatic staff appeared rather soon, much stronger than that within the political circles. The military consequences of the Russian Revolution were important for the French High Command who considered that the October events had partly been the results of the Russian military collapse. General Ferdinand Foch was prepared for the idea of providing military assistance to Russia but the French diplomatic service was unfavourable to it since the Bolsheviks had seized power. In September 1917, General Albert Niessel arrived in Petrograd as chief of the French military mission. He had no ties with the former Russian power and he was supposed to “restore their warlike values to the Russian armies”.19 Niessel and the military mission stayed in Petrograd when the ambassador Joseph Noulens left the capital. At the end of February 1918, Leon Trotsky had asked the French military mission in Russia to participate in the organization of the new Red Army. Marshall Ferdinand Foch accepted the request and one month later (about three weeks after the signing of the Brest-Litovsk Treaty), Trotsky met the representatives of the allied armies: the French officers had to work on the military training of the Russian soldiers and the Americans were supposed to reorganize the railway network. British and Italian officers had also to participate in the training of the soldiers. However, this military cooperation never saw the light of the day, notably because it was difficult to undertake a military cooperation without a political recognition of the Bolshevik government by the Allies who, moreover, had just approved the Japanese intervention in Siberia.20 Since the signing of the Brest-Litovsk Treaty, the Bolshevik government had continuously shown its weakness in front of Germany. Gathering the Russian anti-Bolshevik forces seemed to be the only means of taking decisive action against Germany in Russia. Thus, during the summer of 1918, the need for a military intervention in Russia became very clear among the leading political and military circles in Paris, and especially in Siberia, where the Czechoslovakian Army Corps had taken control of the Trans-Siberian Railway.21 It was very hard to get viable information from Russia. The French ambassador Joseph Noulens had left Petrograd and, more broadly, a large part of the diplomats from the allied powers had been recalled during the second half of 1918. It is also worth adding that presence of the allied military men was very limited: most of the British officers had left the country at the beginning of the year. Moreover, most of the journalists had left the Russian territory, so that information reached the Western capitals with great difficulty. For instance, telegrams took many weeks to reach Paris.22 This point is essential for the understanding the difficulties experienced by the politicians at the moment when they had to take necessary decisions.

162 Frederic Dessberg France and Great Britain shared the same concern about the defense of their interests in Russia but they could disagree about the attitude to show towards the new Soviet regime. For instance, London had decided to send a special agent to Petrograd, R. H. Bruce Lockhart, in order to open unofficial relations. In January 1918, when the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, Stephen Pichon, expressed his disapproval, the opinion of the Prime Minister and Minister of War, Georges Clemenceau, was quite different. He thought that the British decision could be an efficient means of preventing Germany and Austria-Hungary from obtaining a stronger influence in Russia.23 Russia was indeed divided in areas of influence, according to the French– British secret agreement of the 23 December 1917. The northern part of the Russian Empire, including the Baltic countries, but also Caucasus, were included into the British zone while the French were allowed to spread their influence on southern Russia, mainly on Ukraine.24 During the first months of 1918, it was still possible to find contradictions between France and Great Britain, but also between the diplomats and the military High Command, about the unity or the division of Russia. The allied powers had recognized Ukraine at the end of 1917 but the French High Command and General Niessel preferred Russia to remain unified, even if the country had to stay in the hands of the Bolsheviks, because dismemberment of Russia could lead Ukraine to a separate peace.25 For Clemenceau, the Bolshevik influence on Ukraine could force the Germans to block an important number of soldiers in this area.26 But in the same time, the Quai d’Orsay was trying to maintain Romania in the war and General Henri Berthelot, chief of the French Military Mission in Romania, was dealing with anti-Bolshevik forces in order to establish a coalition around the Romanian army. However, the French approaches to build a military cooperation with Russia did not last beyond April 1918 and London could get the Soviet agreement for intervention. Several months later, in the context of the defeat of the Central Powers in Central-Eastern Europe and in the Balkans, the French General Staff began elaborating plans for the occupation of Ukraine. Mid-September, the offensive of the French Eastern Army from Salonica had led to the collapse of Bulgaria, while the British forces entered into Damascus and pushed Turkey to request an armistice. The French military intervention in Southern Russia was decided the day after the armistice with Bulgaria. It had been prepared in the frame of an instruction written on 7 October 1918 that was completed by a ministerial directive taken on 27th October, regarding the procedure and setting the objective of “making the economic encirclement of Bolshevism”.27 Added to the Allied blockade around Russia, the action that was undertaken in southern Russia had to be combined with the interventions that were driven in northern Russia, in Siberia and, with regard to the British troops, in the Caucasus. With the encirclement of Russia, the goal of the Allies was already, in the autumn of 1918, to establish a “cordon sanitaire” able to condemn “the Bolsheviks to

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perish of starvation” and to support at the same time the Russian forces that were hostile to the Bolsheviks. General Louis Franchet d’Espérey, general-in-chief of the Eastern Allies armies, received orders from Georges Clemenceau which consisted above all in restoring law and order in Ukraine where extreme political and military confusion prevailed.29 Another objective was for the French government to send military supplies to the chief of the Volunteer Army, General Anton Denikin. But a further important matter was to safeguard the economic interests of France, particularly to control the coal field of Donetz, considering that southern Russia had indeed to be under the French influence. Moreover, another issue was the possibility of a Bolshevik offensive that could be launched as a result of the withdrawal of the German forces that was not yet achieved. Thus, the Quai d’Orsay took on the building of the Russian policy of France while recommending a limited action, in accordance with the British who were operating in the Caucasus. In December 1918, General Franchet d’Espérey received a directive saying that he had to allow General Berthelot to lead his occupation in southern Russia by coming towards Sevastopol and Odessa, then proceeding inland toward Kiev and Kharkov. This decision was the sign of limited goals and the French ambassador in Romania, Charles de Beaupoil de Saint Aulaire, did not like it. He sent his complaints to Paris in order to demand additional means, but the only consequence of his behaviour was to exasperate the minister of foreign affairs, Stephen-Pichon, and the president of the council as well, Clemenceau.30 Indeed, the French premier and minister of war felt that the demands of military means were unrealistic. Even if his public positions were very hostile to Bolshevism, Clemenceau shared with David Lloyd George the idea that the Allies should not get dangerously involved in Russia. Along with the mission of restoring law and order, the priority was eventually given to the protection of the French economic interests in Ukraine. In this context, the point was becoming to favor the protection and the support of the new states of Central Europe. The Eastern Army, from Romania and Ukraine, had to participate in the establishment of a “cordon sanitaire” the idea to establish this type of boundary obviously comes from the end of the year 1918. Meanwhile, the political circles, among them the left-wing parties, found a political guide to follow in President Woodrow Wilson’s fourteen points, regarding self-determination of the peoples and public diplomacy. A majority of the French Socialists, including Albert Thomas,31 were firmly opposed to the Bolshevik Revolution, but they had to counter the main part of the political spectrum which justified the practices of secret diplomacy and the satisfaction of territorial claims for the benefit of France and the Allied Powers’ interests. The main opposition was more about the idea of the “new diplomacy” and the way to protect the national interests abroad than about the behaviour to have towards social changes.

164 Frederic Dessberg In this situation, a new Polish state began to be considered in London and Paris as a bulwark against Germany. This idea appeared as soon as November 1917 in French diplomatic documents.32 In January 1918, Lloyd George demanded ethnic borders for the future new Polish state. After the March 1918 Brest-Litovsk Treaty, the French supported the idea and Wilson agreed because it was inspired by his thirteenth point. The Allied Powers soon agreed with the idea of leaving the leadership of their policy towards Poland to the French, but they shared different viewpoints on it. Paris had approached the Soviets because of the Brest-Litovsk negotiation and amid concerns that the dislocation of the Russian Empire could help Germany. We must remember that at this moment, there was no army of Poland. At the same time, Lloyd George feared isolation of Russia. Anyway, the signing of the Brest-Litovsk Treaty had strengthened the position of Polish question in the allied policy. The French High Command definitively saw Lenin and his supporters as essentially revolutionaries bribed by Germany.33 Later, in September 1918, Poland was recognized as a belligerent ally and in February 1919, the Polish “Blue Army” (the Polish Army established in France in June 1917) became an integral part of the Allied forces34 while France acted to help “the Polish state to be freely established (and) sheltered from external enemy interventions”. Following the 11 November 1918 armistice, Bolshevism issues completely lost their military aspect and became more political, at least among the political circles. But, for the French military, particularly Foch, then general-in-chief of the Allied forces, the threat of a German–Russian alliance was added to the revolutionary danger. Thus, at the beginning of 1919, Foch submitted to the Allies the idea of an Allied massive intervention in Russia, combined with the creation of a barrier of states separating Germany and Russia. At the same time, he supported the Polish aims of annexation in eastern Galicia, notably in order to stop the progress of the Red Army. According to the French former ambassador in Petrograd, Joseph Noulens, France was declared “in a state of war” against Bolshevism.35 As the allied massive intervention was impossible, it became necessary to arm Poland and the countries of the Eastern barrier.

The establishment of the “cordon sanitaire” and the Russian–Polish war The allied intervention in Russia triggered reticent reaction in the Western public opinion. The socialist circles were trying to obtain explanations on the purposes of war and to figure out whether or not France and Great Britain were at war against Russia. Moreover, in the first months of 1919, the motives of intervention in Russia were not really up to date: avoiding the possibility of Germany gaining forces to turn to the West, assisting the Czechoslovak Legion in Siberia, maintaining communications in northern Russia, creating areas of British and French influence (in Ukraine for the

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latter) or gathering the White Russian forces. The military intervention was often justified by the alleged “German origin” of Bolshevism36 but a strong opposition arose inside the French parliament against the government that refused to negotiate with the Bolsheviks without giving the necessary means of a real intervention.37 In June 1919, the debate on whether or not French troops should be sent to Russia was intense, when the French fleet evacuated Odessa. Moreover, the Russian Revolution was mostly perceived as an extension of chaos and the idea according that the Bolshevik regime would not last was widespread. The issue was addressed in terms of domestic policy in the course of 1919, in an economic context of expensive life and serious shortage. It was also marked by the expression of strong demands from the workers. The Reformist Socialist Party lost ground to a growing minority of the Russian Revolution supporters.38 From January 1919 onwards, while revolutionary movements were spreading across Germany and Hungary, this minority served as a reference for those who triggered social protests. In France, the socialists were on the verge of breaking down. That is why they adopted a revolutionary program. This electoral strategy resulted in isolation and defeat when the ideological debate became more intense, after the Third International was created. Thus, from 1917 to 1919 and even later, the political and military circles saw the Russian Revolution through the glasses of the German threat (particularly after the Brest-Litovsk betrayal) and of inner political concerns (a so-called social revolution before the 1919 legislative election). Regarding the relationship between the Allies and Russia, the main issue was the threat of the revolutionary spread. As soon as the idea of the “cordon sanitaire” was elaborated, during the last weeks of 1918, Georges Clemenceau planned to foster the role of Poland in the frame of a rear alliance against Germany, instead of Russia.39 Furthermore, the French president of the council outlined his new position in a memorandum on 4 December 1918: “France has always sought an alliance with the power located on the other side of Germany. But for us, this power will not be Russia any more in the foreground, it will be Poland and Bohemia.”40 During the first weeks of 1919, the most urgent threat was the spread of the revolutionary wave in Europe. Field-Marshall Foch considered using the joint forces of Poland and Romania that could thus constitute “the strongest barrier against triumphant bolshevism in Russia.”41 At the end of 1918 and at the beginning of 1919, he still envisaged sending an Allied Expeditionary Corps through Poland that would have been composed of troops coming from the successor states of the former empires. Hence, on 25th February, Foch proposed to launch the Polish troops against Russia. These forces were supposed to be very well equipped by the Allies. They would have been supported by Finnish, Czech, Romanian and Greek troops, as well as Russian fighters.42 Ferdinand Foch himself was fully conscious of the difficulty of the implementation of this offensive plan. By the way, the Allies rejected it and the states concerned were in no hurry to

166 Frederic Dessberg provide troops in order to support the White Russians, who refused to recognize their brand new independence. On 25 March 1919, the very day when he recommended the withdrawal from Odessa, Foch had adopted the position of the “cordon sanitaire” that should not acquire the nature of an offensive preparation.43 But in order to establish such a “defensive barrier”, it was essential to draw the connection between the Polish and the Romanian troops. The problem was that Wilson and Lloyd George suspected Foch of preparing the possibility of an offensive in the East. They thought that such an action would only result in assisting Poland with the extension of its territory and anyway, Wilson was against using military means against the “revolutionary virus”. Moreover, Hungary had fallen into the hands of Bela Kun and the Romanians appeared much more willing to lead a military operation against Hungary than against Russia. It was thus difficult to control the barrier efficiently. It had become obvious for Foch that the struggle against Bolshevism was now taking place in Central Europe and not in Russia any more.44 For him, a solution for the control of Germany and, simultaneously, for the end of the revolutionary wave in Central Europe, was the connection of the Polish and Czechoslovak forces.45 At the same time, he also gave his support to the plans of annexation of Poland in eastern Galicia. The Allied intervention had proved impossible; therefore, it was necessary to strengthen the states of the eastern barrier. The Allied powers fully agreed with this point in the summer of 1919. Troubled and even conflictual relations between Poland and Russia, the issue of the establishment of the Polish borders and hostilities between Poland and Ukraine about eastern Galicia are very important elements of context. In February and March 1919, the important point was to stop the Bolshevik progress in Ukraine. The “Blue Army” of General Józef Haller was in eastern Galicia at this moment, with French equipment and French officers and soldiers in its ranks. This army had become an integral part of the allied forces in February 1919 (thus under the command of Field-Marshall Foch), according to an agreement reached between Georges Clemenceau and Roman Dmowski. The decision to transfer the “Blue Army” from France to Poland via Danzig and the dispatch of the French Military Mission to Poland had been decided simultaneously, on 11 March 1919. French officers had been sent to Ukraine in order to negotiate armistice between the Poles and the Ukrainians.46 France, but not only France, was favourable to the attribution of eastern Galicia to Poland. We can remember that France had economic interests in Ukraine. Not only was the result of the Allied intervention into the Russian Civil war negative for the Entente, but the French General Staff expressed disappointment with the action of the Whites in Ukraine. So, as a foreign policy actor, the High Command was eager to support Poland. In December 1919, during the last days of his government, Clemenceau explained to the Allies that he was against spending more money on military interventions, and

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that he wanted instead to “put a belt of barbed wire around Bolshevism” and to assist Poland who was waging war against Russia.47 He added that he was much more concerned about Germany than about Bolshevism. Lloyd George wanted to achieve an agreement with the Soviets and, if the French agreed, lead the Poles to negotiate with Russia. Simultaneously, in early 1920, Alexandre Millerand replaced Clemenceau and Maurice Paléologue became general secretary of the Quai d’Orsay. Favourable to providing French support to the Poles, the latter wished to maintain a strong Russia. The French diplomacy was divided and it became then more ambiguous.48 Moreover, it partly differed from British diplomacy and from the point of view of the French General Staff. Piłsudski who wanted to launch an offensive against Moscow, had to act quickly and to get at least French support, while complaining about the British abandonment. But encouraging Poland to launch an offensive was a thing the French diplomacy could not do when Lloyd George wanted to facilitate an accommodation with the Bolsheviks.49 So, Paris only encouraged the Poles not to give in to the Russian demands and, subsequently, not to choose between war and peace. In early April 1920, when the Soviet–Polish negotiations on the conditions of a possible armistice and on the site of the talks had broken down, the French General Staff criticized the offensive because of the risk of a German danger in the case of a Polish military misfortune. The French government warned against a dangerous Polish policy for the same reason but not until mid-May, long after the beginning of the offensive. However, this idea had already been expressed a few months earlier: a Polish territorial extension in the East could unite future Russia and Germany against Western Europe and not only Poland. That was a part of the revolutionary threat. In spring 1920, the French military mission in Poland helped the Polish army by developing plans. The French support became stronger during July 1920, when the military situation in Poland became critical. Because he feared German–Russian collusion, Millerand was decided to counter the progress of the Red Army while the British government had accepted the idea of the Polish defeat. In early July, at the Spa conference, Lloyd George did not support the Poles he accused of imperialism and Millerand followed the British line, even if it became possible to send French officers on the front line. In early August, the Hythe conference brought nearly nothing but Millerand encouraged the Poles to resist.50 The French and British diplomatic and military mission, including General Weygand, was sent to Poland in order to keep the Allies informed of the situation, to press the Polish government to give its policy with regard to the Allies and to separate Piłsudski political and military power. Millerand’s position had changed a little. After having shared Lloyd George’s reproaches toward Piłsudski, he had refused the British advice to conclude an armistice between Poland and Russia. According to Paris, but to London as well, it was about defending Poland against the Bolshevik

168 Frederic Dessberg attack but also to convince Warsaw to be moderate regarding territorial demand. It had not been possible to build a united front together with Wrangel against the Red Army, as it was expressed by the French minister of war on 8 August 1920: “It is a limited offensive to take … We intervene in Germany if she moves … We understand that the bordering countries do not feel eager with this operation, it is because they cannot see well their vital interest. These peoples have to form a coalition against their common enemy.”51 After the Polish victory on the Vistula, Paris wished to postpone talks between Warsaw and Moscow in order to resume contact with Russia under Wrangel’s control. And when the Treaty of Riga was signed in March 1921, France refused to guarantee the new Polish–Russian borders in order not to get involved in a conflict in Eastern Europe.

Conclusion The Allies in their policy towards Russia were inconsistent, mainly because the support to the White troops and the military assistance to Poland were weak and made simultaneously with the cautious will to establish a “cordon sanitaire”. But it is possible to find some continuity in the action of the Western Powers: protection of their national interests. The Western (and even French policy) remained on the defensive and was led by the will to guarantee further relations with future post-revolutionary Russia. Several essential facts appear from the reactions of the French political circles after the February and October Revolutions in Russia. Fear of Germany during the war, but also fear of the defeated Germany after the conflict remains a relevant key to understanding the French eastern policy. Tsarist or revolutionary Russia remained important in the first place as an ally against Germany. It was also true regarding the new successor states of the former Empires, especially Poland. For instance, defence of the French strategic interests involved supporting Poland against Germany and even against Russia after 1918, but not at the expense of breaking links with London. The Russo-Polish war in 1919 and 1920 showed that Paris had to respect priorities in foreign policy. The French will to keep Russia united against Germany after the revolution and to favour a non-Soviet power in Moscow lasted for months after 1918. But this position lasted irregularly, only when the military situation could make it possible. Generally speaking, the French policy in Eastern Europe remained largely defensive, only guided by the concern of the safety of the country. Moreover, France was exhausted, her public opinion was tired and it was necessary to deal with the wartime Allies in order to keep them on the French side after the war. Thus, strategic and political imperatives dictated the French reactions to the Russian Rvolution in Eastern Europe, much more than ideological principles that Paris often put forward.

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Notes 1 F. Dessberg, Les Français en Russie dans la Grande Guerre, in L’Alliance franco-russe à l’épreuve de la Grande Guerre, Département de la Marne, 2017, pp. 35–46. 2 G.Soutou, La Grande illusion. Quand la France perdait la paix, 1914–1920, Paris, Tallandier, 2015, pp. 261–267. 3 D. Showalter, War in the East and Balkans, 1914–1918, in J. Horne (ed.), A Companion to World War I. Wiley-Blackwell, 2012, pp. 75–76. 4 According to the French ambassador in Petrograd, Maurice Paléologue, General Édouard de Castelnau, who had been sent on mission to the Russian Empire in February 1917, had also shown severe pessimism about the capacities of the Russian Army: “… The Russian Army is more than one year behind our Western armies; she is now unable to perform a large-scale offensive.” M. Paléologue, Le Crépuscule des tsars, Paris, 2007, pp. 578–579, on the date of 20 February 1917. 5 L. C. Gardner, The Geopolitics of Revolution, in T. W. Zeiler, D. K. Ekbladh and B. C. Montoya (eds.), Beyond 1917. The United States and the Global Legacies of the Great War, Oxford University Press, 2017, pp. 165–166. 6 Journal Officiel de l’Assemblée nationale, 23 March 1917, p. 856. 7 Journal Officiel de l’Assemblée nationale, 21 March 1917, p. 783. 8 Journal Officiel de l’Assemblée nationale, 22 May 1917, pp. 1161–1162. 9 S. Coeuré, La Grande lueur à l’Est. Les Français et l’Union soviétique, Paris, Seuil, 1999, pp. 25–26. 10 Journal Officiel de l’Assemblée nationale, 1 June 1917, p. 1329; Georges Bonnefous, Histoire politique de la Troisième République, t. 2. La Grande Guerre (1914– 1918), Paris, 1967, pp. 240–244. 11 F. Dessberg, Le Triangle impossible. Les relations franco-soviétiques et le facteur polonais dans les questions de sécurité en Europe (1924–1935), Bruxelles, 2009, p. 14. 12 The 29 March 1917 governmental declaration gave independence to Poland in the frame of a Russian–Polish alliance. It stated: “… the Provisional Government considers the creation of a Polish independent State, consisting of all territories where the majority of the population is of Polish nationality, as the best guarantee of a lasting peace in the future renovated Europe” (translated from J. Blociszewski, La restauration de la Pologne et la diplomatie européenne, Paris, 1927, p. 51). 13 G. de Castelbajac, La France et la question polonaise (1914–1918), in: G. Soutou (ed.), Recherches sur la France et le problème des nationalités pendant la Première Guerre mondiale (Pologne, Lituanie, Ukraine), Paris, 1995, pp. 41–104. 14 Ibid., pp. 61–67. 15 S. Coeuré, op. cit., p. 28; L. de Robien, Journal d’un diplomate en Russie, 1917– 1918, Paris, 1967, p. 183. The author, who was attaché of embassy in Petrograd since 1914, explained that the French diplomatic staff in the Russian capital was in majority favorable to a break in the relations with the revolutionary government. 16 M. J. Carley, Revolution and Intervention: The French Government and the Russian Civil War, 1917–1919, Mc Gill-Queens University Press, 1983, pp. 22–23. 17 D. S. Fogelsong, America’s Secret War Against Bolshevism: U. S. Intervention in the Russian Civil War, 1917–1920, Chapel Hill, NC, University of North Carolina Press, 1995, pp. 80–90. 18 M. J. Carley, Une Guerre sourde. L’émergence de l’Union soviétique et les puissances occidentales, Les Presses de l’Université de Montréal, 2016, p. 42; D. E. Davis, E. P. Trani, The First Cold War: The Legacy of Woodrow Wilson in US-Soviet Relations, Columbia, University of Missouri Press, 2008, p. 88.

170 Frederic Dessberg 19 Cited in J. Delmas, La paix de Brest-Litovsk et le maintien en Russie de la mission militaire française, in J. Delaunay (ed.), Aux vents des puissances, Paris, 2008, pp. 209–227. 20 Ibid., pp. 220–227. 21 T. Konovalova-Martino, Foch et la Russie bolchevique, in R. Porte, F. Cochet (eds.), Ferdinand Foch (1851–1929). Apprenez à penser, Paris, 2010, pp. 293–310. 22 M. MacMillan, Les Artisans de la paix. Comment Lloyd-George, Clemenceau et Wilson ont redessiné la carte du monde, Paris, 2006, p. 125. 23 M. J. Carley, The Origins of the French Intervention in the Russian Civil War. January-May 1918: A Reappraisal, “The Journal of Modern History” 1976 (3), p. 416. 24 This agreement was signed during a French–British conference dedicated to the assistance the Allies could provide to Ukraine. Clemenceau allowed the British to deal directly with the “White” generals in the North (Denikine) and in Siberia (Koltchak): A. Hogenhuis-Seliverstoff, Les Relations franco-soviétiques, 1917– 1924, Paris, Publications de la Sorbonne, 1981, p. 102. 25 M. J. Carley, The Origins of the French Intervention…, op. cit., p. 417. 26 Ibidem, p. 419; Service Historique de la Défense/Département Armée de Terre (SHD/DAT), 16 N 3023, Stephen Pichon to Georges Clemenceau, 20 February 1918. 27 G.l Jean Bernachot, Les armées françaises en Orient après l’armistice de 1918, t. 2, L’Armée du Danube, l’Armée française d’Orient (28 octobre 1918–25 janvier 1920), Paris, 1970, p. 65. According to Michael J. Carley, for the French government, the matter of military opportunity added to the fear of the strengthening of the Bolshevik power. The chief of the French Military Mission, General Lavergne, recommended either a substantial military intervention, or negotiation with Lenin. M. J. Carley, Revolution and Intervention…, op. cit., pp. 106–107. 28 Cited in J. Duroselle, Clemenceau, Paris, 1988, p. 809. 29 The Soviet Government of Ukraine was in Kharkov and he was opposed to the Ukrainian army of Simon Petliura. The latter was fighting the “Green” forces of Nestor Makhno. Simultaneously, the Denikin’s Volunteer Army sought control of Kiev. J. Avenel, Les interventions alliées pendant la guerre civile russe (1918–1920), Paris, 2001, p. 157. 30 M. J. Carley, Revolution and Intervention…, op. cit., p. 112. 31 A. Hogenhuis-Seliverstoff, op. cit., p. 32. 32 Archives du Ministère français des Affaires étrangères, Guerre 1914–1918, Russie, 728, memorandum by Pierre de Margerie, political director at the Quai d’Orsay, 26th Novembre, 1917. Cited in Ghislain de Castelbajac, op. cit., p. 87. 33 T. Konovalova-Martino, Foch et la Russie bolchevique, in R. Porte, F. Cochet (eds.), op. cit., pp. 293–310. 34 G. de Castelbajac, op. cit., p. 96. 35 Le Temps, 15 January 1919, cited in G. Bonnefous, Histoire politique de la Troisième République, t. 3, L’Après-guerre, 1919–1924, Paris, 1959, p. 7. 36 A widespread view existed among the French political and military circles, according to which Germany had directly launched the Bolshevik revolution in order to win the war. 37 Journal Officiel de l’Assemblée nationale, 25 March 1919, p. 1452. Henry Franklin-Bouillon, President of the Committee on Foreign Affairs of the Assembly, also attacked the hegemonic role of Clemenceau and the General Staff over the diplomats. 38 J.Becker, S. Berstein, Nouvelle histoire de la France contemporaine, t. 12, Victoire et frustrations, 1914–1919, Paris, 1990, pp. 182–183. 39 A. Hogenhuis-Seliverstoff, Les relations franco-soviétiques, op. cit., p. 104.

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40 Cited in É. du Réau, L’ordre mondial, de Versailles à San Francisco, juin 1919-juin 1945, coll. “Thémis histoire” Paris, 2007, p. 65. 41 Service Historique de la Défense, Département de l’Armée de Terre, 4N93, dossier 1, 17 March 1919. 42 J. Nobécourt, Une histoire politique de l’armée, t. 1, 1919–1942. De Pétain à Pétain, Paris, 1967, p. 66. 43 P. Mantoux, Les délibérations du Conseil des Quatre, op. cit., p. 19 (25 mars 1919). 44 F. Dessberg, La pensée et les projets stratégiques du Maréchal Foch en Europe centrale et orientale (1919–1929), in R. Porte, F. Cochet (eds), op. cit., pp. 311–332. 45 About this topic, read I. Davion, Mon voisin, cet ennemi. La politique de sécurité française face aux relations polono-tchécoslovaques entre 1919 et 1939, Bruxelles, 2009. 46 M. Romanova, La politique étrangère française et l’Ukraine de la fin de la Première Guerre mondiale à 1921, PhD Thesis under the directions of Olivier Forcade and Édouard Husson, University Paris-Sorbonne, June, 2016, pp. 314–316. 47 Journal Officiel de l’Assemblée nationale, 23 December 1919, p. 5337. 48 Frédéric Dessberg, Politiques et militaires français dans la question russe au sortir de la Première Guerre mondiale, in É. Bussière, I. Davion, O. Forcade, S. Jeannesson (eds.), Penser le système international, XIXeXXIe siècle. Autour de l'œuvre de Georges-Henri Soutou, Paris, PUPS, 2013, pp. 49–64. 49 M. J. Carley, The Politics of Anti-Bolshevism: The French Government and the Russo-Polish War, December 1919 to May 1920, “The Historical Journal” 1976 (1), p. 176. 50 M. Wołos, Le point de vue polonais sur la coopération de la France dans la guerre polono-bolchevique, in F. Dessberg, É. Schnakenbourg (eds.), Les horizons de la politique extérieure française. Stratégie diplomatique et militaire dans les régions périphériques et les espaces seconds (XVIe-XXe siècles), Bruxelles, 2011, pp. 327–336. 51 E. Buat, Journal, 1914–1923 (introduced by F. Guelton), Paris, 2015, pp. 609–610.

12 The consequences of the Russian Revolution on the Polish question from the Western powers’ point of view Isabelle Davion In the eyes of the Entente, the war was, until 1916, a Franco-Russian topic; in 1917, it became a Franco-British one. This evolution started in 1916 with the 27 March Inter-Allied Military Conference, which lead to the creation of the Inter-Allied War Council but was accelerated by the February Revolution. Regarding the political transformations in Saint Petersburg, Great Britain believed for longer than France did, that an ‘acceptable Russia’ could step back onto the international stage. The British negotiators maintained this possibility for a long time. As a consequence, this position framed the French attitude as Paris sought an alliance with the Anglo-Saxons and, therefore, tried to be conciliatory. Indeed, France’s priority was the alliance with Saint Petersburg until 1917, and although the defection of its Eastern ally was a military catastrophe, this shift also offered the opportunity to clarify its position towards Poland inasmuch as was possible; that is, it allowed France to manoeuvre and take the initiative. Neither the French nor the British at the beginning of 1918 were in favour of dismembering Austria-Hungary; therefore, they could not speak on behalf of the nationalities that comprised it.1 Wilson also did not present the end of Austria-Hungary as one of America’s aims of the war. Historians have demonstrated that when French Prime Minister Aristide Briand mentioned the ‘liberation of the Slavs’ in 1917, he did so to weaken Vienna, maybe prompting a separate peace.2 But if the different statements made until 1917 about the liberation of the Slavs were tactical, aimed at Vienna prompting a separate peace, they became genuine attempts to find a solution to the Polish question in a democratic frame, which in those times meant the enforcement of self-determination. In January 1917, Briand referred to the ‘emancipation of Italians, Slavs, Romanians and Czecho-Slovaks from foreign domination’ in a letter to his ambassador in London. It was no more than an address to Allied supporters in AustriaHungary—the target audience being the Czech National Committee in particular—and the word Slavs only meant the Poles.3 But, as has been largely analysed, in February 1918 Wilson’s fourteen points, meanwhile complemented by an additional four demands, were no

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less than ambiguous about the principle of nationalities; for example, giving Poland access to the sea when the ‘ethnic status’ of the Danzig coast was far from clear. Nevertheless, the well-known fact that France was the most important ally and Western supporter of the Polish nation after 1917 is not surprising, given the long-standing connections between Paris and the independence movement, even in the years before the Great War.4 This support was particularly significant given the French ambition to create an ‘eastern barrier’ or ‘cordon sanitaire’ that would guarantee security for France and the whole continent.5 Contrary to France’s position, there were then relatively few signs of a similar interest in Polish issues among the other Great Powers. If we take a look at the Teschen question, when one had to determine which country, Poland or Czechoslovakia, should obtain this part of Silesia,6 it was only after the escalation of the conflict in the spring of 1919 that Great Britain, and to a lesser degree the United States and Italy, began considering the problem of the Polish Western frontiers.7 In fact, the American and Italian delegates remained mostly on the sidelines when the issue was debated in the Allied councils and at the Conference of Ambassadors.8 We will come back to this example of Teschen, because it illustrates the different evolution in the Western positions regarding Poland in the years 1918–1920. This case happens to crystallise the general views and hidden agendas that were shaped during the last stage of the war. Indeed, since 1914, the Polish cause had to find its place on the field of the Great Powers’ strategy and adapt itself to the opportunities dictated by the German or Russian tactical moves.9 In this sense, the February Revolution was the final shift. A people’s right to self-determination is often seen as a principle that would have appeared during the Great War. Yet, it already had a long history rooted in the nineteenth century, which is why, when the Russian Revolution broke out, it revealed multi-layered issues. From this point of view, the Polish question is the perfect illustration of self-determination serving Poland as much as it served the Great Powers.

The diplomatic consequences of the Russian Revolution on the Polish question The upsurge from the Russian Revolution in the international system was as violent and disruptive as it had been from the French Revolution in 1789.10 The first diplomatic consequence of the revolution was that France and Great Britain considered themselves exempt from the Pact of London, signed in September 1914 and which obligated them to agree the conditions of peace with Saint Petersburg, since the new leaders distanced themselves from the previous arrangements.11 They had no commitment towards the Mensheviks, nor the Bolsheviks later, and therefore could more or less openly set their

174 Isabelle Davion aims of war within the framework of the fourteen points, which had become the platform of the Entente programme for post-war Europe, even if the United States remained only ‘associated’ with the Allied powers.12 Among France’s war aims appeared the spreading of the republican ideology in all its given forms: freedom, justice, law, etc. Since Napoleon the Third, France had been considered the defender of ‘oppressed nationalities’, even if at these times the ‘principle of nationalities’ reflected the recognition of nations (Italy, Germany) by the European great powers. With the Great War putting an end to the Vienna Concert, the ‘people’s right to self-determination’ eventually led to a radical challenge of multinational empires. Nonetheless, the Western leaders considered self-determination not an absolute principle but a relative one, a position which made it necessary to answer the essential question of the composition of nationality: what criteria can be used to determine whether a group of people constitutes an identifiable nationality? In France, the Second Empire had forged the useful notion of ‘great nationality’ to select ‘great historical groups (…) based on one general willingness’.13 And as we can imagine, at this time, as in 1918, Poland was an unquestionable candidate with its centuries-old history and its former existence as a state. This case passes every test in terms of cultural life, educational system and ‘level of civilization’, as the contemporaries used to say. The collapse of Tsarist Russia allowed clarification of this point, as the most authoritarian and repressive regime in Europe was no longer on the side of the Allies. Since the French definition of ‘republican ideology’ included the people’s right to self-determination, advocating the Polish cause was to defend the French war aims. In France, one of the political fallouts of the February Revolution was the revelation by Russian revolutionaries of the secret agreement signed between France and the tsar: in Paris, the chamber thus convened secretly in early June to discuss the country’s war aims. The resolution adopted and publicised at the end of the debate rejected ‘all thought of conquest’ but re-stated the goal of ‘defeating Prussian militarism’ and the need ‘to obtain solid guarantees of peace’.14 Nevertheless, until spring 1918, the territorial promises of the Allies to the Polish leaders were made one at a time and did not imply that the Polish programme had been adopted as a whole. The situation once again changed considerably with the October Revolution, and the different parties at war toughened their stances anew. Encouraged by the Bolshevik Revolution and the possibility of a separate peace with Russia in the near future, Germany also toughened its viewpoints. In France, Georges Clemenceau’s arrival to power in November 1917, and the support of public opinion, put an end to the atmosphere of relative pacifism and pushed aside all possibilities other than victory. Britain, too, took a tougher stance and for the first time notably demanded the return of Alsace-Lorraine to France when a peace agreement would be signed. The time had come to treat the Polish National Committee like a de facto government and study its territorial claims. It was only once the treaties of Brest-Litovsk (1918) and Bucharest were signed

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that the Western perception settled down. The very principle of the state rebirth of Poland was established for good, but the territorial issues were still to be resolved. This is how the Bolshevik Revolution, then the armistices of spring 1918, helped clarify the positions: it became evident then that the world would not return to the previous Concert of Europe. Already in April 1917, when the United States entered the war once the Entente had become a tsarist-free coalition, did France and Great Britain have to take Wilsonian principles into account: the core of the Western position concerning the Polish question at the end of the war can be summarised by the inter-allied declaration of the 3rd of June 1918: ‘A Polish state, united and independent with free access to the sea, constitutes one of the conditions for a solid and fair peace as well as for the rule of law in Europe’.15 This statement forms the core of their standpoint. But even then, the eighteen points, even once accepted by the Allies, were rather ambivalent about the principle of nationalities, and very far from the unconditional acceptance of the self-determination principle that would lead to the destruction of the dual monarchy: their programme was potentially compatible with its upholding in a federal form.16 The details and successive steps of the negotiations about borders between the Polish delegation and the Great Powers do not fall within our scope, but the particular case of Teschen provides sharp insight into the essential issues at stake. Regarding Poland’s western border, France tended to support the Polish interests. Invoking arguments favouring an economic and strategic balance between continental nations, Great Britain was more dubious. But the British were also keen to intervene as little as possible in the disputes of Eastern Europe and, for example, as far as Teschen was concerned, argued for a compromise that would yield a stable solution.17 Yet, if the French and the British attached widely different reasons for its importance to the question of the Polish frontiers, the American position was even more distant. David Lloyd George would later assert that Polish-Americans had tried to convince Wilson to speak out in favour of Poland’s position on Teschen, among others. Research in the American archives has indeed highlighted Washington’s general support for the Polish claims but also has shown how divided the American Commission to Negotiate Peace remained.18 On the one hand, the American experts on Austro-Hungarian and Polish questions defended ethnic arguments and, on the other hand, many American delegates favoured political arguments that could modify arbitrations: again, within the Teschen dispute they saw Czechoslovakia as a more ‘modern’ state, especially when it came to the treatment of minorities, and thus a state better suited to deal with mixed-population areas. The Italian delegation, for its part, was in favour of Poland in the Teschen quarrel for reasons that actually had nothing to do with ethnic questions: first, Italian Premier Orlando was attempting to form a ‘Catholic bloc’ to gain more influence on the negotiations, and, second, Rome opposed Czechoslovakia because of Prague’s informal alliance with the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, Italy’s main rival on the Adriatic shores.

176 Isabelle Davion But at the end, it was the disastrous military situation of Poland facing the Red Army in July 1920 that explains the Teschen division decided at the Spa conference: first, the urgent necessity to protect the coal mines in the Western camp, but also French strong hope that the Czechoslovak government, once satisfied on the Teschen question, would help the Polish Army and lift the blockade on weapons destined for Poland.19

The military consequences of the Russian Revolutions on the Polish question As mentioned earlier, the priority for the French leaders until spring 1917, among diplomatic and military circles, was the alliance with Russia. But just a few days after the revolution started, General Foch suddenly declared that Poland deserved ‘a duty of solidarity in which the Great Powers cannot fail’.20 This statement regarded Poland in its ethnic borders and had a pragmatic goal: after three years of total war, France was worn out (ca. 1 400 000 deaths already) and had to find fresh troops. This is how the Polish Army in France was organised as soon as June 1917: it was designed as an autonomous Polish Army that served the cause of the Allies. This Blue Army came under the control of the Polish National Committee in September 1918 and was placed under General Haller’s command on the 4th of October: it gathered at these times about 30,000 men21 from various recruitments—a majority of prisoners of war from the German and k.u.k. armies, as well as volunteers from the United States (about 15,000 in total in 1920) and from France (about 6,000). There was also recruitment among Russian brigades (about 700 men) but both the French Minister of War and the Russian lobby in France were reluctant to use this source. Once the war ended in the West, Marshal Foch decided to let Haller’s army join Poland as quickly as possible to protect the national territory: they were 70,000 men at that time. Regarding the spread of the Bolshevik Revolution by the Red Army, the essential question for the Western powers was whether to fight or not. The Entente had sent troops to protect their ammunition depots in Siberia but the tactical projection of soldiers actually fighting the Bolsheviks was a very delicate issue. In February 1919, Marshal Foch suggested to the Great Powers that they establish a cordon sanitaire to contain Bolshevism: it implied the occupation of Vienna and watching the lines of communication with Bohemia, Poland and Rumania. This plan did not meet with their approbation. One year later, the Inter-Allied Council gathered and decided to guarantee its military support if, and only if, Poland was attacked within its ‘legitimate’ frontiers, that is, those that had been recognised by the peace conference. Piłsudski was then confirmed in his idea that he had to act alone and help himself as far as the eastern frontiers were concerned.22 The Western powers would rather see the Polish neighbours do the job. France

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particularly pretended to count on the help of Czechoslovakia. On its very first day on the 31st of October 1918, the Czechoslovak government expressed its concerns regarding the Bolshevik threat and proclaimed that the Czechs would fight it ‘by all means’, adding: ‘to the Poles we will give our moral, material, economic help’.23 But in fact, in the context of the dispute over the Teschen territory, Czechoslovakia rather repeatedly closed its frontiers, thus preventing military material from reaching Poland as a consequence. The American delegate noted in July 1920 during the Spa Conference that it was a mistake to count on Czechoslovakia’s help: the United States representative in Prague had unsuccessfully spoken to Czech President Edvard Beneš in June 1920 to lift the blockade on convoys for Poland. As the Polish troops advanced in the East, French military circles were enthusiastic, which was not the case with French political circles. The general staff thus praised the offensive on Kiev on April 1920 and the occupation of Ukraine in May. But if the French leadership did not encourage the Polish operations, it showed great interest in the fallout in the oil sector: the government was therefore determined to economically accompany the Polish military occupation in Ukraine. In July, a Franco-British mission was sent to Warsaw, with Lord d’Abernon, Jean-Jules Jusserand and Colonel Weygand. Their task was to evaluate the military situation and to give advice regarding future negotiations. Yet, unlike the British, France did not believe in the possibility of an armistice in the immediate future. This ‘support without participation’24 became unsustainable when Poland’s very existence was jeopardised by the Red Army counteroffensive. But Great Britain remained adamant in refusing tactical backup and preferred to advocate the dialogue with Russia’s Georgy Chicherin. And as it appeared, the director of the Political and Commercial Affairs at the Quai d’Orsay, Philippe Berthelot, was in favour of solidarity with the British position because he was conducting a policy of entente with London. For their part, the French general staff kept trying to send arms and ammunition to Poland despite the British disagreement and Czech obstruction.25 But this technical assistance was the only room for manoeuvre of French policy under the rule of the ‘English nanny’.26 As a matter of fact, it was Lloyd George who decided to open a conference with Bolshevik representatives in London, even though France’s official line was still to avoid all contact with Bolshevik Russia. On the 5th of August, Lloyd George stated in the House of Commons that if Moscow’s answer to the British peace proposal was not satisfying, Great Britain should use all its influence on Czechoslovakia and Rumania so that they could bring support to Poland: he was then thinking material support, but when MPs required the assurance that Prague would not be forced into military intervention, Lloyd George chose to answer that if the Bolsheviks were on the verge of annihilating Poland, this was a prospect to face. But as we understand now, he was willing to wait until the very last moment.

178 Isabelle Davion

A focus on Eastern Galicia, an echo chamber for the Polish-Bolshevik war Since the collapse of Tsarist Russia, the Quai d’Orsay had been advocating autonomy for Eastern Galicia inside Poland: thus Rumania and Poland would share a common frontier that would provide a barrier between the Bolsheviks and the rest of Europe. Piłsudski himself made sure to link, in the minds of the Western leaders, his fights in this region with a more global war against the Russian Revolution. This pattern was supported by the Polish delegation at the peace conference,27 as well as by Marshall Foch: Poland was fighting for the Entente, not just for its own frontiers. The Polish negotiators in Paris, and Roman Dmowski in particular, even suggested that Eastern Galicia had to prevent contagion between Russia and Slavophile Czechoslovakia.28 Archival documents prove that Great Britain and America did not seem very convinced by the demonstration. But at the very least, the Poles worked to display a systematic link between the fate of Eastern Galicia and the menace of the extension of the Bolshevik Revolution: this is why they rejected General Louis Botha’s proposal for an armistice in April 1919, the draft of which separated the Galician issue from the other issues.29 Earlier in March, when Lwów was threatened by the Red Army’s advance through Volhynia, Foch asked the Great Powers—for the first time on the 17th of March and then again on the 25th—to authorise a huge RomanianPolish offensive in Ukraine, with the backing of Haller’s army and Allied troops deployed from Odessa.30 The Anglo-Saxon refusal was clear-cut: the Supreme Council had declared itself impartial on the matter of Eastern Galicia, and the Blue Army had agreed to stay away from this area.31 So, when the very same Council discovered that some of its troops were fighting in Eastern Galicia anyway (General Iwaszkiewicz’s divisions were in the field), Lloyd George was absolutely furious and accused the French of complicity. Indeed, Haller’s army had come back to Poland within the night from 19th to 20th April 1919, after pledging it would not get involved in Eastern Galicia. At the head of the commission for Eastern Galicia, which had been created on the 26th of April 1919, the South African, General Botha, highlighting what he thought was the Poles’ responsibility for the outbreak of the battles in Eastern Galicia, suggested threatening to cut off the Polish supplies. In response, General Henri Le Rond, who was the French delegate at the commission, asked Botha whether he was seeking to spread Bolshevism in Poland. Le Rond reminded Botha that Piłsudski was providing the bulwark against the Red Army, which had just obtained Symon Petliura’s surrender, and was advancing. On the 27th of May, the Botha Commission sent Piłsudski a telegram enjoining him to cease fire and withdraw from Ukrainian territories.32 On the same day, Clemenceau without any ambiguity took the British side and published an official declaration stating that France was not supporting Poland in these territories and deploring that the Polish

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were under the ‘false’ impression that Foch, and beyond him, the French authorities, stood with them (the relationships between these two men were notoriously disastrous). What were the reasons that led Clemenceau to dissociate himself so conspicuously from the Polish attack? Even if he must have felt embarrassed because of Haller’s deception, his primary reason was certainly the will to show solidarity with Great Britain: this shows how difficult it was for the French to concede their Eastern alliances and quest for a British military guarantee. Piłsudski agreed to repatriate Haller’s army to Poland. But just a few days later, the whole situation shifted. The Bolsheviks were progressing through Volhynia and the Hungarian Red Army had entered Slovakia: there was a huge risk both these revolutionary troops would join forces. In addition to this danger, the American observers in the area had reported that in their opinion, the Ukrainian political forces were unable to govern. French officers, for example, General Paul-Prosper Henrys in Warsaw, kept entreating that the Polish troops needed to reach the Zbruch River for the defence of Eastern Galicia. Lloyd George had then become aware of all these circumstances and that the support for the White Russians was a dead end. On the 16th of June 1919, the French Council of Foreign Ministers issued a report underlining the political vacuum in the region: Lwów is depicted as a Polish city, and the development of the oil fields as Polish work. Ten days later, the Western powers gave the Polish Army, including Haller’s troops, the authorisation to temporarily occupy the area. Piłsudski reached the Zbruch on the 18th of June. The military conflict in Eastern Galicia lasted eight months, from the 1st of November 1918, to the 18th of June 1919, along with the Russian offensive and the Teschen incidents. The second phase of the Polish-Bolshevik war could begin. Lloyd George suggested that the administrative mandate go to Poland under the authority of a High Commissioner from the League of Nations. Then, a plebiscite would consult the local populations and verify Ignacy Paderewski’s assertion to the British PM: ‘one-third of Galicia inhabitants are Polish and […] the other two-thirds would rather be reunited to Poland than to another country’.34 This solution was supported by the French diplomat Jules Cambon as well. By contrast, Lewis Namier, a collaborator of Lloyd George’s who had spent his childhood there suggested instead a form of union with Prague. Eastern Galicia thus entered its tumultuous contemporary history under a Polish mandate for 25 years.35 And when the Conference of Ambassadors recognised the Polish-Soviet border on the 15th of March 1923, it was also an acknowledgement of the incorporation of Eastern Galicia into Poland.36 We can see how the Western powers had to adapt their initiatives towards Poland in the context of the Russian Revolution. Regarding the military situation, the threat for Poland’s very existence—and a Bolshevik seizure of oil or coal in the region—constituted a crucial turning point in the Western leaders’ positions vis-à-vis claims on Eastern Galicia and Teschen: the first 33

180 Isabelle Davion region was granted in July 1919; the second was de facto rejected in July 1920. Eventually, the Western powers had also, in order to adjust their firm position, to acknowledge the loss of Russia and welcome Poland as an essential ally.

Notes 1 V. H. Rothwell, British War Aims and Peace Diplomacy 1914–1918, Oxford, 1971, p. 79. 2 G. Suarez, Briand, sa vie, son œuvre, avec son journal et de nombreux documents inédits. T. V: ‘L’Artisan de la Paix 1918–1923’, Paris, 1952, pp. 114–115. 3 By no means can the word ‘Slavs’ here refer to the southern Slavs because of the secret Treaty of London, which had been signed with Italy in 1915: J. Laroche, Au Quai d’Orsay avec Briand et Poincaré, 1913–1926, Paris, 1957, p. 38. G. Suarez, Briand, op. cit., p. 115. See also: Les Experts français et les frontières d’Après-guerre. Les procès-verbaux du comité d’études 1917–1919, Introduction et notes par I. Davion, préface par G. Soutou, Bulletin de la Société de Géographie, Hors-série juin 2015. 4 I. Davion, Mon voisin, cet ennemi. La politique de sécurité française face aux relations polono-tchécoslovaques entre 1919 et 1939, Bruxelles-New York-Francfort-Londres-Paris, 2009, p. 472. 5 F. Dessberg, Le Triangle impossible. Les relations franco-soviétiques et le facteur polonais dans les questions de sécurité en Europe (1924–1935), Bruxelles, 2009, p. 440. 6 Polish claims on Teschen were founded on ‘ethnic’ arguments—three out of the four districts constituting the Duchy were predominantly Polish-speaking, whereas Czechoslovakia’s arguments were historical, as the region had been ruled by the Bohemian crown before the Habsburgs succeeded them. 7 I. Davion, Teschen and Its Impossible Plebiscite. Can the Genie Be Returned to the Lamp? Reformulate: in R. Pergher and M. Payk (eds.), Beyond Versailles. Sovereignty, Legitimacy, and the Formation of New Polities after the Great War, Indiana University Press 2019, p. 33. 8 US Department of State, Papers Relating to the Foreign Relations of the United States: The Paris Peace Conference, 1919, vol. III, Washington, US Government Printing Office, 1942–1947. 9 T. Schramm, La question polonaise au cours de la Première Guerre mondiale, in I. Davion, S. Jeannesson et al. (eds.), Penser le système international XIXe-XXIe siècle, PUPS 2013, pp. 15–30. 10 G. Soutou, L’Europe de 1815 à nos jours, Paris, 2007, p. 4 ff. 11 G. Soutou, La Grande illusion. La France et la Paix, 1914–1920, Paris, 2015, p. 180. 12 I. Davion, Teschen and Its Impossible Plebiscite. Can the Genie Be Returned to the Lamp ?, in R. Pergher and M. Payk, Beyond Versailles..., pp. 38–58 13 Georges-Henri Soutou, L’Europe de 1815 à nos jours. op. cit., p. 137 ff. 14 Soutou, Georges-Henri: War Aims and War Aims Discussions (Version 1.1), in: 1914–1918-online. International Encyclopedia of the First World War, eds. Ute Daniel, Peter Gatrell, Oliver Janz, Heather Jones, Jennifer Keene, Alan Kramer and Bill Nasson, issued by Freie Universität Berlin, Berlin 2017–04–06. DOI: 10.15463/ie1418.10240/1.1. 15 S. Filasiewicz, La Question polonaise pendant la Guerre mondiae, Paris 1920, p. 465, note No. 222. 16 Georges-Henri Soutou, L’Or et le Sang. Les buts de guerre économiques de la première guerre mondiale, Paris, Fayard, 1989, p. 397.

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17 In his memoirs, Lloyd George also hinted at his preferences for Czechoslovakia. David Lloyd George, The Truth about the Peace Treaties, London, 1938, vol. 2, p. 942. 18 I. Davion, Teschen and Its Impossible Plebiscite. Can the Genie Be Returned to the Lamp?, in R. Pergher and M. Payk, Beyond Versailles..., pp. 38–58 19 I. Davion, Mon voisin, cet ennemi, op. cit., pp. 152–154. 20 F. Guelton, De l’armée Archinard à l’armée l’Haller, la création, dans les rangs de l’armée française, d’une armée polonaise autonome, 1917–1919’ (Od armii Archinarda po powstanie armii Hallera: początki Armii Polskiej, jej rola w strukturach armii francuskiej; autonomiczność armii polskiej (1917–1919)), ‘Międzynarodowa Konferencja Naukowa ‘Błękitna Armia i jej dowódca, Gen. Józef Haller. FrancjaPolska 1917–1920’, Varsovie, 1918. 21 Ibidem. 22 I. Davion, Mon voisin, cet ennemi, op. cit., pp. 154–156. 23 Solemn document signed by the new government on the 31st of October 1918: Antoine Marès, Le séjour d’Edouard Bénès en France (1915–1919), PhD Diss, Paris I, 1975, p. 309. 24 Isabelle Davion, Mon voisin, cet ennemi, op. cit., pp. 133–134. 25 Piotr S. Wandycz, France and Her Eastern Allies 1919–1925, French-Czechoslovak-Polish Relations from the Paris Peace Conference to Locarno, Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press, 1962, pp. 145–150. 26 Anglo-French Relations in the Twentieth Century: Rivalry and Cooperation, A. Sharp, G. Stone (eds.), London, 2000. 27 National Polish Committee Archives, 21st of January 1919: K. Lundgreen-Nielsen, The Polish Problem at the Paris Peace Conference, A study of the policies of the Great Powers and the Poles 1918–1919, Odense University Press, 1979, p. 45. 28 R. Dmowski, Pologne et Tchécoslovaquie. Les souvenirs de M. Dmowski, “Revue Franco-Polonaise” December 1925 (4), as cited in I. Davion, Les relations polono-tchécoslovaques dans la politique de sécurité française entre les deux guerres, PhD diss., Paris-Sorbonne 2004, p. 44. 29 P. S. Wandycz, France and Her Eastern Allies, op. cit., p. 110. 30 G.Soutou, S. de Gasquet et alii, Recherches sur la France et le problème des nationalités pendant la Première Guerre Mondiale, Paris, 1995, p. 199. 31 See the check made by the French officer General Mittelhauser: Prague, Military Archives, French Military Mission, II. Odd., k. 2: Teschen, 1. Sv.: conversation between General Mittelhauser and General Spire, 20 May 1919. 32 This initiative was disclosed: Pertinax, ‘Les dirigeants de Paris dans leur rôle de grands gendarmes européens’, L’Écho de Paris, 29 May 1919. ‘Ukrainian’ is a geographical term that has been used since the Middle Ages: T. Snyder, The Reconstruction of Nations, Yale University Press, 2004, p. 384. 33 P. S. Wandycz, France and Her Eastern Allies, op. cit., p. 258. 34 P. Mantoux, Les Délibérations du Conseil des Quatre 24 mars-28 juin 1919, Volume I. Jusqu'à la remise à la dèlègation allemande des conditions de paix, Paris, 1955, p. 397. 35 D. Bechtel, Galizien, Galicja, Galitsye, Halytchyna: Le mythe de la Galicie, de la disparition à la résurrection, D. Bechtel et X. Galmiche (eds.), Cultures d’Europe centrale n°8: Villes multiculturelles en Europe centrale: lieux communs de la multiculturalitè urbaine en Europe centrale, 2009: www.circe.paris-sorbonne.fr/spip. php?article57. 36 I. Davion, Les relations polono-tchécoslovaques, op. cit., p. 104.

13 Austria-Hungary and the Russian Revolution Lothar Höbelt

Austrian attitudes towards the Russian Revolution were characterized by an obvious ambivalence. The Habsburg monarchy’s elites of course disapproved of revolutions, but in the midst of the Great War they could not help but welcome the disaster overtaking their most dangerous rival. Their schadenfreude was tempered by several considerations, though. First of all, even if the monarchy was involved in a life-and-death struggle with Russia, the team around Emperor Charles, like Counts Ottokar Czernin or Heinrich Clam, strangely enough, consisted of conservatives who were looking forward to a revival of the three Emperors Alliance.1 Francis Joseph and his foreign secretaries, Count Leopold Berchtold (1912–15) and Istvan Burian (1915/16), had always been suspicious of Prussian eagerness about a separate peace with Russia because they were afraid they would have to pay the price for any such agreement. The proclamation of an independent Poland on 5 November 1916 could almost be regarded as a poison bill to make such an option less palatable for the Russians.2 The change of rulers lead to a shift of emphasis: both Emperor Charles I and Ottokar Czernin as his new foreign secretary wanted to end the war as soon as possible. As far as the great powers were concerned, they favoured a settlement along the lines of the status quo ante bellum, as a forerunner of the famous slogan: “no annexations and no contributions”. They were not above fiddling with the small-print, though. As an inducement to France, they famously favoured the “disannexation” of Alsace-Lorraine. Germany was to be compensated by territorial gains in the east. Poland was going to belong to the German sphere of influence. To secure German agreement to such a compromise peace, Charles was even willing to relinquish his hold on Galicia. In turn, both Russia and Austria-Hungary were going to be compensated by a partitioning of Romania that had been overrun by the Central Powers in late 1916.3 Starting from these premises, the First Russian Revolution once again provoked ambivalent reactions. Initially, at least, the revolution was interpreted as the result of a British conspiracy, designed to get rid of the czar and his supposedly pro-German wife and circle of Baltic courtiers. Thus, from the point of view of a patriotic Viennese public, the “bourgeois”

Austria-Hungary and the Russian Revolution 183 revolution of “February” 1917 presented an ambivalent image. The new ministry in Petrograd was called a ministry that had been “reared” by Britain.4 Thus, in the beginning, at least, for the Austrian public, the revolution did not necessarily count as a “good thing”, even if the Vienna press did not share the aristocratic inclination for a revival of the Three Emperors alliance. The liberal press in Vienna had always criticized the absolutist character of the Russian regime – and its periodic anti-Semitic pogroms. It might have welcomed the advent of the “Cadets”, of Lvov and Milyukov, at any other time. Right now, however, the kadets were anathema, maybe just because they were kindred spirits of the kind of patriotic middle-class milieu the Vienna press catered to. There was a certain kind of irony if the favourite paper of the Vienna chattering classes, the Neue Freie Presse, wrote: the revolution “has been abetted by so called society, but when it was carried to the people, it changed its nature and its purpose.”5 In November, Hans Uebersberger, the Viennese specialist in Russian history, could point to what he saw as the cardinal mistake of the Entente, above all the British: “The Allies believed the Czar had been toppled because he had favoured peace; but it was the other way round.”6 Fairly soon, however, the left-wing component of the new government managed to leave its imprint on Russian policy in a way that contradicted the impression of the revolution as a tool of Western imperialism. Maybe it should not have come as a great surprise that a country that had already lost hundreds of thousands of square kilometres longed for a peace without annexations and reparations. As we have seen, Czernin did not exactly favour the return of Poland to Russian rule or believe in it. But he felt duty bound to welcome Lvov’s announcement, at least as a starting point. Predictably, the Germans were far less enthusiastic about the slogan. The result was a tactical disagreement between the Central Powers. They could agree to differ about Alsace-Lorraine because the French were not interested in such a deal, anyway. But the Russians were willing to talk. Czernin wanted to take them at their word. The Germans did not (or at least: not yet). To some extent, the spectre of the Russian Revolution also had its impact on Austrian domestic politics. Ironically, it was the bourgeois revolution in the spring that gave a boost to the Social Democrats, not Lenin’s putsch in “Red October”. For all his absolutist leanings, Czernin was a great believer in public opinion and an expert in playing to the gallery. Austrian diplomats talked about the “fear of contagion” of the revolution.7 The revolution does seem to have convinced Czernin and the emperor that they simply could not start the new reign with an octroi, a revolution from above, but would have to re-open parliament. In terms of ethnic politics, that decision meant the government would have to go back on the promises handed to the Germans and the Poles in the past few months. The Austrian Germans wanted autonomy for the influential German minority of Bohemia, the “Sudeten Germans”, whereas Poles had acquired a special status for Galicia, given by Francis Joseph two weeks before his death, in November 1916.

184 Lothar Höbelt Now, the minister in charge of preparing those constitutional changes, Joseph Maria Baernreither, pointed to the Russian Revolution as a culprit.8 The government would have kept its word if only the revolution had not happened in the meantime and produced second thoughts on the part of the emperor.9 As a result, Austro-Germans thought they had no option but to support the government nevertheless, but Poles reacted angrily and openly expressed their opposition. In return, Czernin hoped to gain ground with the Social Democrats, of both the German and the Czech variety. He actually encouraged the Austrian Social Democratic leaders to take part in the Stockholm Conference of the Second International not because he believed it would actually produce results, but because he wanted to steal a march on the Entente and occupy the moral high ground. He noted that the supposedly reactionary monarchies had given free rein to the wishes of the Social Democrats to attend the Stockholm meeting; whether the supposedly liberal Western powers would do so remained to be seen.10 On 26 April, Czernin published an article in the official “Fremdenblatt” (“An Answer to the Social Democrats”) that Austria-Hungary was not looking for any territorial gains at the expense of Russia. The German argued that it was not a good tactical move to embrace the peace proposals of the Russian left too enthusiastically. The Central Powers should wait for specific proposals on the part of Russia.11 Actually, Prince Gottfried Hohenlohe, the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador to Berlin (and a former military attaché in St. Petersburg), agreed with the Germans on that score.12 After all, in the spring of 1917, the Germans had just embarked on the biggest game of va banque ever: unrestricted submarine warfare. The navy had promised to win the war single-handedly within six months. In April, notwithstanding the declaration of war by the US, the U-boats actually seemed to be succeeding. That month, Allied losses of shipping were even higher than projected. Thus, there was no need of negotiating from anything other than a position of strength. By the summer of 1917, however, that kind of euphoria had given way to disappointment. The supposed wonder weapon had not worked miracles after all. However, in the meantime, the situation in Russia had changed, too. Berlin now argued that with chaos gaining ground in Russia, there was simply no stable government one could negotiate with. Even Czernin had to admit there was a certain plausibility to that argument. In early September, reports from Stockholm claimed that Comrade Panin from the Soviet of Workers and Soldiers had himself admitted that Russia was no more than a “Spielball” in the hands of the Entente, completely helpless and unable to do anything to end the war. At roughly the same time, another Scandinavian source claimed that the British charge d’affairs in Norway had called Kerensky “a German Jew and agent”.13 Maybe the conclusion to be drawn was the one reached by the Russian ambassador to Spain, who allegedly resigned his post because he no longer knew for whom he was supposed to be working.14

Austria-Hungary and the Russian Revolution 185 In the autumn of 1917, Czernin concluded a certain kind of internal alliance within the alliance with his newly appointed German counterpart Kühlmann, which was designed as a safeguard against their impulsive monarchs who were prone to charge in all sorts of unexpected directions at the slightest provocation. In military terms, too, cooperation was the slogan of the day: after the Italians had nearly achieved a breakthrough during the 11th battle of the Isonzo in August, the Austrians had to appeal for German assistance. The result was the battle of Caporetto, starting in late October 1917, which almost led to a collapse of the Italian army. The news about Lenin’s takeover reached Charles I and Wilhelm II right at the moment when they were celebrating their joint triumph (and just as the Allied leaders were gathering for an emergency operation, if not a postmortem at Rapallo).15 The Neue Freie Presse gleefully noted: “What a dismal day for the Entente!”16 The Russian Revolution immediately brought the latent differences between the Central Powers into the open, once again. Ironically, it was Erich von Ludendorff, the man who had spirited Lenin back to Russia via the famous sealed train, who dismissed his protégé’s rise to power as a revolutionary faction that by chance had managed to get hold of the governmental end of the telegraph, nothing more.17 The Bolshevik regime could not last and would not last. Czernin agreed with that part of the analysis but drew radically different conclusions from that assumption. For him the crucial argument was: because Lenin would not last, the Central Powers should grab the chance to make peace with him as long as he was still around. The counterrevolutionary regime that was bound to come after his fall from power would probably no longer be willing do so but they would not dare start the war again if a peace treaty had actually been signed in the meantime. Kühlmann was a little bit put out when the first pronouncements of the new government seemed to be directed at the general public, or maybe only the working classes of the world, not the governments. However, he hinted to Hohenlohe that he was in touch with “people who were in a position to supervise the Bolsheviks.”18 Czernin, however, was once again in the forefront of peaceniks. He had always told the Germans the Austrians would stick to the alliance, but if the Germans turned down a peace offer on the basis of the status quo ante bellum that would be the end of the alliance. Hic Rhodus, hic salta. At the turn of the year Czernin actually threatened to sign a separate peace with Russia, if the Germans did not cooperate. Kühlmann asked him to put that threat into writing so he could use it to put pressure on the “Oberste Heeresleitung”, Hindenburg and Ludendorff.19 The front-line in the east had not changed that much over the last two years. Russia was willing to make peace on the basis of uti possidetis, i.e. accept the loss of Poland, Lithuania and Courland, none of them ethnically Russian. But the German military leadership was willing to play for higher stakes. They wanted to extend their empire in the Baltic up to the gates of Petrograd, including Livonia, Estonia and an expedition to Finland.

186 Lothar Höbelt Once again, Czernin became the bug-bear of Ludendorff. On the other hand, his standing with the Social Democrats increased. He was willing to go along with face-saving appearances. If Trotsky insisted on a plebiscite in the occupied provinces of Russia, he and Kühlmann were confident they would win. Back home, in the Vienna parliament, Czech politicians referred to all that high-falutin’ talk about self-determination and wondered why that principle was valid only for Estonians and maybe even Greenlanders, but not for Central Europeans like themselves.20 However, Russian diplomats reassured the Austrians that the Bolsheviks were not interested in the state’s rights questions beloved of their Slav brethren; the only thing they were interested in was the class struggle.21 Parish: Alles Hekuba. Because of all these slightly contradictory elements, a curious situation developed in mid-January 1918. When a series of strikes erupted in Austria, Czernin suspected foul play on the part of the Bolsheviks who wanted to undermine the position of their opponents by revolutionary means. Actually, food shortages, aggravated by the transport crisis within the monarchy, were mainly responsible for the unrest. In a telling aside, the head of the military cabinet of the emperor even asked himself whether the government had not secretly instigated the strikes to underline their stand against the Prussian claims. Actually, Polish MPs such as Ignacy Daszyński harboured similar suspicions. Charles I denied the substance of these conspiracy theories but had a good laugh about the idea.22 Social Democrats were slightly embarrassed by the truculent behaviour of their militant followers but tried to make the most of it. Viktor Adler, the long-time leader of the Social Democrats (and father of Friedrich Adler who had assassinated Prime Minister Count Stürgkh in 1916), referred to “his friend and antagonist Trotsky” in a speech, as both epitheta were correct.23 The Social Democrats did their best to pacify the workers but asked for political concessions in return (e.g. a more democratic voting system for communal elections). When the socialists leaders met with the government’s team, both sides sympathized with the plight of their opposite numbers. The centre-right parties, on the other hand, were outraged that the government was negotiating exclusively with the socialists, without consulting parliament. Farmers, in particular, were afraid that they would have to pay the penalty for the government’s weakness.24 When Trotsky unilaterally declared the war to be over and left Brest on 10 February 1918, both Czernin and Kühlmann were content to leave it at that and continue with a simple truce. German generals thought differently, though. And after a few moments’ hesitation, the Austrians decided to join them. After all, they had just signed a treaty with the Ukraine that was immediately termed the “bread peace”. The Ukraine was showered with promises in return for providing the Austrians with food. To safeguard these resources, the Austrians had to do their bit in rescuing their partners from the Bolsheviks. “We can’t leave the rescue of the Ukraine to the Germans and expect that roast pigeons will fly into our mouths.”25 But even when the Bolsheviks had been defeated,

Austria-Hungary and the Russian Revolution 187 these fond hopes proved illusory. The administrative chaos and the uncertainty about land ownership prevented any large-scale export of grain. In fact, the “bread peace”, with all its secret concessions to the Ukrainians, was never ratified by Austria-Hungary. In fact, the extant copy of the treaty was officially burned in July.26 Charles sanctioned the use of force by the Austro-Hungarian troops in the Ukraine to lay hands on whatever supplies they could find.27 As a result, a number of Austrian divisions were tied down in a low-scale war against Communist guerrillas and peasants unwilling to part with their reserves. As far as Russia and the Bolsheviks were concerned, in a certain sense, they had ceased to matter for the Austrians. For the first time since the partition of Poland, Austria no longer shared a border with Russia. That’s why Czernin had quipped that, in a certain sense, it’s completely immaterial if we do sign a peace treaty with the Russians or not. Petersburg had become “a quantite negligeable”.28 The Austrians could only watch from the sidelines the way conservative Germans and revolutionary Russians played a coquettish game of hide-and-seek. In Germany, there was a debate between the foreign office who followed what might be called a failed state strategy and clearly regarded Lenin’s regime as the lesser evil, and the military who toyed with the idea of toppling their wayward allies and installing a stable regime that was more to their liking. The Austrians were generally far more sceptical about the Bolsheviks but hedged their bets. Burian who had been re-appointed foreign secretary in April 1918 after Czernin’s fall, was clearly less enamoured by the Ukrainians than Czernin had been. Once the first crack-down by the Bolsheviks started in summer, after the attempted assassination of Lenin, the Austrian charge d’affaires in Moscow, Pottere, penned a few heart-broken lines about the guilt by association the Austrians incurred by supporting such a terrorist regime, however indirectly. His newly appointed colleague in Petersburg, Theodor V. Hornbostel, had fewer reservations, as he did not expect the regime to last.29 But then, the Austrians simply were not playing the Great Game between Brits, Japanese, Reds and Whites about the fate of Siberia. Except in one respect of course, where the fate of Siberia indeed mattered a lot. Brest-Litovsk theoretically cleared the way for the two million POWs in Russia to return home.30 The great majority of them, a million and a half, were “Austrians”. 60,000 or so of them had opted for joining the Czechoslovak legion (or a similar smaller outfit founded by the Romanians). Most of the Russian POW camps were located east of the Urals. When the Czechoslovak Legion took over the Trans-Siberian railway in May, their way home was blocked.31 The Entente powers were paranoid about huge numbers of POWs supposedly being enrolled by the Bolsheviks to fight the Czechs – and any allied troops that tried to come to their rescue. It is tempting to argue that the nationality conflict within the Habsburg empire, that had been restricted to street riots and smashed windows at home, actually erupted for good along the shores of Lake Baikal. But alas, there

188 Lothar Höbelt are few indications that there was any sort of large-scale fighting between Czech and Austro-German ex-POWs. Apparently, the only sizeable military force of ex-POWs – and even those were numbers of something like 5,000 – congregated in faraway Turkestan.32 Maybe, too, the POWs who returned home after 1918 were none too proud of their record of fighting for the Bolsheviks that had ceased to count as a patriotic exercise and assumed far more sinister aspects in the meantime. Whatever the strategic rationale for supporting the “Reds” in the east were, the governments in Berlin and Vienna certainly did not encourage any sort of fraternization between their POWs and the Bolsheviks. They ordered their POWs to return home ASAP. When they did so, the prodigal sons were usually subjected to a kind of demoralizing debriefing that maybe served as a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy in arousing their revolutionary sympathies.33 A least half a million returned home before October, but few of them seem to have joined the front-line units again. But then, after the failure of the solstice offensive on the Italian front in June, there was little large-scale fighting going on along the Austrian fronts (except for Albania where the Austrians proudly launched the last offensive of the Central Powers in late August). Casualty rates were low, but supplies of victuals even lower.34 After the end of the monarchy, there was little support for Bolshevism in Austria, i.e. German Austria, the small landlocked state that was left when all the other so-called “successor states” had set up shop on their own. The Austrian rump state was one of the few countries in Europe without a sizeable Communist party. The Social Democrats successfully defended their monopoly of working-class representation. There was little temptation for a policy of les extremes se touchent. German conservatives might see the Soviets as a force that would wreak vengeance on the Entente powers and enable them to start a national uprising that was often compared to 1813. During the Soviet republic in Hungary, patriotic Hungarians might argue that even if we start the battle under the red flags; by the time we reach the Carpathians [the old Hungarian borders] our colours will be red, white and green [the Hungarian national colours]”.35 German Austrians, however, had no revisionist project that could be furthered by Communist endeavours. The empire would not be rebuilt by the Soviets; only the emperor himself put his money on a Bolshevik takeover, starting from the assumption that any such experiment was bound to end in a counter-revolution, i.e. a counter-revolution supported by the Entente that might reinstate the monarchy.36 However, in Austria, realpolitik prevailed in 1918–19. Left and right agreed: whatever their secret hopes or wishes, neither revolution nor restoration were possible right now.37

Notes 1 Miklos Komjathy (ed.), Protokolle des Gemeinsamen Ministerrates der Österreichisch-Ungarischen Monarchie (1914–1918), Budapest, 1966, p. 448 f. (12 January 1917).

Austria-Hungary and the Russian Revolution 189 2 L. Höbelt, Diplomatie zwischen Bündnissicherung und Friedenshoffnungen. Die Außenpolitik Österreich-Ungarns 1914–18, in H. Rumpler (ed.), Geschichte der Habsburgermonarchie 1848–1918, Bd. XI/2, Vienna, 2016, pp. 1017–1094. 3 There is a competent survey of Czernin’s period in office by I. Meckling, Die Aussenpolitik des Grafen Czernin, Vienna 1969; his and Charles’ peace initiatives are amply documented, in W. Steglich (ed.), Die Friedensversuche der kriegführenden Mächte imSommer und Herbst 1917. Quellenkritische Untersuchungen, Akten und Vernehmungsprotokolle, Stuttgart, 1984. 4 Neue Freie Presse, 17 March 1917. On 27 November, Galician ex-MP Josef Gold actually launched a biographical sketch of Sir George Buchanan in the Neue Freie Presse. 5 Neue Freie Presse, 17 March 1917. 6 Neue Freie Presse, 10 November 1917, p. 3. 7 Diary of Princess Henriette Hohenlohe, 3 April 1917. Henriette was the wife of the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador to Berlin and daughter of the Austro-Hungarian titular Commander-in-Chief from 1914–17, Archduke Friedrich. I am grateful to Herbert Fischer-Colbrie for granting me access to the Hohenlohe diaries. 8 Or maybe as a scapegoat, only. After all, there had been all sorts of disagreements about the advisability of the octroi, in particular the special position promised to Galicia, within the ranks of the German parties themselves. 9 Karl von Vogelsang Institut (Vienna), Christlichsoziale Partei, box 19, minutes of the‚ ‘Vollzugsausschuß’ 18 April 1917. A few days later, Baernreither added that maybe the emperor overestimated the power of the Social Democrats. At the same time, he himself circulated wildly exaggerated rumours about a revolutionary wave engulfing Europe when he referred to indications that even in England they were about to abolish the monarchy (ibid., 23 April 1917). 10 L. Höbelt, “Stehen oder Fallen?” Österreichische Politik im Ersten Weltkrieg, Vienna, 2015, pp. 157–165. 11 Hohenlohe diary, 2 April 1917. 12 A. Hannig, G. Hohenlohe, in A. Hannig and M. Winkelhofer (ed.), Die Familie Hohenlohe. Eine europäische Dynastie im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert Cologne, 2013, pp. 228–268. 13 Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv (= HHStA), PA XL 59, Tagesberichte 6 & 24 September 1917. The “Tagesberichte” were a summary of incoming reports, for the use of Austrian top diplomats. It must be added, though, that many of these reports were obviously written – or selected – with an eye to please the recipient, i.e. Czernin. 14 HHStA, PA XL 59, Tagesbericht 24 September 1917. 15 The atmosphere of the meeting can be deduced from the diaries of two generals, serving in Charles’ Military Office and on the Italian front, Ferdinand V. Marterer and Anton V. Pitreich (Kriegsarchiv Wien, Nachlässe B/16 and B/54). 16 Neue Freie Presse, 9 November 1917. 17 That view was echoed by Tagesberichte 10 November 1917 (“Absolute Kontrolle des Drahtes”). 18 HHStA PA XL 59, Tagesberichte 19 November 1917. In German the passage read: “Organe, die die Bolschewiki überwachen können.” 19 Hohenlohe diary, 29 December 1917. 20 Stenographische Protokolle des Abgeordnetenhauses des Reichsrates (= StPAH), XXIInd session, s. 2812, 2895 (23 January 1918). 21 HHStA PA XL 59, Tagesbericht 30 December 1917 (quoting Orlowski in Stockholm). 22 KA, B/16, Marterer-Diary, 18 January 1918.

190 Lothar Höbelt 23 StPAH XXII, s. 2820–24 (22 January 1918). On Adler’s son see F. Adler, Vor dem Ausnahmegericht, ed. Michaela Maier and Georg Spitaler, Vienna 2016; on the background of the strikes: K. Flanner, Die Auslösung der großen Generalstreikbewegung für den frieden (Jännerstreik 1918) in Wiener Neustadt, in B. Kepplinger (ed.), Friedensfrage und Arbeiterbewegung 1917–1918, ed. Vienna, 1988, pp. 151–156. 24 K. v. Vogelsang-Institut, Christlichsoziale Partei 19, minutes of the meeting of Christian Social parliamentary club, 22 January 1918; R. G. Plaschka, H. Haselsteiner and A. Suppan, Innere Front. Militärassistenz, Widerstand und Umsturz in der Donaumonarchie 1918, vol. I, Vienna, 1974, p. 71. 25 Hohenlohe diary, 19 February 1918. 26 S. M. Horak, The First Treaty of World War I. Ukraine’s Treaty with the Central Powers of 9 February 1918, Boulder, 1988, p. 47; Ereignisse in der Ukraine 1918– 1922, vol. III, ed. Th. Hornykiewicz, Philadelphia, 1966, pp. 298–301, 316–322. 27 So das Handschreiben Kaiser Karls an Böhm-Ermolli, 31.3.1918; quoted by Wolfram Dornik and Peter Lieb, Die wirtschaftliche Ausnutzung. In Die Ukraine zwischen Selbstbestimmung und Fremdherrschaft 1917–1922, ed. W. Dornik et alii, Graz, 2011, p. 290. 28 HHStA, PA I 583, fol. 625 (23 January 1918). 29 V. Horcicka, Die österreichisch-ungarische Politik gegenüber Sowjetrußland im Sommer und Herbst 1918. Die Mission des Generalkonsuls Georg de Pottere in Moskau, in “Österreichische Osthefte” 2004 (46), pp. 485–514. 30 R. Nachtigal, Kriegsgefangenschaft an der Ostfront 1914 bis1918, Frankfurt, 2005. 31 The two most informative monographs in English are: J. Kalvoda, The Genesis of Czechoslovakia, Boulder, 1986; B. Miller Unterberger, The US, Revolutionary Russia and the Rise of Czechoslovakia, Chapel Hill, 1989. 32 M. Kettle, The Road to Intervention: March to November 1918, London, 1988, pp. 14, 61, 79, 185, 269. 33 M. Leidinger, V. Moritz, Gefangenschaft, Revolution, Heimkehr. Die Bedeutung der Kriegsgefangenenproblematik für die Geschichte des Kommunismus in Mittel- und Osteuropa 1917–1920, Vienna, 2003. 34 H. Rumpler and A. Schmid-Kowarzik (ed.), Die Habsburgermonarchie 1848– 1918, Vol. XI/2: Weltkriegsstatistik ÖsterreichUngarns 1914–1918: BevÖlkerungsbewegung, Kriegstote, Kriegswirtschaft, Vienna, 2014, s. 165. 35 P. Gosztony, The Collapse of the Hungarian Red Army, in Peter Pastor (ed.), Revolutions and Interventions in Hungary and its Neighbour States, 1918-1919 (= War and Society in East Central Europe 20), New York, 1988, pp. 69–77, here: p. 76. 36 L. von Andrian (1875–1951), Korrespondenzen, Notizen, Essays, Berichte, ed. U. Prutsch and K. Zeyringer, Vienna, 2003, p. 509. 37 L. Höbelt, Die Erste Republik Österreich 1918–38: Das Provisorium, Vienna, 2018, p. 129 et seq.

14 Great Britain and the Russian Revolution of 1917 Yevgeny Sergeyev

Introduction Although it is not easy to know precisely what was going on in people’s minds, the influence of something as distant and far off as the Russian Revolution of 1917 on the British politicians, diplomats, military commanders and general public can be evaluated by the study of written accounts, comments in the press and the letters of those who participated in the events. This chapter therefore aims at the clarification of four principal points, to better understand the impact of the Russian Revolution upon both the British official mind and public opinion after the collapse of the Tsardom in March and the downfall of the Provisional Government in November 1917.1 The topics under consideration are as follows: how can we appreciate the alleged British involvement in the Russian Revolution of 1917; to what extent did the perceptions of the revolution by British officials differ from those by ordinary people and what distinction can we trace in the opinion of British conservatives (or unionists), liberals and socialists on the turmoil in Russia; were there any special motives for the transition from general excitement to bitter disappointment and even alarm in Britain during 1917; and finally, what were the reasons for this transition and how did it affect the Soviet–Western relations in the aftermath of the revolution?

The British non-involvement in the overthrow of autocracy The revolutionary events of 1917 in Russia received a wide response among the British political circles of varying ideological colouration for a number of reasons: firstly, due to the nature of the allied Russian–British relations as a major component of the Entente Cordiale; secondly, owing to the higher importance of Russia’s war efforts as an anti-German “steamroller”; and lastly, in the light of the serious concerns about the desire of the so-called “pro-German party” at the court of Nicholas II to conclude a separate peace with the German emperor William II.2 Almost immediately after the March turmoil in Petrograd, British subjects, either living in the UK or staying in Russia, felt bewildered and shocked at

192 Yevgeny Sergeyev the speedy and almost bloodless downfall of autocracy. As one British journalist metaphorically described this common mood, “the revolution came upon us with a rock of the ground under our feet and a rumble of guns in our ears”.3 Yet, there were few politicians or diplomats, like Sir George Buchanan, the last British ambassador to the Russian Empire, who repeatedly warned Nicholas II about the unrest that was rife throughout the government, the Duma and the entire country.4 Similarly, Lord Alfred Milner, a prominent member of David Lloyd George’s coalition cabinet, who headed the British delegation to the Petrograd Interallied Conference in February 1917, mentioned the possibility of a plot against the Russian emperor during his two interviews with him. It is widely known that the delegates at the Entente Conference had unanimously agreed to deploy a decisive attack against the Quadruple Alliance on all fronts, including the Russian one, with a view to ending the First World War until the beginning of 1918. To prove the allies’ confidence in Russia and to expose German intrigues, on his return to England Lord Milner officially stated that he saw no chance for the Russian Revolution, at least until the warfare was over.5 Both British and Russian newspapers along with private correspondence by many observers clearly indicated the non-involvement of British diplomats or the Secret Intelligence Service in the protest movement of Petrograd citizens, troops of the local garrison and the Baltic Fleet sailors. Suffice it to quote the opinion expressed later by a correspondent of the leading Petrograd newspaper Izvestiya (The News): In the early days of the revolution, a great change was seen by many contemporaries as a victory for “the party of war”. Those who shared these views argued that the Russian revolution was caused by the intrigues of England, and the British Ambassador was called as one of its masterminds. However, neither by his look, nor by his intentions, was Sir George Buchanan responsible for the victory of freedom in Russia.6 This assumption is also evidenced by Konstantin Globachev, then the head of the Petrograd Police Department: With regard to participation in the preparation of the Russian revolution by the Allied Powers, I have it to positively deny as well. They say that England has aided our revolutionary epicenter in the upheaval through its Ambassador Buchanan. I argue that neither Buchanan, no British subjects have taken any active involvement in our revolutionary movement or in the abdication of the Tsar for all time of the war. It is possible that Buchanan and other Englishmen personally sympathized with revolutionary sentiment in Russia, believing that a new established People’s Army would be more patriotic and that it would more likely crush German troops on the front, but nothing else.7

Great Britain and the Russian Revolution 193

The British official mind and the general public’s initial reaction to revolutionary events in Russia A surprisingly easy victory of the revolutionary people over “the old regime” instigated wide-ranging euphoria in the Entente capitals, not excluding London. All political parties along with public associations of various ideological orientations in Britain seemed enthusiastic about the February Revolution and welcomed Russia as “a democratic sister-country”, which “joined the community of free nations”, as Morton Price, a correspondent to the liberal Manchester Guardian, remarked in his memoirs published in 1921.8 The upsurge of great sympathy and enthusiasm towards Russia immediately seized public opinion in the UK, given widespread considerations of the autocratic regime as a relic of the long-bygone feudal era. A welcome telegram, sent by the leaders of twenty major British trade unions via Buchanan to Nikolay Chkheidze and Aleksander Kerensky, two prominent socialist leaders, on 16 March 1917, anticipated “the revolution leading to peace without annexations and indemnities”.9 It reflected the opinion of many idealists in Britain, especially that of a younger generation, imbued with pacifist and socialist ideology, who believed that the Russian Revolution would promote a kind of “perfect universal democracy” all over the world. Meanwhile, the British press launched a discussion about nature of the Russian anti-tsarist uprising: some observers compared it with the Glorious Revolution of 1688; others likened the revolutionary events in Petrograd to the beginning of the anti-royalist rebellion by the parliament in 1640–1642; yet most analytics shared the view of left-wing publicists who wrote about obvious resemblance between the overthrow of Nicholas II and the collapse of Louis XVI in the late eighteenth century.10 However, the appeals to Russia’s sacred duty to strengthen ranks with its allies to successfully defeat the Central Empires in the Great War dominated both political minds and ordinary people. Thus, British labourists expressed “their deepest sympathy with the efforts of the Russian people to deliver themselves from … reactionary elements which are impending their advance to victory” in the above-mentioned cable of 16 March.11 Not accidentally, therefore, the instructions to Buchanan from the Foreign Office clearly indicated that all his influence “should be thrown into the scale against any administration which is not resolved to fight to a finish”.12 It was this topic that remained an issue of the day for the British side, although some prominent politicians became pessimistic immediately after the fall of the tsarist regime. A biographer of Lloyd George wrote that after receiving a telegram from Buchanan about the abdication of Nicholas II on 15 March 1917, the prime minister bitterly remarked: “From now on, they [the Russians. – E.S.] are useless to us in this war.”13 Later Buchanan, Major-General Sir Alfred Knox, the British military attaché in Petrograd, together with some conservatives in D. Lloyd George’s coalition cabinet, like Lord George Curzon,

194 Yevgeny Sergeyev seemed sceptical enough on the Provisional Government’s ability to hold state power for a transition period from the Tstardom to democratic order.14 Regarding a debated role by Vladimir Ulyanov (Lenin) at the initial stage of revolution in the spring of 1917, one should point out a kind of neglect that the British mass media and public opinion demonstrated towards this person. In fact, Lenin’s group among Russian left extremists was much less known to English political decision-makers, let alone to ordinary people, than other antimonarchist parties, such as constitutional democrats (the so-called Cadets) or right-wing socialists at large. Contrary to the view of Catherine Merridale, who argues that certain British high-ranking officials even elaborated a scheme to assassinate the Bolshevik leader when crossing the Swedish–Finnish border on his return trip by train to his homeland,15 this author claims that the Bolsheviks were originally considered by most British elites as only minor and temporary actors in Russia’s liberation movement. In addition, London supposed that Lenin’s moving to Russia via hostile Germany in a sealed carriage would completely undermine his reputation as a national public leader.16 At the same time, one cannot ignore a special mission by Georgy Plekhanov, the patriarch of the Russian socialist movement. Accompanied by six other public activists from the Entente countries, including James O’Grady, Will Thorne and William Sanders – all celebrities in the left-wing movement of the UK – they arrived in Petrograd on 13 April 1917. The British government committed Plekhanov along with the above-mentioned colleagues to persuade Russian revolutionary authorities not to reduce military efforts on the eastern front, especially to stop the mass desertion of Russian soldiers who, according to Major-General Knox’s reports to the War Office, were leaving their posts at the rate of a thousand per week.17 Since May–June 1917, low-spirited tunes in the British public opinion regarding any bright vistas for Russia’s democracy had assumed more vividness. Stanley Baldwin, a future three times prime minister, wrote to his wife on 15 May 1917: Russia, so far as we can tell, will be of no military use this year. If she had only held together and been organized (two impossibilities, I fear) the war would have been over this summer. But you can’t have a revolution without loosening discipline through the whole life of the country.18

Gradual transformation of British views on Russia as an ally The emerging chaos in the state government along with the obvious fiasco of the offensive on the eastern front in July 1917, initiated by the Premier-Minister Kerensky, caused the ill-fated complot by the Russian Commander-in-Chief Lavr Kornilov in early September. This intrepid general, who had previously escaped from a POW camp in the suburbs of Vienna, desperately strove for the establishment of military dictatorship in Russia, albeit in vain. There is more

Great Britain and the Russian Revolution 195 than a single reliable piece of evidence that, given a bitter disappointment in Kerensky as a national leader and in the Provisional Government as an effective administrative organ that was bound to consolidate Russia, the British cabinet secretly backed Kornilov’s undertaking, though openly attempting to mediate between the Russian General Headquarters and Kerensky. Despite the officially proclaimed neutrality between Kerensky and Kornilov, the British decision-makers, especially those of conservative thinking, considered that any military dictator would be a far better option for Russia in the course of the world war than a democratic politician like Kerensky, because only a popular war ruler could prevent the collapse of the country and act as the best guarantee of fulfilling the Russian obligation to the Entente.19 Yet the failure of the rebel troops’ march to Petrograd compelled London to reaffirm British support for Kerensky, simultaneously demanding more vigorous steps to be taken by the Provisional Government to continue the coalition war and restrain the Bolsheviks’ aspirations for political power.20 The Provisional Government’s inability to curb defeatism spreading about the former empire annoyed the British cabinet, which debated “the Russian problem” at a regular meeting on 17 September 1917. The ministers noted the aggravation of tension in Russia in view of the telegrams to the Foreign Office by Buchanan. As it was stated in the minutes of the meeting, the “indecision” of the Provisional Government alongside blurred prospects for further Russian contributions to the coalition war persuaded the cabinet to pursue “a wait-and-see” policy in order to avoid any allegations of pressure upon Russia by the Entente.21 By the mid-fall of 1917, however, the strategic situation for the British Empire had become even more complicated: war weariness in England and its dominions increased, while any probability of the final victory, despite the United States joining the Allies in April 1917, seemed to many experts the least problematic than ever before. Loud voices were heard even in the ranks of the prominent Unionists in favour of arriving at some compromise with Germany and its satellites. It was no coincidence, therefore, that on 18 October 1917, Lloyd George pointed out the main challenges against Britain in his pessimistic letter to King George V. In the premier’s opinion, these problems were: the likelihood of Russia’s and Italy’s exit from the war; the French reluctance to step up efforts to achieve victory; together with a poor prospect of American troops arriving at the Western Front on time – the sooner they arrived the better. All of these motives, commented the prime minister, would require the United Kingdom to continue the armed struggle virtually alone, bringing in this way the “upper crust” of the British nation to the altar of victory.22 It seemed rather difficult for the Entente to regard both the internal and foreign policy of the Provisional Government as persistent, given the fact that Kerensky and Mikhail Tereshchenko, who took over Russian foreign affairs after the resignation of Pavel Milyukov in May 1917, were wavering between their adherence to the prolongation of the First World War until

196 Yevgeny Sergeyev the ultimate victory and the demands of the socialists to negotiate peace with the Quadruple Alliance. On the one hand, these fluctuations might be seen in Kerensky’s response to the Entente’s irritating note dated 9 October, while, on the other hand, the Provisional Government had addressed a welcome telegram to the delegates of the conference of the Irish nationalists, and it had made strong reproaches to the admiralty for the current inactivity of the British naval forces in the Baltic Sea on 18 October 1917.23 The last frantic endeavour by Kerensky to improve the situation was his seemingly absurd proposal to Lloyd George to initiate a peace dialogue with Berlin, but on conditions most likely not to be adopted by Germany. The Russian prime minister believed that the expected refusal on the part of Berlin would help the Provisional Government to reanimate Russia’s military machine in view of the Central Empires’ dislike for peace. Hence, as Kerensky mentioned in the message, the Russian people would have nothing left except to fight for complete victory together with their allies. Interestingly, it was William Somerset Maugham whom Kerensky chose as a messenger to Lloyd George. Later to become a famous English novelist, Maugham had been sent to Russia on a special secret mission in August 1917. Unfortunately for the Russian premier, Maugham managed to return to the British capital not earlier than mid-November, whence he passed Kerensky’s message to Lloyd George on 18 November. But it was too late, for the Bolshevik coup d’état had already succeeded first in Petrograd and then Moscow, while all the attempts by democratic forces to restore order in both capitals had ended in defeat.24

The impact of the Bolsheviks’ seizure of political power upon further development of Soviet–Western relations The news of the Bolsheviks (or “maximalists” as the British press preferred to coin the Russian extreme leftists in 1917) having taken control over Petrograd, did not originally meet with great response in the United Kingdom. Surprisingly, Tereshchenko and Buchanan even planned to go together to Paris for the next Entente conference on the very eve of the Provisional Government’s downfall. It should be noted that there could be some reasons for this passive and expectant perception of the Bolshevik seizure of state power in the initial weeks of the new regime.25 First of all, the credibility of the Provisional Government within and outside Russia had decreased to such an extent by the end of October 1917 that, according to Kerensky’s metaphorical expression, the prospect of the Bolsheviks coming to state power merely disturbed western allies: “Lenin will reset Kerensky, they believe, and thereby unwittingly will pave a path for a new, healthy government which will inevitably come to power in three or four weeks”.26 Next, one should draw attention to the British expectations of the future all-Russian democratic elections enabling moderate socialists to convoke and control the Constituent Assembly. This institution,

Great Britain and the Russian Revolution 197 in its turn, so Britain expected, would legitimate a proper republican system, preventing Russia from deserting the Entente. Finally, pieces of various, often controversial intelligence from British diplomats, journalists and spies staying in Russia confused Whitehall over the option of an adequate political tack with regard to its eastern ally. It was on 9 November 1917 when The Times initially commented on the dramatic events that had occurred in the Russian capital two days previously. In the following days, English newspapers communicated to their readers nuggets of controversial information about Bolshevik leaders’ designs to stop the struggle against German troops on the Russian front. Both conservative and liberal mass media almost unanimously contrasted the March revolution of majority with the November usurpation of state power by a gang of left-wing extremists, called maximalists, staying, as they emphasized, on the Kaiser’s pay-sheet, predicting that the Bolsheviks affiliation to Germany would lead to Russia’s complete disintegration if the war went on.27 On the other side, Lord Robert Cecil, who then jointly acted as the minister of blockade and Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, recalled later how, shortly after the Russian November coup d’état, he asked some workmen on his estate whether they had any sympathy with the Bolsheviks, and how they told him that, unless something was done to make another war like the First World War impossible, the Bolshevik system would spread.28 The period of British inactivity in “the Russian question” came to an end on 23 November 1917, when Cecil gave a detailed interview at the press conference arranged by the Foreign Office after the cabinet’s regular meeting. He emphasized that the Bolsheviks’ appeals to Russia’s allies to induce them to join in peace negotiations with the Quadruple Alliance were irresponsible, provocative and treacherous in character, which only favored the German plans to split the Entente. Under the circumstances, Cecil had concluded, it would be rather reckless to expect an official recognition of the Soviet government by official London, taking into consideration public opinion which held lively debates about the rumours of Lenin’s surreptitious intercourse with the German General Staff and Ministry for Foreign Affairs.29 The cabinet again focused on the situation in Russia at the meeting on 6 December 1917. The threat of capture by German troops of two Russian main northern seaports – Murmansk and Arkhangelsk, where the Entente stockpiled enormous deliveries of military materials to Russia, instigated a lively exchange of opinions. Some additional menaces to the allied forces in Russia took everybody’s attention as well, for example, the danger of eventual control of Russian battleships in the Baltic and Black Seas by the Germans. To end with the debates, the cabinet members decided to suspend the continuation of any military technical assistance to the former tsarist army pending clarification of the general situation in Russia.30 In his turn, Buchanan stipulated the British government’s position at the press conference in the premises of the diplomatic mission on the banks of

198 Yevgeny Sergeyev the Neva River on 8 December 1917. Having already applied to the Foreign Office for his resignation, Buchanan concentrated on the key issues of the newly established Soviet–British relations. First, he made several standing phrases concerning the sympathy felt by the British people towards their Russian brothers-in-arms. Next, he reprimanded the Bolshevik leadership for the violation of all the previous Russian commitments and assurances to the Entente and stressed the readiness of the allies to accept only a stable government in Russia. In conclusion, the diplomat strongly condemned the Bolsheviks’ appeal to the peoples of the eastern countries to raise a rebellion against the British colonial rule, along with the attacks committed by certain Soviet officials against those UK subjects staying on the territory controlled by the commissars.31 In winter 1917–spring 1918, further developments fully reflected the controversial nature of Soviet–Western relations, though the final breach occurred only in the summer of 1918, when the British elites made their final choice in favour of armed intervention and assistance to the White generals to overthrow the Communist regime.

Conclusion The 1917 revolutionary events in Russia proved quite unexpected to the British people, regardless of their social position or ideological preferences. One should support the opinion of a British historian who correctly remarked that, strange as it might seem for any average working man in the UK a century ago, Marx, Engels, Lenin and Trotsky all visited and even lived in England and some could say that England, or London, was the birthplace of Communism.32 Moreover, even most politicians were shocked by an immediate downfall of the tsarist regime, save for a few well-informed public figures and high-ranking military commanders. Yet the collapse of the Tsardom triggered off a surge of enthusiasm in all sections of British society, ranging from industrial workers to aristocrats. It seemed to many Liberal and Labour leaders that, similarly to revolutionary France a century before, this newly born democratic country would certainly not weaken but redouble the Entente’s military efforts, ensuring in this way a complete victory over the Central Empires. However, doubts about the Provisional Government’s ability to consolidate democratic order began to gradually annoy political and public mind, while an initial low evaluation of Lenin and his party changed, first to worries and then to an attitude of panic towards the Bolsheviks. Very soon further total disintegration of Russian administrative institutions, including the multimillion-armed forces, confirmed these gloomy predictions. As Arthur Ransome, the British journalist in Russia wrote to his mother late in July 1917, London’s attitude to that country resembled “that of a man towards a tool that has worn itself out”.33 The British expectations of Russia’s relatively smooth transition from the authoritarian rule to democracy

Great Britain and the Russian Revolution 199 had fully evaporated by the autumn of 1917. As Kerensky, the wretched head of the Provisional Government, correctly pointed out in his memoirs,34 “roughly from mid-1917 year, they [the Entente. – E.S.] decided not to maintain ties with Russia based on friendship and trust, until it was governed by a powerful military dictator”. In contrast to the March antiroyalist rebellion, the Bolshevik coup in November did not astonish ruling elites in Europe, including those in Britain. Moreover, after the failure of Kornilov’s movement, Whitehall attempted to pursue “a wait-and-see” policy, as the British Foreign Secretary Arthur Balfour coined it. This meant abstention from armed interference in Russian domestic affairs for the time being. Yet the futile attempts by non-Bolshevik forces to return the country to the path of democratic development and the beginning of separate negotiations between the Soviet regime and Germany in December 1917 compelled official London to change its Russian policy for the third time during that turbulent year of 1917. In the meantime, most of the European and British press greatly contributed to the image of Bolshevik leaders as either corrupt agents of Berlin or idealistic fanatics, instilled with abhorrence to Britain which they regarded as Soviet Russia’s principal enemy or, in Lenin’s words, as “the leader of international financial oligarchy intended to prolong the global carnage for the sake of super profits”. Under such circumstances, official recognition by the British government of the Bolshevik regime proved out of the question, not so much on political, but rather on moral, grounds. Many ordinary people, except for a handful of left-wing publicists, shared this view and fully condemned political chaos in Russia. In fact, they saw no chance to return the former ally to the ranks of the coalition powers in order to win the First World War. Having taken some unsuccessful attempts to compromise with Lenin’s government, the British cabinet arranged for a concert military intervention in Russia, initially to restore the eastern front and then to overthrow the Bolshevik rule. And practically all political forces in Britain, except a handful of left labourists, strongly supported this course, at least at its initial stage in 1918, as “an intervention by agreement” with the local anti-Bolshevik governments in the north, south and south-east of the former Russian empire.

Notes 1 The author prefers to use the Gregorian (new style) calendar, which for the twentieth century was thirteen days ahead of the Julian (old style) one, which remained official in Russia until 31 January 1918. 2 See W. Chamberlin, The Russian Revolution, London, 1935, vol. 1; R. Warth, The Allies and the Russian Revolution: From the Fall of the Monarchy to the Peace of Brest-Litovsk, Durham, NC, 1954; G. Kennan, Russia and the West under Lenin and Stalin, Boston–Toronto, 1960; R. Ullman, Anglo-Soviet Relations, 1917–1921, vol. 1, Princeton, NJ, 1961; R. Page Arnot, The Impact of the Russian Revolution in Britain, London, 1967; M. Kettle, Russia and the Allies, vol. 1, London, 1981;

200 Yevgeny Sergeyev

3 4

5 6 7 8

9 10

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

F. Northedge, O. Wells, Britain and the Soviet Communism: The Impact of a Revolution, London–Basingstoke, 1982; L. Gardner, Safe for Democracy. The AngloAmerican Response to Revolution, 1913–1923, New York–Oxford, 1987; C. Keeble, Britain and the Soviet Union, 1917–1989, Houndmills–London, 1990; O. Figes, A People’s Tragedy: The Russian Revolution, 1891–1924, London, 1996; M. Carley, Silent Conflict: A Hidden History of Early Soviet-Western Relations, Lanham, MD, 2014; C. Merridale, Lenin on the Train, London, 2016. H. Walpole, Denis Garstin and the Russian Revolution: A Brief Word in Memory, “Slavonic and East European Review” 1939 (51), p. 587. Buchanan to the Foreign Office, 12 January 1917, The National Archives of the United Kingdom (TNA). Foreign Office (FO). 371/2704. See also R. Lockhart, Memoirs of a British Agent: Being an Account of the Author’s Early Life in Many Lands and of His Official Mission to Moscow in 1918, London–New York, 1932, pp. 110–111. Memorandum on the Political Situation in Russia, February 1917, Oxford University, Bodleian Library, Special Collections, Milner Papers, MS Milner, dep. 372. Известия, 26 мая 1917 г. К.И. Глобачев, Правда о русской революции. Воспоминания бывшего начальника Петроградского охранного отделения, “Вопросы истории” 2002 (9), p. 70. M. Price, My Reminiscences of the Russian Revolution, London, 1921, p. 5. The confirmation of this reaction on the downfall of the tsarist regime may be found in the Times, Daily Mail, Manchester Guardian, etc., 16–25 March 1917. On the unanimous British sympathy with the democratic revolution see also H. Brogan, The Life of Arthur Ransome, London, 1992, pp. 122–124; R. Page Arnot, op. cit., pp. 11–23. The Foreign Office to Buchanan, 16 March 1917, TNA. FO 371/2995; Morning Post, 17 March 1917. Journals and Letters of Reginald Viscount Esher, eds. O. Esher, London, 1938, vol. IV, pp. 98–99; B. Pares, The Fall of the Russian Monarchy: A Study of the Evidence, London, 1939, pp. 440–471. See also: R. Arnot Page, op. cit., pp. 28–29. Cited in C. Merridale, Op. cit., p. 123. The Foreign Office to Buchanan, 17 March 1917, TNA. FO 371/2995. Cited in Merridale, op. cit., p. 124. F. Owen, Tempestuous Journey. Lloyd George: His Life and Time, London, 1954, p. 376. For further information see C. Merridale, op. cit., pp. 125–126. C. Merridale, op. cit., pp. 162–165. The description by Merridale of Lenin’s fear for British intrigues against him and his closest supporters, coming back from Switzerland to Russia in the sealed coach, seems particularly belletristic. See, for example, Lenin’s personal files compiled by the MI5 officers: Nicola Lenin, alias Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov, 23 August 1915–15 December 1917. TNA. Security Service (KV). 2/585. C. Merridale, op. cit., p. 183. P. Williamson, E. Baldwin (eds.), Baldwin Papers: A Conservative Statesman, 1908–1947, Cambridge, 2004, p. 31. See, for example: Memorandum by Leo Amery “The Russian situation and its consequences”, 20 May 1917. TNA. Cabinet Papers (CAB). 24/14. GT 831. On the support of Kornilov’s movement by the British government, see А. Керенский, Россия в поворотный момент истории, Москва, 2006, p. 358, 380–385, А. Игнатьев, Русско-английские отношения накануне Октябрьской революции (февраль-октябрь 1917 г.), Москва, 1966, pp. 264–315; R. Abraham, Alexander

Great Britain and the Russian Revolution 201

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

Kerensky: The First Love of the Revolution, New York, 1987, pp. 247–275; G. Swain, The Origins of the Russian Civil War, London–New York, 1996, pp. 102– 103; Б. Колоницкий, Британские миссии и А.Ф. Керенский, in А.А. Фурсенко (ред.), Россия в XIX–XX вв. СПб. 1998, p. 69, 75 “ff.” Minutes of a Meeting of the War Cabinet, 17 September 1917, The National Archives of the United Kingdom (TNA). Cabinet Papers (CAB), CAB/23/4/8. T. Wilson (ed.), The Political Diaries of C.P. Scott. 1911–1928, Ithaca, NY, 1970, p. 447. Buchanan to the Foreign Office, 19 October 1917, TNA. Foreign Office (FO), FO/ 800/178/17/22. See also: D. French, The Strategy of the Lloyd George Coalition, 1916–1918, London, 1995, p. 152. G. Milton, Russian Roulette: How British Spies Defeated Lenin, London, 2014, pp. 62–63. Д. Бьюкенен, Моя миссия в России: воспоминания английского дипломата, 1910–1918, Москва, 2006, p. 349. А. Керенский, op cit., с. 412. L. de Robien, Journal d’un diplomate en Russia (1914–1918), Paris, 1967, pp. 143–147. R. Cecil, All the Way, London, 1949, p. 159. Times, Manchester Guardian, 24 November 1917. Minutes of a Meeting of the War Cabinet, 6 December 1917, TNA. CAB/23/ 4/67. Д. Бьюкенен, op. cit., с. 372–376. See the evaluation of this statement by a Russian historian: М. Левидов, К истории союзной интервенции в Россию, т. 1, Ленинград 1925, p. 22. Н. Симс, Русская революция и британские левые (1917–1920), in: Актуальные проблемы изучения и преподавания всеобщей истории в школе и вузе, ред. М. Жолудов, Рязань 2017, p. 26. H. Brogan, Signaling from the Mars: The Letters of Arthur Ransome, London, 1998, p. 49. А. Керенский, op. cit., p. 377.

15 Idle memory? The 1917 anniversary in Russia Boris Kolonitsky and Mariya Matskevich

The centenary of the Russian Revolution attracted the attention of numerous experts.1 It seems that the organisation of the anniversary speaks volumes about contemporary Russian society. How can the event be studied? We believe that an anniversary gives rise to a potential which cannot be fully monopolised. Even in closed societies in which commemorative events are strictly controlled by the state, anniversaries are used by different groups to lobby for their interests, as exemplified by the ways in which anniversaries of the revolution have been celebrated both in the USSR and in post-Soviet Russia.2 Politicians and writers, artists and national activists, various actors and different groups alike can take advantage of anniversaries to implement political, artistic, commercial, national, and other projects. Preparations for an anniversary and the celebrations that follow per se attract new sources of funding along with public attention while, at the same time, creating demand for commemoration of the historical event in question. One advantageous aspect is public interest in history which inevitably intensifies around the time of anniversaries. For example, commemorative dates were used to lobby for a wide variety of (sometimes conflicting) projects during the Soviet days, which was already apparent at the time of the first anniversaries of the October Revolution.3 Different groups from Soviet society and opponents of the government timed various initiatives to coincide with commemorative events, which had direct or indirect impacts on the commemorations. This phenomenon was particularly visible during perestroika when the slogans of the October Revolution were used to combat the Communist party’s monopoly on power. Hence, the revolutionary slogan ‘All power to the Soviets’ (and not to the ruling party) which is vital in terms of the Soviet memory project, received a new lease of life. We also assume that all actors trying to influence the politics of memory, including the most influential actors, are limited in their actions due to limited material, financial, and human resources. The preceding politics of memory and earlier statements of main actors also limit their freedom of action. This is also true of stakeholders endowed with great power. For

Idle memory? 203 instance, the nature of the events marking the 90th anniversary of the revolution (2007) or the centenary of the breakout of World War I (2014) cannot but influence 2017 commemorative projects and cannot be completely ignored. Pendulum swings in the politics of memory can pose a threat to its creators. Therefore, preceding statements, important and highprofile addresses cannot but influence subsequent actions. For example, in 2014, in his opening address during the unveiling of the monument to the heroes of World War I – Russian officers and soldiers – President of the Russian Federation Vladimir Putin said: ‘… the victory [in World War I] was stolen from the country. It was stolen by those who called for the defeat of their homeland and their army, sowed discord in Russia and sought power, having betrayed national interests’.4 In his speech, Putin did not exactly identify the ‘traitors’ leaving audience members to arrive at an ‘internal enemy’ of their liking: liberals or socialists who fought autocracy, masons or separatists who sought separation from the empire. On the other hand, Putin negatively assessed the role of Lenin in some of his other, less well-known speeches.5 It seems that the president has been sincere in his disapproval of the leader of the Bolsheviks although the topic has not been widely discussed since Putin needs the political support of the citizens of Russia who appreciate Lenin. The widely supported thesis of betrayal was also put forward in 2017 although the government refrained from criticising the October Revolution in terms. The existing system of public holidays, urban cultural topography (including monuments) as well as the tradition of anniversaries create both opportunities and limitations. Back in spring 2017, many authors assumed that various actors would try to take advantage of Unity Day (celebrated on November 4, which is a bank holiday), the political topography of different cities, and the local traditions of celebration and protest. Symbolic control over a given space at a given time can play an important role. For example, the Palace Square in front of the Winter Palace, Nevsky Prospect, or the Field of Mars constitute such places in Saint Petersburg. However, none of the actors undertook such actions either on November 4 or November 7 (the day of traditional celebration of the anniversary of the October Revolution) for many reasons. This cannot be explained merely by the actions of the authorities who sometimes try to limit access to these spaces. When protest actions organised by the opposition did take place on the Field of Mars, neither did their participants, observers nor analysts pay attention to the symbolism of the space, its memorial signs or inscriptions. One could get the impression that they failed to ‘read into’ symbols in every sense of the word ‘read’. As expected, the Russian Orthodox Church (ROC) actively promotes its politics of memory. The canonisation of Nicholas II by the ROC in 2000 became a milestone in the perception of the history of the revolution. Religious worship of a historic figure is of particular importance in modern Russia when the boundaries of secularisation/de-secularisation associated

204 Boris Kolonitsky and Mariya Matskevich with the changing role of the church in contemporary society are determined during conflicts of differing scales and on different levels. In recent years, the church has been actively pursuing its politics of memory, trying to influence national cultural memory at the same time. This is manifested in the organisation of historical exhibitions and the installation of memorial signs. It could have been predicted that the church would actively promote its historical agenda during jubilee year, although it would have been difficult to anticipate the scale of it: unlike the public authorities, the patriarch and other representatives of the church were more critical of the revolution, as will be presented below. The educational and cultural level of message addressees, as well as their political and religious preferences, influence perception of the messages themselves. It happens that they simply cannot be properly understood and interpreted. Thus, representatives of the older generations educated in the USSR are well aware of the history of the revolution although this knowledge can be limited to a traditional set of images, facts or dates (a famous speech by Lenin standing on top of an armoured car, Lenin’s hut, the Smolny Institute, the assault on the Winter Palace etc.). On the other hand, those who attended school after the collapse of the USSR know far less about the history of the revolution. Truth be told, one should not overestimate the knowledge of the representatives of older generations either. As few as 11% of respondents gave a correct answer to the question ‘Who was overthrown by the Bolsheviks’ – ‘the Kerensky government’. The number of correct answers varies from 1–3% among younger age groups to 14–19% among older age groups.6 Apparently, the majority of Russians believe that it was the October (and not February) Revolution which resulted in the overthrow of the monarchy. This is consistent with the fact that nearly half of respondents agreed with the assertion put forward by the pollsters: ‘The 1917 February Revolution as such was insignificant and constituted only the first, preliminary stage of the October Revolution’.7 Given this state of affairs, many informational messages are not adequately interpreted regardless of their sources. Personification is yet another distinctive feature of the description in history. It was safe to assume that the debate would focus on the figures of Nicholas II and Lenin during the jubilee year. Both media and public opinion polls which pay excessive attention to the assessment of the role of these personalities legitimise such an understanding of history. In addition, the tradition of historical description established in education, in popular interpretations of history and partly in historiography cannot but influence informational messages and their perception. Thus, the 1917 revolution has been seen as the beginning of a new era since the Soviet days. A similar historical description which contains a critical assessment of the event can also be found in some anti-communist texts. Consequently, discussions about the revolution often turn into disputes over the entire Soviet period, including the repressions, which inevitably leads to discussions about Stalin and Stalinism.

Idle memory? 205 There is a high probability that the attitudes of the residents of contemporary Russia to the phenomenon of the revolution itself largely influence the perception of the 1917 developments: the majority of Russian citizens believe that a new revolution should be avoided at all costs. The cult of the revolution was sacralised in the Soviet period with many opponents of the regime calling for an anti-communist revolution. Revolution was considered a universal tool for resolving various political, economic, social, and cultural problems. The situation has radically changed during recent times. Back in 2012 (the largest protests of the new millennium swept the country in early 2012), 78% of respondents interviewed by the Russian Public Opinion Research Centre (VCIOM) opined that a revolution in the country must be avoided at all costs. As many as 92% believed so in the jubilee year of 2017.8 This opinion is shared by well-known intellectuals,9 artists,10 some opposition leaders11 and even some protesters who believe that they are preventing a new revolution through their actions.12 Such an anti-revolutionary consensus is characteristic of political culture in contemporary Russia and is an important asset for the power elite. Positive connotations of the word ‘revolution’ (which dominated, not only during the Soviet era, but also during perestroika) have been replaced by negative connotations in public awareness. It should not be assumed that this process is only typical of the last decade: the term underwent a shift in meaning during the 1990s becoming not so much associated with attitudes towards the 1917 revolution as it is with the (often negative) assessment of political and economic processes that were, and still are, referred to as a revolution by many today. Thus, the 2004 representative survey by VCIOM (carried out prior to the first Ukrainian Maidan protests which resulted in a change of power in Ukraine and had a significant impact on the opinions of Russian citizens), less than 1% (0.69%) of respondents felt that the notion of a revolution could be, to some extent, positive. This figure remained the same during the year of the 90th anniversary of the revolution (2007). Negative feelings were experienced by 30% of respondents in 2004 and 22% of respondents in 2007.13 Revolution as a ‘historic phenomenon’ which occurred in different countries at different times could not be ‘justified’ by 38% of Russian respondents in 2005. A slightly higher number of respondents (42%) regarded revolution as a ‘historical inevitability’. As few as 10.5% of respondents perceived revolution as ‘a chance for a renewal’. The distribution of opinions hardly changed in 2012 following mass protests in Moscow.14 Such an attitude towards the phenomenon of revolution also influenced the assessment of the developments in Ukraine. Meanwhile, in 2016, when protests became a thing of the past, the proportion of the proponents of the interpretation of the revolution as a historical inevitability reached 57% while the number of those who perceived it primarily as ‘turmoil and unjustifiable victims’ fell to 25%.15 Protest is no longer associated with the revolutionary tradition either at the level of rhetoric or symbolism. Demand for protest and demand for changes do not imply demand for a revolution.

206 Boris Kolonitsky and Mariya Matskevich The reputation of professional experts cannot but influence the fates of commemorative projects. The historian does not play a significant role in contemporary Russia, which is partially a consequence of widespread corruption in this professional milieu. This has been exemplified, in particular, by the most recent scandals; the doctoral dissertation of the Minister of Culture Vladimir Medinsky has been the subject of widespread speculation. He holds a PhD in history but a considerable portion of the professional milieu demanded, in vain, that he be stripped of this title since the scientific significance of his achievements has been undermined. The extent of historical knowledge of the Russian Revolution means that Russian citizens are reluctant to place their trust in the expertise of researchers. As has been noted, Russian citizens are not very well-acquainted with the events of 1917. Still, the extent of their knowledge of those events far exceeds that of other events. It creates a certain illusion of being conversant since many Russian citizens are convinced they are well-versed when it comes to the events of 1917 and harbour strong feelings about them. Therefore, it is incredibly difficult to shake these convictions. Although many Russians (and the majority of younger respondents) find it difficult to answer questions pertaining to the facts and details of 1917, we observe an insignificant number of respondents who remain hesitant as regards the ethical and emotional assessment of the revolution itself and its consequences. It is widely believed that everything has been said about the revolution and what remains is a ‘proper’ moral and political assessment. There is no longer any need to continue to research the issue (as publicly stated by some historians). Hence, zero demand exists for the expertise of professional historians. It could, therefore, be assumed that historians would not have a significant impact on public discourse during the jubilee year, and this is precisely what happened. It could also be assumed that the international backdrop – the ‘memory war’ – the dismantling of symbols of communism in various post-Soviet countries, ‘the war of monuments’, including the Ukrainian mass toppling of Lenin statues (Leninopad) – will have an impact on the implementation of commemorative projects in Russia. The dismantling of Soviet monuments in Ukraine is an inspiring example for some Russian citizens whereas it serves as a serious warning and even (together with other evidence) an argument for keeping the monuments intact for others. Our thesis about key actors’ limitations in terms of the politics of memory requires testing the approaches of some researchers who study the public addresses of Russian Federation President Vladimir Putin while analysing the politics of memory in today’s Russia. The importance of this source is not denied. It is only suggested that a broader context should be taken into consideration. This would shed light on the limitations of Vladimir Putin’s statements and the way in which his speeches are perceived. It would require analysis of the activities of different actors and factors which promote or prevent the successful implementation of their projects.

Idle memory? 207 We make use of such sources of information as public opinion polls, interviews, media publications and Internet posts (analytics, social, and political journalism, description of various initiatives etc.). Back in 2016, one of the authors of this chapter made some suggestions regarding the celebration of the anniversary of the revolution. In mid-2017, we made more specific assumptions regarding the use of this jubilee.16 Some of our forecasts came to be, whereas some of them turned out to be way off the mark. It could be assumed with great certainty that the anniversary of the 1917 revolution would be used to bring about some sort of national reconciliation, arrive at a consensus with respect to the memory of the revolution and civil war. This tendency could also be observed earlier: Russian Federation Minister of Culture Medinsky who heads the Russian Military Historical Society is aspiring to the role of chief architect of the national politics of memory. He has put forward a concept of reconciliation and a plan to install a reconciliation monument in … Crimea. However, there is no reason to believe that the idea of memorial projects designed to bring symbolic closure to the topic of civil war was first initiated by Medinsky. There is a certain demand for the policy of reconciliation, and some local authorities had implemented their projects even before Medinsky formulated his plan. Thus, a small reconciliation monument was erected back in 1997 in Saint Petersburg in the yard of one of the city’s schools.17 Monuments of reconciliation and concord were erected by the local authorities in Krasnodar back in 199818 and Novocherkassk in 2005.19 A monument dedicated to one of the leaders of the White movement, Admiral Aleksander Kolchak, was erected in Irkutsk in 2004. The plinth exhibits statues of soldiers of the Red and White armies lowering their guns as a sign of peace.20 Still, it was safe to assume (and this assumption was indeed confirmed) that the ‘reconciliation’ policy would fail. The country is divided as far as its attitude towards the revolution is concerned. Thus, a 1996 opinion poll conducted by the Levada Centre showed that 47% of citizens evaluated the October Revolution positively while 33% had a negative attitude towards it. Subsequent polls provided similar results. No wonder 48% of respondents believed that the October Revolution played a positive role in Russian history in 2017. Thirty-one per cent of respondents had a negative attitude towards the October Revolution in 2017.21 Similar distribution results (40% and 29%, respectively) emerged following a survey conducted by the Public Opinion Foundation a decade ago.22 A bipolar picture is presented by VCIOM: in 2017, 46% of respondents believed that the October Revolution benefitted society on the whole whereas 46% stated that it served the interests of a minority or ‘a small group of people’.23 The memory of the revolution and civil war is still an inflammatory topic as illustrated in calls to destroy monuments commemorating historic figures as well as direct attacks carried out on monuments. In 1997, a monument to Nicholas II (which was erected a year earlier in Mytishchi – Moscow

208 Boris Kolonitsky and Mariya Matskevich Oblast) was blown up (and restored afterwards). In 2007, a famous statue of Lenin at the Finland Station in Saint-Petersburg was also damaged during an explosion (and later restored). Monuments also came under attack in 2017. A monument dedicated to Nicholas II and Tsarevich Aleksei erected in June 2017 in Novosibirsk without permission from the authorities in front of an Orthodox church was attacked.24 The reconciliation project proposed by Minister Medinsky can be undermined in another way. Any politics of memory should be historiographically grounded at least to some extent. It is not about statements by ‘court’ historians prepared to support every commemorative project proposed by the authorities. The politics of memory should not contradict the existing historiographic consensus since it may otherwise backfire on its creators: public awareness of ‘white spots’ and ‘black holes’ in history can become a source of political mobilisation. Meanwhile, any description of the civil war as a war between the Red and White armies simply does not ring true from today’s perspective. For example, the so-called ‘Greens’ fought both the Reds and the Whites and sometimes entered into alliances with each. Ethnic and national conflicts, as well as attempts by individual peoples and territories to establish their own statehoods, constituted important elements of the civil war. Finally, groups of Reds occasionally posed threats to the Red Army itself; the 1921 Kronstadt rebellion is the most well-known but wasn’t the only revolt carried out by the Red Army and Red Navy against the Council of People’s Commissars. No wonder different historians define the chronology of the civil war in a different way. For instance, British researcher Jonathan Smele believes that the civil war started in 1916 (the uprising on the territory of Turkestan) and ended in 1926.25 In addition, the majority of civil war victims were not servicemen but rather civilians who died from starvation, epidemics, organised terror, and pogroms. The memory of the victims could become the backdrop for reconciliation whereas the architects of politics of reconciliation cite active war participants and the military as the protagonists. Society’s unpreparedness for reconciliation is also manifested in the treatment of history in accordance with one’s party preferences; there exists a strong correlation between political views and the assessment of historical events of a century ago. Historiographical texts in contemporary Russia are often associated with the main actors of the 1917 developments. In this regard, the interpretation of the French Revolution of the 18th century is very different from the understanding of the 1917 Russian Revolution. The influence of historians has been significant in France. Many historians were well-known public figures of their time. Adolphe Thiers, Francois Guizot, Jules Michelet, Alphonse Lamartine, Alexis de Tocqueville, Hippolyte Taine, Alphonse Aulard, Jean Jaures, Albert Mathiez, Georges Lefebvre, and Albert Soboul are outstanding representatives of respective historiographic schools who made up the avant-garde of social sciences and humanities of their eras. Often, one can come across reflections of the ideals of

Idle memory? 209 political movements of their time in their historical works. These historiographic schools influenced the teaching of history.26 In Russia, the founding fathers of different historiographic schools were prominent political actors of 1917. Some of them ventured into history but their works also included memoirs which contained extensive analytical excerpts. To this day, works by Pavel Milyukov, Nikolay Sukhanov, Vasily Shulgin, Leon Trotsky, or Anton Denikin (not to mention Stalin’s History of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks): Short Course) have a greater impact on historical awareness than the works of several generations of professional historians. Many contemporary researchers feel comfortable with politicised historiographic schools and follow the Stalinist, Trotskyist, Socialist, liberal, conservative, imperial, or nationalist traditions of the description of the revolution. Moreover, contemporary politicians happen to comment on the history of 1917 using convenient statements made by participants of the events of that era. François Furet uttered his famous phrase at the end of the 20th century: ‘The Revolution is over’.27 It is assumed that in contemporary France, the events of the late 18th century no longer divide citizens along political lines, the history of the revolution is no longer used, and major parties do not identify themselves with actors in those events. This cannot be said about Russia although the memory of the 1917 events sometimes lies dormant. In this sense, there is an ongoing revolution in Russia. Unsurprisingly, the anniversary is accompanied by a battle of experts of the history of the October Revolution. Truth be told, the beliefs of party historians or politicians who have used history for decades do not attract much attention. Researchers are unable to offer new interpretations attractive to today’s audience. Disputes about the revolution are often extrapolated onto the entire Soviet period. Some glorify the revolution and draw on the achievements of the USSR (industrialisation, victory in WWII, or the space programme). For some, the October Revolution was the first step into outer space whereas for others it inevitably meant a detour to the Gulag. Both have one thing in common i.e. a teleological view of history: the foundation myth of the USSR is legitimised/delegitimised via subsequent events. Consequently, it is not Lenin but Stalin who is at the heart of heated debates. Some liberal and democratically minded authors believe that the dissolution of the All-Russian Constituent Assembly by the Bolsheviks and their allies in January 1918 was a turning point in Russian history. For example, Grigory Yavlinsky, the leader of the Yabloko party, claimed in his lecture delivered in March 2017 that the Russian state ‘has not been legitimate’28 ever since. Such statements by politicians, disputable from the point of view of historians and political scientists, are hardly compatible with the reconciliation plan. Conspiracy-based interpretations of the history of the Russian Revolution also contradict the reconciliation policy. Conspiracy theories were also circulated during the Soviet period. The book by Nikolay Yakovlev, commissioned

210 Boris Kolonitsky and Mariya Matskevich by the KGB leadership in order to diminish the influence of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s writings, has had an impact on both historiography and historical awareness. Yakovlev was given access to the archives of intelligence services in order to give scientific value to his book. A Masonic theme appeared for the first time in Soviet historiography. This interpretation of the history of the revolution is simple: cosmopolitan bourgeois and socialist leaders united in a Masonic organisation, provoked the anti-monarchic revolution, having stabbed the Russian Army in the back. In turn, according to Yakovlev, the Bolsheviks who overthrew the anti-national Provisional Government are Russian patriots. The imperial anti-communist narrative was juxtaposed with the Soviet imperial narrative. Yakovlev’s book, criticised by a number of Soviet historians, was popular among readers; an immense circulation sold out immediately and the reprint sold out just as quickly.29 Still, conspiracy theories were not very popular in Russia. According to a Levada Centre survey, in 1990 as few as 6% of respondents believed that the revolution was initiated due to ‘conspirators who were enemies of the Russian people’. In 1997, the proportion of people who believed this reached 11% and has remained at around the same level ever since according to subsequent surveys.30 In some cases, these beliefs are supported by renowned researchers who compare the February Revolution to the colour revolutions of the early 21st century.31 Hence, President Putin, who voiced the conspiracy version of the history of the revolution at the anniversary of the beginning of WWI in 2014, safely assumed that it would resonate with some of the addressees. Such a high-profile address contributed to the dissemination of conspiracy theories (also triggered by conspiracy interpretations of contemporary political processes, the prevalence of which is considered by some researchers as typical not only of Russia but the postmodern society at large, especially in times of crisis).32 Indeed, a number of publications of this kind appeared in the media.33 However, surveys did not record a surge in conspiracy sentiments. By 2017, the conspiracy topic had been phased out. Perhaps this was due to the fact that the notion of reconciliation was voiced during another important speech by Putin who made no mention of internal enemies that time. Conflicting trends in the development of historical awareness seem to have influenced the stance of those at the top echelons of power who were unable to make up their minds as regards the anniversary. For a long time, there were no official instructions pertaining to the anniversary. As late as in December 2016, in his address to the Federal Assembly, the president called for the occasion to be used in order to promote ‘reconciliation, public, political and civil concord’. At the same time, Putin condemned what he referred to as abuse of the past: It is unacceptable to drag the divides, grudges, anger, resentment and bitterness of the past into our present-day life and speculate about tragedies that affected practically every family in Russia, no matter what

Idle memory? 211 side of the barricades our ancestors were on, in pursuit of one’s own political and other interests.34 However, at that juncture, the President chose not to initiate either public events or ceremonies that could promote reconciliation. On December 19, 2016, Putin signed off on an instruction on the preparation and holding of events dedicated to the centenary of the 1917 revolution. Based on the instruction, the Russian Historical Society established a Steering Committee for the organisation of anniversary events financed by the Ministry of Culture. Prominent historians, predominantly managers and directors of scientific establishments, became members of the Steering Committee. One could arrive at the impression that experts were entrusted with the right to develop the politics of memory. The plan of events adopted by the Steering Committee included exhibitions, educational, publishing and scientific activities.35 Exhibitions were organised at numerous museums, libraries, and archives. Scientific conferences were also held. However, it is difficult to pinpoint any of these listed events as the one that provoked widespread public discussion. Professional historians limit their activities to scientific and educational projects that do not cut a wide swath among the general public regardless of the academic value of the texts or events. One of the listed commemorative events approved by the Steering Committee was the unveiling of a reconciliation monument on November 4 in Crimea which was incorporated into Russia in 2014 (the majority of countries regard it as an annexation of Ukrainian territory). However, this project, initiated by the Minister of Culture, did not go ahead due to protests by locals who share the Soviet historical consciousness that discounts the possibility of reconciliation with the ‘Whites’ even from a historical perspective. Thus, under these circumstances, the reconciliation monument would have failed to promote reconciliation. The notion of reconciliation, officially supported but not really defined by the president, has been used by different forces in pursuit of their goals. Thus, Patriarch Kirill, the head of the Russian Orthodox Church, stated in February 2017 that the handover of St. Isaac’s Cathedral in St. Petersburg to the ROC would be a symbol of reconciliation: Once the demolition of churches and the mass murder of believers blighted a dreadful page of Russian history and sparked a divide amongst its people. The peaceful return of church buildings should now become the embodiment of concord and mutual forgiveness.36 Thus, the largest St. Petersburg cathedral, which has the status of a museum, has become a bone of contention: the city administration intends to transfer it to the ROС, which has prompted public discontent and mobilisation. Special media attention paid to conspiracy theories during the year of the anniversary could be predicted. Many journalists and some historians

212 Boris Kolonitsky and Mariya Matskevich described the overthrow of the monarchy as ‘the colour revolution’ paying disproportionate attention to conspiracies and the role of external forces which allegedly interfered with domestic affairs in Russia. Post-2014 (the anniversary of the beginning of WWI and Ukrainian crisis), the witch hunt for both past and present agents exacerbated. According to some data, the percentage of proponents of conspiracy interpretations of the history of the revolution rose to 20% in 2017.37 However, according to other surveys, the rate has remained stable over the last twenty years (at around 12%).38 As noted above, the majority of the population disapprove of revolutionary solutions in the country although there are no conditions to develop the politics of memory which would promote reconciliation. Despite different interpretations of the February and October Revolutions, civil war and repressions, the majority do not harbour revolutionary sentiments. These tendencies could be predicted unlike other events directly or indirectly related to the perception of Russian commemorative initiatives. For example, Russians eagerly discussed the removal of Confederate monuments in the US. Some authors even drew parallels between the two countries.39 It became clear that the American model of reconciliation, overcoming of the legacy of the civil war, with different States conducting their own politics of memory, could not stand the test of time, which encouraged reflection on the Russian situation. It was also impossible to predict the scale of all the educational projects launched in 2017. The most original and successful of these was the project ‘Free history’.40 The atmosphere of the anniversary had an impact on a number of other projects which were not directly related to the centenary of the revolution. It was difficult to predict the heated polemics around the film Matilda directed by Aleksey Uchitel who was also one of its producers. The film about the love affair of Tsarevich Nicholas and ballerina Matilda Kshesinskaya was released in cinemas on October 26, 2017, which was no accident: on October 25 in the Julian calendar (November 7 in the Gregorian calendar), 1917, the Provisional government was overthrown. That is why other commemorative events also took place on October 25 and 26, 2017. The film had become a bone of contention long before its release in cinemas. Duma deputy Nataliya Poklonskaya, known for her veneration of Nicholas II, was at the forefront of the protests. She demanded that screenings be banned since the film was offensive to believers and distorted the life story of a person she revered as a saint (the script received negative reviews from professional historians).41 Poklonskaya also requested that the Prosecutor’s Office audit the script and look into the film’s sources of funding. This stance was shared by some of the laity and priests, several Orthodox associations and movements (‘King’s Cross’), as could be observed during prayers and religious processions. Calls to set fire to cinemas, which agreed to show the film, could be heard, and one such attempt was made.42 A Molotov cocktail was thrown into the film studio where the film was shot.43 These

Idle memory? 213 criminal deeds were condemned by Poklonskaya herself, although she generally held film producers responsible. Cinema administrations in some regions refused to show ‘Matilda’ for fear of attacks. The conflict revealed divisions within the ruling party: some colleagues from Poklonskaya’s faction condemned her behaviour and positively reviewed Uchitel’s film after having watched it. The Ministry of Culture issued a rental certificate for the screening of the film in August 2017. It can be assumed that these decisions reflect other conflicts and differences of opinion in the ruling party. Divisions over the film are present within the ROC, too. The majority of the ROC leadership abstained from calling for a ban on the film, although its content was criticised. Still, the ROC distanced itself from some of Poklonskaya’s radical statements whereas the most vehement supporters of the veneration of Nicholas II, tsar worshipers (the so-called tsarebozhniki), supported the calls for a ban.44 The controversy over the film, which few people had seen by then, became a hot topic of public debate in the jubilee year, although the film does not directly describe the 1917 events. This testifies to the existence of the abovementioned conflict of processes of de-secularisation and secularisation of contemporary Russian society and is, at the same time, indicative of the unexpected absence of other events related to the anniversary of the revolution that are significant according to Russian public opinion. The importance of this discussion should not be overestimated though: most Russians had not heard of the film prior to its screening and between 30–50% of those who knew about the film intended to watch it.45 Apparently, not all potential viewers made it to the box office. The film was seen by more than 2 million viewers and although this was considered to be a moderate commercial success, this was fewer than had been expected.46 In the year of the centenary of the revolution, the Russian Orthodox Church was the most active among the key actors that form historical policy. Some of the activities took place on the initiative, and with the participation of, top leaders of the ROC. Unlike statesmen, Patriarch Kirill unambiguously expressed his attitude towards the revolution. According to him, ‘intelligentsia was principally responsible for the dreadful events that took place a hundred years ago’. He added that differences of opinion should not provoke new civil conflicts. The Patriarch had earlier labelled the revolution ‘a great crime’.47 Clearly, it is assumed that repentance by the intelligentsia and its condemnation should become the basis for national reconciliation. Huge efforts made by the ROC to shape the politics of memory are especially noticeable in comparison to the passivity of the ruling party. Ceremonies attended by President Putin included the unveiling of the memorial cross at the site of Grand Duke Sergei’s assassination. The uncle of the last emperor was murdered by a revolutionary terrorist on Kremlin territory in Moscow during the 1905 revolution. In 1908, an enormous bronze cross was

214 Boris Kolonitsky and Mariya Matskevich erected there but was later removed on May 1, 1918 with the participation of Lenin himself, along with other top Soviet officials (and the memory of the murderer of the member of the tsar family and other revolutionary terrorists was part of Soviet memorial practice, as reflected in the names of streets and memorials). President Putin used the occasion of the ceremony of the restoration of the cross not only to condemn terrorism but also to refer to the topic of unity: ‘It is a reminder of the price that was paid for mutual hatred, disunity, hostility and we must join efforts to preserve the unity and concord of our people’. The cross was consecrated by the Patriarch.48 It is noteworthy that neither in this nor in other speeches did the president mention the repressive crackdowns of the government including the shooting of demonstrators on January 9, 1905, in St. Petersburg even though according to many historians, these events provoked the transformation of a political crisis into a revolution. It is revolutionaries alone who are held responsible for the revolution. The responsibility of the authorities is not mentioned although they failed to overcome the political crisis by peaceful means. The ROC was one of the key actors that formed the national politics of memory even prior to 2017. Arduous discussions about Nicholas II both formalise and strengthen this policy. At the same time, the ROC does not speak with one voice on a number of issues, be it its attitude towards the film Matilda or monarchy as a desired form of governance. Statements of individual clergymen and religious activists sometimes deviate from the official line of the ROC. However, internal contradictions that create certain tensions contribute to the fact that the ROC becomes more active, which reflects the arduousness of the polemics surrounding the issue of secularisation/ de-secularisation of society and state. Nevertheless, the main characteristic of this anniversary is the failure of key political actors to take advantage of its potential. In this regard, it is noteworthy that the language of history often replaces the language of politics in today’s Russia.49 George Orwell’s popular and oft-quoted line which has it that those who control the past control the future and that the past is controlled by those who control the present rings especially true today when the politics of memory plays a special, sometimes overstated role against the backdrop of limited public policy. Some politicians and political engineers believe that a desirable picture of the past will boost their political gravitas. Still, the main political actors failed to use the full potential of the anniversary. Some actors justify the understated celebration by fear of the export of revolution felt by the incumbent Russian political elite. Both foreign50 and Russian51 observers and analysts highlight the same. The following statements have almost become commonplace: ‘President Putin loathes the very idea of revolution’, ‘the Kremlin narrative that … the West strives to implant friendly governments everywhere by sponsoring “colour revolutions”’.52 Although these opinions are justified, they are hardly exhaustive. To begin with, the opposition also failed to use the potential of the anniversary although they are the ones accused by the authorities of harbouring the

Idle memory? 215 intention to import revolution. Secondly, the authorities could have used the potential that lies in the anti-revolutionary consensus and the denial of the revolution as a prospect for the development of the country. They could have drawn on the fact that revolution does not play a central or positive role in the political culture of contemporary Russia. As has been mentioned above, these views are shared by the majority of Russians regardless of their political affiliations. This is a long-term tendency which had manifested itself even before the nation was threatened by colour revolutions. There is a demand for change in Russian society (up to 60% of the population want changes, according to some polls)53 but this is not necessarily demand for a revolution. Different people expect very different changes which are sometimes clearly anti-revolutionary. In any case, the demand for change is not accompanied by a desire to use, nor utilise, the memory of the revolution. Such an approach seriously limits the politics of memory: the authorities find it difficult to take a decisive stance as regards memory since they do not want to undermine the fragile and unstable support for the president given the crisis. It can be assumed that Putin’s political entourage believes that the anniversary is either not a very useful tool or is entirely useless in terms of creating and maintaining political coalition around the authorities. Anti-revolutionary political culture is also characteristic of the forces whose political legacy dates back to 1917, for example, the Communist Party of the Russian Federation. Thus, not only have the government and pro-governmental forces disregarded the memory of the revolution but so has the opposition. The anniversary potential was employed by scientists, artists, writers, journalists, and exhibition curators who implemented various projects. Many of them received financial support from the state. At the same time, it can be stated that, apart from the film Matilda which was not directly related to the history of the revolution, none of the texts, images, films, or projects became the basis for the nationwide discussion of the commemorated event. The failure to use the potential of the memory of the revolution blocks the process of creating new meanings as well as the reassessment of the role of this historic event.

Notes 1 See e.g. the extensive volume of collected papers: Г. Бордюгов (ed.), Революция100: Реконструкция юбилея, Москва, 2017. 2 For instance, in November 1936, groups of Russian fascists from an organisation founded in Harbin (China) secretly crossed the Soviet border. They intended to distribute anti-Communist leaflets in Soviet cities during demonstrations on November 7. One group was able to carry out this initiative Chita. Д. Стефан, Русские фашисты, 1925–1945, Москва, 1992, p. 229. 3 К.В. Годунов, Левые оппоненты большевиков и революционные празднования 1918 года, “Российская история” 2016 (5), pp. 184–195.

216 Boris Kolonitsky and Mariya Matskevich 4 Vladimir Putin. An opening address during the unveiling of the monument to the heroes of World War I 01.08.2014// An official site of the President of Russia. Accessed on 12.03.2018; on the Russian memory of World War I see: B. Kolonickij, Resursy kul’turnoi pamiati i politika pamiati o pervoi mirovoi voine v Rossii, “Cahiers du Monde Russe” 2017 (1–2), pp. 179–202. 5 ‘Our country lost that war to the losing party. A unique situation in the history of mankind!. And that was the result of the national betrayal of the then leadership of the country’. (Replies of President of the Russian Federation Vladimir Putin to questions posed by members of the Federation Council. 27.06.2012// An official site of the President of Russia www.kremlin.ru/events/president/tran scripts/deliberations/15781; ‘it is time to state it firmly: […] there won’t be any revolutions or counter-revolutions’ (The Annual Address of the President of Russia to the Federal Assembly, 03.04.2001// The official site of the President of Russia www.kremlin.ru/events/president/transcripts/21216). See also the negative assessment of the role of Lenin as a founder of the USSR in Putin’s speech in January 2016 (The Meeting of the Presidential Council on Science and Education 21.01.2016// The official site of the President of Russia www.kremlin.ru/events/presi dent/news/51190. Accessed on 12.03.2018). 6 История страны: ставим «отлично», в уме держим «неуд»// VCIOM. Press release No. 3466 https://wciom.ru/index.php?id=236&uid=116396. 7 Февральская революция 1917 (2017)// Levada Centre website www.levada.ru/ 2017/02/14/fevralskaya-revolyutsiya-1917/ 8 Октябрьская революция: 1917–2017 (2017)// VCIOM. Press release No. 3488 https://wciom.ru/index.php?id=236&uid=116446 9 For example, political scientist Vladimir Pastukhov writes: I am not calling for a revolution and do not justify the revolution… I would personally prefer that Russia did without it (В.Пастухов, Государство диктатуры люмпен-пролетариата, “Новая газета” 13.08.2012 //www.novayagazeta.ru/articles/2012/08/13/50971-gosu darstvo-diktatury-lyumpen-proletariata; writer Dmitry Bykov says: the revolution when the masses speak up: your time is up, get out, [Russia] has not seen it. God willing, it won’t see it (Д. Быков, Interview at the radio station ‘Eсho of Moscow’, 24.10.2014 http://echo.msk.ru/programs/personalno/1424030-echo/); economist Mikhail Delyagin says: revolution … will trigger the mechanisms of chaos which might not be possible to keep in check later on (Оппозиция в России ищет единого кандидата в президенты от левых и правых. Имена могут назвать уже в мае// Newsru.com 19.04.2007 www.newsru.com/russia/19apr2007/kandidat.html 10 For instance, theatre director Mark Rozovsky says in his interview: I’m afraid of the revolution but one cannot live in slavery М. Розовский, `Я боюсь революции, но нельзя жить в рабстве’, Interview// Radio Free Europe/ Radio Liberty 10.04.2017 // www.svoboda.org/a/28420794.html; well-known actress and head of the charity fund Chulpan Khamatova responds: ‘I would prefer North Korea’ to the question about whether she would prefer to live in a country such as North Korea. or to witness a revolution. Source: an interview at the TV channel Dozhd 7.06.2012 https://tvrain.ru/teleshow/sobchak_zhivem/chulpan_khamatova_ya_by_ vybrala_severnuyu_koreyu_a_ne_revolyutsiyu-286479/?utm_source=twi&utm_me dium=social&utm_campaign=teleshow-sobchak_zhivem&utm_term=286479; in her performance, director Yekaterina Korolyova changes the closing of a children’s tale ‘Cippolino’ written by famous Italian writer Gianni Rodari who was a communist. The coup never happens, changes come ‘from the top’ and everyone is reconciled. The director explained: since I’m terribly afraid of any revolutions, the coup is in the minds of the protagonists (М. Ганиянц (2013) ‘Чиполлино’ поставят в театре ‘Содружество актеров Таганки’//РИА Новости, 13.11.2013// https://ria.ru/culture/20131113/976587606.html.

Idle memory? 217 11 For example, Grigory Yavlinsky, the leader of the opposition party ‘Yabloko’ says: revolution is a very dangerous, bad thing, you wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy// Как предотвратить революцию, но ответить на требования народа? Interview for the Finam FM radio station 19.04.2011 www.yabloko.ru/video/ 2011/04/19. 12 See e.g. М. Мацкевич Что оказалось неожиданным в опросе фокус-группы молодых людей, выходивших на митинги. 11.04.2017. Портал Online812 www. online812.ru/2017/04/11/011/; А. Мухин, Фокус-группы митингующих, “Город 812” 2017 (7), pp. 8–11. 13 Порядок и справедливость – главные ценности россиян (2007) VCIOM. Press release No. 659 https://wciom.ru/index.php?id=236&uid=4271. 14 Революция: вчера, сегодня … завтра?! (2012)// VCIOM. Press release No. 2158 https://wciom.ru/index.php?id=236&uid=113319 15 Октябрьская революция: 1917–2017 (2017)// VCIOM. Press release No. 3488 https://wciom.ru/index.php?id=236&uid=116446 16 B. Kolonitskii, Unpredictable Past: Politics of Memory and Commemorative Culture in Contemporary Russia, in 1917: Revolution (Russia and the Consequences), Deutsches Historisches Museum and the Schweizerisches Nationalmuseum. Sanstein Verlag 2017. pp. 155–167; B. Kolonitski, M. Matskevich, Unberechenbare Vergangenheit in ungewissen Zeiten: Hundert Jahre Revolution im heutigen Russland, “Geschichte den Gegenwart“ 27 August, 2017.. http://geschichtedergegenwart.ch/ unberechenbare-vergangenheit-in-ungewissen-zeiten-hundert-jahre-revolution-imheutigen-russland/; Б. Колоницкий, М. Мацкевич, Десакрализация революции и антиреволюционный консенсус в современной России: юбилей 2017 года и его политическое использование/неиспользование, “Мир России” 2018 (4), pp. 78–101. 17 Памятник примирения (Неделимый венец)// website of Неформальные достопримечательности// www.etovidel.net/sights/city/saint-petersburg/id/pamiatnik_ primereniia_(nedelimyj_venec) 18 Памятник примирения и согласия// website of Краснодар 861// http://krasno dar861.ru/gorod/345-pamyatnik-primireniya-i-soglasiya.html 19 Памятник Примирения и Согласия (Новочеркасск)// The Russian-language section of Wikipedia. https://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/Памятник_Примирения_и_Согла сия_(Новочеркасск) 20 Памятник Колчаку (Иркутск)// The Russian-language section of Wikipedia https://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/Памятник_Колчаку_(Иркутск) 21 The October Revolution (2017). An opinion poll conducted by the Levada Centre. Replies may add up to more than 100% since it was possible to choose several options/ Levada Centre website//. www.levada.ru/2017/04/05/oktyabrs kaya-revolyutsiya-2/ 22 Октябрьская революция: последствия для страны и роль в жизни семей (2007)// Survey by the Public Opinion Foundation // http://bd.fom.ru/report/map/d074421 23 Октябрьская революция: 1917–2017 (2017)// VCIOM. Press release No. 3488 https://wciom.ru/index.php?id=236&uid=116446 24 В. Минаева, Вандалом, повредившим памятник Николаю II в Новосибирске, оказался бывший следователь, “Комсомольская правда” 01.08.2017 www.nsk. kp.ru/daily/26712/3737660/ 25 J. Smele, The ‘Russian’ Civil Wars, 1916–1926: Ten Years that Shook the World. Oxford University Press 2016. 26 M. Malia M. History’s Locomotives: Revolutions and the Making of the Modern World. New Haven; London, 2006, pp. 178–187. 27 The first chapter of the book: F. Furet, Penser la Révolution française. Paris, 1978. Russian translation: Ф. Фюре, Постижение Французской революции, СПб. 1998.

218 Boris Kolonitsky and Mariya Matskevich 28 Г. Явлинский Российские параллели: 1917–2017 (lecture)// Новая газета 29.03.2017// www.novayagazeta.ru/articles/2017/03/29/71956-lektsiya-grigoriyayavlinskogo-rossiyskie-paralleli-1917-2017 29 Николай Н. Яковлев: 1 августа 1914. Москва 1974. About working on the book by Nikolay Yakovlev see: В. В. Поликарпов, Из следственных дел Н. В. Некрасова 1921, 1931 и 1939 годов, “Вопросы истории” 1998 (11–12), p. 10–48. See: Владимир В. Поликарпов, От Цусимы к Февралю. Царизм и военная промышленность в начале ХХ века, Москва, 2008, pp. 513–521. The author himself wrote about his cooperation with the KGB leadership: Н. Н. Яковлев: Приложение: О «1 августа 1914», исторической науке, Ю.В.Андропове и других. cf. Н. Н. Яковлев, 1 августа 1914, 3rd edition, suppl., Москва, 1993, pp. 286–315. 30 October Revolution (2017). Levada Centre survey.// Levada Centre website// www.levada.ru/2017/04/05/oktyabrskaya-revolyutsiya-2/ 31 ‘From the point of view of manipulating mass consciousness and behaviour, efficient organisation and active involvement of external actors, the revolutions of the early 20th century are no different from the revolutions that took place in the post-Soviet space at the end of the 20th to the beginning of the 21st century i.e. the so-called “Velvet”, “Orange”, “Rose”, “Purple” revolutions as well as the Arab spring in the early 2010s. None of them could hardly be called spontaneous’ Б.Н. Миронов, Благосостояние населения и революции в имперской России, XVIII – начало XX века, Москва, 2012, p. 696. 32 See e.g.: А. Игнатьев, Театр политического кризиса: заговор как «предмет веры», “Социологическое обозрение” 2015 (1), pp. 44–67. 33 See e.g.: Пономарева Е. Помнить уроки прошлого: профессор Елена Пономарева – о том, почему политические перевороты современности повторяют схему Февральской революции 1917 года// газета Известия, 20.02.2017 https://iz.ru/news/ 664618; ‘The Andrei Pervozvanny Foundation has launched an educational project Russia 1917. The images of the future (…) The aim of the project is to promote broad public consensus as regards the inadmissibility of the repetition of the past events which led to an immense civilisational crisis’// Website of the Russian Historical Society//http://rushistory.org/sobytiya/rekonstruktsiya-vyborov-v-uchredi telnoe-sobranie-1917-goda.html; Цветные революции как последнее средство политики Запада// Website ‘Информационно-аналитический центр’// http://inance. ru/2016/03/revolutsii/ and many other. 34 The annual presidential address to the Federal Assembly of the Russian Federation 1.12.2016// Site of the President of Russia www.kremlin.ru/events/president/news/ 53379 35 The plan of public events is published on the website of the Russian Historical Society: http://rushistory.org/images/documents/plan100letrevolution.pdf 36 Patriarch Kirill: St. Isaac’s Cathedral handover to the ROC will become the symbol of reconciliation/ TASS news agency 17.02.2017// http://tass.ru/ obschestvo/4031648. 37 October Revolution (2017). Levada Centre survey// Levada Centre website// www.levada.ru/2017/04/05/oktyabrskaya-revolyutsiya-2/ 38 В. Хамраев Большевики получили 32%. Граждане оценили события 1917 года// Коммерсант newspaper. 12.10.2017. 39 S.F. Cohen, Political conflict over historical monuments, From Charlottesville to Moscow\\ The Nation, August 17, 2017// www.thenation.com/article/political-con flict-over-historical-monuments-from-charlottesville-to-moscow/ 40 Site ‘Свободная история. Проект 1917’// https://project1917.ru/ 41 Poklonskaya caused a sensation by comparing Lenin to Hitler: Поклонская внесла Ленина и Гитлера в список ‘извергов ХХ столетия’. Газета.ру, 03.11.2016 www.gazeta.ru/social/news/2016/11/03/n_9292025.shtml; Наталья Поклонская

Idle memory? 219

42

43 44 45 46 47

48

49 50

51

52 53

назвала Владимира Ленина одним из ‘извергов двадцатого столетия’. Коммерсант newspaper 03.11.2016 www.kommersant.ru/doc/3134853; Поклонская поставила Ленина в один ряд с Гитлером. RIA news agency 3.11.2016 https://ria.ru/ society/20161103/1480654535.html. Житель Ирбита протаранил кинотеатр в Екатеринбурге из-за ‘Матильды’. Подозреваемый сделал признание. News portal Newsru.com 4.09.2017. www. newsru.com/russia/04sep2017/ekat_2.html Source: ФОМ, February 2007 http:// bd.fom.ru/report/map/d070825 Противники ‘Матильды’ сожгли автомобиль. News portal ‘Фонтанка.ру’ 11.09.2017 www.fontanka.ru/2017/09/11/011/ Солдатов А. Восстание ‘секты царебожников’, отец Сергий (в миру Николай Романов) и Поклонская. Новая газета, 15.08.2017 www.novayagazeta.ru/art icles/2017/08/15/73480-tsarebozhniki-i-konets-sveta. О ситуации вокруг фильма ‘Матильда’. Survey by the Public Opinion Foundation, 25.08.2017 http://fom.ru/Kultura-i-dosug/13658; Страсти по ‘Матильде’. VCIOM press release No. 3500, 25.10.2017 https://wciom.ru/index.php?id=236&uid=116477. News portal Кинопоиск (accessed on 21.04.2018). www.kinopoisk.ru/film/ matilda-2017-705382/ Патриарх Кирилл нашел виноватых в революции 1917 года. Interfax news agency, 29.03.2017 www.interfax.ru/russia/555912; Патриарх возложил вину за революцию 1917 года на интеллигенцию. News portal Лента.ру, 29.03.2017 https://lenta.ru/news/2017/03/29/revolution/ Путин открыл памятник князю Сергею Александровичу. Российская газета, 04.05.2017 https://rg.ru/2017/05/04/reg-cfo/vladimir-putin-edinstvo-i-soglasienashego-naroda-nuzhno-sohranit.html; www.stoletie.ru/lenta/putin_otkryl_krest_ knaza_sergeja_aleksandrovicha_819.htm. I. Kurilla, The ‘Return of Stalin’: Understanding the Surge of Historical Politics in Russia, PONARS Policy Memo # 429, 05\2016 www.ponarseurasia.org/memo/ return-stalin-understanding-surge-historical-politics-russia. See e.g. S. Schmemann, ‘The Russian Revolution: Then and Now’. The New York Times, March 16, 2017 www.nytimes.com/2017/03/16/opinion/the-russianrevolution-then-and-now.html; W. E. Pomeranz. ‘Why Putin will be skipping the 100th anniversary of the Russian Revolution’. Wilson Center Kennan Institute Blogs, February 22, 2017 www.wilsoncenter.org/blog-post/why-putin-will-be-skip ping-the-100th-anniversary-the-russian-revolution; E. Bastié, ’Centenaire de 1917: «Poutine préfère Staline à Lénine » (un entretien à Michel Eltchaninoff)’. Le Figaro, 24/03/2017/ www.lefigaro.fr/vox/histoire/2017/03/24/3100520170324ARTFIG00338-centenaire-de-1917-poutine-prefere-staline-a-lenine.php. See e.g. С. Шелин, ‘Власть больше не управляет ни будущим, ни прошлым’. Росбалт news agency, 31.03.2017 www.rosbalt.ru/blogs/2017/03/31/1603794.html; Яковлева Е. ‘Февраль и олигархи: Мединский напомнил о главных причинах и уроках февральской революции’// Российская газета, 18.02.2017 https://rg.ru/ 2017/02/18/medinskij-napomnil-o-glavnyh-prichinah-i-urokah-fevralskoj-revoliu cii.html; Калинин И. Призрак юбилея. Неприкосновенный запас, No. 111 (1/ 2017). pp.11–20. http://nlobooks.ru/node/8279 and other. N. MacFarquhar, ‘“Revolution? What Revolution?” Russia Asks 100 Years Later’. The New York Times, March 10, 2017. www.nytimes.com/2017/03/10/ world/europe/russian-revolution-100-years-putin.html. Д. Волков, А. Колесников, Мы ждем перемен. Есть ли в России массовый спрос на изменения?// Carnegie Moscow Centre 2017http://carnegie.ru/2017/12/ 05/ru-pub-74906.

16 A quiet jubilee Practices of the political commemoration of the centenary of the 1917 revolution(s) in Russia1 Olga Malinova The anniversary of the 1917 revolution that upended the history of the 20th century went relatively unnoticed in Russia considering the plethora of social, cultural and scientific events that marked its centenary all over the world. There were no official political celebrations at the national level. Only leaders of the Duma factions ‘summed up the lessons of the 1917 revolution in Russia’2 in a formal way during the working meeting of the Duma Council (the body in charge of organisational matters of the lower chamber of the parliament) on November 7. President of the Russian Federation Vladimir Putin did not deliver an official speech that day (although he mentioned the revolution on several occasions during the year) nor did he conduct any commemorative events fitting for the occasion. Only communists and other left-wing parties celebrated the centenary of the October Revolution by organising marches and rallies in Moscow, Saint Petersburg and other cities. Naturally, scientific conferences and museum exhibitions were held, TV programmes and performances were produced and articles on the revolution appeared in the press throughout the year. Still, discussions were limited to relatively narrow circles and went unnoticed among the general public. The film Matilda, directed by Alexey Uchitel about the romantic relationship between the crown prince Nikolay Romanov and the ballerina of the Mariinsky Theatre Matilda Kshesinskaya, became the hot topic of public historical disputes on the eve of the centenary of the revolution. The monarchic and Orthodox community demanded the film be banned. According to the Integrum database, over the three-month period spanning the anniversary, the number of materials which appeared in print and electronic media about the ‘scandalous’ film almost equalled the number of publications pertaining to the revolution (see Table 16.1). According to Google Trend analytics, during the same period, the popularity of search queries concerning Matilda was on average 24% higher than those about the October Revolution. The gap reached 99 percentage points on several days, whereas on November 7, the number of searches for the 1917 revolution was two points below the number of searches for the film.3 Obviously, these are average indicators and do not reflect the behaviours of all segments of society. Still, it can be

A quiet jubilee 221 Table 16.1 Number of publications concerning the 1917 revolution compared to the number of publications related to Matilda* in print and electronic media Type of publication/Number of documents upon request

‘revolution’* and ‘1917’ in the same query

‘Matilda’*

All-Russia press (N 175)

459

304

All-Russia Internet publications (N 26)

181

143

1302

963

19

39

Regional press (N 1044) Regional Internet publications (N 36)

* Results of the search in the Integrum database for the period 1.10.17–15.11.17

assumed that the lack of interest in the centenary of the revolution is partly a consequence of the decision not to commemorate it at state level. Why did the centenary of the event that used to play the role of foundation myth4 for Soviet Russia, and which changed the course of world history, fail to become a subject of nation-wide commemoration? The author of this chapter aims to answer this question, having analysed the strategies of key political forces involved in the interpretation of the jubilee events. They will be referred to as ‘mnemonic actors’5 after Michael Bernhard and Jan Kubik. Based on traditional and online publications of the stakeholders under study, the author reconstructs strategies and narratives (semantic schemes of recollections of historical events) of the key social and political forces competing to provide an interpretation of the 1917 events. These forces are the ruling elite, the Russian Orthodox Church, communists and other political parties involved in the commemorating the centenary of the revolution, which compete in line with their own ideological and electoral strategies. The chapter aims to study the interaction between mnemonic actors, mediated by the texts, which involves a combination of analyses of discourses and social practices.

Commemoration of historical events as an instrument of politics of memory: theoretical underpinnings and research methodology The decision on the format for the commemoration of the 1917 events6 was taken at the eleventh hour. The instruction on holding events dedicated to the centenary of the 1917 revolution in Russia was signed by the president as late as December 2016, less than two months before the February Revolution anniversary and approximately 11 months prior to the anniversary of the October Revolution. Despite being concise, the document contained a number of important symbolic decisions. To begin with, the event to be commemorated was referred to as ‘the 1917 revolution in Russia’. The

222 Olga Malinova choice of words appears deliberately neutral against the backdrop of other available options such as ‘great’, ‘Russian’ (русская), ‘Russian’ (российская) or ‘Socialist’ among others. In other words, the revolution was unequivocally stripped of its grandeur. Secondly, chronologically, the commemoration related only to the events that took place in 1917. Thus, the presidential administration refused to interpret the developments as the ‘Great Russian Revolution’ as suggested by the authors of the Concept of the New Curriculum of Russian History7 developed upon the initiative of Putin, which would have implied an epic programme of commemoration spanning almost four years. In other words, the February and October Revolutions were combined. Thirdly, the state’s participation was reduced to simply allocating resources. The steering committee set up by the Russian Historical Society (RIO)8 was afforded full control over the organisation and conduct of commemorative events. The steering committee was instructed to focus on social and scientific events rather than political ones. During the first RIO meeting on preparations for the centenary of the revolution, while commenting on the position of the presidential administration, the Head of the Public Project Department, Pavel Zenkovich, stated that the event was considered to be ‘exclusively a historical and non-political date’ which should not be ‘politicised’.9 However, commemoration, i.e. public acts aimed at immortalising, or, to be more precise, refreshing the memory with respect to historical events and individuals, is always a political process. And this is not merely because politicians seek to use the past to pursue their own ends. Commemoration is always about the selection of that which should be remembered and, by omission, that which should be forgotten. That which is important from today’s perspective is remembered. That which seemingly constitutes mere details or happenstance is forgotten. The logic behind remembrance and oblivion takes into account not only the truth of historical facts but also the emotions associated with them. Depending on the context, the commemorated event can be seen as a reason to celebrate and/or to express collective sorrow. Moreover, the attitudes of mnemonic actors may not coincide. Since the organisation of commemoration at the national level requires that historical events be linked to ideological constructs that serve to legitimise the political regime and its policy, it becomes part of symbolic policy implemented on behalf of the state. And since there is some freedom of expression and competition between mnemonic actors in any modern society, collective remembrance and (re)thinking of a historical event is always a manifestation of symbolic politics, i.e. public activity related to the production and promotion of competing modes of interpreting social reality. The celebration or marking of the anniversary of a historical event is entrenched in the existing socio-cultural infrastructure of memory10 of it, and at the same time, implies a further honing of it. Elements of such infrastructure include monuments, museums, memorial sites, public holidays, public rituals, place names, works of art and signs symbolising

A quiet jubilee 223 solidarity (ribbons, flowers etc.). All of these serve as symbolic resources for mnemonic actors. Moreover, they create limitations, especially when the suggested interpretation of events differs significantly from the established one. Not every anniversary of a historical event becomes a memory event (that is, ‘an act of revisiting the past, that creates ruptures with its established cultural meaning’).11 However, whenever it does, it requires infrastructural anchorage. A narrative (a story with a plot that offers a coherent picture of a chain of historical events) is the main format of representation of the past in political discourse, similarly to historiography. Coherence is achieved due to the genealogical principle of narration. According to Sergey Zenkin, the narrative has ‘a prospective structure whereby an event refers to its future consequences’ (namely, consequences, not causes).12 Historical narratives have a complex, compound structure; they are composed of event-fragments which can be developed into standalone narrative plots. In this case, the 1917 revolution(s) comprises both fragments of a broader narrative which refers to preceding and subsequent segments of a historical process and the subject of a standalone narrative that describes the chain of events from February to October. Unlike professional historiography, the politics of memory works with simplified narratives which encapsulate complex and contradictory historical processes into comprehensible and emotionally loaded schemes. Narratives describing the same historical process may differ substantially. On the other hand, there must be structural similarity between them. This premise is the backbone of the comparative analysis of the narratives of the 1917 revolution(s) that is presented in this chapter. Thus, commemoration of the centenary of the 1917 revolution(s) can be seen as a political process of interaction between mnemonic actors who 1) pursue certain political goals and position themselves with respect to other actors in a certain way; and 2) selectively use the existing repertoire of symbolic resources and take part in its transformation. With this in mind, the methodology of this study involves a comparison of discourses and strategies of mnemonic actors, i.e. analysis not only of texts but also of practices.

Commemoration of the centenary of the 1917 revolution(s): strategies of key mnemonic actors The ruling elite, comprising policymakers who define symbolic policy carried out on behalf of the state, is undoubtedly the key mnemonic actor in Russia. It includes both public politicians (the president, high-ranking officials whose opinions are perceived ex officio as the ‘point of view of the state’) and officials with authority over relevant decisions and texts. The process of developing symbolic policy is not public, and observers can only judge on the basis of indirect evidence. Pro-Kremlin ‘experts’ and public intellectuals play an important role in the implementation of the policy chosen by the elite. They also participate in how it is articulated and

224 Olga Malinova interpreted. It is assumed that this policy is also developed by United Russia as the ruling party. As we will see, these groups are interested in playing the role of mnemonic actors to differing degrees and do not always share the same interpretation13 of events. The centenary of the 1917 revolution(s) was regarded by the ruling elite as an inconvenient anniversary. Leaders hoped this anniversary would pass by quietly and uneventfully. According to the logic of the contemporary official historical narrative of the continuity of the millennium of great Russia,14 the 1917 revolution(s) is perceived as a backslide rather than a subject of national pride. The political regime considers stability its major achievement and can, therefore, make use of the story of the revolution as a symbolic resource that largely contradicts that idea of stability. However, criticism of the revolution could not be made the cornerstone of the official commemoration, not only because it contradicts the genre but also because the myth of the October Revolution is one of the main pillars of Soviet identity and is therefore still significant in the eyes of many citizens.15 Ultimately, the idea of ‘reconciliation and concord’ between the descendants of the Red Guards and White Guards was chosen as the central theme of the commemoration. As Vladimir Putin put it in his address to the Federal Assembly in 2016, ‘we need history lessons primarily for reconciliation and in order to strengthen the social, political and civil concord that we have managed to achieve’ (emphasis added – OM).16 The idea of ‘reconciliation and concord’ was repeatedly voiced by the president and other high-ranking officials during the jubilee year. This way of framing the anniversary of the October Revolution is nothing new – it was already in use in the mid-1990s when the national holiday of November 7 was renamed ‘The Day of Concord and Reconciliation’ under a decree by President Boris Yeltsin. In 2004, as a result of the reform of the calendar of public holidays, November 7 ceased to be a national holiday, whereas Unity Day (November 4) was introduced to manifest national solidarity. The attempt to overcome differences in the assessment of the October Revolution with the formula of ‘concord and reconciliation’ failed in the 1990s partly because everything boiled down to the renaming of the holiday. The ruling elite made no efforts to further transform the infrastructure of memory of the 1917 events – no monuments were erected nor traditions reinvented nor new political rituals introduced. Nothing of the kind was proposed in 2017. Truth be told, the plan of commemorative events developed by the Russian Historical Society included one proposal which could potentially have become an impetus to the development of an infrastructure of memory of the revolution in line with the idea of ‘concord and reconciliation’. This was the proposal to erect a Monument of Reconciliation in Crimea, which was reclaimed by the Russian government as part of the territory of the Russian Federation despite the refusal of Ukraine and the world community to recognise it as such. The official opening was planned on Unity Day

A quiet jubilee 225 17

(November 4). This could have become not only an occasion for a special commemorative speech delivered by the head of state to promote a new official interpretation of the 1917 events but also the basis for a new practice of annual commemoration. However, the idea of installing a monument in Sevastopol provoked local protests and was ultimately abandoned. At the same time, on the eve of the anniversary of the October Revolution another memorial site, ‘The Wall of Sorrow’, was opened. The unveiling took place on October 30, on the Day of Remembrance of the Victims of Political Repressions. The ceremony was attended by President Vladimir Putin, the Patriarch of Moscow and all Rus, Kirill, and by other high-ranking officials. The event was remarkable from the point of view of the official politics of memory. To begin with, the embodiment of the idea of erecting a memorial to the victims of political repressions in Moscow took over a quarter of a century. Secondly, the topic of political repressions became marginal in power discourse after the change in the concept of official historical narrative in the early 2000s and the departure from the discourse typical of the 1990s that juxtaposed new, democratic Russia and old, Soviet Russia, and after the ruling elite moved to highlight the principle of continuity. When referring to the past, President Vladimir Putin and former President Dmitry Medvedev focused solely on positive aspects and preferred not to tackle issues whose assessment was publicly disputed. The issue of repressions tops the list of difficult questions. This is due not only to the existence of inevitable ideological divides but also to the two competing models of the politics of memory: while some mnemonic actors focus on constructing national identity and emphasise that which constitutes ‘the glory of the nation’, other mnemonic actors emphasise the necessity to critically examine the tragic past, repent and learn lessons18 from the events. In this sense, Putin’s decision to attend the opening ceremony on Sakharov Avenue – and the main theses of his speech: ‘it is important to be aware of and remember this tragic period of our history’ and ‘there can be no justification for these crimes’19 – were of great importance. The head of state clearly supported the politics of memory that was aimed at condemning Stalinism and perpetuating the memory of the victims of political repressions. At the same time, he did not utter a word about the perpetrators or the connection between the tragedy and the revolution. Putin ended his speech with a proposal to ‘remember the tragedy of the repressions’ but to ‘refrain from calling for a settling of scores’.20 Therefore, he set the limits of the admissible: ‘it is important to know and remember’ but it is not advisable to get carried away criticising the Soviet regime and seeking out the culpable. It is suggested that moral but not political lessons should be learned from the tragic experience of political repressions. The principle of ‘reconciliation and concord’ established by Putin has also served to set the limits of the admissible. This principle does not introduce a ban on other interpretations. Using the terminology of Bernhard and Kubik, one may say that the ruling elite assumed the position of mnemonic pluralist.21 However, other actors can implement their commemoration

226 Olga Malinova programmes in ways that do not ‘stoke the passions’. The tactic of eroding public interest in the revolution serves the same goal. It is hard to say whether the scandal around Matilda was a planned action – it does not seem so – nevertheless, it undoubtedly suited the plans of the ruling elite by diverting attention from the centenary of the revolution. When it comes to the centenary of the revolution, the communists turned out to be the main opponents of the power elite. This was the only political force which not only marked but also celebrated this anniversary. According to the communists’ narrative, the October Revolution was a moment of national glory. On the whole, the Communist Party of the Russian Federation (CPRF) continues to promote the Soviet historical narrative and undermines its contemporary, official version. The readiness of the CPRF to play the role of a mnemonic warrior who opposes adversaries who reject the ‘true’ interpretation of the past22 has been stimulated and, at the same time, limited by the goals of the electoral struggle. On the one hand, the commemoration of the anniversary was a perfect opportunity to attract voters to the autumn round of the 2017 regional election and the upcoming 2018 presidential campaign. On the other hand, excessive disloyalty could prompt discontent in the Kremlin and diminish electoral prospects. Therefore, by linking the commemoration of the revolution to ongoing tasks, the communists avoided harsh criticism of Putin’s policy, choosing instead to criticise the government of Medvedev. However, as regards the commemoration itself, the communists decisively opposed the Kremlin’s policy. They refused to support either the idea of combining the February and October Revolutions (since they only consider the latter a cause for celebration), or that of ‘reconciliation and concord’, as well as the decision to abandon the international political formats of celebration. The communists established their own Jubilee Committee in January 2017 – one which developed an alternative programme for celebrating the centenary of the October Revolution, involving: a huge meeting of international delegations representing progressive parties and movements; a march and rally to be organised on November 7 in Moscow as well as a number of round table discussions and mass events. The main idea of the alternative commemoration was formulated by the leader of the party, Gennady Zyuganov, in his address at the Plenary Session of the CPRF Central Committee in March 2017, namely, the main idea is to ‘fight anti-Sovietism and Russophobia’. This slogan is partially aimed at critics of the Soviet legacy (commemoration is meant to affirm its historic significance), and it is in part targeted at ‘global capitalism’ as Russia’s enemy, as well as a wide range of ‘internal Russophobes’ and ‘ideological lackeys’ of ‘oligarchic, regressive and comprador’ Russian capital.23 Other political parties also took political advantage of the centenary of the revolution. Both Yabloko and A Just Russia offered their versions of (clipped) narratives. A Just Russia, which fills the Social-Democratic niche, found it important to separate ‘good’ socialist ideas from their distortions

A quiet jubilee 227 in Soviet practice. Social democrats strive to appropriate the legacy of the Great October Revolution in opposition to the communists. Unlike the latter, they declare support for the idea of ‘reconciliation and concord’,24 having chosen the role of mnemonic pluralist. The party uses media publications (this is a well-honed practice – leader of the party Sergey Mironov has repeatedly referred to the topic of revolution)25 as well as social and scientific events to promote its interpretation of events. Yabloko also developed its own commemoration programme involving events in addition to lectures, conferences, exhibitions and publications. These events included ceremonies on November 7, 2017, dedicated to the memory of killed junkers and officers, and commemoration (installation of commemorative plaques) of the deaths of Andrey Shingarev and Fyodor Kokoshkin, members of the Constituent Assembly of the Constitutional Democratic Party (the Kadets) who were murdered along with other members. The narrative of the revolution developed by Yabloko focuses on the topic of the democratic transfer of power and pays special attention to the All-Russian Constituent Assembly. Therefore, the main commemorative events planned by the party were due to take place in January 2018 in order to celebrate the centenary of the meeting of the Assembly. Yabloko chose the role of mnemonic warrior; its concept of the commemoration of the centenary of the revolution differs from the approaches of other actors and is not in line with the principle of ‘reconciliation and concord’. However, the party does not have sufficient resources to promote its own interpretation. United Russia (UR) and the Liberal Democratic Party of Russia (LDPR) prefer the role of mnemonic abnegators.26 Apparently, they do not consider the centenary of the revolution a promising ideological motive. United Russia was languid in its support for the official policy of ‘preventing a split’ in society. Andrey Isaev, the deputy head of the UR faction in the State Duma published a policy paper on the subject.27 The LDPR’s position was formulated by its leader: according to Vladimir Zhirinovsky, ‘the anniversary of the devastation of the state cannot be a reason for celebration but rather for mourning’.28 The leaders of both parties participated in the discussion about the lessons of the revolution at a meeting of the Council of the State Duma on November 7, 2017. As a UR representative and chairman of the State Duma, Vyacheslav Volodin took the floor at the opening ceremony of the 21st World Russian People’s Council on November 1, 2017. He spoke of the inadmissible ‘romanticising of the revolution’ and the duty of the authorities ‘to pursue consensus on major issues’. He also emphasised the importance of ‘sustainable evolutionary development’.29 Clearly, both parties demonstrated their own attitudes to the events of a century ago. Still, they did not take advantage of the opportunity to develop their own political agendas, instead limiting themselves to participation in programmes organised by other actors. An important mnemonic actor and irreplaceable partner of the ruling elite in commemorating the centenary of the revolution has been the Russian

228 Olga Malinova Orthodox Church (ROC). For the ROC, the 1917 February and October Revolutions meant the onset of a ‘national tragedy’, the embodiment of the misfortunes of the people, the collapse of the state and the persecution of the church. On the one hand, the ROC gives a straightforward moral assessment of these historical events: it appeals to people not to mistake evil for good (for example, it promotes the renaming of streets bearing the names of perpetrators) and to commemorate the victims of political repressions (although focusing on those who suffered for their faith). On the other hand, the church also pursues ‘a pastoral approach’. According to Vladimir Legoyda, the head of the Synodic Department on the Relations between the Church, Society and Media, this approach implies ‘maximum attempts to preserve mental, societal and social peace’30 and therefore does not require immediate changes to the existing infrastructure of memory. The leadership of the ROC fully supports the policy of ‘reconciliation and concord’, having assumed the role of mnemonic pluralist. Truth be told, the ROC does not represent a monolithic stance. Researchers mention a number of church subcultures with different perceptions of 20th-century history. Irina Papkova identifies Orthodox ‘conservatives’, ‘fundamentalists’ and ‘liberals’31 while Igor Torbakov describes ‘Sovietophiles’, ‘fundamentalists’ and the ‘anti-Soviet’ subculture.32 According to Nikolay Mitrokhin, the post-Soviet generation of parishioners comprises a large group of Orthodox believers, socialised in the USSR, who ‘strongly feel sympathy with regard to and even nostalgia for the Soviet period of the country’s history’.33 At the same time, the Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia (ROCOR), which reunited with the ROC ten years ago having acquired the status of self-governing church under the Moscow Patriarchate, takes a more assertive stance: in their epistle, the ROCOR Synod of Bishops emphasises that ‘we must not under any circumstances justify the actions of those responsible for the deadly revolution’. The ROCOR Synod proposes ‘to rid Red Square of the remains of the main persecutor and executioner of the 20th century’ and rename cities, oblasts and streets that to this day, bear the names of the revolutionaries ‘as a symbol of reconciliation of the Russian nation with the Lord’.34 Nevertheless, the official position of the ROC is determined by the Moscow Patriarchate, which supports Putin’s official policy of ‘reconciliation and concord’. According to Patriarch Kirill, ‘with God’s mercy, we can turn this page of Russian history on the 100th anniversary of this turmoil sincerely and in the absence of political commentaries’.35 In 2017, the ROC implemented a huge programme of anniversary events, including the centenary of the February Revolution36 that ‘went unnoticed’ at the state and political levels, the centenary of the 1917–1918 Local Council of the Russian Orthodox Church, the restoration of the patriarchate, or the 80th anniversary of the Great Terror. The position of Patriarch Kirill, who proposes ‘turning’ these pages of Russian history ‘having recalled martyrs, confessors, the murdered innocent but also heroes of labour and military glory’,37 makes the ROC a fairly convenient partner for the ruling elite in the

A quiet jubilee 229 field of the politics of memory. It is no coincidence that Putin has repeatedly taken part in commemorative events held by the ROC, including those aimed at tackling the uncomfortable topic of political repressions.38 On May 25, 2017, Putin attended the ceremony of the consecration of the new monastery Church of the Resurrection of Christ and New Martyrs and Confessors of Russian Church in the Stretensky Monastery. In his brief speech, President Putin stressed that the opening of the church was important not only because it was dedicated to the memory of those ‘who suffered for their faith in the days of persecution [and] who died as a result of repressions’ but also as the embodiment of ‘the spirit of reconciliation’.39 This is the configuration of main mnemonic actors that determined the memory regime for marking the 1917 revolution(s). (By ‘memory regime’ we mean ‘the dominant model of memory politics that exists in a given society at a given moment in reference to a specific highly consequential event or process’.)40 In the light of the theory proposed by Bernhard and Kubik, the configuration of two mnemonic warriors – the CPRF and Yabloko – should result in a ‘fractured’ regime around a contested topic.41 However, in order to assess the degree of divergence in the opinions of mnemonic actors, it is important to compare not only their political strategies but also their suggested interpretations of the 1917 revolution(s).

Commemoration of the centenary of the 1917 revolution(s): comparison of competing narratives As has already been noted, the main frame of representation of the past in political discourse is the narrative – a coherent story that presents a chain of (presumably) causal historical events. Most often, politicians use clipped narratives which refer listeners and readers to material taken from other sources. It is difficult to compare narratives of this kind in their entirety since their composition is always individualised. Still, one can identify a set of structural characteristics which, when compared, will exhibit not only differences but also similarities. In this study, the following concepts represent the basis for the analysis and comparison: 1) the main idea, which is at the core of the narrative and is usually related to the mission/political manifesto/identity of the corresponding mnemonic actor; 2) the storyline, which in the majority of narratives under consideration focuses on a history of tragedy and trauma experienced by Russia in the 20th century; the moment of trauma and its causes are seen differently; 3) element-events, which have prospective links between them (that which is ‘forgotten’ is no less important than that which is ‘remembered’); 4) main characters: protagonists/heroes/agents and antagonists/enemies/ saboteurs; a relationship between the characters of historical narratives and contemporary mnemonic antagonists of the actor is implied;

230 Olga Malinova 5) lessons learned from historical experience. Following are the results of an analysis of the narratives of the main mnemonic actors that took part in commemorating the centenary of the revolution(s). The limited scope of this chapter does not allow for analysis of all variants within each of the discourses under consideration but does provide an opportunity to focus on the text(s) that the leaders of the respective groups published/delivered in commemoration of the centenary of the 1917 events. The 1917 revolution(s) in Russia in official political discourse As has already been noted, it is not easy to fit the topic of the revolution(s) into the historical narrative developed by the ruling elite. From the point of view of the main idea – the construction and strengthening of the millennial Russian state – the revolution (in accordance with this logic, the events of February and October 1917 are parts of the same process) and the collapse of the USSR are both tragic events of collective trauma. As Putin put it, to this day, Russia is experiencing ‘the consequences of the national catastrophes of the 20th century in which we twice experienced a collapse of the state’.42 The storyline of the official narrative focuses on overcoming these traumas and the main moment of triumph – the victory in the Great Patriotic War. We can find both negative and positive assessment of the Soviet experience in official political discourse; the actions of the ruling elite of the time are most often criticised, whereas the economic, military, political and cultural achievements of the people are lauded. The tragedy of the revolution is primarily associated with the Civil War and the collapse of the Russian Empire. The theme of political repressions has been mentioned by Putin repeatedly. However, it functions as a standalone semantic unit: while recognising this tragedy, the president of Russia avoids talking about its association with other events that make up the main plot of the historical narrative. His speech at the opening ceremony of the ‘Wall of Sorrow’ constituted only a slight deviation from this tendency: as has already been mentioned, he emphasised the importance of the remembrance of the victims of repressions and of learning merely moral and not political lessons from the experience. The elite that is ‘building the state’, and the people, are the protagonists in the narrative. External enemies and ‘national traitors’ are their antagonists. The latter included ‘heroes’ of the October Revolution – the Bolsheviks – in one of Putin’s speeches. When arguing about the reasons for the oblivion of World War I, the president mentioned the unwillingness of the ‘leadership of the country of the day’ to speak of its own ‘national betrayal’ which resulted in the loss of ‘large territories’ and infringement upon the country’s interests. Truth be told, he immediately added that the Bolsheviks ‘redeemed their guilt

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during World War II’. According to the official narrative, the very idea of the revolution is negatively tainted. The main lesson learned from the entire history of Russia is therefore as follows: ‘it would be inadmissible to allow for the destruction of the state in order to satisfy this thirst for change. The entire history of Russia screams the same’.44 Hence comes the idea of patriotism as the foundation for ‘reconciliation and concord’ as the fundamentals for the official programme for commemoration of the centenary of ‘the 1917 Revolution in Russia’. As Putin declared at the beginning of his third term in office, Russia’s sovereignty, independence and territorial integrity are unconditional. These are red lines no one is permitted to cross. For all the differences in our views, debates about identity and about our national future, are impossible unless their participants are patriotic. Of course, I mean patriotism in the purest sense of the word.45 It seems that this is the principle that establishes the boundaries of mnemonic pluralism for the commemoration of the centenary of the 1917 revolution(s). ‘Liberal February’ and ‘Great October’ in the discourse of the CPRF The main idea of the narrative developed by the CPRF is the loss of the ‘golden age’ of the Soviet period. According to Gennady Zyuganov, ‘the era from 1917 to 1991 was the culmination of our civilisation, its pinnacle … The struggle against the Soviet system implied the struggle against our country waged by our traitors’.46 The theme of class warfare is combined with national patriotism in the discourse of the successor of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU). Therefore, although the communists are at odds with the ruling elite as regards assessment of the revolutions, their approach sits well with the ‘red lines’ delineated by Putin. The plot of the CPRF narrative focuses on the history of the establishment of Soviet rule and its achievements. The causes of the collapse of the communist regime are also explained. ‘Liberal February’ is separated from ‘Great October’: the bourgeois revolution was ‘an inevitable consequence of a plethora of contradictions that ripened in Russia’, and ‘events which took place from February to October highlighted the complete collapse of the liberal project’,47 while ‘the Great October Revolution saved Russia from destruction’.48 According to the communists, the Bolsheviks were not guilty of waging a Civil War: ‘the Soviet rule was installed […] peacefully on the whole’, whereas the ‘vicious fight’ started with the mutiny of the Czechoslovak Corps in May 1918, with the backing of the Entente.49 The narrative of the CPRF entirely excludes the issue of political repressions and focuses on the achievements of the Soviet authorities: ‘The victory of Lenin’s party in October 1917 and the Stalinist industrial breakthrough turned the country into an economically developed state with the highest levels of education,

232 Olga Malinova culture and social guarantees.’50 The Great Patriotic War is presented as the ‘most demanding test for Soviet Socialism’ and a tragedy which ‘took the lives of many sincere Communists and All-Union Leninist Young Communist League members’.51 The story of the loss of the ‘golden age’ begins with de-Stalinisation and Khrushchev’s Thaw – these events ‘contributed to the renaissance of the petty bourgeoisie and the worship of the capitalist world’. In 1985, ‘the renegades betrayed the Soviet system’ and ‘turned over the Motherland to its enemies’.52 The protagonists of the narrative include the Bolsheviks, Lenin, Stalin and the Soviet people while the antagonist is global capitalism – which identifies Russia as its main target (although Russia ‘can offer an alternative’53 even today ‘due to its unique experience’) – Khrushchev, Gorbachev, the russophobic intelligentsia and ‘liberals’. The main lessons learned are politically ambiguous. On the one hand, the CPRF speaks of the ‘need to overcome inequality and create a fair socioeconomic system’ and the existence of ‘deep contradictions’ that may ‘create an inflammatory situation’ in contemporary Russia.54 On the other hand, it supports the governmental policy aimed at strengthening Russia’s position in confrontation with the West (since ‘the restoration of capitalism in Russia […] has not eliminated deep contradictions with the Western world’).55 As almost the only political force that does support the slogan ‘No revolutions!’, the communists speak of the ‘peaceful and democratic’ nature of ‘transition from capitalism to renewed socialism’.56 In other words, the CPRF does not constitute radical opposition. Although they contest the official approach to the commemoration of the centenary of the revolution, the communists share the characteristic principles of national patriotism and anti-Westernism. In this sense, they are within the red lines delineated by the authorities and their rebellion against the official ‘reconciliation and concord’ policy should not be treated as a serious threat to the political regime. The ‘February social upheaval’ and ‘Great and tragic October’ in the discourse of A Just Russia A Just Russia, which positions itself as a Social-Democratic party, also claims the legacy of the ‘Great October Revolution’. The main idea of its narrative is to juxtapose the Soviet legacy with ‘real’ socialism, a ‘great liberation ideal as opposed to wild and inhuman capitalism’.57 The plot of the narrative of A Just Russia focuses on the causes and lessons learned from the collapse of the Soviet socialist project. According to the party, the fundamental defect of the project lies in its revolutionary character (which is not shared by A Just Russia).58 The February Revolution is viewed as a natural result of the spontaneous social upheaval prompted by the inability of the ruling elite ‘to take advantage of economic growth and improve people’s lives’. Hence the explanation of what happened in October: the Bolsheviks ‘acted’ ‘while others were preoccupied

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by squabbles and peroration’. Mironov, the leader of A Just Russia, proposes separating ‘the positive energy of the October Revolution’ from ‘subsequent crimes of the regime’ since ‘the best achievements of the Soviet era’ are associated with the socialist idea which inspired the masses.60 The Civil War and the repressions that followed are treated by A Just Russia as ‘the most severe national trauma’61 which can be overcome thanks to the ‘reconciliation and concord’ proposed by Vladimir Putin.62 The protagonists of A Just Russia include the Bolsheviks (who nevertheless made serious mistakes), the masses inspired by the socialist idea and President Putin. The ‘ruling elite’ of the time that ‘did not give a damn about the people’ are regarded as antagonists, as is the West. According to A Just Russia, the main lesson learned from the legacy of the revolution is as follows: ‘revolutionary turmoil can be avoided should the authorities conduct real rather than decorative social and political reforms’.63 This can be interpreted as a slur on the government which is afraid of addressing acute problems. At the same time, A Just Russia unequivocally supports Putin. According to Mironov, the first lesson to be gleaned from February is that ‘Russia is a country which cannot afford to have a weak power elite’ (which is why the high approval rating of the incumbent president is so important).64 Moreover, taking into account ‘the obsession of Western leaders with reshaping the world map to their liking’, the party supports ‘the efforts of the leadership of Russia to modernise and strengthen the combat capabilities of the armed forces’.65 Finally, given the ‘erosion of values’ witnessed in February 1917 and on the eve of the collapse of the USSR, Mironov proposed ‘lifting the ban on state ideology contained in Article 13 of the Constitution of the Russian Federation’.66 Clearly, the pragmatics of taking advantage of the centenary of the revolution by A Just Russia is largely determined by the construction of party identity in contrast to the CPRF on the one hand, and United Russia on the other. At the same time, the strategy of commemoration developed by A Just Russia does not contradict the approach of the ruling elite. The February Revolution as a hope for political modernisation and the catastrophe of the October Revolution: Yabloko’s discourse In contrast, liberals from the Yabloko party cannot be said to avoid contradicting the ruling elite. The main idea of their historical narrative is the causes and lessons of failures of the 20th-century democratisation of Russia. The plot is built around analogies between the two unsuccessful attempts at political modernisation undertaken in 1917 and in the 1990s. According to Grigory Yavlinsky, ‘nearly all of modern Russia’s current and most painful problems result from conscious and close adherence to the policy of modern Bolshevism’.67 The fall of autocracy is interpreted by the Yabloko members as a natural consequence of the rejection of political modernisation, the February Revolution as a chance to ‘rectify the situation in the country’,

234 Olga Malinova and ‘the armed coup on October 25, 1917’ as ‘a criminal, felonious backslide; a leap towards a dead end’.68 The dispersal of the democratically elected Constituent Assembly is considered to have been a critical turning point; after having overthrown the legitimate body, the Bolsheviks ‘could not but resort to terror and lies which became systemically important elements of the state’.69 The loss of a legitimate state brought about the catastrophe of 20th-century Russia, i.e. ‘the divide within the country, Civil War, political repressions, [and] the death and expulsion of the millions’.70 According to Yavlinsky, the attempt to modernise post-Soviet Russia in the 1990s was also a failure, since Bolshevist methods were employed (‘you can do anything for the sake of a market economy’).71 The unwillingness of the incumbent authorities to ‘acknowledge the crimes of the Soviet period (including this year’s 80th anniversary of the Great Terror)’ and the desire to ‘soft-pedal everything’ is assessed by the Yabloko leader as confirmation of their commitment to ‘Bolshevik methods of maintaining control of the country’.72 The protagonists here are the liberal democrats of the early 20th century while the antagonists are autocracy, the Bolsheviks and the ruling elite of post-Soviet Russia. The main lesson learned from the revolution: ‘despite transient successes, Russian absolute rule leads to dangerous underachievement and degradation’. Therefore, political modernisation is indispensable and a ‘re-thinking of the state at the Constituent Assembly’73 is a means of achieving it. This narrative has few intersections with the stories of other mnemonic actors – the ruling elite above all. Similarly to the communists, Yabloko rejects the idea of ‘reconciliation and concord’. However, unlike the communists, the latter clearly encroaches over the red line of ‘patriotic’ discourse. The aftermath of the ‘gravest century’ in the discourse of the ROC An attempt to combine a partial apology for the Soviet period with the memory of collective traumas can be traced in the ROC’s narrative which consists of two threads: the story of the national tragedy of the Russian people and the 20th century history of the ROC itself. The main idea of the first plot is the dire consequences of the deviation from the Divine Truth and the importance of preserving religious and moral tradition. The main idea behind the second plot is the ROC’s worthy fulfilment of a mission in the years of persecution and its current revival. The memory of its own trauma determines its critical attitude to Soviet rule. However, it is the people, not the state, to whom the apology is directed. Hence, ‘the moral condemnation of crimes’ does not prevent the ROC from acknowledging ‘the heroic deeds of millions of our compatriots, who worked in good faith for the benefit of the Motherland and their people during those hard times’.74 Both plots focus on the narrative of the tragedy experienced by the people and the Orthodox Church, and the lessons thereof. The February and October Revolutions are seen as a single catastrophic process. Apart

A quiet jubilee 235 from the external causes discussed by historians, the process had internal causes, namely the loss of ‘real and sincere faith in God’ and deviation from ‘religious and moral tradition’. The revolution was an evil, since ‘no efforts to build a happy, just and prosperous life can bear fruit if associated with crimes and suffering’.75 Having chosen evil, people doomed themselves, because in such cases ‘the Lord allows people the opportunity […] to live under their own volition’.76 All the subsequent history of the 20th century is a history of living through the consequences of the revolution and is a path to spiritual rebirth. The ROC narrative lists major milestones in this process: the tragedy of the Civil War and emigration, the suffering of believers at the hands of the atheistic regime, the political repressions (‘against the innocent’), the Great Patriotic War that ‘reminded people – though not fully – of the importance of the moral fundamentals of life’, a new wave of persecution in the Khrushchev period and, finally, the ‘jubilee year of 1988’, which ‘marked the beginning of a fundamental change in the attitude of the authorities to the church’.77 Religious revival has been possible as even ‘in the Soviet period, the link between ethical aspirations, a way of life and divinity revealed moral ideals rooted for centuries in our people which survived in one form or another’.78 The other storyline connected with the history of the ROC itself is built around such milestones as the centenary of the 1917–1918 Local Council of the Russian Orthodox Church and restoration of the patriarchate, the 80th anniversary of the Great Terror and veneration of the sainthood of the New Martyrs and confessors of the Russian Church who suffered for their faith in the 20th century. The people and the church are the protagonists in the narrative, while the intelligentsia who abandoned faith, and the Soviet rule, are the antagonists. The main lessons are: 1) all the calamities of the 20th century testify to the power of Divine Providence, the importance of ‘real and sincere faith in God’ and the role of ‘religious and moral tradition’ or one’s people;79 and 2) one should appreciate the miracle of the revival of the ROC, including the reinstatement of lawful canonical authorities that give the Church ‘the opportunity to speak its mind officially and analyse developments in the country from a religious point of view’.80 As has already been mentioned, there are different subcultures within the ROC with no single interpretation of history. However, the ROC’s official narrative sits well with the policy of ‘reconciliation and concord’ implemented by Putin. The church ‘takes on’ the commemoration of past tragic events which have been lost in the apologetic narrative articulated by the state. At the same time, it assesses them from a ‘religious and moral’ point of view, which suits the ruling elite just fine. The comparative analysis shows that, despite their individual characteristics, the historical narratives developed by key mnemonic actors have remarkable common features and differences.

236 Olga Malinova First and foremost, all stories focus on the tragedy experienced by Russia in the 20th century. That being said, for some mnemonic actors (the ROC, Yabloko, A Just Russia) the consequences of the revolution(s) are the main tragedy, while for others (the ruling elite, the CPRF), it is the collapse of the USSR and defeat in the Cold War. Secondly, the 1917 events are interpreted differently: some find it important to distinguish between the February and October Revolutions, since their prospects are seen in contrasting lights (from the point of view of the CPRF, the liberal February Revolution was a catastrophe while the October Revolution was a way to salvation, while the opposite is true for Yabloko). From the standpoint of other mnemonic actors (the ruling elite and ROC), they are seen as a single turmoil with overall negative consequences. Thirdly, simplifying narratives in political texts presupposes that the most meaningful episodes will be selected. Narratives that portray the Soviet regime in a more or less sympathetic light, leaving aside political repressions and its other ‘excesses’ (the ruling elite and CPRF). Contrary to this assertion, the Yabloko narrative does not tackle the topics of the Great Patriotic or Cold Wars. At the same time, all mnemonic actors avoid the topic of the Era of Stagnation against the backdrop of the centenary commemoration and all of them assess the 1990s negatively. The comparative analysis vividly demonstrates a mythologisation typically used in the past for political purposes: every competing story ‘remembers’ and ‘forgets’ things in accordance with the goals of the mnemonic actor. Fourthly, the majority of actors disapprove of revolutionary methods of social change. Even the CPRF, which insists on the objective nature of revolutions, promises to implement its manifesto ‘in a peaceful and democratic way’.

Conclusions The analysis of strategies and narratives of key mnemonic actors indicates the irreconcilability of their stances and the presence of a fractured, polarised memory regime 81 in 2017 as regards the events of a hundred years ago. Still, the commemoration of the centenary of the 1917 revolution(s) took place in accordance with an official focus on ‘reconciliation and concord’. How can this contradiction be explained? Under an authoritarian regime with limited pluralism, one has to take into account not only the existing interpretations developed by mnemonic actors but also their resources, such as their opportunities to disseminate their respective interpretations of a historical event or organise alternative mass events. None of the mnemonic warriors became a serious competitor to the strategy of the ruling elite, whose main goal was to prevent ‘fuelling passions’. Closer scrutiny shows that the CPRF’s stance is not radically different from that of the power elite: the communists perceive ‘the liberals’ and the West as their mnemonic antagonists. Moreover, they avoid criticising the

A quiet jubilee 237 president directly and address their reproaches instead to the government in general. Thus, they do not cross the patriotic red line and their alternative programme of commemoration is not seen as a threat to the incumbent regime. Yabloko’s calls to convene a new Constituent Assembly and transform the existing order are far more radical. However, as an extra-parliamentary opposition party, Yabloko has limited resources available for communication and rallying supporters. Under these circumstances, the ruling elite adopted the right tactics: having abandoned official commemoration and avoided direct polemics with its opponents, it achieved its goal – the anniversary of the October Revolution passed peacefully and ‘passions were not stoked’.

Notes 1 Research funded by the programme ‘The Scientific Fund of the National Research University “The Higher School of Economics”’ (HSE) in 2017–2018 and by public assistance for the leading universities of the Russian Federation ‘5–100’, project No. 17-01-0034. 2 The Leaders of Factions Summed up the Lessons of the 1917 Revolution in Russia, the official website ‘The State Duma’, www.duma.gov.ru, November 7, 2017, www.duma.gov.ru/news/273/2125962/?sphrase_id=2800647. 3 Access to search results: https://trends.google.ru/trends/?geo=RU The service is used to assess the extent of interest in a topic as reflected by the highest indicator in a given region (Russia in this case) in a given a period of time (from October 1 to November 15, 2017). 4 A foundation myth – the story of the origin of a group, political system or area of activity which opens the perspective for a given future (G. Schöpflin, The Functions of Myth and a Taxonomy of Myths, in G. Hosking, G. Schöpflin (ed.), Myths and Nationhood, New York, 1997, p. 33). 5 The notion refers to ‘political forces that are interested in a specific interpretation of the past’ (J. Kubik, M. Bernhard, A Theory of the Politics of Memory, in M. Bernhard, J. Kubik (eds.), Twenty Years after Communism: The Politics of Memory and Commemoration, Oxford, 2014, p. 4). 6 For more details, see Olga Malinova ‘Неудобный юбилей: Итоги переосмысления «мифа основания» СССР в официальном историческом нарративе РФ’, Политическая наука, 2017, No. 3, pp. 13–40. 7 The Concept of the New Curriculum of Russian History. 2013, www.kommer sant.ru/docs/2013/standart.pdf, p. 47. 8 ‘The Instruction on Preparing and Holding Events to Mark the 100th Anniversary of the 1917 Revolution in Russia’. kremlin.ru, December 19, 2016, http:// kremlin.ru/acts/news/53503. 9 Quote from: Н. Рожкова, ‘100-летие Октябрьской революции отметят вне политики’. Известия. December 28, 2016, http://iz.ru/news/654909. 10 Тhe term is borrowed from Canadian sociologist Iwona Irwin-Zarecka who rightly pointed out that ‘Remembrance too has its own “infrastructure”. Parts of it might be continuously in use, while other parts remain unattended for long stretches of time.’ (I. Irwin-Zarecka, Frames of Remembrance: The Dynamics of Collective Memory, New Brunswick, 1994, p. 90). 11 А. Эткинд, Кривое горе: Память о непогребенных, Moscow, 2016, p. 228 (Alexander Etkind, Warped Mourning. Stories of the Undead in the Land of the Unburied, Palo Alto, Stanford University Press, 2013).

238 Olga Malinova 12 C. Зенкин, ‘Критика нарративного разума’, Новое литературное обозрение. 2003. № 59, http://magazines.russ.ru/nlo/2003/59/zen.html. 13 On competing attitudes to the commemoration of the centenary of the 1917 Revolution within the Russian establishment see O. Malinova, The embarrassing centenary: reinterpretation of the 1917 Revolution in the official historical narrative of post-Soviet Russia (1991–2017), “Nationalities Papers” 2018 (2), pp. 272–289. 14 O. Малинова, Официальный исторический нарратив как элемент политики идентичности в России: от 1990-х к 2010-м годам, “Полис. Политические исследования” 2016 (6), pp. 139–158. 15 According to a survey conducted by the Levada Centre on March 2–6, 2017, 10% of respondents believe that the October Revolution played a very positive role in Russian history, 38% – rather positive, 25% – rather negative, 6% – extremely negative and 21% – hard to say. Moreover, 25% of respondents believe that the revolution opened a new chapter in the history of peoples in Russia, 36% believe it gave an impetus to their social and economic development and only 6% consider it a catastrophe. (‘Октябрьская революция’, Press release April 5, 2017, www. levada.ru/2017/04/05/oktyabrskaya-revolyutsiya-2/). In other words, nearly 50% of Russians consider the revolution to be a great event in Russian history. 16 Vladimir Putin ‘Presidential Address to the Federal Assembly’, kremlin.ru, December 1, 2016, http://kremlin.ru/events/president/transcripts/messages/53379. 17 ‘The Plan of Major Events Dedicated to the Commemoration of the Centenary of the 1917 Revolution in Russia’, ruhistory.org, January 23, 2017, http://rushis tory.org/images/documents/plan100letrevolution.pdf, p. 13. 18 See O. Малинова, Официальный исторический нарратив. 19 ‘The opening of the Wall of Sorrow memorial to victims of political repressions’, kremlin.ru, October 30, 2017, www.kremlin.ru/events/president/transcripts/55948. 20 Ibid. 21 According to Bernhard and Kubik, not only do such actors accept the fact of the existence of other interpretations, but they also recognise their right to exist; pluralists are prepared to negotiate with opponents ‘but within an agreement on the fundamentals of mnemonic politics’ (M. Bernhard, J. Kubik, op. cit., p. 13). 22 Mnemonic warriors present their interpretation of the past as the sole true version and are in opposition to other actors, they draw the line between ‘us’ versus ‘them’ and aim to delegitimise the narratives of opponents (Ibid., pp. 12–13). 23 G. Zyuganov, ‘On the Tasks of the Party to Combat anti-Sovietism and Russophobia’. The address at the CPRF Plenary Session in March 2017, Советская Россия. March 28, www.sovross.ru/articles/1530/31512. 24 See С. Миронов ‘Февраль – предвестник Октября’, Независимая газета. January 31, 2017b www.ng.ru/ideas/2017-01-31/8_6916_february.html. 25 See С. Миронов, ‘Октябрь 17- го: уроки без забвения’, Российская газета (Федеральный выпуск). № 4506. October 31, 2007, www.rg.ru/2007/10/31/oktyabr-mir onov.html; Cергей Миронов ‘Февраль и октябрь 1917-го. Что это было?’, Российская газета (Федеральный выпуск). № 4593. February 20, 2008, https://rg. ru/2008/02/20/fevral-oktyabr.html. 26 Mnemonic abnegators are defined by Bernhard and Kubik as actors who avoid mnemonic contests for various reasons (Bernhard, Kubik, op. cit., p. 14). 27 А. Исаев, ‘Уроки революции’, Российская газета. (Федеральный выпуск). No. 7169 (3). January 10, 2017, https://rg.ru/2017/01/10/isaev-velikaia-russkaia-revo liuciia-odno-iz-velichajshih-sobytij-xx-veka.html. 28 В. Жириновский ‘Любая революция – это мошенничество’, ldpr.ru, October 26, 2017, https://ldpr.ru/events/Vladimir_Zhirinovsky_Any_revolution_is_fraud/.

A quiet jubilee 239 29 V. Volodin ‘The Address of Chairman of the State Duma Vyacheslav Volodin to the 21st World Russian People’s Council’, duma.gov.ru, November 1, 2017, www.duma.gov.ru/news/274/2124658/?sphrase_id=2800647. 30 Quote after: Елена Яковлева, ‘Прощай, Матильда! Здравствуй, честь. Владимир Легойда об уроках революции, искусстве спора и просто искусстве для всех вер и возрастов’, Российская газета. Федеральный выпуск № 7246 (80), April 13, 2017, https://rg.ru/2017/04/13/legojda-v-razgovore-o-revoliucii-vazhno-sohra niat-nravstvennye-orientiry.html. 31 I. Papkova, The Orthodox Church and Russian Politics. New York, 2011, p. 19. 32 I. Torbakov, The Russian Orthodox Church and Contestations over History in Contemporary Russia, “Demokratizatsiya” 2014 (1), pp. 145–170. 33 N. Mitrokhin, The Russian Orthodox Church in Contemporary Russia: Structural Problems and Contradictory Relations, “, Social Research”, 2009 (1), p. 299. 34 ‘Epistle of the Synod of Bishops of the Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia on the 100th Anniversary of the Tragic Revolution in Russia and Beginning of the Godless Persecutions’, synod.com, March 10, 2017, www.synod.com/ synod/2017/20170310_epistle100yrsperssecitions.html. 35 Patriarch Kirill, ‘The Words of His Holiness Patriarch Kirill after the Liturgy on the 100th Anniversary of the Discovery of the Sovereign [Derzhvnaya] Icon of the Mother of God in the Church of the Kazan Icon of the Mother of God in Kolomenskoye’, patriarchia.ru, March 15, 2017, www.patriarchia.ru/db/text/ 4834806.html. 36 On February 15, 2017, Patriarch Kirill held the liturgy on the 100th anniversary of the discovery of the Sovereign [Derzhavnaya] Icon of the Mother of God in the Church of the Kazan Icon of the Mother of God in Kolomenskoye, which happened on the day of the abdication of Emperor Nicholas II. On February 18, the ‘Remembrance Day. February. Tragedy. 1917’ was held with the blessing of Patriarch Kirill in the hall for church assemblies in the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. This remembrance day was organised by the Imperial Orthodox Palestine Society and Nobel Foundation. 37 Patriarch Kirill, ‘The Words of His Holiness Patriarch Kirill after the Liturgy on the 100th Anniversary of the Discovery of the Sovereign [Derzhavnaya] Icon of the Mother of God …’. 38 О. Малинова, Актуальное прошлое: символическая политика властвующей элиты и дилеммы российской идентичности, Москва 2015, pp. 172–173. 39 ‘Visit to Stretensky Monastery’, kremlin.ru, May 25, 2017, www.kremlin.ru/ events/president/news/54573. 40 J. Kubik, M. Bernhard, Introduction, in Twenty Years After Communism..., p. 17. 41 M. Bernhard, J. Kubik,op. cit., p. 17. 42 Vladimir Putin, ‘The address delivered at the meeting of the Valdai International Discussion Club’, kremlin.ru, September 19, 2013, http://kremlin.ru/transcripts/ 19243. 43 Vladimir Putin, ‘Addressing Questions of the Members of the Federation Council’, kremlin.ru, June 27, 2012, http://kremlin.ru/events/president/transcripts/ 15781. 44 Vladimir Putin, ‘The Presidential Address to the Federal Assembly’, kremlin.ru, December 12, 2012, www.kremlin.ru/news/17118. 45 Vladimir Putin, ‘The address delivered at the meeting of the Valdai International Discussion Club’, http://kremlin.ru/events/president/news/19243. 46 G. Zyuganov, op. cit. 47 Д. Новиков, ‘От либерального Февраля к пролетарскому Октябрю. Доклад заместителя Председателя ЦК КПРФ на круглом столе “Либеральный Февраль

240 Olga Malinova

48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73

74 75 76 77 78 79

и пролетарский Октябрь”’, kprf.ru, February 16, 2017, https://kprf.ru/party-live/ cknews/162513.html. G. Zyuganov, op. cit. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. D. Novikov, op. cit. G. Zyuganov, op. cit. S. Mironov, ‘The speech at the meeting of the Central Council of A Just Russia’, spravdelo.ru, April 24, 2017b, www.spravedlivo.ru/5_81941.html. When reflecting on the ideological orientation of A Just Russia, the leader emphasised that his party ‘had never acted based on revolutionary illusions which are extremely costly for society as a whole’ (С. Миронов, ‘Февраль – предвестник Октября’). S. Mironov, ‘The speech at the meeting of the Central Council of A Just Russia’ … С. Миронов, ‘Октябрь 17-го: уроки без забвения’, Российская газета, October 31, 2007, www.rg.ru/2007/10/31/oktyabr-mironov.html (last accessed 30.08.2017). С. Миронов, ‘Февраль – предвестник Октября’. S. Mironov, ‘The speech at the meeting of the Central Council of A Just Russia’ … С. Миронов, ‘Февраль – предвестник Октября’. S. Mironov, ‘The speech at the meeting of the Central Council of A Just Russia’. С. Миронов, ‘Февраль – предвестник Октября’. S. Mironov, ‘The speech at the meeting of the Central Council of A Just Russia’. Г. Явлинский, ‘Возвращение к Февралю’, yabloko.ru, February 27, 2017, www. yabloko.ru/publikatsii/2017/02/27_0. Ibid. Г. Явлинский, ‘Российские параллели: 1917–2017. О политических параллелях и об оценке событий столетней давности’, yabloko.ru, April 3, 2017, www. yabloko.ru/publikatsii/2017/04/03. Г. Явлинский, ‘Возвращение к Февралю’. Г. Явлинский, ‘Сказать правду и получить миллион голосов’, Новая газета, December 7, 2016, www.novayagazeta.ru/articles/2016/12/06/70793-skazatpravdu-i-poluchit-million-golosov. Г. Явлинский, ‘Возвращение к Февралю’. Ibid. Cf: Г. Явлинский, ‘“Главное только начинается … ” “Яблоко” берет курс на созыв Учредительного собрания’, Московский комсомолец, February 29, 2012, www.mk.ru/politics/2012/02/28/676280-grigoriy-yavlinskiy-glavnoe-tolkonachinaetsya.html. Patriarch Kirill, ‘The Opening Speech at the 25th International Christmas Educational Readings’, patriarchia.ru, January 25, 2017, www.patriarchia.ru/ db/text/4789256.html. Patriarch Kirill, ‘The Words of His Holiness Patriarch Kirill after the Liturgy on the 100th Anniversary of the Discovery of the Sovereign [Derzhavnaya] Icon of the Mother of God …’. Patriarch Kirill, ‘The Opening Speech at the 25th International Christmas Educational Readings’. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid.

A quiet jubilee 241 80 Patriarch Kirill, ‘The Words of His Holiness Patriarch Kirill after the Liturgy on the 100th Anniversary of the Opening of the 1917–1918 Holy Convocation’, patriarchia.ru, August 28, 2017, www.patriarchia.ru/db/text/4997468.html. 81 J. Kubik, M. Bernhard, op. cit., p. 17.

17 (R)evolutionary memory in Tambov (1991–2017)1 Bartłomiej Gajos

Following the Soviet Union’s disintegration, one of the most frequently formulated research postulates related to the history of Russian Revolutions and Civil War was to present the events of 1917–1922 from a regional perspective.2 This goal has now been largely achieved. After 1991, an array of important publications have thrown light on the specific provincial characteristics, showing what the revolution and the civil war meant for Saratov, Vyatka, Kazan, areas populated by Don Cossacks, and other regions.3 In parallel with regional studies, research has been conducted into the cultural history of Russian Revolutions,4 where an important theme has to do with the politics of commemoration, the related ceremonial practices and new customs, including those involving the memory of the provinces.5 The present study, embracing both of these lines of research, focuses on how the 1917 October Revolution – one of the Soviet era’s two most prominent episodes which the Russian Federation had to confront squarely – has been remembered and commemorated in the city of Tambov. Its time span is 1991–2017. This urban centre of 300,000, situated 450 km south of Moscow, was chosen for two reasons. The first is that with the collapse of the Soviet empire, the collective memory6 ceased to be a sphere dictated by the state. With new actors emerging in public space – among them the new rulers, journalists, social activists, regional historians, and local ethnographers (kraevedy) – components of previous culture of remembrance were being reinterpreted and new themes added. In other words, in the new, post-1991 political realities, previously banned interpretations of the 1917 revolution came to the surface and began to strongly inform the reminiscences of that period. This process, I believe, is easier to notice at the regional, rather than the central level.7 The other argument for turning to Tambov is the memory of the largest anti-Soviet rebellion in ethnic Russia, led by Aleksander Antonov (1920– 1921) – a memory which had its post-1991 revival, setting a collision course with the reminiscences of the October Revolution and the civil war preserved by locals in the previous epoch. Known in Russian as Antonovshchina, the uprising spilled over from the Governorate (Gubernya) of Tambov into the neighbouring provinces of Penza and Saratov. It is a subject frequently

(R)evolutionary memory in Tambov (1991–2017)

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discussed also at the central level, shedding some light on the question of which provincial developments stand a chance of inclusion into the pantheon of the Russian Federation’s collective memory. While fully warranted in the context of historical studies, the confluence of memories of the October Revolution and of a single civil war episode is anything but obvious from the perspective of memory studies. But in view of Russia’s new policy of historical memory, pursued around the time of the centenary of the 1917 revolution – a concept which conflates the February Revolution, the October Revolution, and the civil war into a single notion of the “Great Russian (Rossiyskaya) Revolution 1917–1921” – this approach actually has turned out to be self-evident.8 The key thesis posited in the present chapter is this: the Tambov case should be seen as a pars pro toto of the process whereby Russia’s Soviet past is being reinterpreted, with state authorities undertaking to fashion a new public memory of that time. And when it comes to the October Revolution this memory very much lends itself to highly conflicting argumentation. My intention was also to outline the specific features of one of Russian Federation regions, describe how its residents, politicians, and social activists tended to reinterpret key elements of the previous era’s remembrance culture, and point out when the trajectory of local debates about the past coincided with the discussions held at the central level.

The city of Tambov and its culture of remembrance Going by the classification proposed by Russian geographer Nataliya Zubarevich, Tambov can be regarded as part of “the Second Russia,” comprising cities with populations in the 20,000–250,000 range – Tambov actually slightly surpasses the upper bracket, with its 280,000 residents – in which the “Soviet way of life” still holds strong.9 Even though Tambov’s history dates as far back as 1636, and despite its dynamic expansion in the next century – when it became the administrative centre of, first, Tambov Viceroyalty (1779) and then Tambov Governorate (1796) – it was only in the early Soviet period that the city came to be known among a wider Russian public. The outbreak of the Antonov rebellion (1920– 1921) posed a major threat to the ruling Bolsheviks, engaged at the time in a war against Poland and operations against the “Whites” in Crimea. In the context of memory studies, it should be noted that while Tambov was never occupied by Antonov’s forces it is widely and unquestionably associated with the uprising he led.10 This reflects the circumstance that the Governorate’s Department of Cheka (All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution and Sabotage) had its seat at Tambov’s Kazan Monastery. And in what is today Kronstadt Square a concentration camp was situated, where participants in the Antonov rebellion and their relatives were kept and executed.11 Furthermore, it was to the Kazan Monastery that the bodies of Antonov and his brother Dmitry were

244 Bartłomiej Gajos moved after they were killed in Nizhni Shirai on 24 June 1922. To dispel rumours that the rebellion leader was still alive the Cheka put the bodies on public display, but their burial place remains unknown to this day.12 The number of deaths in Tambov Governorate due to armed conflict, Bolshevik repressions, and famine is put by Sergey Balmasov at 240,000.13 Another important question for remembrance research is about the political nature of the peasants’ rebellion. There can be no doubt that the trigger came with prodrazvyorstka, or the confiscation of state-defined quantities of agricultural products, usually accompanied by state terror. But it is less clear what political hue the mutiny acquired. An early researcher of the Antonov insurgency saw in it a Green alternative to the state-governance projects of the Whites and the Reds, which with some simplification would translate into the fulfilment of political declarations of the Socialist Revolutionary Party.14 But recent studies indicate that those referred to as Green did not form any significant political faction, still less a more unified movement. More than that, the “Greens” – among them participants in the Antonov rebellion and Nestor Makhno’s partisans – never identified themselves as such.15 It cannot be denied, though, that members of the Socialist Revolutionary Party (known as the SRs) sympathised with, and supported, the Antonov rebellion, and that the insurgents – who largely comprised demobilised peasants coming back from the front lines – borrowed the SR slogan “Soviets [worker-peasant councils] without Bolsheviks.” While signalling this aspect I would like to note that, paradoxically, the problems with unequivocal categorisation of Antonov’s revolt encouraged various political movements to use the uprising for the benefit of their own respective politics of memory and commemoration. And as is always the case, a shortage of academic work on the subject is conducive to manipulations seeking to impose upon collective memory a particular image of an event or a person.

Soviet memory of the October Revolution in Tambov The civil war in Tambov Governorate took a far bloodier course than in Petrograd or Moscow. In many Russian regions the October Revolution was seen as the trigger of the sufferings and tragedies of the 1917–1922 period, and therefore the Bolshevik authorities found it a real challenge to create a new culture of remembrance focused on that glorious event. A turning point came in 1927 when, as observed by Svetlana Malysheva, Bolsheviks began to use the commemorations of 7 November (the October Revolution’s opening day in new-style, or Georgian calendar) to intensely promote the image of content Soviet citizens leading happy lives, while simultaneously imposing a uniform pattern of what the citizens were supposed to remember.16 Another factor standing in the way of efforts to cultivate the memory of the revolution in the provinces was the scarcity of financial and physical

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resources at the disposal of the local authorities. While Moscow managed to unveil a dozen or so monuments and reliefs on the first anniversary in 1918, the only action taken in Tambov (then a city of 60,000)17 was to rename major streets and squares,18 and also to put up a monument to Prometheus in front of the Palace of Labour (previously the seat of the municipal executive)19 and a gypsum bust of Marx at the crossing of Marx Street and International Street. The bust was destroyed by soldiers of the 4th Don Cavalry Corps, under the command of General Konstantin Mamontov, who captured the city for a brief period in August 1919.20 Transformation of urban space – by changing street names, erecting monuments, and commemorative plaques and destroying sites widely associated with the Tsarist system – was a major element of the Bolshevik politics of memory in the initial period.21 On the one hand, this policy sought to redefine civic identity and, on the other, it imposed damnatio memoriae, a condemnation of the Tsarist era and its consignment into oblivion.22 The breaking away from the Tsarist regime was, incidentally, a continuation of the line pursued by the Provisional Government.23 In Tambov, the transmutation of public space focused on Cathedral Square (Sobornaya Ploshchad) which, together with the nearby Spaso-Preobrazhensky Cathedral, constituted the central venue for all kinds of state and religious ceremonies under Tsarist rule. The Bolsheviks actually used it for public ceremonies, too, until 1937. But on the 20th anniversary of the October Revolution, the place lost its central status to the Lenin Square (situated more to the south-west) where a statue to the revolutionary leader was unveiled.24 After the demolition of two wings of the Cathedral in the 1960s, the construction of a tenement house project, and the erection in front of the temple of a memorial site to commemorate Red Army soldiers who died in World War Two, the destruction by the Communist Party of the Cathedral Square’s sacral and city-centre character was complete. Thus, in their drive to shape the collective memory of the October Revolution, the rulers succeeded in creating a new symbolic central venue, with a towering monument to the revolutionary leader. These two elements, Lenin Square and the Lenin statue – closely linked with the remembrance of the events of 25 October 1917 (Old Style) – today represent the most salient legacy of the Soviet epoch in Tambov’s public space. Characteristically, none of the Communist-era commemoration sites that remain today – with the exception of the Tambov Kolkhoznik Memorial25 – bear any relation to the history of the region.

Anti-revolutionary turn (1991–1993) After 1991 Russia had to cope with Soviet legacy in all walks of life. The Culture of remembrance was one of them, and this is especially true of two major events, the October Revolution and the “Great Patriotic War.”

246 Bartłomiej Gajos The first President of the Russian Federation, Boris Yeltsin, went for a head-on confrontation with the Communist heritage in public space and in culture of remembrance. But not the whole country was ready to follow that course. In Tambov, notwithstanding Yeltsin’s anti-Communist push,26 no element linked to the past system was removed, which paradoxically compared poorly with the moves taken in that city by the Communists themselves during the “Thaw” period (1961–1962), when they frantically sought to erase Joseph Stalin from the urban space.27 This departure from the politics of memory pursued by the central government under Yeltsin reflected the strong support the Communists enjoyed in Tambov, lying in the “red belt” regions where the Communist Party of the Russian Federation (CPRF) fared well in the polls during the 1990s. The Communists’ popularity peaked in 1995–1999, when the head of the administration (governor) of the Tambov Oblast (region) and three of its deputies to the State Duma were all CPRF members.28 But in a 1999 election, the incumbent governor and a CPRF member, Aleksander Ryabov, was ousted by a Yeltsin supporter, Oleg Betin. Even with Communists enjoying a high level of support among the populace, the local media carried polemical exchanges about the Soviet past and its remnants in public space. The hottest topic was the October Revolution and its remembrance, but the tragic events of the Antonov rebellion were also being uncovered, no longer the preserve of a small circle of interested historians. Since January 1989 the Memorial had been present in the city – (historical and civil rights society), which supported Yeltsin and his politics of memory,29 and whose leader, Valery Koval, an advocate of democratic change in Russia, was Tombov mayor between 1992 and 1998 – in defiance of the Communists’ dominance across the Oblast. On 20 September 1991, the local paper Tambovskaya Zhizn (previously: Tambovskaya Pravda), ran the article “Ne vremya dla paradov” by V. Chernyshkin. Referring to the decision to abandon staging a 7 October parade on the Red Square due to financial constraints – taken by Air Marshall Yevgeny Shaposhnikov and Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev – Chernyshkin called for that public holiday to be stripped of its status because, he argued, it commemorated a Bolshevik putsch, not a revolution. He further proposed to announce another public holiday, 21 August, to commemorate the day when the Yanayev coup was defeated. Chernyshkin insisted that the enforcement of socialism, which ended up with a totalitarian system, had an alternative in the form of democratic reforms and preservation of capitalism, which could have put Russia on a path taken by Western Europe. The responsibility for that failure he laid squarely on Lenin and his ideas, and so his next demand was to launch a “de-Leninization” push throughout Russia, including in Tambov, and follow the example of former Leningrad, which returned to its previous name of St. Petersburg.30

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The arguments employed by Chernyshkin reflected the central government’s line,31 equating the assessments of the October Revolution and of the entire Soviet epoch. This, in fact, represented a continuation of the Communist-period paradigm, whereby the Party used each 7 November anniversary to play up the country’s achievements since 1917.32 Interestingly, his criticism contained no reference to events involving the Tambov region, such as the Antonov rebellion. On 18 October, two weeks ahead of the revolution’s anniversary, a response to Chernyshkin’s article was published, whose author, while admitting that a parade should be skipped for financial reasons, firmly opposed any idea of taking away the official status from the holiday. Citing his own experiences – poverty from which his family was raised under Soviet rule – he accused Chernyshkin of defending Russia’s ancient regime. The writer also came to the defence of Lenin’s monument in Tambov, arguing that although Lenin was not directly linked to the region, he at one point received delegates from Tambov Governorate. The fact that regional experiences were cited by a defender of the Bolshevik leader, and not his opponent, provides a perfect example of the effectiveness of the previous system’s politics of memory.33 Still, Vorobyov’s text includes a passage revealing an erosion of Soviet-era memory. The naïve protestation that “Lenin could make mistakes, too, after all” betrays a crisis of old-time symbolism.34 In the watershed year of 1991, as reported by, both, Gorod na Tsne and Tambovskaya Zhizn, no parade was held in Tambov to commemorate the October Revolution. A Tambovskaya Zhizn writer noted with evident regret that “October’s achievements” – by which he meant the victory in war against Germany and the first man in space – were now being portrayed in black hues, and he deplored the toppling of the Dzerzhinsky statue in Moscow.35 On the other hand, Aleksander Kurayev, writing in Gorod on Tsna, a paper with clear sympathies for the Federation’s president, was more than happy to observe that 7 November had become just another date in the calendar, and he recalled how in his student times participation in the parade was regarded as an enforced obligation.36 But 1991 proved to be the only one in the past twenty-six years with no October Revolution pageant in Tambov. A year later, on the 75th anniversary, the press published a celebratory letter from Aleksander Ryabov, president of the regional council and a member of the Communist Party of Russian Federation, which organised the parade.37 In his letter, which included passages concerning a campaign run against Communists by the Yeltsin camp, Ryabov sought to balance the accusations about Soviet rule’s victims and “errors and distortions” with the achievements: formation of a multi-national state, first man in space and victory in the “Great Patriotic War.”38 For Communists and their supporters, setting tragic memories against developments that people remembered positively has become a major strategic line in defending the memory of the past era.

248 Bartłomiej Gajos A brief report in Gorod na Tsne gave a different picture of the anniversary celebrations. In the writer’s opinion, the public holiday lost its joyful character, with the parade drawing President Yeltsin’s opponents rather than the Communist faithful.39 The discussion about the future of the Lenin statute at Tambov’s central square was not continued in subsequent years. But the Memorial intensified its activities, and in 1991 it succeded in erecting at Petropavlovsk cemetery a monument to commemorate victims of Stalinist repressions. A year earlier, public events were held to honour the Day of Remembrance of Victims of Political Repressions.40 As previously noted, while the city saw no removals of symbols of the past epoch, the press did comment widely on the central government’s moves to change the status and official designation of the October Revolution anniversary, and also on the demonstrations mounted by local Communists. The local fault lines between the two opposing parties in the dispute over revolutionary culture of remembrance reflected accurately the central-level situation: Communist vs the Yeltsin camp. What was specific to Tambov, though, was the emergence of a regional component in the dispute. The Antonov rebellion, no longer the preserve of Academe, now became a factor diving the local community – even if the impulse came from the central level.

Tambov’s Vendée Pinpointing a single breakthrough moment, when Antonov’s rising began making its way to public consciousness, is no easy matter. Most likely, it was Solzhenitsyn’s speech delivered on 25 September 1993, while unveiling a Vendée monument in Les Lucs-sur-Bologne.41 Seeking to instil the criminal nature of the Soviet regime in the collective memory of the Russians, the author of The Gulag Archipelago harkened back to the French revolution. Here is the comparison he made at Les Lucs-sur-Bologne: Someone might think that the experience of the French revolution was lesson enough for the rational providers of ‘human happiness’ in Russia. But no, the events in Russia actually proved even more cruel, and their scale was incomparably larger. Leninist communism and international socialists re-enacted many of the horrendous methods of the French revolution – only that they applied these methods more widely and much more effectively than the Jacobins did. We did not have our Thermidor, but we had our Vendée – in fact, several of them. There were massive peasant uprisings: in Tambov (1920–1921) and in Western Siberia (1921). We all know this episode: huge numbers of peasants, wearing home-made boots and armed with sticks and forks, listened to the call of Church bells in local villages and

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headed for Tambov, where they were felled by bullets from machine guns. The Tambov rebellion persisted for eleven months, braving Communist attempts to crush it with the use of armoured lorries, armoured trains, aircraft and hostages taken among insurgents’ families. The Communists were even making preparations to use poison gas. The Cossacks, too – those living in the Urals, and on the Don, Kuban and Terek rivers – put up resistance against Bolshevik rule, only to perish in a bloodbath of genocide. Thus, when unveiling this monument to the Vendée’s heroism, I also have in my mind another vision – I imagine that one day, in Russia, monuments will be erected to commemorate our Russian resistance to the scourge of communism and opposition to its crimes.42 Leaving aside the inaccuracy of this comparison, Solzhenitsyn’s coinage of “Tambov’s Vendée” represented the first attempt to jog “from the outside” the memory of the region’s upheavals and to expose it to view, not only at the national but also the international level. Two years later, Solzhenitsyn published “Two Tales,” in which he wrote episodes from the Antonov revolt as seen through the eyes of a Pyotr Yektov.43 The publication coincided with President Yeltsin’s decree of 18 June 1996, “On Peasant Uprisings 1918–1922,” where the political repression to which peasants had been subjected was condemned and described as having violated the basic human and civic rights.44 In parallel, the Tambov press began carrying first articles by local historians, etnographers (kraevedy), and journalists devoted to the Antonov rebellion. The key question was how to appraise the event: had it been a banditry phenomenon, as claimed in Soviet times, or a case of peasants’ warranted resistance against the Bolsheviks, criminal system? In the lead-up to a successive anniversary of the October Revolution, one writer asked a provocative question: why don’t Communists carry the Antonov rebels on their banners, the Antonov rebels, whose uprising was of a socialist nature, who flaunted red flags and who addressed themselves as “comrades”? Andrey Khvostov argued that the “banditry” image – reinforced by the novels Odinochestvo (Alone) by Nikolay Virta (1935) and Rasplata (A Reckoning) by Aleksander Strygin (1967) – was misleading. But he also distanced himself from the “Tambov’s Vendée” designation, pointing out that Antonov’s followers had not sought a restoration of monarchy. Citing a multitude of documents from the period, Khvostov concluded that what the Tambov region had witnessed was a peasant mutiny that was soaked in blood by the Soviet authorities, not afraid of resorting to genocide, for example by using poison gas.45 The writer expressed the hope that Antonovshchina would in future provide inspiration for novelists and playwrights.46 As the subject of the Antonov uprising was being uncovered, the year 1995 also saw early changes in respect of the commemoration of the October Revolution in Russia. A law of 10 March 1995, “On Days of Wartime

250 Bartłomiej Gajos Glory and Russian Dates to Remember,” altered the official description of the public holiday of 7 November into “Day of Military Glory – Day of Military Parade on Red Square to Commemorate the Twenty-Fourth Anniversary of the Great Socialist October Revolution (1941).” Among the dates to remember in Russian history, there was listed the “Day of October Revolution.”47 But this change in the official name did not have any major reverberations. In Tambov, the Communist Party of the Russian Federation traditionally organised a 7 November parade, which provoked heated exchanges in the press. Vitaly Polozov could not hide his indignation at the fact that participants in the parade carried Stalin’s images – something which, he claimed, was unheard of in the times of Leonid Brezhnev – and that the local authorities were keen to make the holiday look as magnificent as possible. The writer saved his only praise for Mayor Koval, who did not consent to the local Duma’s request for red flags to be unfurled at Lenin Square.48 On the other hand, an anniversary article published in Tambovskaya Zhizn by the party, war and labour veteran, N. Sergeyev, put the blame for the tragedies of the revolution and the civil war on the “propertied classes,” the “bourgeoisie,” and “Tsarist generals.” Invoking Yeltsin’s conflict with the Supreme Soviet in 1993, he averred that the responsibility for the “beastly shooting at women, children, girls and the elderly”49 lay with the democrats, whose mouths were full of Soviet-era persecutions. It was for the first time in 1995 that Tambov saw and heard so many heated debates. While centring around the commemoration of the October Revolution, they also served to use the pretext of history to delegitimise opponents in the current political struggle. The Communists accused “democrats” from the Yeltsin camp of having brought about the country’s dramatic plight, and they also presented an idealised picture of the past. Their opponents, on the other hand, spoke about the previous system’s crimes and they put the blame for the current situation on the Bolsheviks and the fatal choice made in 1917. This conviction about the tragedy of 1917 – shared by those ruling Russia at the time – led to the first serious attempt to reformulate the meaning of the public holiday observed every year on the 7 November.

Day of Concord and Reconciliation Following their victory in the presidential election in 1996, the Yeltsin camp undertook to reformulate the meaning of the holiday, which starting from 7 November of that year – on the strength of a presidential order – was to be named a “Day of Concord and Reconciliation.” The idea was to “unite and consolidate Russian society” which, in the aftermath of the 1917 developments, had split into two hostile factions.50 The presidential order also stated that a competition would be staged for the construction of monuments to commemorate victims of the revolution. In other words, the 7 November was to morph from a positive holiday playing up Soviet

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achievements into one of atonement and reflection – with a focus on victims of the Bolsheviks. The change of the holiday’s designation did not discourage the CPRF from staging parades in Tambov. According to Tambovskaya Zhizn, it had been a long time since the 7 November had drawn so many people.51 But as the press reports indicated, the anniversary celebrations turned into a platform for expressing dissatisfaction with government policies and the deteriorating economic situation. These two factors contributed to the large turnout, which proved to be the CPRF’s success. The Yeltsin camp’s push to impart a new meaning to the holiday came in for criticism. When reading the good wishes sent to citizens by local authorities, one would have been forgiven for forgetting that 7 November had become a Day of Concord and Reconciliation. Instead, the disastrous economic conditions only added to the symbolic capital of the October Revolution, which came to be associated with the desire to improve people’s living standards.52 To one of Tambovskaya Zhizn’s writers, the idea behind launching a new public holiday was to divide the country into “Reds” and “Whites.”53 Another asked, in an article tinged with irony, how the president wanted to reconcile a pensioner with a billionaire benefiting from the post-1991 system.54 A good illustration of the claim that Tambov residents did not take kindly to the holiday’s new official description is provided by the absence throughout 1996 of any story about the “Day of Concord and Reconciliation” in Gorod na Tsne, the paper whose sympathies lied with Yeltsin. The lack of local government’s support for the central policy of memory was to be still more pronounced in successive years. In their good wishes in 1997, regional administration head Ryabov and local Duma speaker Karev lamented that it was so hard for so many to accept the “Reconciliation Day,” but “such is our reality.” They then proceeded to contrasting two Russias with one another: the idealised Soviet Russia which guaranteed the citizens’ basic rights – jobs, education, health care, right to rest, and recreation – and its complete opposite, the Russia of the present day.55 In step with the worsening of people’s economic plight, the nostalgia for an idealised past was on the rise – all the more so as most people actually remembered the Soviet Union. These two factors propelled the CPRF’s politics of memory, in which the October Revolution was presented as a symbol of social policy of that period. These trends could not be stopped by central government efforts. The attempt to change the nature of 7 November, which society strongly identified with the October Revolution, ended up in failure – and not primarily because of criticism from the Communists who saw it as an exercise in humiliating the people. As it happened, central government’s words and legal measures were not followed by action. The “Day of Concord and Reconciliation” had no symbols and rituals of its own – and nowhere was this more evident than in Tambov, where the only alternative to Communist

252 Bartłomiej Gajos commemorations turned out to be the local authorities’ anniversary-time good wishes to the populace. President Yeltsin’s last year in office ended in Tambov on an entirely unexpected note: the city’s first structure commemorating Antonov’s uprising was put up – soon dividing the local community. Initiated by local supporters of the politics of memory and public history, as pursued by Yeltsin in its first years as president – among them Aleksander Arkhipov, Boris Sennikov, and Sergey Klishin – a commemorative stone panel was unveiled on 24 June 1999 by the wall of the Kazan Monastery, funded by a public collection. Neither the time nor the place were chosen by accident – Antonov died precisely on 24 June, and a hill east of the Monastery (in the direction of Tsna River) was widely believed to be the resting place of many peasant rebels, including their leader. Bearing the inscription “Here lie the remains of A. S. Antonov and thousands of victims in the peasant uprising in Tambov Governorate,”56 the commemorative panel was stolen by unidentified parties a month after erection.57 It was the first time that the memory of the Antonov uprising – re-emerging after 1991 – was fixed in a material object in the city’s public space. The inscription’s passage about the “peasant uprising” represented a direct reference to Yeltsin’s 1996 decree rehabilitating villagers who had taken up arms against the Bolsheviks.58 An attempt was thus made to fit locally into the Kremlin’s politics of memory. The fact that opponents resorted to stealing the panel demonstrates that some among Tambov residents were not against such commemoration. That the memory of the October Revolution and the civil war proved to be a divisive issue for the local community was amply confirmed by the events of 2000–2017.

Continuation (1999–2004) The end of 1999 saw changes in power, and not only at the Kremlin. On 26 December, the run-off race for the Tambov Oblast governorship brought victory to Oleg Betin, who was supported by outgoing President Yeltsin and the then prime minister, Vladimir Putin.59 This came as a first signal of the CPRF’s waning popularity among the population, a trend later confirmed by another gubernatorial poll and the parliamentary election in 2003.60 Over the first five years, these political changes at the top of local government did not affect the character of the holiday and of revolutionary remembrance in the city. By tradition, the CPRF held its celebrations at Lenin Square. As for the local authorities, they initially confined themselves – over the first two years of the new governor’s tenure – to publish their celebratory good wishes to the populace on the Day of Concorde and Reconciliation in the press.61 Only in 2002 were the first official celebrations of the holiday organised. Their venue – the city commons in front of the Kristal Sports Arena on Komintern Square – might suggest an intention to break away from the

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Communist legacy, but the entertaining programme of the event, involving theatrical performances, handiwork displays and concerts by folk groups, revealed that nothing was actually proposed to replace or challenge the symbolism of the previous public holiday.62 The location, which lacked any historical significance, was very likely chosen because of its proximity to the headquarters of the ruling United Russia party. Tambov hardly stood out in Russia for lack of any broader idea or Concorde and Reconciliation symbolism. Neither was any modification of the holiday’s formula proposed at the top – in the Kremlin – even despite the changes taking place there. Meanwhile there was no end to grassroots initiatives to pay homage to the Antonov uprising. A year after the erection and theft of the commemorative panel, a memorial to victims was unveiled in the same place – this time with the blessing of the local authorities, and also in the presence of an Orthodox Church priest, who consecrated the structure. The inscription carried the words of a poem believed to have been written by Antonov himself: “Brothers, we remain the only ones to fight for the right cause. It is a brave, bold and daring fight, carried on in the name of Faith, Fatherland and Truth.”63 But the monument shared the lot of the stone panel and it disappeared on 1 May 2001, the perpetrators again remaining anonymous. Yevgeny Pisarev, who was committed to promoting Antonov’s remembrance, put the blame on Communists in an article he wrote years later for Nezavisimaya Gazeta.64 The thefts failed to put off the proponents of commemoration, and on 24 June 2002, in the same place once again, a cornerstone structure for the planned monument was laid and unveiled, bearing the inscription: “A monument will be erected here to commemorate victims in the uprising led by Aleksander Stepanovich Antonov.”65 The cornerstone survived until 2010 when the authorities had it dismantled in order – as they claimed – to remove the swastika that had been painted on it.66 In response to complaints from founders and supporters, the City Hall promised that things would get back to normal “early in the spring-summer season” of 2011.67 That, however, was not to be. The City Hall committee for urban economy later found that the cornerstone had been put up against usual procedures, and therefore its comeback was made contingent on meeting a number of formal requirements.68 Thus, during the first term in office for President Putin, and also for Governor Betin, no new opening was made in the politics of memory and commemoration of the October Revolution. The course taken under the previous president was followed both nationally and in Tambov – only that here an unresolved conflict continued over remembrance of the Antonov rebellion. The attitude of the local authorities was full of contradiction. On the one hand, the commemoration of Antonov dovetailed with Yeltsin’s policy directed against Soviet-era memory, which might have been expected to translate into financial and other support for this initiative, but on the other, the foot-dragging with bringing to book the perpetrators of both thefts was indicative of indifference and nonchalance, to say the least.

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Putin’s politics of memory (2004–2015) There is a wide consensus among scholars that Putin’s priority in the first four years in office was to consolidate power and eliminate political opponents. It was in the second term that an offensive was launched in the realm of politics of memory. This coincided with the 60th anniversary of the “Victory Day,” the only element of Soviet culture to be successfully adapted to the Russian Federation’s new political and social realities.69 It was a public secret that the Russian president did not enthuse over the second pillar of Soviet-era memory, the October Revolution. An inquisitive reader could detect this in Putin’s programme-setting article “Russia at the turn of the millennia,” where he wrote that the country was “at the limits of shocks, cataclysms and radical change” and that only fanatics could advocate another revolution.70 Revolution, whether as a sui generis phenomenon or the particular instance of one of the 1917 revolutions, was non-existent in Yeltsin’s successor’s pantheon of memory. Little wonder, then, that less than a year after the victorious election, the 7 November lost its status as a public work-free holiday – through a measure (Labour Code amendment of 1 January 2005) that might have been sped up by the Orange revolution and Maidan protests then going on in Ukraine. A new public holiday was announced, the “Day of National Unity,” to be observed on 4 October, in memory of the expulsion of Polish invaders from the Kremlin in 1612.71 The decision came under fire from the CPRF.72 The circumstance that 2005 proved to be the first year in the history of post-Soviet Russia with no official public holiday on 7 November did not deter CPRF members and sympathisers of the October Revolution from holding demonstrations and parades on that day. That was also true in Tambov. But this time the event did not occasion any, even most rudimentary, coverage in the two major local dailies supporting the United Russia government. There was only a street poll about the Lenin mausoleum, carried by Gorod na Tsne.73 A report on 7 November celebrations was published in Nash Golos, the paper of the local CPRF branch.74 The push by United Russia in Tambov to marginalise the October Revolution holiday was fully in line with the Kremlin’s politics of memory. The next logical step might be to take the Lenin statute out of the square named after himself – thus removing a symbolic space from under the CPRF’s feet – but no local leader made any call for that. In this respect, too, the local politics of memory did not depart from Moscow’s line. The inconsistency on the part of the state and the president probably reflected the fear of polarisation, in a situation where a relatively large group of citizens still had nostalgic feelings towards Lenin and the October Revolution, manifesting them in successive anniversary celebrations organised by the CPRF. Thus, impassioned political calculation prevailed over the opinion which the United Russia leader, Vladimir Putin, held about the revolution and about Vladimir Lenin.

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Just as in previous years, there was no let-up in efforts to commemorate the Antonov uprising. In 2007, which marked the 90th anniversary of “Red October,” two unexpected events took place: the construction of a monument to “Tambov Peasant” and the broadcast of the movie “Tambov Vendée” on the Rossiya Kultura TV channel. Unveiled in Kronstadt Square, the former venue of the concentration camp for Antonov rebels, the Tambov Peasant statute was promoted by the then Governor Betin. In the words of Vladislav Yurev, head of the committee for construction of the monument and then the rector of Tambov State University, the monument was a “symbol of unity, which we need today more than ever before,” and he added that those citizens who offered financial support to the project wished to “immortalise the image of their provider and defender.” Asked about the location, Yurev said it reflected tragic chapters in history, as the place where “dekulakized peasants” (i.e. those whose property was sequestrated and collectivised) had been kept.75 Aleksander Sokolov, the minister of culture and communication at the time, wrote in a letter that the monument served as a memorial for “all peasants and common people.”76 While opting for this form of commemoration, the local authorities very likely tried to please both parties to the conflict over Antonov’s uprising that had rumbled on since the 1990s. The holding of the ceremony was a gesture to champions of the monument, but at the same time – given the circumstances of the unveiling, such as its timing (the Day of National Unity), and the official, if unspoken, doctrine of not antagonising the proponents of an affirmative memory of the Soviet period – the authorities wanted its meaning to be taken out of the regional and historical context. What was sought was the reconciliation of, on the one hand, the remembrance of the killed peasants fighting under Antonov and those who had perished or suffered in the course of collectivisation and, on the other, the Soviet Union’s affirmative memory. That was achieved at the expense of maximal reductionism in commemorative denotation. Against this background the movie shown on the Rossiya Kultura channel might have been perceived by some in government as an exercise in intemperate radicalism. Directed by Aleksei Denisov, it minced no words and described Bolshevik actions against Tambov peasants as genocide. The perpetrators were fingered, too: Lenin, who approved the cruel methods used to crush the partisan movement, and the future marshal, Mikhail Tukhachevsky, who gave the go-ahead to use poison gas against the rebels. The film made reference to Solzhenitsyn’s 1993 speech and explained the origins of the “Tambov Vendée” designation – pointing to the similarity of the methods used against insurgents in both uprisings. Given the importance assigned to the Tambov Peasant statue, the appearance in the film of the then governor of Tambov Oblast may come as a surprise. Admitting straightforwardly that the region had lost its culture and people in the civil war, Betin went on to say that the roots of Russia’s modern-day backwardness should be sought precisely in that period. And

256 Bartłomiej Gajos towards the end of the movie the Tambov Peasant monument was mentioned as being designed to commemorate the “heroism” and “suffering” of that social group in the 20th century. While pointing to the similarities between the events in Vendée Department and Tambov Governorate, the film also made a number of suggestions about concrete political arrangements that either had been made or were planned to be made in France, such as disbursement of compensation for the families of those killed, declaring the central government action illegal and criminal, and commemorating the name of each and every fighter in the uprising.77 In later years, though, these proposals remained in abeyance, even despite the fact that the film’s production was supported by institutions such as: State Archives of Tambov Oblast, Tambov Museum of Natural History, the FSB’s branch in Tambov Oblast, Russian State Military Archives (Rossiyskiy gosudarstvennyy voyennyy arkhiv), and Russian State Archives of Cinematography and Photography (Rosiyskiy gosudarstvennyy arkhiv kinofotodokumentov). And three years previously, the Museum of Natural History received a presidential grant for the exhibition “Tambov Vendée: Peasants’ War in Tambov Region in 1920–1921.”78 It was only four years later – in 2011, or one year after the dismantling of the commemorative cornerstone by local authorities in Tambov – that the subject of Antonov’s rebellion re-emerged at the central level. Medinsky, who then served as a Deputy to the State Duma on the United Russia’s ticket, said he would seek to initiate a parliamentary declaration that the very fact of the Tambov uprising being crushed with the use of poison gas – that is, a weapon of mass destruction – should be equated with an act of genocide against the Russian people, perpetrated by Bolsheviks.79 But no such motion was ever put forward. The future minister of culture of the Russian Federation only made a reference to the 90th anniversary of the uprising’s defeat when speaking at the 29 June 2011 sitting of the Duma, in his capacity as Deputy for Lipetsk Oblast (which in the past was part of Tambov Governorate). He then said a monument should be erected to commemorate “heroes and those fallen in popular revolts in 1921.”80 The year 2011 also saw the premiere of director Andrey Smirnov’s feature film Once Upon a Time There Lived a Simple Woman, which proved a success in many respects, also in getting the subject of the Antonov Uprising across to people. In the movie, Smirnov presented developments in Tambov Governorate from 1909 to 1921, as seen through the eyes of a common peasant woman, Varvara. The theme of the rebellion was taken up in the crowning episode. In making the movie, the director was guided by the conviction that the Bolshevik coup was the beginning of a genocide against the Russian people,

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with peasants hit the worst. After some initial problems with distribution, the production was shown in cinemas, to enthusiastic media reviews.82 The local authorities, including Governor Betin, were initially circumspect, but the director said he managed to bring them round and even received their support.83 As an appreciable effect of the film, the vicissitudes of Tambov Governorate, including the Antonov uprising, came to light nationally – but at the local level, notwithstanding the support from the authorities, there was no tangible outcome, such as e.g. erecting a monument to those fallen in the uprising, or at least returning the cornerstone structure that had been dismantled in 2010. Only towards the end of 2015, in conjunction with the uprising’s 90th anniversary, did local activists petition the new governor, Aleksander Nikitin from the United Russia Party, to have the cornerstone brought back to its former place. A similar letter was sent to the Culture Minister Medinsky.84 The authors expressed their indignation at the lies they heard from officials five years previously – when it was claimed that the cornerstone would only be dismantled for the time required to remove the swastika that had been painted on it – and they demanded that the “forefathers who fought for their land and freedom” be commemorated in a dignified manner.85 The petition presented to the authorities set off yet another remembrance battle, to be fought in the shadow of the forthcoming 100th anniversary of the October Revolution.

Centenary of the October Revolution (2016–2017) Until 2016, despite a strong historical linkage between the two events, the way the Antonov uprising was commemorated in Tambov was entirely unconnected with that of the October Revolution. None of the regional groups cultivating the memory of these events came out against one another. It was only the 100th anniversary of the October Revolution that prodded activists on both sides to combine their remembrance efforts. The signatories of the petition surely did not expect their demands to be met so soon. The cornerstone structure – certainly different than the one put up in 2002 – returned to its place on 19 January 2016 (see Figure 17.1). According to Deputy Governor Oleg Ivanov, the speedy action provided a good example of “direct collaboration between society and the executive branch of government” and he assured those present that plans for a future monument were being drawn up – something not to the liking of Communists.86 Towards the end of 2016 the CPRF launched a legal offensive against Antonov commemorations, with Artem Aleksandrov requesting the public prosecution office review the cornerstone’s legality. As it turned out, the local authorities had not been provided with the required documentation, and consequently the structure was declared illegal.87 Furthermore, in January 2017, the then mayor of Tambov, Yury Rogachev, said the place occupied by the

Figure 17.1 Cornerstone structure, unveiled in 2016. The inscription reads: “A monument will be erected here to commemorate victims in the uprising led by Aleksander Stepanovich Antonov” [Russian: “На этом месте будет установлен памятник жертвам народно-крестьянского восстания под руководством Александра Степановича Антонова”]. No one seemed to notice that it could be read in two ways, as commemorating those who died at the hands of the insurgents, and those who died while fighting within the rebel ranks. This inscription was changed on 22 September 2017. It now reads as follows: “To commemorate participants in the popular uprising in Tambov Governorate in 1920–1921.” Photo: B. Gajos.

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cornerstone would be reserved for a small Church of Reconciliation that would serve as a monument to “all victims of that carnage.”88 Consequently, the cornerstone was once again removed, on 28 February 2017. But against Rogachev’s message, the local administration announced it would be returned to its place once all formalities were completed.89 Actually, it was back still sooner – just a week after removal – in response to protests from supporters.90 The question of whether the memorial should remain in its original place and the associated legal aspects came up for discussion at a July session of the Committee for Monumental Art of Tambov’s Municipal Duma. The local Duma speaker, Viktor Putintsev (United Russia), had no doubts as to the rationale for the commemorative structure and – while parrying Communists’ arguments – he talked straight: the Soviet authorities had resorted to force in sequestrating the fruits of peasants’ labour. In a letter to the council, promoters of the memorial referred to the “Concept of state policy on commemorating the victims of political repression,” a document adopted by the government of the Russian Federation on 15 August 2015,91 and they went on to say this: Russia will not turn into a state ruled by law and will not play a leading role in the world without first honouring the memory of millions of her citizens, victims of political repression. It is very important for us to realise the tragic experience of Russia and her citizens in the aftermath of October 1917. They furthermore expressed the regret that the burial places of victims of repression remained unknown, and that no monuments were erected at the venues of mass executions. The letter described the events of 1917 as a “revolutionary transformation” which had split society apart and led to huge losses in human lives, and the Antonov uprising as “one of the most significant and most tragic socio-political events in Tambov region and in the whole of Russia, which we must never forget.”92 Speaking at the session, Municipal Duma Deputy Aleksandrov (CPRF) protested against what he referred to as the rehabilitation of bandits, a move whose cynical nature, he said, was particularly pronounced in the context of the forthcoming 100th anniversary of the October Revolution. He claimed that his assessment of the memorial celebrations as falsification of history had been confirmed in a communication from the FSB Central Archives, which he supposedly received in response to a letter sent previously to the FSB Director, Aleksandr Borotnikov, requesting an assessment of the 1920– 1921 events.93 And an article printed in the Communist paper Nash Golos compared United Russia’s support for Antonov’s commemoration to the glorification of Stepan Bandera in Ukraine.94 Attempts were made to move the debate to the national level. The previously mentioned journalist, Pisarev, wrote two articles on the subject – in Nezavisimaya Gazeta and Rossiyskaya Gazeta – pronouncing himself

260 Bartłomiej Gajos strongly for the commemoration of the uprising and observing that the responsibility for the sufferings of a hundred years previously lay squarely with the Communists.95 On 26 July 2017, the Municipal Duma gave its seal of approval to the cornerstone structure, while at the same time ordering the name of Aleksander Antonov be removed from the plaque. The previous inscription, which was a bit ambiguous and unprecise – “A monument will be erected here to commemorate victims in the uprising led by Aleksander Stepanovich Antonov” – was changed to read as follows: “To commemorate participants in the popular uprising in Tambov Governorate in 1920–1921.” The cornerstone memorial also gained a new official status as “remembrance landmark.”96 The new plaque was installed on 22 September.97 The deletion of Antonov’s name very likely reflected the decision taken by the Public Prosecution Office of the Russian Federation which stated – in its response to a petition for rehabilitation of several participants in Antonov’s mutiny, filed by a local-lore researcher, Margarita Zaytseva – that in accordance with President Yeltsin’s degree of 1996, rehabilitation applies only to participants in uprisings, but not to organisers and leaders.98 Thus, on the eve of the October Revolution’s centenary, the memorial structure was fully legalised. It still remains a mystery, though, whether this is the final monument, as suggested by the wording of the Municipal Duma’s decision, or perhaps the cornerstone for a future one, as its promoter Karasev implied in an article.99 Even with the memorial’s legal status confirmed, it is still a long way before tranquillity sets in when it comes to the remembrance of civil war events in the Tambov region. That was amply proved by the local celebrations of the 100th anniversary of the October Revolution, when the CPRF insisted that the commemoration of the Antonov uprising was equivalent to honouring bandits and desecrating the memory of the 1917 revolution.100

What next with the revolution? There can be no doubt that in today’s Russia history will not play such an important role – politically, socially, and economically – as under the previous system, where it served as a matrix for Marxist-Leninist ideology. Still, it remains a resource frequently tapped by politicians and activists when seeking to mobilise supporters, create a world of common values and promote certain attitudes and behavioural patterns. The discussion on how to remember the Bolshevik seizure of power which determined the course of the country’s 20th-century history has been going on in Russia for the past 27 years. But it is still a long way before a single official state-level vision of remembrance is achieved. A quarter-century later, public consensus on the perception of the 1917–1922 events has yet to be reached. There is no better place to illustrate this point than Tambov. In the 1990s, the local debate about commemoration of the revolution largely

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coincided and overlapped with the debate held in Moscow. Despite the Communist Party’s dominance in Tambov Oblast, local activists and Yeltsin-friendly politicians tended to contest the Soviet culture of remembrance. They resorted to arguments used at the central level, and initially they refrained from invoking the region’s adversities and hardships. The memory of Antonov emerged as a bone of contention in Tambov only six years after Solzhenitsyn’s celebrated address at Les Lucs-sur-Bologne in 1993. And even though Yeltsin’s 1996 decree on “peasant uprisings” and the holiday’s new designation as “Day of Concord and Reconciliation” did provide a legal foundation and encouragement for paying homage to all those perished at the hands of Bolsheviks during the civil war, the Tambov local government avoided taking an unequivocal official position on the subject. Little changed in this respect after Putin took over power in the capital and the United Russia won the regional election in Tambov. The “Tambov Peasant” unveiling episode should be seen as an unsuccessful attempt to reconcile both sides to the protracted dispute. The local authorities, despite the legalisation of the cornerstone/remembrance landmark in the lead-up to the October Revolution’s centenary, did not take any clear stand on the conflict. That must have reflected an intention to fit into the Kremlin’s official policy of “reconciliation” in respect of the 1917–1922 events.101 The attitude of the local authorities – when faced with the challenge of appraising the events that determined Russia’s fate in the 20th century – can be described as lacking a cohesive concept, inconsistency, and helplessness. This is best illustrated by the fact that the Cathedral Square slipped wholly into oblivion as the old-time pre-revolution city centre, was replaced by Lenin Square in terms of the function it serves. The new post-Soviet rulers clearly failed in their attempts to create a new symbolic city centre.102 In this situation, marked by a certain ambiguity and the state’s virtual withdrawal from an active policy of memory, conditions were ripe for other actors to take centre stage: the CPRF with its supporters, anti-Communists, social organisers and activists, the Memorial organisation, and others. And this description of the situation in Tambov can be applied to the whole country as well.103 The memory of the revolution and the civil war still remains a battleground. The government’s delaying tactics in coming to grips with the legacy of year 1917 do not necessarily have to calm down the public mood. Memories of internal conflicts are highly charged emotionally, and the heat does not subside even with a temporal distance of one or two hundred years and generational change – as has been best illustrated, for example, by developments in Charlottesville, Virginia, USA in response to plans for removal of the statue of the Confederate commander, General Robert E. Lee. It is the fear of unleashing a zero-sum conflict over the events of 1914/ 1917–1922 – such as would resemble the clash in Tambov – that has underpinned Putin’s silence on the centenary of both of the 1917 revolutions. At stake in such a debate would have been the redressing by the authorities of the grievances of either perpetrators or victims, and that would have led to

262 Bartłomiej Gajos bitter divisions in society right in the lead-up to the presidential election in March 2018.104 Thus, in 2017, potential conflicts were hushed up and a widespread national debate, one that could have transcended the narrow circles of politicians and researchers, was effectively suspended. Citizens, however, have yet to be brought round to the “reconciliation” idea, which was to be materialised in – failed – plans for erecting a monument in Russian-annexed Crimea. As it happens, there are still too many Tambov’s left in the Russians’ collective memory.

Notes 1 A study financed with public funds for academic research in 2015–2019, as a research project within the “Diamond Grant” programme (Project No.: DI201408844). 2 S. A. Smith, Writing the History of the Russian Revolution after the Fall of Communism, “Europe-Asia Studies” 1994 (4), pp. 563–578. 3 See: P. Holquist, Making War, Forging Revolution: Russia’s Continuum of Crisis, 1914–1921, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA, 2002; D. J. Raleigh, Experiencing Russia’s Civil War: Politics, Society, and Revolutionary Culture in Saratov, 1917–1922, Princeton University Press, 2002; S. Badcock, Politics and the People in Revolutionary Russia: A Provincial History, Cambridge, 2007; A. B. Retish, Russia’s Peasants in Revolution and Civil War: Citizenship, Identity, and the Creation of the Soviet State, 1914–1922, Cambridge University Press, 2008; Л. Новикова, Провинциальная «контрреволюция»: Белое движение и гражданская война на русском Севере, 1917–1920, Москва, 2011; S. Badcock, L. Novikova, A. B. Retish (eds.), Russia’s Home Front in War and Revolution, 1914–1922. Book 1. Russia’s Revolution in Regional Perspective, Bloomington, IN, 2015. 4 See O. Figes, B. I. Kolonitskii, Interpreting the Russian Revolution: The Language and Symbols of 1917, Yale University Press, 1999; Б. Колоницкий, «Трагическая эротика»: Образы императорской семьи в году Первой мировой войны, Москва 2010; Idem, «Товарищ Керенский»: антимонархическая революция и формирование культа «вождя народа» (март-июнь 1917 года», Москва, 2017; Russian Culture in War and Revolution, 1914–22. Book 2: Political Culture, Bloomington, IN, 2014. 5 F. C. Corney, Telling the October: Memory and the Making of the Bolshevik Revolution, Cornell University Press, 2004; С. Малышева, Советская праздничная культура в провинции: пространство, символы, исторические мифы (1917–1927), Kazan, 2005; М. Рольф, Советские массовые праздники, Москва, 2009; Г. А. Бордюгов, Октябрь. Сталин. Победа. Культ юбилеев в пространстве памяти, Москва, 2010. 6 I share Barbara Szacka’s approach to collective memory which she saw as: perceptions of the past of one’s group, as fashioned by individuals out of the information which they have recollected – in accordance with rules discovered by psychologists – and which comes to them from multiple sources and through multiple channels. This information is understood, selected and transformed in accordance with their own cultural standards and worldviews. And these standards are social creations, common to members of a given community, which leads towards a unification of perceptions of the past, thus allowing us to speak about a collective memory of the history of a group.

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Collective memory, as I understand it, is changeable and dynamic. It is also a platform for unending meetings, encounters and a mixing of images of the past, as retrieved from varied perspectives and built from varied elements. Quoted from: B. Szacka, Czas przeszły, pamięć, mit, Warszawa, 2006, pp. 44–45. 7 Cf. Аналитический отчёт по социологическому исследованию в рамках доклада Вольного исторического общества «Какое прошлое нужно будущему России?», Москва, 2017, p. 44. 8 See Aleksander Chubarian’s pronouncement at a meeting with the President of the Russian Federation, Vladimir Putin, on 16 January 2015: Встреча с авторами концепции нового учебника истории, kremlin.ru 16 January 2014, www. kremlin.ru/transcripts/20071. 9 Н. Зубаревич, Четыре России, Vedomosti.ru 30 декабря 2017, www.vedomosti. ru/opinion/articles/2011/12/30/chetyre_rossii. 10 On the Antonov uprising, see: E. C. Landis, Bandits and Partisans: The Antonov Movement in the Russian Civil War, Pittsburgh, 2008; Б. В. Сенников, Тамбовское восстание 1918–1921 гг. и раскретсьянивание России 1929–1933 гг., Москва, 2004. 11 On the concentration camps, see E. C. Landis, op. cit., pp. 242–252. 12 For Antonov’s bio, see В. В. Самошкин, Александр Степанович Антонов, “Вопросы истории” 1994 (2), pp. 66–76. 13 С. С. Балмасов, Итоги подавления тамбовского восстания по официальной статистике, in Б. В. Сенников, op. cit., p. 164. 14 See S. A. Smith, Writing the History of the Russian Revolution after the Fall of Communism, “Europe-Asia Studies” 1994 (4), pp. 563–578; and most importantly: O. H. Radkey, The Unknown Civil War in Soviet Russia: A Study of the Green Movement in the Tambov Region, 1920–1921, Hoover Institution Press, 1976. Cf. the first Western study on the Antonov uprising, S. A. Smith, Writing the History of the Russian Revolution after the Fall of Communism, “EuropeAsia Studies” 1994 (4), pp. 563–578. 15 See E. C. Landis, “Who Were the ‘Greens’? Rumor and Collective Identity in the Russian Civil War”, The Russian Review 2010, No. 1, pp. 30–46. 16 Светлана Малышева, op. cit, p. 347. 17 Statistical data quoted after В. Н. Толмачёв (ed.), Тамбову – 370 лет. Юбилейный историко-статистический сборник, Тамбов, 2006, p. 150. 18 Cathedral Square (Sobornaya Ploshchad) was turned into October Revolution Square, Uspensky Square into Marat Square, Pitirimovskaya Street into Stenka Razin Street and Pyatnitskaya Street into Robespierre Street. For more, see the decision of the city’s Soviet of worker and soldier delegates of 21 October 1918: О переименовании улиц и площадей в городе Тамбове в целях ознаменования праздника Октябрьской революции, Государственный архив Тамбовской области (hereinafter: GATO), ф. R-6, оп. 1, д. 38, л. 36. An abridged version of the decision was published in Советы тамбовской губернии в годы гражданской войны 1918–1921 гг., Воронеж, 1989, pp. 108–109. 19 М. Климкова, Соборная площадь города Тамбова, Tambov, 2016, p. 265. 20 В. А. Немитов, А. А. Горелов, П. А. Острожков, И. А. Горелов, “Первые памятники и памятные знаки, открытые в городе Тамбове”, Вопросы современной науки и практики 2012, No. 42, p. 46. 21 Lenin set great store by the Bolsheviks’ politics of memory and personally oversaw its implementation. See correspondence with the then Education Commissar of the Russian Federated Socialist Soviet Republic, Anatoli

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23

24 25 26 27 28

29 30 31 32 33

34 35 36

Lunacharski: В. П. Щербин (ed.), В. И. Ленин и А. В. Луначарский. Переписка, доклады, документы, Москва, 1971, pp. 46–48, 54–55, 61–69, 70–80. See also “Декрет о памятниках республики”, in Декреты советской власти, vol. 2, pp. 95–97. In accordance with the typology of forgetting, as proposed by Paul Connerton, the Bolshevik activities should be classified as “repressive erasure”. See S. A. Smith, Writing the History of the Russian Revolution after the Fall of Communism, “Europe-Asia Studies” 1994 (4), pp. 563–578. See O. Figes, B. I. Kolonitskii, op. cit., pp. 32, 48–50. The Bolsheviks’ modus operandi also had much in common with the activities taken in this field with the support of the Provisional Government. See В. Каплан, Исторические общества и формирование памяти о Феврале 1917 г, in Б. И. Колоницкий, Д. Орловски (eds.), Эпоха войн и революций, 1914–1922: The epoch of wars and revolutions, 1914–1922 материалы Международного коллоквиума (Санкт-Петербург, 9–11 июня 2016 года), Санкт-Петербург, 2017, pp. 37–49. See “Парад на площади им. Ленина”, Тамбовская правда, 10 November 1937, p. 2, and М. Климкина, op. cit., p. 283. The memorial commemorates the public collection of resources for the manufacture of tanks, as held at Krasny Dobrovolets kolkhoz in Tambov Oblast. О. Малинова, Актуальное прошлое. Символическая политика властвующей элиты и дилеммы российской идентичности, Москва, 2015, pp. 37, 40. At least eight busts and images of Stalin were removed. See В. А. Немитов, А. А. Горелов, П. А. Острожков, И. А. Горелов, op. cit., p. 48. In 1993, two State Duma deputies running from single-member constituencies were members of the CPRF. See: Список депутатов Государственной Думы Федерального Собрания Российской Федерации, избранных по одномандатным избирательным округам, www.cikrf.ru/banners/vib_arhiv/gosduma/1993/ 1993_gd_okruga.html. Two years later, in 1995, the CPRF won 40.31% of the vote in Tambov Oblast (against 22% captured nationally), and was followed by the Liberal Democratic Party of Russia, with 12.14% of the regional vote (11.18% nationally), and Yabloko, with 2.90%. See: Результаты выборов в Думу II созыва, www.panorama.ru/fs/gd2rezv.shtml. А. Смолеев, Общественно-политическая жизнь в Тамбовской области (1985– 1993 гг.), doctoral dissertation defended at the Tambov State Technical University, Tambov, 2015, pp. 58, 78. В. Чернышкин, Не время для парадов, “Тамбовская жизнь” 20 September 1991, p. 2. For this and several other articles published in Tambov press, the first names of the authors could not be identified. О. Малинова, op. cit., p. 40. М. Рольф, op. cit., pp. 103–124. On 14 February 1921 Lenin received at the Kremlin a delegation of Tambov region peasants, with the secretary of Tambov Governorate’s committee of the Russian Communist Party (Bolsheviks), to hear their complaints about the state’s agricultural policy. The meeting, widely covered in the press, coincided with a revision of prodrozvyorstka policy, and was intended to calm down the rebellious sentiments in Tambov Governorate. See Lenin’s letter of February 1921 to the People’s Commissar for Food, Aleksander Ciurupa: В. И. Ленин, Полное собрание сочинений, vol. 84, Москва, 1965, p. 84. В. Воробев, “А праздники нужны”, Тамбовская жизнь, 18 October 1991, p. 1. A. Терехов, “Праздник ли сегодня?”, Тамбовская Жизнь, 7 November 1991, p. 1. А. Кураев, “Эта дата ноября – просто день календаря”, Город на Цне, 14 November 1991, p. 3.

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37 А. Терехов, “Октябрьский митинг на площади Ленина”, Тамбовская Жизнь, 11 November 1992, p. 1. 38 А. Рябов, Жителям Тамбовской области, Тамбовская Жизнь, 7 November 1992, p. 1. 39 “Немного красного на серой площади”, Город на Цне, 14–20 November 1992, p. 2. 40 Ibid., p. 79. See also Г. Борисова, “К покаянию, примирению, добру”, Тамбовская Жизнь, 23 October 1991, p. 1, and А. Хазиев, “Безмерно чувство покаяния”, Тамбовская Жизнь, 2 November 1991, p. 1. 41 “Слово о вандейском восстании. Вандея, 25 сентября 1993”, in А. Солженицын, Публицистика в трех томах. Том 1. Статьи и речи, Ярославль, 1995, pp. 613–615. 42 Ibid. 43 А. Солженицын, “Два рассказа”, Новый Мир, 1995, No. 5, http://magazines. russ.ru/novyi_mi/1995/5/solgen-pr.html. 44 Указ президента Российской Федерации от 18.06.1996 г. №931 «О крестьянских восстаниях 1918–1922 годов», Kremlin.ru, http://kremlin.ru/acts/ bank/9585. 45 The Red Army’s use of poison gas and chemical artillery missiles to crush Antonov’s rebellion remains an under-researched subject. Order 116 of 12 June 1921, signed by the commander of Tambov region military units, Mikhail Tukhachevsky, prescribes the use of “poisoning and choking gases” in order to “clear” the woods in which partisans were hiding. But according to a recent research by Aleksander Bobkov, poison gases were not deployed because of the shortage of properly skilled personnel to carry out attacks. At least once, though, the Red Army used chemical missiles in an artillery attack near the village Sukhe Dubki, but no casualties were reported, according to Bobkov. The subject surely requires more research, the more so as the author only cites sources generated by one side to the conflict, making no reference to the account by witness Akulina Ivanovna (published in Boris Sennikov’s book) who said she saw victims of a gas attack in the forest. See А. Бобков, К вопросу об использовании удушающих газов при подавлении тамбовского восстания, scepsis.net 14 VIII 2011, http://scepsis.net/library/id_2974.html. Cf. Б. Сенников, Тамбовское восстание 1918–1921 гг. и раскрестьянивание России 1929– 1933, https://rusk.ru/vst.php?idar=321701. The most recent article on that topic see: А. Н. Литовский, Химическое оружие в борьбе с тамбовскими повстанцами: мифы и реальность, in А. Посадский (ed.), Тамбовское восстание 1920–1921 гг.: исследования, документы,воспоминания, Москва, 2018, pp. 157–170. 46 А. Хвостов, “Крестьянская война или бунт авантюристов?”, Новая Тамбовская Газета, 27 October 1995, p. 7. In 1995, Gorod na Tsne was published under the name of Novaya Tombovskaya Gazeta, only to return later to the previous title. 47 Федеральный закон от 13 марта 1995 г. N 32-F3 “О днях воинской славы и памятных датах России”, http://base.garant.ru/1518352/. 48 В. Полозов, “Тебя связали кумачом”, Новая Тамбовская Газета, 10 November 1995, p. 2. 49 Н. Сергеев, “Истории нет без правды”, Тамбовская Жизнь, 5 November 1995, p. 2. 50 Указ президента Российской Федерации от 7 ноября 1996 г. «О дне согласия и примирения», Kremlin.ru, http://document.kremlin.ru/page.aspx?1204000. 51 Е. Голошумов, “Обещали – выполните! С городского митинга протеста в Тамбове”, Тамбовская Жизнь, 7 November 1996, p. 1.

266 Bartłomiej Gajos 52 А. Рябов, В. Карев, “С праздником Октября!”, Тамбовская Жизнь, 7 November 1996, p. 1. 53 Е. Голошумов, “Историю в отставку?” Тамбовская Жизнь, 12 November 1996, p. 2. 54 С. Михайлов, “Нет у революции конца … Празднование 79-й годовщины Великого Октября”, Тамбовская Жизнь, 12 November 1996, p. 1. 55 А. Рябов, В. Карев, “Поздравляем!”, Тамбовская Жизнь, 6 November 1997, p. 1. 56 “Здесь находятся останки А. С. Антонова и тысяч жертв крестьянского восстания тамбовской губернии.” 57 There was some speculation as to the identity of the perpetrators in press articles and online blogs. Some pointed the finger at CPRF activists or supporters, while others would rather have the local authorities, removing the memorial on the grounds of its having been put up illegally. See “Камень преткновения. Кто против памятника Антонову в Тамбове?”, Аргументы и факты, 2017, No. 44, www.chr.aif.ru/society/history/kamen_pretknoveniya_kto_protiv_pamyatnika_an tonovu_v_tambove, and Закладной камень памятника жертвам Крестьянского восстания на Тамбовщине вновь уничтожили, Livejournal.com, http:// vetumtrud.livejournal.com/1457927.html. 58 Указ президента Российской Федерации от 18.06.1996 г. №931 «О крестьянских восстаниях 1918–1922 годов», Kremlin.ru, http://kremlin.ru/acts/bank/9585. 59 Н. Воробьев, Выборы главы администрации Тамбовской области в 1995, 1999 и 2003 гг.: история политико-правовая характеристика, “Вестник ТГУ”, 2010 (9), p. 269. 60 The gubernatorial election was carried by Betin in the first round, with 71% of the vote, while in the parliamentary poll the United Russia won 27.80% and the CPRF 21.67% of the vote. See Н. Воробьев, op. cit., p. 270, and Выборы депутатов Государственной Думы Федерального Собрания Российской Федерации четвертого созыва, Izbirkom.ru, www.tambov.vybory.izbirkom.ru/ region/tambov?action=show&global=true&root=1000010&tvd=100100095631 &vrn=100100095619&prver=0&pronetvd=null®ion=68&sub_region=68&ty pe=431&vibid=100100095631. 61 See О. Бетин, В. Карев, В. Пучинин, “День согласия и примирения”, Город на Цне, 7 November 2001, p. 1. 62 “День согласия и примирения”, Город на Цне, 6 November 2002, p. 1. 63 “Бороться за правое дело приходится, братцы, самим только нам. Бороться честно, храбро и смело – во имя Веры, Родины и Правды”. For the whole verse and the report by the head of the commission for liquidation of the Cheka division (indicating Antonov’s authorship), see В. Данилов, Т. Шанин (eds), Крестьянское восстание в Тамбовской Губернии в 1919–1921 гг. Документы и материалы, Tambov, 1994, p. 294. 64 Е. Писарев, “Антоновщина: право на память”, Независимая Газета, 16 May 2017, www.ng.ru/ideas/2017-05-16/5_6988_antonovshina.html?print=Y. 65 “На этом месте будет установлен памятник жертвам народно-крестьянского восстания под руководством Александра Степановича Антонова”. No-one seemed to notice that the original inscription could be read in two ways, as commemorating those who died at the hands of the insurgents, and those who died while fighting within the rebel ranks. 66 В Тамбове восстановлен закладной камень жертвам Антоновщины, lifetambov.ru 20 January 2016, http://lifetambov.ru/obshhestvo/5028-v-tambove-vossta novlen-zakladnoj-kamen-zhertvam-antonovshhinyi.html. 67 Letter of 11 January 2011, from the head of Tambov city administration’s committee for architecture, development, and renovation, N. F. Loshakov, to A. V.

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68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82

83 84 85 86 87

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Arkhipov concerning the cornerstone memorial to those fallen in the peasant uprising. Author’s library. Letter of 11 April 2012, from the head of Tambov city administration’s committee for municipal economy, A. V. Sheludyakov, to L. E. Rybina concerning the cornerstone memorial to those fallen in the peasant uprising. Author’s library. S. A. Smith, Writing the History of the Russian Revolution after the Fall of Communism, “Europe-Asia Studies” 1994 (4), pp. 563–578. В. Путин, “Россия на рубеже тысячелетий”, Независимая Газета, 31 December 1999. Федеральный закон от 29.12.2014 Н 201-F3 „О внесении изменения в статью 112 Трудового кодекса Российской Федерации”, Kremlin.ru. http://document. kremlin.ru/page.aspx?1066574. For Putin’s attitude towards the revolution and the discussion about the Day of National Unity, see О. Малинова, op. cit., pp. 77–84, and S. A. Smith, Writing the History of the Russian Revolution after the Fall of Communism, “Europe-Asia Studies” 1994 (4), pp. 563 -578. А. Веселовский, “Что делать с телом Ленина?”, Город на Цне, 2 November 2005, p. 1. С. Доровских, “Не вычеркнуть из памяти великой даты”, Наш Голос, 10 November 2005, p. 1. Е. Полозова, “Памятник хранителю земли тамбовской”, Город на Цне, 7 November 2007, p. 1. Д. Нишукова, “Соборность – основа всех побед”, Тамбовская Жизнь, 7 November 2017, p. 2. The film is available at the official website of the Russian television: https:// russia.tv/brand/show/brand_id/10393/. “Президентский грант”, Город на Цне, 7 January 2004, p. 3. А. Кречетников, “Русская Вандея”: политическая расправа или геноцид?, BBC. com, www.bbc.com/russian/russia/2011/06/110617_tambov_uprising_genocide. Стенограмма заседания 29 июня 2011 г., Duma.gov.ru, http://transcript.duma. gov.ru/node/3469/. See Smirnov’s comments in the documentary on the making of Once Upon a Time There Lived a Simple Woman, Под говор пьяных мужичков, 2010, http:// tvkultura.ru/brand/show/brand_id/29041/. See the reviews: П. Басинский, “Век ненависти”, Российская Газета, 26 October 2011, https://rg.ru/2011/10/26/smirnov.html. Л. Смолина, “Фильм Андрея Смирнова ‘Жила-была одна баба’: история СССР без пафоса и ностальгии”, Ведомости, 31 October 2011, www.vedomosti.ru/lifestyle/articles/2011/10/31/ horoshaya_baba. See an interview with the director: Страшнее вымысла. Интервью с режиссером фильма “Жила-была одна баба”, Lenta.ru, https://lenta.ru/articles/ 2011/07/04/baba/. В Тамбове восстановлен закладной камень жертвам Антоновщины, lifetambov.ru 20 January 2016, http://lifetambov.ru/obshhestvo/5028-v-tambove-vossta novlen-zakladnoj-kamen-zhertvam-antonovshhinyi.html. Требуем увековечить память жертв Антоновского восстания, change.org, http://ujeb.se/9eLHw. В Тамбове восстановлен закладной камень жертвам Антоновщины, lifetambov.ru 20 January 2016, http://lifetambov.ru/obshhestvo/5028-v-tambove-vossta novlen-zakladnoj-kamen-zhertvam-antonovshhinyi.html. “Закладной камень установлен антоновцам самовольно”, Наш Голос, 15 December 2016, p. 2.

268 Bartłomiej Gajos 88 Ю. Носова, “В Тамбове появится храм примирения”, Город на Цне, 27 January 2017, p. 1. 89 В Тамбове убрали закладной камень памятника жертвам Антоновского восстания, onlinetambov.ru 28 February 2017, www.onlinetambov.ru/society/ index.php?ELEMENT_ID=985478. 90 М. Карасев, “В Тамбове вновь уберут закладной камень памятника жертвам Антоновского восстания”, Независимая Газета, 19 June 2017, www.ng.ru/ regions/2017-06-19/100_tambov190617.html?id_user=Y. 91 Распоряжение Правительства Российской Федерации от 15 августа 2015 г. N 1561-р г. «Концепция государственной политики по увековечению памяти жертв политических репрессий», Rg.ru https://rg.ru/2015/08/18/jertvy-site-dok. html. 92 Letter of 13 July 2017, from the initiative group on commemoration of participants in the peasant uprising in Tambov Governorate to the Speaker of Tambov’s Municipal Duma, Viktor Putintsev and head of the committee for monumental art, Marina Podgornova. Author’s library. 93 For reports on the session, see Тамбовские власти поставили точку в вопросе законности закладного камня жертвам антоновского восстания, lifetambov. ru 27 July 2017, http://lifetambov.ru/obshhestvo/10183-tambovskie-vlasti-posta vili-tochku-v-voprose-zakonnosti-zakladnogo-kamnya-zhertvam-antonovskogovosstaniya.html; А. Александров, Единороссы в Тамбове задумались: А чем антоновщина хуже бандеровщины, sovross.ru, 3 August 2017, www.sovross.ru/ articles/1582/34458. 94 “И снова о памятнике антоновцам. Идём путём Украины?”, Наш Голос, 3 August 2017, p. 7. 95 Е. Писарев, “Антоновщина: право на память”, Независимая газета 16 May 2017, www.ng.ru/ideas/2017–05-16/5_6988_antonovshina.html?print=Y. Е. Писарев, “Антонов огонь”, Российская Газета, 25 May 2017, https://rg.ru/ 2017/05/25/reg-cfo/chto-stalo-prichinoj-antonovskogo-vosstaniia.html. 96 Решение № 640 от 26.07.2017 О внесении изменений в решение Тамбовской городской Думы от 28.09.2016 № 396 «О Перечне предложений о возведении (установлении) художественных объектов в городе Тамбове в 2017 году». The document is available on the Municipal Duma’s website: www.pravo.city. tambov.gov.ru. 97 М. Карасев, На закладном камне участникам Крестьянского восстания на Тамбовщине поменяли табличку, tamlife.ru 22 September 2017, http://tamlife. ru/obshhestvo/na-zakladnom-kamne-uchastnikam-krestyanskogo-vosstaniya-natambovshhine-pomenyali-tablichku. 98 Zaytseva was cited in Е. Писарев, “Антонов огонь”, Российская Газета, 25 May 2017, https://rg.ru/2017/05/25/reg-cfo/chto-stalo-prichinoj-antonovskogo-vossta niia.html. 99 М. Карасев, op. cit. 100 “Нет у революции конца!”, Наш Голос, 9 November 2017, p. 2, and В. Семёнов, ‘Преступное лицо антоновщины’, Наш Голос, 9 November 2017, p. 6. 101 For the Kremlin’s policy on the revolution’s 100th anniversary, see M. Edele, Putin, memory wars and the 100th anniversary of the Russian revolution, https://the conversation.com/friday-essay-putin-memory-wars-and-the-100th-anniversary-ofthe-russian-revolution-72477; (8 April 2017); S. A. Smith, Writing the History of the Russian Revolution after the Fall of Communism, “Europe-Asia Studies” 1994 (4), pp. 563–578. 102 The most recent such attempt is the holding of Day of National Unity celebrations on Music Square by Naberezhnoya Street, where a permanent stage has been

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installed. See Г. Семякина, “На празднование Дня народного единства в Тамбове собрались 17 тысяч человек”, Город на Цне, 1 November 2017, p. 1. 103 See contributions by Boris Kolonitsky, Mariya Matskevich and Olga Malinova in the present volume. 104 S. A. Smith, Writing the History of the Russian Revolution after the Fall of Communism, “Europe-Asia Studies” 1994 (4), pp. 563–578.

Index

Note: Boldface page numbers refer to tables and italic page numbers refer to figures. Page numbers followed by “n” refer to endnotes. Abdul Hamid I 82 abolishment of estates (sosloviya) 43 Act for Insurance of All People in Employment 47 Adamski, Łukasz 9 Adler, Viktor 186 The Age of Extremes (Hobsbawm) 15 agrarian question (agrarnyy vopros) 43 Agrarian Union 124, 126 Alaksiuk, Pavał 96, 97, 102 Aleksandrov, Artem 257 Aleksei, Tsarevich 208 Alenius, Kari 8 Alighieri, Dante 1 All-Belarusian Congress 102–4, 106 All-Belarusian Constituent Assembly 105 Allied Expeditionary Corps 165 Allied powers 157, 161–4, 166, 174, 192 All-Russia Central Executive Committee (VTSiK) 49 All-Russia Congress of Soviets 141 All-Russia Constituent Assembly 111, 209, 227 All-Russian Congress of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies 124, 126 All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution, Sabotage and Profiteering (VChK) 46, 52 All-Union Leninist Young Communist League 232 Alsace-Lorraine 174, 182, 183 Amstettner Zeitung 150 anarchism 18, 40 Andropov, Yuri 2

anti-absolutism 40 anti-Belarusian campaign 98 anticommunism 13, 14, 19 antifascism 13, 14 Antonov, Aleksander Stepanovich 242, 243–4, 252–3, 260, 261 Antonov rebellion (1920–1921) 243, 248–9, 252, 253, 255–7 Antonovshchina 242, 249 ARCEC see All-Russia Central Executive Committee (ARCEC) Arendt, Hannah 6 Arkhipov, Aleksander 252 armistice (December 1917) 160 associations (soyuzy) 42 Aulard, Alphonse 208 Austria-Hungary, Russian revolution and 2, 138, 172, 182; ambivalent reactions 182–3; Austria treaty with Ukraine 186–7; battle of Caporetto 185; chaos in Russia 184; domestic politics 183–4; Habsburg monarchy 182; les extremes se touchent policy 188; POWs 187–8; Social Democrats 183, 184, 186, 188; strikes in Austria 186 Austrian Germans 183–4 “Austrian Ukraine” 109 Baberowski, Jörg 27 Baczko, Bronisław 20 Badcock, Sarah 8 Baernreither, Joseph Maria 184 Bagge, John Picton 110, 111, 116, 119n8 Baldwin, Stanley 194 Balfour, Arthur 199

Index Bandera, Stepan 259 Barclay, George Head 120n29 battle of Caporetto 185 Bauman, Zygmunt 31 Belarusian Culture Society 97 Belarusian National Committee (BNK) 96–9, 106 Belarusian National Fund 97–8 Belarusian national movement 94–5, 98, 102; All-Belarusian Congress 102, 103; anti-Belarusian campaign 98; Belarusian National Committee 96–7; Belarusian National Fund 97–8; Bolsheviks overthrew Provisional Government 99–100; Great Belarusian Council 99; peasant revolt 101 Belarusian People’s Republic 104, 106 Belarusian Socialist Assembly (BSA) 95, 98, 99, 102 Belarusian Society for Assistance to War Victims 94, 95 Beneš, Edvard 177 Berchtold, Leopold 182 Berlin, Isaiah 6, 20 Bernhard, Michael 221, 225, 229, 238n21 Berthelot, Henri 162, 163 Berthelot, Philippe 177 Bessel, Richard 25 Betin, Oleg 252, 253, 257 The Black Book of Communism (Courtois) 16, 21 “black strike” 146 Bloxham, Donald 26 Blue Army 164, 166, 176, 178 Blüth, Rafał 4 BNK see Belarusian National Committee (BNK) Bobkowski, Andrzej 17 Bolshevik revolution 11, 14, 22, 137, 157, 163, 174, 175, 178; first grievance against 160; Nolte on 12, 15; spread by Red Army 176 Bolsheviks 3, 35, 102, 104, 128, 185; Decree on Land 100; detestation of 31; “genocide of class” 30; leadership in western region 103; monopoly of violence 28; nationalistic policies 130; overthrew Provisional Government 99–100; peasantry and 32–3; programme 31, 43; “sacralized” violence 30; social conflict 101; state 49, 51, 53–4; success of 102; White leaders fighting against 32

271

Bolshevism 12, 13, 16–18, 20, 30, 31, 102, 117, 162, 163, 165–7, 176, 178 Borodziej, Włodzimierz 8 Borotnikov, Aleksandr 259 Borysław Oil Basin strike 146 Bosiacki, Adam 8 Botha Commission 178 Botha, Louis 178 Bracher, Karl-Dietrich 15 Brest-Litovsk peace treaty 46, 103, 117, 142–5, 151, 154, 161, 164, 174, 187 Brezhnev, Leonid 2, 250 Briand, Aristide 172 Britain, Russian revolution and 191; British views on Russia as ally 194–6; exempt from the Pact of London 173; March antiroyalist rebellion 199; overthrow of autocracy 191–2; public’s reaction to revolutionary events 193–4; Russian anti-tsarist uprising 193; Soviet–Western relations 196–8; Ukrainian lobbying effort 110; see also Ukraine 1917 revolution, Britain and Bruski, Jan Jacek 8 Brzeziński, Zbigniew 4 Brzostowski, Marian 101 BSA see Belarusian Socialist Assembly (BSA) Buchanan, George 110, 192, 196, 197–8 Bujak, Franciszek 19 Buldakov, Vladimir Prokhorovich 27–8 Burian, Istvan 182 Cachin, Marcel 159 Cambon, Jules 179 The Capitan’s Daughter (Pushkin) 101 Carr, Edward Hallet 6 Cassirer, Ernst 15 Cataclysms. A History of the 20th Century from Europe’s Edge (Diner) 16 Cathedral Square (Sobornaya Ploshchad) 245, 261, 263n18 Catherine II (1729–1796) 82 Cecil, Robert 197 centenary of the Russian revolution 202; anti-communist revolution 205; anti-revolutionary political culture 215; characteristic of 214; conspiracy theories 209–10; dismantling of Soviet monuments 206; Matilda film 212–13; national reconciliation 207; personification 204; politics of memory 202–4, 208, 215; revolutionary slogan

272 Index 202; revolution as historical inevitability 205; Steering Committee 211; Ukrainian Maidan protests 205, 254 Central and Eastern Europe, social rebellion in 137; anti-government slogans 148; Austria-Hungary’s war effort 138; “black strike” 146; BrestLitovsk peace treaty 142–5, 151, 154; communist sympathies 147; Czechoslovakia, crime rate 150; degree of lawlessness in 150; factory worker protests 141; Floridsdorf workshops’ strike 142; German authorities intensify production 143–4; hunger riots 141; Kolbuszowa, pogrom in 152–3; mass protests in Hungary 143; Miechów 152; “moral economy” 149; pay-related protests 148; Pilsen strike 138–40; professional revolutionaries 153–4; Škoda Works 138, 139, 141, 145; social classes 137; strike experiences 146–7; working-class rebellion 145 Central Council of Belarusian Organisations 99 Central Powers 2, 110, 113, 137, 141–3, 145, 162, 182, 184, 185, 188 Central Rada 112, 113, 116; Brest-Litovsk treaty 117; Central Council 109; conflict between Petrograd and 111; proclamation 115; unilateral declaration of autonomy 111 Central Revolutionary Council 129 Centre for Polish-Russian Dialogue and Understanding 8 Chaadayev, Peter 18 “chain reaction” model 17 Charles I 182, 185, 186 Cheka 31–2, 46, 52, 53, 243 Chernenko, Konstantin 2 Chernyshkin, V. 246–7 Chicherin, Georgy 177 Chistopol 72 Chkheidze, Nikolai 193 City Hall committee 253 Civil Guards 127, 131 Clam, Heinrich 182 Clausewitz, Carl von 35 Clemenceau, Georges 160, 162, 163, 165, 166–7, 170n24, 174, 178, 179 Cold War 1, 4, 6, 15, 27, 236

commemoration centenary of 1917 revolution 220; Communist Party of the Russian Federation 226, 231, 232; competing narratives comparison 229–36; historical events, politics of memory 221–3; infrastructure of memory 222–3; A Just Russia 232–3; ‘Liberal February’ and ‘Great October’ 231–2; mnemonic abnegators 227; mnemonic actors 221, 227–9, 236; mnemonic pluralist 225, 227–8; narratives 223, 229–36; national level 222; in official political discourse 230–1; publications related to Matilda 221; reconciliation and concord 224–5, 235; ruling elite 223–4; Russian Orthodox Church 234–5; strategies of key mnemonic actors 223–9; symbolic politics 222–3; ‘The Wall of Sorrow’ memorial site 225; Yabloko’s discourse 233–4 Committee on Foreign Affairs of the Chamber 159 communism 3, 5, 12, 14, 16, 17, 19, 206, 248 Communist Party of the Russian Federation (CPRF) 226, 231, 232, 236, 246, 251, 252 Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) 231 Concept of the New Curriculum of Russian History 222 Congress of Deputies 49 Congress of the Peoples of Russia 113 Conquest, Robert 14, 22 conspiracy theories 209–10 Constituent Assembly 63, 64, 67, 94, 96, 100, 102–5, 196, 234, 237 Constituent Assembly of the Constitutional Democratic Party (the Kadets) 227 Constitutional Democratic Party 43, 85 cordon sanitaire 162, 164–8, 173, 176 Council of People’s Commissars 5, 46, 52, 100, 114, 131, 208 Council of State in Vienna 144 coup d’état 88, 99, 100, 106, 125, 160, 196 Courtois, Stéphane 16, 30 CPRF see Communist Party of the Russian Federation (CPRF) The Crimean Legends (Krym) 90 Crimean Peninsula 87–8 Crimean People’s Republic 88, 89, 91

Index Crimean Tatars 88–91 Curzon, George 193 Czech National Committee 172 Czechoslovakia 150, 151, 173, 175, 177 Czernin, Ottokar 142, 182–6 Daily Mail 113 Daszyński, Ignacy 186 Davion, Isabelle 8 Day of Concord and Reconciliation 224, 250–2, 261 ‘The Day of Concord and Reconciliation’ 224 Day of National Unity 254, 255 Day of October Revolution 250 Days of Free Belarus 98 Dąbrowa Coal Basin miners strike 146 decossackization 28, 31, 35 Decree on Abolishment of Inheritances 47–8 Decree on Courts 50–2 Decree on Land 46, 100 Decree on Peace 45, 46 Decree on Red Terror 52–3 Decrees on Peace and Land 100 Democratic Russian Republic 96, 124 democratisation 62, 67, 70, 84, 90, 99, 106 Denikin, Anton 2, 89, 90, 163, 209 Denikin’s Armed Forces of Southern Russia 29 Denisov, Aleksei 255 Department of Information’s Intelligence Bureau (DIIB) 110 Der europäische Bürgerkrieg 1917–1945 (Nolte) 12 Deschanel, Paul 158–9 d’Espérey, Louis Franchet 163 Dessberg, Frederic 8 Deutscher, Isaac 6 Die deutsche Diktatur (Bracher) 15 Diner, Dan 16 Divine Providence 235 Dmowski, Roman 166, 178 Dnieper 109, 114, 117, 118 Don Cossacks 30, 32, 114, 115 Dowbor-Muśnicki, Józef 102 Drucki-Lubecki, Hieronim 106 Duma Council 220 Duvan, Semen Ezrovich 83 Dzerzhinsky, Felix 52, 53

273

Dzhafer Seydamet (Cafer Seydamet, 1889–1960) 89 Dziennik Wileński 101 Eastern Army 158, 162, 163 Eastern Front 29, 115 Eastern Galicia 178–80 East Slavic Review 6 Eklof, Ben 67 election of judges (vybornost sudey narodom) 43 Emperors Alliance 182, 183 Engels, Friedrich 5, 198 Engelstein, Laura 7 Entente Conference 192, 196 Entente powers 2, 115, 157, 158, 160, 172, 188, 195, 197 ethnic cleansing 25 Europäische Bürgerkrieg 1917–1945 12 European civil war 17 Evans, Barbara Clements 68 “excisionary” violence 28, 35 Fainsod, Merle 6 Faschismus in seiner Epoche (Nolte) 13 fascism 12–14, 16, 17, 19, 25, 30 February revolution 2, 3, 27, 42, 84–7, 109, 138, 140, 158, 172–4, 204, 210, 221, 232, 233–4, 236, 243; see also October revolution Federal Assembly 210, 224 Felshtinsky, Yuri 32 Ferrero, Guglielmo 21 Finexit 133 see also Finnish independence, Russian revolution and Finland’s Independence Day 129 Finnish Civil War 131, 132 Finnish independence, Russian revolution and 122, 134; Bolshevik attitudes towards national independence 128; Central Revolutionary Council 129; de facto recognition of Russian government 123–6; desire for independence 126–9; independence declaration 129–31; “kinship wars” 132; Power Act 124–6; Provisional Government 123; Russian–Finnish relations 122; Russo–Finnish joint committee 130; Social Democratic Party 124; Treaty of Tartu (1920) 132–3; war and peace 131–3 Finnish Social Democrats 125

274 Index Firkovich, Moysey Yakovlevich 86 first Russian revolution (1905–1906) 40–1, 182 First World War 26, 28–9, 83–4, 195, 197, 203 Fitzpatrick, Sheila 7 Fitzwilliams, J.K.L. 115 Foch, Ferdinand 161, 164, 165–6, 176, 178, 179 food supply 70–5; food crisis 71; grain monopoly 73–5; provisions crisis 70–1 Foucault, Michel 28 France 14, 40, 91, 157–9, 163, 176; alliance with Saint Petersburg 172; exempt from the Pact of London 173; war aims 174 Franco-British mission 177 “Fremdenblatt” (“An Answer to the Social Democrats”) 184 French Eastern Army 162 French Enlightenment 40 French High Command 161, 162, 164 French political circles, in Eastern Europe 157; Bolshevism issues 163, 164; Brest-Litovsk Treaty 161, 164; contradictions between France and Britain 162; establishment of “cordon sanitaire” 164–8; from february to october 1917 158–60; French–Russian alliance 157, 158, 160; grievance against Bolshevik revolution 160; military consequences of Russian revolution 161; National Polish Committee 159; “Polish Poland” 159; Soviet–Polish negotiations 167 French revolution 20, 47, 56n4, 208 French–Russian alliance 157, 158 Frunze, Mikhail 98 Furet, François 13–14, 21, 22, 209 Gajos, Bartłomiej 8, 9 Ganchel, Vladimir 72 Gatrell, Peter 70 “genocide” 14, 31 George, David Lloyd 116, 175 George V 195 “German catastrophe” 20 German–Russian alliance 164 Gerwarth, Robert 26 Gippius, Zinaida 138 Globachev, Konstantin 192 Google Trend 220 Gorbachev, Mikhail 2, 232, 246

Gorbatov, uyezd 73 Gorky, Maxim 18 Górny, Maciej 8 Gorod na Tsne 247, 248, 251, 254 Great Belarusian Council 99, 103 Great Patriotic War 232, 235, 245, 247 “Great Socialist October Revolution” 12 Great Terror of 1937–1938 35 Great War 138, 153, 173, 174, 182 Grillparzer, Friedrich 20 Grzybowski, Konstanty 4 Guidelines on Penal Law of the RFSSR 53 Guizot, Francois 208 The Gulag Archipelago 248 Habsburg monarchy 141, 142, 182 Haimson, Leopold 6 hakhamat 82 Haller, Józef 166, 176, 178, 179 Hasegawa, Tsuyoshi 33 Henderson, Arthur 159 Henrys, Paul-Prosper 179 Herriot, Édouard 159 Hertz, Aleksander 21 historians 11, 25; explanations for violence 25; regional studies 60, 61; working on Civil War 27 Historikerstreit 21 A History of Soviet Russia (Carr) 6 Hitler, Adolf 12, 15, 16, 20 Höbelt, Lothar 8 Hobsbawm, Eric 15, 18, 21, 22 Hohenlohe, Gottfried 184, 185 Holocaust 11, 21, 25 Holquist, Peter 6, 7n16, 28, 61 Hornbostel, Theodor V. 187 House of Commons 110 How Russia is Ruled (Fainsod) 6 Hrushevsky, Mykhailo 113 Hryb, Tomash 103 Hungary, mass protests in 143 see also Austria-Hungary, Russian revloution and Hythe conference 167 Inferno (Alighieri) 1 infrastructure of memory 222–3 inheritance 47–8 Intelligence Bureau 110, 112, 113, 115–17, 118n6 Inter-Allied Council 176 Inter-Allied Military Conference 172

Index Inter Allied War Council 172 Internal Security Troops 31 ‘In the dark days’ 104 Iron Curtain 4 Irwin-Zarecka, Iwona 237 Isaev, Andrey 227 Ivanow, Oleg 257 Izvestiya (The News) 192 Janin, Maurice 157 Jasinowski, Bogumił 4 Jaures, Jean 208 Joseph, Francis 182, 183 Jusserand, Jean-Jules 177 A Just Russia 226–7, 232–3 Kadet Party 112 Kadets 43, 88, 89, 183, 227 Kaledin, Ataman Aleksey 115 Kaleta, Petr 8 Kalyvas, Stathis 34, 35 Kamenev, Lev 3 Karaim National Club 87 Karaim National Congress 85, 86, 92n20 Karaim National-Democratic Party for Cultural Self-Determination 84–5, 87 Karaim Religious Board 82, 86 Karaims 82, 91–2; after 1917 February revolution 84–7; Crimean Peninsula 87–90; decline for 82; hakhamat 82; Karaim National Congress 85, 86; Krym, Solomon S. 87–90; national education 86; political party 84–5; population 91; religious boards 83; religious confession 85–6; religious life 91n6; rights 82–3; in World War I 83–4 Karaim Spiritual Religious College 86 Karaim Youth’s Cultural and Educational Circle 87 Károlyi, Mihály 146 Kashmenskaya, Mariya 68–9 Kazan 61, 62; ethnic minority populations 66; fixed prices 72; grain monopoly 73; land committee 65; land law 64; non-Russian community 66; peasant committees 67; political elite 64; provisions committee 74; provisions shortages 71; regional administration 65; soldiers’ wives of 69–70 Kazan Monastery 243–4, 252 kenesas (Karaim prayer houses) 83, 85 Kennan, George 6

275

Kerensky, Aleksander 7, 112, 123, 140, 184, 193–6, 199 Khrushchev, Nikita 2, 232, 235 Khvostov, Andrey 249 King, Joseph 110 “kinship wars” 132 Kirill, Patriarch 211, 213, 228, 239n35–7 Klishin, Sergey 252 Knox, Alfred 193, 194 Kołakowski, Leszek 18 Kokoshkin, Fyodor 227 Kolbuszowa, pogrom in 152–3 Kolchak, Aleksander 31, 207 Kolonitsky, Boris 7, 8 Komarnicki, Wacław 19 Komintern Square 252–3 Kornat, Marek 4, 8 Kornilov, Lavr 32, 140, 194, 195 Koszutska, Maria 153 Kovalik, Sergey 98 Koval, Valery 250 Kozmodemyansk 66, 74 Kremlin 213, 214, 226, 252–4, 261 Kronstadt rebellion (1921) 208 Krylova, Olga 67 Krym, Solomon S. 83, 88–91 Kshesinskaya, Matilda 212, 220 Kubik, Jan 221, 225, 229, 238n21 Kucharzewski, Jan 4 Kučera, Rudolf 139, 149 Kühlmann, Richard von 185, 186 Kulakov, Ivan 67 Kulczycki, Ludwik 4 Kurayev, Aleksander 247 Lamartine, Alphonse 208 Landers, Kārlis 100 Landis, Erik 34 land socialisation 40, 58n13, 85 Lansing, Robert 160 Łastoŭski, Vacłaŭ 105 Latsis, Martin 30, 52 Latvian Social Democratic Party 102 LDPR see Liberal Democratic Party of Russia (LDPR) League of Nations 133, 179 Leeper, Rex 110, 111, 113, 114 Lee, Robert E. 261 Lefebvre, Georges 208 Left Socialist Revolutionaries 46 Legoyda, Vladimir 228 Leninism 35

276 Index Lenin jako ekonomista (Lenin as an Economist) 6 Lenin Square 245, 252 Lenin, Vladimir 3, 11, 12, 20, 30, 31, 50, 100, 104, 141, 183, 187, 194, 198, 199, 204, 232; Bolshevik Party 41; decree abolishing urban property 47; “Ten Theses on Soviet Power” 49 Le passé d’une illusion (Furet) 13 Le Rond, Henri 178 Leroy-Beaulieu, Anatole 18 Levada Centre 207, 210 Liberal Democratic Party of Russia (LDPR) 227 liberalism 19, 20 Lieven, Dominic 7 Lih, Lars 70, 72 Lloyd George, David 160, 161, 163, 164, 166, 167, 177–9, 193, 195, 196 Local Council of the Russian Orthodox Church (1917–1918) 228, 235 local government (samoupravleniye) 42 Lockhart, R. H. Bruce 162 Louis XVI 193 Łuckievič, Anton 105 Łuckievič, Ivan 105 Lvov, Georgy 96, 123 Lwów 144, 159, 178 Machtpolitik 20 Magergut, Zinoviya 68 Main Currents of Marxism: (Kołakowski) 18 Makhno, Nestor 26, 244 Makhrov, Pyotr 2 Malenkov, Georgy 2 Malia, Martin 18–19, 30 Malinova, Olga 8 Malysheva, Svetlana 244 Mamadysh 74 Mamontov, Konstantin 245 Manchester Guardian 193 Mannerheim, Carl Gustaf Emil 131 Manner, Kullervo 126 March Manifesto 123 March revolution 127, 197 Marcuse, Herbert 20 Marxism 18, 19, 25, 41 Marx, Karl 30, 45, 48, 198 Mathiez, Albert 208 Matilda film 26, 212–14, 220, 221 Matskevich, Mariya 8 Maugham, William Somerset 196

Mazower, Mark 25 Medinsky, Vladimir 206–8, 256, 257 Medvedev, Dmitry 225, 226 Meinecke, Friedrich 20 memory event 223 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 14 Merridale, Catherine 7, 194 Michael, Prince 123 Michalek, Franz 140 Michelet, Jules 208 Miechów 152 “militarised mono-party” 21 Military Revolutionary Committees 100 Millerand, Alexandre 167 Milner, Alfred 192 Milner, Lord 192 Milyukov, Pavel 195, 209 “ministerial socialism” 124 Ministry of Culture 213 Minsk 98, 104–5; Belarusian organisation in 94, 96; Bolsheviks authorities in 100–1; Congress of Belarusian Parties and Organisations 99; German troops in 104–5 Minsk Agricultural Society 96 Minskaya Gazeta 104 Minsk Belarusian Representation 103–4 Minsk Governorate Peasant Committee 98 Minsky Golos 104–5 Mironov, Sergey 227, 233 Mitrokhin, Nikolay 228 mnemonic actors 221, 227–9, 236 mob justice 33 Morgenthau commission 151 Moscow 20, 60, 74, 85, 88, 167, 168, 187, 213, 225, 245 Mosse, George 29 Moutet, Marius 159 Museum of Natural History 256 Mussolini, Benito 12, 16, 17 Mussolinism 12 The Myth of the State (1945) (Cassirer) 15 Naimark, Norman 25 Namier, Lewis 110, 179 Napoleon the Third 174 Narodnaya Volya party 41 narodnichestvo (populism) 41 Narodnichestvo movement 98 Nash Golos 254, 259 National Polish Committee 159

Index Nationalsozialismus und Bolschewismus (Nolte) 12 Nazism 12, 16, 17, 19, 20 Neue Freie Presse 183, 185 “Ne vremya dla paradov” 246 New Economic Policy 55 The New Europe 110, 113 “new-model party” concept 16 News of the Taurida and Odessa Karaim Religious Board 84–7 Nezavisimaya Gazeta 253, 259 Nicholas II 83, 109, 123, 157, 191, 192, 203, 204, 207, 213 Nicholas, Tsarevich 212 Niessel, Albert 161, 162 Nikitin, Aleksander 257 Nizhny Novgorod 61, 62; attacks on provisions administration 73; fixed prices 72; importers of grain 71; peasant action in 64; peasant committees 67; political elite 64; volost and uyezd provisions 72 Nolte, Ernst 12, 16, 20, 22; on Bolshevik revolution 12; “European thirty years’ civil war” 21; interpretation fascism 12–13; “worldview war” 17 Noulens, Joseph 161, 164 Novoye Varshavskoye Utro 97 “Nowy ustrój Związku Sowietów” (Komarnicki) 19 October revolution 27, 90, 137, 174, 202, 203, 209, 220, 221, 224–6, 230, 236, 242–3; catastrophe of 233–4; centenary of 257–60; in Tambov 244–5; see also February revolution Odessa 66, 83, 87 Odessa consul 110–11 Odinochestvo (Alone) 249 O’Grady, James 194 Once Upon a Time There Lived a Simple Woman 256 “On Days of Wartime Glory and Russian Dates to Remember” 249–50 “On Peasant Uprisings 1918–1922” 249 Orange revolution 254 Orgbiuro of the Central Committee 30 Orwell, George 214 Osmołowski Jerzy 103 Pact of London (1914) 173 Paléologue, Maurice 157 Papkova, Irina 228

277

Parandowski, Jan 4 Pares, Bernard 110 The Passing of an Illusion 14 Pastukhov, Vladimir 216n10 peasant committees 67 peasantry, Bolsheviks and 32–3 People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs 49, 50 People’s Commissariat for Justice 47, 49, 53 perestroika 202, 205 Peretiatkowicz, Antoni 18 Petliura, Symon 115, 178 Petrograd 61–2, 95, 127, 195; conflict between Central Rada and 111; French military mission in 157; independence to Poland 159; land use and ownership 63; revolution 109 Petrograd Interallied Conference 192 Petrograd Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies 41 Petrovsky, Grigory 49–50 Philosophical Letters (Chaadayev) 18 Pichon, Stephen 162 Pilecki, Owadiasz I. 87 Pilsen strike 138–40, 149 Pipes, Richard 4, 6, 15, 16, 41, 52, 94, 100 Pisarev, Yevgeny 253, 259 Piłsudski’, Józef 144, 167, 176, 178, 179 Plekhanov, Georgy Valentinovich 41, 194 Podvoiskiy, Nikolai 2, 131 poison gas 29, 37n25, 249, 255, 256, 265n45 Poklonskaya, Nataliya 212–13 Poland 4, 143, 144, 152, 176 Polish National Committee 174, 176 Polish pre-war Sovietologists 4 Polish question, Russian revolution and: Bolshevik Revolution 174, 175; in democratic frame 172; diplomatic consequences of 173–6; Eastern Galicia 178–80; military consequences of 176–7; Polish-Bolshevik war 178–80 Polish Socialist Party–Left (PPS-L) 102 Polozov, Vitaly 250 Poole, Frederick C. 115 Power Act 125, 126, 128 PPS-L see Polish Socialist Party–Left (PPS-L) Pravda 44, 45 Price, Morton 193 private ownership 46, 63

278 Index proletarian revolution 30 property rights 46–7 Provisional Government 61–2, 71, 111, 123, 195, 196; agrarian programme 114; Finland de facto recognition to the Provisional Government 124; fixed price 72; on gender equality 66–7; grain monopoly 74; Kazan land law 64; land use and ownership 63; power structures 65 Pushkin, Alexander 101 Putintsev, Viktor 259 Putin, Vladimir 203, 206, 210–11, 214, 216n4, 220, 222, 224, 225, 229, 230, 261; politics of memory (2004–2015) 254–7 Quadruple Alliance 117, 192, 196, 197 Quai d’Orsay 158, 162, 163, 167, 177, 178 Radziwiłł, Maria Madeleine 97, 106 Radziwiłł, Stanisław 97, 101 Raleigh, Donald 77n10 Ransome, Arthur 198 Rasplata (A Reckoning) 249 “Reconciliation Day” 251 Red Army 3, 7, 25, 31, 90, 91, 132, 164, 167, 168, 176, 208, 265n45 Red Guards 127–9, 131, 224 “Red October” 183 Reds 29, 31–2 Reformation 11 Reformist Socialist Party 165 regional government (mestnosti) 42 regional perspectives, of revolution 60, 75–6; democratisation 62; “dual power” 61–2; food supply 70–5; gender equality 66–7; grain monopoly 73–5; Kashmenskaya, Mariya 68–9; Kazan land law 64; land seizures 65; land use and ownership 63; local studies 61; margins of political power 65–70; peasant “disorder” 64; political elites 63–4; Provisional Government 61–2; regional studies 60–1; soldiers’ wives (soldatki) 69; structures of power (1917) 61–5; urban vs rural populations 66 Renouvin, Pierre 21 ‘republican ideology’ 174 Research and Study Institute for Eastern Europe 4 Retish, Aaron 6

Reysner, Mikhail 49 Ribbentrop-Molotov pact 17 Ribot, Alexandre 159 RIO see Russian Historical Society (RIO) ROC see Russian Orthodox Church (ROC) ROCOR see Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia (ROCOR) ROCOR Synod of Bishops 228 Rogachev, Yury 257–9 Romanov, Nikolay 220 Rossiyskaya Gazeta 259 Rostworowski, Emanuel 11 Rozovsky, Mark 216n10 RSDLP see Russian Social Democratic Labour Party (RSDLP) Rudovich, Stanislav 98, 102, 103 Russia in Flames (Engelstein) 7 Russia in Revolution. An Empire in Crisis, 1890–1928 (Smith) 7 Russian Civil War 25–8, 34, 35, 132, 134, 166 Russian Commissar for Military Affairs 131 Russian Federation 7, 103, 243, 256, 259 Russian Historical Society (RIO) 211, 222, 224 Russian Orthodox Church (ROC) 203–4, 211, 213, 214, 221, 227–8, 234–6 Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia (ROCOR) 228 Russian–Polish war 164–8 Russian Public Opinion Research Centre (VCIOM) 205 Russian revolution 3–4, 40, 94, 208; centenary of 7; cultural history of 6–7; publications about 4–6; radicalism and egalitarianism of 40; 100th anniversary of 7–8; see also February revolution; October revolution The Russian Revolution (Fitzpatrick) 7 Russian Social Democratic Labour Party (RSDLP) 42, 43 Russian State Archives of Cinematography and Photography 256 Russian State Military Archives 256 Russification policy 95 Russo–Finnish joint committee 130 Russo-Polish war 168 Ryabov, Aleksander 246, 247, 251 Ryszka, Franciszek 20

Index Saint Aulaire, Charles de Beaupoil de 163 Saint-Just 47 samosud (“self-judgement”) 33 Sanders, William 194 Saratov 77n10 Second World War 15–17, 20 self-rule (samoderzhaviye naroda) 42 Semenov, Grigoriy 32 Sennikov, Boris 252 Sergeiev, Yevgeny 8 Seton-Watson, Robert William 110, 113, 118n4 Sevastopol Cultural and Educational Association 87 Seyn, Franz Albert 123 Shapiro, Leonard 6 Shaposhnikov, Yevgeny 246 Shapshal, Hakham Seraya 84, 86 “shatter zones” 26 Shevchenko, Taras 110 Shingarev, Andrey 227 “Short 20th Century from 1914 to the end of the Soviet era” (Hobsbawm) 15 Shulgin, Vasily 209 Sima Elyashevich, Saadevich 85 Simpson, J.Y. (James Young) 110, 112, 113 Skirmunt, Roman 94–7; Belarusian National Committee 106; as Belarusian politician 101–2; and BNK traditions 99; peasant revolt 101; resignation of 98–9 Škoda Works 138, 139, 141, 145, 149 Slezkine, Yuri 7 Smalančuk, Alaksandr 8 Smele, Jonathan 208 Šmidrkal, Václav 150–1 Smirnov, Andrei 256 Smith, Steve A. 7, 8, 262n2 Smolicz, Arkady 96, 106 Smolny Institute 204 Snezhevskaya, Lydia 67 Soboul, Albert 208 social conflict, in Europe 29 Social Democratic Party 42–3, 124–6, 129 Social Democrats 41, 125–8, 130, 133–4 Social Democrats of the Kingdom of Poland and Lithuania 102 socialist law 55 Socialist Revolutionaries 25, 45, 88 Socialist Revolutionary Party 67, 102, 244

279

social rebellion 137 social rights 55 Sokolov, Aleksander 255 soldiers’ wives (soldatki) 69–70 Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr 210, 248, 249, 255, 261 Słonimski, Antoni 4 Sormovo Socialist Revolutiaonry Party (PSR) 68 Southern Russia, French military intervention in 162 sovets (councils) 40 Sovets of Deputies 49 Soviet Union 5, 6, 16, 26, 28, 30, 55, 60, 137, 251, 255 Soviet–Western relations 196–8 Ståhlberg, Kaarlo 129 Stakhovich, Mikhail 126 Stalinism 35, 204, 225 Stalin, Joseph 12, 13, 16, 20, 35, 209, 232, 246 State Archives of Tambov Oblast 256 state-building, violence and 34 Steering Committee 211 Steinberg, Mark 7 Sternberg, Ungern von 32 Stockholm Conference of the Second International 184 Stolypin, Pyotr 1 St. Petersburg cathedral 211 strike action (stachki) 42 Strygin, Aleksander 249 Stuchka, Ivanovich 44–5 “Sudeten Germans” 183 Sukhanov, Nikolay 209 Sukiennicki, Wiktor 4 Sulkevich, Matvey Aleksandrovich 89 Svinhufvud, Pehr Evind 123, 129–31 Swianiewicz, Stanisław 4–6, 9n6 Syrota, Roman 112 Szacka, Barbara 262n6 Szkice o totalitaryzmie 20 Tabouis, Georges 115 Taine, Hippolyte 208 Tambov 242, 262; anti-revolutionary turn (1991–1993) 245–8; anti-Soviet rebellion 242; centenary of October Revolution (2016–2017) 257–60; commemoration of revolution 260–1; Communists’ popularity 246; continuation (1999–2004) 252–3; cornerstone structure 253, 257–9, 258;

280 Index Day of Concord and Reconciliation 250–2; Green alternative 244; history 243; Kazan Monastery 243–4, 252; Lenin’s monument in 247, 248; October Revolution 242–5; Putin’s politics of memory (2004–2015) 254–7; rebellion 249; remembrance culture 243–4; urban space transformation 245; Vendée monument 248–50 Tambov Governorate 243, 244, 247, 252, 256, 257, 260 Tambov Museum of Natural History 256 Tambov Peasant statue 255–6, 261 Tambovskaya Pravda 246 Tambovskaya Zhizn 246, 250, 251 “Tambov Vendée: Peasants’ War in Tambov Region in 1920–1921” 256 Tambov Viceroyalty 243 “Ten Theses on Soviet Power” (Lenin) 49 Tereshchenko, Mikhail 112, 195, 196 Teschen 173, 175–7, 179 “Thaw” period (1961–1962) 246 Thiers, Adolphe 208 Third International 165 Thomas, Albert 159, 163 Thorne, Will 194 Three Whys Of The Russian Revolution (Pipes) The Times 197 Tyurikov, Dmitry 68, 244 Tocqueville, Alexis de 208 Torayevî 75 totalitarianism 4, 11, 12, 15–17, 21 Toynbee, Arnold J. 110 Treaty of Küçük Kaynarca 82 Treaty of Riga 168 Treaty of Tartu (1920) 132–3 Trocki 54–5 Trotsky, Leon 3, 100, 104, 161, 186 198, 209 Tsarevokokshaisk 73–5 Tsarism 96, 158 Tsereteli, Irakli 112 Tukhachevsky, Mikhail 255 “Two Tales” (Solzhenitsyn) 249 Tyrkova-Williams, Ariadna 31 Uchitel, Aleksey 212, 213, 220 Uebersberger, Hans 183 Ukraine 1917 revolution, Britain and 109; anti-Semitism 111; Bolsheviks military activities 114; Brest-Litovsk

peace treaty 117; British interest 109; conflict between Petrograd and Central Rada 111–12; Congress of the Peoples of Russia 113; Department of Information’s Intelligence Bureau 110; dismantling of Soviet monuments 206; Germans counterattack 112; Provisional Government’s agrarian programme 114; Ukrainian lobbying effort 110; Ukrainian People’s Republic 114–16 Ukrainian Constituent Assembly 111 Ukrainian Maidan protests 205, 254 Ukrainian National Congress 110–11 Ukrainian People’s Republic 114–16, 144 Ulyanov, Vladimir 100, 194 The Unfinished Revolution: Russia 1917–1967 (Deutscher) 6 United Russia (UR) 224, 227, 233, 253, 254, 256, 257 Unity Day 203, 224 Untimely Thoughts (Gorky) 18 UR see United Russia (UR) uyezd 64, 66, 67, 72, 73 VChK see All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution, Sabotage and Profiteering (VChK) VChK Ezhenedelnik 54 VCIOM see Russian Public Opinion Research Centre (VCIOM) Vendée monument 248–50, 255 “Victory Day” 254 Vienna 183, 194 Vienna Concert 174 violence 25, 35; Bolsheviks and peasantry 32–3; class struggles 26; crime rates 33; in eastern Europe 26–7; excisionary 28, 35; First World War and 28–9; historians explanations for 25; ideology as begetter of 30–1; ideology as vector of 35; “modernity school” on 28; popular 33–4; Red and White terror 31–2; Russian Civil War 25, 27–8; state-building and 34; warfare technologies 29–30 Vitan-Dubiejkovski, Lavon 96 Virta, Nikolay 249 Volga, spiralling prices 72 Volnaja Biełaruś 100, 102, 105 Volodin, Vyacheslav 227 volost 64, 65, 67, 72–4

Index Von Humanität durch Nationalität bis zur Bestialität 20 von Ludendorff, Erich 185 Vorobyov 247 Vyatka 63 ‘The Wall of Sorrow’ memorial site 225 “War Communism” (1921–1922) 55 warfare technologies, violence and 29–30 Weissberg-Cybulski, Aleksander 12 Weltbürgertum und Nationalstaat (Meinecke) 20 Werth, Nicolas 35 Weygand 167, 177 White Guard organisations 53 White Guards 127 Whites 29, 31–3 Wilhelm II 185 William II 191 Wilson, Woodrow 26, 160, 163, 166, 172–3 women 66; absence of, positions of power 67–8; Bolshevik 68; factory workforce 67; in volost and uyezd level committee 67

workers rights 42 “world revolution” 15 Woyniłłowicz, Edward 96, 97, 101 Yabloko party 226, 227, 229, 233, 236, 237 Yadrin 75 Yakovlev, Nikolay 209–10 Yavlinsky, Grigory 209, 233, 234 Yeltsin, Boris 246, 248–52 Yudenich, Nikolai 32 Yurev, Vladislav 255 Zajączkowski, A. 87 Zapolsky 74–5 Zaytseva, Margarita 260 Zdziechowski, Marian 4 zemstva 43 Zenkin, Sergey 223 Zenkovich, Pavel 222 Zhirinovsky, Vladimir 227 Zubarevich, Nataliya 243 Żyłunovič, Źmicier 96, 99 Żyrardów, war factories 147 Zyuganov, Gennady 231

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