Regime Changes in 20th Century Europe : Reassessed, Anticipated and in the Making [1 ed.] 9781443856133, 9781443899345

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Regime Changes in 20th Century Europe

Regime Changes in 20th Century Europe: Reassessed, Anticipated and in the Making Edited by

Marja Vuorinen, Tuomas Kuronen and Aki-Mauri Huhtinen

Regime Changes in 20th Century Europe: Reassessed, Anticipated and in the Making Edited by Marja Vuorinen, Tuomas Kuronen and Aki-Mauri Huhtinen This book first published 2016 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2016 by Marja Vuorinen, Tuomas Kuronen, Aki-Mauri Huhtinen and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-9934-8 ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-9934-5

CONTENTS

Introduction .............................................................................................. viii Regime Change as a Process Marja Vuorinen and Tuomas Kuronen Part I: The End of the Old World: World War I and After Chapter One ................................................................................................. 2 Grand Swedishness, Historical Mission, and Modes of Modern Progressive Thought: Swedes in Finland in 1918 Anne Hedén Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 24 The Story of a Failed Counter-Revolution: Joseph Roth’s Novel The Spider’s Web Heikki Länsisalo Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 49 Exception, Emergency, and Experiment in Late Imperial Newfoundland Stephen Crocker Part II: Preparations for World War II and the War Period Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 78 More Race, Less Character: The Image of Russians in German School Geography Textbooks, 1933-1943 Virpi Kivioja Chapter Five ............................................................................................ 101 Manipulating Collective Memory: Christmas in the Third Reich (1933-1945) Kaisa Hirvonen Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 133 Misery or Idyll? A Comparative Study on Finnish and German Propaganda Photographs Showing the Occupied Soviet Areas Olli Kleemola

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Part III: Preparations for Peace during World War II and the Ensuing Cold War Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 170 The US State Department’s Wartime Plans (1942-1945) for the Post-war Futures of Finland, Hungary and Romania Ohto Rintala Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 200 Balancing between Neutral Country Promotion and Cold War Propaganda: British and American Informational and Cultural Operations in Finland, 1944-1953 Marek Fields Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 234 Winners’ Histories Meet Historians’ Insights: The Introductions of the English Editions of the Goebbels Diaries Marja Vuorinen Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 263 Two become One? Visual Memories of Regime Change 1989/1990 in Germany Lucia Halder and Petra Mayrhofer Part IV: The Post-Soviet Period in Russia and Europe Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 290 Re-imagining the Primal Leader: Vladimir Putin and the Rhizomatic Emergence of the “New” Russian Leadership Tuomas Kuronen, Jouni Virtaharju and Aki-Mauri Huhtinen Chapter Twelve ....................................................................................... 321 Nation Building, Political Boundaries, and Cultural Authenticity: Post-Soviet Borderlands in Transformation Andrey Makarychev and Alexandra Yatsyk Chapter Thirteen ...................................................................................... 345 When Culture Becomes a Weapon: Culture as the New Tool of Russian Security Politics and Regime Consolidation Taru U. Takamaa

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Chapter Fourteen ..................................................................................... 370 Oligarchy in Transition? The Potential of Military Privatization in Early 21st Century Russia Niklas Eklund Conclusions: ............................................................................................ 398 Moment by Moment, or Moments in Retrospect? From the Tree to Rhizome – When a History is always Becoming .... 398 Aki-Mauri Huhtinen From Past to Present, to Future ........................................................ 404 Marja Vuorinen Contributors ............................................................................................. 415

INTRODUCTION REGIME CHANGE AS A PROCESS MARJA VUORINEN AND TUOMAS KURONEN

Narratives about regime changes as unique events are part and parcel of the traditional history of wars, empires and ruling houses. Attempted and successful changes of political regimes are central to the history of modern ideological movements. Theories concerning the revolutionary process include generalising ideas about the economic and demographic circumstances of the kind that are the most likely to produce insurgency, while the classical elite theorists vividly describe the formative path of rebellious counter-elites, followed by their internal division and eventual displacement by the next elite formation. In terms of scholarly genres, the concept of regime change is commonly applied in the fields of international relations and politics, security and military studies, along with critical studies of neo-colonialism. In the field of organizational and leadership studies, the term is rather rare – economics, finance, and international trade being the only notable exceptions. One could also argue that this coupling of power and sources of wealth is hardly incidental. Meanwhile, a generalising model of regime change as a process is still lacking. Instead of explaining individual regime changes as unique events, this book seeks to bring to the fore their recurring features – regardless of the type of regimes that are veered away from or the new regimes steered towards. In short, we hope to sketch an outline for a general theory of regime changes, describing their common preconditions and usual phases as well as the typical personages involved. In other words, we delve into the particulars in our effort to understand the general. To achieve this task, our book focusses on regime changes as series of moments in history, in essence open-ended while they are in the process of

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occurring. Such “changing times” often involve a heightened consciousness of the concept of time – of coming to terms with a particular past, while anticipating and working for a preferred future. A regime can be rejected only in the name of a better model, formulated either upon the memory of a more distant past re-imagined as a golden age, or as a brand new, unprecedented Utopia. Moreover, the new era often comes with a vengeance: a reckoning with – or at least a reassessment of – the institutions, practices and individuals representative of the old regime. * * * The editors of this book share an interest in the role of ideological forces in historical processes and the role of leaders in times of change. In her research, historian Marja Vuorinen focusses on conflicts between political elites, the interplay of enemy imagery vis-à-vis in-group identities, and the self-proclaiming rhetoric of progressive movements attacking nationalism and conservatism. For his part, Tuomas Kuronen is interested in the processes of knowing, research methods and their philosophical underpinnings, as well as leadership theories. Holding a PhD in strategic management and philosophy of science, in keeping with an interest in continental philosophy, his recent research includes the themes of aesthetics of knowledge, embodiment in learning, as well as human reasoning processes in organisational contexts. As a scholar, Aki-Mauri Huhtinen’s background is in theoretical philosophy and military science, with a particular emphasis on leadership and organisation studies. His publications have focussed on information, media, and hybrid and cyber warfare as strategic concepts of military leadership. He applies to his work methods from the humanities and social sciences, the discourse of knowing, semiotics and linguistic philosophy. It should also be noted that several academic networks formed within conference organisations have made it possible for this book to be published. The European Social Science History Conference (ESSHC), the Society for Phenomenology and Media, and the European Conference on Cyber Warfare and Security have proved invaluable in locating authors with promising research ideas and interesting topics to be developed into articles.

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The editors would also like to thank the anonymous reviewers for their constructive comments. * * * Rejecting both the antiquarian (past described for its own sake) and the ideologically motivated (past utilised for present-day political purposes) approach, the book aims at obtaining historical knowledge that can be useful in shaping present-day and future processes. Past developments are described in order to inform the present about what to expect – what typically happens in times of rapid ideological, political and/or military change. The past is utilised as a laboratory of precedents, similar enough to serve as test cases for present and anticipated near-future situations. The particular historical and present-day processes presented in the book are analysed both as unique occurrences, related to a particular era, and as test cases that offer insights into humans as social beings, motivated by ideological-political, economic, diplomatic and military motives. Some chapters are event oriented while others focus on the personality and/or image of a particular political leader. The meta-level theoretical contribution of the book, presented in the concluding articles, emerges from the general patterns revealed through analysing the individual processes of different (geo)political contexts and time periods. The definition of our focal concept – regime – is broad, ranging from actual, self-declared political regimes to ideological regimes constructed through research. Regime change is understood neutrally as a change in a prevailing political philosophy, brought about either by peaceful ideological development or violent revolutionary or military action, and often accompanied by a replacement of both ruling and political elites. To make sense of moments of rapid change, counterfactual “what if” or “what if not” questions also come in handy. On the one hand, there are times when past, present and future seem to flow freely into one another. On the other hand, however, there are times when a clean break with the past becomes the absolute precondition for any future, as well as times when the dissolution of a one-time potential future suddenly appears as a narrow escape. The inevitability of a process may seem obvious in hindsight, but not while it is still developing. We human beings are rarely able to see change from within as it happens. Aspects of time and space are inseparable from any social process, regime change included.

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* * * Regime changes may be set off by a clearly perceivable turning point, such as the beginnings of both World Wars, the Holocaust, the 9/11 terrorist attacks on New York and, most recently, the annexation of the Crimean Peninsula. Such moments of shock give rise to the development of new societal superstructures and intra-state alliances. They often call for charismatic leadership and give it space to flourish. On a more unofficial level, discontinuities in the social structures give rise to new “aristocracies”, for example in the form of an army unit, a political party, a paramilitary group, a new social class, a gang or clan-like formation. Legitimation for new modes of government is often sought by summoning national mythologies or other aspects of cultural heritage that appeal to the collective subconscious in a particular social, historical, and cultural context. The main focus of the individual chapters of this book is on 20th-century Europe, with extensions to the 21st century and to the developments in Euro-Atlantic relations. Regimes are studied from different perspectives along their life span, from the first emergence and establishment to eventual collapse or evanescence. Particular attention is paid to the ideological systems that contribute to their birth or destruction. It is fitting to note that ideological constructs regard themselves as the pinnacles of human development, with eternal consequences. True enough, in many cases they do change the course of history, at least locally. However, they also produce a narrative in which certain ideologies are presented as the “right” and “true” ones, creating order in the otherwise chaotic “jungle” of human existence. This makes the eventual collapse of a regime all the more painful – for the regime itself, as well as for everyone else affected. The geopolitical foci of the book are threefold. The actual events described in the contributions are set within a triangle of Finland, Germany and Russia. The division into centre and periphery, with the related local dynamics of expansion, is present in what might be termed the middle-size historical empires of northern Europe, namely Sweden, Germany and Russia – in its Imperial, Soviet, as well as Post-Soviet forms. The geopolitics of the post-war era is dominated by the emerging Cold War superpowers, the United States in close cooperation with the United

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Kingdom in the West, and the Soviet Union in the East. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Europe entered a new phase in international relations and politics. The unilateral dominance of the global superpower, the United States, led many observers to believe that neoliberal capitalism had won, and its victory would be inevitable. According to this view, it would only be a matter of time until the remaining strongholds of protectionism and authoritarianism would succumb to the new world order. However, not everyone believed this to be an historical necessity. Several power formations, the Kremlin included, view the logic of rule to be completely different from what the Western theorists of democracy and free-market capitalism envisioned. The past quarter of a century has witnessed a renaissance of authoritarianism, illiberalism, and nationalism – something the mainly Western critical voices cannot simply shrug off as boorish and anti-democratic. It is of the utmost importance to understand the processes that lead into the emergence of such regimes. In fact, old forms of organising and leadership have re-emerged. This is also the stage in which historical understanding becomes relevant. As human beings are fundamentally the same as before, historical awareness may provide us with insights that help us to understand not only the present, but also to make educated guesses regarding the future. In this vein, one should bear in mind, however, that history essentially does and does not repeat itself – old facets reappear, but never in the same way or in the same circumstances as previously. Those who attempt to align current events with historical developments are doomed to fail in terms of the content of change, while those ignorant of history will be taken by surprise in every sense.

The structure and subtopics of the book The book opens with World War I and its aftermath: the death of the old empires and the last phase of direct, state-controlled colonial rule. Part II describes the inter-war developments and their repercussions during the war years, focussing on a triangle formed by National Socialist Germany, Finland as its ally, and the emerging Soviet empire. Part III describes the British and US endeavour to create and maintain political balance in postwar mainland Europe, while actively managing the memory of the war that devastated Europe, until the collapse of the binary Cold War system. Part IV moves from post-Soviet to contemporary “post-post-Soviet” times, focussing on the former Eastern bloc with Russia as the special case. In the

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concluding chapter, editors Huhtinen and Vuorinen discuss the general themes that emerge from the individual articles. * * * By the end of World War I, the Austro-Hungarian and German empires had effectively ceased to exist, whereas the Russian empire was busy shedding its monarchist skin to re-emerge as Soviet Russia. In the last stages of the war, the conservative elites of the much-diminished Swedish empire had embarked on an eventually failed campaign to re-establish the former union with Finland. Meanwhile, the British Empire, although suffering from an enormous loss of life, remained a monarchy and maintained its overseas colonies. In turn, the old elites of the expired empires entertained ideas of a conservative revolution, abiding by the traditional elite duties of defending, leading and educating the populace. Focussing on the Swedish volunteers in the Finnish Civil War of 1918, Anne Hedén analyses the neo-Scandinavistic ideology and the warlike sentiments kindled among onlookers during the last stages of the Great War. Looking back to the pre-1809 era, when Finland was still part of Sweden, the Swedish activists hoped to re-establish what they saw as an organic unity of the two nations. Military nostalgia blended with GrandSwedish ideology (storsvenskhet) inspired them to embark on an imperialistic rescue mission. Their first task would be to defeat the Finnish Reds. Later, they would civilise and modernise Finland after a period of backward Russian rule, reinstating the superior Swedish cultural and organisational heritage. During the campaign, the original condescending rhetoric – depicting the Finnish-speaking population as culturally and socially inferior – gradually lost impetus, giving way to the general modernism, neutrality and maintenance of peace that constitute the current basis of Swedish self-awareness. Taking as his starting point a left-wing classic of the Weimar period, Joseph Roth’s novel The Spider’s Web (Das Spinnennetz, 1923), Heikki Länsisalo discusses the aftermath of the Great War from the point of view of the defeated German nations. Best known for his nostalgic portrayals of the Danubian Monarchy, the Austrian born Roth (1894-1939) started his career as a staunch leftist who shed his skin in the 1930s, becoming an anti-Nazi political reactionary. The Spider’s Web belongs to the early leftwing phase of his career. Set in a period of political turmoil, when the Nazis were a small faction among many others, the novel depicts a right-

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wing conspiracy to crush the republican Weimar government. Reflecting the political alliance between the decadent aristocracy, nostalgic for the Second German Empire, and the embittered young officers of middle-class background, the novel highlights their role in the slow decay of German democracy in the 1920s. Among the many undemocratic political experiments of the 1930s, the state-of-exception regime in Newfoundland, from 1933 to 1948, stands out as a curious instance of late colonial rule. Stephen Crocker analyses a process of political devolution – the suspension of the political rights of a former self-ruling community. Originally a European settlement dating back to the 17th century, the Newfoundland of the 1920s was a “white dominion” in the British Empire, with a national sovereignty similar to that of Canada, Australia and New Zealand. In a colonial setting, emergency powers could be invoked as a means of resolving a local crisis, for example in response to a pressing economic or military situation or a natural catastrophe which was impeding the political system from functioning – but also due to supposed problems in the character, morality and social conditions of a subject population. In Newfoundland, a series of economic crises related to the costs of war and the economic depression led the British to determine that the colony’s difficulties were rooted in deeper moral, sociological, geographical and climate-related problems, preventing the “normal” development of the civil society, the state and the colonial polity. As a result, the population, allegedly displaying “childlike simplicity” and much in need of moral education, were pronounced unable to run their own affairs. * * * Part II describes the path that led to World War II, with the focus on a geographical triangle formed by National Socialist Germany, Finland as its ally, and the emerging Soviet empire. In all quarters, preparing for war involved propagandist plans to justify both political takeover and military aggression. The crudest propaganda techniques, including the presentations of the “entitled” Self vis-à-vis the “undeserving” Other were most useful for the purposes of war, while the more subtle means of creating new traditions best served in first unifying an emergent ideological regime and then maintaining its hold over the minds of the people.

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During the 1930s, Germany’s political system underwent a total change of direction. The development of the Weimar republic was discontinued with the National Socialists’ rise to power in 1933. In the years that followed, the ideology of the National Socialist regime pervaded the whole society, including the school curricula. School textbooks became a key medium for educating the new generations about the superior German national identity, as well as the inferior nature of the country’s enemies. Virpi Kivioja analyses the image of Russians in German geography textbooks published between the years 1933 and 1943, modifying the older, traditional European negative portrayals of Russians by both addition and omission. The first truly National Socialist textbooks, featuring racial ideology and military-political propaganda, were published as late as 1939. Comparing the old and new sets of books, and the different editions, the chapter tracks the transition into a new political and ideological era. Kaisa Hirvonen analyses the establishment of National Socialist festival traditions through modifying the existing rituals. In the Third Reich, Christmas celebrations were reinterpreted with a nationalistic twist, introducing elements related to the national past and the shared wartime experiences, adding new meanings to the originally religious festivals. Even though the Nazi regime was essentially non-religious, at least in the traditional sense of the word, it was ready to exploit the Christian cycle of annual celebrations by manipulating them to serve political purposes. Christmas as the most popular of the seasonal festivals was the most lucrative in the eyes of the propagandists of the new regime. It offered an opportunity to strengthen the Nazi ideal of the family as a social unit, while simultaneously addressing each family member in a special way, offering the Hausfrau tips on how to cook and decorate the home in a national fashion, providing the children with Advent calendars complete with Nazi imagery, and later suggesting appropriate ways of commemorating the fallen family members during the wartime Christmases. With the outbreak of World War II in the autumn of 1939, Nazi Germany set up the Propagandakompanien, a special branch of the Wehrmacht, to be in charge of both domestic and foreign propaganda during the war. When Finland, along with the Germans, went to war against the Soviet Union in 1941, the Finnish military forces set up similar propaganda troops. Comparing the photographic materials produced by the two propaganda units, Olli Kleemola points out an essential difference. The German troops were mainly expected to provide evidence of the backwardness of the Russian people, in order to justify the occupation by

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“culturally superior” invading troops. Meanwhile, the Finnish troops were also expected to document the rural lifestyle and cultural traditions of Russian Karelia, an area that the ideologists of the Greater Finland movement saw as the birthplace of the Finnish language and national culture. While justifying the planned expansion of the Finnish territory eastward, the photographic material was also designed to spread the nationalistic idea that the Finns and the Karelian people were parts of one and the same nation, thus easing the establishment of a Finnish regime in the occupied territory. * * * The chapters in part III describe the formation, maintenance and eventual dissolution of the binary world system of the long post-war period, from the 1940s to the 1990s, seen through the political and propaganda activities of its key players. After the estrangement of the capitalist West from the communist East, the Western, Euro-Atlantic sphere gathered around the United States and Britain; meanwhile, the Soviet Union, together with a cluster of socialist sister nations, hedged in Eastern Europe. The essential regime changes of the period relate to the beginning and the end of the Cold War system, within the context of a global propaganda war and a struggle for influence between the two blocs. Ohto Rintala explores the American post-Stalingrad plans to create a new political balance on mainland Europe, through what proved to be a counterfactual scenario regarding the future status of three small states – Finland, Hungary and Romania. When the German army launched an attack against the Soviet Union in June 1941, the three countries had joined a coalition with Nazi Germany, while Britain, the United States and Stalin’s Soviet Union allied to oppose Hitler. The US State Department’s plans regarding the post-war futures of the three states concentrated on a series of regime changes, directed from the outside, aiming to ease their return to the flock after the eventual collapse of Nazi rule. Located on the fringes of Europe, the three states were in a geopolitically unstable position. It was in the interests of the United States to “normalise” these former enemy countries, and to re-integrate them into a post-war liberal Western world system. Exploring the British and American propaganda and cultural diplomacy in Finland during the first two decades of the Cold War, Marek Fields picks up where the previous chapter left off, albeit within more focussed scope.

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On the surface, the operations were aimed at promoting the Western culture and way of life. The actual main goal, however, was to disseminate anti-communist propaganda, through special radio broadcasts, films and TV programmes, informal cultural activities, the British Council network and the Fulbright exchange programme. In an exceptional environment, bordering the Soviet Union, the distribution of anti-communist propaganda through the often self-censoring local media would be a sensitive affair. Despite the popular resentment of the Soviet system, the two Western powers were constantly trying to find new ways to distribute their message to the masses, for example by economically supporting the anti-communist work of certain labour and other organisations, apparently to prevent Finland from going over to the Soviet side. The post-war propaganda effort on the British-American side included the active management of the memory of the previous war, especially as regards the notoriety of its main culprit, Germany. The discovery of a stash of mangled manuscripts, belonging to Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels, in occupied Berlin, proved to be a godsend. The first post-war translated edition of the Goebbels Diaries came out in 1948, in the aftermath of the Nuremberg trials. Other excerpts kept surfacing in both West and East Germany throughout the Cold War period, while the complete set of microfilmed diaries, deposited in a Moscow archive, came to light only in 1992. Marja Vuorinen analyses the prefaces of the English editions of the diaries, from 1948 to 1982, by British and US authors and publishers – ranging from the scandalised, accusatory 1940s texts, seasoned with occasional personal reminiscences, to the comprehensive academic analyses of Goebbels as a modern propagandist, to the disinterested post-Vietnam introductions. Fittingly, part III ends with an analysis of what was to become an iconic moment at the end of the Cold War. Lucia Halder and Petra Mayrhofer discuss the role of visual signals in commemorating the tearing down of the Berlin Wall and the eventual re-unification of Germany. The authors discuss the role of visuals in the formation of the sovereignty of interpretation over past events, as well as the regime change that followed. They build their argument on the work of Gerhard Paul who sees that photographs serve as vehicles for forming and superimposing history. This opens the space of interpretation not only for an unfolding regime change, but also for the retrospective battles over the sovereignty of interpretation. The collapse of the Berlin Wall was widely covered in the media, but also influenced by it. The authors analyse photographic material from West

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German newspapers and school textbooks around the year 2009, as they search for particular visual narratives and frames of visibility of the 1989/1990 regime change by examining the use and iconisation process of certain photographs. Moreover, the authors view this as a process of legitimising the reunification of Germany and thereby initiating the identification with the emergent “new” state of Federal Germany. * * * The final section of the book, part IV, takes the analysis in a completely different direction: towards understanding regime change through geopolitics, leadership and organisational studies. The dramatic changes that took place in the early 1990s initiated a political, social and economic shift towards the “Western” model. This change was not, however, permanent. In less than a decade after the collapse of the Soviet Union, the successor state of the Russian Federation emerged. At first, under the transitional leadership of Boris Yeltsin, Russia headed towards democracy and market-driven capitalism, a period which many commentators remember as an era of largely uncontrolled, overnight mass privatisation of Soviet national corporations, which resulted in the rise of the Russian nouveau riche, the oligarchs. These (often unscrupulous) businessmen would go on to exert considerable influence over the state as well as its citizens. The first chapter of part IV, authored by Tuomas Kuronen, Jouni Virtaharju, and Aki-Mauri Huhtinen, homes in on the leadership image of President Vladimir Putin. Through their “rhizomatic” approach, the writers analyse how the leader person, leadership style, and actions of Putin as a leader constitute and contribute to his leadership image. The authors build on a contextual understanding of leadership, a view in which leadership emerges from a particular social and historical context, rather than being an objective trait. They identify Putin as a “primal” leader, someone with a masculine and strong leadership style, as well as someone who acts in securing the geopolitical interests of Russia. This resonates well in the Russian context. More precisely, the authors ask why and how a leader image invites a variety of polarised readings, and what the leadership theoretical implications are of such heterogeneity in reading leadership. An intriguing detail, in the case of Putin, is the Western judgement of him as being unethical, something that goes against the Western ideals of democracy and shared leadership. Methodologically, the authors use narrative analysis in understanding scholarly and media texts

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on Putin’s leadership actions, events, and arguments. They conclude their chapter with a discussion concerning the “halo of leadership” as a phenomenon of amplification, whereby the polarised readings of Putin’s leadership oscillate in the rhizomatic network of geopolitical actors and the media sphere. Following on from this, Andrey Makarychev and Alexandra Yatsyk analyse today’s independent ex-Soviet borderlands (Ukraine, Georgia, and Estonia) of the Russian Federation. More precisely, they identify the cultural and social practices enabling their national identity narratives to emerge. The authors use in-depth expert interviews with policy activists, cultural entrepreneurs, analysts and governmental officers, conducted in Lviv (Ukraine), Tallinn, Tartu, and Narva (Estonia), and Tbilisi (Georgia). They construct illuminative case examples for each respective country in order to uncover cultural strategies for producing identity narratives against the neo-imperialist policies of Russia. They focus on the production of sporting and cultural mega-events that serve as the basis for understanding the countries’ identities – and their confrontation, which has recently gained more momentum than at any time since the fall of the Soviet Union. The authors track the development of the region after the early 1990s, especially in terms of the Russian trauma of its “lost” empire. They identify Russian existential and imperial impulses in civilisational, cultural, religious and linguistic terms, and how they contrast with the cultural forms and strategies that embody Ukrainian, Estonian and Georgian identities related to Europe. The authors build on the tradition of British cultural studies, combining constructivist, post-colonial, and poststructuralist approaches to identities, discourses, imageries, and the politics of representation. Building on the “securitisation” theory, Taru Takamaa focusses on Russian traditional culture as the most recent tool of the state security apparatus for the consolidation of the hegemony of the current regime. During the ongoing third presidency of Vladimir Putin, a new strategic document, The Fundamentals of State Cultural Policy, was signed by the president. This document lays the foundation of a broad, nationwide programme for bringing Russian traditional culture to the centre of society. Moreover, and more interestingly, the ruling elite of the country has resorted to security-related explanations of why culture is of such high importance for the state apparatus. This “discursive securitisation of culture” serves as one of the foundational theoretical viewpoints of this chapter. Unsurprisingly, the attention that the cultural sphere has received recently

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has resulted in the increased control of artistic expression, as well as active state support for such cultural acts and objects that align well with the current political objectives of the state. In addition to this, the current Kremlin regime has used culture as a justification for its military actions, highlighted by the 2014 annexation of the Crimean Peninsula. Niklas Eklund brings part IV to a close with his chapter on the privatisation of the Russian military. He argues that contemporary military thinking in Russia serves the purpose of strengthening the current regime by providing a conceptual and scientific base for its perceived independence. Unlike the integrative vision of the early 1990s, according to which Russia would adopt parliamentary democracy, the rule of law, and financial capitalism, the contemporary Russian regime embraces power politics and the use of military force in its borderlands. Whereas in the Soviet times, the military capabilities were centralised under the party command, the new Russian leadership has developed new forms of governing the state violence apparatus. Methodologically, this chapter draws on Russian military journals, focussing on the “crisis of military science” debate beginning in 2008. An additional analysis is conducted of public policy and law regarding military privatisation, the philosophy of science, and media commentary. Eklund argues that the simple, dichotomous understanding of the military and political domains of Russia is mistaken – contemporary Russian military thinkers cannot be meaningfully divided into “hawks” and “doves”, or “modernisers” and “traditionalists” for that matter. Moreover, innovation does not trickle down from the top of the regime. Instead, the 21st-century Russian military thinking is well aligned with the oligarchic politics and instrumental interpretations of globalisation. * * * In the concluding section of the book, Aki-Mauri Huhtinen and Marja Vuorinen discuss the themes presented in the articles on a more general level, attempting to weave the individual cases into a meaningful whole. They offer insights into the theoretical basis for understanding the moment as a concept, and about the constructs and narratives available for organising historical discontinuities. To give shape to the meta-level phenomena, they take as their starting point the moment as an idea, a concept and a metaphor.

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Aki-Mauri Huhtinen writes about the philosophy of living and acting in the moment: from one moment to the next, without knowing what the outcome will be. He challenges the usefulness of the Western Tree metaphor, representing growth and expansion essentially from one point onwards – the Tree of Life and the biblical Tree of Knowledge, family trees, and trees of more abstract genealogies, such as those of species, or of the sciences. In a religious world view, life is represented by a tree trunk emerging from the God system, while in the scientific model of evolution the tree trunk presents the original source of all life forms. All of this sounds safe, convenient and rational. Yet, as Huhtinen argues, at the core of these metaphors lies the idea of a permanent and unchangeable nature of reality. It presupposes a world of time periods with definite moments of beginning and ending. Guided by this model, we inevitably look for linear stories about the past. Focussing on the beginnings and the endings, we lose sight of the middle phase: the crossing lines of a living and changing situation. Instead of being selfevident, change itself becomes problematic, something that needs to be directed, managed and explained. The other option is to focus on the socalled ontological becoming process as developed by philosophers such as Heraclitus, Bergson and Heidegger – accepting continuous change as the very essence of Life. Change itself becomes a function of the entities, and the entities are the product of the change that is itself forever mutable. Marja Vuorinen writes about regime changes as they appear to an historian – seen from a point further in time, when we already know what actually happened and how it all turned out. Analysing the individual processes described in the chapters, she looks for recurring elements of regime change. These include political and military elites, looking to the past for inspiration; the allegedly legitimate expansionist tendencies of countries big and small; attempts by the Great Powers to organise the future affairs of an entire geopolitical arena; and attempted re-emergences of seemingly expired empires. Important beginnings and turning points can be recognised only in retrospect; so, too, the seemingly minor processes that eventually prove crucial. To grasp “historical” turning points as subjectively experienced, remembered realities, Vuorinen presents an array of established moment metaphors. Beginning with the Damascus Road moment of conversion and sacred devotion, she moves on to the Paris “moments of madness”, joyously celebrating a revolutionary dream come true – sometimes

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followed by the Kronstadt moment when a cherished ideology is irrevocably exposed as a monstrosity. To round off the sequence, she suggests a couple of novel metaphors of her own, hoping to create new insights into the events and processes that change(d) the world. * * * Ultimately, this volume is about understanding regime changes over the course of time. The book provides meaningful historical insights for those interested in historical processes per se, as well as for those embracing a more radical philosophical angle in understanding social evolution. What is in focus here is the changing nature of ideologies, identities, and social organisation, in other words – regimes. In sum, part I of the book traces the end of the empires in the chaos of the Great War. In part II, a more micro-historical approach is adopted in understanding contexts, by delving into the registers of the visual and the ritual. The visual register is also used at the end of part III, which brings to a close the study of the Cold War era in the book. The concluding part of the volume, part IV, could be termed post-sovietskoye in nature. It opens with an analysis of one of the most important charismatic leaders of our time, Vladimir Putin, and his leadership image. From there, more light is shed upon Russia’s neighbours, as well as the particular characteristics and dynamics of the contemporary Russian Federation and its current ruling regime. It should be noted that our treatment of regime changes is far from complete – it is merely a humble beginning. Our attempt in this book is to open historical and organisational enquiries into the topic of changing power formations, and understanding their enabling, contributing, and deteriorating mechanisms. Much work is still to be done in the field, particularly as the regime changes of the recent past are still lacking engaging accounts from these perspectives – Afghanistan 2001, Iraq 2003, and Ukraine 2014, to name just a few. Another case worth mentioning might be the ongoing (as of late spring 2016, at the time of writing) political turmoil in Brazil, as well as the upcoming presidential election in the United States, which will take place later in the year of this writing. These potential instances of regime change are of interest to many audiences, and should (and will for that matter) be written about at some point.

Regime Changes in 20th Century Europe

xxiii

As time unfolds and history repeats itself, we are bound to see old regimes fade and new ones emerge. What shape they will take, for the present remains unknown. What is known, however, is that humanity is not on its way towards a teleological objective or end – on a trajectory of development that would follow an inevitable path or an end-state. What could be seen in the not-too-distant future is a becoming of old forms and events in new guises, or something completely different. The eternal return shapes existence itself, and will overwhelm everyone, we self-centred human beings included.

PART I: THE END OF THE OLD WORLD: WORLD WAR I AND AFTER

CHAPTER ONE GRAND SWEDISHNESS, HISTORICAL MISSION, AND MODES OF MODERN PROGRESSIVE THOUGHT: SWEDES IN FINLAND IN 1918 ANNE HEDÉN

This chapter discusses the participation of Swedish volunteers in the Finnish Civil War in relation to their view of the position of Sweden in the changing Baltic region. When the war started in late January 1918, the Swedish bourgeois establishment, while loyal to the Swedish policy of neutrality, started a campaign for aid to the White side. A volunteer corps, the so-called Swedish Brigade, was organised. The Brigade’s anthem alluded to the high Swedish ideals and her memories of past grandeur – to a time, centuries past, when Sweden was regarded as a great military power and Finland was still a part of Sweden. Some groups within Finlands vänner (Friends of Finland), the association that organised Swedish support for White Finland, also nursed hopes of a SwedishFinnish reunification, or at least, the reunification of Sweden with Finland’s Åland islands (Flink 2004, 31; Andrae 1998, 157)1. These aspirations are often seen as expressions of a grand Swedish design aiming to return Sweden to her former glory. The concept of Grand Swedishness, also known as the Greater-Sweden ideology – storsvenskhet in Swedish – translates as an aggressive claim of Swedish interests, often military, in combination with a historical nostalgia for the old Swedish empire. The term is often used as a way of labelling conservative endeavours to get Sweden to join Germany in World War I, and of explaining the Swedish activists’ political aims in the Finnish Civil War. However, the notion that the patriotism of the Swedish Brigade and other Swedish volunteers in the Finnish Civil War consisted only of old school chauvinism is in itself something of an anachronistic interpretation of the Swedish history during the first two decades of the 20th century.

Swedes in Finland in 1918

3

Sweden: from Baltic empire to small-state neutrality In the early 17th century, the Swedish kingdom, to which Finland had belonged since the Middle Ages, became a dominant power in the Baltic Sea area. The rivals of Sweden on the shores of the Baltic were politically fractured. The Thirty Years’ War had given Sweden the possession of the northern parts of Germany. These areas were lost in the early 18th century. In 1809, during the Napoleonic wars, Finland was ceded to Imperial Russia. In 1814 Denmark was forced to cede Norway to Sweden, which was accepted in Norway only after a short Swedish-Norwegian military conflict. It has been pointed out that liberal Scandinavism continued to play a part in the Nordic cultural and social arenas and had a greater political impact than what has generally been assumed (Hillström and Sanders 2014, 14, 222). However, small state neutrality remained the ruling principle of Swedish foreign policy during most of the 19th century. After 1815, Sweden was neutral and its international role quite modest, in spite of some efforts to realise the Scandinavian visions of Sweden as one of the foremost countries in northern Europe. This began to change in the 1880s. The notion that Sweden should hold a leading position in the Nordic politics re-emerged in a more conservative guise, as a right-wing Swedish response to the intensifying Norwegian campaign against the Swedish-Norwegian Union (Norman 1996, 219). The dissolution of that union in 1905 became the starting point for a Swedish elitist reorientation that placed the historical tradition of Sweden as a great 17th-century power in a new setting (Sejersted 2005, 26). Meanwhile, the relative weakening of Russian military power during the early 20th century encouraged a new, more aggressive view of national security and defence in Swedish military circles (Åselius 1994, 408-409). Sweden, conservatives argued, should again assume the role of a great power in Northern Europe and the Baltic region due to its advanced economic and industrial status. These thoughts were mainly developed by activists who wished Sweden to become a unifying power in the Baltic area, gathering northern Germanic tribes to oppose “inferior races” in the East, in the way they saw Prussia as having been a driving force in the German unification process (Kihlberg and Söderlind 1961, 15). Up until the 1920s there were in fact plans being made on various Nordic

4

Chapter One

alliances and federations, mainly to improve the position of Sweden with regard to Russia (later the Soviet Union), where the vision of Sweden’s ascendancy was endorsed by activists and more moderate conservatives (Norman 1991, 329-330). It was thought that Sweden could provide military assistance to Finland, and use its cultural heritage to enlarge its territories, a view that achieved increasing support in Sweden during the last stages of World War I. This is to some extent at odds with the recent research that sees Sweden at the time as having gone through a reorientation process, which created a new self-awareness about Swedish neutrality that was connected with modernity and progressive thinking focussing on the maintenance of peace (Sturfelt 2012, 255). These somewhat contradictory standpoints – the will to expand Swedish territory, and the mentioned new peace-oriented self-awareness – have often been overshadowed in recent historical surveys by a narrative where progress, democratisation, and modernisation are central themes (see Hirdman, Björkman and Lundberg 2012, 38). In a similar manner, the Swedish activism in the Finnish Civil War, and the cruelties of this war, are generally regarded as part of an ugly past, closely linked to German-friendly right wing extremism (Koblik 1972, 16; Andersson 1991). However, it has been pointed out in recent research that activism in Sweden was more complex. More than just supporting Germany, there was an idea among the activists that Sweden and Finland, if joined together, could develop Sweden into a stronger regional power. The German support that the activists sought can be seen as a strategy for developing this regional power. The notion of a modern grand-Swedish community around the Baltic was also current in Estonia and in the Swedish-speaking parts of Finland (Kuldkepp 2014, 127).

Swedish activism and Finland in 1918 In 1918, Russia was still embroiled in World War I; the conflict in Finland was an offshoot of that war. The Russian Revolution had been triggered by losses against Germany. The chaotic political situation escalated into conflicts also in the Grand Duchy of Finland, then part of the Russian empire. Other contributing local factors were struggles between the workers’ movement and the conservative establishment during a period of intensifying unemployment, poverty, and even starvation (Ylikangas 1995, 24-26, 30; Roselius and Tepora 2014, 1-2).

Swedes in Finland in 1918

5

In early April 1918, German troops arrived in the south of Finland to assist the White side in the Civil War. By early May, the Whites had won. In May, General Gustav Mannerheim, the leading general in the Finnish White Army, led a victory parade through Helsinki (Meinander 2006, 151155). Prior to World War I, Swedish opinion-makers and elite military officers argued that if Sweden were menaced by Russian foreign policies the country should enter into a military alliance with Germany (Oredsson 1993, 257-258). These advocates included influential people in the fields of arts, culture and science. Among them were the explorer Sven Hedin and a group of officers who had recently started the Karolinska förbundet, an association for the study and commemoration of Charles XII and his 17th-century royal predecessors (Klinge 1988, 31). In 1915, a pamphlet entitled Sveriges utrikespolitik i världskrigets belysning (Swedish foreign policy in light of the World War) was published by a grouping of anonymous activists. Its authors, including sociologist Adrian Molin and political scientist Rudolf Kjellén, argued that Sweden should side with Germany in the war, which they reasoned was as much a war between cultures as a military conflict. In such a war they believed that Sweden and Germany should be on the same side. They urged an increase in Swedish armaments, a more active foreign policy and the expansion of Swedish territory to keep pace with other nations (Kihlberg and Söderlind1961, 13-15; Oredsson 1993, 259). This nostalgia for the old Swedish Empire entailed a revival of monarchical rule and anti-parliamentarianism, that is, the idea that the monarch should have more influence on policymaking and government, and that there should be an expansion of Swedish regional influence (Kihlberg and Söderlind 1961, 27, 52, 46). An important part of the activist world-view was the idea of the struggle of civilisations. In this struggle it fell to Sweden, as the leading power in the Baltic Sea region, to defend Western civilisation (ibid. 77; also Oredsson 1993, 262) A study of the activist publication Svenskt Lösen (Swedish Message), shows that quite prominent figures within the political establishment, including several liberals and even a few social democrats, supported the activist agenda (Kihlberg and Söderlind 1961, 31). Although Sweden was a neutral power, these groups were preparing a more aggressive foreign

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Chapter One

policy in the expected aftermath of World War I. Adrian Molin, one of their leading ideologues, argued that Sweden’s relationship to Germany should be marked by the mutual high esteem characteristic of brothers in arms, not by a vassal’s subordination (ibid. 14). Some activists even defined French and English democracies as exemplifying a new form of absolutism, in which the power of the monarch had been replaced by the power of the people. Germany, by comparison, was regarded as an enlightened and well-organised monarchy (ibid. 53). Most liberals and conservatives in Sweden were engaged with the issue of the emancipation of Finland from Russia. This development, beginning around 1900, was connected with an intensified activism in the Swedishspeaking parts of Finland, and increasing networking activities between Swedes and Swedish-speaking Finns (Sundberg 1985, 11; Klinge 1988, 226). On the other hand, at the end of 1917, Swedish political policymakers, conservative as well as liberal-socialist, were intent on adhering to a policy of neutrality, despite various invitations from Germany and also from Finnish activists to come to the rescue of Finland, and thereby join World War I on the side of the Central Powers (Kihlberg and Söderlind 1961, 13-14). The neutrality policy was, however, so interpreted as to enable the Swedish establishment to help White Finland in various ways during the Civil War in 1918. In January 1918, the Swedish organisation Finlands vänner (Friends of Finland) was founded in Stockholm with the financial support of the business sector. About 1100 volunteers from Sweden joined the Finnish White forces (of them approximately 500 saw combat), most of them in the Swedish Brigade. Swedish officers were allowed to take part in the Civil War, either in white Finnish regiments or in the Swedish Brigade. Some of these officers later published memoirs in which they usually idealised the Swedish Brigade’s contributions in 1918. Swedish businessmen also raised money to arm the Whites, and Swedish war ships supervised munitions consignments passing through Swedish territorial waters, as well as the movement of troop ships from Germany to Finland (Flink 2004, 27-28). However, the most important aid to White Finland came from Imperial Germany and its Baltic Sea Division, which remained in Finland until autumn 1918 and took an active part in reorganising the new Finnish army (ibid. 31, 38-39).

Swedes in Finland in 1918

7

In addition, a group of female Swedish veterinary orderlies and two veterinarians established a Red Star field hospital for sick and wounded army horses in Tampere (Hedén 2012). Two Swedish medical outfits from the Red Cross were also created (Flink 2004, 14; Janfelt 1999, 301, 306). The Swedish military attaché Henrik Lagerlöf (1918) also reported from Vasa and Helsinki beginning in the spring of 1918. In Sweden, the memory of a shared past and the romanticised notion of Sweden and Finland as an organic unit were utilised by the ideologues of the Swedish Brigade. The shared history of Sweden and Finland, as well as the historical nostalgia developed in relation to this shared history, seems to have been used to smooth the relations between the Finns and the Swedish volunteers. According to the diary entry of one member of the brigade, each volunteer in the Brigade received, a copy of Johan Ludvig Runeberg’s classic Fänrik Ståls sägner (The Stories of Ensign Steel), when leaving Finland. The officers received bound copies, the privates stapled facsimiles (Grönstrand, 63). The gifts were in recognition of the Swedish volunteers’ contribution to the Finnish Civil War. Runeberg’s epic poem in two volumes, published in 1848 and in 1860, was a commemoration of the veterans of the War of Finland, fought between Sweden and Russia in 1808-1809; after the war, Finland ceased to be a part of the Swedish realm and was incorporated into the Russian empire. Runeberg celebrates the Swedish and Finnish soldiers who fought bravely for their country, but also expresses sentiments of regret and anger at the Swedish mismanagement of the conflict, the weakness of the military command and the Swedish king who was eventually deposed as a consequence of the war (Runeberg 1935, 98-103; Klinge 1988, 88-89). Recent discussion on Runeberg’s degree of pragmatism towards the Russian domination does not alter the fact that Fänrik Ståls sägner was generally perceived as an expression of patriotism during the latter part of the 19th century, and seen as an appeal for the pursuit of independence (Klinge 2004, 325, 372; Stenström 2005, 450-55; Dybelius 2012, 34). Presenting copies of Fänrik Ståls sägner was a way of complimenting the Swedish volunteers of 1918 on their efforts and linking them to a shared past. It may also have been a subtle expression of White Finnish criticism of Sweden’s neutrality policy during the Great War and the fact that the Swedish government had refused to send regular troops to the aid of White Finland.

8

Chapter One

Swedish activism and its interpretation of history has been analysed primarily in terms of its influence in the political and academic sphere (Elvander 1961; Kilhberg and Söderlind 1961; Norman 2013). For this reason, the study of source material about the Swedes who participated in the Finnish Civil War in the spring of 1918, can clarify their notions of the importance of “Swedishness” to Finland, and of Sweden’s importance to Europe as a whole. The degree to which their discourse was determined by traditional Scandinavism or Grand Swedishness, the way they visualised post-war Sweden, the importance of the historical legacy to them, and their perception of the Finns and the German presence in Finland are all open questions. The Finnish Civil War and the way Swedes described it can be seen as catalysts for the perceptions of the Swedish national project in encounters with Finnish, German, and to some degree Russian nationalism. Prior research on Swedish volunteers in Finland gives a descriptive overview of Swedish activism on behalf of White Finland (Flink 2004). Some Swedish officers taking part in the conflict published memoirs in the 1920s where they generally idealised the Swedish Brigade’s contributions to Finland in 1918 (Westerlund 2004, 14). Other types of source material, not fully addressed, include letters from volunteers who wrote to their local newspapers at home, describing their experiences. Some wrote official reports and others kept private diaries of their experiences in Finland, fully aware that they were living through extraordinary times (Hedén 2014a-c). In this chapter, the historical nostalgia and the concept of Swedishness expressed by Swedish activists at the end of the World War I are used as starting points for an analysis of what has been labelled the concept of Grand Swedishness. The goal of the study is to arrive at a broader historical perspective than that preserved in the writings of elite Swedish officers, by examining how the Swedes in Finland in 1918 viewed their mission. The study is by no means comprehensive; it aims to point out, by some examples, the variety of standpoints, in this way motivating further research. The main sources to be examined include the war journal of a volunteer in the Swedish Brigade; the diary of a Swede serving as a regular officer in the newly-founded Finnish White Army; articles and notes by two female veterinary assistants in the Swedish Röda Stjärnan’s (Red Star; later Blå Stjärnan or Blue Star) field hospital for horses; a text published in 1919 by

Swedes in Finland in 1918

9

the male secretary of the same facility; and comments and reports of the Swedish military attaché on developments in Finland in 1918. In various ways, these sources relate to the image of Grand Swedishness that is expressed in the propaganda of the Swedish Brigade.

Carl-Gustav Grönstrand – military volunteer and fellow traveller The most common motivations of the Swedish volunteers were idealism, concern for relatives living in Finland, military career ambition (in the case of officers), and love of adventure (Flink 2004, 42). Carl-Gustaf Grönstrand, an engineer in his mid-forties, appears in the documents as a military version of what is today called “fellow traveller”. He seems to have been a part of the Swedish home guard (hemvärnet), as he writes about bringing his home guard equipment to Finland (Grönstrand, 1-2). In the records of the Swedish Brigade he is listed as a sergeant (furir), but his diary rarely shows that he actually exercised any command. Instead, he seems to have spent his time mostly as he pleased, taking time off when he wished, and seeking out more comfortable quarters to stay if he did not find those allotted to him suitable (see Grönstrand, 30, 35, 40). Grönstrand writes about the fighting in and around Tampere, as well as expeditions of the White troops into southern Finland towards the end of the war. He vividly describes how the volunteers would constantly forage for food and even resort to looting (ibid. 9, 25, 45-47, 56). In his opinion, the Reds were criminals; he writes that all the Red prisoners he encountered looked like crooks and villains (ibid. 4). He repeatedly recounts the stories of Red atrocities he hears about, such as the incident about a Red woman who concealed a revolver in her hand muff and shot a White officer, or the Red woman who cut the throat of a White officer while he was given a shave. The same stories occur in other volunteer narratives. In Grönstrand’s view, atrocities committed by the Reds, as recounted by other White force volunteers (or by German soldiers), justified any cruelties committed against the defeated (ibid. 23, 36, 54). The military competence of the Reds was an issue about which Grönstrand offers contradictory judgements. On the one hand he is surprised that the Reds shoot so well, yet on another occasion he concludes that they are mostly wasting their bullets (ibid. 39, 11). Mostly he describes the Finnish Reds as cowards, and in general also untidy. By contrast, Grönstrand praises the determination and persistence of the White Finns. However, he

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Chapter One

mentions that he, as well as other Swedish volunteers, distinguish between Swedish-speaking and Finnish-speaking Finns. Those who are Finnishspeaking are portrayed as slow-thinking and sluggish, which is said to lead to problems of communication on the battlefield. During a military operation, he lashes out at a neighbouring Finnish-speaking unit, kicking and hitting the Finns to make them understand in which direction they should aim their rifles (ibid. 2, 11, 19, 22-24, 39, 57). Swedish-speaking Finns, on the other hand, were comparatively civilised and grateful for Swedish support. He notes, however, that White Finns were generally more eager to execute captured opponents than were the Swedish Brigade volunteers. During the campaign in southern Finland some Jaegers (i.e. from a Finnish regiment that had been trained in Germany) had suggested that members of the Swedish Brigade should shoot a number of Red prisoners, but the Swedish volunteers had declined. On the other hand, Grönstrand sympathised with a German officer who said that when his troops encountered smaller groups of Reds, they just shot them on the spot (ibid. 20, 29f., 49, 54-55). Grönstrand places a disproportionate emphasis on the Swedish Brigade’s status as a role model for the Finns, especially in his narrative of the Battle of Tampere, when the Swedes’ courage, in his opinion, had a great impact on the Finnish troops. Courage, to him, is the foremost military quality. In his diary, Grönstrand repeatedly mentions the achievements of Charles XII as a benchmark for the volunteers in the Swedish Brigade (ibid. 19, 22-23, 33, 62), thus combining an imperialist, racist discourse with an image of the ideal, physically courageous warrior. The Swedish volunteers had a chance to demonstrate their physical and mental superiority already on the trains to the Finnish border, when Leftist agitators in the northern Swedish towns boarded the trains to distribute flyers and propaganda. Grönstrand writes that the agitators were very recalcitrant but that he and his friends managed, by acting resolutely, to prevent at least a minor group of volunteer recruits – three out of ten – from deserting (ibid. 2). The issue of physical courage appears also in stories written by other volunteers on their way to Finland. These narratives emphasise the necessity of subduing their enemies in the Swedish worker’s movement – the local branches of the social-democratic party, the left-wing socialists, and the syndicalists who were responsible for most of the domestic

Swedes in Finland in 1918

11

opposition to the Swedish Brigade. What these volunteers called Red resistance was encountered on the way to Haparanda and at the SwedishFinnish border. Their accounts describe how when Swedish leftists and agitators used violence, White volunteers were capable of defending themselves. (There is little independent evidence of the Swedish left resorting to violence, see Hedén 2014a). I would argue, with reference to Connell, that notions of the disciplining effects of violence were part of the idea of the civilised man as both imperialist and culturally and physically superior to the lower classes, and that this emerges as an important element in the volunteers’ narratives (Hedén 2014a; Connell 1995, 186).

Mauritz Petterson, Swedish transportation officer, and Finland as a future prospect Violence and courage constitute important themes in Grönstrand’s narrative. Another prominent theme in the volunteer narratives is the concept of modernisation. A Swedish volunteer in the Vasa Grenadier Regiment, transportation officer Mauritz Petterson, joins Grönstrand in the view that they are bringing the blessings of Sweden’s modern culture to Finland (Pettersson, passim). But, while Grönstrand considered Finns racially inferior to Swedes, Petterson has more moderate views. He believes that Swedes and Finns complement each other. Swedes think more quickly, but Finns are more tenacious. Petterson sees this difference mainly as a consequence of arrested social development rather than an issue of race. Nor does he fully share Grönstrand’s view on the relative merits of Swedish and Finnish soldiers. Finnish inferiority is mostly, in Petterson’s opinion, a result of the Finnish recruits being less educated than the Swedish. Where Grönstrand stresses courage as the most important aspect of soldiering, Petterson generally emphasises skill and qualified instruction. In comparison to Grönstrand’s more racist, even imperialist discourse, Petterson sees the Swedish superiority to the Finns as due to a higher level of training, which allowed the Swedes to fight from a stronger position. According to Petterson, this is why the Finns needed all the Swedish support they could get in their attempt to free themselves from Russia (Petterson, 7, 14-17, 74). Like Grönstrand, Petterson sees the Reds primarily as destructive forces in Finnish society; like Grönstrand, he relates second-hand accounts of Red atrocities as a rationalisation for the cruel treatment of the losing side by

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Chapter One

the Whites. On the other hand, he sometimes deplores the Reds, and stresses that the Red recruits may not always have freely chosen to join the Red Guards. According to him, the Reds fought valiantly to defend themselves but their scouting abilities were poor, as was their training in machine-gun warfare (ibid. 50, 37, 39, 43, 45, 71, 77, 81). Petterson differs further from Grönstrand in his sharp criticism of the White army’s incompetence and disorganisation. He is also increasingly ambivalent about the Germans, who at the time were looting their way through southern Finland. Petterson had originally been impressed with German military skill and discipline, but during the spring of 1918 he became more and more disillusioned. The thieving and bartering of the German soldiers was, in his opinion, no credit to the German army (ibid. 26, 31, 37, 78). Petterson also characterises the Swedish camp as a totally elitist society. Here, in his opinion, privileges were for the privileged. He is upset at the efforts made by Swedish commissioned officers to prevent the rise of lower-rank officers through Finland’s newly re-established military ranks. In his opinion, Finns should not emulate this type of bullying (ibid. 65, 80). Grönstrand as a volunteer in the Swedish Brigade took part in a gloryseeking mission, while Petterson’s criticism of the White army was legitimised by his and other Swedish officers’ position as trained military personnel who were trying to point out how useful they were to the Finns. In this way, their narratives tend to mirror their respective missions to Finland. However, even when their different agendas are taken into account, there is a great difference in the two narratives, the focus being on race, superiority and male courage in Grönstrand’s text while themes like training and education are more pronounced in Petterson’s text.

The Red Star women in Tampere: Sweden as an example As soon as the Finnish Civil War began, the Swedish Red Star’s central office looked into the possibilities of sending aid to Finland. The resultant mobile field hospital was financed by contributions from the business world, sanctioned by the Swedish armed forces and the Finnish government, and coordinated by the Swedish Red Star. A group of ten Red Star women joined this expedition as orderlies, a project which was followed with interest in the Swedish dailies (Hedén 2012, 305, 308).

Swedes in Finland in 1918

13

One of the orderlies, Signe Fryberg, wrote articles about the Tampere horse field hospital for Svenska Dagbladet and Stockholms Dagblad, both conservative daily newspapers. In her reports, one detects romantic nostalgia going back to the time when Sweden was a great military power. Her description of Finland in 1918 echoes the activists’ hope that Sweden would regain its former position. Fryberg also repeated propaganda about the cruelty of the Reds. For example, it was said that Tampere authorities forbade inhabitants to carry muffs for fear that Reds would conceal weapons in them. She also repeats the story of a waitress who shot White soldiers with a gun hidden under her serving tray (Fryberg, vol. Ö1). Another horse hospital assistant, Stina Linderdahl, kept a diary during her stay in Tampere. Her diary records stories similar to those in Signe Fryberg’s articles, but she expresses increasing scepticism towards the White propaganda later in the spring of 1918, even though without any significant criticism of the Whites (Linderdahl 1918/1993, 8, 11). The atrocity stories recur, as mentioned, also in the writings of other volunteers in the spring of 1918. Such stories, spread by the word of mouth, were usually attributed to people who had heard them from someone who had supposedly experienced the event oneself. These narratives would then appear in Swedish newspapers in the spring 1918 and in volunteers’ letters home that were often published in local newspapers. During April and May 1918 Linderdahl became more and more irritated with White officers who behaved violently, and even in some cases turned out to be crooks and opportunists (ibid. 25-26). However, her critique could be interpreted as reflecting the cautious emancipatory ambitions of the female orderlies rather than embarrassment over fellow compatriots. Interestingly, Fryberg’s interpretation of the Red Star’s and the Swedish Brigade’s struggles in Finland – as a reawakening of the past greatness of Sweden – did not harmonise with the Red Star’s organisational self-image. In 1918, that image depended more on the idea of Sweden as a significant force leading the way towards modernity and progress. In fact, Red Star ambulance secretary Dage Tenow and two Swedish veterinarians, Forsell and Danelius (taking turns in leading the work of the hospital), held a more updated version of “Grand Swedishness”, seeing the neutral Sweden as a herald of modernisation and humanitarianism. In Tenows’s opinion, Sweden could serve as a model for the belligerent countries, particularly when it came to organising hospital care for sick and wounded horses – a task where women could take part, using their motherly and feminine

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Chapter One

qualities to the best advantage. Veterinary care and the humane treatment of animals were seen as instilling modern virtues. According to Dage Tenow, the modernisation of Finland beckoned, and Sweden was prepared to step in to support the rational, commendably civic elements in this, not always an orderly process. Tenow supported what Sturfelt has called the progressive and future-oriented type of Swedish neutrality. It can be seen as a more modern version of the idea of Grand Swedishness, in this case directed towards maintaining peace rather than starting wars (Tenow 1919, 1, 9-10). Thus, the Red Star’s own historical narratives were dominated by the more modern view of Swedish greatness expressed by the field horse ambulance secretary and the two veterinarians. Within its in-house history, the Swedish Red Star placed its Finnish horse field ambulance expedition firmly in the narrative of Sweden as a role model for the new Finland while at the same time attesting to women’s ability to be veterinary orderlies (Zethelius 1919).

The military attaché and the role of Sweden in post-war Europe The Swedish military attaché, Henrik Lagerlöf, arrived in Finland at the end of the Civil War, in April 1918. His reports are dominated by a number of war-related themes, namely the development of a new Finnish army in which Swedes and Swedish-speaking officers were sidelined; the possibility of a conflict in Eastern Karelia; growing German influence in Finland; the troublesome issue of a possible future German monarchy in Finland; and speculations on Sweden’s position if Germany were to take over Finland completely. All of this was combined with concern for Sweden’s role in post-war Europe (Lagerlöf to the foreign department of the General Staff). The attaché took particular note of the relative inexperience of many Finnish army officers, especially among the Jaegers. He also remarked that the non-commissioned officers had too little military training. The rank and file in the new army were described as not entirely trustworthy, as some of the soldiers probably sympathised with the Red side. Regarding military equipment and arms, he pointed out that the acquisition of any new artillery or ammunition was not needed for the time being, as the Finnish army could equip whole new artillery regiments with weapons taken as spoils of war. The war bounty in total, according to his estimate,

Swedes in Finland in 1918

15

was worth 17.5 milliard Finnish marks, including the value of regimental buildings and fortresses (Lagerlöf to General Staff 23-24, 29 April, 1918). In June, Lagerlöf comments on the vast quantity of war material and military equipment that had been captured and which, in his opinion, the victors in the Civil War had not managed properly, so that it was now going to waste (Lagerlöf to General Staff, 24 June 1918). This may have been an exaggeration; the Swedish officer, Karl-Axel Bratt, writes that as a teacher at the Finnish War Academy in the early 1920s, he noticed that the Finnish Army during training had access to vast stockpiles of ammunition and weapons that had been abandoned by the Russians in Finland in 1918 (see Bratt, 24). In the middle of May, Lagerlöf gives an account of the Germanisation of the Finnish army’s organisation and of German-Finnish military cooperation. He discusses the possible outcomes of the decision that Finnish was to be the army’s principal language, allowing Swedish to be used only in Swedish-speaking units (Lagerlöf to General Staff, 11 May, 1918). According to Lagerlöf, this worsened the situation of the approximately seventy Swedish officers who had partaken in the Civil War not as volunteers in the Swedish Brigade, but through employment in the White army. Their contracts would run out on the first of July 1918. The Swedish officers demanded that their new contracts contain a pay raise in parity with their contribution during the spring of 1918. But Lagerlöf notes a few days later that “Finns in general were quite unaware of the contributions of the Swedish officers in the War of Liberation” (Lagerlöf to General Staff, 14 May, 1918). Without the Swedish officers, according to Lagerlöf, the Finnish army’s present level of organisation would have been impossible – the White army’s successful military operations during the Civil War could not have been achieved without the Swedish officers’ input. But now the fate of these officers in the Finnish army depended on the fate of General Mannerheim. If he were forced to resign his position as commander in chief, they would have to go too. Lagerlöf wrote of considerable agitation against Mannerheim (who had previously served in the imperial Russian army) among the Finnish-speaking officers. As the Swedish attaché, it was clear to him that an adequate military organisation in the Finnish army could be achieved only with help from abroad, and that the German assistance in this aspect had been significant. It was very likely, he reported, that the Finnish army was now being moulded into a German

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tool. Both Germany and Finland were dreaming of an expansion to the East, he wrote, and at this point they had obvious common interests, probably under German command. Lagerlöf was very critical of this orientation – a Finnish army under German control would not only undo the recently gained Finnish independence, but would also put Sweden in a more harmful position politically and militarily (Lagerlöf to General Staff, 14 May, 1918). Lagerlöf was mainly concerned with what can be termed the geopolitical aspects of the development in Finland, but he was also enthusiastic about Sweden as a power in Finland, something that is evident in his comments on Mannerheim’s victory parade in Helsinki, on 16 May, 1918. Lagerlöf mentions, in passing, how there had been a solemn, ceremonial atmosphere as the city’s middle-class inhabitants turned out to watch the parade. He then comments on the marching skills of the participating troops. The Ostrobothnian regiments, Swedish-speaking soldiers from the north-western coast of Finland, were probably the best soldiers, he concludes. The Finnish regiments, he notes, marched in the German manner, but the volunteers in the Swedish Brigade were, in his opinion, by far the most disciplined when it came to military drill. Half of the troops in the parade lacked proper uniforms, and the members of the Swedish Brigade were the worst off in this respect (Lagerlöf to General Staff 17 May, 1918). A week later, Lagerlöf records that although Mannerheim lavishly praised the Swedish officers and their work, it was now clear that German, not Swedish, officers had been invited to work as instructors in the Finnish army; Mannerheim himself was being replaced as commander-in-chief by Karl Wilkman (from 1919 Wilkama). The Swedish attaché was clearly not impressed. Wilkman, although a “solid personality,” hardly had the level of military education or the experience needed for the position. Furthermore, he advocated barring all Swedish-speaking officers from the Finnish armed forces (Lagerlöf to General Staff, 17, 22, 30 May, 1918). In addition to reporting that the Finnish nationalistic parties were usually antagonistic towards both the Swedes and the Swedish-speaking Finns, Lagerlöf explains that the reasons why the Germans had wanted to get rid of Mannerheim was that they thought he wanted to save the Russian monarchy, which was contrary to German interests. The Germans wanted Russia to be as weak as possible for as long as possible, which was why they preferred the Bolsheviks in power, something they hoped would lead to complete anarchy (Lagerlöf to General Staff, 7 June and 9-10 June 1918).

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It is evident that Lagerlöf was increasingly critical of the Germans. He tells, as a shameful example, the story of a German officer who wondered if Lagerlöf were interested in purchasing airplane-parts on behalf of the Swedish government – parts that the officer had acquired, probably as loot, during the final phases of the Civil War (Lagerlöf to General Staff, 5 June 1918). After midsummer Lagerlöf characterises the German Baltic Sea Division and its 12,000 soldiers as a motley crew of veterans who had expected something like a recreational trip to Finland, but had underestimated the resistance of the Reds. Lagerlöf stresses that it was really the White army’s Swedish-speaking troops that had rounded up the several thousand Reds who were taken prisoner at the battle of Lahti in May. The Baltic Sea Division had merely shown up and unfairly took credit for this action (Lagerlöf to General Staff, 26 June 1918). In July, the attaché returns to the subject of insufficient training in the Finnish army. He reports that the Jaeger officers were often placed in positions for which they had inadequate training. Lagerlöf refers to a conversation he had had with a high-ranking officer who deplored the disciplinary conditions in the Finnish army, and who also emphasised the importance of Swedish help, particularly in the early phases of the Civil War. Furthermore, it was, according to Lagerlöf, difficult to find suitable officers for the tribunals that were being organised in the summer of 1918, and which meted out harsh punishments for those who had participated on the Red side of the conflict (Lagerlöf to General Staff, 16-17 July 1918). Lagerlöf concluded that the Swedish officers really ought to remain in Finland, not least in order to safeguard Swedish interests, but their inability to speak fluent Finnish was a serious impediment. So was the general Finnish orientation towards Germany (Lagerlöf to General Staff 16 July, 1918). In October, Lagerlöf was informed that the organisational responsibility for the Finnish expeditions in Eastern Karelia was to be handed over to Jaeger captain Kuismala. The attaché describes him as “a proper Mongolian type, born in Finnish Karelia” and without military skills. Kuismala had squandered a force of 400 soldiers in Eastern Karelia without achieving anything substantial, Lagerlöf writes (Lagerlöf to General Staff, 10 October, 1918). In August, the attaché ascribed the German-Finnish alliance to the Finnish need for more land (Lagerlöf to General Staff, 23 August, 1918). In autumn 1918, when the war in Europe turned against the Germans, Lagerlöf noted a certain Finnish dissatisfaction with them. He writes that some people were actually hoping

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for Mannerheim’s return. Lagerlöf saw that as a possible opening for greater Swedish influence: But should Mannerheim now return, he would be forced to recruit aides from abroad, as there is no military personnel in Finland with the necessary ability and in that case it is possible that Sweden or Swedish officers would be turned to (Lagerlöf to General Staff, 10 October, 1918).

According to the attaché, when the Finnish parliament chose the German prince Friedrich Karl as regent of Finland, his acceptance had been uncertain. But at the dinner parties Lagerlöf attended, probably hosted by Swedish-speaking Finns, some guests were comparing Mannerheim to the 16th-century Swedish king Gustav Vasa – and asking themselves why a foreign prince was needed when there were more obvious candidates closer at hand (Lagerlöf to General Staff October 10, 21). In a 1991 essay, Torbjörn Norman, referring to the diary of Swedish mathematician and activist intellectual Gösta Mittag Leffler, mentions a royal Swedish candidate – Prince Wilhelm, a son of Gustaf V (see Norman 1991, 336). By the end of October, there were more definite rumours that Mannerheim was returning to Finland (Lagerlöf to General Staff 29 October, 1918). As we now know, neither Sweden nor Germany became a dominant power in Finland. Instead Finland became a buffer zone against Communist Russia. General elections in Finland were held in 1919, and a program of reforms was begun. Tenant farmers were given some land, and compulsory school attendance was introduced, along with freedom of expression and religion (Meinander 2006, 155-157; Klinge 2001, 119-121, 126).

Conclusions Evident in the Swedish Horse Ambulance secretary’s reports from Tampere, as well as in the volunteer officer Mauritz Petterson’s diary from the spring of 1918, is the notion that the Swedes, by the virtue of their advanced modern society, had a special mission to civilise Finland, which for so long had been held backward by Russia. In the reports of military attaché Henrik Lagerlöf it is possible to detect a distinct narrative within the nostalgic “Grand Swedishness” storytelling of the Swedish Brigade, where Sweden as a modern state with a modern army had an important task to fulfil in helping Finland. Inside the Grand Swedishness narrative there was also some imperialistic racism of the

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modern kind where the Finnish-speaking population was labelled as Asiatic and alien, as seen in both Grönstrand’s diary and in Lagerlöf’s reporting. The activists from Sweden – including the military attaché – doubted that the Finns could build a state on their own. The Swedes thought they could show them how to do it, by the example of their advanced society, organisational skills and the Swedish cultural tradition in Finland. When the Germans arrived in Finland and sidestepped the Swedish voluntary input in the White war effort, the view of Germany as the strong man of Europe became more ambiguous among the Swedes. It is noticeable that among the Swedes who supported the White side in Finland, the Grand Swedishness concept was imbued with a more modern agenda – not necessarily in a progressive way, but in the sense that the activists developed their rhetoric in a somewhat more modern direction. In the early 1920s Finland also established broader contacts with Sweden, and Swedish and Finnish military elites developed mutual networks where a shared view of possible threats from the Soviet Union was important (Ahlbäck 2012, 92). The idea of Swedish superiority seems not to have been the main motivating force behind the participation of Swedish officers in these networking activities. Perhaps this is because the Swedish-speaking minority in Finland lowered their profile. The democratisation process in Sweden may also have influenced the general outlook. Nevertheless, one of the Swedish officers, Karl-Axel Bratt, who worked at the Finnish War Academy in the early 1920s relates how Finns were not at all used to organised field exercises of the kind taught at the Swedish War Academy; rather, during the war of Liberation, they had learned to improvise during difficult circumstances. Nor did they pay much attention to mapping and scouting the border area around the Karelian Isthmus, something the Swedish teachers tried to rectify. Bratt even suggests that the Finnish progress in the Winter War of 1939 was due, in part, to the presence of Swedish military instructors in the Finnish War Academy in the early 1920s (Bratt, 23-27). The old school Grand Swedishness was now abandoned – but the authoritarian notion that Sweden had a special mission to fulfil in the international arena seems to have steadily established itself as an element of Swedish self-understanding.

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References Primary sources Bratt, Karl-Axel, En f.d. värmlandsofficer berättar, volym 2. Karl-Axel Bratts arkiv, Enskilda arkiv, Krigsarkivet (Swedish War Archive). Grönstrand, Carl-Gustaf. Grönstrands opus, volume 14. Svenska brigadens arkiv, Frivilliga i Finland. Krigsarkivet (Swedish War Archive). Lagerlöf, Henrik. 1918. Till Generalstabens utrikesavdelning. E1a, inkomna skrivelser Finland volym 1 1918. Generalstabens utrikesavdelning, Krigsarkivet (Swedish War Archive). Linderdahl, Stina. 1993. Stina Linderdahls dagbok från finska kriget 1918. Sundborn, Linderdahlska stift. Petterson, Mauritz. Dagboksanteckningar från mitt deltagande i Finlands frihetskrig.... Mauritz Petterson’s personal archive. Krigsarkivet (Swedish War Archive). Svenska Blå Stjärnan archive. Volume Ö1. Krigsarkivet (Swedish War Archive). Zethelius, Otto. 1919. Svenska Röda stjärnan och dess fredsverksamhet: fredsarbetets bärande grundvalar och Röda stjärnans betydelse för den veterinära sjukvården. Stockholm: Svenska Röda stjärnans centralbyrå.

Secondary sources Ahlbäck, Anders. 2012. Rapport från det militära samarbetets vardag – finska militärattachéers syn på Sverige och svensk-finsk militär samverkan 1924-1939, 91-117. Militärhistorisk tidskrift, 2011-2012. Andrae, Carl-Göran. 1998. Revolt eller reform: Sverige inför revolutionerna i Europa 1917–18. Stockholm: Carlsson. Åselius, Gunnar. 1994. The “Russian menace” to Sweden: the belief system of a small power security élite in the age of imperialism. Dissertation. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Connell, Raewyn. 1995. Masculinities. Berkeley: University of California Press. Dybelius, Anders. 2012. Ett hållbart minne? Historiebruk kring Georg Carl von Döbeln 1848-2009. Gothenburg: Historiska institutionen Göteborgs universitet. Ericson Wolke, Lars. 1996. Svenska frivilliga: militära uppdrag i utlandet under 1800- och 1900-talet. Lund: Historiska media.

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Flink, Ingvar. 2004. Svenska krigsförluster i Finland år 1918. In Norden och krigen i Finland och Baltikum åren 1918-1919. Edited by Lars Westerlund, 25-81. Helsinki: Statsrådets kansli. Hedén, Anne. 2012. The horse field ambulance in Tampere in 1918: Swedish Red Star women and the Finnish Civil War. In Scandinavia in the First World War: studies in the war experience of the Northern neutrals. Edited by Claes Ahlund, 305-326. Lund: Nordic Academic Press. —. 2014a. Belligerent and Polemical Masculinity: White Activists and the Labour Movement in Sweden and the Finnish Civil War, 1918. In Gender, War and Peace: Breaking up the Borderlines. Edited by Anders Ahlbäck and Fia Sundevall, 120-135. Rapporter till det 28 Nordiska historikermötet i Joensuu den 14-17 augusti 2014, vol 2. Joensuu. —. 2014b. Svensk Finlandsaktivism, militarism och moderniseringssträvanden i två svenska stridsberättelser från Finland 1918. In Methods, interventions and reflections: report from the X Nordic women’s and gender history conference in Bergen, August 9-12, 2012, 102-110. Edited by Ulla Manns and Fia Sundevall. Gothenburg: Makadam. —. 2014c. Swedes go east: Finland in 1918 and the Swedish encounters with German and Finnish nationalism. The Swedish influence in Finland as related in the reports of the Swedish military attaché. Unpublished paper at the European Social Science History Conference, Vienna. Hillström, Magdalena, and Hanne Sanders, editors. 2014. Skandinavism: en rörelse och en idé under 1800-talet. Gothenburg: Makadam. Hirdman, Yvonne, Jenny Björkman, and Urban Lundberg. 2012. Sveriges historia: 1920-1965. Stockholm: Norstedt. Hobson, Rolf, Tom Kristiansen, Nils-Arne Sörensen, and Gunnar Åselius. 2012. Introduction – Scandinavia in the First World War. In Scandinavia in the First World War: studies in the war experience of the Northern neutrals. Edited by Anders Ahlund, 9-56. Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Janfelt, Monika. 1999. Ambulanshjälp till Finland 1918: nordisk Röda kors-aktion mellan privat och offentlig nödhjälp. In Den privatoffentliga gränsen: det sociala arbetets strategier och aktörer i Norden 1860-1940. Edited by Monika Janfelt, and Tinne Vammen, 301-326. Copenhagen: Nordisk Ministerråd.

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Kihlberg, Mats, and Donald Söderlind. 1961. Två studier i svensk konservatism 1916-1922. Uppsala: Skrifter utgivna av Statsvetenskapliga föreningen i Uppsala, Almqvist & Wiksell. Klinge, Matti. 2004. Den politiske Runeberg, Stockholm: Atlantis, and Helsinki: Söderström. —. 1988. Från lojalism till rysshat. Stockholm: Ordfronts förlag. Koblik, Steven. 1972. Sweden: the neutral victor. Sweden and the Western powers 1917-1918: a study of Anglo-American-Swedish relations. Lund: Läromedelsförlagen. Kuldkepp, Mart. 2014. Sweden’s Historical Mission and World War I. A regionalist theory of Swedish activism. Scandinavian Journal of History 1. Meinander, Henrik. 2006. Finlands historia: linjer, strukturer, vändpunkter. Stockholm: Atlantis. Norman, Torbjörn. 1991. Right-wing Scandinavism and the Russian menace. In Contact or isolation? Soviet-Western relations in the interwar period. Symposium organized by the Centre for Baltic Studies, October 12-14, 1989. Edited by John Hiden and Aleksander Loit, 329-349. Stockholm: University of Stockholm. —. 1993. Ansiktet mot öster: svensk nationalism mot Nationernas förbund. In Väst möter öst. Edited by Max Engman, 201-224. Stockholm: Carlssons. Oredsson, Sverker. 1993. Stormaktsdrömmar och stridsiver: ett tema i svensk opinionsbildning och politik 1910-1942. Scandia 59, 257-296, 335-336. Runeberg, Johan Ludvig. 1935 (1849). Fänrik Ståls sägner. Stockholm: Bonnier. Sturfelt, Lina. 2012. The call of the blood. In Scandinavia in the First World War: studies in the war experience of the Northern neutrals. Edited by Claes Ahlund. Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Sundberg, Jan. 1985. Svenskhetens dilemma i Finland: finlandssvenskarnas samling och splittring under 1900-talet. Dissertation. Helsingfors: Finska vetenskapssocieteten. Sejersted, Francis. 2005. Socialdemokratins tidsålder: Sverige och Norge under 1900-talet. Nora: Nya Doxa. Westerlund, Lars. 2004. Norden och krigen i Finand och Baltikum åren 1918-1919. Litteraturöversikt och forskningsläge. In Norden och krigen i Finland och Baltikum åren 1918–1919. Edited by Lars Westerlund, 11-24. Helsingfors: Statsrådets kansli. Ylikangas, Heikki. 1995. Vägen till Tammerfors. Stockholm: Atlantis.

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Notes 1

For the lyrics to the Swedish Brigade’s march, see www.ra.se, Historier ur arkiven: Svenska brigaden i Finland 1918, accessed 13 March 2012.

CHAPTER TWO THE STORY OF A FAILED COUNTER-REVOLUTION: JOSEPH ROTH’S NOVEL THE SPIDER’S WEB HEIKKI LÄNSISALO

Joseph Roth’s (1894-1939) novel The Spider’s Web (Das Spinnennetz, 1923; translated by John Hoare in 1988) is one of the earliest literary descriptions of the nationalistic Right, which aimed to violently overthrow the Republic of Weimar. When the novel was published in 1923, Germanspeaking Central Europe was suffering from the consequences of the First World War. The German and Austrian empires had been shattered and their governing dynasties, the Hohenzollerns and the Habsburgs, had been forced into exile. Post-war Germany was plagued by political violence, since neither the Right nor the Left accepted the new-born republic. By 1923, the country had experienced a series of socialist uprisings, a military rebellion staged by the pre-war elite, and numerous political murders. Roth based his novel on these realities and was particularly concerned about the anti-republican right. When he was writing his novel, the reactionaries, who wanted to restore the Hohenzollern dynasty, posed the main threat to the republic, whereas the National Socialist movement had not yet gained national prominence. Roth’s novel depicts the three aspects of the nationalistic Right: its ideology, social organisation and political terror in practice. The book also depicts the tensions between the upper and lower classes and between “pure” Germans and Jews. This chapter analyses the way in which Roth portrays the counter-revolutionary worldview, the rising middle-class serving the old order and the social role of the Jews among the conservatives.

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Introduction: The left-wing work of a conservative author? The Jewish-born author Joseph Roth is best remembered as a wistful conservative who loathed the egalitarian societies that emerged after the First World War. His most famous works are the melancholy novels Radetzky March (Radetzkymarsch, 1932; translated by Joachim Neugroschel in 1932) and The Emperor’s Tomb (Die Kapuzinergruft, 1938; translated by John Hoare in 1984), depicting the downfall of the Austro-Hungarian aristocracy. Since Roth wrote both fiction and journalistic material, which eulogised the Danubian monarchy, he gained a reputation as an unrealistic reactionary unwilling to understand the social changes of the 20th century. Nevertheless, during the 1920s and early 1930s Roth was a staunch leftist who was fiercely opposed to attempts to restore pre-war order. The most openly political novel of his left-wing period was The Spider’s Web (Das Spinnennetz 1923; translated by John Hoare in 1988), a satirical depiction of German nationalistic conspirators who were determined to overthrow the Republic of Weimar. The novel is a portrait of a social parvenu who gets involved in numerous far-right plots and climbs up the social ladder with no sense of decency. Its protagonist is a young, lower middle-class man called Theodor Lohse who served in the imperial German army as a lieutenant in the First World War. A military career and social prestige, which he gained by belonging to the privileged officer caste, were the only highlights of his otherwise dull and mediocre life. At the beginning of The Spider’s Web, Lohse is an embittered war veteran filled with hatred for the Weimar Republic and the civilian politicians, whom he considers responsible for the German defeat. He makes his living by working as a private tutor in a rich Jewish family – a social humiliation for a man who once was “an officer and a gentleman”. He enlists in a nationalistic organisation, which occasionally helps the police to suppress left-wing subversives but mostly plots against the republic. He makes a brilliant career in underground politics and overcomes his middle- class social position by marrying the daughter of a Prussian aristocratic family. The Spider’s Web is one of Roth’s least appreciated works. Even the writer himself was probably dissatisfied with it, since he usually declined to mention it when discussing his literary career. According to his biographer David Bronsen, he claimed that his first novel was Hotel Savoy (Hotel

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Savoy, 1924; translated by John Hoare in 1986), a work published a year after The Spider’s Web (Bronsen 1974, 240). Despite this, The Spider’s Web became a seminal work of political fiction because of the moment it appeared. When it came out, Roth’s novel was serialised in the Austrian Arbeiter Zeitung in the autumn of 1923. Adolf Hitler (1889-1945) gained national prominence when he made his unsuccessful coup attempt in Munich on 8-9 November, 1923. The last chapters of Roth’s novel were published three days after that. Since the Second World War, Roth’s novel has been seen as an early reaction to the National Socialist threat. The book came to public attention as late as 1989 when Bernhard Wicki (1919-2000) directed a film based on it. The film, which starred notable German actors such as Armin MüllerStahl (born in 1930), Klaus Maria Brandauer (born in 1943) and Ulrich Mühe (1953-2007), was widely appreciated by critics. Wicki’s film simplified the political message of the novel. It presented Lohse and his fellow conspirators as collaborators in the rising Nazi movement. However, when Roth was writing his novel, at the end of 1922, National Socialism did not seem to pose the main threat to the republic. The most dynamic modern forces of the European extreme right, namely National Socialism and Italian Fascism, had not demonstrated their full might. Benito Mussolini (1883-1945) had become Italian prime minister in 1922 but he showed at least some respect for parliamentary rules during the first two years of his government. The harshest dictator of the time was Miklos Horthy (1868-1957), the arch-reactionary admiral who ruled Hungary as a regent and acted as if his country were still a monarchy. He moderated his rule in the 1930s and was toppled in a coup in 1944. Meanwhile in Germany, Hitler’s unsuccessful, albeit highly conspicuous coup had not yet taken place. In this phase, Nazism was primarily concentrated in Southern Germany (Kershaw 2001, 171). Karl Dietrich Bracher, an expert on the political processes of the Weimar Republic, emphasises that Hitler was able to make his political breakthrough after the political crisis of 1923. His failed coup was particularly instrumental in boosting his fame (Bracher 1970, 135). During the time when most chapters of Roth’s book were published, Germany had experienced a different kind of right-wing terror: at least two dramatic political murders and one military rebellion led by the representatives of the former wartime elite. Mathias Erzberger (1875-

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1921), a politician of the Roman Catholic Centre Party (Zentrumspartei), was murdered in 1921 because he had signed the armistice of 1918. Walter Rathenau (1867-1922), the Jewish Minister of Foreign Affairs, was assassinated in 1921, since nationalists accused him of accepting the terms of the Treaty of Versailles, which ended the role of Germany as one of the world powers. The murders of Erzberger and Rathenau were not seen as coup attempts, but rather as acts of revenge against politicians who were accused of un-patriotic behaviour. The most serious threat against the republic had been an abortive coup led by a prominent industrialist, Wolfgang Kapp (1858-1922), and General Walther von Lüttwitz (1859-1942). Kapp and Lüttwitz failed because only a small contingent of the army was willing to support them. However, their attempt demonstrated that the traditional industrial and military elites were not loyal to the democratic government. In his novel The Spider’s Web Roth attacked extreme nationalism, but not Nazism per se. Rather, the conspirators represent the wartime conservatism, which manifested itself again in the attempted coup by Kapp and Lüttwitz. This chapter analyses the way in which Roth describes the relationship between German monarchist conservatives and the rising nationalistic middle-class in The Spider’s Web. I compare this left-wing novel with his later works, which were ideologically more conservative. Excepting the short quotation from Bracher (1970), all translations from German are mine.

The shock of the First World War A large part of Joseph Roth’s literary work addressed the decline of the Danubian Monarchy and the collapse of the old empires after the First World War. The writer was born in Brody, a small town situated in the present-day Ukraine. He spent his boyhood as a member of a clannish community of East European Jews. He abandoned his Jewish heritage and adopted Western culture when he was studying philosophy and literature in Vienna, the cosmopolitan capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. During his entire adult life he had two conflicting cultural heritages: that of East European Jews and that of cosmopolitan Austrians (see Müller Funk 1989, 36-37). His fellow writer Hermann Kesten (1900-1996) emphasised that Roth was influenced not only by German and Austrian literature but also by Russian writers, such as Tolstoy and Gogol, and by French paragons, such as Flaubert and Stendahl (Kesten 1949, 20).

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Roth volunteered in the First World War since he felt himself primarily an Austrian despite being a Jew. After returning from the front, Roth did not recognise his former fatherland. Austria was no longer a cosmopolitan empire but a small, provincial republic. In 1920, the writer moved to Germany, a country which had experienced even worse humiliation after the war than Austria. The emotional and social effects of the First World War are central themes in Joseph Roth’s fiction. The Spider’s Web, his first work, depicts the bitterness of German nationalists. His second novel Hotel Savoy describes the feelings of rootlessness caused by the war. It takes place in a hotel located in the present-day Poland. The hotel has a variety of customers who have lost their homes, families or social standing because of the war. Roth’s international breakthrough, the novel Radetzky March, appeared approximately ten years later in 1934. It describes three generations of an ennobled family and binds the story together with the decline of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy. The novel begins during the battle of Solferino, which was one of the many military defeats that Emperor Francis Joseph (1830-1916) suffered during his almost 70-year reign. After the battle, a young lieutenant named Trotta is elevated to the status of a nobleman because he is falsely thought to have saved the emperor’s life. Trotta is a man of modest origins who never feels comfortable in his new position as a baron and dislikes the legend about his heroism. The novel ends shortly before the beginning of the First World War. Trotta’s sensitive grandson has ended up a cavalry officer who has made a mediocre military career and has become disillusioned with the weakening monarchy. In The Emperor’s Tomb Roth wanted to show how the First World War brutalised the formerly civilised and cosmopolitan Austria. Its protagonist is an officer who returns from the First World War and is shocked by the post-war reality, especially by the success of the Austrian National Socialists. The novel ends with his desperate wish to flee into the crypt of the Capuchin Church of Vienna, where most of the Austrian monarchs were buried.

From a left-winger to an anti-Fascist conservative Although Roth is often labelled as a backward-looking aesthete, he was an active commentator on acute political matters throughout his whole career.

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In the 1920s, he earned his living by writing for left-wing newspapers. His articles were published mainly in Neue Berliner Zeitung, 12-Uhr-Blatt, Frankfurter Zeitung and Prager Tageblatt (see Koester 1982, 31). He was not a socialist even though he sometimes used the pseudonym “der rote Joseph” (“The red Joseph”). He was an unsystematic thinker who felt sentimental sympathy for the poor and the oppressed. According to Uwe Schweikert, who has analysed Roth’s political journalism of the early 1920s, the author’s most consistent opinion at that time was repulsion against nationalism, clericalism and the monarchy (Schweikert 1974, 44). Roth’s political thinking turned conservative after Hitler seized power in Germany in 1933. He was appalled by the weakness and defencelessness of the German democratic politicians in the face of the Nazis. He began to believe that only old-fashioned, hierarchical societies were able to prevent Fascist or National Socialist agitators from gaining support. Roth’s conversion to conservatism was not a typical case of political apostasy. Cultural historian Martha Wörsching points out that he regarded his leftism as an ordinary mistake of youth instead of denouncing his former convictions (Wörsching 1974, 90). Monarchism was the main feature of Roth’s conservatism. He claimed that monarchs could suppress people’s lowest instincts, which fascists tried to exploit. He wrote that notorious fascist politicians, Léon Degrelle (19061994) of Belgium, Anton Mussert (1894-1946) of the Netherlands and Sir Oswald Mosley (1896-1980) of the United Kingdom, had not gained power for the very reason that their countries were monarchies. The author claimed that ordinary people felt childlike respect for kings and emperors: Even though ordinary people can be misled as easily as little children, like Little Red Riding Hood in the fairy tale, they have simple and dependable instincts in decisive situations. [..] The people do not shun genuine laurel wreaths, although it may seem so. And they respect the crown, the sceptre and the throne much more than is generally thought. Therefore the likes of Degrelle, Mussert and Mosley have won in republics, but in monarchies they have been vanquished (Roth 1937/1994, 767).

Roth became increasingly nostalgic for his former homeland AustriaHungary when he was living in exile in Paris. He socialised with Austrian monarchists, the most notable of whom was Otto von Habsburg (19122011), the last crown prince of the Danubian Empire. Roth’s monarchism was not a coherent political ideology. It was a sentimental longing for the harmonious world order that existed before the First World War.

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The writer defined himself as an Austrian legitimist, a person who saw the former governing dynasty as the only rightful holder of power. Therefore he attacked Engelbert Dollfuß (1892-1934), the conservative chancellor of Austria, who called himself a Christian socialist. Dollfuß was a moderately authoritarian dictator, whose main aim was to keep Austria outside of the sphere of German influence. His ideology was based on Roman Catholicism and the conservative values of the Austrian countryside. He wanted to suppress both Austrian Nazis and communists. Even some Western liberals approved of him, since he was a lesser evil than Hitler. Roth loathed Dollfuß and disliked his successor Kurt von Schuschnigg (1897-1977) because he saw them as obstacles to the return of the Habsburg monarchy. He claimed that they had destroyed the imperial identity of Austria and reduced the country to “just another German state’” (Roth 1938/1994, 818). The author was convinced that only identity as a great power could unify the Austrian people against the German threat. When Germany wanted to annex Austria in 1938, Roth pleaded with Schuschnigg to step down in order to make Otto von Habsburg the chancellor of Austria. A year before he had written: “If the Austrian people do not want a dictator, may they declare now: Long live Emperor Otto” (Roth 1937/1994, 767).

Cosmopolitan Austria vs. xenophobic Germany Joseph Roth admired Austria-Hungary for its cosmopolitanism. In the conservative phase of his career, he regarded nationalism as one of the distasteful side effects of the French Revolution because it had destroyed the God-given unity of the old multi-ethnic empires. His attitude became clear in his short story The Bust of the Emperor (Die Büste des Kaisers, 1935; translated by Michael Hoffman in 2003), a melancholy but humorous tale of a count who refuses to accept the new national states created after the First World War. The old nobleman lives in the former Austrian territory which has been annexed by Poland. He starts a hopeless struggle against the Polish authorities, who want to demolish the statue of Francis Joseph. The narrator characterises the nationalists as a bunch of mediocre people “who form the most vulgar stratum of a modern nation” (Roth 1935/1994, 660). Roth combines his distaste for nationalism with elitism. When describing the social background of xenophobic nationalists, the narrator does not hide his social snobbery:

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They were usually photographers, who had a secondary occupation in the voluntary fire brigade; so-called artists who had lacked the talent to enter the academy of fine arts and ended up painting street signs and pasting wallpaper; frustrated primary school teachers who would have wanted to teach in grammar school; pharmacist’s helpers who would have liked to be doctors; dental technicians who were too untalented to be dentists; lower civil servants of the general post office and railway; bank tellers; forest foremen (Roth 1934/1994, 660-661).

Roth saw Austria-Hungary as the archetypal tolerant society. From his point of view it represented humane values, which had been forgotten after the First World War. He didn’t even mock the pompous features of the Austro-Hungarian upper-class in his works. For instance, the old count described in The Bust of the Emperor is a sympathetic and respect-worthy character although the narrator makes fun of his devout veneration of Francis Joseph. The author also harboured an almost irrational repulsion for the former wartime ally of Austria, the Second German Empire led by the Prussian Hohenzollern dynasty, since he thought that Germany had been Austria’s most threatening rival at the end of the 19th century. Throughout his career, Joseph Roth saw the imperial Germany as the antithesis of his beloved Danubian monarchy. Roth was not the only Austrian author who had a negative attitude towards the German Empire. Even Bruno Brehm (1892-1974), who later supported the Austrian Nazis, felt nothing more than lukewarm sympathy towards the German monarchy. Roth wrote about the difference between the German and Austrian monarchies in his last article Rede über den alten Kaiser (Speech over the Old Emperor, 1939), the eulogy of Francis Joseph. He praised the Austrian emperor for opposing “the plebeian megalomania of the Hohenzollerns” (Roth 1939/1994, 943). According to Roth, the German empire created by Prince Otto von Bismarck (1815-1898) represented aggressive nationalism and crude militarism, which conflicted with the civilised Austrian spirit (Roth 1939/1994, 943-944). Even though Roth’s ideology shifted from Left to Right, at least two of his political opinions remained the same. Firstly, he never had anything negative to say about the Austro-Hungarian monarchy. Secondly, he disliked Germany regardless of its form of government. He always loathed Nazi Germany, strongly disliked the Second Empire, and had a rather low opinion of the Republic of Weimar.

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Left-wing critique of the Weimar Republic The Spider’s Web addresses the actual questions more openly than Roth’s other fictional works. It considers many of the same subjects he discussed in his political journalism. His distaste for German nationalism is especially evident in the book. The novel is classified as one of the numerous books that paint a negative portrait of the Republic of Weimar. The republic pleased neither the radical Right nor the radical Left. Hardline nationalists saw the republic as the result of humiliating military defeat, which they deemed to be caused by treacherous civilian politicians. Communists and left-wing social democrats displayed only weak loyalty towards the republic, since its political culture did not differ sufficiently from the empire. President Friedrich Ebert (1871-1925) was a moderate social democrat who had forced his party to back the German war effort. In the republic, he was dubbed “the red emperor” (“der rote Kaiser”) because he was a stereotypical politician of the imperial era. The writers who were hostile to the republic can be roughly classified into three categories: traditional reactionaries, radical nationalists and various kinds of leftists. The overtly conservative authors, such as Joachim von der Goltz (1892-1972) and Walther von Molo (1880-1958), described the former military glory of Prussia in order to make their readers recognise the shameful state of the post-war republic. The radical nationalistic authors, such as Ernst Jünger (1895-1998) and Ernst von Salomon (19021972), loathed the republic but had little sympathy for the imperial society, which they considered petit bourgeois. The leftist writers usually criticised the social inequality of the post-war years. Openly communist writers, such as the poet Erich Weinert (1890-1953), dedicated themselves to the proletariat cause. Roth, on the contrary, felt no particular affinity for the working class, although he proclaimed himself a left-winger. Some commentators, such as American literary scholar Sidney Rosenfeld, claim that The Spider’s Web as well as Roth’s other early works have thematic connections to the New Objectivity (die Neue Sachlichkeit, see Rosenfeld 2001, 28-29). The New Objectivity was an artistic, architectonic and literary movement that was regarded as a counter-reaction to Expressionism. Its representatives aimed at realism and a plain style and stressed social problems.

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The writers who represented the New Objectivity often describe the First World War, the problems of post-war society, or the threat posed by authoritarian political systems. Alfred Döblin (1878-1957) depicted the criminal low-life and the rising National Socialism in his famous novel Berlin Alexanderplatz (Berlin Alexanderplatz, 1929; translated by Eugene Jolas in 1961). Rudolf Ditzen (1893-1947), who used the pseudonym Hans Fallada, focussed on the plight of the impoverished white-collar workers. Roth never defined himself as a representative of the New Objectivity. He even wrote a pamphlet against that literary movement in the early thirties. According to him, “[for the representative of the New Objectivity] literature is a mere ancillary science of history, the propaganda instrument of the idea” (Roth 1930/1994, 159). Roth claimed that a typical writer who believed in the principles of the New Objectivity was over-confident about his own veracity, and compared him to a photographer who believes that his photograph is more real than its subject (Roth 1930/1994, 153-154).

The satire of the imperial mentality Roth does not aim at documentary realism, not even in The Spider’s Web, even though it deals with the poverty and social inequality of the early days in Weimar Germany, which were themes typical of the New Objectivity. The characters in the novel would be better suited to the imperial period than to the Republic of Weimar. Roth is clearly influenced by older literature hostile to the Second Empire, especially by the works of the left-wing liberal author Heinrich Mann (1871-1950), the elder brother of Thomas Mann (1875-1955). Heinrich Mann is best remembered outside German-speaking countries for just one thing, Josef von Sternberg’s classic film The Blue Angel (Der Blaue Engel, 1930), starring Marlene Dietrich (1901-1992) and Emil Jannings (1884-1950). It was based on Mann’s novel Small Town Tyrant (Professor Unrat 1905; translated by Ernest Boyd in 1994). The novel and the film describe a despotic teacher who loses his work and social standing when he lets a cynical cabaret dancer seduce him. Heinrich Mann was the leading social critic of Germany in the early 20th century. His most sensational work was the novel The Loyal Subject (Der Untertan, 1918; translated by Helmut Peitsch in 1984). It offended the sensibilities of the German bourgeoisie as late as the 1950s. When the East German production company DEFA hired Wolfgang Staudte (1906-1984)

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to filmatise it in 1951, the film was forbidden in the German Federal Republic. The Loyal Subject is a scornful depiction of a pompous member of the bourgeoisie, who respects the authorities unquestioningly. The protagonist is a middle-aged factory owner called Diederich Heßling, a fanatical admirer of the militaristic Emperor Wilhelm II (1859-1941). Heßling is portrayed as an archetypal authoritarian created by the imperial German society. He is disloyal to his friends even though he pontificates about comradeship when talking about nationalistic virtues. Joseph Roth’s main character Theodor Lohse is in many respects a younger version of Diederich Heßling. He represents the same kind of sanctimonious patriotism as Mann’s protagonist, equating morality with obedience. He professes to believe that national solidarity is a holy virtue but he is callous and treacherous even to his former comrades in arms. For example, he falsely accuses his wartime friend of communism and arranges for him to be murdered in order to prove his own anti-communist sentiments to his superiors in the far-right organisation he has joined (Roth 1923a/1994, 89-91).

Degenerate elite and nationalistic middle class At the beginning of the 1920s, Roth was convinced that the reactionary elite, who wanted to restore the imperial-style society, posed the main threat to the Weimar Republic. His attitude becomes clear in the novel The Spider’s Web. The villains of the novel are plotting to substitute the hierarchical old-style society for the democratic republic. The book describes the fictional far-right organisation “S II”; the reader is not told what the abbreviation stands for. It is loosely based on a real-life nationalistic group called Organisation Consul, which was responsible for the murders of Mathias Erzberger and Walther Rathenau. In the book, S II not only conspires against the republic, it also offers its services to the members of the pre-war elite by sending strike-breakers to help Prussian landowners who refuse to pay decent wages to their workers. Roth presents an ambivalent picture of the relationship between the social classes on the German extreme Right. He portrays nationalistic terrorists as simple-minded philistines serving the old ruling class. On the other hand, he is given to understand that the fiercely nationalistic middle class is slowly displacing the hereditary aristocracy.

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The book is at times irritatingly repetitive due to the fact that it was originally serialised. As a result, its protagonist Lohse almost became a cliché-ridden example of the negative character traits that were associated with the mentality of the German empire outside the country. At the beginning of the novel, Lohse is depicted as a blindly obedient, mediocre citizen who longs for the strict order of the army. In his childhood and teenage years he succeeded at school only because he compensated for his lack of talent by working hard. His short military career was successful not because of his courage or intellect but because of his obedience. He was promoted only because he was able to endure even the most humiliating service. During the first half of the book, Lohse is depicted as narrow-minded and dull. After joining the S II organisation, he occasionally works as a paid informer for the police. His first task is spying on a modernist artist named Klaften, who belongs to an anarchist group. The narrator mocks Lohse’s poor understanding of art: “The painter made his living from outmoded pictures which would generally have been regarded as kitsch. Theodor considered them to be Klaften’s best works” (Roth 1923/1994a, 81). Although Lohse is a political informer, he is ignorant of day-to-day politics and unable to understand the difference between socialists, communists and anarchists: Theodor heard the young people curse. They could see the day of the great revolution approaching. They cursed socialist members of parliament and ministers whom Theodor had always deemed to be communists. He did not understand such sophisticated distinctions (Roth 1923/1994a, 81).

Despite his intellectual mediocrity and philistine prejudices, Theodor turns out to be a surprisingly clever social climber. He marries a woman who belongs to the House of von Schlieffen, one of the most distinguished Prussian families. The story of Lohse’s marriage to a woman who is socially superior to him is the weakest part of the book. It is surprisingly clumsy given that it was written by Joseph Roth, who described the social tensions between the rising middle class and the declining nobility in such an astute manner in his more famous novels. At the beginning of the book, the narrator describes Lohse’s inexperience and bashfulness when encountering upperclass women. He becomes naively infatuated with the beautiful wife of the

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Jewish baron whose son he is tutoring. He dotes on her like a lovesick adolescent: How far away she was from him. She came from that fashionable world which Theodor had been close to achieving. She was a lady, Jewish, but a lady all the same” (Roth 1923/1994a, 68).

Later, Lohse’s romance with, and marriage to, an aristocratic woman is implausibly successful considering his middle-class origins and emotional immaturity. David Bronsen compares Lohse with Roth’s other protagonists. The scholar states that Lohse is an atypical principal character in Roth’s fiction, since he succeeds in his life – mainly because of his egoism and ability to refrain from all self-criticism (Bronsen 1974, 240). The author describes Lohse’s success in a strikingly nasty tone. In his more famous novels, such as Radetzky March, a quick ascent up the social ladder is often a human tragedy because the protagonists cannot adapt to their new echelons. In The Spider’s Web, Lohse’s social climbing is a source of ridicule. Roth’s satire is almost exaggeratingly grotesque when he describes the way Lohse enters the S II organisation. The ambitious lieutenant fawns upon the degenerate Prussian Prince Heinrich, in whose regiment he has fought during the war. In order to curry the prince’s favour, Lohse submits to homosexual intercourse with him although he finds it humiliating and demeaning (Roth 1923/1994a, 72-73). Roth portrays the witless and licentious prince in a strikingly malicious manner that is very different from the understanding way in which he describes the human flaws of Austrian noblemen in his later works. The prince symbolises the old order, which Lohse is quick to defend.

The cult of General Ludendorff In The Spider’s Web Roth describes the effects of the First World War in a completely different tone from the one he adopts in those of his works which deal with Austria-Hungary. When he depicts the downfall of the Danubian monarchy, he emphasises the enormous and tragic changes caused by the war. The Spider’s Web, on the contrary, gives the impression that German society had changed too little after the war. The book stresses the fact that the representatives of the old military elite remained national heroes after the war.

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Roth’s background in journalism becomes evident in the novel’s direct references to real-life nationalistic politicians. In particular, it criticises the cult of personality of General Erich Ludendorff (1865-1937), the hero of the hard-line nationalists who blamed the civilian politicians for the German defeat. In 1923, Ludendorff was a more prestigious leader than Hitler. It is obvious, therefore, that he became a target of Roth’s criticism. Ludendorff served as the First Quartermaster General of the German army from 1916 until the end of the First World War. He made the strategic plans and crucial decisions instead of Field Marshal Paul von Hindenburg (1847-1934), the elderly Chief of the General Staff. Ludendorff was an exceptional figure among the German generals of the First World War because of his modest social background. He was one of those few highranking German officers who did not belong to the nobility. He even refused to accept the rank of Noble (Edler), the lowest rank of nobility in Germany, when it was offered to him by Emperor Wilhelm II (Goodspeed 1966, 233). Ludendorff was an outspoken, almost rude man, whom the Emperor called sergeant-major behind his back. In the imperial era, he represented a new generation of professional officers, who succeeded solely due to their soldierly expertise, not because of their birth or social skills. The general was a more ideological nationalist than most of his fellow officers. During the war, he cherished an extremist foreign political vision, which included expanding the German eastern territory extensively (Nebelin 2010, 398-399). In the early years of the Weimar Republic, he was one of the figureheads of the nationalistic right. He supported the unsuccessful coup by Wolfgang Kapp and Walther von Lüttwitz in 1920. Three years later he took part in Hitler’s attempt to seize power in Munich. Ludendorff’s support for Hitler made the National Socialist movement appear more respectable in the eyes of the German middle-class. On the other hand, it diminished his own prestige among the wartime elite. According to military historian D. J. Goodspeed, Ludendorff’s former fellow officers, including the highly venerated Field Marshall Hindenburg, started to shun him because they found his political opinions embarrassingly vulgar (Goodspeed 1966, 244-247). In his political journalism of the early 1920s, Roth considered the cult of Ludendorff a serious threat to German democracy. He claimed that the followers of the extreme nationalistic movements were fighting to defend Ludendorff’s heritage. Even at the time of Adolf Hitler’s attempt to seize

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power in Munich he was more concerned about Ludendorff than Hitler. In his article Shweigen im Dichterwald (Silence in the Forest of Poets, 1923), which was published a week after the attempted coup, he criticised German writers for failing to speak out against the values of the old general: “The world is waiting in vain for the men of letters to shout and denounce Ludendorff’s Germany” (Roth 1923/1994b, 1069). According to Roth, the most courageous opponent of the Nazis at that time was Michael von Faulhaber (1869-1952), the Bavarian Cardinal, who was later accused of collaboration with Hitler’s government. “Cardinal Faulhaber puts Gerhart Hauptmann and Thomas Mann to shame. A cardinal preaches freedom and writers, the official singers of freedom, have lost their voices” (Roth 1923/1994b, 1069). For Roth, Faulhaber epitomised the humane catholic spirit of Southern Germany in contrast to pitiless protestant morality, which Ludendorff symbolised. In Roth’s eyes, the former quartermaster general was an advocate of all the loathsome traits of the Second Empire: the militaristic version of the Lutheran religion, an insistence upon blind obedience, and the withering of old-time chivalry. In The Spider’s Web, Ludendorff is presented as the embodiment of a martial and boorish imperial mentality. The general is not a character in the book. However, the leaders of the fictional S II organisation frequently talk about this real-life figure as if he were their ally in the underground fight against the republic. In Theodor Lohse’s imagination, the retired warlord embodies true imperial virtues, such as bravery and soldierly honour. Lohse’s attitude towards Ludendorff is manifest in an early scene in the novel. He sees the general’s portrait in a shop window and decides to write an admiring letter to him (Roth 1923/1994a, 78). He naively believes that this is the way to advance to a higher rank in the S II organisation since his past military career was based on ingratiating himself with his superiors. Illustrating Lohse’s servile and calculating character is not the only purpose of the scene. It also aims to show that the young lieutenant and the old general represent the same middle-class nationalism which had risen in the Second Empire. Ludendorff, the self-made man, is the only member of the old imperial elite whom Lohse genuinely trusts and with whom he feels an affinity. The blue-blooded authority figures, such as Prince Heinrich, are in his eyes strange and distasteful creatures who have to be obeyed only out of necessity.

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The revenge of the imperial elite National Socialism and Adolf Hitler’s coup in Munich in 1923 are always mentioned when the political content of The Spider’s Web is discussed, as if National Socialism were the only anti-democratic force of the time. However, the anti-republican Right consisted of ideologically differing groups. Roth depicts this inchoate far-right world in his book. Lohse is described as making frequent trips to Munich, the capital of Bavaria – which was also a centre for nationalistic conspirators in real life. According to Ian Kershaw, the whole state of Bavaria was “a haven for right-wing extremists from all over Germany”. Gustav von Kahr (18621934), the conservative prime minister of Bavaria, felt sympathy for all kinds of anti-republican nationalists and even protected right-wing terrorists who would have been arrested in other parts of Germany (Kershaw 2001, 171). The novel has few direct allusions to the National Socialist movement. The narrator frequently talks about Hitler’s party but makes it clear that Lohse’s superiors in the S II organisation have a low opinion of the Nazis (Roth 1923/1994, 102). Lohse is told to wear a breastpin decorated with a swastika (Roth 1923/1994, 85). This is not a reference to National Socialism. In the early 1920s, the swastika was not yet characteristically a Nazi symbol. It was also widely used by other German anti-communist groups. Hitler’s doomed coup had not yet taken place when Roth wrote his book in 1922. The Nazis were then regarded as a rowdy minority, whereas the forces of the traditional Right had shown their might. High-ranking officers hostile to the republic had organised a military insurrection in 1920, dubbed the Kapp-Lüttwitz Putsch after its leaders Wolfgang Kapp and Walther von Lüttwitz. In hindsight, it seems like a desperate attempt to turn the clock back to the days before the First World War. However, it proved the vulnerability of German democracy and the disloyalty of highranking officers. The coup emerged from the conflict between the government and General Walther von Lüttwitz, the commander of the military in Berlin and all the free corps (Freikorps) in the area. The free corps were rather undisciplined paramilitary troops. The German army (Reichswehr) had enlisted their help to crush the communist rebellions which had broken out in various parts of Germany shortly after its defeat in the First World War. Some

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units of the free corps subsequently cooperated with the army even though their loyalty to the republic was questionable. Since the sise of the army was to be reduced because of the Treaty of Versailles, Gustav Noske (1868-1948), the social democratic minister of defence, wanted to abolish two military units consisting of free corps men. General Lüttwitz was against dissolving the free corps because he was afraid that the Soviet army might occupy Poland and threaten the German border (Cavallie 1993, 124-125). The conflict between the general and the government duly escalated to an attempted military coup. The troops commanded by Lüttwitz managed to occupy Berlin, but the coup was soon put down. The formal leader of the failed coup was Wolfgang Kapp, a wealthy industrialist who had been a nationalistic politician during the imperial period. He was one of the founders of the German Fatherland Party (Deutsche Vaterlandspartei), which opposed all attempts to make a compromised peace agreement during the last phase of the First World War. The coup also gained support from General Ludendorff, the hero of the embittered nationalists. In his extensive study of the Weimar Republic, Heinrich August Winkler emphasises that the main supporters of the coup were members of the landed gentry who felt powerless in the republic. They had managed to save their estates after the war, but lost the political power they had enjoyed during the empire (Winkler 1993, 120). Both Kapp and Lüttwitz were reactionaries, whose political thinking dated from the time of the German empire. According to Karl Dietrich Bracher, they wanted “to reverse developments and to restore pre-republican conditions with the help of a military dictatorship”. As convicted monarchists, they wanted to do away with the republican government, which they considered illegal (Bracher 1970, 102). Their attempt to seize power can be characterised as a failed counter-revolution because they did not regard themselves as usurpers but, on the contrary, restorers of order. In his novel The Spider’s Web Roth presents the secret S II organisation as a counter-revolutionary group, which aims to put down all protests against the pre-war ruling class. The author makes this clear when he describes Theodor Lohse’s activity as a strike-breaker. The lieutenant puts down the rebellion of land workers dissatisfied with their paltry wages. Lohse and his free corps men are serving an irate old baron who embodies almost all

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the negative stereotypes associated with the Prussian landowning aristocracy. Doctor Trebitsch, the main coordinator of the S II organisation is an archetypal counter-revolutionary schemer. He is a Jew who looks like a pure-blooded German and plans anti-Semitic attacks without any moral scruples. His character has a twofold meaning. Firstly, his name refers to at least two right-wing activists and, secondly, his figure alludes to other literary depictions of counter-revolution. Bronsen claims that Trebitsch resembles a Viennese Jew with the same name. The real Trebitsch was known for his hatred towards members of his own race (Bronsen 1974, 237). The political activities of the fictional Trebitsch are reminiscent of an adventurer called Ignaz Trebitsch-Lincoln (1897-1943), who was one of the agents of the German military intelligence during the First World War. This Hungarian-born Jew played a minor part in Kapp and Lüttwitz’s plot and later served both Nazi Germany and imperial Japan. As a literary character, Trebitsch resembles the mysterious Mr Vladimir, a supporting character in Joseph Conrad’s (1857-1924) classic novel The Secret Agent (1907). The novel takes place in London at the end of the 19th century and describes a spy, Mr Verloc, who has infiltrated an anarchist cell which consists of eccentric bunglers. Verloc takes his orders from Mr Vladimir, a functionary in the embassy of a foreign power, most likely Russia. Vladimir wants to drive the British anarchists to commit a foolhardy act because he would like Britain to tighten its laws and adopt repressive measures against political subversives. Vladimir’s nationality is not revealed in the book. The only certainty regarding his character is his staunch counter-revolutionary conviction. It is also hinted that he is not a gentleman by birth because he has difficulties maintaining his arrogant behaviour in the presence of a high-ranking police officer (Conrad 1907/1994, 183). The reader is left to conclude whether he belongs to a stigmatised race or is of lower-class descent. Vladimir’s motive is easy to deduce. He probably represents a despotic East European country of some sort, and wishes to make its harsh laws appear acceptable in Britain. Trebitsch’s aims are more obscure. This expert of counter-revolutionary tactics seems to work against the interests of his own race.

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The Jew of many stereotypes Doctor Trebitsch is not the only ambiguous Jewish character in The Spider’s Web. When Roth wrote his book, authors had more freedom when dealing with themes related to Jewishness than they do today. Before the Holocaust, writers could portray Jews in a negative light without being labelled as anti-Semites. Marcel Proust (1871-1922), for instance, described surprisingly nasty Jewish types in his Remembrance of Things Past (À la recherche du temps perdu, 1913-1927; translated by C. K. Scott Moncrieff, 1922-1931), even though he was half Jewish himself. Roth, a highly Westernised Jew in his personal life, had an ambivalent attitude towards Jewishness. He had spent his childhood and teenage years among East European Jews but did his best to come across as an Austrian gentleman. Literary historian Volker Henze emphasises that secularised German-speaking Jews had a concrete reason to be loyal subjects of Austria-Hungary. Their security was at least somehow protected in the old-fashioned supranational monarchy, whereas their situation would have been much less secure in a modern nation-state (Henze 1988, 37-39). Roth was a prime example of a Jew who supported the Danubian monarchy for ideological reasons. He converted to Roman Catholicism, the religion of the Habsburgs, and dedicated himself to the monarchist cause. However, he was profoundly intrigued by the Jewish culture of Eastern Europe, especially by that of Galicia, the region of his boyhood. In The Spider’s Web, Roth makes a clear distinction between his Eastern and Western Jewish characters. Doctor Trebitsch, Baron Efrussi, his wife and Lohse’s former schoolmate Glaser are prominent urban, Westernised Jewish characters in the novel. Lohse associates no racial stereotypes with Baroness Efrussi because he is attracted to her romantically. Baron Efrussi and Glaser, on the other hand, are targets of his invective. They are the only people towards whom the protagonist feels pure social envy. He curses their Jewishness in his head: For them [the Jews] everything was easy, particularly for Glaser and Efrussi. One was the best in his class, and the other a jeweller [...]. In the army, they were nothing, not even sergeants” (Roth 1923/1994a, 67).

Theodor Lohse has bitter memories of Glaser, since the Jewish boy did well in school because of sheer intelligence, whereas his own success was based on diligence. When he curses the rich jeweller Efrussi, he disguises

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his ill will as patriotism even though it is caused by the difference in their financial circumstances. He claims that all war veterans have been humiliated, as he, the former officer, is forced to work for a Jew. When the narrator depicts Lohse’s thoughts on the Jews, his main aim is to show the protagonist’s mean-spiritedness and eagerness to believe in conspiracy theories. The lieutenant’s inner monologue shows that he accuses the Jews of destroying patriotic values: Now they had destroyed the army, now they ruled the state. They had invented socialism, a lack of patriotism, a love for the enemy. They aspired to take over the world. This was stated in “The Protocols of the Elders of Zion” – the book which all the members of the reserve officers’ club had been fed along with their beans on Fridays (Roth 1923/1994a, 67).

The text also reveals that Lohse takes The Protocols of the Elders of Zion seriously. The book was a famous fabrication published in Russia in 1903, consisting of paranoid fantasies of Jewish plans for world domination. When Jewish characters are described from someone else’s point of view, the tone is much more ambiguous. Most of the Westernised Jews in the novel seem to accept the anti-Semitic Right. Doctor Trebitsch is the most cunning member of the S II organisation, while the jeweller Efrussi reads ultra-nationalist papers and advertises his business in them. He is also on friendly terms with high-ranking officers who have power among the Jewhaters of S II. In the book, Trebitsch and Efrussi seem to exert influence over all political activities, including anti-Semitic agitation. This seems strange since it corresponds with the most paranoid anti-Semitic fear, according to which the Jews had control over all spheres of public life, even the opposition against themselves. However, it is not that odd considering the historical backdrop to the writer’s youth. Karl Lueger (1844-1910), the populist mayor of Vienna and one of the most prominent anti-Semitic politicians of the German-speaking world, had collaborated with wealthy Jews despite his racist rhetoric. According to Roth, only lower-class people were genuine Jew-haters, whereas the upper classes were capable of reaching a gentleman’s agreement on racial issues.

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The independent Eastern Jew Roth saw East European and West European Jews as two different species. He sympathised with Eastern Jews who were usually shunned by their Westernised kinfolk and by anti-Semites. In his famous essay The Wandering Jews (Juden auf Wanderschaft, 1927) he described East European Jews as primitive but noble people. He defined Eastern Jews as people who came from Galicia, Russia, Lithuania and Rumania (Roth 1927, 829). In Roth’s eyes, the people who came from the ghettos of Eastern Europe were aware of the evil side of the Eastern Gentiles but were too innocent to understand the moral corruption of Western people. The author characterised the typical East European Jew thus: “He does not see the goodness of a Slavic man, whose brutality is more decent than the tame cruelty of the Western people” (Roth 1927/1994, 829). The essay The Wandering Jews is usually seen as the starting point for Roth’s interest in the culture of Eastern European Jews. In his study The “Jewish Question” in German Literature 1749-1939, Ritchie Robertson sees a connection between the shift in the author’s political views and his fascination with Jewishness. According to Robertson, Roth started to respect the traditions of Eastern Jews around the same time as he became disillusioned with progress and abandoned his former leftist beliefs (Robertson 1999, 421). However, even in The Spider’s Web, one important character strongly resembles Eastern European Jews. He is Benjamin Lenz, a Jewish man of the underworld, who lends his services both to the police and to the S II organisation. Lenz gains importance at the end of the novel because he has evidence of Lohse’s disloyalty inside S II and is able to blackmail him. Lenz has many of the characteristics commonly associated with primitive Eastern European Jews. His outward appearance is unkempt and he looks malnourished. The narrator describes his curious physical frame in detail: His chin was short and broad and his nose flat. His thin neck held up a skull which would have fitted onto a robust body. His shoulders were tiny and slim. Benjamin Lenz had narrow knuckles, slender wrists and long, nervous fingers (Roth 1923/1994a, 110).

Even though Lenz is a stereotypical East European Jew in terms of his physique, he has none of the innocence which Roth deemed to be typical of Eastern Jews. On the contrary, Lenz trusts no one. Wolf R. Marchand,

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who has studied Roth’s portrayal of Jews and anti-Semites, states that the author parodies the prejudices that were manifest in The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Lenz, according to Marchand, is a caricature of a cunning Jew who is ready to conspire against anybody in order to guarantee his own success (Marchand 1974, 45-46). The narrator explains how Lenz concentrates on nothing but his own survival: He hated Europe, Christianity, Jews, royalty, republics, parties, ideals, nations. He served the authorities since he wanted to learn about their weakness, their malice, their insidiousness, their vulnerability. He deceived them more than served them (Roth 1923/1994a, 110).

Lenz is a slimy individual who would be seen as a villain were he not completely devoid of hypocrisy, the main vice of the aristocracy and the bourgeoisie depicted in the novel. His character remains somewhat onedimensional because he appears rather late in the unfinished book. Despite this, he is the most clear-sighted and mentally strong character in The Spider’s Web. He is the only one that Lohse cannot deceive and who cannot be bullied by the nationalistic Right.

Conclusion: Fear of the restoration of Prussian power Joseph Roth’s literary career was divided into two stages. In the first phase, he was committed to left-wing ideology and discussed problems which were acute in Europe after the First World War. In the second period of his career he reflected on the past in his fictional works. He had nostalgia for the fairly recent history, especially the last decades of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, became more conservative politically, and dedicated himself to Austrian monarchism. Roth’s first novel, The Spider’s Web, is often discussed as though it could be separated from his later books, both his leftist and his conservative works. However, the novel contains one central theme which was present throughout his career: repugnance towards the German empire led by the Prussian Hohenzollern dynasty. Roth referred to the German monarchy even in those works which were set in Austria. He eulogised the civilised Austro-Hungarian spirit, which he defined as the antithesis of Prussianism. For Roth, the German monarchy signified brutal militarism and the intolerance of ethnic minorities. In The

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Spider’s Web bad characters are represented as the heirs of the German empire. Theodor Lohse, the main villain in the novel, makes a successful career in illegal right-wing politics because he repeats the patterns of behaviour which he had picked up in the authoritarian imperial society. The Spider’s Web is a notably early depiction of the nationalistic Right, which was conspiring to destroy the Republic of Weimar. The novel reflects the fears of a man who’s political and cultural ideas dated from the era before the First World War. The hypocritical nationalists described in the book resemble the pompous members of the bourgeoisie mocked in the leftist literature of the early 20th century, especially in the works of Heinrich Mann. The novel does not warn readers about the Nazis, but rather the traditional conservatives who were willing to return to the social order predating the First World War. Lohse, the protagonist of the book, represents the radicalised middle-class nationalism which emerged during the Second Empire and which was epitomised by General Ludendorff during the war. The right-wing conspirators described in the book are counter-revolutionaries to whom the closest real-life parallels are the participants of the KappLüttwitz Putsch. Although the novel is written by a Jewish author, it does not see antiSemitism as a grave threat. Roth does not present hatred against the Jews as a form of organised racism, but rather as a character flaw, which is the result of pitiable social envy. Anti-Semitism is seen as a lower-class phenomenon, not as a problem of society as a whole. Roth also draws a sharp distinction between Western and Eastern Jews. Affluent Westernised Jews seem to accept anti-Semitism, whereas primitive Eastern Jews are seen as independent resisters.

References Primary sources Conrad, Joseph. 1907/1994. The Secret Agent. London: Penguin Books. Roth, Joseph. 1923/1994a. Das Spinnennetz. In Joseph Roth Werke 4. Romane und Erzählungen 1916-1929. Hrsg. Fritz Hackert. Köln: Kiepenhauser & Witsch. 63-146.

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—. 1935/1994. Die Büste des Kaisers. In Joseph Roth Werke 5. Romane und Erzählungen 1930-1936. Hrsg. Klaus Westermann. Köln: Kiepenhauser & Witsch, 655-676. —. 1937/1994. Der Monarch verhindert den Diktator. In Joseph Roth Werke 3. Das journalistische Werk 1929-1939. Hrsg. Klaus Westermann. [Manuskript von 1937 im Leo Baeck Institute (New York).] Köln: Kiepenhauser & Witsch, 765-767. —. 1927/1994. Juden auf Wanderschaft. In Joseph Roth Werke 2. Das journalistische Werk 1924-1928. Hrsg. Klaus Westermann. Köln: Kiepenhauser & Witsch, 827-902. —. 1939/1994. Rede über den alten Kaiser. In Joseph Roth Werke 3. Das journalistische Werk 1929-1939. Hrsg. Klaus Westermann. [Manuskript, mit dem Zusatz von fremder Hand: Letzter Artikel vor seinem Tode Montag 22.V.1939, im Leo Baeck Insute (New York)]. Köln: Kiepenhauser & Witsch, 398-946. —. 1923/1994b. Schweigen im Dichterwald. In Joseph Roth Werke 1. Das journalistische Werk 1915-1923. Hrsg. Klaus Westermann. (Originally published in Prager Tageblatt, 16.11.1923.) Köln: Kiepenhauser &Witsch, 1068-1069. —. 1930/1994. Schluß mit der “neuen Sachlichkeit“! In Joseph Roth Werke 3. Das journalistische Werk 1929–1939. Hrsg. Klaus Westermann. (Originally published in Die Literarische Welt, 17. and 24.1.1930.) Köln: Kiepenhauser & Witsch, 153-164. —. 1938/1994: Zu einigen allzu absurden Verdikten. In Joseph Roth Werke 3. Das journalistische Werk 1929-1939. Hrsg. Klaus Westermann. (Originally published in Das Neue Tage-Buch (Paris) on 9.7.1938.) Köln: Kiepenhauser & Witsch, 816-819.

Secondary sources Bracher, Karl Dietrich. 1970. The German Dictatorship. The Origins, Structure and Consequences of National Socialism. (Deutsche Diktatur: Entstehung, Struktur, Folgen des Nationalsozialismus. 1969. Translated by Jean Steinberg.) London, New York: Penguin Books. Bronsen, David. 1974. Joseph Roth. Eine Biographie. Köln: Kiepenhauser & Witsch. Cavallie, James. 1933. Ludendorff och Kapp i Sverige. Ur två förlorares liv. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wicksell International. Goodspeed, D. J. 1966. Ludendorff. Soldier. Dicatator. Revolutionary. London: Rupert Hart-Davis.

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Henze, Volker. 1988. Jüdischer Kulturpessimismus und das Bild des Alten Österreich im Werk Stefan Zweigs und Joseph Roths. Beiträge zur neueren Literaturgeschichte, Dritte Folge, Band 82. Heidelberg: Carl Winter. Kershaw, Ian. 1998/2001. Hitler. 1889-1929: Hubris. London, New York: Penguin Books. Kesten, Hermann. 1949: Der Mensch Joseph Roth. In Joseph Roth. Leben und Werk. Ein Gedächtnisbuch. Köln, Hagen: Verlag Gustav Kiepenheuer. Koester, Rudolf. 1982. Joseph Roth. Köpfe des XX Jahrhunderts. Band 96. Berlin: Colloquium Verlag. Marchand, Wolf R. 1974. Joseph Roth und völkisch-nationalistische Wertbegriffe. Untersuchungen zur politisch-weltanschaulichen Entwicklung Roths und ihrer Auswirkung auf sein Werk. Bonner Arbeiten zur deutschen Literatur. Hrsg. Benno von Wiese. Bonn: Bouvier Verlag. Müller-Funk, Wolfgang. 1989. Joseph Roth. München: C.H. Beck. Nebelin, Manfred. 2010: Ludendorff. Diktator im ersten Weltkrieg. München: Siedler Verlag. Robertson, Ritchie. 1999: The “Jewish Question” in German Literature 1749-1939. Emancipation and its Discontens. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press. Rosenfeld, Sidney. 2001. Understanding Joseph Roth. Columbia, South Carolina: University of South Carolina Press. Shweiker, Uwe. 1974. Der rote Joseph. In Joseph Roth. Text und Kritik. Hrsg. Heinz Ludwig Arnold. München: Richard Boorberg Verlag, 4055. Winkler, Heinrich August. 1993. Weimar 1918-1933. Die Geschichte der ersten deutschen Demokratie. München: C. H. Beck. Wörsching, Martha. 1974. Die rückwärts gewandte Utopie. Sozialpsychologische Anmerkungen zu Joseph Roths Roman Radetzkymarsch. In Joseph Roth. Text und Kritik. Hrsg. Heinz Ludwig Arnold. München: Richard Boorberg Verlag, 90-100.

CHAPTER THREE EXCEPTION, EMERGENCY, AND EXPERIMENT IN LATE IMPERIAL NEWFOUNDLAND STEPHEN CROCKER

In 1933, Newfoundland, a sovereign Dominion in the British Empire with standing equal to Canada and Australia, had its constitution dissolved, its parliament “suppressed” and state suspended. The islands’ administration was placed in the hands of an unelected commission appointed by Britain and not responsible to anyone in Newfoundland. These extreme measures were imposed on the island in order to deal more directly with an immediate financial crisis. In the late 1920s, and into the depression, Newfoundland experienced a series of economic setbacks related to the costs of war, the worldwide economic depression, and the decline of the fishery. A British appointed Royal Commission of Inquiry sent to investigate the colony’s financial and political troubles concluded that, in consideration of the damage that the population could do to itself and others, the state should be dissolved (Long 1999; Neary 1988 and 1996; O’Flaherty 2011; Overton 1990 and 1995). The Amulree Report which contained the recommendations to dissolve the constitution and state appeared in print as Newfoundland Royal Commission Report (1933). What the Royal Commission, under direction of Lord Baron Amulree (also known as the Amulree Commission), found were financial woes common to many other places at this time: an inability to meet interest payments on its debt, mass unemployment, growing rolls of social assistance estimated to include ¼ of the population, along with corruption, greed and mismanagement. None of these problems were that unusual. Other dominions, such as Australia, had also drifted towards financial collapse without having a constitution and legislature suspended.

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A holiday from politics The Royal Commission of 1933 thought that exceptional measures were necessary in Newfoundland because they had identified a set of deeper moral and social problems that were the root causes of misgovernment. Beneath the obvious forms of corruption and mismanagement, they identified more disturbing problems of isolation, loneliness, degeneration, and a weakening of the moral fiber. These problems, which seemed to originate in the early pattern of the islands’ settlement, were thought to have become so severe that they had rendered the populace unable to rule itself. Before the islanders could effectively run a state, they would need to be retrained in citizenship. On reading the Amulree Report, Neville Chamberlain, Chancellor of the Exchequer and soon to be British Prime Minister “formed the impression that it would not be repugnant to the Islanders to be relieved for the time being of responsibilities which are beyond them” (Long, 110). The Newfoundland legislature sat for the last time in 1933 and, in endorsing the recommendations of the Amulree Commission’s report, voted itself out of existence. There then began what F. C. Alderdice, the island’s last Prime Minister described as a “holiday from politics”, which lasted 16 years until Newfoundland once again gave up its sovereignty and became a province of Canada. In Newfoundland, it is common to regard these developments as highly unusual and exceptional events, peculiar to the island. One frequently hears, for instance, that Newfoundland is the only nation ever to willingly give up its political sovereignty. But how exceptional was the state of exception in the 1930s? In the period following World War I, emergency powers and states of exception of various sorts were frequently invoked by European powers at home and abroad in response to a range of problems – from financial and military concerns to, in the case of Newfoundland, problems in the sociological and geographical formation of a population. Set in this wider context, Newfoundland’s devolution is a chapter in a much older and ongoing history of undemocratic measures that have muddied the distinction between democracy and dictatorship. Newfoundland’s unusual case throws into relief some of the more important qualities of the “state of exception” as a general political form

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that has had a wide application in many other unusual contexts around the world. In what follows, I try to situate these otherwise obscure events from more than 80 years ago, in a remote corner of the North Atlantic, in the broader political milieu of their time. I ask what the abrogation of sovereignty in the particular case of Newfoundland might teach us about the general nature of political exceptions and emergency rule. Broken states, like Newfoundland’s, compel us to ask what we understand the normal, general form of a state to be. If sovereignty and governance can come apart in exceptional circumstances, how do they ever hold together in the first place? Newfoundland’s case is especially instructive in the way that it falls between the familiar forms of anti-democratic rule popular at the time. One of the Commissioners assigned to Newfoundland wrote a memoir called Dictatorship in Newfoundland (Lodge, 1939). But as we shall see, Newfoundland’s descent into Commission rule differed in important ways from the European dictatorships and totalitarian regimes that were contemporary with it in the 1930s. Commission Government lacked the fanfare and mythic dimensions of fascism, for example. While the state was collapsing in Newfoundland, Walter Benjamin was writing about how fascism “aestheticised politics”, and made the state into a work of art – Gesamtkunstwerk. “Fascism sees its salvation in giving these masses not their right, but instead a chance to express themselves” (Benjamin 1971, 242). By comparison, the dull bureaucratic quality of Commission Government offered no pageantry or opportunity for collective expression. Its technocratic mandate presented a less spectacular, but still highly effective technique for administrating a place simply as a depoliticised population and economy. We miss what is important about Newfoundland’s case if we see it as a misguided flare-up of European dictatorship in North America. What I see are more general and lasting techniques for separating the project of the sovereign state from the problems of governance and administration. The 19th century gave us the image of a “people” capable of selfexpression in a legislature and sovereign state. The early 20th century witnessed the creation of new kinds of depoliticised subjects and spaces, from refugee camps and mandated territories to protectorates, international

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zones and various others exceptional political spaces. In these unusual zones of governance, the telos of national sovereignty and public will was “in abeyance”, as was said of Newfoundland’s constitution. Separated from the means of sovereign self-determination, the populations of these places became experimental laboratories, of sorts, for the reorganisation of the basic elements of sovereignty – state, territory and people. I would like to situate Newfoundland in a wider history of this anti-democratic administrative milieu that has become increasingly sophisticated and widespread in the near century since the events I describe here. Newfoundland is a striking instance of the “economic emergency” whose alarming frequency the International Commission of Jurists condemned in its report of 1983 (see Hartman 1984). It also anticipates the separation of sovereignty and economic autonomy behind the structural adjustment programs, austerity measures, IMF bailout conditions, and the many kinds of economic unification without sovereignty, as the European Monetary Union (or EMU) has sometime been called (see Gourevitch 2015). I would like to ask what this dark period in Newfoundland’s history can teach us about the emergence of these anti-democratic forms of governance that have thrived inside the democratic tradition.

We learn more from the exception than the rule “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way” wrote Tolstoy in the beginning of Anna Karenina. Likewise, Newfoundland’s Commission Government is only one of many unhappy forms that a state of exception may take. To appreciate its singularity we need to first situate it in a wider political milieu, which includes states of necessity, emergency decrees, states of siege, martial law and the many different kinds of emergency powers found in use around the world at this time. These are all devices for responding to the presence of an extra-legal force – financial chaos, military threat, natural disaster, or geographical circumstance – which interferes in the state’s normal functioning. The declaration of a state of exception allows for an existing system of rule to be suspended, and a form of emergency power to be set in play. Emergency powers have accompanied the democratic tradition since at least the French Revolution. England, France, Germany, Canada, America and even Switzerland have invoked forms of emergency powers that restricted democratic participation and extended executive powers in new

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ways. In newly emergent post-colonial polities such as Kenya, India and Malaysia emergency powers were frequently invoked to quell insurgency. Newfoundland, then, is only one of the very many places that have been thought to be so unusual that the normal rules of sovereignty and legal order did not apply. There were countless reasons to believe that a place was exceptional. The British Empire was “a kingdom of exceptions” according to Jan Morris (1992, 163). Throughout the 20th century, the exceptional nature of these places often became a reason to intervene in the lives of their populations and to experiment with their social organisation and reorganise their space of political action. In 1960, Denys Holland pointed out that in the preceding 15 years, a state of emergency had been declared on twenty-nine separate occasions in British protectorates and dependencies from Aden to Zanzibar (Holland 1960). These facilitated control of people and movement, curfews, the confiscation of property and land, pass laws, the banning of publications, the disbanding of political organisations, suspension of due process, and detention without trial (Neocleous 2008, 58).

During the eight-year state of emergency of Kenya, beginning in 1952, 1.5 million people were detained on emergency orders (ibid. 197). According to a 1963 study by the Inter-American Commission of Human Rights, states of emergency had been declared around the world on more than 100 occasions in the preceding decade (ibid.). The United Nations’ Despouy Report of the late 1990s found that between 1985 and 1997 half of its member states had been subjected to emergency rule, and concluded with the startling observation that if the list of countries which have proclaimed, extended or terminated a state of emergency [in this period] were to be projected onto a map of the world, the resulting area would cover nearly three-quarters of the earth’s surface and leave no geographical region unaffected (U.N. 1997, 181).

The Despouy Report was published four years before 2001 and the recent war on terror, in which emergency measures restricting civil liberties have seen a whole new renaissance from the suspension of habeas corpus in the United States to Canada’s new highly contested anti-terror legislation, Bill C-51 (on the history of emergency rule see Agamben 2005; Boehmer and

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Morton 2010; Hussain 2003; Neocleous 2008; Rossiter 1948; Schmitt 2005; Svirsky and Bignall 2012). As this brief survey shows, emergency powers that authorise the suspension of democracy have accompanied the revolutionary-democracy tradition since its inception. In fact, rather than an aberration that occasionally besets the state, the state of exception becomes more frequently invoked for a range of exceptional problems. The Despouy Report warned “Not only is mankind not living in stable conditions but there is a dangerous tendency worldwide for the exception to become the rule” (U.N. 1997, para. 182). Whether or not it is true, as Agamben says, that the exception is now the dominant technique of politics, it has undoubtedly proved its usefulness in countless instances where it has allowed the state to extend its administrative power into new areas of life by limiting civil liberties and democratic participation (Agamben 2005). One of the reasons why states of exception are difficult to grasp as a general technique of power is the highly particular condition in which they arise. Restricted to its own context, each exception appears to be a unique aberration, originating in problems endogenous to the place. Each exception is presented to its subject population as a highly unusual circumstance in an otherwise normal political world. And yet, as we noted above, it is a political form that has covered three-quarters of the earth’s surface. It seems appropriate then, to ask what, if anything, all these exceptions have in common. Is there a general form of the always highly particular exception? The specific circumstances of each emergency are different. Situations as distinct as civil war, environmental catastrophe, and consequences of geography are all highly unique. Each is, nonetheless, a response to a similar problem. In order for the law to effectively rule, it must be capable of operating in a regular and predictable way. “The norm requires a homogenous medium”, as Carl Schmitt (2005, 13) writes. However, because law can never fully control the conditions, or medium in which it is applied, it encounters exceptional situations that prevent its regular application. Whenever we try to create a routine system (a homogenous medium) of rules between law and life, we inevitably find ourselves confronted with circumstances – financial, religious, and environmental – that our rules have not anticipated and which make it difficult to apply them with efficacy. In exceptional circumstances such as

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these, the relation that joins the state to a place is broken, and so becomes visible. The emergency reveals a gap between law and the life it rules. In the state of emergency, law and life, state and population are separated so that “a human action with no relation to law stands before a norm with no relation to life” (Agamben 2005, 86). The abrogation of Newfoundland’s national sovereignty was an exceptional measure thought necessary to minimise the damage that the default of a sovereign Dominion might cause for the credit of other Dominions. The integral sovereignty on which the club of white Dominions rested, was threatened by the economic and moral decline of one its members. If one sovereign or “fitted” British population could become incapable of running its own affairs, why should others be trusted not to do the same? As I explain below, anxiety about the fittedness of white populations was an important influence on British policy at the time. Neville Chamberlain feared that a default by a Dominion would “would prove so damaging to Imperial credit that we ought to take all possible measures to avert its consequences” (quoted in Long 1995, 109). Technically, Chamberlain explained, the dissolution of the state in Newfoundland would mean that “the system of government under which the default had arisen would for the time being have ceased to function” and so would pose no threat to others (quoted in Long 2005, 109). To maintain the sovereignty of Dominions as such, it was necessary to separate the population of Newfoundland from it. Newfoundland’s constitution and legislature were placed “in abeyance”. The term itself is highly instructive for understanding the unusual nature of what unfolded. Abeyance originally described the status of a feudal title that has been placed in an inactive state until such time as its rightful heir is born, or comes of age. On the passage of a childless Baron, for instance, his title may be placed in abeyance, i.e. suspended, until some other entitled relative has a son who can inherit it (O.E.D. 2016). In 1933, Newfoundland became a Dominionin-abeyance. What this meant was that the state was made inoperative until such time as the people were found capable of running their own affairs. The premise of the extreme measures was that the people as a legitimate subject of right, capable of coming to expression in a state, no longer existed. The sovereign state existed, but the subject capable of possessing and exercising the sovereignty that went with it, did not. The constitution

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was placed in abeyance until a people to whom it could belong had been (re)invented. The constitutional debate turned then to the question of how to “safeguard” the sovereignty of the state from the maladjusted, depoliticised populace during this special emergency period when the people were being recreated. It was something like keeping a drunk driver from getting behind the wheel of a car. The Royal Commission was concerned about the damage that an ill-formed population could do to the state apparatus, and what a damaged state might do to other polities that crossed its path. Ironically, it was in order to protect the sovereignty of the state that the Amulree Commission thought it necessary to dissolve that state. Jacques Derrida (2005) has cleverly analysed this kind of political logic as an “auto-immune response” in which the state attacks itself in order to save itself. It suspends democracy in order to save democracy. To ensure the states continued operation, it is necessary to suspend the state. The suspension of the state thrust the disenfranchised population of Newfoundland into an ill-defined ground between white sovereignty and colonial subjection. “It went in one step from ‘almost complete autonomy’ to ‘a constitutional status below that of the humblest crown colony’” (O’Flaherty 2011, 1). In the colonies, it was common to hear that people were not yet ready to rule themselves. Even C.L.R. James accepted this basic premise when, in his plea for West Indian Self-Government, he argued that his people had matured and were no longer in a pre-civil state (James 2014). Newfoundlanders, on the other hand, had fallen back to the state that Trinidad claimed to have surpassed. The Newfoundland population was no longer capable of self-rule. It had devolved to a status normally associated with crown colonies and non-white populations. In a moment, we take up the “internal racism” of British anxieties about whiteness and fittedness for self-rule. For now, let us try to locate this new experimental political space in which Newfoundland found itself for the next sixteen years. The strangeness of this depoliticised zone was reflected in the difficulty in finding a proper name to call it. Since Dominions were self-governing, and Newfoundland had had its parliament suppressed, it was not a Dominion. Crown colonies, on the other hand, were typically subject, coloured

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populations but the people here were of European descent, as it was described then. Patrick O’Flaherty has collected the awkward formulas with which Newfoundland’s political status was now represented. The island was “relegated to the position of a colony”. It was “a Dominion with its status as such in abeyance”. She had “surrendered her status as Dominion”, or “reverted to the status of a crown colony.” Some believed it was now ”between that of a crown colony and a Dominion”, or perhaps “somewhere between a crown colony and nothing”. “Dominion colony”, “territory”, “dependency”, “protectorate”, “some sort of glorified municipality” were all possible descriptions of its strange new political status (O’Flaherty 2011, 238). In losing its Dominion status, Newfoundland became yet another illdefined colonial exception. Nasser Hussain has suggested that “Colonialism is the best historical example for any theoretical study of norm and exception, rule of law and emergency”. The colony has always been seen as an exceptional space in which local conditions prevent the normal operation of the state. The colonial exception originates in “the glaring difference between the colonial state and the metropolitan one that had sired it” (Hussain 2003, 13, 31). In her critique of Hussain, Laura Benton cautions us against oversimplifying the image of “the colony” and imagining it as a single undifferentiated space of exception that encompasses everything outside the rule of law in Europe. Any simple opposition between the lawful rule of the metropolis, and the general lawlessness of colonial space overlooks how variegated imperial law has always been, and how difficult that makes it to adopt a clear opposition between metropolitan normalcy and colonial legal exception (see Benton 2009, 279ff). Through a number of instructive case studies, Benton shows how, since the very early days of European overseas expansion, imperial law established a series of separate legal “zones” that followed uneven patterns around the world. The unusual geographic formations of rivers, ocean currents, and mountainous regions were all thought to be ungovernable in one way or other, and so were exceptional spaces with legal variations (Benton 2009).

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The point here is that, while the colony may be the paradigm of the exception, the “colonial exception” is not one thing. It is different in each situation because in each case it is produced by the encounter of the European state with some highly unique set of circumstances that prevent any simple transplant of law from metropolis to colony. Newfoundland’s colonial exception was all the more unusual since it concerned a white population that had been, and was no longer sovereign. It reversed the received meta-narrative of a people lifting itself out of a state of nature into a form of collective self-expression – a res publica. As Newfoundland contemplated its political decline it was common to imagine it falling prey to the same contempt for democracy that was sweeping through Europe. It made sense to compare Newfoundland to Germany and Italy, or Spain. However distasteful, the strongman iconography of a Mussolini kept Newfoundland aligned with white European nations. If the island was caught up in the same forces changing modern democracies in Europe, then it was, implicitly, one of them. As Gene Long reports: The Daily News ran comparative commentaries on fascism, socialism and democracy on the relevance of changing world conditions to Newfoundland’s situation, noting that the “political student” would be struck by “the way in which democracy is fading from the earth”. The paper observed that the dictatorships of Russia, Italy and Germany were being joined by British states, where the people had consented to the “semi dictatorship of national administrations”.

These developments, it suggested, bore lessons for Newfoundland, where the question was being asked of whether democracy was doomed to yield to some form of autocracy namely, government by commission. When it became clear that the suspension of the legislature would also involve crown colony status, however, “[a]ll three papers jumped on the suggestion”. The Advocate called it “a humiliation of the worst type ever aministered to a British people” (Long 1999, 106; see also Benton 2009). Newfoundland’s situation, however, differed in important ways from the events in Europe. Power was not usurped by a strongman. A committee of retired colonial career bureaucrats replaced the legislature. There was no external threat such as war, or natural catastrophe. The problem that supposedly prevented the states’ operation was internal to the body politic. In fact, the problem was that that there was no body politic, or public spirit.

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Newfoundland’s emergency was also unusual in being a “willed state of exception” for which there was apparently a fair deal of support. For many in Newfoundland, European fascism was a more palatable solution to their problem than the prospect of being treated as a colonial subject population. When the Amulree Commission toured the island, they claimed to find much public enthusiasm for the idea of limiting democracy. For a period of almost ten years before the suspension of Newfoundland’s constitution, William Coaker, a progressive labour leader, had called for a Newfoundland Mussolini, or a commission of ten honest men to rule with executive capacity. F. C. Alderdice, the nation’s last Prime Minister, ran a political campaign for office on the promise to hold a referendum on suspending the constitution and instituting rule by executive Commission. As the emergency unfolded, however, and London began to lay in a plan for dissolving the constitution and instating emergency rule, Newfoundland entered the ill-defined legal sphere of “quasi-sovereignty”, a kind of custodial governance by colonial bureaucrats that was common throughout much of the “empire of rule” (Benton 2009). One of the architects of the new regime, P.A. Clutterbuck, had helped engineer a similar structure of nondemocratic Commission Government in Ceylon, two years earlier. When the plan for Newfoundland’s Commission Government was finally unveiled, Coaker complained that his people were now being treated like a colored race, because they were subjected to a form of custodial rule (Long 1995, 121). In fact, there was nothing in the nomenclature of British political thought that adequately described the situation in which the island now found itself. As one British official observed, “Newfoundland is now neither a Dominion nor a Colony, but just a place” (quoted in Neary 2000).

The new regime In January 1934, Newfoundland was placed under Commission rule. In its very first gestures, the new regime tried to separate itself in time and space from the failed state that it replaced. The opening ceremony to dissolve the constitution and instate Commission rule did not take place in the Colonial Building, the seat of the recently dissolved parliament. It took place in the ballroom of the Newfoundland Hotel, the most cosmopolitan space on the island. The historian Peter Neary described this hotel, where many of the

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Commissioners placed in charge of the island also lived, as a way station of Empire: Life in the Newfoundland hotel, with its potted plants, chintz coverings, and lace curtains, was easy and comfortable, and fitted into a pattern that would have been familiar to officialdom throughout the British Empire. Less than a kilometer up Military Road were the Governors’ house and the Colonial Building. Here was the locus of power in Newfoundland, a colonial enclave where afternoon tea was served, bridge played, laws made, orders issued, and, as occasion required, white ties and decorations worn (Neary 1996, 11).

The state moved down the road to the Newfoundland hotel, and forward in time too. It is common for a new regime to try to break the continuum of time. After the French revolution, the new state changed the calendars to signal that a new era had arrived. One of the first acts of Commission Government was to close the Newfoundland Museum. It was ostensibly a cost cutting measure. But, as a political gesture it fit into a more general ideological effort to create a rupture in time. O’Flaherty shows how school plays and theatrical events purposely avoided the tumultuous years of Newfoundland’s self-governance and the embarrassment of its collapse (O’Flaherty 2011). All of this made Commission Government seem quite forward-looking and the island’s culture, by contrast, quite backward. As Newfoundland was geared into the colonial world, it became a more cosmopolitan place. The legislature was replaced by a cadre of mid-level colonial bureaucrats who had spent their lives ruling “lesser” colonial holdings. Many had made careers circling the globe in two or three year appointments at British Stations in the Caribbean, Africa, and India. They administered places that were, in effect, states of exception, exemplifying, as Hussain puts it, the glaring differences between the colonial situation and the metropolitan one that sired it. Commissioner Thomas Lodge writes, in the preface to his book Dictatorship in Newfoundland, that he never wanted to come to Newfoundland: I had no particular desire to go to Newfoundland. The Treasury brought to bear upon me as much pressure as they normally do in regard to appointments of less than first-class importance, and in the end I agreed. I regret now that I did agree, because I have sacrificed to little purpose three years of my life (Lodge 1939, 2).

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Newfoundland was now administered by the same culture of travelling civil servants that C.L.R. James saw passing through Trinidad at the same time. Itinerant demigods who sit at their desks, ears cocked for the happy news of a retirement in Nigeria or a death in Hong Kong; where they go and others of the same kind take their place, while men often better than they stand outside rejected and despised, […] for the most part strangers to the community, which they govern […] their position is secure, and their promotion depends not on the people over whom they rule, but on a colonial office thousands of miles away (James 2014, kindle edition location 3406).

The Commissioners who came to rule Newfoundland during this special emergency period had served in the Indian Civil Service, in the Caribbean, Africa, China, Greece and other colonies. From their accounts of life here, it seems that it was not difficult for them to fit the formerly sovereign state of Newfoundland into the common tropes and narratives of crown colonies to which they had become accustomed. Many found it useful to compare the inhabitants here to the subjected populations they had encountered along the way. Lady Simpson, the wife of one the Commissioners was surprised to hear the children speak English. “It always comes as a surprise to me when these children talk English – they seem such little foreigners – so wild & furtive. They seem like such little savages” (Neary 1996, 160). She imagines that the Newfoundlanders think of her husband much as the Indians once did, as “the Sahib [who] would deal justly, according to his knowledge” (ibid. 180). They puzzled over the similarities between white Newfoundlanders and the coloured inhabitants of the crown colonies to which they were accustomed: “It’s the Congo all over again”. And they pushed the island back in time: “They are still living in the seventeenth century. […] In many ways, we are here in the eighteenth century” (Neary 2006, 53, 139). They could compare Newfoundland to other crown colonies and administered populations they had known, because the deconstruction of the state set Newfoundlanders adrift in the sea of other more or less displaced peoples who could be found scattered throughout the colonial world at this time. The interwar years gave birth to new kinds of political subjects – the stateless, the internally displaced, Diasporas and refugees. These were all groups who found either that they had no state (Newfoundland), or had no territory (Jews, Palestinians), or that they were

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not “a unified people” (the excuse for staying on in India). The great geopolitical experiments of Empire had in one way or another made it impossible for them to find the right balance of state, territory and people – three central ingredients of national sovereignty. In this respect, the civil re-education of Newfoundland took its place alongside the birth of refugee camps, mandated territories, protectorates, international zones and all the other special cases in which state, territory and people had been misaligned, and were now being purposely coaxed back into a new order. Unlike many of the other stateless places emerging at this time, however, Newfoundland was a white Dominion, having only recently reached this highest tier of political sovereignty in the British Empire. Its devolution fit into an already established discourse about the moral decline of poor white colonials who had been “domiciled” in other, equally damaging circumstances elsewhere in the empire.

“Anthropo-geographical” experiments Some of the most interesting reasons given for emergency rule in Newfoundland concern geography and what we would now call “biopolitical” concerns about the distribution of populations in the early period of settlement. Early Newfoundland was administered in the same qualified, exceptional way as many of the colonial anomalies – rivers, mountains, that Benton describes. Its remote outports and coves, many of them icebound in winter, meant that it was difficult for any centralised authority to have an authoritative reach. This was sometimes offered as a reason to discourage settlement, or at least to regard the place as presenting exceptional problems for the normal operation of governance. In this sense, Newfoundland has long been an exceptional space for Britain, even if the empire was a “kingdom of exceptions”, as Jan Morris said. Newfoundland was much slower to establish civil institutions that were common in many European settler communities in the new world. Centuries after other colonies had legislatures and universities it still lacked courts, parliament, schools, roads, churches, etc. It did not have representative institutions until the 19th century; hundreds of years after similar developments had taken place in the Caribbean America, and elsewhere. Throughout this long period, Newfoundland was subjected to the British crown but was without a state apparatus in situ.

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Patrick O'Flaherty has suggested that 18th-century Newfoundland was about as close as any society has got to anarchy. Eighteenth-century Newfoundland thus presents the unusual spectacle of a society developing, or at any rate existing, without the benefit of government. It is hard to think of a situation in colonial history that more closely approximates the anarchist model (O’Flaherty 1979, 16).

In 1764, James Balfour, a missionary for the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, found the inhabitants to be living “in an original state of nature, or if you please, little better than savages” (ibid. 20). The question of whether the island’s settling and social life were backward in relation to some supposed norm of development has been a defining problem of Newfoundland’s historiography. Keith Matthews said that Newfoundland was understood to be deviant from some norm, and so the normal rules did not apply. For a very long time, the most pressing question pursued by Newfoundland historians was whether there had been consistent legislation banning settlement. What sort of restrictions, if any, had been placed on the occupation of the island? Had the island really been populated or not? Had it, in fact, only been used as a seasonal fishing camp? What elements, if any, of civil society had emerged in the absence of the state (Matthews 2001, 143-165; Pope 2005; Bannister 2003; O’Flaherty 1999; Handcock 2003; McLintock 1941)? If the law stated, as it sometimes did, that settlement was illegal and any persons found there are to be driven out, was it ever enforced? Did people who remained overwinter find themselves in some zone of illegality – as outlaws, vagabonds and brigands running from British authority? Or was Newfoundland more like a squat, in the contemporary European sense of the term: a tolerated illegal occupation of someone else’s property – in this case, the British Crown’s? In fact, it became common to compare the European inhabitants of Newfoundland to “woodland squatters” who lived illegally in the forests of Europe (Pope 2005, 5). Some kinds of colonialism promised an absolutely new purposely built social order – the republic of America, the prison colonies of Australia, or the slave plantations of the Caribbean and the American South. In Newfoundland, a more temporary, infra-legal and “unsponsored” form of development emerged. Settlement was not planned in the way it was in most other places.

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Chief Justice Reeves’ report to the Board of Trade in 1793 complains that the lack of clear policy on the governance and population of Newfoundland has meant that the island has been inhabited in an unregulated way: The consequence has been that Newfoundland has been peopled behind your back; you have abandoned it to be inhabited by any one who chooses, because you thought appointing a Governor would constitute a colony and encourage population (Reeves 1795, 95).

A similar concern with the unintended consequences of earlier unplanned settlements returned in the 1930s, now translated into a more learned “anthropogeographic” lexicon, and with a clearer sense of administrative purpose. Those sections of the Amulree Report that address what are called “Considerations Arising from the Distribution of the Population” have received far less attention than the other financial elements of the report. Yet, they are central to the thesis that builds throughout the document and ends in the proposals for suspending the state. More importantly, these sections help connect the discourse on Newfoundland’s emergency with wider developments in the imperial world at the time, specifically anxieties about the degeneration of poor white colonial populations. These sections are guided by a style of “anthropogeograhical” theory that was common in imperial thought at the time. A central concern of this school of thought was how white European populations were affected by colonial geographies. In what sort of places would Europeans thrive? How does geography affect the humanly created world of political structure, cultures, values and morality? From the late Victorian period on, imperialism is made increasingly aware of the threat that colonial life poses to European supremacy and, ultimately, whiteness. Colonial life exposes the European to food, weather, disease, animals, microbes, social structures, and beliefs. In its milder forms, anthropogeography guided the imperialist mind towards sensitivity to the cultural and climatic variety of human life. It gave us the cultural relativism of Franz Boas. In its more extreme, but nonetheless influential forms, it drew correlations between temperament, moral structure and climate, and raised the specter of racial degeneracy and decline.

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It may be difficult for us, in the age of radical social constructivism to appreciate the seriousness afforded racialised forms of geographical determinism in circulation at the time. The basic idea that developed from Friedrich Ratzel on was that civilisation was only possible in certain climatic conditions. Ellsworth Huntington at Yale argued that the human animal operated at its physical and mental best at around 59 or 60 °F – the median temperature of an English summer (Huntington 1971). For this reason, Europeans would never properly acclimatise to the tropics. These findings explained and justified the dominance of Europe in the world. They also alerted Europeans to the dangers of living in colonial conditions. It was one thing to say that civilisation had not emerged in the tropics because it could not. What happened to Europeans who lived permanently in places where civilisation could not thrive, was a different question. Sir Harry Johnson told the Royal Geographical Society that his recent visit to India had left him with the clear impression that the bulk of those Britons born and brought up there did not strike me as reaching the same high physical and mental standards as those other of their fellow countrymen who had been born in the United Kingdom.

J. A. Baines supported this view, saying that children kept in the tropics even in the best highland climates, degenerate after a certain time, and very often come home outgrown physically and certainly not of the same mental capacity as their compeers at school here (quoted in Niell 2012, 70).

An idea does not have to be true to have real effects. These ideas pointed towards the very real matter of what to do with degenerated populations who had become permanently domiciled and, in a sense, stranded in the colonies. How should they be administered? What privileges should they enjoy? Were they capable of occupying higher-level positions, of representing British interests or operating state and financial institutions that affected other sovereign, i.e. white populations? What matters in these debates is not the weak science on which racism is based, or its simplistic “Eurocentric” notions of morality. What interests us is the way that anxieties about domicile and race stirred up a desire for new experimental tactics of governance. These included forms of education, pastoral care, separation of governance and state, and interventions into affective and intimate relations not normally thought to be political. In the period after the decline of Empire, these techniques and

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devices continued to be useful for other, post-imperial purposes in the welfare and neoliberal states. Section IV of the Amulree Report, entitled “Considerations of the Distribution of the Population”, sets Newfoundland in this wellestablished imperial scene of white colonial degeneracy. There is general agreement that a number of the outports, particularly of those on the northern promontory of the Island and on the western portion of the south coast, are situated in places which, judged by modern standards, would not be regarded as suited to human habitation (Amulree 1933, 198). Long periods of enforced isolation have given rise to intermarriage, chronic disease through absence of medical advice, and gradual degeneration. […] Administration is rendered difficult and expensive; and in the more remote places the inhabitants are driven in on themselves (ibid. 199). The people exhibit a child-like simplicity when confronted with matters outside their own immediate horizon (ibid. 210).

The problem that comes into focus here is that settlements had been chosen solely on the basis of their proximity to fishing grounds, with little regard for the long-term social consequences of isolation. Many were cut off and inaccessible in winter, making legal administration and medical care extremely difficult. Long-term isolation and loneliness, it was argued, had made the people “turn in on themselves”. They now displayed “a childlike simplicity” and as a result, were by the 1930s unable to think beyond their own “immediate horizon”, or run their own affairs. These passages from the Amulree report share a remarkable similarity with insights from E.C. Semple’s famous work on poor whites in the isolated mountainous regions of Kentucky. Semple’s essay The AngloSaxons of the Kentucky Mountains: a study in anthropogeography famously links degeneracy and retarded development with isolation. The whole civilisation of the Kentucky mountains is eloquent to the anthropogeographer of the influence of physical environment, for nowhere else in modern times has that progressive Anglo-Saxon race been so long and so completely subjected to retarding conditions; and at no other time could the ensuing result present so startling a contrast to the achievement of the same race elsewhere. […] these Kentucky mountaineers are not only cut off from the outside world, but they are separated from each other [...]

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A result of this confinement to one locality is the absence of anything like social life, and the close intermarriage of families inhabiting one district (Semple 1910, 1, 7).

The loneliness and isolation that Semple and Amulree identify are not existential problems of individuals. They are problems in the collective organisation of social life. They reveal a lack of a basic measure of solidarity and cohesion thought necessary to make a people form into a collective self-expression.

Domiciliary politics Unlike Kentucky Mountaineers, though, Newfoundlanders found themselves caught up in the politics of the late British Empire. Their passports read: “British Subject domiciled in Newfoundland”. For that reason, their situation shared a number of important similarities and connections with the so-called “Eurasian” problem contemporary with it. Eurasians were poor whites and deracinated Europeans who had become permanently domiciled in the tropics. Like Newfoundlanders, they were thought to have been degenerated and unfitted by the unplanned geographic distribution of imperialism. From an administrative perspective, they, too, were the unintended consequences of an earlier phase of colonial expansion. Satoshi Mizutani has shown to what degree imperial policy in the 1930s was influenced by anxieties about the fittedness – capacity for self-rule – of those poor disenfranchised whites who became a more common sight in the tropics in the latter half of the 19th century (Mizutani 2011, 78 ff). Mizutani reports that by the 1920s, ¼ of all-Europeans in India were living in slums. Whiteness became the source of anxiety, regulation and social experiment. Being white was no longer imagined to be a given, natural attribute of a person or population, with the privileges that had accompanied it in the colonies. Whiteness was increasingly regarded as a personal quality to be attained and perfected through discipline and sound public policy. Being white was a way of life that properly belongs to a place – Europe – in which it originates and, in the best of circumstances, to which it returns. Outside its natural setting whiteness could be influenced, threatened and diminished. Domiciled white communities represented a new kind of social problem for Europe. They were white populations who had emerged in places that were not meant to be permanently settled, by Europeans at least. They had

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been altered in undesirable ways by the milieu – physical, microbial, cultural – of the colony. At the heart of these distinctions among kinds of whites were not only moral judgments but also important institutional changes and regulations concerning, among other things, movement, sovereignty, inheritance, opportunity and property rights. Domiciled Europeans living permanently in India were prevented from occupying upper level positions in the Indian civil service. The legal distinction between place of birth and residence was codified in the Government of India Act 1935, Article 366(2): An “Anglo-Indian” means a person whose father or any of whose other male progenitors in the male line is or was of European descent but who is domiciled within the territory of India and is or was born within such territory of parents habitually resident therein and not established there for temporary purposes only. As a result of these changes Europeans born and habitually resident in India were now formally distinguished from fullblooded, fully English subjects who formed what amounted to an elite British cadre (Government of India Act, quoted in Gist and Wright

1973). Similar anxieties and regulations concerning white privilege restructured the Dutch Indies in the latter half of the 19th century (Stoler 2010). We are familiar with an “external” racism through which Europe distinguishes brown from white. From the mid-19th century on, though, we find this other, “internal racism”, as it might be called, in which Europe begins to divide itself with more precision into those who are, and those who are not “fitted”, which is to say capable of self-rule and sovereignty. In his lectures from the mid-1970s, Michel Foucault depicts the modern state as a dynamic force driven by the threat posed to the social body by pathological forces that the society itself continues to produce. Modern governance is “reflexively” aware of its ability to produce unintended consequences, with undesirable social effects. Governmentality is an endless project of measurement and calibration of problematic populations. The white degenerate is a kind of raw material for its investigation, administration and adjustment. Ann Laura Stoler’s pioneering work in this area established the value of Foucault’s ideas of an “internal biopolitical racism” for understanding the policing of poor whites and mixed-race subjects in Indo China and India in the late imperial

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period. My analysis is obviously much indebted to hers (see Stoler 1995 and 2010). The new “state racism”, as Foucault calls it, pursues a race that is permanently, ceaselessly infiltrating the social body, or which is, rather, constantly being re-created in and by the social fabric […]; it is the reappearance, within a single race, of the past of that race […]. This is the internal racism of permanent purification, and it will become one of the basic dimensions of social normalisation (Foucault 2003, 63).

Imperialism’s domiciliary politics was based on distinctions among different kinds of whites, more specifically between those whites raised in England and those raised and schooled in the colonies. Movement from the colony to the metropolis for education and furlough was thought to be necessary to provide a sufficient immunisation against threats posed to whiteness by colonial conditions. The longer one remained without leaving, the grimmer the consequences. Civil servants and their families regularly took leave in Europe, or visited Hill Stations that were meant to replicate the climate and culture of Europe. The circulation of Europeans into and out of the colonies, in the right ratios of movement and stasis, produced distinctions among kinds of life that were more or less civilised, and more or less able and fitted for self-rule. The new racism was not only a mechanism for gate-keeping privileged positions in the civil service. It was also a device for intervening in the social lives of subjects. Anxiety about white degeneration migrated from the inner-city poverty of Europe to the slums of Asia, the Transvaal of South Africa and the outreaches of the North. Leopold Amery, a disciple of Lord Milner enthusiastically stated that by applying to Newfoundland Lord Milner’s South African development policies of the early 1900s Britain could re-create “the whole productive life of the country from its very foundations”. In a similar vein, Neville Chamberlain, British Chancellor Exchequer envisaged “the singularly absorbing and fascinating character of rebuilding Newfoundland economically, politically and morally” (Tuck 1983, 51). Experiments in rebuilding Newfoundland without a state worked at the level of population and individual. The larger-scale programs involved the geographic resettlement of the unemployed, the separation of sovereignty and governance (a form of quasi-sovereignty), the reorganisation of the

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magistracy along the lines of District Commissioner system used in crown colonies, and a new kind of police force, focussed on government administration in remote areas (Tuck 1983). Other efforts aimed at restructuring the life world and domestic sphere of Newfoundlanders through experiments in holistic “folk” pedagogy that provided training in hygiene, childcare, discipline, agricultural practices, household planning and domestic science, among other things. James Overton (1995a) has shown how the discourse on self-help, adult education and land settlement that was promoted under commission rule in Newfoundland had roots in urban poverty and social work movements in Europe. Basic education movements, temperance societies and other Victorian “social work” movements were often grounded in concerns about saving poor whites from social and physical decline. Mizutani (2011) shows that these were not only class-based efforts to save the working class from themselves. They were racialised efforts as well. Experiments in re-making broken whites fitted for self-rule migrated from the inner cities of Europe to the slums of Asia and the remote outports of Newfoundland. These included efforts to resettle indigent urban populations to rural areas and to train them in agriculture, child rearing, domestic science, as well as personal and social hygiene. In India, Hill Stations that had provided elite British families atmospheric and cultural relief from the low land conditions, were converted into remedial schools for poor whites from the urban slums of Calcutta and other cities. Mizutani (ibid.) describes institutions that combined forms of incarceration, education, population resettlement and other “biopolitical” measures to remake poor whites into semi-legitimate autonomous subjects. Similar developments were underway in Newfoundland. The Amulree Report had identified the unplanned settlement as a central cause of difficulty in governing the island. The centrepiece of the Commission Government of Newfoundland’s civilising experiments was a series of new agricultural communities where populations from city slums and remote areas were resettled. These were purposeful communities that were created from scratch in hitherto unsettled parts of the island (Handcock 1970 and 1994; Overton 1995). Peter Neary describes them as “the Commission Government’s beacon of hope, what New Lanark had been to the followers of Robert Owen” (Neary 1998, 6). Like New Lanark, these were intentionally planned settlements and, so,

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represented the beginning of a whole new purposeful reorganisation of colonial social life: In these new communities, which were cut out of the woods and built exnihilo, a program of civil reeducation taught the population hygiene, child rearing, as well as academic topics and basic skills of civility. The school is to be educational in the sense of preparing them for being useful members of the colony. The idea is to develop a full, interesting, happy, self-dependent life for the community.

Lady Simpson, wife of one of the Commissioners, explained that: It is modeled on the Danish folk schools. As such, the school is not one among other institutions. It is the cultural center of the settlement. Men, women and children attend, not of course together. The children are taught everything. School begins by them washing their hands, faces, ears and necks and brushing their hair. Then they all clean their teeth. All of this is an entirely new experience for them. And they are taught deportment and chorus singing and nature study and organized games and the three Rs. In the afternoon, the women have their instruction in management of children and of the house, in cooking, dress making and the other female arts. In the evening it is the turn of the men who learn the three Rs (if they do not know them), history, [and] physics. It is a great experiment (quoted in Neary 1996, 134).

Gordon Handcock, who has written the most thorough study of the settlements, captured the naïve, experimental mood of their beginnings: College students under the supervision of a landscape architect were expected to engineer within two years the transformation of poverty stricken families into self-sufficient, self-supporting individuals (Handcock 1970, 37).

It was like starting colonialism all over again, now with the chance to reset the anthropogeographic conditions and to purposefully create the right milieu for civility and self-rule to flourish. Officials who had spent their careers experimenting with the populations of China, Burma, Ceylon, India, and Nicobar brought their collective wisdom to bear on Newfoundland’s political anomaly, to try to re-invent a people. “There are all sorts of interesting experiments going on and it is a most happy colony” (Lady Hope Simpson, quoted in Neary 1996, 177).

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Sovereignty and governance in the post-mythic state Newfoundland’s Commission Government understood its task to be the temporary suspension, and eventual return of the sovereign state to the people. That moment never really arrived, since the island was absorbed into Canada in 1949. At any rate, I have tried to show that the significance of Commission rule does not lie in the national sovereignty it promised, but rather in the emergency measures through which it actually operated. Emergency power, separation of state and governance, experiments in moral education and resettlement were all part of an emerging arsenal of techniques that shifted the practice of governance away from forms of national self-expression, to a blander but more direct administrative management of economic and physical life. In its technocratic spirit, Newfoundland’s emergency points ahead towards the rise of neoliberal austerity regimes, economic emergencies and the economic unification without political sovereignty that is the basis of many of the new IMF style bailout programs. Newfoundland’s peculiar case helps us set these contemporary developments in the longue duree of the evolving and uneasy relation of sovereignty and governance that has defined the modern state. Newfoundland’s reorganisation of sovereignty and governance is an especially instructive example of what Michel Foucault calls the “governmentalisation” of the state that begins to emerge around the late 16th century and has only intensified since. In his lectures at the Collège de France in the mid-1970s, Foucault explains how, in the passage from the absolutist to the modern state, “governance” of the population increasingly displaces the question of popular sovereignty and right. Governance is more than the enforcement of rule. It is the monitoring and guidance of the conduct, movements, desires and physical life of a subject population. The older form of the territorial state, under the rule of a Prince or a Monarch, took from the populace in the form of taxes, territory and punishment, but did not yet analyse and shape the society it ruled. The modern state, however, actively reaches into the interior life of its population and plans and organises it from within. The modern state gathers statistics. It analyses and measures. It optimises and administers populations. It administers the composition and movement of economic and geographic forces. It produces a kind of populace that is amenable to techniques of governmentality.

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In the emergence of this new governmentalised state, the sovereignty of the body politic is increasingly subordinated to techniques for its more efficient administration. In other words, instead of administrative governance serving the interests of a sovereign state, the institutions that we associate with sovereignty – courts, treasury, borders, elections, legislature – are increasingly seen as effects, “episodes”, or techniques of governance that may or may not be useful for a given population or context: “the state is only an episode in government, and it is not government that is an instrument of the state […]; the state is an episode in governmentality” (Foucault 2009, 325). The division between these forces of sovereignty and governance becomes more visible in the instances of its breakdown and exception. That is why late imperialism is so important for understanding our present. Its kingdom of exceptions included paramountcies, protectorates, dependencies, municipalities, Dominions-in-abeyance and various other inventions. These broke up the monolithic idea of sovereignty as absolute self-rule and undivided autonomy, which the modern state had inherited from the political theology of the Middle Ages. Laura Benton (2009) has shown how 19th century imperial sociology, beginning with Henry Sumner Maine, begins to reimagine sovereignty as divisible into various elements, such as control of economy, the military, borders, the movement of populations, etc. Commission Government was born in this new experimental space of quasi-sovereignty that included places as different as Princely India and Lesotho. It is not too far a stretch to suggest that the reorganisation of sovereignty and governance in these places is also the precondition for more contemporary intervention in state sovereignty, through newer forms of austere measures, structural adjustment programs and economic unification without sovereignty. Newfoundland’s case shows how the divisibility of sovereignty has been accompanied by a more intensive intervention into the conduct and governance of the population. The legislature and the legal letters patent that supported the constitution were re-imagined as techniques of imperial governance that could be deployed or retracted when needed. The suspension of the state allowed Newfoundland to operate without any of the mythology of destiny, spirit, or collective will on offer in Europe. In the absence of any epic sense of the state as destiny or self-assertion, we can recognise an important quality of a new, more nakedly managerial and

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“biopolitical” spirit of governance without a state, and population without a means of collective representation – not a Dominion, or a country, just a place.

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Rights. Review of the International Commission of Jurists. Geneva: International Commission of Jurists. Human Rights Quarterly, Vol. 6, No. 1 (Feb., 1984), 125-132 —. 2003. Soe Long as There Comes noe Women: Origins of English Settlement in Newfoundland. Milton: Global Heritage Press. Hussain, Nasser. 2003. The Jurisprudence of Emergency. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. James, C.L.R. 2014. The Case for West Indian Self Government. Durham: Duke University Press. Lodge, Thomas. 1939. Dictatorship in Newfoundland, London: Cassel and Co. Long, Gene. 1999. Suspended State: Newfoundland before Canada. St. John’s: Breakwater Books. Matthews, Keith. 2001. Historical fence building: a critique of the historiography of Newfoundland, Newfoundland and Labrador Studies no. 17 issue 2, 143-165. McLintock, A.H. 1941. The Establishment of Constitutional Government in Newfoundland: A Study in Retarded Colonization. London: Longmans, Green and Co. Mizutani, Satoshi. 2011. The Meaning of White: race, class, and the “domiciled community” in British India 1858-1930. Toronto: Oxford University Press. Morris, Jan. 1992. Heaven’s Command: An Imperial Progress. London: Folio Society. Neary, Peter. 2000. Address to Convocation. Memorial University of Newfoundland, by Dr. Peter Francis Neary. May 5, 2000. Available at: http://www.mun.ca/gazette/1999-2000/June8/padd.html, accessed October 11, 2016. —. 1988. Newfoundland in the North Atlantic World 1929-1949. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s. —. 1996. White tie and decorations: Sir John and Lady Hope Simpson in Newfoundland, 1934-1936. Edited by Peter Neary. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Neocleous, Mark. 2008. Critique of Security, Montreal: McGill-Queens University Press. Newfoundland Royal Commission Report (The Amulree Report), 1933. Presented by the Secretary of State for Dominion Affairs to Parliament by command of His Majesty, November, 1933. London: HMSO 1933. Available at Center for Newfoundland Studies, Memorial University of Newfoundland, St. John’s, Newfoundland.

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Niell, Deborah. 2012. Networks in Tropical Medicine: Internationalism, Colonialism, and the Rise of a Medical Specialty, 1890-1930. Stanford: Stanford University Press. O’Flaherty, Patrick. 1979. The Rock Observed: Studies in the Literature of Newfoundland. Toronto: University of Toronto Press —. 1999. Old Newfoundland: A History to 1843, St. John’s: Long Beach Press. —. 2011. Leaving the Past Behind. St. John’s: Long Beach Press. Overton, James. 1990. Economic Crisis and the End of Democracy: Politics in Newfoundland during the Great Depression. Labor/Le Travail, Volume 26. —. 1995. Moral Education of the Poor: Adult Education and Land Settlement Schemes in Newfoundland in the 1930s. Newfoundland Studies, 11.2 (1995): 250-282. Pope, Peter. 2005. Fish into Wine: The Newfoundland Plantation in the Seventeenth Century. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Reeves, Chief Justice. 1793. Evidence before a committee of the House of Commons on the trade of Newfoundland. London: Sewell et al. Available at the Center for Newfoundland Studies, Memorial University of Newfoundland. Rossiter, Clinton. 1948. Constitutional Dictatorship: Crisis Government in the Modern Democracies. New York: Harcourt Press. Schmitt, Carl. 2005. Political Theology. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Semple, Ellen Churchill. 1910. The Anglo-Saxons of the Kentucky Mountains: a study in anthropogeography. Bulletin of the American Geographical Society Vol. 42, No. 8 (1910), 561-594. Stoler, Ann Laura. 2010. Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power. Los Angeles: University of California Press. —. 1995. Race and the Education of Desire: Foucault’s “History of Sexuality" and the Colonial Order of Thing. Durham: Duke University Press. Svirsky, Marcelo, and Simone Bignall, editors. 2012. Agamben and Colonialism. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Tuck, Marilyn. 1983. The Newfoundland Ranger Force, 1935-1950. Master’s thesis (M.A.). St. John’s: Memorial University of Newfoundland. Available at The Center for Newfoundland Studies, Memorial University, St. John’s, Newfoundland. United Nations, 1997. Report by the UN Special Rapporteur, Mr. Leandro Despouy, on the Question of Human Rights and States of Emergency. New York: United Nations, paras. 180-181.

PART II: PREPARATIONS FOR WORLD WAR II AND THE WAR PERIOD

CHAPTER FOUR MORE RACE, LESS CHARACTER: THE IMAGE OF RUSSIANS IN GERMAN SCHOOL GEOGRAPHY TEXTBOOKS, 1933-1943 VIRPI KIVIOJA

During the 1930s, the political system of Germany went through a total change of direction. National Socialists strove to shape all aspects of German society anew, including the field of education. Revising the entire educational system meant reworking the content of education as well. The central instrument of school teaching, textbooks, was remoulded to support the goals of National Socialist Germany – such as conquering living space in the East. Producing new textbooks took several years, however, and until the work was done, old books were still in use. Thus, the textbooks published in the Third Reich can be classified into two consecutive “textbook generations”. Like their predecessors, National Socialists placed a special value on school geography because it was one of the so called deutschkundliche Fächer, that is, subjects involving German culture and teaching children what it meant to be German (Heske 1988, 20, 190-192; Keim 1997b, 4547). This chapter analyses the geography textbooks that were used in the Third Reich in the höhere Schule (“higher school”), the German equivalent of grammar school. The focus of my inspection is the textbooks’ depictions of Russia — a nation with which Germans had had a long and complicated relationship and which was regarded as a representative of Slavic Untermenschen in the racial theories of the Nazis. How did textbooks portray the Russian people, especially their national character, and did this image of Russians change or remain the same through the years of Nazi rule? As Janne Holmén (2006, 333-335) has demonstrated in his study of school geography, history and social studies textbooks, textbooks can change rapidly when the “political climate” around them changes.

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It was in grammar school that Nazi indoctrination was most needed (Flessau 1979, 92) and the reform of geography instruction was most extensive (Heske 1988, 254). This is why it is fruitful to use textbooks from this level of schooling as source materials when studying the effects of a regime change on textbooks. The books examined for this chapter fall into two chronological categories, with the release of the new national curriculum for grammar schools in 1938 serving as the dividing line. Thus, the old regime is embodied by textbooks published between 1933 and 1938, and textbooks published from 1939 until 1943 represent the new era. For the sake of simplicity, I refer to these two book generations simply as the older books and the newer books, respectively. For this chapter, I have analysed 19 volumes of older books, from nine book series and six publishers, as well as 15 volumes of newer books, from four book series and four publishers. Given the increasing air raids and tightening paper rationing that impeded school work from 1942 onward (Keim 1997b, 144), the 1943 editions appear to be the last geography textbook editions that ever saw daylight in the Third Reich. The viewpoint from which I examine the textbooks can be called productoriented in terms of Weinbrenner’s (1995, 22-23) tripartite division of textbook research approaches. My focus is on the information offered by the textbooks, not on the reception of the books by the pupils or the various processes that produced these textbooks, such as the motives and influence of authors or publishers. I do not seek to compare individual depictions of Russians in textbooks or individual textbooks with one another so much as the overall images of Russians that the two different geography textbook generations sought to construct. By comparing two sets of textbooks and analysing the changes in their content, I track the tangible results of the transition to a new political and ideological era in Germany.

The school and textbooks in the Third Reich The development of the first democratic German republic was discontinued when the National Socialists rose to power in 1933. In the years that followed, the Nazis strove to subjugate the whole of society to their rule, which was shot through with aggressive racial ideology and political propaganda (about National Socialism in Germany see Thamer 2002; Bauer 2008; Kershaw 2009). Like other rulers before and after them, Nazis had a special interest in children. Children were to be raised

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and educated into a “racially pure” and physically strong populace that would unquestioningly serve the Nazi ideology and state and would even be ready and proud to sacrifice their lives for the good of Germany. To ensure success in this, Nazis not only founded youth organisations such as the Hitler Jugend (Hitler Youth) and Bund Deutscher Mädel (League of German Girls) but also reshaped the national school education into an instrument of political and ideological indoctrination (Keim 1997a and 1997b; Rossmeisl 1985). On a structural level, the Nazi school reform focussed on the grammar school, höhere Schule, which offered the highest level of school education and prepared its pupils for university studies, thus leading to influential positions in society. The diversity of grammar schools was cut down to two basic types: one for boys and one for girls. The National Socialist grammar school was designed especially for boys and restricted girls’ opportunities to strive for academic careers. Boys could choose between a language-oriented or a natural-science-oriented track, which both led to higher education, whereas girls were offered only a language-oriented track; otherwise, girls could study domestic science and home economics, which prepared them for lives as wives and mothers (Keim 1997b, 23-26, 38-39). In addition to this, children with Jewish backgrounds were excluded from grammar school, even in the early stage of the school reform (Keim 1997a, 77-78). Along with the simplification and centralisation of the school system, the Nazis also revised the most important instrument of teaching, the textbooks. The core task of school textbooks was not only the dissemination of information but also the propagation and reinforcement of National Socialist ideology; textbooks were as much a tool of political indoctrination as the mass media in the Third Reich (Kollmann 2006; Flessau 1979, 135-136; Heske 1988, 32-33, 196-199). However, the revision of textbooks did not occur overnight. The textbook writers and publishers waited for new nationwide curricula and syllabi before bringing out new books. Until then, schools had to get by with reprints of and supplements to old textbooks that the Nazi government had approved for use in schools. The new curricula were released between 1937 and 1942, and only after that were the first truly National Socialist textbook series published (Keim 1997b, 47-48; Heske 1988, 196; Schäfer 2007, 234).

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That the release of new curricula took four years appears to have caused only a little worry for the Nazi government. First of all, the Nazis did not regard school as the primary institution for the education of citizens into good Germans. They placed more trust in organisations within the National Socialist party, such as the above-mentioned Hitler Jugend and Reichsarbeitsdienst or Reich Labour Service (Keim 1997a, 86). By taking a grip on educational policy and creating new legislation, the new government managed to increase the pressure in schools to accept and adopt National Socialist goals. The opponents of the new rule were tracked down, harassed and ousted from schools (Wiegmann 2000, 260). On the other hand, as Wolfgang Keim (1997a, 20-54) has concluded, German pedagogics and school education had already shown significantly anti-democratic and racist traits in the Weimar Republic era. For that reason, the step from the Weimarian to the National Socialist order in schools was a relatively easy one to take. The teaching of geography aimed at raising German children to adopt a sense of nationalistic patriotism and racist colonialism began long before the Nazi era, as Heske (1988, 35-48) and Klaus Martin Schäfer (2007, 177-214) have shown. The same applies to textbooks from the Weimar era: they, too, were concordant enough with National Socialist thinking that an instant revision of them was not essential (Flessau 1979, 137). Many of the writers and editors of the geography textbooks examined in this chapter were active theorists and developers of National Socialist school geography in the 1930s (Heske 1988, 53-172; Schultz 2001, passim). As for the grammar school, the new national curriculum, Erziehung und Unterricht in der höheren Schule, was released in 1938. From 1939 onward, schools were provided with new textbooks that replaced the old books. In the case of school geography, the number of textbook series in use was reduced remarkably. When the Nazis came to power, the German textbook market was marked by a broad array of geography textbook series, many of which were written for a certain state (Bundesland) of the federation (see Bausenhardt and Huttenlocher 1937), but after the regime change, the regional editions were cut out, and the number of textbook series (and publishers) for geography at the grammar school level was reduced to four (Heske 1988, 196, 199).

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Who is “Russian”? When describing the geographical aspects of various countries, each textbook chapter normally deals with many topics, such as natural conditions, major cities, population and sources of livelihood. In the geography textbooks, the Soviet Union is presented as a realm of multiple peoples, or nations, which differ from one another ethnically. As one book puts it, “[t]here live over 100 peoples and tribes (Völker und Volksstämme) in the large area of the Soviet Union, all varying in race (Rasse), language, religion, culture and economic system” (Wagner and Liebscher 1940, 90; all translations from German by VK). Of these different peoples, “the Russians make up the majority” (Bausenhardt and Huttenlocher 1937, 161). Because they compose the main population, Russians are the people regarding which the textbooks give the most detailed depictions. Like the total population of the vast Soviet Union, the Russians themselves do not constitute a uniform ethnic group either. In general, textbooks consider the following three groups to be Russian: Great Russians (Großrussen), i.e., the main population of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic; White Russians (or Belorussians, Weißrussen), who inhabit the Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic, and Little Russians, or Ukrainians (Kleinrussen, Ukrainer), from the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic (see Heck et al. 1933a, 93; Bausenhardt and Huttenlocher 1937, 161; Nolting 1939, 91). Even though they are separated from one another, all these three groups are considered “Russian”. What connects them is that they are all Slavs and profess the Russian Orthodox faith (e.g. Heck et al. 1933a, 93; Huttenlocher 1939, 73-75). The accounts of their exact relationships with one another vary notably. Some textbooks (e.g. Gerloff, and Eggers 1934, 129; Edelmann 1939, 87) present them as three tribes of one people, while other books (e.g. Heck et al. 1933b, 114) take no stand on this matter and only mention the three groups as the inhabitants of the western parts of the Soviet Union. In a similar way, regarding the question about the foundation of their “Slavness”, textbooks provide different answers. Some (e.g. Knieriem 1936, 130; Jantzen et al. 1940, 20) say that being a Slav equals speaking a Slavonic language, whereas others (e.g. Schwarz, Weber and Wagner 1936, 102) view Slavic kinship as being based on the racial background rather than the language. In still other books (e.g. Rüsewald and Schäfer 1936, 48), the question remains unanswered.

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It is only after the release of the new set of geography textbooks that the idea of three separate Russian peoples or nations appears to become dominant (e.g. Pfalz and Weber 1939, 131); furthermore, the meaning and content of the word “Russian” seem to shift in the newer books. This is a factor that I will return to later in this chapter. For the sake of clarity, whenever I refer to all three Russian nations, I use the word Russian. When I refer to only one of them, I single that nation out by using the name that the geography textbooks call it by, that is, either Great Russians, Belorussians or Ukrainians.

More emphasis on differences in the physical features and “race” of Russian groups In their portrayal of the inhabitants of a country, textbooks usually describe the inhabitants’ outward appearance, yet some books give an account of their race as well. Both older and newer textbooks usually distinguish the three Russian groups from one another via their physical features. In older books, Great Russians are generally portrayed as people with “blond hair and grey or blue eyes”, while Ukrainians have “dark hair and brown eyes” (e.g. Schwarz, Weber, and Wagner 1934, 100). Few books describe Belorussians, who are usually sketched out as blond people like Great Russians but not as tall (e.g. Heck et al. 1933a, 93). In general, Russian farmers are known to be “bursting with bodily vigour, […] healthy, hardened with frequent steam baths to endure heat and cold” (Knieriem 1936, 130). In newer textbooks, these descriptions remain mostly the same. However, newer books mention certain features that are associated with Great Russians only: they are said to be “often clumsy and slow-moving” (Edelmann 1939, 87). In contrast, “Ukrainians are light on their feet” (Huttenlocher 1939, 74). It is noteworthy that newer books tend to emphasise the difference between Ukrainians and the other two Russian groups. They [Ukrainians] look different and they are also different from White Russians and Great Russians. They are taller, have a darker, brown colour of the skin and eyes and often an aquiline nose (Edelmann 1939, 87).

As mentioned earlier, German textbooks portray the Soviet Union as a realm of different nations. The same applies to its “racial” composition. Stretching from Europe to East Asia, the Soviet Union is an area where European and Asian stocks collide – where “Slavs (East Slavs) and

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Mongols run into each other” (Schwerd 1938, 134). The question of the race of the Russians is often discussed along with their outer appearance. In older textbooks, these accounts are rather short and non-specific. According to the books, among Great Russians and Belorussians “one can recognise physical characteristics of the white race here, of the yellow race there” (Knieriem 1936, 130); the “Great Russians are blond and blue-eyed, but the protruding cheekbones and the snub nose show the [racial] mixing with Mongolian peoples” (Gerloff and Eggers 1934, 129). Ukrainians, on the other hand, “lack the Mongolian addition” (ibid.). In newer textbooks, the racial descriptions seem to grow in significance; they are much more verbose and more meticulous, as the following citation shows. Amongst the Great Russians, as well as the Nordic type, we find, above all, the likewise often blond and blue-eyed East Baltic type with its stocky figure, typical deeply in-bent nose and protruding cheekbones. They [Great Russians] have on various occasions received also Turco-Tataric and Mongolian blood in the course of the chequered Russian history. The Eastern type occurs rather seldom (Voggenreiter and Völkel 1940, 150).

Newer textbooks tell how, in contrast to the Great Russians, who are a mixture of European and Asian races, [t]he Little Russians or Ukrainians (also called Ruthenians) differ racially greatly from the other two Russian ethnic groups [Volksgruppen]. Due to their significant Dinaric1 [race] element, they seem to resemble more closely the mainly Dinaric Southern Slavs, e.g. Serbs and Croats (ibid. 151).

Belorussians, though “racially closely related to the Great Russians” (ibid.), differ from the latter because “Nordic and East Baltic immigrants have influenced them strongly” (Edelmann 1939, 87). Thus, the newer textbooks draw a picture of a western Soviet Union inhabited by three racially different Russian groups: Great Russians as representatives of a mixture of the Turco-Tataric and Mongolian and East Baltic races, Ukrainians as predominantly Dinaric and Belorussians, with their blend of the Nordic and East Baltic races. An increased degree of interest in racial questions and the racial analysis of Russians can thus be observed in the new geography textbooks introduced in the middle of the National Socialist era. Indeed, the Nazi

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regime made the pseudo-scientific study of race and genetics a central component of German school education as early as 1933. With a decree by the Ministry of Education of Prussia – the largest of all the states of the federation – on 13 September of that year, German schools were obligated to include the study of race as a topic in the final-class teaching and school leaving exams as of October of that year. As the decree states, [t]he knowledge of the basic biological facts and of their applications to individual humans and community [Gemeinschaft] is the essential prerequisite for the renovation of our Volk. No schoolboy and no schoolgirl is allowed to leave [the school] and live their lives without this elementary knowledge.2

The study of race was not a school subject as such, however, which would have meant it being assigned a certain number of teaching hours in the timetable. Rather, it was a fundamental theme that was to be discussed in all classes. In 1935, the decree was extended to apply to the entire country.3 The position of the study of race in school education was sealed once and for all in the new national curricula from 1937 onward (FrickeFinkelnburg 1989, 212-213). As for geography, the new curriculum Erziehung und Unterricht in der höheren Schule (1938, 105) states that “the most important task of geography [is] the exploration and description of the areas of the world taking special account of the peoples and races that are inhabiting it.” Geography teaching was thus intended to focus on anthropological issues, especially on the German man, people and race (ibid. 105-123; see also Heske 1988, 190). In geography textbooks, it is not only the depictions of the physical and racial features of Russians that went through a noticeable change. The old and new textbooks also differ from one another in terms of the portrayal of the Russian mind.

Sharper sorting of Russian groups by national character It is customary for the geography textbooks to characterise not only the physical but also the mental characteristics of various nationalities – that is, their so-called national characters. The concept of national character refers to the idea that each people or nation has mental features, just like human individuals, but these features are collective, being present in all or at least in the majority of the individuals that constitute the nation. The features form a set that is unique to and characteristic of only that particular nation, and thus, these features set that nation apart from all

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other nations of the world. In other words, each nation has its own collective character. Traditional images and representations of national character usually refer to old commonplaces and stereotypes. Nevertheless, the use of national stereotypes in geography textbooks has been common in the Western world (Paasi 1984, 4-21; Paasi 1998, 218-220; Leerssen 2015; Leerssen 2007c, 343; Marsden 2001, 137-142). The idea that different nations have different national characters has, in itself, a long history. The tradition of dividing ethnic groups into different categories based on supposed collective characters dates back to the early modern era in Europe; in western academic thinking, the study of national characters established itself in the 19thcentury. During the 20th century, scientists slowly abandoned the notion that national characters were something stable and permanent and began to treat them as historical phenomena. In Germany, however, ethnic essentialism in the understanding of national character remained dominant at least until the 1940s and the Second World War (Leerssen 2007b, 63-65, 73-74 and passim; Leerssen 2007a, 20-25 and passim). In the German textbooks examined for this chapter, the Russian psyche is comprised of many qualities. In the older books, a Russian is described as a person who is ponderous, both inside and outside (Rüsewald and Schäfer 1936, 50), and often melancholic (Heck et al. 1933b, 111), even fatalistic (Bausenhardt and Huttenlocher 1937, 162). A Russian has a “tendency to a somewhat lethargic, sluggish nature” (Schwarz, Weber, and Wagner 1936, 102), which is why he “avoids difficulties rather than surmounts them” (Rüsewald, and Schäfer 1936, 50). Submissiveness (Littig and Vogel 1935, 70) and patience (Rüsewald and Schäfer 1936, 50) are also features that are distinctive of the Russian character. Nevertheless, there is a certain amount of temper in their personality because Russians are “patient but in a moment suddenly also boisterous and violent” (Schwerd 1938, 140). Towards other people, they can be both friendly and nasty because they are “good-natured [...] and helpful and yet also brutish and cruel, not petty but broad-minded, [and] hospitable” (ibid.). When it comes to their lifestyle, Russians are modest and have very few needs (Rüsewald and Schäfer 1936, 50; Heck et al. 1933a, 93). According to the textbooks, Russians are religious, but their religion is “dead, uninspired, fossilised” (Littig and Vogel 1935, 69). In a way, this religiousness also determines their intellectual abilities – “the mind of the

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Russian is focussed on the heavenly, on the spiritual [world]. The urge for scientific, intellectual research leaves him cold” (Knieriem 1936, 130131). Thus, regarding occupations, Russians make good craftsmen (e.g. Heck et al. 1933a, 93). Great Russians have even a special gift for poetry (Wührer 1937, 57). Only a very few characteristics are associated exclusively with Ukrainians or Belorussians; the former are portrayed as people who find it “hard to get accustomed to innovations” (Gerloff and Eggers 1934, 122), and the latter are portrayed as “purely rural [rein bäuerliche]” folk (Knieriem 1936, 130). All in all, the older textbooks present a colourful image of the Russian soul. What is distinctive regarding this image is its self-contradiction. This diversity and inconsistency can be explained by the long history of the western images of Russians. Many of the features associated with Russians had appeared in western literature by the 15th century (Naarden and Leerssen 2007, 226). According to Leerssen, contradictions are typical of representations of national characters: in most cases, the image of a given nation will include a compound layering of different, contradictory counter-images, with (in any given textual expression) some aspects activated and dominant, but the remaining counterparts all latently, tacitly, subliminally present. As a result, most images of national character will boil down to a characteristic, or quasi-characterological, polarity [...]. The ltimate cliché about any nation is that it is “a nation of contrasts” (Leerssen 2007c, 343-344).

It is thus the long history of the western images of Russians that accounts for the colourful and self-contradictory images of the Russian national character given in older German geography textbooks. The textbook writers used various sources when writing about Russia and Russians, drawing from age-old impressions, ideas and conceptions. In the newer geography textbooks, the mental characteristics of Russians seem to receive more attention. The Russian national character is discussed more often, that is, in more than one volume of each textbook series. The descriptions are also much longer when measured by word count. However, the depictions in the newer textbooks lack much of the verbal richness that older books have; the absolute number of different words used in the description of the Russian character is smaller in the newer books. This especially concerns references to the social side of the Russian character, which are sparse in the newer books. Only in one of the

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newer textbook series are Russians (only Great Russians) depicted in this way – as good-natured and hospitable people (Pfalz and Weber 1939, 131) who love their children (Voggenreiter and Völkel 1940, 150). In addition to a quantitative change, a qualitative change can also be observed in the portrayal of the Russian national character. Many of the characteristics featured in the older textbooks are still mentioned in the newer books. Russians are still seen as melancholic, modest and patient people who are good craftsmen (Huttenlocher 1939, 72), are religious, and have a fatalistic attitude towards life (Nolting 1939, 90-91; Voggenreiter and Völkel 1940, 155, 174), and Great Russians are still portrayed as talented poets (Voggenreiter and Völkel 1940, 150). Nevertheless, the newer books also introduce new aspects to the image of the Russian character by commenting on Russians’ stamina and military prowess; the older books that I have analysed lacked such explicit estimations. On the other hand, a Russian is tough and persistent [zäh und ausdauernd]. These characteristics, paired with his lack of material needs, enable him to take up the fight against a hostile environment again and again, and make him a capable soldier (Nolting 1939, 90).

It appears that German youngsters needed be warned not to underestimate the ability of the Russians to fight back in case of a war. Interestingly, some features that in the older books are said to be characteristic of all Russians are, in the newer books, associated with only some of the Russian groups. As the next citation shows, it is mainly the Great Russians who become carriers of such “transferable” traits. Great Russians [...] are not tall, physically and mentally often clumsy and ponderous [plump und schwerfällig] but at the same time tough and persistent, and have few material needs. They are able to patiently bear the worst sufferings and oppressions till they suddenly revolt in fierce rage (Edelmann 1939, 87).

According to another new textbook, “[a] Great Russian is, in general, passive and ponderous, and a willing tool in the hands of his ruler” (Voggenreiter and Völkel 1940, 150); again, these are all features that, in the older books, were described as being typical of all Russians. At the same time, Ukrainians are associated with traits that make them significantly dissimilar from or even antithetic to other Russians. While Great Russians are depicted as slow, sluggish and obedient, Ukrainians are

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noted for their “liveliness, love for singing (folk songs!) and openness” (ibid. 151). Moreover, [t]he Ukrainians [...] look different and are different from White Russians and Great Russians. [...] They have developed a society that stands on a higher level morally and intellectually, and have their own language that they use when singing their songs. They have often defended their homeland against foreign, especially Tataric, invasions. Thus, they have had their own proud history and perceive the present conditions as tyranny and foreign domination (Edelmann 1939, 87).

Ukrainians also appear to keep their history alive as they still hold on to their traditional costumes and customs (Jantzen et al. 1939, 36). They are, however, not the only people with a “proud history” – the Belorussians know their past as well. The oldest [Russian group] is that of the White Russians. [...] They experienced their great time as a Volk around 1350, when they were the most important carriers of the so-called Great Lithuanian Kingdom; they think back to those times with pleasure and pride even today (Edelmann 1939, 87).

In other words, both Ukrainians and Belorussians have a sense of historically based individuality as a people or nation. As for Great Russians, no such remarks regarding their appreciation of their own history are made in the textbooks. Thus, the newer books underline not only the differences in the outer appearances and the “racial mixtures” of the Great Russians, Ukrainians and Belorussians but, it appears, also the differences in their mental characteristics. This goes along with the problem of the meaning of the word “Russians”, discussed earlier in this chapter. By connecting notably different features with each of the three “Russian” groups, the idea of “Russians” in the newer textbooks is divided into a three-part image or even into three separate images of three separate peoples or nations. The 1942 editions of each textbook consolidate the conceptual separation of the three groups because the names used for each group were changed in these editions. The national names by which Ukrainians and Belorussians are known in the books lacks their prior connections to “Russians”, as a citation from a 1942 edition shows: “East Europe is the living space of Slavonic peoples: of Russians, Ukrainians and White Ruthenians” (Pfalz and Weber 1942, 129).

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As mentioned earlier, Belorussians are, in most cases, called White Russians (Weißrussen) in the textbooks, but from the 1942 edition onward, they are called White Ruthenians. In a similar way, the term “Little Russians” has been removed, and “Ukrainians” is the only word used for Ukrainians. As one of the newer textbooks puts it, “[t]he Ukrainians belong to the Slavonic group of peoples but are not Russians” (ibid. 132). On the other hand, some of the newer books use the word “Russian” only when describing Great Russians (cf. Liebscher, Bitterling, and Otto 1942, 83; Müting 1942, 29, 36; Jantzen et al. 1942, 20, 21, 25). Thus, the term “Russian”, as used in the newer textbooks from 1942 onward, appears to refer to Great Russians alone.

Inferiority of Russians When analysing the portrayals of Great Russians, Belarussians and Ukrainians in German textbooks from the Third Reich, the overall image of Russians is not one-sidedly negative, despite all the suspicions that Germans had had towards Russia and Russians during the preceding century (regarding German views on Russia in the 19th century, see Keller and Korn 2000). Regarding national character, Russians and especially Great Russians are assigned a multitude of characteristics, some of which, such as helpfulness and hospitality, can be understood as positive while others, such as cruelness and sluggishness, are negative traits; this applies to textbooks published both before and after the National Socialist textbook reform. According to Hans-Erich Volkmann (1994, 226-230), this was a more-orless conscious strategy from early on. In a ministerial conference held in the spring of 1933, the Reich Minister of the Interior Wilhelm Frick stressed that teaching in schools should refrain from abusing foreign races and instead focus on German superiority. A supplement to a history textbook that showed overly anti-Russian attitudes caused an uproar abroad and had to be taken out of use in 1936. In addition, remaining on friendly terms with the Soviet Union served to stabilise the position of the Nazis during the first years of the Third Reich. Remaining on good terms became even more crucial when the countries began negotiating the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. Hence, as a rule, textbooks published during the National Socialist era do not show malicious national typological caricatures that could arouse anger. Henning Heske (1988, 225) also believes that until the war against the Soviet Union broke out, German

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foreign policy kept geography textbooks from going too far in terms of Nazi ideology when describing Russians and the Soviet Union. In a similar way, the clear distinctions between the three Russian groups in the newer textbooks are most likely politically motivated, especially in the case of the Ukrainians. One of the newer textbooks points out that [t]he striving for independence has never died among the Ukrainians. They are also the only large Volk in Europe that does not have its own state. Even the smallest of this kind of [separatist] movements are suppressed most bloodily by the Soviet rulers (Huttenlocher 1939, 75).

As Volkmann (1994, 230) concludes, the favourable characterisations of the Ukrainians, as well as of their national separatism, in German textbooks were used as a pretext for the military occupation and economic utilisation of the area. It is thus no surprise that after the launch of the Operation Barbarossa in 1941, the new textbooks proclaim that Germans have come as “liberators” and “relieved” Ukraine from Soviet “oppression” (e.g. Huttenlocher 1942, 75; Müting 1942, 42) and that they will now “reclaim the areas, which the Bolshevik rule let fall into disrepair, for the economy of the new Europe” (Jantzen et al. 1942, 26). According to Volkmann (1994, 246), the economic aspect of Germany’s war in the east was introduced and established as a permanent teaching theme just after the war started. This applies also to the geography textbooks (Heske 1988, 218). Nevertheless, textbooks were required to demonstrate the superiority of Germans. In Volkmann’s words (1994, 229), instead of expressing open contempt for inferior peoples and races, “[o]ne proceeded psychologically more artfully”. Indeed, in lieu of calling Russians explicitly ugly or racially inferior – let alone terming them Untermenschen – the geography textbooks of the Third Reich show the inferiority of Russians in indirect ways. This is done, for example, by narrating the heroic deeds that Germans had performed in Russia and for Russia throughout history. “Over the past 200 years and more, Germans’ share in the economic development and cultural building of Russia has been unparalleled” (Müting 1940, 38). This applies to all sectors of the Russian society, as the following citations proclaim. “The transformation of southern Russia into Europe’s granary was prompted by German settlers” (Voggenreiter and Völkel 1940, 152), and “their work became an example to the Russians; their harvest played an important role in the corn market” (Heck et al. 1933a, 90). Germans provided the Russian Empire with “a large number

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of capable statesmen and commanders who served the Russian state with a self-denying devotion” (Littig and Vogel 1935, 71). Even the very first Russian state, Kievan Rus, was founded by Germans’ ancestors, namely the Scandinavian Vikings, the Varangians (e.g. Littig and Vogel 1935, 69; Edelmann 1939, 87) in the 9th century. “To no other nation is [Russia] as beholden as it is to Germans” (Heck et al. 1933b, 113) because Germans “contributed the most to the Europeanisation of the land and gave it many outstanding men” (Rüsewald and Schäfer 1936, 50). The inferiority of Russians is indicated in geography textbooks in yet another way, namely with the help of the pseudo-scientific racial theories. As mentioned earlier in this chapter, textbooks present Russians as a mixture of different “races”. This is nothing extraordinary in itself because National Socialists believed that present-day Germans, like all western peoples, were a mixture of different races (e.g. Günther 1934, 11). Which races constitute these mixtures is what matters; on this score, the Russians lose to the Germans, and the biggest losers are the Great Russians. In western racial theories of that time, Europeans were regarded as superior to all other races, and Nazis categorised Germans as fully European, of course. As for Russians, Great Russians are presented in the textbooks as a combination of “white” European and Mongolian, i.e. “yellow” Asian races, while Ukrainians lack an Asian component altogether. Because western racial theories considered racial confusion injurious to the strength and “health” of a people and because the Asian Mongolian race was regarded as inferior to Europeans (e.g. Mosse 1981, 90, 98-102; Kemiläinen 1994, 141), the image of Great Russians presented in geography textbooks turns out to be rather grim. After all, both Germans and Ukrainians, as purely European peoples, were “racially superior” to Great Russians. The newer textbooks – the truly National Socialist ones – add a new aspect to this race matter. Depending on the racial theory in question, Europeans were divided into five to seven races (see Kemiläinen 1994), arranged in a hierarchy, with the Nordic “master race” on the top and the East Baltic race – the race of slaves and servants – on the bottom (Kemiläinen 1994, 275-278, 281-283; Günther 1934, 59-61, 66-68); the Dinaric race stood close to the Nordic race (Promitzer 2003, 372). The Nazis were convinced that the Nordic race was the most dominant race among Germans (Kemiläinen 1994, 277). From 1939 onward, Great Russians are portrayed as predominantly East Baltic in terms of race.

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Thus, as a mixture of the inferior Mongolian and the East Baltic races, Great Russians’ racial value is very low, not only because of their Asian heritage but also on the grounds of their European “racial ingredient”. This way, geography textbooks taught children that Germans were racially superior to Russians, especially to Great Russians. In the older books, this was only hinted at, but in the newer books the idea was made as clear as possible without directly stating it.

Conclusions In school geography and other similar subjects, nationalistic patriotism, racial arrogance, and an antidemocratic stance were the main components of the German pedagogics and educational morale long before the National Socialist rule. Nevertheless, the regime change in 1933 did leave a clear imprint on the content of the school education, as the examination of German textbooks after this turning point has shown. The official status given to racial theories and racial ideology affected the depictions of Russian people in geography textbooks because the racial identification of different Russian groups – Great Russians, Belorussians and Ukrainians – was performed more rigorously and more elaborately in the new and fully National Socialist textbook series. The quantitative growth of the depictions of different national characters in textbooks shows that for the Nazis, national character was an important theme to be discussed in geography classes, presumably even more important than in the times of the Weimar Republic. Also, what was to be taught about national characters went through close scrutiny and revision, at least in the case of Russians. The picture of the Russian national character that was presented in geography textbooks narrowed and became one-sided; on the other hand, new attributes gave the Russian character a new warlike tone. The differences between Russian groups, especially Great Russians and Ukrainians, were underlined in the new textbooks; this was particularly explicit in the most recent editions, in which even the names given to each Russian group were changed, with the word “Russian” now referring to only Great Russians. This shift in the status of Ukrainians and Belorussians, from being “Russian” to being “non-Russian”, and in the features given to their respective national characters, can be seen as yet another sign of a regime change in German textbooks. What did not change as remarkably in geography textbooks was the ranking order of European peoples. In the

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textbooks with a Nazi imprint, as well as in the books long before them, Germans were regarded as the best of all nations. However, in the national hierarchy envisioned in the truly National Socialist textbooks, one of the “Russian” groups ended up on a lower level than before, namely the Great Russians. In contrast, the Ukrainians and their society received remarkably more attention and appreciation in textbooks from 1939 onward. Hence, it seems that in the Nazi era, the influence that the National Socialists’ political endeavours had on textbooks’ images of foreign peoples was very strong, resulting in rapid changes in the portrayals of these peoples.

References Primary sources Geography textbooks Bausenhardt Karl, and Friedrich Huttenlocher. 1937. Deutschland 2. Gang mit Einführung in die Geologie Deutschlands. Die Europäischen Weltmächte. In the series Erdkunde für höhere Lehranstalten unter besonderer Berücksichtigung Südwestdeutschlands. By Michael Geistbeck, and Karl Bausenhardt. 7th edition. München: R. Oldenbourg. Edelmann, Moritz. 1939. Afrika / Asien / Australien. In the series Heimat und Welt: Teubners Erdkundliches Unterrichtswerk für höhere Schulen. Edited by Robert Fox, and Kurt Griep. 1st edition. Leipzig: B. G. Teubner. Gerloff, Fritz, and Willy Eggers. 1934. Europa außer Deutschland. In the series Erdkundliches Arbeitsbuch für höhere Lehranstalten. By Heinrich Harms, Jörgen Hansen, and Fritz Gerloff. Edited by Jörgen Hansen, Fritz Gerloff, Konrad Bartling, Ernst Bobzin, Willy Eggers, Albin Arno Müller, and Theodora Wendlandt. 6th edition. Leipzig: List & von Bressensdorf. Heck, Karl, W. Budelmann, Paul Knospe, Kurt Krause, Rudolf Lütgens, Erich Martin, Konrad Olbricht, Erich Puls, Rudolf Reinhard, Adolf Rohrmann, E. Schaper, and R. Thom, editors. 1933a. Europa ohne das Deutsche Reich, Österreich, die Schweiz und die Niederlande. In the series E. von Seydlitzsche Geographie für höhere Lehranstalten: Kurzausgabe. By Ernst von Seydlitz. 4th edition. Breslau: Ferdinand Hirt. Heck, Karl, W. Budelmann, Paul Knospe, Kurt Krause, Rudolf Lütgens, Erich Martin, Konrad Olbricht, Erich Puls, Rudolf Reinhard, Adolf Rohrmann, E. Schaper, and R. Thom, editors. 1933b. Die Erde als Ganzes und das Lebensraum. Staatenkunde und Wirtschafts-

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geographie. Kulturgeographie Deutschlands. In the series E. von Seydlitzsche Geographie für höhere Lehranstalten: Kurzausgabe. By Ernst von Seydlitz. 6th edition. Breslau: Ferdinand Hirt. Huttenlocher, Fritz. 1939. Außereuropa: Erster Teil. In the series Erdkunde. By Heinrich Fischer, and Michael Geistbeck. Edited by Richard Bitterling and Theodor Otto. 1st edition. Bamberg: C. C. Buchner. —. 1942. Außereuropa: Erster Teil. In the series Erdkunde. By H Heinrich Fischer, and Michael Geistbeck. Edited by Richard Bitterling, and Theodor Otto. 4th edition. München: R. Oldenbourg. Jantzen, Walther, Johannes Arndt, Hans-Peter Illner, Rudolf Lütgens, Hermann Ouvrier, Fritz Pfrommer, Walter Reche, Gustav Süssemilch, and Fritz Wurditsch, editors. 1939. Europa. In the series E. von Seydlitzsche Erdkunde: Oberschulen und Gymnasien. By Ernst von Seydlitz. 1st edition. Breslau: Ferdinand Hirt. Jantzen, Walther, Johannes Arndt, Rudolf Lütgens, Hermann Ouvrier, Fritz Pfrommer, Walter Reche, Gustav Süssemilch, and Fritz Wurditsch, editors. 1940. Europa. In the series E. von Seydlitzsche Erdkunde für höhere Schulen. By Ernst von Seydlitz. 2nd edition. Breslau: Ferdinand Hirt. Jantzen, Walther, Johannes Arndt, Rudolf Lütgens, Hermann Ouvrier, Fritz Pfrommer, Walter Reche, Gustav Süssemilch, and Fritz Wurditsch, editors. 1942. Europa. In the series E. von Seydlitzsche Erdkunde für höhere Schulen. By Ernst von Seydlitz. 2nd, revised edition. Breslau: Ferdinand Hirt. Knieriem, Friedrich, editor. 1936. Prof. Dr. Supans Deutsche Schulgeographie: Mittelstufe. By Alexander Supan. 17th edition. Gotha: Justus Perthes. Liebscher, Roland, Richard Bitterling, and Theodor Otto. 1942. Die staatliche und wirtschaftliche Gestaltung der Erde. In the series Erdkunde. By Heinrich Fischer and Michael Geistbeck. Edited by Richard Bitterling and Theodor Otto. 3rd edition. München: R. Oldenbourg. Littig, Friedrich, and Hermann Vogel. 1935. Deutsche Gegenwartskunde (geographisch-politisch gesehen). In the series Geographie für höhere Lehranstalten. By Michael Geistbeck and Alois Geistbeck. 7th edition. München: R. Oldenbourg. Müting, Josef. 1940. Europa. In the series Heimat und Welt: Teubners Erdkundliches Unterrichtswerk für höhere Schulen. Edited by Robert Fox and Kurt Griep. 2nd edition. Leipzig: B. G. Teubner.

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—. 1942. Europa. In the series Heimat und Welt: Teubners Erdkundliches Unterrichtswerk für höhere Schulen. Edited by Robert Fox and Kurt Griep. 4th edition. Leipzig: B. G. Teubner. Nolting, Werner. 1939. Staatliche und wirtschaftliche Gestaltung der Erde. In the series Heimat und Welt: Teubners Erdkundliches Unterrichtswerk für höhere Schulen. Edited by Robert Fox and Kurt Griep. 1st edition. Leipzig: B. G. Teubner. Pfalz, Richard, and Walter Weber. 1939. Die außerdeutschen Länder und Völker Europas. In the series Erdkundebuch für höhere Schulen. Edited by Emil Hinrichs. 1st edition. Frankfurt am Main: Moritz Diesterweg. Pfalz, Richard, and Walter Weber. 1942. Die außerdeutschen Länder und Völker Europas. In the series Erdkundebuch für höhere Schulen. Edited by Emil Hinrichs. 4th edition. Frankfurt am Main: Moritz Diesterweg. Rüsewald, Karl, and Wilhelm Schäfer. 1936. Politische und Wirtschaftsgeographie. In the series Teubners Erdkundliches Unterrichtswerk für höhere Lehranstalten. Edited by Robert Fox, Moritz Edelmann, Kurt Griep, Josef Müting, Karl Rüsewald, Wilhelm Schäfer, and Rudolf Winde. 4th edition. Leipzig: B. G. Teubner. Schwarz, Sebald, Walter Weber, and Julius Wagner. 1934. Erdkundliches Arbeitsbuch: Band 1. 12th edition. Frankfurt am Main: Moritz Diesterweg. Schwarz, Sebald, Walter Weber, and Julius Wagner. 1936. Erdkundliches Arbeitsbuch: Band 2. 13th edition. Frankfurt am Main: Moritz Diesterweg. Schwerd, Andreas. 1938. Länderkunde von Europa. In the series Geographie für höhere Lehranstalten. By Michael Geistbeck and Alois Geistbeck. 47th edition. München: R. Oldenbourg. Voggenreiter, Franz, and Rudolf Völkel. 1940. Die staatliche und wirtschaftliche Gestaltung der Erde. In the series Erdkundebuch für höhere Schulen. Edited by Emil Hinrichs. 1st edition. Frankfurt am Main: Moritz Diesterweg. Wagner, Paul, and Roland Liebscher. 1940. Die staatliche und wirtschaftliche Gestaltung der Erde. In the series Erdkunde. By Heinrich Fischer, and Michael Geistbeck. Edited by Richard Bitterling and Theodor Otto. 1st edition. Bamberg: C. C. Buchner. Wührer, Nikolaus. 1937. Geographische Staatenkunde von Europa mit Ausnahme von Deutschland, England und Frankreich. In the series Geographie für höhere Lehranstalten. By Michael Geistbeck and Alois Geistbeck. 12th edition. München: R. Oldenbourg.

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School curricula and administrative bulletins Deutsche Wissenschaft, Erziehung und Volksbildung. Amtsblatt des Reichsministeriums für Wissenschaft, Erziehung und Volksbildung und der Unterrichtungsverwaltungen der Länder. 1. Jahrgang 1935. Erziehung und Unterricht in der höheren Schule. 1938. Amtliche Ausgabe des Reichs- und Preußischen Ministeriums für Wissenschaft, Erziehung und Volksbildung. Berlin: Weidmannsche Verlagsbuchhandlung. Zentralblatt für die gesamte Unterrichts-Verwaltung in Preußen. Herausgegeben in dem Ministerium für Wissenschaft, Kunst und Volksbildung. 75. Jahrgang 1933.

Secondary sources Bauer, Kurt. 2008. Nationalsozialismus. Ursprünge, Anfänge, Aufstieg und Fall. Wien: Böhlau. Flessau, Kurt-Ingo. 1979. Schule der Diktatur. Lehrpläne und Schulbücher des Nationalsozialismus. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch. Fricke-Finkelnburg, Renate, editor. 1989. Nationalsozialismus und Schule. Amtliche Erlasse und Richtlinien 1933-1945. Opladen: Leske + Budrich. Günther, Hans F. K. 1934. Kleine Rassenkunde des deutschen Volkes. München: J. F. Lehmann. Heske, Henning. 1988. “...und morgen die ganze Welt...” Erdkundeunterricht im Nationalsozialismus. Giessen: Focus. Holmén, Janne. 2006. Den politiska läroboken. Bilden av USA och Sovjetunionen i norska, svenska och finländska läroböcker under Kalla kriget. Dissertation. Acta universitatis upsaliensis, Studia Historica Upsaliensia 221 [electronic version]. Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet. Keim, Wolfgang. 1997a. Erziehung unter der Nazi-Diktatur. Band I. Antidemokratische Potentiale, Machtantritt und Machtdurchsetzung. Darmstadt: Primus. —. 1997b. Erziehung unter der Nazi-Diktatur. Band II. Kriegsvorbereitung, Krieg und Holocaust. Darmstadt: Primus. Keller, Mechthild, and Karl-Heinz Korn, editors. 2000. Russen und Rußland aus deutscher Sicht. 19./20. Jahrhundert: Von der Bismarckzeit bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg. West-östliche Spiegelungen: Reihe A: Bd. 4. München: Wilhelm Fink. Kemiläinen, Aira. 1994. Suomalaiset, outo Pohjolan kansa. Rotuteoriat ja kansallinen identiteetti. Historiallisia Tutkimuksia 177. Helsinki: Suomen Historiallinen Seura.

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Kershaw, Ian. 2009. Hitler. Helsinki: Otava. Kollmann, Michaela. 2006. Schulbücher im Nationalsozialismus. NSPropaganda, “Rassenhygiene” und Manipulation. Saarbrücken: VDM Verlag Dr. Müller. Leerssen, Joep. 2007a. Imagology: History and Method. In Imagology: The Cultural Construction and Literary Representation of National Characters: A Critical Survey. Edited by Manfred Beller and Joep Leerssen, 17-32. Amsterdam: Rodopi. —. 2007b. The Poetics and Anthropology of National Character (15002000). In Imagology: The Cultural Construction and Literary Representation of National Characters: A Critical Survey. Edited by Manfred Beller and Joep Leerssen, 63-75. Amsterdam: Rodopi. —. 2007c. Image. In Imagology: The Cultural Construction and Literary Representation of National Characters: A Critical Survey. Edited by Manfred Beller and Joep Leerssen, 342-344. Amsterdam: Rodopi. —. [2015]. Images – Information – National Identity and National Stereotype. Article [without date] on the website IMAGES (Huizinga Instituut). Accessed 22 January, 2015. http://www.imagologica.eu/leerssen Marsden, William E. 2001. The School Textbook: Geography, History and Social Studies. London: Woburn Press. Mosse, George L. 1981. The Crisis of German Ideology. Intellectual Origins of the Third Reich. New York: Schocken Books. Naarden, Bruno, and Joep Leerssen. 2007. Russians. In Imagology: The Cultural Construction and Literary Representation of National Characters: A Critical Survey. Edited by Manfred Beller and Joep Leerssen, 226-230. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Paasi, Anssi. 1984. Kansanluonnekäsitteestä ja sen käytöstä suomalaisissa maantiedon kouluoppikirjoissa. Tutkimus alueellisista stereotypioista. Kasvatustieteiden tiedekunnan tutkimuksia, N:o 2. Joensuu: Joensuun yliopisto. —. 1998. Koulutus kansallisena projektina. ”Me” ja ”muut” suomalaisissa maantiedon oppikirjoissa. In Elävänä Euroopassa: Muuttuva suomalainen identiteetti. Edited by Pertti Alasuutari and Petri Ruuska, 215-250. Suomen itsenäisyyden juhlarahaston Sitran julkaisuja 210. Tampere: Vastapaino. Philipp, Guntram. [2015]. Seydlitz, Ernst von. Article [without date] on the website Kulturportal West-Ost (Kulturstiftung der deutschen Vertriebenen, and Stiftung deutsche Kultur im östlichen Europa – OKR). Accessed 18 December, 2015. http://kulturportal-west-ost.eu/biographien/seydlitz-ernst-von-2

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Promitzer, Christian. 2003. Vermessene Körper: “Rassenkundliche“ Grenzziehungen im südöstlichen Europa. In Europa und die Grenzen im Kopf. Wieser Enzyklopädie des europäischen Ostens 11. Edited by Karl Kaser, Dagmar Gramshammer-Hohl, and Robert Pichler, 365393. Klagenfurt: Wieser. Rossmeisl, Dieter. 1985. “Ganz Deutschland wird zum Führer halten...” Zur politischen Erziehung in den Schulen des Dritten Reiches. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch. Schultz, Hans-Dietrich. 2001. “Die geschlossene Nation marschiert“ Der Erdkundeunterricht im Dritten Reich zwischen Raum und Rasse. In Schule und Unterricht im Dritten Reich. Edited by Reinhard Dithmar, and Wolfgang Schmitz. Interdisziplinäre Forschung und fächerverbindender Unterricht, Band 7. Ludwigsfelde: Ludwigsfelder Verlagshaus. Schäfer, Klaus Martin. 2007. Die politische Funktion der Geographie in der höheren Schule: vom Auf- und Niedergang eines Schulfaches nebst einem Vorschlag für die Zukunft. Berichte aus der Geowissenschaft, D 38 (Dissertation Universität zu Köln). Aachen: Shaker. Thamer, Ulrich. 2002. Der Nationalsozialismus. Stuttgart: Reclam. Volkmann, Hans-Erich. 1994. Das Rußlandbild in der Schule des Dritten Reiches. In Das Rußlandbild im Dritten Reich. Edited by Hans-Erich Volkmann, 225-255. Köln: Böhlau. Weinbrenner, Peter. 1995. Grundlagen und Methodenprobleme sozialwissenshaftlicher Schulbuchforschung. In Schulbuchforschung. Schule – Wissenschaft – Politik, Band 10. Edited by Richard Olechowski. Reihe des Ludwig Boltzmann-Instituts für Schulentwicklung und international-vergleichede Schulforschung, 21-45. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Wiegmann, Ulrich. 2000. Lehrpläne im Nationalsozialismus. Zur Entwicklung nationalsozialistischer Lehrplanung für die Volksschule (1933 bis 1939). In Geschichte und Gegenwart des Lehrplans. Josef Dolchs “Lehrplan des Abendlandes” als aktuelle Herausforderung. Edited by Rudolf W. Keck and Christian Ritzi, 255-277. Baltmannsweiler: Schneider Verlag Hohengehren.

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Notes 1

Referring to the supposed area of distribution of the race, the Dinaric Alps, along the coast of the Adriatic Sea. 2 Erlass des Preußischen Ministers für Wissenschaft, Kunst und Volksbildung vom 13. September 1933 (U II C 6767, Nr. 303). Vererbungslehre und Rassenkunde in den Schulen, released in Zentralblatt für die gesamte Unterrichts-Verwaltung in Preußen 1933, 244. 3 Erlass des Reichs- und Preußischen Ministers für Wissenschaft, Erziehung und Volksbildung vom 15. Januar 1935 (R U II C 5208/34.1., Nr. 54). Vererbungslehre und Rassenkunde in den Schulen, released in Deutsche Wissenschaft, Erziehung und Volksbildung 1935, 46.

CHAPTER FIVE MANIPULATING COLLECTIVE MEMORY: CHRISTMAS IN THE THIRD REICH (1933-1945) KAISA HIRVONEN

In the field of European memory studies, the main focus has traditionally been on the period after the Second World War. In particular, the aftermath of the Holocaust (Shoah) and its influence on the European collective memory have been widely researched (Berek 2009, 12; Erll 2011, 2-3, 46-47). This chapter shifts the focus to the politics of memory during the preceding time period and within a totalitarian system – to the official, state-promoted festival culture of the National Socialist Germany. Manipulating the content of popular and religious holidays is an efficient tool for propaganda. Influencing the minds and controlling the behaviour of the citizens, it simultaneously helps to legitimise the power of the new regime and strengthens its status. This chapter focusses on the establishment process of the Nazi festival culture, more specifically on the transformation of the idea of Christmas. How did the National Socialists try to influence the collective memory of the Germans by manipulating the Christmas traditions? What were the goals and motives behind the process? What kinds of images and ideals of Christmas did the National Socialist publications promote? This chapter focusses on Christmas as a channel of influence as used by the National Socialists – not on the actual effects of the attempted transformation, the reception of or the reactions to it. The position of the Catholic and Protestant Churches in the Third Reich and their respective responses to the matter at hand would be a topic for an altogether different study.

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Official publications concerning the Christmas celebrations in the Third Reich were issued mainly by the Propaganda Ministry, but also by other departments of the complex National Socialist (NS) administration. Die neue Gemeinschaft (The New Society) was a magazine aimed at party officials in order to help develop the National Socialist festival culture. The Volksweihnachts-Feiern. Anregungen und Richtlinien (People’s Christmas celebration. Inspiration and instructions) was an instruction booklet for party officials, which was published in 1937 and 1938 by the Propaganda department in Königsberg, East Prussia. Vorweihnachten (preChristmas) was an Advent calendar published in 1943 by the Propaganda Ministry. The Christmas booklets Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht (German War Christmas, 1942-1944) were also published by the Propaganda Ministry. The Christmas booklets and the Advent calendar were specifically aimed at German private households.

The National Socialist regime and the festival culture By the time the National Socialist party rose to power in 1933, Germany had faced several fundamental societal changes. The German empire had been established in 1871, but the historical roots of Germany as well as many of its distinctive cultural features dated back to the Middle Ages. The endeavour to describe and define German culture, language and literature, an ongoing project since the 18th century, continued during the National Socialist era. The German empire had ended in the aftermath of the Great War (1914-1918), bringing to the end old world order and the societal structures typical of the past; the former regimes – as Europeans had come to know them – had lost their legitimacy. Particularly for Germany, the war ended in bitter defeat and national shame. The subsequent Treaty of Versailles (1919) served as a constant reminder, to the German people, of the regional and economic losses, as well as the humiliation of the defeat itself. The defeat of Germany was followed by the period of the Weimar Republic, representing a time of serious economic and social difficulties (Hagemann 2002, 30; Kohut 2012, 63; Hobsbawm 2014, 43, 65, 125). In other words, the generation that spent their adulthood in National Socialist Germany had lived under three different regimes – the German empire, the Weimar Republic and the Third Reich. The empire years provided the backdrop to their childhood, which passed rather peacefully until the First World War broke out and the tranquillity of the home turned into the home front. The humiliation of the defeat had effectively restored

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the former empire to glory in people’s minds, since Germany was regarded as a stable and secure nation at that time, notwithstanding the fact that the empire was not as safe as the idyllic portrayal and fond memories would have one believe. By the 1930s, the Germans had lost their childhood idyll for good and craved for security. In such changing, volatile societal situations, ideologies tend to smooth the transition from past to future. In Germany in the 1930s, young people in particular longed to be part of a society whose ideology offered both stability and security (Nora 1996, 12; Maurer 2004a, 74; Kohut 2012, 126). The National Socialists publicly resisted the Treaty of Versailles. They also offered an answer to the yearning for community and togetherness – the Volksgemeinschaft (People’s community), which basically emphasised the needs of the community over the needs of individuals. Adolf Hitler along with the other National Socialist ideologues promoted a safe homeland for all Germans. The idea actually signified a homogenous, classless community without pluralism, which was an appealing idea in the Germany of the 1930s. The idyllic picture of the Volksgemeinschaft was based on the German culture, identity and race, depicting a highly exclusive community that omitted all those who did not fit in, such as the Jews. The National Socialist ideology embraced the German culture and community, while simultaneously building the future and honouring the past (Bucher 2011, 3, 113; Kohut 2012, 75, 125). The National Socialists brought both structure and tranquillity to society. The new regime, and the entire country, needed history and culture with more positive, powerful content, instead of the memories of the horrors of war followed by the shameful defeat and economic chaos. The National Socialist regime developed an efficient propaganda system, which promoted the National Socialist ideology in various ways. Creating new holidays and fostering a festival culture was one way to reach back nostalgically to the idyllic, romanticised picture of the past, returning to an age when life was portrayed as stable and secure. The calendar and festivals are essential elements in politics when regimes endeavour to strengthen the sense of community, since they help to stabilise society. Even in the 18th century in Germany, building the German identity and history was achieved by creating symbols and promoting festivals and rituals. A new festival culture creates new experiences and memories; they, in turn, contribute to reshaping a collective identity by constructing new shared history. With the help of

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festivals, it is relatively easy to disseminate interpretations of history and culture that the ruling regime finds appropriate. The festival culture itself is an excellent indicator of the respective society’s rules and norms, since the external forms of the festivals are connected to culture and reflect the changes that are currently taking place in the society. Exerting control over the calendar and the festival cycle is, indeed, a way to exert control over the masses, and hence also to exert control over individual citizens. On the one hand, controlling the calendar is a tool for organising society; on the other, it is a convenient way to unify the thoughts of citizens (Kratzer 1998, 171, 373; Hagemann 2002, 30; Grube 2003, 151; Deile 2004, 8-9; Maurer 2004, 44-46; Erll 2011, 44-45, 155). The National Socialist regime offered the German people an ideology, a sense of community and, significantly, a new kind of society, with an appropriate past and a new interpretation of culture. Altering the festival culture was an attempt to bring order to chaos, to control the populace and to take over the cultural life. The old calendar year was based mostly on Christian festivals, even though the church had lost its privilege to define all the holidays already in the 19th century, when political festivals and the commemoration of the victorious Prussian battles had become part of the festival calendar. The National Socialist ideologists duly started to transform the Christian year into the National Socialist year. They developed a festival year of their own, NS-Jahreslauf (National Socialist festival year), with political festivals occurring approximately once a month (Kratzer 1998, 173, 292; Räsänen and Tuomi-Nikula 2000, 67; Grube 2003, 151; Burleigh 2004; Münkler 2009, 14). The content of the calendar and the corresponding holidays revealed the kind of expectations that the regime had for the future and what they regarded as the image of an ideal society. By effectively taking over the festival culture, the National Socialist regime was, on the one hand, manipulating the traditions and the collective memory of the Germans and, on the other hand, legitimising their power status in German society. Even though the political regime remodelled the festivals to fit the new ideology, the Christian festival cycle still formed the basis of most of the National Socialist festivals. In fact, co-opting religious holidays to political use was a common practice for nationalistic movements. Altering the festival year by adding new content to old traditions was not limited to Germany, nor to the National Socialist era. Even in Rome, the festival of Sol Invictus (Unconquered Sun), celebrated on 21 December, was later

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replaced by the Christian celebration of Christmas. Manipulating festivals had also been practised in other totalitarian systems, such as the Soviet Union. The Christian traditions were borrowed when developing the National Socialist traditions mainly because it was not possible to introduce entirely new values; after all, the Christian churches had upheld their traditional values, ethics and morals for centuries (Kratzer 1998, 144; Grube 2003, 156; Maurer 2004, 48-49, 68; Perry 2010, 189). Developing a wholly new value system upon which to build the festivals was not even reasonable. It was more convenient, and effective, to base the new culture on the old one, since it was the established traditions and the illusion of stability which was particularly appealing to the Germans. The festivals which seemed traditional conferred safety and stability in the midst of societal change, but at the same time they offered a new ideology and a new interpretation of reality for the German people.

Collective memory – remembering, forgetting and re-inventing The foundation of memory studies is the theory, developed by Maurice Halbwachs, of collective memory (mémoire collective) and its social frames. According to Halbwachs, each person exists in relation to other people and no one lives in total isolation. All individuals are at all times members of a society. In fact, most people live as members of many different societies simultaneously. The customs, codes and histories shared by each social group differ from one another; these social constructions shape the identity and memory of each group member. In other words, memory depends on the social environment. Individual memory is bound to the society in question and to the social surroundings. Moreover, a society is not merely a framework that aids remembering: it exerts pressure to construct particular kinds of memories (Halbwachs 1992, 37, 51; Berek 2009, 21; Apfelbaum 2010, 85; Erll 2011, 16). The historian Pierre Nora developed the idea of Lieux de mémoire (Sites of memory) on a similar vein. Nora argues that people place their memories in sites, because the past and the particular ritual culture are not present anymore, but people still have a great interest in and curiosity about the past. According to Nora, modernisation, industrial development, the mass media and nationhood have changed the world permanently:

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Typical sites of memory include geographical places, buildings, memorials, symbols and ceremonies. Nora actually goes so far as to state that anything dealing with national heritage or the presence of the past should be considered a site of memory (Nora 1996, 1-3, 6-7, 14, 16; Erll 2011, 25-26). Memory consists not only of remembering but also of forgetting, which is an important aspect of collective memory especially in the context of a totalitarian system. Pierre Nora claims that memory is a dialect between remembering and forgetting (Nora 1996, 3). As Maurice Halbwachs argued, since people have a social need for unity and continuity, societies tend to erase the memory separating individuals from the community (Halbwachs 1992, 183). It is vital to observe that some matters seem worth remembering while others are relegated to oblivion. Memories, whether individual or collective, are at all times subjective and highly selective reflections of a past, and as such do not provide a precise and truthful picture about the past. Moreover, the past changes every time it is recalled, and hence is not the most important element when observing memory. The reason for remembering and the aim of the memory process are of greater interest (Assman 2006, 3; Berek 2009, 164; Erll 2011, 7). According to Eric Hobsbawm, invention of tradition has three functions. Firstly, an invented tradition establishes and/or symbolises a society. Secondly, it legitimises institutions, status and power positions, and thirdly, it both spreads and strengthens belief and value systems along with behavioural conventions. When a society faces a period of rapid change, old traditions weaken; when the old social patterns no longer apply, there is a need to remember past achievements, people and institutions. Invented traditions are responses to the changed situation, and are at all times influenced by the old situation (Erll 2011, 49; Hobsbawm 2012a, 1-2, 4). Many nationalistic movements have used invented traditions as a way to structure and establish the collective memory within society, since the traditions help to channel memory according to the values of the regime (Hobsbawm 2012a, 1). Collective memory exists through memories, narratives, stories, and images, which together form the media of collective memory. The media – spoken or written – make it possible to transfer information, experiences

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and memories from one generation to the next in various ways. Previously, memories and collective memory were typically transferred from parent to child, but the mass media subsequently changed the form of information, which impacted collective memory as well. The media is both a transmitter and a transformer between an individual and the collective dimension of culture and memory. Furthermore, the media forms the frames of collective memory (Nora 1996, 1-3, 7; Berek 2009, 173; Erll 2011, 44-45,137, 144, 155). Festival culture, as a medium of collective memory, has a function to transfer, share and construct memories. The main purpose of festivals, such as national holidays, is to build the unity and self-image of a particular society. Public festivals are also indicators of power status in society. Festivals can be used as tools in building a totalitarian system and society, since they tend to disrupt the rationality of the individuals, replacing it with feelings of togetherness and unity (Maurer 2004, 49-50, 74; Berek 2009, 171; Kohut 2012, 126).

The German Christmas: building the Volksgemeinschaft In Germany, Christmas was not celebrated as a family holiday until the 19th century, i.e. during the time of Keiserreich (the German Empire). The construction of the nationalistic German Christmas started after the Prussian wars. In the German-speaking areas, Christmas had a special role in the cycle of the year and was regarded as a German festival. Christmas became a bearer of cultural continuity; it also brought a feeling of stability in the midst of a constantly changing society. At that juncture, Christmas became a sentimental, individualistic holiday celebrated at home. Christmas carols, fairy tales, decorations and presents were symbols of the German identity. The idea of Christmas as a national festival, and especially a German holiday, was reinforced during the First World War. By the 20th century Christmas had become one of the biggest national holidays in Germany (Perry 2005, 576; Perry 2010, 2-3, 14-64, 93-137). In other words, at the end of the 19th century, Christmas had already developed into a site of memory for the Germans, representing the superiority of the German nation and culture. As a popular and quintessentially German annual festival, Christmas became a part of the collective memory of the Germans. Since shaping the self-image of a community was bound to the collective memory and shared memories, Christmas was an effective tool for constructing the

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German identity as well as passing on the National Socialist ideology (Halbwachs 1992, 47; Kratzer 1998, 292, 373; Perry 2005, 572, 584; Erll 2011, 16, 19). The potential of Christmas as a transmitter of values and thoughts was recognised among the National Socialists. According to the instructions for the party officials for organising the VolksweihnachtsFeier (Celebration of the People’s Christmas), “Christmas was truly an expression of the National Socialist worldview” (Die neue Gemeinschaft 1937, 10: 001e; Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1937, 3, 5, 20; VolksweihnachtsFeiern 1938, 3). In the National Socialist publications concerning Christmas it is evident that the idea of Christmas being a particularly German festival was wholeheartedly embraced. The instructions for the VolksweihnachtsFeiern clearly indicated how the authentic Christmas feeling could only be found in Germany, where it was possible to experience the “magic of the German Christmas”. The German people were reminded of their common German cultural heritage. In the guidelines it was emphasised how Germany celebrates its most beautiful holiday at Christmastime. It is the time when all Germans join together to celebrate a common holiday, making it into something very special. “The German Christmas is not just a holiday to which old customs and traditions belong. As a festival, it expresses our nation’s beliefs, it is the festival of the eternal power and values” (Die neue Gemeinschaft 1937, 10: 001e; Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1937, 3, 5, 20; Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1938, 3). On the one hand, Christmas emphasised the unity of the people; on the other, it underlined the racial aspect by excluding all except the Aryans from the ideal Christmas (Perry 2010, 192, 195). The emphasis on the German aspect of Christmas was effectively selecting what to remember and to include, as well as what to forget and to exclude. The idea of Volksweihnacht was the same as the Volksgemeinschaft; it was meant for those Germans who were racially pure. The Christmassy feelings of joy and togetherness were aimed only at a preselected group, thus effectively bypassing the Christian idea, which was to spread the gospel worldwide. From the beginning of the Third Reich, all the National Socialist organisations – Hitler-Jugend (the Hitler Youth), Bund Deutscher Mädel (The League of German Girls), NS-Frauenschaft (National Socialist Women’s League), Die Arbeitsfront (the German Labour Front) and Ortsgruppen (The Local Groups) – were spreading the message of “the new revived Christmas” (Kratzer 1998, 292, 373; Perry 2005, 572, 584).

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The organisations had their own publications, which were supposed to be read together at home or at the meetings. Printed material plays an essential role when establishing a modern community, since the similarity of reading habits and the simultaneity of the acts of reading create an illusion of a collective, shared experience. Reading a copy of the same newspaper or magasine at the same time as one’s fellow citizen is both an individual and a collective ritual; a repetitive action which takes place every day (Anderson 2007, 73-77, 88, 279). In addition to providing a collective reading ritual, the publications offered a unified image of Christmas. The mass media presented Christmas as an expression of social harmony and the ideal society, designed to heal the political and social wounds that the Weimar era had inflicted (Perry 2005, 582). The National Socialist Christmas offered Germans an idyllic and imagined picture of a community that they had lost years ago – a community based on a superior ideology, which would serve and unite all Germans. The coordination of institutions and the unification of popular thought by standardising traditions (Gleichshaltung) were parts of the construction of the Volksgemeinschaft. Coordinating customs, practices and values throughout the nation helped the regime to control the masses. The manipulation of the festival culture was aimed at the unification of German culture (Kratzer 1998, 173, 292; Räsänen and Tuomi-Nikula 2000, 67; Grube 2003, 151; Berek 2009, 143, 182). The National Socialists, like the German nationalists before them, regarded the difference between the confessions (Catholic and Protestant) as the most significant matter dividing the German people. Consequently, the Christmas publications aimed to unify all Germans despite the confessional differences. The instructions for the Volksweihnachts-Feier stressed that the foundation of the Volksweihnacht was laid long before the emergence of the confessional differences: “Flags, flames and the tree are all symbols that Germans can celebrate despite one’s confession” (Die neue Gemeischaft 1937, 10: 001f; Steigmann-Gall 2003, 14, 50-51; Perry 2010, 192, 195). Thus, the Gleichshaltung of the confessions was not necessarily an anti-Christian act, but rather a tool for constructing a united community by bridging the confessions. The National Socialist ideal was that the Volksgemeinschaft would restore the ancient unity that had been lost during the Reformation (Steigmann-Gall 2003, 216; Bucher 2011, 97).

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The publications indicate that a consistent interpretation of Christmas was achieved by highlighting the national meaning of the festival and leaving the controversial Christian elements aside. This was logical given that the National Socialist party elite was not cohesive when it came to Christianity. Adolf Hitler and Joseph Goebbels were quite controversial in their views. On the one hand, they were acting as protectors of the German culture, where the Christianity was rooted; on the other, they stated that one could be either a German or a Christian, not both. Hans Schemm, Hermann Göring, Wilhelm Frick and Hans Kerrl had rather positive attitudes towards Christianity. Yet extremely anti-Christian attitudes also emerged among the party elite. For example Reinhard Heydrich and Martin Bormann were vehemently against Christianity, and also took steps to banish it from Germany (Steigmann-Gall 2003, 14, 21, 25-28, 113, 115, 177, 243, 252-259). The third group of National Socialist leaders was attracted by pagan thoughts and ancient Northern mysticism, a subject that will be discussed in the next section.

Germanic history of Christmas In Die neue Gemeinschaft (1944, 470) Germans were informed that “our families and ancestors have always celebrated Christmas, which is the festival when light conquers darkness”. In this particular quotation, the birth of Christ on Christmas Day was put aside and the overarching metaphor of light conquering darkness was emphasised. The statement characterises the worldview promoted by the magazine, but it is also an example of how it is rather easy to modify the collective memory. People have a need for unity and continuity, which helps societies to erase certain kinds of memories and to highlight others. The construction of a culture by referring to the ancient past had been a common practice for nationalistic regimes, especially at times when society was confronted by rapid change. By invoking the nation’s past and preserving selected elements, the regime modifies the present (Halbwachs 1992, 86, 182-183; Hobsbawm 2012a, 7). In its instructions for the Volksweihnachts-Feier, Die neue Gemeinschaft provides further examples where the Christian background of Christmas was explained away, while the pagan Germanic history and the “ancient northern roots” were highlighted. The instructions emphasised that Germanic Christmas customs and symbols were much older than the Christian Christmas legend. Therefore, participants in the Christmas celebrations were to be reminded that Germans had, since ancient times,

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celebrated the holy Christmas night every year – from before the time when the first missionaries set foot on German soil (Die neue Gemeinschaft 1937, 10: 001e; Die neue Gemeinschaft 1944, 495). This reveals how the present worldview is legitimised with the help of the past, by constructing continuity with history. Even though the Germanic traditions predating the Christian ones was an incontrovertible fact, stressing it can still be regarded as a manipulation attempt, since the Christian interpretations of the festival had dominated the German culture for centuries. In the previous examples from Die neue Gemeinschaft, the Christian tradition was supplanted by the Germanic past. This was nothing new; on the contrary, the German Christmas was connected to the pre-Christian Germanic tribes and their traditions already in the 19th century, when developing the völkisch ideology in the midst of the modernisation crisis. Paul de Lagarde and Houston Stewart Chamberlain, for example, were advocates of the movement. The völkisch idea embraced the ancient Germanic faith, added with neo-pagan elements. It also represented ideas such as racism, anti-Semitism and misogyny. It was characteristic of the völkisch idea that the Christian tradition was explained as being part of the German heritage, instead of stemming from the Jewish/Christian tradition (Grube 2003, 163; Steigmann-Gall 2003, 7, 13; Bucher 2011, 35). The National Socialist elite was inconsistent in its views on Christianity, the völkisch idea and paganism. Some of the National Socialist leaders, such as Heinrich Himmler, Robert Ley, Richard Walther Darré and Alfred Rosenberg, openly supported the Northern religiosity as well as neopaganism. Hitler, for his part, was fond of some of the ideas of the völkisch community, namely the community for Aryan Germans, and was also influenced by notions of anti-universalism and anti-pluralism. However, he rejected both the religiosity and the paganism of the movement, since he deemed them to represent anti-modernism, which did not chime with National Socialism. He stated publicly that National Socialist ideology was not about paganism, even though some sectors of the party elite were inclined towards it (Steigmann-Gall 2003, 91-95, 102103, 106, 115; Perry 2005, 593; Bucher 2011, 10, 35-38). The pagan faction of the National Socialist ideologists stated that the Christian tradition had fractured the ancient, authentic Germanic culture, which they were about to revive (Grube 2003, 163; Perry 2010, 16, 191). This faction had a good foundation on which to build their conceptions of

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the Germanic Christmas. In the 1860s, German ethnographers and theologians had started to research the ancient roots of Christmas, as a part of an attempt to create a glorious history for Germany. For example, in 1858 protestant theologian Johannes Marbach combined Christian and pagan Germanic thoughts. Philosopher Alexander Tille stated that Christmas unites all German-speaking peoples throughout the world. In 1891, Paul de Lagarde delved into the ancient history of Christmas; an anti-Semite, he exploited the history of Christmas for anti-Semitic ends. In 1912, Arnold Meyer combined the pagan and Christian Christmas, stating that Christianity and the national character of Germany belonged together. Cultural history studies on this particular subject, intended for the academic readership, were widely published in the first half of the 20th century, while magazines and newspapers promoted the idea of the Germanic history of Christmas for the masses (Perry 2010, 54-56). The National Socialists’ controversial connections to pagan ideas were visible in the Christmas publications. The National Socialist ideologists, who were fond of the pagan ideas, revived or essentially redeveloped the festival of the Winter Solstice, which was the pre-Christian midwinter festival. The festivities consisted of fires – torches as well as bonfires – which symbolised the Germanic tradition, along with speeches, singalongs and processions. Some publications, such as Die neue Gemeinschaft, promoted the Winter Solstice, whereas others were clearly in favour of the opposite. For example, the instructions for Volksweihnachts-Feier published in Königsberg emphasised that Christmas and the Winter Solstice must not be combined. It was a justifiable concern given that the festivals were situated close to each other in the calendar, and the Winter Solstice coincided with 21 December. In other publications, the festivals were often juxtaposed and sometimes mixed together. For instance, in Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht (1944) it was outlined that the meaning of Christmas was the victory of the sun and the light, namely the Winter Solstice. In the same year, Die neue Gemeinschaft brought Christmas and the Winter Solstice together, and presented them both as celebrations of the values of the German nation (Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1938, 7; Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht 1944, 9; Die neue Gemeinschaft 1944, 498; Kratzer 1998, 145; Perry 2005, 575; 2010, 57). Despite the fact that the National Socialists were not unanimous in supporting Germanic ideas, the publications still promoted Germanic thoughts to German homes as a part of the National Socialist worldview.

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Volksweihnachts-feier – an expression of form and emotion In Königsberg, East Prussia, the local National Socialist department published instructions in order to organise and control the festivities. Die neue Gemeinschaft also published additional guidelines for the same purpose. All the instructions included detailed examples of how to coordinate the festivities, how to decorate rooms, and what kinds of music and rhetoric were appropriate for the occasion. The structure of the festivities was formal and predetermined and there was no room for spontaneous celebration. Interestingly, the course of the VolksweihnachtsFeir (with music as well as speeches, poems and stories, and even the opportunity for confession) was similar to the Christian Sunday service (Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1937, 4, 28-30; Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1938, 4, 19-21; Die neue Gemeinschaft 1937, 10: 001 a-g; Gajek 1990, 4). The formality was also underlined in the instructions. In 1938 a modified edition of the instructions for organising the Volksweihnachts-Feier was published – because, according to the preface, the festivities had been poorly organised in the past and the aim was to avoid making the same mistakes again (Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1938, 5, 30). The Volksweihnachts-Feier was a Christmas celebration intended mainly for the party members and its officials, but in effect it also offered a ritualistic aspect, which people could participate in and relate to. In this way, people could share experiences and memories, fostering a feeling of belonging. Rituals themselves serve as a vehicle for creating memories, which are reinforced by repetition and communication. Hence, the form of the ritual is not only functional but also an expression of power (Berek 2009, 176; Feuchtwang 2010, 281-285). It was essential for the National Socialists that the official rituals were the same everywhere, since the festivals were designed to transmit the ideology and worldview of the regime. As the opinions regarding Christianity and the essence of Christmas varied even among the members of the party, the strict instructions seem to indicate that the party wanted to control not only the citisens but the party officials as well. Despite the lack of spontaneity and the emphasis on form and structure, the prevailing atmosphere was carefully taken into consideration in the instructions. The National Socialists knew how to appeal to the emotions of the people and link them to political ideology. The VolksweihnachtFeier was designed to be held in a place and at a time when it was possible to enjoy Christmassy candlelight and Christmas presents. It was suggested

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that the Christmas festivities should be organised without altering the main idea: it was important for the same joyful feeling of togetherness to permeate every celebration in every part of Germany. According to the guidelines, the fundament of the festivities should be “a joyful and a happy feeling”. The atmosphere should be one of gratitude for being able to celebrate the German Christmas again, since we [Germans] have risen from misery and hatred, to be a joyful nation again. We rejoice over it and we let the light shine, and the German Christmas will never fade (Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1937, 5; Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1938, 5, 12, 25-38; Die neue Gemeinschaft 1937, 3 004 a-c; Burleigh 2004, 119; Perry 2005, 572).

Such sentimental Christmas celebrations might not have been unique, nor a precise expression of the essence of National Socialist thought, but appealing to the emotions and sentimentality was an unequivocal part of the National Socialist propaganda.

Christmas decorations An efficient way of building and altering collective memory is through the use of symbols, which can serve to protect and preserve memories and values. Consequently, a community can build its identity with the help of symbols and rituals, since they can be combined to provide the image of an ideal society. Moreover, people can relate to them and be a part of them. In this sense, symbols can exert an influence on memory – they can both alter exiting memories and establish completely new ones (Berek 2009, 22). In the National Socialist Christmas publications, various symbols with obvious political content – such as the swastika and the Germanic runes – were adopted for use as Christmas decorations and became charged with new symbolic value and festive meaning. The more traditional Christmas decorations were imbued with new meanings, which embraced the National Socialist worldview. For example, the Advent wreath, with its four candles, was traditionally understood to symbolise the four advent Sundays before Christ was born. In the National Socialist version, its name was changed to the Solstice wreath, designed to celebrate the cycle of life and the four seasons (Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1937, 6-9, VolksweihnachtsFeiern 1938, 6-12; Vorweihnachten 1943, 7, 8a, 15a, 20a, 21, 22, 24; Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht 1944, 37; Hirvonen 2009, 37-38).

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The instructions for the Volksweihnachts-Feiern also underlined the symbolic importance of the decorations that associated Christmas with the ancient German tradition and historical continuity. The symbols that were placed in the festival area were presented to the audience in speeches: Our ancestors had the evergreen branches and flames of fire as symbols when they celebrated the midwinter festival. Behind these was the belief that death cannot take over life, and darkness cannot conquer the light. This ancient belief is seen in various symbols, such as the swastika for example. The swastika, the eternal flame and the evergreen tree of life belong together. They belonged together, already, in the beliefs of the ancient Aryan people (Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1937, 20).

This particular quotation highlights the most common symbols associated with Christmas celebrations: evergreen branches, winter darkness and flames, which manifested the völkisch influence. The Christmas tree was also a national symbol, which I will discuss later in this chapter. The swastika was the main chosen symbol of the NSDAP (Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, The National Socialist German Workers’ Party); hence it also became the prime national symbol of the Third Reich. It was recommended that all of these symbols should be present in the festival area so that people could look at them while listening to speakers explaining their significance. The most important purpose of using a combination of symbols was to associate the Third Reich, the German people and the festivals with the line of ancient traditions, and in so doing to legitimise the form and aim of the celebrations (Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1938, 9-12). In the Vorweihnachten (Pre-Christmas) calendar, the swastika was also adopted as part of the imagery of the National Socialist Christmas. For instance, there were guidelines on how to make a swastika-shaped decoration for the top of the Christmas tree, to replace the star of Bethlehem. Recipes also included pictures of pastries, which resembled the swastika (Vorweihnachten 1943, 8a, 15a, 18a). The symbol of National Socialist Germany was accompanied by many other kinds of Germanic symbols and runes, presented as Christmas tree decorations, in instructions for handicrafts, or even as shapes for buns and pastries (Vorweihnachten 1943, 8a, 12a, 15a, 18a, 20a). Die neue Gemeinschaft also introduced photos of pastries and Christmas tree stands crafted in the shape of Germanic symbols (Die neue Gemeinschaft 1943, 528-529). The use of Germanic symbols indicates that these publications were promoting the pagan aspect and the völkisch-influenced image of the Germanic Christmas.

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The Christm mas tree was presented in Vorweihnachtten 1943 with h suitable decorations. The Germaniic runes and other symbol s, which werre in fact mage, accompaanied the can ndles. The homemade ppastries in thiis idealised im Christmas treee stand was also a a symbol of the cycle oof the year (JJahresrad). Source: Vorw weihnachten 19443, 24. The Nattional Library oof Finland.

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As stated above, the most popular symbolic Christmas decoration was undoubtedly the Christmas tree. In the 19th century, the Christmas tree became extremely popular in Germany and was, at the same time, attached to national elements. The Franco-Prussian war of 1870-1871 accelerated both the spread of the Christmas tree itself and its national significance (Perry 2010, 33). In Die neue Gemeinschaft, the Christmas tree was described as “holy to us, and the honourable symbol of the invincible power and the immortality that our nation has” (Die neue Gemeinschaft 1937, 10: 001f). The Christmas tree was also described as the symbol of life and something that “has always been a part of German Christmas celebrations” (Die neue Gemeinschaft 1944, 497). The Christmas tree was an emotionally charged symbol, since it was a reminder of the idyllic Christmases of childhood (Die neue Gemeinschaft 1943, 527-528). The idyllic image of national unity was created by picturing a Christmas tree, decorated with burning candles, in a German home with the family gathered around it (Die neue Gemeinschaft 1937, 3 004: a-c; Gajek 1990, 6). The tradition of coming together as a family around the Christmas tree was promoted with such vigour that it could be regarded as a collective ritual which aimed to create a feeling of belonging to the community and, moreover, to generate identical experiences that could develop into collective memories. The promotion of symbols and traditions was ideologically purposeful, as exemplified in the instructions for Volksweihnachts-Feiern, which emphasised that shared customs, traditions and memories – such as a Christmas tree with burning candles – united the German people (Volksweihnachts-Feiern 1937, 20). Such political use of rituals and symbols was not unique; nor was it confined to the Third Reich. In fact, the recycling of symbols was common in societies where a new regime was trying to formulate an appropriate history and set of traditions for the evolving nation. Ancient elements and references to the past were invoked in order to construct new traditions for new purposes. In other words, symbols were tools that were used in order to build new traditions on the old ones (Hobsbawm 2012a, 4, 6).

An ideological Christmas comes to German homes In addition to controlling Christmas celebrations in the public sphere, National Socialist ideologists were intent upon extending the new Christmas into the private sphere of the German households. Issuing instructions on

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organising Volksweihnachts-Feier and, moreover, providing guidelines on how to celebrate Christmas in German homes was part and parcel of manipulating the everyday life. Yet again, the National Socialists made use of old elements when constructing their image of the idyllic family Christmas (Perry 2005, 576; Perry 2010, 192, 195). The publications stressed the importance of the family during Christmastime, coupled with the idea of social harmony. Family sentiments and Christmas itself gave the National Socialists an excellent opportunity to slip politics into everyday life. The task of making Christmas fit the National Socialist ideology was given to women, who were the heart of the home as well as homemakers, and who cherished family values. Moreover, women made the Christmas preparations such as baking and handicrafts – the home was their realm, while the men busied themselves with politics and the public sphere (Perry 2005, 572-574, 596; Perry 2010, 191, 210). Women had political importance, however, since they were given responsibility for the domestic domain; in this way, they also had the power to educate their children to become true national socialists. They also had a major role in passing the Christmas traditions onto the next generation, along with the ideology. Hence, children were seen as the future of the Third Reich, firmly positioned as they were at the centre of the most important festival of the year. In Die neue Gemeinschaft it was underlined how children occupied the key position in the Christmas festivities and that Christmas should bring them nothing but heart-warming and joyful experiences (Die neue Gemeinschaft 1937, 3: 004b; Die neue Gemeinschaft 1943, 527). The wartime Vorweihnachten calendar was particularly aimed at women and children, who were at home while the men were fighting in the war. According to the preface, the calendar was supposed to help mothers to build Christmas in each and every home, especially for the children, who were the most important part of the Christmas celebrations (Vorweihnachten 1943 preface, 8a, 20a). Die neue Gemeischaft underlined how important it was for mothers and children to prepare Christmas together by baking, singing, reading fairy tales and lighting candles, all of which was supposed to fit the ideology (Die neue Gemeinschaft 1943, 543-546). The Christmas traditions were used to educate the children, and were illustrative of the values and memories that the National Socialist regime wanted to impart to the next generation.

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Vorweihnachten included fairy tales, one of which was Eine Weihnachtsgesichte (A Christmas story). This particular fairy tale reveals the essential elements of the National Socialist interpretation of Christmas, as well as the ideological principles. The story was, in fact, a National Socialist version of the nativity. In the story, three men – a woodcutter, a soldier and a king – wander into a dark, misty forest. They have all lost their way, but suddenly encounter each other. Together they find a cottage, where they meet a mother with a new-born baby in her arms. The mother says to the men “I have light and warmth; where else could it be brighter than here, where a child has been born?” Furthermore, she thanks the soldier for his bravery, standing guard over all children, so that no enemy could cross the borders of the Reich. The soldier looks at the new-born baby, and all the sleepless nights, the days spent in hunger, and all the terrors of the war seem insignificant to him when he looks into the eyes of the child. To the king, the mother says: “Children are the most precious thing in your kingdom”. She advises him to reflect on what use all the treasures in the world and all the forests and the fields would be, if there were no children in his kingdom. The mother emphasises that the future lies in the children and that she herself is holding the future of the Reich in her arms (Vorweihnachten 1943, 31-32). The mother’s words touch all three men. Before they leave, the woodcutter thanks the mother by giving her evergreen branches, the soldier whistles a song, and the king takes a necklace off his neck and gives it to her. Then he bows down to the baby. When the men leave the cottage, they immediately know which way to go. When the time comes for them to separate, they shake hands because they are no longer strangers to each other. It is no longer misty or rainy and the stars are twinkling through the treetops (ibid.). As mentioned above, the fairy tale is a variation of the Christian nativity, where the obvious Christian elements are placed in a whole new context and given new meanings. The central element is the Madonna image, where an Aryan mother holding an Aryan child in her arms replaces the Virgin Mary and the new-born Christ. – The new image merged two National Socialist ideas, the first of which was the cult of motherhood, manifested in mothers who gave birth to Aryan children. The second was the idea of children being the future. Furthermore, the story is an excellent example of how National Socialist propaganda retained the framework of tradition, but adapted the content in order to fit the new ideology. Moreover, I contend that the traditional Madonna image was so powerful

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and deeply rooted in the traditions and a the cultuure that it cou uldn’t be removed or replaced.

The Aryan Madonna imaage replaced the Christian nativity scene. Source Vorweihnachhten 1943, 31a. The National Library L of Finlannd.

The traditioonal picture off the nativity became com mplete also in the fairy tale when thhe three men visited v the mo other and her child. The wo oodcutter, the soldier and the kingg are reminisccent of the T Three Wise Men M who visited babyy Jesus, brougght him gifts,, and bowed down to the newborn child (Vorw weihnachten 1943, 31-32; Hirvonen 22009, 73-74)). In the National Socialist Christm mas Story, thee three men haad a message to t deliver to the Germ man children. The soldier provided insiights into the war and reminded peeople why thee soldiers were fighting: to keep German ny and its

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children safe. The king was reminded that children were the most important people in his realm; the statement has biblical overtones since a parallel text is found in Matthew 18. But the most interesting detail comes at the end of the fairy tale, when the three men shake hands, feeling that they are no longer strangers. I contend that this refers to the Volksgemeinschaft ideal, where individuals work for the good of society, relinquishing former class divisions. All of these elements also referred to the future, where the next generation would be living in the perfect community. The publications aimed at German households clearly show that the National Socialist ideologists were intent upon taking advantage of the Christian tradition by turning Christmas into a celebration that complied with the ideology. As Joe Perry points out, the National Socialist regime had the power to alter the holidays, but in order to get citizens to accept the changes, they also needed to fulfil the expectations of the German people. This is especially true given that Christmas was such a familiar and popular holiday that it was not possible to change everything (Perry 2005, 574).

War Christmas By September 1939, the Second World War had broken out, yet during the Christmas season “peace on earth” was emphasised widely in Germany. Needless to say, the war had an impact on the festival publications and on the image of the German Christmas. The idea of Kriegsweihnacht (War Christmas) was an important part of the Christmas celebrations and traditions even prior to the war. Die neue Gemeinschaft introduced the War Christmas concept as a part of the Volksweihnachts-Feier before the actual war; reading stories and letters from the war, for example, commemorated the War Christmases of the past. This tradition was continued during Second World War (Die neue Gemeinschaft 1937, 29 011 a-b; Die neue Gemeinschaft 1938, 29 019 a-b; Die neue Gemeinschaft 1939, 17-19; Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht 1944, 18-21, 74-75). The first official “War Christmas” was celebrated in Paris in 1870, where German troops were occupying the city, and ever since that time the idyllic image of Christmas in enemy territory had been strong. The Prussian war era was a time for building German national myths and bolstering the national spirit, as well as emphasising the will to make sacrifices for one’s country. Consequently, the first War Christmas,

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followed by a Prussian victory over France, conferred even more nationalistic features onto Christmas. During the First World War and the National Socialist era, the ideological memories of past wars, the longing for the fallen loved ones and the image of the war itself were all romanticised. War Christmas became a myth as well as a national symbol, which brought history to the present day and disguised the social and political use of power (Hagemann 2002, 34; Perry 2010, 59, 93-137, 189). Old Prussian ideals, such as the will to sacrifice oneself for the Fatherland, were appreciated also among the National Socialists. Referring to the first War Christmas in 1870 was particularly useful when Germany again went to war, since the National Socialists – like the Prussians before them – were aiming for a swift victory. During wartime, the iconic image of the German mother and child became even more emotional, as the focus shifted from the children to honouring the mothers, who were taking care of their offspring at home while the men were fighting in the war. Indeed, the war bestowed its own features on the Christmas preparations in German homes. Christmas traditions were accompanied by the making of Christmas presents, which were sent to the soldiers (Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht 1942, 21-23; Vorweihnachten 1943 preface, 7a, 22a; Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht 1944, 22-25). German men, on the front line, protecting the Fatherland, their families and children, was the most compelling image of the Kriegsweihnacht. According to the Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht (German War Christmas) booklet of 1943, German men were not only protecting the Fatherland, they were also safeguarding the German Christmas (Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht 1942, 19-20; Die neue Gemeinschaft 1943, 97-101, 516523; Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht 1944, 16-19, 23, 62-64). The celebration of the War Christmas was, according to the Propaganda Ministry, supposed to represent the cucle of life and death, which constituted the eternal law of nature. As the war dragged on and the number of casualties increased, honouring the fallen assumed a larger role in the Christmas celebrations. Consequently, the commemoration of war heroes became an inseparable part of the War Christmas. The fallen soldiers and their sacrifice were commemorated in various ways. For instance, women and children were encouraged to light candles at home, which symbolised how the fallen loved ones continued to maintain a presence among the living. Other traditions involved placing a picture of the fallen loved one near the Christmas tree, or taking a Christmas tree to a

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n the midst The Deutschee Kriegsweihnaacht booklet preesented the Maddonna image in of the war. The German soldiers were on the t front, proteccting the Germ man mother w the Christm mas tree with itts glowing and child, whho were placed in the centre, while candles was depicted almosst imperceptibly y in the backgground. Source: Deutsche T National Liibrary of Finlannd. Kriegsweihnaacht 1944, 23. The

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One of the most popular imaages of the Warr Christmas waas that of a Chriistmas tree placed on sooldiers’ graves.. Source: Deuttsche Kriegsweeihnacht 1944, 190. The National Librrary of Finland.

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soldier’s grave. Furthermore, the candles on the tree could be lit in honour of a fallen soldier. Honouring the dead and celebrating their sacrifice at Christmastime was in stark contrast to the meaning of the Christian Christmas, which revolves around birth and the beginning of a new life (Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht 1943, 148; Vorweihnachten 1943, 23; Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht 1944, 190-191; Die neue Gemeinschaft 1944, 190-191; Gajek 1995, 8-9; Perry 2010, 234-235). As the traditions concerning the fallen soldiers have already revealed, the traditional Christmas tree was a significant symbol of the War Christmas. The festive tree had already formed a part of the War Christmas myth in the First World War. During the Second World War, the booklets presented romanticised pictures where the Christmas tree was standing in the corner of a dugout, while soldiers were reading letters from home. The booklets also included stories of how soldiers fetched a Christmas tree even on the frontline (Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht 1942, 73-74; Vorweihnachten 1943, 2; Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht 1944, 9, 47-53, 6668, 94, 105, 116, 123). The tree was at once both fragile and a very powerful symbol of the homeland in the midst of violence and extreme conditions. Such a familiar symbol also signified stability, forging a bond between the home front and the soldiers. Indeed, it touched every German regardless of their confession or geographical standing (Perry 2010, 125126, 129). The ritual of lighting candles and giving little speeches at the same time, namely Lichtsprüche (Candle speeches), served several purposes in the course of the War Christmas celebration. It was supposed to pass on the values of the Third Reich, to provide support for the soldiers, and to represent the right kind of Christmas spirit. Lichtsprüche became popular in publications during the Second World War, and the new ritual bound families to the soldiers at the front, as well as to the Third Reich and the Führer (Gajek 1990, 8). In Vorweihnachten, Lichtsprüche were presented for the whole family. The first section of the speech was designed to be read by the father (even though the Calendar was published in 1943 when the men were by and large at war) and the latter four parts by the children. The father was supposed to give thanks to the nature and the sun for the cycle of year. The first child was to thank the mothers – who were taking care of the children. The second child lit a candle for those who could not celebrate Christmas on that occasion. The third child lit a candle for the soldiers, who were doing their duty for the Fatherland. The fourth child’s

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part was to say “my brightest light will be sent to the Führer, who is always thinking about us and Germany” (Vorweihnachten 1943 1a, 22a). The lighting of candles in conjunction with a speech emerged in Die neue Gemeinschaft even before the war. The instructions for organising Volksweihnachts-Feier included a version of the Lichtsprüche. The ritual occurred mid-speech and people from different segments of society had their own part in it. A soldier lit a candle for the heroes of past wars, a paramilitary SA officer lit a candle for the dead soldiers of the Führer and the party, a worker lit a candle for the sacrifices that were made to acquire daily bread, a member of a youth organisation lit a candle for the German mothers, a mother who had several children lit a candle for the future of young people, and finally a political leader lit a candle for the holy Fatherland (Die neue Gemeinschaft 1937, 10: 001g). Lichtsprüche drew together all the elements of Christmas and the Volksgemeinschaft – the importance of the family, children and the future, the cherished German nation and the work done for it (by the workers, soldiers and peasants), and the esteemed Führer. It presented an ideal whereby German families and the nation were closely bound together in order to serve the greater good, as embodied in the community based on the National Socialist ideology.

Conclusions At the time when the National Socialists rose to power, Christian traditions and festivals were still closely linked to the collective memory of German citizens. However, the secularisation and nationalisation of the festival culture had begun already at the end of the 19th century. The process of nationalising Christmas continued under the National Socialist regime, when the Christian Christmas traditions were transformed to fit the new political ideology. The question I posed at the beginning of this chapter – How did the National Socialists try to influence the collective memory of the German people by manipulating the Christmas traditions? – consists of two dimensions. First, there is the practical aspect, namely, what were the actual means of influence? In this chapter, I introduced several publications that tried to influence the public by giving instructions for organising Christmas celebrations, including speeches, decorations and the form of the festivities; they also published fairy tales, as well as recipes

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with symbolic meanings. The production and use of various symbols were yet another means of exerting influence, while the symbols themselves were effectively preserving and transmitting values and memories. The National Socialist Christmas was celebrated in public, along the lines given in the published instructions of the Propaganda Ministry. Nevertheless, the Christmas celebration and the preparations in German homes, surrounded by one’s family, were at least as significant as the public version. The women took care of the household as well as the children and, more importantly, educated the children in the domestic sphere. Consequently, German mothers became the transmitters of the new Christmas traditions, and thereby transmitters of the National Socialist ideology. The publications also emphasised the significance of children, since they represented the future of the Third Reich and, as such, were to be educated to become proper national socialists. The second aspect of the research question concerns the motive force behind the action – the ideology the National Socialist regime tried to subsume into the collective memory. The regime wanted to transmit the values and the worldview of the political ideology to the everyday life of German citizens. The modified festivals were simultaneously representations of the power and a means to legitimise the status of the regime. By manipulating the calendar, the National Socialist regime was able to control the masses and the individual citizens, including their own party officials. By manipulating the festival culture, they endeavoured to build a new and glorious German nation, as well as establish and maintain the National Socialist identity. Christmas was an expression of the National Socialist worldview, as they themselves described it. It was recommended that the form that the festivals took, as well as the content and the decorations, should be the same throughout the country, so that the ideology and sentiments would be transmitted in the way that the National Socialist ideologists preferred. The publications embraced the notion that the National Socialist festivities should be targeted at all Germans, irrespective of their confession. Some of the National Socialist leaders harboured positive attitudes towards Christianity, whereas some members of the party elite rejected it, while the third group supported pagan Germanic mysticism. Notwithstanding the different opinions in regard to the religious matters, the National Socialists seemed to be aiming at the same goals, which were

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to unite the German people and to build an ideal community. The new, unified national identity was to be based on the National Socialist ideology, without divisive factors such as the different confessions. The ideal community excluded everyone other than the Aryan Germans, especially the Jews. It was significant that in the Third Reich, annual festivals did not incorporate the Christian identity but the National Socialist identity instead. In effect, the National Socialist Christmas did not introduce many new ideas; rather, it presented a kind of pastiche of previous ideas interwoven with the new ideology. When it came to the Christmas traditions, the form and appearance remained similar to what they had been before, but with altered content and meaning. In other words, the new traditions were built on the old ones. It was both easier and more efficient to make subtle changes so that the traditions appeared to be the same as before. People could adhere to the ideas more easily when they had something familiar to grasp. This approach also served to create a historical lineage and continuity to history. Creating a new national history was actually about manipulating the collective memory. It was a conscious selection process, deciding what to keep from the past and what to forget. Referring to history revealed the völkisch-influenced pagan thoughts, which were shown in the publications as embracing the ancient and glorious Germanic era and linking the Germanic culture to the history of Christmas. The pagan side of the National Socialists emphasised the Germanic roots of Christmas and the pre-Christian traditions, such as the Winter Solstice, and duly pushed the Christian tradition into the background. Most of the National Socialist elite did not support the pagan ideas, but as they were part of the publications they were still transmitted to German homes and, consequently, played a part in creating the National Socialist Christmas. Festivals understood as sites of memory are a vehicle for storing meanings, values and ideas, but at the same time they are susceptible to manipulation and conscious alteration of the memory archive. Festivals are the media of collective memory, and the festival culture and traditions reveal the values of the ruling regime – what is deemed worth preserving from the past and what are the expectations for the future. In the German legislation of 1934 (Zwickau 1935, 47) it was stated that the main Church holidays, including Christmas, were secured, but the printed material reveals a different kind of reality. As the booklets and other publications

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show, the Christian elements were removed, to be replaced with nationalistic ideas. The National Socialist festival culture then emphasised the greatness and the eternal power of the German nation, and its glorious future – the Volksgemeinschaft.

References Primary sources Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht [German War Christmas]. 1942. Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht. – Sonderdruck des Parteiarchivs für nationalsozialistische Feier- und Freizeitgestaltung Die Neue Gemeinschaft. Herausgegeben vom Hauptkulturamt der NSDAP in der Reichspropagandaleitung. Zusammenstellung und für den Inhalt verantwortlich: Hermann Liese. München: Zentralverlag der NSDAP, Franz Eher Nachfolger. 1943. Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht. – 3. Auflage 1943. Sonderdruck des Parteiarchivs für nationalsozialistische Feier- und Freizeitgestaltung Die Neue Gemeinschaft. Herausgegeben vom Hauptkulturamt der NSDAP in der Reichspropagandaleitung. Zusammenstellung und für den Inhalt verantwortlich: Hermann Liese. München: Zentralverlag der NSDAP, Franz Eher Nachfolger. 1944. Deutsche Kriegsweihnacht. – 4. Auflage 1944. Sonderdruck des Parteiarchivs für nationalsozialistische Feier- und Freizeitgestaltung Die Neue Gemeinschaft. Herausgegeben vom Hauptkulturamt der NSDAP in der Reichspropagandaleitung. Zusammenstellung und für den Inhalt verantwortlich: Hermann Liese. München: Zentralverlag der NSDAP, Franz Eher Nachfolger. Die neue Gemeinschaft [The New Society] 1937 Die neue Gemeinschaft. November 1937 1938a Die neue Gemeischaft. Oktober 1938. 1938b Die neue Gemeischaft. November 1938. 1939 Die neue Gemeinschaft. Dezember 1939. 1943 Die neue Gemeinschaft. Oktober/November 1943. 1944 Die neue Gemeinschaft. September 1944. München: Franz Eher Nachfolger. Zentralverlag der NSDP.

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Volksweihnachts-Feiern. [Celebration of the People’s Christmas. Inspiration and instructions.] 1937. Volksweihnachts-Feiern. Anreggungen und Richtlinien. Als Manuskript gedruckt. Gaupropagandaleitung Ostpreussen der NSDAP., Haupstelle Kultur. Königsberg (Pr.) 1938. Volksweichnachts-Feiern. Anreggungen und Richtlinien. Als Manuskript. gedruckt. Neuauflag. Gaupropagandaleitung Ostpreussen der NSDAP., Haupstelle Kultur. Königsberg (Pr.) Verantwortlich für der Inhalt: Gaukulturhauptstellenleiter Maertins. Vorweihnachten [Pre-Christmas] 1943. Vorweihnachten. – Auflage 1943. Herausgegeben vom Hauptkulturamt in der Reichspropagandaleitung der NSDAP in Verbindung mit dem Hauptschulungsamt. Gesamtzusammenstellung: Thea Haupt. München: Zentralverlag der NSDAP, Franz Eher Nachfolger. Zwickau, Hermann. 1935. Religionsfreiheit. Amtlicher Dokumente; Worte für Männer. 4. erw. Aufl. [Freedom of Religion. Official documents.]

Secondary sources Alexander, Jeffrey C. 2004. Toward a Theory of Cultural Trauma. In Cultural Trauma and Collective Memory. Edited by Jeffrey C. Alexander, Ron Eyrman et al. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Anderson, Benedict. 2007. Kuvitellut yhteisöt. Nationalismin alkuperän ja leviämisen tarkastelua. Second edition. [Imagined communities; reflections on the origin and spread of nationalism.] Translated by Joel Kuortti. Tampere: Vastapaino. Apfelbaum, Erika. 2010. Halbwachs and the Social Properties of Memory. In Memory. Histories, Theories, Debates. Edited by Susannah Radstone and Bill Schwarz. New York: Fordham University Press. Assman, Jan. 2006. Religion and Cultural Memory. Translation Rodney Livingstone. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Berek, Mathias. 2009. Kollektives Gedächtnis und die gesellschaftliche Konstruktion der Wirklichkeit. Eine Theorie der Erinnerungskulturen. [Collective Memory and Social Construction of Reality. A Theory of Memory Culture.] Studies in Cultural and Social Sciences 2. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag.

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Bucher, Rainer. 2011. Hitler’s Theology. Religious Space, Theory and Practice. Translation Rebecca Pohl. London: Continuum. Burleigh, Michael. 2004. Kolmas valtakunta. Uusi historia. [The Third Reich. A New History.] Translation Seppo Hyrkäs. Helsinki: WSOY. Christmas in Germany. A Cultural History. 2010. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Connerton, Paul. 2009. How modernity forgets. New York: Cambridge University Press. Deile, Lars. 2004. Feste: Eine Definition. [Festivals. A Definition]. In Das Fest. Beiträge zu seiner Theorie und Systematik. Herausgeben von Michael Maurer. Köln – Weimar – Wien: Böhlau Verlag. Erll, Astrid. 2011. Kollektives Gedächtnis und Erinnerungskulturen. Eine Einführung. [Collective memory and Memory Culture. An Introduction.] 2. Auflage. Stuttgart – Weimar: J.B. Metzler Verlag. Feuchtwang, Stephan. 2010. Ritual and Memory. In Memory. Histories, Theories, Debates. Edited by Susannah Radstone and Bill Schwarz). New York: Fordham University Press. Gajek, Esther. 1990. Christmas under the Third Reich. Anthropology Today. Vol 6 No. 4. August 1990. Grube, Andreas. 2003. Der Sonntag und die kirchlichen Feiertage zwischen Gefährdung und Bewährung. Aspekte der feiertagsrechtlichen Entwicklung im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert. [Sunday and Religious Festivals between Endangerment and Tribulation. Aspects of the Development of Festival Rights, from 19th to 20th Century] Schfiften zum Staatskirchenrecht Band 16. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Hagemann, Karen. 2002. “Mannlicher Muth und Teutsche Ehre” Nation, Militär und Geschlecht zur Zeit der Antinapoleonischen Kriege Preussens. [“Masculine Bravery and the German Honour” Nation, Military and Gender at the Time of the Anti-Napoleon Wars of Prussia.] Krieg in der Gesichte (KRiG), Band 8. Schöningh. Paderborn-München-Wien-Zürich. Halbwachs, Maurice. 1992. On Collective Memory. Translation Lewis A. Coser. Chicago-London: The University of Chicago Press. Hamilton, Paula. 2010. A Long War. Public Memory and the Popular Media. In Memory. Histories, Theories, Debates. Edited by Susannah Radstone and Bill Schwarz. New York: Fordham University Press. Hirvonen, Kaisa. 2009. Hakaristipullien ja talvipäivänseisauksen tulien myötä osaksi ”kuviteltua yhteisöä”: Joulu Kolmannessa valtakunnassa. Pro Gradu thesis. Universty of Helsinki. [Swastikashaped Pastries and Winter Solstice Bonfires as Ways to an Imagined Community: Christmas in the Third Reich.]

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Hobsbawm, Eric. 2012a. Introduction: Inventing Traditions. In The Invention of Tradition. Edited by Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger. New York: Cambridge University Press. —. 2012b. Mass-Producing Traditions: Europe, 1870-1914. In The Invention of Tradition. Edited by Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger. New York: Cambridge University Press. —. 2014. Äärimmäisyyksien aika 1914-1991. [The Age of Extremes. The Short Twentieth Century, 1914-1991.] Tampere: Vastapaino. Kohut, Thomas A. 2012. A German Generation. An experiential history of the twentieth century. New Haven-London: Yale University Press. Kratzer, Wolfgang. 1998. Feiern und Feste der Nationalsozialisten. Aneignung und Umgestaltung christlicher Kalender, Riten und Symbole. [Festivals and Celebrations of the National Socialists. Takeover and Transformation of the Christian Calendar, Rites and Symbols.] Diss. München Universität. Maurer, Michael. 2004. Prolegomena zu einer Theorie des Festes. [Prologue to a Theory of Festival.] In Das Fest. Beiträge zu seiner Theorie und Systematik. Herausgeben von Michael Maurer. KölnWeimar-Wien: Böhlau Verlag. Münkler, Herfried. 2009. Die Deutschen und ihre Mythen. [The Germans and their Myths]. Berlin: Rowohlt. Nora, Pierre. 1996. General Introduction: Between Memory and History. In Realms of Memory. Rethinking the French Past. Volume I: Conflicts and Divisions. Edited by Lawrence D. Kritzman. Translation Arthur Goldhammer. New York: Columbia University Press. Perry, Joe. 2005. Nazifying Christmas: Political Culture and Popular Celebration in the Third Reich. Central European History, vol. 38:4. Räsänen, Matti, and Outi Tuomi-Nikula. 2000. Saksan maalla. Kansanelämää keskiajalta nykypäivään [In Germany. Folklore from the Middle Ages to the Present]. Vammala: SKS. Steigmann-Gall, Richard. 2003. The Holy Reich. Nazi Conceptions of Christianity, 1919-1945. New York: Cambridge University Press.

CHAPTER SIX MISERY OR IDYLL? A COMPARATIVE STUDY ON FINNISH AND GERMAN PROPAGANDA PHOTOGRAPHS SHOWING THE OCCUPIED SOVIET AREAS OLLI KLEEMOLA

This chapter focusses on photographic propaganda. By comparing Finnish and German propaganda photographs, I seek to analyse the following questions: How were the occupied Soviet areas represented in the propaganda photography of both countries? How were these photographs used as part of war propaganda? Which were the most remarkable similarities and differences in the representations of the occupied areas? The chapter aims to discover general tendencies regarding the use of propaganda photographs in Finland and Germany from a comparative perspective. Propaganda is understood here as a form of communication intended for creating, shaping and distributing specific messages intended by the propagandist, which may or may not be true (Jowett and O’Donnell 2006, 7). The goal of propaganda is to get the recipient to act or think in a way that promotes the interests of the propagandist or the party he represents (Welch 2013, 2). In the summer of 1941, Finland along with Germany went to war against the Soviet Union. After the defeat in the Finnish-Soviet Winter War (1939-1940) and under the constant political pressure from the Soviet Union, Finland sought military support from Germany who had agreed on providing Finland with weapons; in turn, the German troops were allowed to travel through Finland. On 22 June, 1941, German troops attacked the Soviet Union. The Finnish troops did not take part in any operations until

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25 June, when the Soviet air forces bombed several towns and cities in Finland. This air attack offered the Finnish government an excuse to approve a new war, later called the Continuation War, as a “defensive war”, while emphasising the idea that Finland was fighting its own separate war, outside the German coalition proper (on the role of Finland during the Second World War, see Kinnunen and Kivimäki 2012). As most of the Soviet troops were sent south to fight Germans, the Finns were able to not only reoccupy the areas lost in the Winter War but advance even deeper into the Soviet East Karelia. Finnish troops halted their advance in December 1941. Earlier, when the Second World War broke out in the autumn of 1939, national socialist Germany had long been planning the production and spread of war propaganda. The Wehrmacht were the first armed forces in the world to set up special propaganda troops, Propagandakompanien (abbreviated as PK), to be in charge of both domestic and foreign war propaganda (Knightley 1975, 220-221). Until 1942, these troops were part of the signal corps. After having grown to the size of about 15,000 men, the propaganda troops became an independent branch, subordinate to the Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS but also taking orders from the Propaganda Ministry. No correspondents or photographers from any German magazines or newspapers were allowed at the front. The press received all of its photographic and textual war material from these Propagandakompanien (Uziel 2008). The Finnish Armed Forces set up their own propaganda troops as well. They were called Tiedotuskomppania (Information Company, abbreviated as TK). The Finns were given almost no training in producing propaganda, whereas the Germans had to attend special courses before they were dispatched to the front. During these courses, the future propaganda troops were taught, among other things, the basics of propaganda production as well as the way the German censorship worked, providing information that was certainly helpful when taking propaganda photographs. Moreover, although the Finnish organisational structure was borrowed from Germany, the Finnish propaganda troops had a wider spectrum of tasks. While the German propaganda corps was only asked to produce pure propaganda, the assignments of the Finns were far more versatile. Beside the actual propaganda, they were expected to produce material for ethnological use and document old agricultural and cultural traditions in Russian Karelia (FNA, Major Gunnar Waselius’ travel report from Germany 1942).1

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Comparing Finnish and German propaganda photographs is interesting because both countries were waging war against the Soviet Union but doing so based on quite different premises. In Germany, the people of the Soviet Union were to be used as cheap labour for the Reich, and there were plans to reduce their numbers through forced labour and minimal nutrition. Their land was to be given to the Germans, who would populate the “Lebensraum” in the east (Hasenclever 2010, 40). In Finland, plans existed to make the East Karelian area (approximately the area of Soviet Karelia) a part of Finland and merge its Karelian population into the population of Greater Finland (Laine 1982, 33-59)2. The primary subject of this chapter is a set of propaganda photographs taken by Finnish and German propaganda troops, featuring images of the areas occupied by the Finnish troops during the so-called Continuation War (1941-1944) or by the German troops during the war against the Soviet Union (1941-1945). The Finnish propaganda troops took approximately 150,000 photographs in total during the Continuation War (for general background information about the Continuation War, see Kinnunen and Kivimäki 2012). Approximately 2,000 of them show images of the occupied areas; the rest mainly depict Finnish soldiers and their equipment. The photograph archives of the Finnish Army survived the war almost completely intact. These so-called TK photographs and their original captions are now accessible via the Finnish Wartime Photograph Archive of the Finnish Defence Forces on the Internet (on Finnish propaganda troops, see Perko 1974; on their photographs, see Paulaharju and Uosukainen 2000; Porkka 1983; Kleemola 2011; Pilke and Kleemola 2013).3 During the war, the German propaganda photo archives consisted of up to 3,500,000 photographs. In the final phase of the war, the German Minister of Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, gave an order to destroy them. Fortunately, this order was disobeyed, and approximately 1,500,000 photographs survived the war, 1,200,000 of which are without captions. These photographs are stored in the Bundesarchiv Bildarchiv in Koblenz, Germany (Buchmann 1999, 296-306). The rest, approximately 300,000 photographs, belong to the archive of the German wartime photo agency, Scherl Bilderdienst (Hofmann 1993, 23-25). These PK photographs, also stored in the Bundesarchiv, came from all fronts of the Second World War.4 Photographs from the Eastern Front comprise a significant part of this material. Approximately 1,500-2,000 of them show views of the occupied areas.

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For this chapter, I have studied the photographic materials of both countries, categorised them based on the themes they show and chosen three visual topics to analyse as case studies: 1) “liberation propaganda photographs” and those showing the religious life in the occupied areas; thesec topics go together because soon after the beginning of the occupation, both Finnish and German photographic propaganda attacked the religious circumstances in the Soviet Union, 2) pictures of everyday life in the occupied areas, and 3) pictures of the inhabitants of the occupied areas and their cooperation with the occupants. These themes reflect the similarities and differences between Finnish and German propaganda photography particularly well. While these visual themes by no means give a complete picture of life in the occupied areas, these topics were central in the majority of published and unpublished Finnish and/or German propaganda photographs. For each case study, I have chosen one or more exemplary pictures of Finnish and German origin that represent the characteristics present in most of the propaganda photographs on each topic. Each of these pictures is analysed and compared with pictures from the other country. After the case studies, I sum up the results in a conclusion, in order to draw a bigger picture of the ways in which occupied areas were represented in Finnish and German photographic war propaganda. In addition to actual photographs found in the archives, this chapter also studies a selection of illustrated magazines, published in the both countries, in order to examine the kinds of pictures that were printed vis-àvis those that were not5. For the German section, I analyse three leading wartime illustrated magazines: Die Wehrmacht (WM, the official army magazine, published biweekly from 1936 to September 1944), Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung (BIZ, Berlin’s Illustrated Magazine, the biggest illustrated magazine in wartime Germany, published weekly from 1892 to 1945; Stahr 2004, 81-83) and Illustrierter Beobachter (IB, Illustrated Observer, the official Nazi Party magazine, published weekly from 1928 to 1945). For the Finnish section, I analyse two leading illustrated magazines: Suomen Kuvalehti (SK, Illustrated Magazine of Finland, the leading illustrated magazine in wartime Finland, published from 1916 onward) and Hakkapeliitta6 (HP, a military illustrated magazine owned by the Civic Guard Organisation, published weekly from 1926 to the autumn of 1944, when the Civic Guards were disbanded; see Pilke 2012, 37).

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Politics of images The photographs analysed in this chapter are considered propaganda material, created by state-controlled photographers in order to transfer and promote special meanings. In this respect, the captions linked to the pictures play an important role. The captions not only affect the reception of the pictures but also create a mental context in which the picture is embedded. By analysing the captions, I reconstruct the context of the photographs in order to reveal the desired propagandist message. Pictures themselves can be considered mute – that is, they cannot articulate, they just show things (Sontag 2011, 104; Glasenapp 2012, 5). The French philosopher and photography theorist Roland Barthes has stated that caption is the screw vice, which gives a picture its meaning by rendering other interpretations unnecessary (Hamann 2003, 16). Narrowing potential interpretations down to only one possible interpretation, the one intended by the propagandist, is essential as the message needs to be as unequivocal as possible. In Finland and Germany, the photos used in war propaganda were not technically manipulated like in Stalin’s Soviet Union, where persons who had ended up as victims of the political purges in the 1930s were removed from official photographs. Instead, the propagandist “reality” was constructed by using suggestive captions. While textual war propaganda has been studied rigorously in both countries, a vast amount of Finnish and German photographic war propaganda is still practically untouched (see Luostarinen 1986; Pilke 2009; Pilke 2011; Volkmann 1994; Perko 1974). This might be because, to date, the vast majority of historians have been reluctant to use photographic material as primary sources. As David F. Crew stated, “German historians have only recently begun to pay serious attention to the politics of images” (cited in Paul 2014). My work is based on visual history, a concept introduced by the German historian Gerhard Jagschitz. Visual history considers all types of pictures as an independent category of sources capable of transferring meanings and ideological viewpoints. Finnish and German war propaganda photography and propaganda photographs have, until recently, seldom been studied in the field of history. This is perhaps because of the special nature of the medium of photography: seemingly neutral, it captures moments and sights, but in reality, the pictures we take are formed in our heads long before the shutter of the camera closes. Thus, photographs can

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be considered products of the information, attitudes and prejudices the photographer has collected (Paul 2014). As Paul (2014) states, pictures are more than just sources that refer to a historic event. They have a creative capability, that is, pictures can create “realities” of their own. Thus, pictorial material is perfectly suitable for propagandist uses. It is not only their seeming neutrality which makes photographs a perfect tool for propaganda. Pictures are not a medium based on linear storytelling like written text. As the Finnish historian Johanna Valenius states: While the content of a text can be literally read in a linear way, a picture does not have a linear way to tell its story. It just is. This “just being” is the source of power and might of pictures. While the meaning of text only gradually can be revealed, the meaning of a picture can at least seemingly be understood at once (Valenius 1998, 12).

Methodologically, my work draws from the iconographic-iconological method developed by German art historian Erwin Panofsky. This method describes analysis as a three-level procedure. At the first level (preiconographic description), the content of the picture is described. In the second level (iconographic analysis), the allegories, stories and images present in the picture are named. During the third and last level (iconological interpretation), the symbolical meaning of the content is determined. The Panofsky method has been heavily criticised because, in practice, the three levels cannot be considered totally isolated from each other (on the critique of the Panofsky method, see Huuhtanen 1974; Burke 2003, 46-58; Pilarczyk and Mietzner 2005, 134). While this is true, the importance of the method cannot be denied; until recently, it was one of the few methods of art history that can also be implemented on materials not considered as art. Numerous variations based on this method have been developed, among them the serial-iconographic photograph analysis used here, intended for analysing large corpora of photographs. Serialiconographic photograph analysis follows the three-level analysis model developed by Panofsky, but adds a classification procedure that makes it possible to manage a large number of photographs (on serial-iconographic photograph analysis, see Pilarczyk and Mietzner 2005).

“Liberation propaganda” and religious life in the occupied areas Both German and Finnish propaganda troops photographed their first encounters with the people of the occupied areas. In Germany, there are

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quite a few photographs that show the people of Baltic, Soviet or Ukrainian cities celebrating the arrival of the German soldiers, as in Figure 1.

[Figure 1] Bundesarchiv/Bild 183 (collection Scherl) / L19397) A German propaganda photograph taken by PK-photographer Lette in July 1941. Original caption: “The cheers of liberation for the German soldiers in Riga. After the German troops had conquered Riga, the people of the city rejoiced. The people, who for months had suffered the bloody terror and had been hiding in their cellars, now hurried to the streets and markets to greet the German soldiers.”7

In the picture, smiling German soldiers are marching through the city of Riga, greeted by smiling women giving flowers. One of the women is carrying the Latvian national flag, which was in use until the Soviet occupation of the country in 1940. The photograph reflects a situation which, according to earlier studies and the photographic material studied, was pretty usual in Baltic and Ukrainian cities in 1941. According to German military historian Ortwin Buchbender, up to 75% of the Baltic and Ukrainian population greeted the arriving German troops as liberators from Soviet rule (Buchbender 1978, 264). The Latvian flag in the picture reflects the population’s hopes of rebuilding their independence with the help of the Germans. Even though the flag is

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clearly visible in the picture, it is totally ignored in the caption. This is most likely because before the beginning of the war against the Soviet Union, the Propagandakompanien – who in addition to propaganda directed at the home front were also in charge of the propaganda directed at the enemy – had been given orders not to use the “cliché of the Soviet Union dissolving itself into small states” in their enemy propaganda. This was most likely because Germany never had the intention of creating independent states in the occupied areas (Buchbender 1978, 54; Hoffmann 1986, 106-108; Hasenclever 2010, 240-241). This policy also explains why the German illustrated press only published a few of these “liberation pictures”8. These kind of liberation photographs were instead used in German propaganda leaflets directed at the enemy (see Kirchner 1987, 98). Finland, too, wanted to present its troops as liberators of the kindred nation of Karelians in the war photographs. The few Finnish liberation photographs found in the Finnish Wartime Photograph Archive, however, differ greatly from their German counterparts, as can be seen in Figure 2. The Finnish photograph of the liberated Karelians almost completely lacks the intensity and joyful atmosphere that the German propaganda photographs often depicted, even though the Finns had declared in their leaflets aimed at the Karelian population that they had come to liberate them. For example, Figure 2 shows no smiles, no celebrating people, and no flowers. It is just a small crowd standing in front of a church. The difference between the Finnish and German liberation propaganda could be explained by the fact that the Finnish propaganda photographers had not received any training in taking propaganda photographs. However, it is much more likely that the main cause of the differences lies in the attitudes of the occupied population towards the occupants. As Finnish historian Antti Laine states in his study, the Karelians could not be sure whether the Finns really would win the war, and thus, held themselves back. The most right-wing officers of the Finnish Army, who had expected that they would be greeted as long-awaited liberators of kindred nations, were disappointed when the Karelians showed little interest in being liberated. Unlike in the Baltic states, the Karelian people had never formed an independent state, nor did they have any strong interest in becoming part of Greater Finland. Some of the Karelians also had relatives fighting in the Soviet Army, and being cut off from any information about them

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was understandably no reason for joy (Laine 1982, 302-319; Kulomaa 2013, 209-214; Hyytiä 2008, 284-297; Kivimäki 2014).

[Figure 2] (SA-kuva 47860 [Finnish Wartime Photograph Archive]) An undated Finnish propaganda photograph taken by TK-photographer Sakari Pälsi in 1941. Original caption: “The people of Olonets celebrating their freedom.”9

Both Finns and Germans published many photographs of the churches that the Soviets had demolished; by contrast, they took photographs of the churches that were reopened for the population under their occupation (Figures 3 and 4). In both countries, these topics were photographed in quite a similar way. The photographic propaganda of both countries took up a topic which had already been used during the First World War, when the Allied propagandist had portrayed the Germans as hostile towards churches.

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[Figure 3] (Illustrierter Beobachter 34/1941) Photo reportage: “…and the hypocrites of England are praying for the Soviets.”10

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[Figure 4] (Suomen Kuvalehti 38/1941) Photo reportage: “We visit the temple of the Lord.”11

In Figure 3, the full-page reportage is constructed of photographs taken by several PK photographers in the Soviet Union. The places in which the photographs are taken are not named. The photographs are impressive as such, and captions are not needed to deliver the propagandist message, as one can easily identify the devastated buildings as churches. Similar photographs of destroyed churches were taken and published in Finland. In the two-page reportage shown in Figure 4, the photographs are taken by Finnish propaganda photographer T. W. Vuorela, and they show the first religious service held in the village of Vieljärvi in Eastern Karelia after the arrival of the Finnish occupants. The photographs can be seen as ”mute” situational pictures with no clear propagandist message; that just show a group of people visiting a religious service. Here the propagandist message is created by the captions, which underline the joy the Karelians feel because they are, after a long time, again allowed to freely practice their faith. The similarities in the Finnish and German propaganda are understandable as the atheistic Soviet Union was seen in Finland and in Germany as “the

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land of the Antichrist,” which would now be destroyed by a common European crusade (Tilli 2014, 60-132; Luostarinen 1986, 207). These pictures were well suited as a testimony to the evilness of the Soviet Union. Although the pictures used in this kind of propaganda were similar, the duration of the time period during which these kinds of photographs were used in domestic propaganda, differed from each other in both countries. In Germany, photographs of this kind were only published in 194112. On 1 December, 1941, the Reich Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels instructed the German press not to publish any news of the reopening of churches in the occupied areas of the Soviet Union (Boelcke 1989, 231). The reason for this restriction might have been the fact that Hitler was afraid of the reaction of the German Church. Since their rise to power, National Socialists had boasted of a hostile attitude towards the Christian church, and they did not want this propaganda to be understood as symbolic of a change of attitude. Later in December, Goebbels’ instructions were backed up by a circular letter sent by the party propaganda agency (Reichspropagandaamt) to the German press. In the letter, the fact that even photo reportage on this topic was forbidden was highlighted once more (Sachsse 2003, 317). The German propaganda did not include this topic again during the remainder of the war, not even after German troops in Stalingrad surrendered at the beginning of 1943 and Goebbels began to more strongly underline the idea of (atheistic) Bolshevism as a danger to European culture (Bramsted 1965, 331). In Finland, there were no such fears. Moreover, it was of great importance to show that the Karelians were affiliated with Christian faith, which was seen as an integral part of Western values. Thus, they could be considered a part of the emerging Greater Finland and not as “Ruskies” or “Bolsheviks”, who, according to Finnish propaganda researcher Heikki Luostarinen, were considered non-religious by nature (Luostarinen 1986, 207). Thus, religious services and the destroyed churches in East Karelia were a recurring topic in Finnish domestic propaganda, with reportage on the last service the Finns had organised for the Karelian people being published as late as the end of July 1944, after the Finns had given up Petrozavodsk, the capital city of East Karelia13. It can be concluded that this topic was of great importance for Finnish propaganda based on the fact that at the Headquarters’ instructions for the Information companies, photographers were repeatedly asked to capture religious topics in Eastern Karelia (FNA, Folder T20680/13, instructions 7, 41 and 44).

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Deteriorated huts or cosy Karelian houses? Everyday life and culture in the photographs of the occupants The greatest difference in the propaganda pictures of the occupied areas produced by Finnish and German propaganda units can be found in the photographs showing the everyday life and conditions in the occupied areas. While the Germans mainly documented misery (Figures 5 and 6), the Finnish propaganda units focussed on producing idyllic images of Karelian villages and old agricultural traditions in Russian Karelia (Figures 7 and 8).

[Figure 5] (DÖW 7190) A photo montage made out of photographs taken by PK photographers Dinges and Teßnow. Dated 22 July 1941. Original caption: “Whoever looks at these two photographs does not need to ask which country has a healthy peasant culture. Above a new farm in Pomerania, below one of the deteriorated farmer huts in the ‘Soviet paradise’.”14

Figure 5, the photo montage showing farms in Germany and in the Soviet Union, illustrates how German propaganda sought to underline the misery in the Soviet Union through comparative photo collages. On 5 June, 1941, in one of his secret conferences, Goebbels told the German press:

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[Figure 6] (Illustrierter Beobachter 32/1941) Photo reportage: “Living culture in the ‘Soviet paradise’. German soldiers unveil the real face of the ‘Fatherland of the working people’.”15

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[Figure 7] (SA-kuva 43925) A Finnish propaganda photograph taken by TK photographer E. Manninen in Jessoila at the end of August 1941. Original caption: “Nicely decorated gable end of a Karelian house.”16

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[Figure 8] (SA-kuva 93243) A Finnish propaganda photograph taken by TK photographer Kim Borg in the Lökinniemi village in June 1942. Original caption: “Slash-and-burn cultivation activities in Olonets. Women wearing birch-bark shoes, one of them dressed in a dress and trousers made of hessian fabric, the other wearing a normal dress. The slash-and-burn is located next to a lake. Part of the village is visible in the background.”17

Goebbels demanded that the German press start a “penetrating” enlightenment campaign, in which photographs were to play a significant part. Spectacular confrontations between the inhumane conditions in the Soviet Union and the social improvement, the high level of culture and the joy of living for the working people achieved in the National Socialist Germany are in a central role. A good choice of pictures, where the dirty Soviet

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barracks and the residential areas of the German workers as well as the baseless muddy roads and the German highways […] are shown as opposites, plays a central role (Boelcke 1989, 183).

The opposites demanded by Goebbels were not a new innovation in the National Socialist German propaganda. Starting in 1935, showing miserable social circumstances in Germany in photographs had only been allowed if the progress achieved during the regime of the National Socialists was also shown as a comparison (Sachsse 2003, 142-146). Showing the miserable conditions in the Soviet Union soon developed into a popular topic in the German press, and several illustrated articles and photo reportage were published18. Most of them demonstrated the misery in several ways, as does the reportage in Figure 6. In addition to the aspect of dirtiness, the article also demonstrates how cramped the housing is and how bad the conditions are for small children. In particular, the aspect of dirtiness played a central role, as can be seen in the instructions from Goebbels. This is understandable, as cleanliness has traditionally been considered a central character of Germans, and thus the dirtiness of the Soviet Union could be used to frame the Soviets as enemies. The popularity of the topic known as “Conditions in the Soviet Union” waned at the beginning of 1942, which may have been because the thematic campaigns of German propaganda were always of relatively short duration. The second possible reason for the disappearance of this topic might have been because the areas occupied by the German Wehrmacht during the summer offensive in 1942 were significantly smaller than those occupied in 1941 and included less significant cities. Thus, the propaganda units did not have anything new to describe about the misery in the occupied areas. While the Germans strongly highlighted the misery they encountered in the occupied areas, the Finnish propaganda units did not. As the Finnish propaganda claimed that the Finnish troops came to liberate the kindred nation of the Karelians and unify them with the so-called Greater Finland, the propaganda was, above all, interested in building a common national identity (Pilke 2011, 201). The Karelians, a kindred nation of the Finns, and the area they inhabited were considered as Finnish. In order to prove the Finnishness of the occupied area, the Finnish war propaganda even used pictures of East Karelian forests to demonstrate the similarity of the nature in Finland and East Karelia (Kleemola 2014, 38). The similarities were to justify the Finnish claims on the areas they occupied.

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Along with the similarities in nature, Karelian culture was of great importance for the Finnish propaganda machine. As Finnish historian Antti Laine (1982, 35) states, the Finns considered the Karelian area, where the poems of the Finnish national epic Kalevala had been collected in the 19th century, to be the birthplace of Finnish culture. Due to the special meaning Karelian cultural traditions had in Finnish nationalism, the photographers were given instructions to document Karelian culture “in a way which proves the kinship of the Finns and the Karelians” (Pilke and Kleemola 2013, 10). In the instructions given by the Headquarters for the Information companies, from the autumn of 1942 onwards, the photographers were urged to take photographs for folklore purposes. Another topic that the TK-men should concentrate on during quiet times is the photographing of the habits and conditions of the people. Such folklore topics may not seem to be a part of the TK-activities, but they are perfectly suitable for keeping up the interest of the people towards the Eastern Karelia (FNA, Folder T20680/13, instruction 74).

In their photographs, the propaganda photographers often highlighted the high cultural level of the East Karelian inhabitants, as well as their cleanliness. This was meant to prove the Finnishness of the occupied areas. Thus, the ethnological photographs and those showing old agricultural methods (such as in Figure 8), which the Finnish propaganda units were asked to take, were not based only on interest in old ethnic cultures but were to be a part of Finnish war propaganda. As Finnish historian Tenho Pimiä states in his doctoral thesis, Finnish academic research, especially ethnological studies and the study of folklore, were made an integral part of the propaganda machine propagating the building of Greater Finland (Pimiä 2009, passim). According to Finnish folklore researcher Hannu Sinisalo, the folklore photographs showing the East Karelian way of life and local working methods are part of the tradition of Finnish folklore pictures taken before the Second World War, which also claimed to document vanishing traditions (Sinisalo 1994, 8-16). The most important difference between Finnish and German propaganda photography with regard to photographing the life and conditions in the occupied areas is the way the photographs were intended to be seen by the target audience. For example, the photograph shown in Figure 8 would have been further evidence of the backwardness of the Soviet Union for the Germans, while the Finns saw it as proof that the East Karelian

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inhabitants had preserved their original Finnish culture. The Finnishness of slash-and-burn cultivation had been highlighted already in the 1890s, when the Finnish painter Eero Järnefelt completed his painting Burning the Brushwood (Under the Yoke) in 1893. This painting soon became one of the best-known iconic representations of the life of the Finnish peasant people. The photographs that the Finnish propaganda units took strongly resembled those that Finnish photographer I. K. (Into Konrad) Inha had taken in Eastern Karelia at the end of the 19th century. Both Inha and the propaganda photographers took idyllic photographs of Karelian villages, Karelian houses decorated with wood carvings [Figure 7] and Karelian inhabitants going about their daily activities (about Inha and his photographs, see Vuorenmaa and Kajander 1981). As Inha’s photographs were well known in Finland during the war, similar scenes in the photographs taken by the propaganda photographers suggested that Eastern Karelia had, in a way, been able to withstand the flow of time and remain as it had been when Inha had first photographed it. Of course, this was not true. The photographs of Inha can, however, be seen as “visual instructions”, because, due to their iconic role as part of Finnish East Karelian pictorial representations, they defined the “right” ways to photograph East Karelia in the photographers’ minds. The idyllic pictures of East Karelia, produced by the propaganda units, were eagerly published by the Finnish press soon after the area was occupied19. Even though Finnish war censorship attempted to limit the publication of East Karelian themed articles before Christmas 1941, the Finnish press continually showed interest in East Karelia and photo reportage continued to be published until 194320. The number of photo reportage and illustrated articles about East Karelia did not decrease until after the defeat of the German troops in Stalingrad, when the instructions of the Finnish war censorship authorities seemed finally to have an effect. During 1943, there were remarkably fewer articles and photo reportage about East Karelia21. As the number of reportage listed earlier shows, East Karelia remained an important propaganda topic throughout the war. While there were clear differences between the Finnish and German propaganda with regard to the pictorial representations of the occupied

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areas, there was also a common topic shared by the propaganda of both countries. Both German and Finnish propaganda units took numerous pictures showing the miserable condition of the Soviet roads, especially during the annual mud seasons, such as in Figure 9.22

[Figure 9] (SA-kuva 50450) A Finnish propaganda picture taken by propaganda photographer Tornia close to Lake Lempäälänjärvi in September 1941. Original caption: “The car of an artillery company on a muddy road of the Ruskies”.23

The photograph shows a car that has swerved off a muddy road and a Finnish soldier leaning on the car. The muddy roads—which twice a year became a real problem for the armies occupying this area of the Soviet Union—also gave the propaganda machine of Germany a good topic. For the Germans, the muddy roads they encountered in the Soviet Union were just one more piece of evidence of the backwardness caused by the

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Bolshevist regime. In fact, the German propaganda machine had expected the muddy roads: in his instructions cited earlier, Goebbels had directed the German press to compare the German highways, which the National Socialist Party boasted were one of the greatest achievements of the National Socialist regime, with the “baseless” Soviet roads (on the importance of the German Autobahn as a subject of the National Socialist propaganda, see Rehnig 2007, 40-43). At the same time, the logistic problem caused by the roads offered a welcome excuse for the German propaganda, which had claimed that the German Wehrmacht would defeat the Red Army in a fast Blitzkrieg, as it had defeated French troops earlier. However, this goal was not achieved, so there had to be an explanation for this. As the Germans themselves claimed in their propaganda that the Red Army had already been defeated in the battles of the summer of 1941, the Red Army’s resistance was not a suitable argument for the German troops’ slow advancement on the Eastern Front. Thus, the logistics were made responsible for the failure. Meanwhile, for the Finns, who were mainly interested in showing idyllic views of the occupied East Karelia, the poor conditions of the Soviet roads were not as important a topic. While the Germans clearly accused the Soviets of being responsible for the poor condition of the roads, the Finns either saw it as a problem caused by nature, or they simply did not see it as something extraordinary that needed an explanation. This might be due to the fact that at that time Finland was still a rural country with no highways and muddy roads were therefore a normal phenomenon. Regarding the German press coverage of the Soviet roads, BIZ published only one cover photograph showing Soviet roads in the autumn of 194124. The IB, in turn, took up the topic twice in the same autumn, publishing one two-page wide photo and one photo reportage concerned with Soviet roads25. The WM published only one photo reportage covering the mud season; it appeared only in the spring of 1942, later than the material in the other German magazines analysed here26 . The article in the magazine Wehrmacht was the last publication on this topic in the German press that I analysed. In all the materials published in the German press, one clear propagandist tendency can be spotted: while the photos show the poor condition of the Soviet roads, the captions also clearly point out that German soldiers are always capable of coping with such problems. Surprisingly, the Finnish magazines analysed in this article take up this topic more often than their German counterparts27. The Finnish press

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coverage of this topic was not only much wider and longer lasting, its tone was also completely different from that of Germany: the mud seasons were seen as an issue caused by nature, not by the backwardness of the Soviet Union and its regime.

The inhabitants of the occupied areas and their cooperation with the occupying troops Both the Germans and the Finns took numerous photographs showing the inhabitants of the occupied areas (Figures 10-13). Figures 10 and 11 show similar pictures of elderly, bearded men. When photographing the local people in the occupied areas, both Finnish and German propaganda units took an extraordinary number of portraits of old bearded men. There could be two reasons for this. Firstly, after the German (and Finnish) attack on the Soviet Union, the Soviets started to evacuate people where they could. During the evacuation, people of working and fighting age were prioritised, and so once the occupying troops arrived, they met mainly elderly people (Laine 1982, 98). Secondly, as the Finns advanced into Eastern Karelia, they expected to find a romantic and idyllic world, where elderly men with long beards recite poems about the heroes of the Kalevala. So, in a way, Finnish propaganda photographs showing bearded men were taken to fulfil existing expectations. The Germans, too, had their own expectations: during the First World War, pictures of bearded elderly men had been taken on the Eastern Front, as German photo historian Anton Holzer shows in his book (Holzer 2012, 197-201). As the photographs taken of the First World War can, at least to some extent, be considered as visual “models” for the photographs taken in the Second World War, it is also possible that the German propaganda units took pictures of bearded elderly men simply to meet existing expectations. The different motives of the Finnish and German propaganda units for taking these pictures are also reflected in the captions of Figures 10 and 11. While the Germans only use the picture as a “talking head” to highlight the misery caused by the Bolshevist regime, the Finns highlighted the fact that the photographed old man could still recite Kalevala poems, or at least looked like the mythic hero Väinämöinen with his beard.

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[Figure 10] (Barch Bild 183 J 21989) A German propaganda photograph, taken by propaganda photographer Przibilla in April 1943. Original caption: “The elderly person with the long beard has experienced the tsarist time. The Bolsheviks took his land and cattle after he had refused to join the kolkhoz. Now the Germans have given them back to him.”28

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[Figure 11] (SA-kuva 27701) A Finnish propaganda photograph, taken by propaganda photographer Sierla in July 1941. Original caption: “Inhabitants returned to Miinoa through small roads and have now escaped the slavery of the Ruskies and the kolkhoz. 72-year-old Mikko Riikonen is a fit fisherman who still recites long poems about the heroes of the Kalevala and remembers numerous folklore stories. Before the Bolshevist regime he had visited Finland, even Kuopio and Nurmes, so he knows what the so-called wonderful and great achievements of the Bolshevism are in reality.”29

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[Figure 12] (BIZ 47/1941) A German propaganda photograph taken by war correspondent Röder as a cover photograph for the BIZ magazine. Original caption: “Wounded by the Soviets, bandaged by a German troop doctor. Soviet planes attacked a village and fired on civilians. When the German troops later arrived, the wounded were operated on and bandaged by a German doctor.”30

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[Figure 13] (HP 9/1942) A photo reportage consisting of four Finnish propaganda photos taken by propaganda photographer Aavikko. Original title: “The children of Olonets on their way to a new, brighter life.”31

Both the Germans and the Finns used the photographs shown in Figures 12 and 13 as part of a propaganda strategy, which would now be called humanitarian soldiership. To justify the occupation and to win over the hearts of their audiences at home and abroad, the German and Finnish soldiers were represented as friendly helpers of civilians, just as ISAF

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soldiers would be more than 60 years later. In the photograph shown in Figure 12, a German doctor takes care of the civilians who, according to the caption, were wounded in a Soviet air raid. According to Finnish historian Noora Kotilainen, who has analysed the pictures published on the ISAF’s Flickr page, medical care is a popular topic when soldiers are being presented as helpers of civilians. Another topic popular in today’s visual communication is education. The Finnish wartime photo reportage in Figure 13 shows how the children of the town of Olonets could attend a school organised by the Finns. These pictures show that while the concept of “humanitarian intervention” was created as late as the 1970s, using the images of humanitarian soldiership as a part of a communication strategy is not new (Kotilainen 2011, 31-47). As Kotilainen (2011) states in her study on the International Security Assistance Forces (ISAF) visual communication strategies, the pictures showing humanitarian soldiership are used to both construct an image of the ISAF soldiers as helpers of civilians and to construct an image of local civilians. According to Kotilainen, the photographs of the ISAF represent local civilians as receivers of help, tutelage and development aid and as a population to be secured, but the photographs also picture local partners such as the soldiers of the Afghan National Army (Kotilainen 2011, 48-55).

The difference between the ISAF photographs and those taken by the Finnish and German propaganda units during the Second World War is clear. Neither the Germans nor the Finns show any pictures of local civilians as partners of the occupying power. The civilians are shown as weaker, colonialised “others”, who need the help of the stronger, more civilised occupying power. This way of presenting civilians is logical to the German propaganda because it was based on National Socialist racial theories in which Germans were seen as members of the Aryan race, which was considered as the highest among the human races, and the Soviet population was considered members of the inferior races. The Finns, on the other hand, considered the population of East Karelia to be Finns, too, and thus, in principle, equal with the Finns living in Finland. In their eyes, however, because of the Bolshevist regime, East Karelia and its inhabitants were so behind in development that they would need help in achieving the living standards of Finland. The German magazines analysed here published numerous photo reportage and illustrated articles to show how the German soldiers and the

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German administration of the occupied areas helped the civilians. Their topics range from agricultural education to trading between civilians and German soldiers32. One popular topic was the land reform the Germans implemented in the occupied areas to win over the hearts of the civilian population. While the importance of the dismantling of the kolkhoz system had already been discussed at the beginning of the war, it was accepted by Hitler as late as the 15 April, 1942 (on the land reform and its propaganda effect, see Buchbender 1978, 133-139; Hasenclever 2010, 258-264). The German magazines took up the topic of land reform and BIZ published several illustrated features about it, even as late as 194333. The Finnish magazines analysed here took up the topic of Finnish soldiers helping the civilian population in Eastern Karelia soon after the areas had been occupied. Numerous articles and photo reportage were published with topics ranging from the school system in Eastern Karelia to a local children’s hospital34. Finnish propaganda on this topic continued longer than its German counterpart because the trench warfare phase on the Finnish front lasted until the beginning of June 1944, while the German troops were forced to start their retreat soon after the defeat in Stalingrad in 1943. The selection of photographic topics, however, is significantly smaller in the Finnish magazines than in the German ones. While the German magazines cover everything from land reform to trade, their Finnish counterparts focus on education and the healthcare system. This is most likely because the Finns claimed they were fighting a defensive war: the Continuation War had begun with the Soviet Air Force bombing Finnish cities without a declaration of war (Soikkanen 2005, 25-32). To make this argument more plausible, the Finns did not treat the occupied areas as part of Finland but instead placed them under a military administration and did not implement any kind of land reform. That also meant that while the Germans, with their implemented land reform, were at least to some extent able to offer the people a vision of a better future under German rule, the Finnish propaganda was hampered by the fact that the decisions the civilians hoped for, e.g. the dismantling of the kolkhoz system, were not made.

Goals of war affect photographic propaganda strategies The case studies discussed in this article show that regardless of their different goals, both the Finnish and the Germans tried to implement

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somewhat similar propaganda strategies. Both German and Finnish troops were represented in the photographs as liberators, happily greeted by the civilian people of the occupied areas. Whether the Finns tried to copy the strategy implemented by the Germans during the earlier stages of the war is not within the scope of this article, but it is an interesting question for future research. The liberator propaganda produced by the Finnish propaganda units also shows us that, in most cases, the pictures not found in the archives can be more interesting than those found. While a few liberation photographs show that the Finns at least attempted to represent themselves as liberators, the small number of pictures found indicates that this was not easy. Similar propaganda strategies were also implemented in Finland and Germany with regard to photographic representations of the better future that the regime change was to bring the population of the occupied areas. Finnish and German soldiers were presented as friendly helpers of the civilian population. They were alo depicted as bringers of a brighter future. As evidence of the new liberties that the new regime would bring, the propaganda units of both countries took numerous pictures showing the opening of churches that had been closed under the atheistic Soviet regime, as well as photographs of the first religious services held. The most important differences between Finnish and German propaganda are found in the pictorial representation of civilian people. The German propaganda units oriented themselves according to the racial ideology propagated by the National Socialist regime. Accordingly, the National Socialist propaganda does not show any real interest in the culture and habits of the occupied citizens. Instead, the civilians and the backwardness of the conditions under which they live were used as proof of the inferiority of the Soviet regime. The Finns – who considered the Finnish inhabitants of East Karelia to be Finns who had been able to preserve their Finnish culture and traditions even under Soviet rule – were interested in the characteristics of the East Karelian way of life and documented its traditions to use them as a base for the emerging Greater Finland national identity. What this all amounts to is that the propaganda of an occupying party often aims to justify the occupation, and thus, uses strategies similar to other propaganda attempts. The case studies discussed in this article do show, however, that the different war goals of Germany and Finland also affected their photographic propaganda strategies. While the Finns aimed

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at building up a common national identity by showing scenes of East Karelian culture and traditions in their photographs, the German propaganda was aimed only at justifying German occupation of the area.

References Primary sources Magazines Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung, 1941-1945. Die Wehrmacht, 1941-1944. Hakkapeliitta, 1941-1944. Illustrierter Beobachter, 1941-1945. Suomen Kuvalehti, 1941-1944. Archival sources Bundesarchiv Bildarchiv Koblenz, collection Bild 183, Germany. Dokumentationszentrum des Österreichischen Widerstandes (DÖW), Vienna, Austria. Finnish Defence Forces, Finnish Wartime Photograph Archive. Accessed 7 January, 2014. www.sa-kuva.fi Headquarters’ instructions for the Information companies. Finnish National Archive, folder T20680/13. Major Gunnar Waselius’ travel report from Germany 1942. Finnish National Archives, folder T20681/26.

Secondary sources Boelcke, Willi A., editor. 1989. Wollt Ihr den totalen Krieg? Die geheimen Goebbels-Konferenzen 1939-1945. Herrsching: Manfred Pawlak. Bramsted, Ernest K. 1965. Goebbels and National Socialist Propaganda 1925-1945. London: The Cresset Press. Buchbender, Ortwin. 1978. Das tönende Erz: Deutsche Propaganda gegen die Rote Armee im Zweiten Weltkrieg. Stuttgart: Seewald Verlag. Buchmann, Wolf. 1999. Woher kommt das Photo? Zur Authentizität und Interpretation von historischen Photoaufnahmen in Archiven. Archivar, 4: 296-306. Burke, Peter. 2003. Augenzeugenschaft: Bilder als historische Quellen. Berlin: Klaus Wagenbach Verlag.

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Glasenapp, Jörn. 2012. Vergangenheit und Zukunft: Wie fotografischer Sinn entsteht. Fotogeschichte, 124: 5-12. Hamann, Cristoph. 2003. Feindbilder und Bilder vom Feind. In Beutestücke. Kriegsgefangene in der deutschen und sowjetischen Fotografie 1941-1945. Edited by Margot Blank: 16-22. Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag. Hasenclever, Jörn. 2010. Wehrmacht und Besatzungspolitik in der Sowjetunion: Die Befehlshaber der rückwärtigen Heeresgebiete 19411943. Paderborn: Ferdinard Schönigh. Hofmann, Rainer. 1993. Das Bildarchiv der früheren DDRNachrichtenagentur ADN. Mitteilungen aus dem Bundesarchiv, 1: 2325. Hoffmann, Joachim. 1986. Die Ostlegionen 1941-1943: Turkotartaren, Kaukasier, Wolgafinnen im deutschen Heer. Freiburg: Rombach Verlag. Holzer, Anton. 2012. Die andere Front: Fotografie und Propaganda im Ersten Weltkrieg, 3rd edition. Darmstadt: Primus Verlag. Huuhtanen, Päivi. 1974. Panofskyn ikonologian ongelmia. In Taide kovassa maailmassa. Edited by Aarne Kinnunen: 77-112. Helsinki: WSOY. Hyytiä, Osmo. 2008. “Helmi Suomen maakuntien joukossa”. Suomalainen Itä-Karjala 1941-1944. Helsinki: Edita. Jowett, Garth S. and Victoria O’Donnell. 2006. Propaganda and Persuasion, 4th edition. Thousand Oaks: Sage. Kinnunen, Tiina, and Ville Kivimäki, editors. 2012. Finland in World War II: History, Memory, Interpretations. Leiden: Brill. Kivimäki, Ville. 2014. Rintamamiesten Suur-Suomi: Odotukset, kokemukset ja tunteet jatkosodassa. In Luvattu maa: Suur-Suomen unelma ja unohdus. Edited by Sari Näre and Jenni Kirves: 259-319. Helsinki: Johnny Kniga. Kirchner, Klaus. 1987. Flugblattpropaganda im. 2 Weltkrieg: Flugblätter aus Deutschland 1941. Erlangen: Verlag für zeitgeschichtliche Dokumente und Curiosa. Kleemola, Olli. 2011. Kaksi kameraa – kaksi totuutta? Omat, liittolaiset ja viholliset rintama-ja TK-miesten kuvaamina. Turku: University of Turku. —. 2014. Vihollinen vai liittolainen? Metsä suomalaisten ja saksalaisten itärintaman sotapropagandakuvien elementtinä 1941–1944. Vuosilusto 10, 29-42.

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Knightley, Phillip. 1975. The First Casualty: From the Crimean War to Vietnam. The War Correspondent as Hero, Propagandist and Myth Maker. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovic. Kotilainen, Noora. 2011. Humanitarian Soldiers, Colonialised Others and Invisible Enemies: Visual Strategic Communication Narratives of the Afghan War. FIIA, Working Paper 72. Kulomaa, Jukka. 2013. Äänislinna: Petroskoin suomalaismiehityksen vuodet 1941–1944. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. Laine, Antti. 1982. Suur-Suomen kahdet kasvot: Itä-Karjalan siviiliväestön asema suomalaisessa miehityshallinnossa 1941–1944. Helsinki: Otava. Luostarinen, Heikki. 1986. Perivihollinen: Suomen oikeistolehdistön Neuvostoliittoa koskeva viholliskuva sodassa 1941–1944. Tampere: Vastapaino. Paul, Gerhard. 2014. “Visual History Version 3.0.” Accessed 10 June, 2015. http://docupedia.de/zg/Visual_History_Version_3.0_Gerhard_Paul Paulaharju, Jyri, and Martti Uosukainen. 2000. Kamerat – huomio – tulta! Puolustusvoimat kuvaajana: Puolustusvoimien kuvaustoiminta 1918– 1999. Helsinki: Puolustusvoimien koulutuksen kehittämiskeskus. Perko, Touko. 1974. TK-miehet jatkosodassa: Päämajan kotirintaman propaganda 1941–1944. Helsinki: Otava. Pilarczyk, Ulrike, and Ulrike Mietzner. 2005. Das reflektierte Bild. Die seriell-ikonografische Fotoanalyse in den Erziehungs- und Sozialwissenschaften. Bad Heilbrunn: Klinkhardt forschung. Pilke, Helena. 2009. Etulinjan kynämiehet: Suomalaisen sotakirjallisuuden kustantaminen ja ennakkosensuuri kirjojen julkaisutoiminnan sääntelijänä 1939–1944. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. —. 2011. Julkaiseminen kielletty: Rintamakirjeenvaihtajat ja Päämajan sensuuri. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. —. 2012. Korsu-uutisia! Rintamalehtien jatkosota. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. Pilke, Helena, and Kleemola, Olli. 2013. Suomi taisteli: Kuvat kertovat. Helsinki: Readme.fi. Pimiä, Tenho. 2009. Tähtäin idässä: Suomalainen sukukansojen tutkimus toisessa maailmansodassa. Jyväskylä: University of Jyväskylä. Porkka, Reijo. 1983. Sodasta kuvin: TK-valokuvaus 1941–1944. Helsinki: Suomen valokuvataiteen museon säätiö. Rehnig, Jeanne E. 2007. “Wir fahrn fahrn fahrn auf der Autobahn“: drei Epochen – drei Fotografen – ein Motiv: die Autobahn.” In Der engagierte Blick: Fotoamateure und Autorenfotografen dokumentieren

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den Alltag. Edited by Irene Ziehe and Ulrich Hägele, 39-56. Berlin: LIT Verlag. Sachsse, Rolf. 2003. Die Erziehung zum Wegsehen: Fotografie im NSStaat. Dresden: Philo Fine Arts. Sinisalo, Hannu. 1994. Kolme artikkelia valokuvasta. Tampere: Tampereen yliopisto. Sontag, Susan. 2011. Über Fotografie. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch. Stahr, Henrick. 2004. Fotojournalismus zwischen Exotismus und Rassismus: Darstellungen von Schwarzen und Indianern in Foto-TextArtikeln deutscher Wochenillustrierter, 1919–1939. Hamburg: Verlag Dr Kovac. Soikkanen, Timo. 2005. “Uhri vai hyökkääjä?” Jatkosodan synty historiankirjoituksen kuvaamana. In Jatkosodan pikkujättiläinen. Edited by Jari Leskinen and Antti Juutilainen: 25-42. Helsinki: WSOY. Tilli, Juha. 2014. Suomen pyhä sota: Papit jatkosodan julistajina. Jyväskylä: Atena kustannus. Uziel, Daniel. 2008. The Propaganda Warriors: The Wehrmacht and the Consolidation of the German Home Front. Bern: Peter Lang. Valenius, Johanna. 1998. Kertomusten maailma. In Kertomuksia Suomesta. Historiankirjoitusta sanan voimalla ja kuvan keinoin. Edited by Johanna Valenius, 7-13. Turku: Turun yliopisto Volkmann, Hans-Erich, editor. 1994. Das Russlandbild im Dritten Reich. Köln: Böhlau. Vuorenmaa, Tuomo-Juhani, and Ismo Kajander. 1981. I. K. Inha: Valokuvaaja 1865–1930. Helsinki: WSOY. Welch, David. 2013. Propaganda: Power and Persuasion. London: British Library.

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Notes 1

While it would also be of interest to compare the photos taken by some specific TK- or PK-photographer, it is not within the scope of this article due to its limited length and the intended comparative take between two countries. It is however, certainly an interesting question for future research. 2 Greater Finland was a nationalistic idea supported by the Finnish right-wing parties, which emphasised territorial expansion of Finland in the context of panFennicism, that is, Finland was to be expanded until it covers the area inhabited by all Finnic populations. 3 www.sa-kuva.fi. TK stands for Tiedotuskomppania, which translates literally as “information troops”. 4 A small part, approximately 2,000 photographs, is stored at the Dokumentationszentrum des Österreichischen Widerstandes (DÖW), in Vienna, Austria. 5 Because the object of study in this article are not only the photographs but also the magazines they were published in, it might be interesting to analyse the photos also as part of wartime photojournalism in both countries. While this is neither possible due to practically nonexistent archives of the analysed magazines nor within the scope of this article, it certainly is an interesting question for future research 6 Hakkapeliitta refers to a historical term for a Finnish cavalryman who fought in the Thirty Years’ War; it has no meaningful translation into other languages. 7 Original caption in German: “Befreiungsjubel um die deutschen Soldaten in Riga. Als die deutschen Truppen die Stadt Riga einnahmen, wurde die dortige Bevölkerung von einem Jubelsturm der Freude erfasst. Die Menschen, die monatelang unter dem Blutterror gelitten und sich in den letzten Wochen in den Kellern ihrer Häuser versteckt hatten, eilten nun auf die Straßen und Plätze und drängten sich, um die deutschen Soldaten zu begrüßen.” 8 BIZ 40/1941: “Über den Dnjepr nach Osten”; IB 30/1941: “Lemberg umjubelt die deutschen Truppen”; IB 32/1941 cover photo 9 Original caption in Finnish: “Aunuksen kansa juhlii vapauttaan.” 10 Original title of the reportage in German: “…Und Englands Heuchler beten für die Sowjets.” 11 Original title of the reportage in Finnish: “Me käymme Herran temppeliin.” 12 e.g. WM 17/1941: “So ging Smolensk in Flammen auf”; BIZ 34/1941: “Kirchenschänder, für die England betet”; BIZ 37/1941: “Von Kowno bis Riga: Die letzten Tage unter Stalins Herrschaft”; IB 38/1941: “Wenn die Flut verebbt… Ein Fest des Dankes in der vom bolschewistischen Terror befreiten ukrainischen Stadt Schitomir” 13 SK 30/1944: “Viimeisen kerran? Äänislinnan kreikkalaiskatolisen seurakunnan jumalanpalvelus vähän ennen kaupungin luovuttamista” 14 Original caption in German: “Bauernhäuser im nationalsozialistischen Deutschland und in der Sowjet-Union. Wer diese beiden Bilder betrachtet, braucht nicht mehr zu fragen, wo ein gesundes Bauerntum zu finden ist. — Oben ein

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Neubauernhof in Pommern. Unten eine der verwahrlosten Bauernhütten im ‘Sowjet-Paradies’.” 15 Original title of the reportage in German: “Wohnkultur im Sowjetparadies. Die deutschen Soldaten entschleiern das ‘Vaterland aller Werktätigen’.” 16 Original caption in Finnish: “Kauniisti koristeltu karjalaistalon pääty.” 17 Original caption in Finnish: “Kaskenpolttoa Aunuksessa: Naiset viertämässä kaskea. Jalassa on tuohivirsut, päällä toisella säkkikankainen mekko ja säkkikankaiset housut, toisella tavallinen puku. Kaski palaa järven rannalla. Taustalla näkyy kylää.” 18 e.g. IB 2/1942: “Für diesen Fortschritt dankt Europa. Die Soldaten der Ostfront stiessen das Tor auf”; BIZ 42/1941: “Das erlogene Paradies” 19 e.g. HP 43/1941: “Rajat siirtyvät jälleen”; HP 44/1941: “Heimosoturit toteuttamassa unelmaansa Vienassa ja Aunuksessa”; HP 44/1941: “Talvi on tullut Itä-Karjalaan”; HP 44/1941: “Laatokan Karjalasta Sortavalan kautta Äänisjärvelle”; HP 51-52/1941: “Karhumäki ja Poventsa. Kaksi uutta nimeä Suomen voittojen kirjassa”; SK 44/1941: “Etu-ja kotilinjoilta”; SK 44/1941: “Äänislinna – Suomen uusin kaupunki”; SK 45/1941: “Rintamanäkymiä”; SK 47/1941: “Sodan ja rauhan näköaloja” 20 SK 7/1942: “Pakkaspäivien Aunusta”; SK 17/1942: “Vanhaa ja uutta Suomea”; SK 27/1942: “Kauko- ja lähi-Karjala”; SK 30/1943: “Sinne matkustamme…”; SK 42/1942: “Syvärinniskan kauppala”; SK 19/1942: “Kevät yli Äänisen I”; SK 20/1942: “Kevät yli Äänisen II”; SK 38/1942: “Limosaari”; SK 39/1942: “Vuoden vanha Äänislinna”; SK 39/1943: “Erämaan kasvot”; HP 9/1942: “Kalevalan laulumaiden talvea”; HP 21/1942: “Hyrsylä, Porajärvi ja Repola riitakapuloina Stolbovan rauhan rajakäynnissä”; HP 27/1942: “Raja erottaa – raja yhdistää”; 34/1942: “Aunuksen kuvia”; HP 37/1942: “Erämaajoki kutsuu”; HP 38/1942: “Karhumäen hotelli”; HP 40/1942: “Karjalaiskylän kesää” 21 SK 2/1943: “Runojen Itä-Karjalaa”; Artikkelit: SK 3/1943: “Oulanka – Vienan salojen keidas”; SK 11/1943: “Karjala, Aunus ja Viena tarjoavat meille ehtymättömiä aihevarastoja”; SK 51-52/1943: “Yö ja päivä Vepsän rannalla”; HP 4/1943: “Itä-Karjalan hiljaiseloa”; 35/1943: “Poutapäiviä karjalaiskylässä”; HP 4/1943: “Millaiseksi Vegaruksen emäntä kuvitteli Helsingin professorit”; HP 9/1943: “Pikapiirros meidän Antista” 22 Due to the close resemblance of Finnish and German pictures, I have chosen only one Finnish propaganda photograph to represent this topic here. 23 Original caption in Finnish: “Tykistökomppanian-auto [sic] ryssien kuraisella tiellä.” 24 BIZ 39/1941 cover 25 IB 41/1941: “Nicht gut für Seekranke” 26 WM 11/1942: “Schlamm!” 27 e.g. SK 38/1941: “Sataa”; SK 16/1944: “Kevätkelien pulmia”; HP 20/1942: “Kevättä ja kelirikkoa”; HP 41/1942: “Liejua”; HP 17/1944: “Kelirikkoa rintamalla”; SK 50/1941: “Vastukset voittaen eteenpäin”; SK 24/1942: “Louhen suunnalla”; HP 10/1943: “Surmanajajana Aunuksen kannaksen teillä”; HP 19/1942: “Syvä iskumme on… Syvärin suurten ja voitollisten taistelujen vaiheita”

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Caption in German: “Der Alte mit dem Rauschbart hat noch die Zarenzeit erlebt. Die Bolschewisten haben ihn, da er sich standhaft weigert, der Kolchose beizutreten, Land und Vieh genommen, die Deutschen gaben es ihm zurück.” 29 Caption in Finnish: “Miinoaan pitkin korpiteitä palanneita asukkaita, jotka jo ovat päässeet pois ryssän ja kolhoosin orjuudesta. 72-vuotias Mikko Riikonen, pirteä kalamies, joka vielä laulaa pitkiä runoja Kalevalan sankareista ja muistaa lukemattomia kansantarinoita. Käynyt ennenvanhaan lukemattomat kerrat Suomen puolella, aina Kuopiossa ja Nurmeksessa saakka, joten tiesi kyllä mitä bolshevismin ihanuus ja suursaavutukset todellisuudessa ovat.” 30 Caption in German: “Von Sowjets verwundet, vom deutschen Truppenatzt verbunden. Sowjetische Flugzeuge griffen ein Dorf an und feuerten wahl-und planlos auf die Zvilbevölkerung. Als später die deutschen Truppen einzogen, operierte und verband die deutsche Truppenartzt die Verletzten.” 31 Title in Finnish: “Aunuksen lapset uuden, valoisamman elämän tiellä.” 32 e.g. BIZ 51/1941: “‘Agronomen’ werden eingesetzt”; BIZ 6/1942: “Dienst an neuen Kunden…” 33 BIZ 13/1942: “Euer Land wird Euer Eigentum”; BIZ 41/1942: “Vom deutschen Soldaten erkämpft: Die Kornkammer der Zukunft”; BIZ 29/1943: “Wo der Pflock steht, ist mein Land” 34 SK 38/1941: “Veli kulta, veikkoseni”; SK 13-14/1942: “Nouseva Aunus opin tiellä”; HP 7/1943: “Tonava vaiko Tornionjoki?”; HP 19 42/1943: “Lastenlinna Itä-Karjalassa”; SK 42/1943: “Nuorten työterveiset Itä-Karjalasta”; SK 17/1944: “Ammatteja Itä-Karjalan nuorille”

PART III: PREPARATIONS FOR PEACE DURING WORLD WAR II AND THE ENSUING COLD WAR

CHAPTER SEVEN THE US STATE DEPARTMENT’S WARTIME PLANS (1942-1945) FOR THE POST-WAR FUTURES OF FINLAND, HUNGARY AND ROMANIA OHTO RINTALA

The Second World War started when Germany invaded Poland in the autumn of 1939. By the summer of 1941, Germany had achieved a dominant position in Europe. The country’s strong position had consequences for the politics practised by Finland, Hungary and Romania, as they had to make decisions concerning their relations with Germany. The three countries, located in the borderlands of Europe, between Germany and the Soviet Union, were in a geopolitically unstable position and looked to Germany for support in their foreign policies. When Germany launched an attack against the Soviet Union in June 1941, these countries became part in the German coalition. The close relations with Germany duly affected the relationships between these small countries and the United States, as the US and Stalin’s Soviet Union were allies in the war against Hitler’s Germany. The participation of Finland, Hungary and Romania in the coalition of Germany during the Second World War marks the starting point for the comparative historical approach adopted in this chapter. The main focus will be on the US State Department’s wartime plans, in the years between 1942 and 1945, dealing with the post-war internal political and societal conditions in Finland, Romania and Hungary. The plans and possible reforms that the State Department planners suggested in these countries are analysed in relation to the wider regional and global interests of the United States.

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At the country level, the United States had only limited political and economic interests in Finland, Romania and Hungary, but the chapter will show that the State Department planners still tried to find the best possible solutions among different alternatives to ensure the post-war internal political stability in these countries. Stability of the post-war international system was seen as the best way to promote the global political and economic interests of the United States. The State Department planners also emphasised the importance of the earlier political and societal development in Finland, Romania and Hungary during the interwar period. It should be noted that the questions addressed in this article form only a part of the overall State Department planning in Finland, Romania and Hungary in the years 1942-1945, which also included other important post-war subject areas, such as border questions. The recent US foreign policies conducted by the Obama administration, supporting regime changes in Libya and Syria, have concretely demonstrated that even the leading superpower could not precisely predict how the situation would develop on the ground after the old power structures had vanished. On the other hand, the previous lessons vis-à-vis Iraq and Afghanistan have taught US foreign policymakers that Westerntype parliamentary democracy is not easily exportable even after the swift regime change by the US-led military operation. Compared with these current conflicts, the Second World War was a different global conflict. Analysing the plans concerning the possible futures of the three small European countries and the scenarios the State Department specialists drafted during the planning process will demonstrate how the emerging Western superpower defined the essential prerequisites for successful regime change. It might also offer interesting perspectives for further discussion on regime changes in general.

The US State Department’s post-war planning in the years 1942-1945 The participation of the United States in the Second World War after Pearl Harbour in December 1941 marked a major turning point in the United States’ role as a global superpower. During the interwar period, the isolationist principles underlining the US interests to avoid foreign entanglements had guided US foreign policy thinking. The State Department’s extensive post-war foreign policy planning started at the beginning of 1942 with an ambitious global agenda for the United States.

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The State Department planners saw that the United States should participate actively in formulating the new post-war international order (Hearden 2002, xi-xv; Patrick 2009, ix-xxvi). The high profile Council on Foreign Relations had been the most influential organisation supporting an active global role for the United States before the Second World War. Some of the council’s key figures – notably Isaiah Bowman, Norman H. Davis and H. F. Armstrong – also acted in the capacity of area specialists in the State Department’s post-war planning during the years 1942-1945 (Parmar 2004, 108-119). The traditional role of the State Department as the leading administrative organ in the foreign policy field faced significant challenges during the Second World War. Firstly, the strong-minded President Roosevelt was inclined to favour personal diplomacy and liked to act “as his own foreign minister”. On the other hand, other important departments (War, Navy and Treasury) interfered in foreign policy preparation. There were also many new actors, e.g. the Lend-Lease administration, in the foreign policy field (Rubin 1985, 33-38). However, the State Department managed to consolidate its control over the administrative structure of the post-war foreign policy planning (Hearden 2002, 37-38; Patrick 2009, 52-55.). During the first phase, the planning was conducted by the Advisory Committee on Post-war Foreign Policy and its subcommittees, of which the political and territorial subcommittees were the most influential. However, Secretary of State Cordell Hull suspended this committee in July 1943. After the general war situation had turned in favour of the Allied armies, there was now a need for plans with more specific countryand area-based policy proposals. These plans were drafted by the research staff from the Division of Political Studies and the Interdivisional Country and Area Committees. At the beginning of 1944, two new high-level State Department committees, the Committee on Post-War Programs and the Policy Committee, were also formed to determine the ultimate guidelines for US post-war foreign policy in different parts of the world (Notter 1949, 96-148, 160-164 and 207-227). The post-war international position of Finland, Hungary and Romania was closely linked to relations between the two emerging superpowers, the United States and the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union had a strong security interest concerning the future status of the small enemy countries located in its western borderlands. The United States accepted the growing Soviet influence in these countries after the war to some extent. However,

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the State Department planners suggested that this “acceptable” post-war Soviet influence should have its limits, which would enable the small border countries to freely organise their internal political affairs and foreign economic relations. The planners thought that the US “good neighbour” relations with the Latin American countries might serve as a model for the post-war Soviet influence in Eastern Europe (Hearden 2002, 286-295). In the following sections, I will show what kind of regimes and political forces the State Department planners actually preferred in these three countries. I will also show how they thought to combine the interests of the two emerging superpowers – the US official, Atlantic Charter-inspired wartime objectives to promote political democracy and free world trade all over the world, vis-à-vis the strict Soviet security interests in its western border region.

Romania – reforming the authoritarian political system Political democracy failed to take root in Romania during the interwar period. Governments were typically short-lived and the political power was concentrated in the hands of a small ruling elite. Even deliberate manipulation of the election results to the advantage of the ruling party was not an uncommon feature. Overall, the link connecting the political elites with Romanian civil society was very weak, also indicating the weaknesses of many balancing civil society actors (e.g. trade unions and peasant associations). There was also room for more radical political forces, and the fascist Iron Guard movement rapidly increased its popular support in the 1930s. The failure of the political democracy in the interwar Romania became manifest in 1938 when King Carol II took power after an unclear election result in 1937 and inaugurated his authoritarian regime. The devastating economic consequences of the Great Depression for the Eastern European agricultural countries had accelerated these authoritarian political tendencies in Romania. The fragile popular foundations of the royal dictatorship were exposed in the autumn of 1940, when Carol II was replaced by Ion Antonescu after Romanian territorial losses in Bessarabia, Bukovina and Transylvania (Hitchins 1994, 377-425; Keil 2006, 98-182). Historian Dennis Deletant has described Antonescu’s Romania (19401944) as an authoritarian military dictatorship. However, despite his incontestable leadership, Antonescu also showed tolerance towards many

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important pre-war opposition politicians with pro-Western political sympathies (Deletant 2006, 70-75). From the perspective of the interwar isolationist United States, the importance of Romania was, as such, only limited. The rise of the openly authoritarian political system in 1938 was tolerated, if not supported, by the US diplomatic representative in Bucharest because of the need to maintain internal stability against the growing influence of the extremist Iron Guard movement. On the other hand, the critics of the new constitution of Romania, such as the previously central political figures Iuliu Maniu and Gheorge Bratianu, were ignored as insignificant political actors. The American diplomat Cloyce K. Huston suggested that the cessation of rivalries between political parties after the coup of King Carol II even pleased the Romanian peasant population (De Santis 1980, 65-66). It is important to note that, according to the reasoning of the US diplomats reporting from Bucharest at the end of the 1930s, the internal political stability depended on the success of the modernisation process of Romanian society. So the required steps for modernisation in a backward – at least compared with the United States – agricultural country like Romania were seen as possible without strengthening the democratic political forces inside the country. When analysing the political priorities of these American diplomats before the Second World War, a central element that could be found in their thinking was the entirely negative attitude towards the revolutionary Bolshevik ideology of the Soviet Union. This might also partly explain why they generally tolerated authoritarian regimes in the small Eastern European countries (ibid. 1980, 79-80). If compared with the pre-war diplomats, the State Department’s post-war foreign policy planners adopted more critical viewpoints about the interwar Romanian political and societal conditions. The first memorandums focussing on the internal political, economic and societal conditions in Romania were completed for further committee examinations in February 1943 by assistant chief Philip E. Mosely and John C. Campbell from the Division of Political Studies (NF 560-P-197; NF 600-T-241). In these memorandums, Campbell referred to the Romanian Constitution of 1923, which had in principle established a democratic parliamentary system of government with universal suffrage. However, the Romanian interwar politics were, in practice, “managed by the king or by a clique of powerful politicians”. Campbell also bluntly noted in his analysis that “dishonesty, corruption and occasionally

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violence, were employed to obtain the desired electoral results”. The National Peasant Party and its leader, Iuliu Maniu, was presented as the “strongest democratic force” in Romanian politics, striving to defend the principles of constitutionalism and good governance in the midst of the turbulent economic crisis of the early 1930s and the fierce opposition from other political forces during the two short periods when the Romanian government was formed by the National Peasants (NF 600-T-241). Distinguished geographer and the chairman of the territorial subcommittee of the Advisory Committee on Post-war Foreign Policy, Isaiah Bowman, also commented during a political subcommittee meeting in February 1943 that “neither the Western democratic process nor the Kingship was able to establish itself firmly and to turn from politics to the development of the country” (NF 551-44). Another central topic of interest to the State Department specialists in the interwar Romanian society was the position of ethnic minorities. When the peace treaties concluded after the First World War succeeded in securing important new territories for Romania, the number of ethnic minorities living in the country rose considerably. The assistant chief of the Division of Political Studies, Philip E. Mosely, worded the issue of the treatment of national minorities from newly annexed areas rather unambiguously, stating in his memorandum in February 1943 that “Romania followed a distinct policy of national inequality and, in part, of assimilation”. Mosely explained the attitudes of the Romanian officials by saying that this policy was considered a legitimate reaction to the unjust treatment of the Romanian minority by earlier rulers. The rise of the Iron Guard movement was interpreted in this minority policy context as constituting a striking example of an even more nationalistic worldview of the younger Romanian generation (NF 560-P-197). All in all, the general mood in the planning committee discussions was that “the Rumanian government had not demonstrated its capacity to integrate and administer the territories given Rumania in 1919”, as Bowman crystallised the sentiments in the territorial subcommittee in August 1942 (NF 592-17). The plans concerning the actual post-war political and military role of the United States in Romania became more relevant at the beginning of 1944 when the Red Army was advancing towards Romanian borders and the Inter-Allied European Advisory Commission (EAC), founded at the Moscow Conference in the autumn of 1943, started its work in London. The negotiations dealing with the armistice terms of the small Eastern European countries (Romania, Hungary and Bulgaria), which took place

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between representatives of the United States, Great Britain and the Soviet Union, proceeded extremely slowly in the EAC. Despite this lack of progress at the upper level the State Department planners drafted proposals for the Romanian armistice terms for the US representative ambassador John Winant in the interdepartmental Working Security Committee established in December 1943 (Notter 1949, 228-229). It soon became evident that the Soviets preferred the reverse “Italian model” in Romania. Italy had defected from the Axis in the autumn of 1943 and the Italian armistice negotiations with Marshall Pietro Badoglio were mainly conducted by the representatives of the Western allies. After the Italian armistice treaty was finally signed, the Soviet role in the Allied military administration was marginal in comparison with that of the United States and Great Britain (Miller 1986, 71-76, 88-89). In the end, this reverse Italian model with the central Soviet military role in Romania during the transitional period was recognised by the State Department specialists (NF 1520-H-172/ Preliminary). From the purely military point of view, the participation of American troops in the Romanian post-war military administration seemed unrealistic at the beginning of 1944, even though some State Department planners wanted to speculate with this alternative (NF 1520-H-141). The US post-war role in Romania would be secured by American representation in a Soviet-led tripartite military control commission, or by a possible separate “United Nations Political Advisory Commission” (NF 1411-PWC-139). It should be noted that the US Chiefs of Staff had a critical attitude even towards the active US participation in the Romanian control commission in this theatre of war (Stoler 2000, 220). One of the pressing matters confronting the State Department planners in the spring of 1944 concerned the question from which of the competing regimes the Romanian surrender should be accepted. In the end, the Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries, composed of the key State Department specialists in this area, was willing to put the onus for the Romanian defeat on the shoulders of the Antonescu regime, but if the surrender were accepted from the representatives of the then government, the question of giving them any prestige as representing the Romanian people or the United Nations cause should be avoided. Nevertheless, the Committee maintained that the most realistic scenario might be that Romania would become a battlefield between Germany and the Soviet Union, making it difficult for any Romanian group to actually

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deliver the control of the country to the Allied countries (NF 1411-PWC139). Illustrative of the post-war regime, the State Department planners actually opted for one important general distinction to be made in Romania: the transition to a more representative political system should be prepared with those political elements forming the provisional government that had distanced themselves from the earlier, openly totalitarian Romanian regimes (NF 1411-PWC-139). This did not mean, however, that the United States had any interest in altering the existing social structure of Romania. In actual fact, a Romanian social structure based centrally on independent peasants was probably the best possible alternative that the State Department planners could hope for in this region. The State Department planners strongly believed in the principle of a free marketbased “Open Door” world economy (Layne 2006, 39-50; Patrick 2009, 125-127; Hearden 2002, 39-64). The existing social structure of Romania formed a promising starting point for developing the country towards a more viable economic entity, which would also become a functional part of a new post-war world economy. Hence, the State Department specialists seemed relieved after the Soviet government declared in April 1944 that it would not pursue the aim of altering the existing social structure in the country (NF 1411-PWC-139; NF 1520-H-172/ Preliminary). When the post-war planning started at the beginning of 1942, the State Department planners categorised three different phases after the surrender of the enemy country: a short armistice period, a longer transitional period and, finally, permanent peace (Notter 1949, 85-86). The transitional period after a short armistice phase was considered extremely important because the provisional government would have the responsibility for drafting the new constitution; it would also determine, in cooperation with the Allied military government, the exact timing of the first post-war general elections. Considering the possible alternatives and personnel for the Romanian provisional government in April 1944, Balkan area specialist John C. Campbell differentiated between four different groups: 1) the present Antonescu regime; 2) the former political parties; 3) the revolutionary resistance movement; and 4) prominent Romanians in exile (NF 1520-H-172/ Preliminary).

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In Campbell’s analysis, the existing Antonescu regime had lost its popular backing among the Romanian people. On the other hand, Campbell did not want to exclude possible capable minor figures, who had served the Antonescu regime in some capacity, from the provisional government (NF 1520-H-172/ Preliminary). The Interdivisional Committee on the BalkanDanubian Countries, in which Campbell also acted as a member, stated that “[t]here is little doubt that the Rumanians themselves will be anxious to be rid of the Antonescu Government” (NF 1411-PWC-139). The Romanian King Mihai was described as a politically powerless figure, but he had contacts with the political opposition and it was thought that he could still have a positive role to play in the surrender of Romania. The king was even regarded as a possible member of the provisional government but, in the end, it was up to the Romanian people to make the final decision concerning the fate of the Romanian monarchy after the war (NF 1520-H-172/ Preliminary). Campbell had predicted as early as February 1943 that the Romanian army would be defeated and would not be able to play any decisive role after the war (NF 600-T-241). The concept of “revolutionary resistance movement”, used by Campbell in his memorandum in April 1944, referred either to the communists or to a radical agrarian movement of some sort. In this alternative for the transitional period in Romania, it was considered that the Romanian military defeat and inability of the existing political forces to retain the control of the situation might lead to widespread demands for new leadership. The Soviet occupation authorities might also have been in favour of a provisional government consisting mainly, if not entirely, of the so-called “friendly elements”. It was widely accepted in the State Department’s post-war planning that Romania would become a part of some kind of Soviet sphere of influence after the war. However, the United States was consistent against any “exclusive Soviet control” during the transitional period. Campbell had serious doubts about the popular support for any communist or radical leaders in Romania, which might also endanger the democratic transition process in the formation of a permanent government. It was considered that the Soviet authorities might also propose some prominent exiled Romanian communist leaders, for example Anna Pauker as members of the provisional government. In addition, Campbell mentioned some exiled former Romanian ministers and diplomats, especially Grigore Gafencu and Charles A. Davila, who, according to Campbell, might favour closer collaboration between Romania and the Soviet Union in the future (NF 1520-H-172/ Preliminary).

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Analysing the political forces inside and outside of Romania, the State Department planners were willing to support a broad-based “national union” provisional government, where the old political parties with governmental expertise from the interwar period would play a central role. The biggest expectations in this respect were placed on the National Peasant Party and its leader Iuliu Maniu, but it was also deemed that the Liberal Party should be represented in the provisional government. The former leaders of these two parties had tried to distance themselves from the Antonescu regime and, were it not for the fact that the party organisations had been outlawed in 1938, might still have had the organisational capabilities to govern. It should be added that the National Peasants and Liberals were presented in the State Department planners’ analysis as supporting good Romanian post-war relations with the United States and Great Britain. Hence, the participation of these parties in the provisional Romanian government was also compatible with the State Department’s general objectives concerning the open spheres of influence in Eastern Europe. However, despite obvious reasons to prefer established political actors, the pre-war political and economic achievements of these “old” parties were at least questionable and it was considered that the Romanian people might rather support entirely new political forces in the post-war situation. In actual fact, the Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries estimated that all “significant” political groups should be included in the “national union” government and only the Iron Guard and other fascist organisations would definitely be banned from it (NF 1411-PWC-139; NF 1520-H-172/ Preliminary). At the regional level, a democratic Romanian post-war regime unquestionably needed an “atmosphere of confidence” in its foreign relations with neighbouring states, as the Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries summarised the situation. Regional stability, enhanced by fair boundary settlements and adherence to the principle of non-intervention, would also mitigate the threat posed by extremist antidemocratic political forces inside Romania. In its April 1944 memorandumt the Committee proposed large-scale regional projects encouraged by the United States, which would foster integration between states in south-eastern Europe and enable more rapid and rational economic development. The Committee also suggested means to promote American-Romanian post-war economic relations and European reconstruction as a whole. The question of Romanian reparations was closely linked to the prospects for the country’s post-war economic reconstruction. Although the United States did not have any direct interest

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in this question, the Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries made it clear that the agreed general policy line towards Romanian reparations should be followed against unilateral action by any of the Allied countries (NF 1411-PWC-139). In sum, the US State Department planners accepted the leading role of the Soviet Union in post-war Romania during the transitional period immediately following the Romanian surrender. The Soviet post-war security interests were also regarded as legitimate, provided that the situation in Romania after the end of the war was compatible with the principle of “open spheres of influence”. The State Department planners seemed to sincerely believe that internal politics and foreign economic policy could be separated from the Soviet security interests. In effect, the State Department planners thought that a more democratic post-war Romania, if compared with the interwar years, would increase stability in the whole region. At the same time, the communists and other radical elements in Romanian society were seen as possibly endangering the prospects for this kind of desirable development in Romania.

Hungary – removing Horthy’s regime from power After the short period of Bela Kun’s “Hungarian Soviet Republic” in 1919, the Hungarian interwar political system was personified in the regent Miklós Horthy and his authoritarian-conservative regime. As in the case of Romania, the principle of political democracy did not materialise fully in Horthy’s Hungary despite the fact that parliamentary elections were held regularly. The influential gentry had been the central political force in Hungarian politics, and methods like open balloting and the arrest of undesirable candidates for office were used during election campaigns. As elsewhere in Europe, the popular support of far-right groups grew in Hungary in the 1930s when the Arrow-Cross Party became the most important fascist group and obtained good election results, especially in the 1939 general election (Ormos 2007, 105-116, 175-193). Hungary’s interwar foreign policy was based unquestionably on the revision of the Paris Peace Treaty. The Peace Treaty of Trianon reduced the Hungarian territory considerably; as a result, about 30 per cent of the Hungarian ethnic community resided outside its borders at that time. The growing might of Hitler’s Germany seemed to offer Hungary real prospects for territorial revision. During the years 1938-1941 Hungary regained extensive territories from Czechoslovakia, Romania and

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Yugoslavia, thanks to its cooperation with Germany. The racial theories of the Nazis also had some impact on Hungary, enshrined in anti-Semitic laws making the position of the Hungarian Jewish minority more difficult (ibid. 2007, 81-86, 295-297, 342-380). As historian Tibor Frank has pointed out, during the interwar years the United States consistently supported the conservative political system of Miklós Horthy and the stabilisation of the internal political and economic conditions after the harsh Trianon Peace Treaty. John F. Montgomery, the US ambassador to Budapest from 1933 to 1941, was a particularly staunch advocate of Horthy’s policies. Horthy was regarded in American diplomatic circles as a man of “discipline and order” who disliked both Nazism and Communism and opposed the restoration of the Habsburgs in Hungary (Frank 1999, 233-251). In actual fact, the conservative Montgomery gathered his information emphasising the rapid modernisation of Hungary from a small inner circle of like-minded representatives of the Hungarian political elite (Frank 2003, 46-47). Ignác Romsics has pointed out that the interwar American opinion on Hungary was actually divided, Janus-faced even. On the one hand, the disastrous consequences of the “shameful” Trianon Peace Treaty for Hungary were stressed, while on the other hand, Hungary’s difficulties were seen in the light of “the selfish and narrow-minded policies of the still ruling ‘feudal’ aristocracy”. It is interesting to note that Romsics categorised many key specialists from the State Department research staff dealing with Eastern European affairs, such as Philip E. Mosely, Harry N. Howard, Thomas F. Power and Mary E. Bradshaw, as representatives of the latter way of thinking. The leading figures of the State Department’s post-war planning, Under Secretary of State Sumner Welles and H. F. Armstrong, also expressed critical views about the interwar Hungarian society. As a consequence, Romsics analysed the highly biased objectives of the post-war planners in Hungary as follows: “they saw absolutely no chance of the Horthy regime’s surviving the war, and expected that defeat would bring in its wake Hungary’s radical democratisation” (Romsics 1993, 280-282). Perhaps for the above-mentioned reasons, the radical land reform was the most carefully prepared reform for post-war Hungary. The land reform was seen as crushing the predominant economic position and, hence, the political power of the Hungarian aristocratic gentry that “had been a trouble maker in Europe”, as Thomas F. Power from the State

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Department’s research staff commented during a meeting of the Territorial Subcommittee in February 1943 (NF 592-39). H. F. Armstrong spoke frankly about his desire to get rid of “Hungarian feudalism” (NF 592-40). So the question of the post-war Hungarian regime was closely linked to the broader US objective of creating a more stable and prosperous Eastern Europe. Power noticed that the democratic forces in Hungary also needed a comprehensive programme of land reform for strengthening their political support (NF 592-39). Even though the post-war planners were well aware of the positive interwar developments in Hungarian industry (machine, electrical and light industries), the programme for extensive land reform drafted by Thomas F. Power practically dominated the postwar economic planning (see memorandums NF 600-T-236; NF 1520-H87/ Preliminary; NF 600-T-430; NF 600-T-465; and NF 1520-H-87a.). In May 1944, the Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries composed of the key area specialists favoured “thorough-going” land reform, which was to be effected by dividing the large estates (over 58 hectares) in a well-prepared and gradual manner. This planned resettlement would require a considerable period of time (about ten years), but in the end the State Department planners thought it would be a lasting solution also from the economic point of view. It was suggested that the new peasant owners might be assisted with capital and with educational and managerial advice. From the perspective of post-war Hungarian politics, the Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries stated that the land reform “would eliminate the control of a reactionary minority” which had “threatened the peaceful development of the Danubian region through its cooperation with an aggressive Germany”. Along with this comprehensive land reform, the Interdivisional Committee suggested that electoral reform would provide a setting conducive to a more democratic post-war Hungary (NF 1411-PWC-151; see also, NF 1520-H-87a). The threat of Hungarian revisionism had been one of the main underlying factors in interwar plans to develop Eastern European regional cooperation. In comparison with the pre-war regional cooperation, based centrally on the confrontation between countries in the area, the State Department’s extensive planning for post-war Eastern European regional cooperation in the years 1942-1943 was focussed on aims to strengthen peace and stability by fostering political and economic integration between countries in the region. In the most ambitious, and at the same time highly theoretical plans, an Eastern European Union, stretching from the

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Mediterranean to the Baltic Sea, with common administrative organs for political and economic questions, was to be formed to improve economic and social conditions in the area as a whole (NF 560-P-24; see also, Romsics 1993, 263-267). The huge New Deal-inspired electric power development projects also exerted some influence when the State Department planners were developing their ideas for post-war Eastern European regional cooperation (NF 810-E-22). The post-war planning targeted at closer Eastern European regional cooperation became much more moderate after the Soviet Union had expressed its strong opposition to these plans in the autumn of 1943. It was then widely accepted that the Soviet Union would have legitimate security interests in Eastern Europe (Romsics 1993, 266-267). The Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries was still hoping in May 1944 that, despite the strong opposition of the Soviet Union, it might still approve some kind of regional cooperation between Hungary and its neighbours, which would reduce political and economic friction in the area without constituting a threat to any outside power. As in Romania, the Hungarian economy, which had depended heavily on German markets, would be integrated into the larger post-war world economy on a non-discriminatory basis (NF 1411-PWC-151). Alongside these plans for peaceful regional cooperation, some slight territorial revision in Transylvania, based on ethnic lines that favoured Hungary, when compared with the Trianon Peace Treaty, was also considered possible to restrain post-war Hungarian revisionism (NF 1453-2; NF 1490WS-222). The process for drafting the Hungarian surrender terms was reminiscent of the way in which State Department planners had handled this question in Romania. Hungary was to surrender unconditionally and it was suggested that it might be politically desirable to accept surrender from the groups responsible for Hungarian wartime cooperation with Germany. The precedent of Italy defined the basic foundations of the possible organisational structure for Allied cooperation in Hungary. In comparison with Romania, and because of Hungary’s geographical position, it was still undecided in the spring of 1944 whether the Soviet or the Anglo-American commander would bear the main responsibility for organising the military government after the Hungarian surrender to the Allies (NF 1411-PWC151).

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The course of the military operations prior to Germany’s final surrender would play a crucial role in this respect. Mary E. Bradshaw from the Division of Political Studies even speculated in May 1944 about the possibility of Hungarian occupation by Anglo-American forces, without the participation of Soviet troops. Two other alternatives for the Allied occupation in Hungary considered by Bradshaw were a Soviet-led occupation and a joint occupation by all three Allies (NF 1520-H-174/ Preliminary a). The Hungarian situation changed dramatically in March 1944 when Hungary was occupied by Germany, leading to the replacement of Miklós Kállay’s government – which had tried to maintain Hungary’s independent position and put out Hungarian peace feelers – with a new pro-German government (Ormos 2007, 394-411). Although Horthy retained his position as Regent, the new government of former Hungarian Ambassador to Germany, Döme Sztójay, was labelled by the Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries as a “puppet government”. On the other hand, the US government urged the Hungarian people to take a firm stand against the German forces to demonstrate Hungary’s “right to independence”. This firm resistance and possible establishment of a more democratic government, also acceptable to the Allied countries, would be taken into consideration when the final decisions were made concerning the occupation and military government. In this respect, the Interdivisional Committee even questioned the necessity for the Allied military government and, against the principle of unconditional surrender, it was considered that Hungary might even receive the status of co-belligerent (NF 1411-PWC-151). Generally speaking, the US acceptance of any provisional Hungarian government was seen as being dependent on the government’s ability to preserve order in Hungary and to stabilise conditions in the BalkanDanubian area. The provisional government was also expected to be willing to cooperate with the Allied countries, especially with its principal wartime enemy, the Soviet Union. The establishment of a permanent regime based on the consent of the Hungarian people after the transition period also needed to be carefully prepared by the provisional government, with a real desire to correct the flaws of the existing Hungarian political system. From the US perspective, the political situation in Hungary looked even more demanding than that in Romania, where the leaders of the old political parties, with governmental experience from the interwar period, had formed some kind of tolerated opposition to the Antonescu regime. In

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Hungary, the governing Party of Hungarian Life had been in power since 1920 and had an overwhelming parliamentary majority, with 80 per cent of the seats in the 1939 elections. The strong position of the governing party meant that the struggle for political influence in the general context of Horthy’s regime was happening between different blocks within the party, from which Mary E. Bradshaw identified two groups in February 1944, the “pro-German agrarians” and the “anti-German industrialists”. However, Bradshaw described the majority of the deputies of the governing party as “collaborationists”, while support for the Allied cause was limited to a handful of deputies, and even those were anti-Soviet in attitude. In her memorandum dealing with the provisional Hungarian government, which was written less than a month before the German occupation of Hungary, Bradshaw also stated that the industrial group was unwilling to break with the pro-German agrarian group (NF 1520-H-135). The Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries ruled out the possibility of organising the provisional Hungarian government on the basis of the anti-German industrialists group that was, after all, identified with the policies of the existing regime. As Bradshaw remarked, despite some pragmatic points of view, such as governmental experience, at least the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia would be extremely distrustful towards the possibility of the continuation in power of deputies from the Party of Hungarian Life (NF 1520-H-135). It was also made clear by the Interdivisional Committee in January 1944 that the permanent government of Hungary should not be based on any authoritarian regime, referring both to Horthy’s regime and to the restoration of the Habsburgs to the Hungarian throne, which “would prove a disturbing influence” in Central and South-Eastern Europe (NF 1520-H104). The State Department planners preferred a solution whereby a “People’s Front” coalition government should be formed by the existing Hungarian opposition parties, from which Smallholders, Social Democrats and Liberals would be appointed. Nevertheless, the parliamentary support for these three parties rested on a very narrow parliamentary base in the Chamber of Deputies. Even so, Bradshaw presented a highly positive estimation about their actual support among the Hungarian people. The idea of a People’s Front government was not only a construction by the State Department’s planning desk. There had been indications that the three Hungarian opposition parties were, in reality, trying to join forces to form a coalition, and that the Smallholders and the Social Democrats had

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already concluded a formal working agreement. Further, the Interdivisional Committee stated that “there appears to be a good possibility that such a government may emerge from the probable confusion after the time of surrender”. Bradshaw predicted that Károly Peyer (Social Democrat) and well-known historian Gyula Szekfü from the Liberal political circles might be the prominent leaders of a People’s Front. In the State Department planners’ minds, the People’s Front provisional government was definitely associated with representing the “democratic forces” in Hungary, but it was deemed that there would be challenges ahead because the possibly over-ambitious programme of the coalition and its diverse political nature might cause problems in a period of crisis (NF 1520-H-135). When considering the permanent government in Hungary, to be formed after the transitional period, the Interdivisional Committee favoured the development of a “democratic parliamentary form of government” (NF 1520-H-104). Historian Eduard Mark has pointed out that the State Department planners actually interpreted the general post-war mood in the Eastern European countries as favouring moderately reformist left-wing political forces and that “free elections would establish regimes sufficiently representative”, making it possible to combine the interests of both the Soviet Union and the Western powers in these countries (Mark 1981, 321). The basic conceptual distinction between constitutional and revolutionary societal change, which the State Department planners had made in Romania, was also evident in the plans for post-war Hungary, when the Interdivisional Committee deemed that “the establishment of a Soviet regime would be opposed by the great majority of the Hungarian people”, and opposed the provisional Soviet government for reasons of the regime’s inconsistency with the interests of the great majority of the Hungarian people (NF 1520-H-104; NF 1520-H-135). However, Bradshaw emphasised that a Soviet regime might still be effected in Hungary if Hungarian territory were under Soviet occupation. As the Hungarian communist party had been outlawed, it was difficult for the post-war planners to present reliable information concerning popular support for the communists. Although there had been some indications of clandestine communist activity, Bradshaw stressed the importance of experiences gained from the chaotic Bela Kun period and the traditional fear of Bolshevism to illustrate the limitations of the growth of a radical

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left-wing movement in Hungary. The communists would definitely need support from the invading Red Army to tighten their grip on post-war Hungary. On the other hand, the agricultural population hoping for profound land reform to strengthen their position as independent peasants after the war would fiercely oppose a Soviet-style collectivisation of the Hungarian agriculture. The good wartime relations between the Soviet government and the Czechoslovakian government in exile had also aroused suspicion in Budapest. From the perspective of the United States, a Hungarian Soviet regime would mean that Hungary would be firmly incorporated into the Soviet sphere of influence (NF 1520-H-104; NF 1520-H-135). The Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries dismissed the options of “a clerical provisional regime” or “a purely peasant government” presented by Bradshaw as alternative solutions for the provisional government in Hungary. If there were no political groups capable of governing Hungary during the transitional period, the Committee was ready to consider “a non-political regime” which should be “composed of persons widely respected in Hungary” (NF 1520-H-135). As noted above, the State Department planners had clearly linked the idea of Western parliamentary democracy and the required reforms, most importantly land reform,h with the objectives of the Hungarian opposition parties. On the basis of the results of the interwar general elections, estimating a widespread popular backing for the policies of the opposition parties after the Hungarian surrender was, perhaps, too optimistic an analysis. The unwillingness of the State Department specialists to accept the participation of any faction from the governing party in the provisional government underlined their dislike of the existing Hungarian regime, which they felt should be rooted out once and for all. The Soviet security interests in the area were also differentiated from the question of the Hungarian post-war political system and social structure. The post-war planners pointed out that the Hungarian political system should be reformed to resemble the Western model of parliamentary democracy, and after a sweeping land reform the Hungarian social structure should be based on independent peasants. This kind of idealistic reformism rhetoric from the younger generation research staff members also differed considerably from the reporting of interwar American diplomats, especially John F. Montgomery, in whose view Horthy’s authoritarianism was seen as the best way to ensure internal political stability and modest economic reforms in Hungary.

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Finland – a Nordic democracy The disintegration of the Russian empire following the March and October revolutions in 1917 gave rise to the declaration of Finnish independence in December 1917. After the bloody Finnish Civil War between the Whites and the Reds, followed by a short period of pro-German foreign policy orientation in 1918, the republican constitution with a strong presidency was finally approved in 1919. In addition, many significant societal reforms, improving the position of the crofters in particular, whose unfavourable position has been presented as one of the underlying reasons for the Civil War, were quickly carried out in the new Finnish Republic. The Soviet Union was regarded as constituting a threat to the existence of the independence of Finland. The Finnish Communist Party, founded in Moscow by the defeated Reds who had fled to Soviet Russia, was declared illegal, but acted as an underground movement in Finland during the interwar years. In the 1920s, very short-lived centre-right minority governments were a common phenomenon in Finnish politics. The rise of the radical rightwing Lapua movement, insisting on a tighter policy towards communist activity in Finland, posed the greatest challenge to the young Finnish democracy in the early 1930s. The Lapua movement resorted to extraparliamentary measures to achieve its objectives and was eventually banned after the failure of the so-called Mäntsälä revolt, in the spring of 1932. The Finnish political situation normalised markedly after the formation of centre-left A. K. Cajander’s government in 1937, along with the participation of the Agrarians and the Social Democrats. At the same time, parliamentary support for the parties from the extreme Right and radical Left weakened. Compared with Romania and Hungary, where authoritarian political tendencies strengthened during the 1930s, the constitutional democracy actually consolidated in Finland (Paasivirta 1989, 234-257, 378-385, 433-442). In previous research, Finland is often presented as a “special case” in US foreign policy during the Second World War in comparison with the Eastern European allies of Germany. This argument has typically been justified by Finland’s political features, such as democratic traditions, its reputation as the country that repaid its debts to the United States in the early 1930s, and as a valiant fighter against the Soviet Union in the Winter War (Lundestad 1978, 286). During the Winter War period (1939-1940), Finland was widely appreciated by the Western countries. Finland’s

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cooperation with Germany had not yet begun and there was no alliance between the Western countries and the Soviet Union. When analysing the US State Department’s post-war plans concerning the internal political and societal conditions in Finland, Hungary and Romania, it is also possible to conclude that Finland did in fact constitute a “special case” compared with Hungary and Romania. The declaration of Finnish independence in 1917 was by no means frontpage news in the United States. Before the end of the First World War in November 1918, the close cooperation between the victorious Whites and Germany had alienated Finland from the Western powers. The United States finally recognised Finnish independence in May 1919 after the democratic parliamentary elections, which were held in March (Suchoples 2000, 204-212; Paasivirta 1989, 169-175). As in the cases of Romania and Hungary, from the perspective of the United States, the general political and economic importance of Finland seemed strictly limited. Nevertheless, the Finnish decision of continuing the payment of its debts dating back to the First World War, in the midst of the worldwide economic depression in the early 1930s, enhanced its image as a reliable debtor – “Honest Little Finland” – in the United States. The Finnish decision also attracted widespread publicity in the American press. As Michael Berry has noted, the positive debt payment image of Finland even associated the country in American minds with “their ideological preferences for fostering an international community based on the principles of economic and political liberalism”, which had a lasting influence on the US policy towards Finland (Berry 1987, 83-84). Finland gained a lot of sympathy in the United States during the Winter War (1939-1940), symbolising as it did the struggle for Western values against totalitarian Stalin’s Soviet Union, but in spite of this popular support the US policy remained extremely cautious at the official level. American-Finnish relations began to deteriorate gradually after Finland participated, in cooperation with Germany, in Operation Barbarossa against the Soviet Union in June 1941. However, the United States did not declare war on Finland during the Second World War, and diplomatic relations between the countries prevailed until the summer of 1944. The fact that a state of war did not exist between the United States and Finland in the years 1941-1945 had an impact also on the State Department’s planning concerning the post-war internal conditions in

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Finland. In practice, this meant that the United States would not have any official position in the joint Allied administration after the signing of the Finnish armistice treaty. When the Allied foreign ministers negotiated in Moscow in the autumn of 1943, US secretary of state Cordell Hull refused to accept the validity of the principle of unconditional surrender in the case of Finland without the existence of a state of war between the two countries (Berry 1987, 344-348). The question of the Finnish armistice terms was also handled outside the European Advisory Commission’s Inter-Allied structures. For these very practical reasons, the post-war planning phase – dealing with surrender terms, alternatives for the Allied military government and possible political developments after surrender – was more intensive in the Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries than in the Interdivisional Committee on Finland. Only some preliminary thoughts were presented by research staff members, indicating that the State Department planners might have some interest in being involved in the drafting of the Finnish “surrender terms” in cooperation with the Soviet Union and Great Britain (NF 1520-H-139/ Preliminary Draft). As the United States had a legation in Helsinki until June 1944, American diplomats tried to use their influence on the spot for promoting Finnish separation from the war. In particular, the so-called Finnish peace activists, composed of the Social Democrats in opposition and the left-ofcentre Swedish speakers, maintained regular contact with the US legation (Berry 1987, 274-279). When Andreas G. Ronhovde from the Division of Political Studies analysed “Political Forces in Finland” in February 1943, he mentioned the long roots of the principle of constitutionalism in the country and favourably remarked that “the fundamental strength of the constitutional principles has been shown by the continued weakness of anticonstitutional parties in parliamentary elections”. The concept of “anticonstitutional” forces referred in this connection to the Finnish Communist Party from the radical Left, as well as to the Lapua movement and the Isänmaallinen Kansanliike or IKL (Patriotic People’s Movement), which continued the Lapua movement’s activity as a political party, from the FarRight (NF 600-T-245). However, Ronhovde’s analysis of the Lapua movement as representing the “Nazi-Fascist forces” is, as such, one-sided because the Nazi ideology did not have any strong impact within this movement, whose ideological emphasis had been highly nationally

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oriented, reflecting its supporters’ disappointment with Finnish parliamentary politics after the Civil War (Paasivirta 1989, 378-383). In considering the actual political following of the outlawed communists, Ronhovde pointed out that “the attitude of the people during the Winter War and since” had proved its lack of popular support. All in all, the Finnish political system seemed compatible with the political ideals of the State Department’s post-war planners. There would be no need for similar constitutional change and political reforms in post-war Finland as in Romania and Hungary. Nevertheless, certain groups at work in Finnish society, which Ronhovde generally categorised as “a number of wealthier landowners and a few paper magnates”, were possibly willing to support anti-democratic forces and contain societal reforms within the country by using “the fear of Russian aggression as a propaganda weapon” (NF 600T-245). The overall picture of the Finnish political system had not changed in May 1944 when the Interdivisional Committee on Finland approved in its memorandum to the influential Committee on Post-War Programs, presided over by the secretary of state, the current Finnish constitutional form of government. It also optimistically stated that if Finnish independence is secured and if post-war military and economic conditions are in any degree tolerable to the Finnish people, there will be a continuation of Finnish democratic processes.

This policy against any profound regime change in Finland was in a sense emphasised by the absence of comments concerning the political future of the Finnish wartime leaders. In Hungary and in Romania it was made absolutely clear that the Horthy and Antonescu regimes were responsible for their countries’ participation in the war and should be replaced by more representative political forces in the post-war circumstances. Particularly compared with the plans for extensive land reform in Hungary, the Interdivisional Committee on Finland did not propose any substantial societal reforms in the country. However, the Committee was concerned that the Soviet reparation demand (600 million dollars), presented in the failed Finnish-Soviet separate peace talks in the spring of 1944, would have drastic consequences to the whole structure of post-war Finnish foreign trade, directing Finnish exports excessively to the Soviet Union for years to come (NF 1411-PWC-161).

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Even though the existing Finnish political and societal structure was approved by the post-war planners, the international position of Finland would change significantly from the interwar years. When the Interdivisional Committee on Finland was preparing its memorandum, there were no signs that the Soviet Union would be imposing an openly pro-Soviet government in Finland – as it had done during the Winter War, 1939-1940, when there had been a pro-Soviet (shadow) puppet government known as the Terijoki government, with the Finnish communist Otto Wille Kuusinen at its head. Nevertheless, the committee predicted that the post-war Finnish political leaders should accept the increased Soviet influence on their country’s foreign policy decisions. If Finland participated constructively in international politics, retained its economic system and conducted foreign trade on a non-discriminatory basis with all states, the United States would not oppose the close foreign policy cooperation between Finland and the Soviet Union. Most importantly, the building of Finnish-Soviet “mutual confidence” should be promoted. The Interdivisional Committee on Finland suggested that assurances concerning the active participation of the United States in the post-war international community might encourage democratic forces within Finland. However, the possibility that “a minority of reactionary and aggressive political forces” might use the popular fears of the Soviet intentions towards Finland to strengthen their own political influence was not wholly excluded by the post-war planners (NF 1411-PWC-161). Further, Hugh Cumming from the State Department’s Division of Northern European Affairs speculated in his memorandum in May 1944 that if the Soviet Union pursued a moderate policy towards Finland after the armistice, it might be possible “that Finland will become even proSoviet Union without necessarily becoming Communistic” (Memorandum by Hugh Cumming to Cordell Hull; Microfilm Collection USA T 1186:8, 760d.61/5-644; National Archives, Helsinki). The Finnish geopolitical position was seen primarily in the Northern European context as signifying the importance for Finland of connections with other Nordic countries, Norway, Denmark and especially Sweden. It should be noted that the identification of Finland as a “Nordic country” had become widely acknowledged in the 1930s after the Finnish foreign policy strategy was shifted towards closer association with Scandinavia. In the early 1920s, developing ties with other border states, the Baltic states and Poland was seen as a possible foreign policy option for the newlyindependent Finland. In the end, efforts towards a closer alliance between these border states failed to materialise and from the mid-1920s onwards

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the League of Nations offered an arena for a more active Finnish role in foreign policy questions (Paasivirta 1989, 299-311, 456-470). This constructive Finnish participation in international cooperation during the interwar period, such as the country’s three-year term as a member of the League’s Council, was also recognised by the State Department planners, who estimated that a similar cooperative approach in relation to other member states would continue within a new world organisation if the strained relations between Finland and the Soviet Union were normalised (NF 1411-PWC-161). In addition to the plans for intensifying post-war regional cooperation in northern Europe, the status of Finland as a Nordic country also had symbolic significance for the post-war planners. The Great Depression and Roosevelt’s New Deal policy had aroused American interest towards Sweden, where the Social Democrat-led government seemed to be implementing Keynesian economic doctrines successfully (Rodgers 1998, 456-460). Views on the triumphal march of pragmatic social reformism in northern Europe were even reflected in the expectations concerning the post-war political situation in Finland, when Andreas Ronhovde speculated that “the Social Democrats may emerge as the most powerful party, like its counterparts in Sweden and Denmark” (NF 600-T-245). Compared with the extensive political and economic planning required in Eastern Europe, the drafts for post-war regional political and economic cooperation in Northern Europe were only in the preliminary stage. The objective of stabilisation, in the light of so many territorial disputes between different countries and the failure of the pre-war regional organisations, had formed the background to plans for post-war Eastern European regional cooperation, whereas in Northern Europe regional cooperation had developed properly well before the Second World War and there was no actual need to stabilise the region because of the peaceful pre-war relations between the Nordic countries. The Interdivisional Committee on Finland confirmed this as the primary regional grouping of Finland by stating that “[i]n political, social, economic and religious thought and organisation Finland’s closest affinity is with the Scandinavian states”. It was thought that the Soviet Union would in all probability prevent any steps towards closer post-war Nordic cooperation – although in the Committee’s analysis Finnish participation in the “Fenno-Scandinavian Union” would likely restrain anti-Soviet tendencies in Finland (NF 1411-PWC-161). However, there were also some early signs of geopolitical thinking when Ronhovde predicted in his

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memorandum in June 1943 that the Northern Federation “would set up a barrier of some strength to possible Soviet expansion and would probably resist Communist ideological penetration” (NF 1520-H-18).

Conclusions As a consequence of the Second World War, the United States rose to the status of a global superpower. The long-term stability in post-war international relations was seen as forming an important starting point for the foundations of the US-led global political and economic order. The State Department planners understood that the international positions of Finland, Hungary and Romania were attached to the broader question of the Soviet Union’s sphere of influence vis-à-vis its Western border regions. Even though the security interests of the Soviet Union in these regions were approved, the State Department planners were actively seeking compromises in other questions in order to stabilise the whole post-war international system. The continued existence of independent Finland, Romania and Hungary was an absolute minimum objective for the United States, but the State Department planners also put great emphasis on the participation of these countries in the non-discriminatory “open-door” post-war international economy. This chapter supports the earlier findings that Finland was treated as a kind of “special case” in the US foreign policy during the Second World War. However, compared with traditional diplomatic history explanations echoing, for example, the popularity of Finland in the United States as a valiant fighter against the Soviet Union in the Winter War, the State Department’s post-war plans underlining “the Finnish exception” dealt mainly with the more long-term political and societal development in the country. When analysing the US interest in a post-war regime change in Finland, Romania and Hungary, the State Department planners were strongly in favour of drafting new constitutions in Romania and Hungary after the war, while they stressed the long tradition of Finnish constitutionalism, dating back to the period of Swedish rule. In essence, this different treatment of Finland in comparison to Romania and Hungary was linked to the strengthened Nordic democratic process during the 1930s. In Romania and Hungary, profound political and societal reforms were recommended to ensure more stable regional development in Eastern Europe after the Second World War. During the interwar period, the deep political division between Hungary and Romania along with the harsh

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economic consequences of the Great Depression had partly enabled the growing German influence in these countries. The chapter also shows that the State Department planners had their preferences concerning the acceptable political forces that would form a provisional government after a short period following surrender, especially in Hungary and Romania. In general, the State Department planners favoured provisional governments with moderate centre-left political forces instead of wartime political leaders and pro-Soviet communists. The proposed far-reaching agricultural reform in Hungary is perhaps the most illustrative example of these political preferences. The State Department planners were willing to strengthen the position of independent peasants in the Hungarian societal structure, which would also, in their analysis, remove political power from the hands of the interwar political elites. At the same time, they were strongly against the Soviet-style collectivisation of Hungarian agriculture. The post-war plans also reflected the more reformist thinking of the younger generation research staff members, compared with the interwar American diplomats in Budapest and Bucharest, who were willing to accept authoritarian regimes in Hungary and Romania as a precondition for internal stability and economic modernisation. The State Department’s post-war planning conducted in the years 19421945 was primarily based on the optimistic scenario that effective cooperation between the two emerging superpowers, the United States and the Soviet Union, would be possible in the post-war world. However, the preferred option of Western-styled political democracy did not materialise in post-war Hungary and Romania, as these countries actually became “people’s democracies” led by pro-Soviet politicians. As a result, Hungary and Romania were included against US interests in the “closed sphere of influence” of the Soviet Union. On the other hand, Finland, which had managed to avoid direct Soviet occupation, retained her pre-war democratic political system and economic relations with the West within the security zone of the Soviet Union. From the perspective of the State Department’s post-war planning this would have represented the ideal solution, but in the evolving Cold War context during the late 1940s the international position of Finland seemed rather ambiguous in Washington.

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References Primary sources Post World War II Foreign Policy Planning: State Department Records of Harley A. Notter, 1939-1945, Microfilm Collection 182 (Notter file, NF), Library of the Finnish Parliament (originals: RG 59: Harley A. Notter Files, National Archives of the United States, Maryland) Documents NF 560-P-24; Harley A. Notter, Virginia Hartley, Benjamin O. Gerig and Durward V. Sandifer “An East European Union” (as considered to 10 October, 1942) NF 560-P-196; Philip E. Mosely “Hungary” (4 February, 1943) NF 560-P-197; Philip E. Mosely “Rumania” (4 February, 1943) NF 600-T-236; Thomas F. Power “Land Distribution in Hungary” (8 February, 1943) NF 600-T-241; John C. Campbell “Rumania: Political Structure and Forces” (18 February, 1943) NF 600-T-245; Andreas Ronhovde “Political Forces in Finland” (18 February, 1943) NF 600-T-430; Thomas F. Power “Hungarian Land Reform since 1918” (29 December, 1943) NF 600-T-465; Thomas F. Power “A Suggested Basis for Land Reform in Hungary” (11 March, 1944) NF 810-E-22; “Economic Aspects of a Possible Unification of East European Countries/ IV. Electric Power Development” (14 August, 1942) NF 1411-PWC-139; The Interdivisional Committee on the BalkanDanubian Countries “Treatment of Enemy States: Romania” (15 April, 1944) NF 1411-PWC-151; The Interdivisional Committee on the BalkanDanubian Countries “Treatment of Enemy States: Hungary” (1 May, 1944) NF 1411-PWC-161; The Interdivisional Committee on Finland “Treatment of Finland” (10 May, 1944) NF 1453-2; The Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries “Summary of Recommendations: Treatment of Enemy States: Hungary” (26 July, 1944)

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NF 1490-WS-222; The Interdivisional Committee on the BalkanDanubian Countries “Proposed Terms of Surrender for Hungary” (26 July, 1944) NF 1520-H-18; Andreas Ronhovde “Finland: Soviet Union: Scandinavian Union: Foreign Relations: International Status of Finland” (15 June, 1943) NF 1520-H-87 (Preliminary); Thomas F. Power “Hungary: Political Problems: Land Reform (9 November, 1943) NF 1520-H-87a; Thomas F. Power (reviewed by Philip E. Mosely and Harry N. Howard) “Hungary: Political Problems: Land Reform” (2 May, 1944) NF 1520-H-104; Mary E. Bradshaw “Hungary: Political Reconstruction: Nature of a Permanent Government” (25 February, 1944); views of the Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries, see supplements to the document. NF 1520-H-135; Mary E. Bradshaw “Hungary: Transition to Permanent Government: Establishment of a Provisional Government” (26 February, 1944); views of the Interdivisional Committee on the Balkan-Danubian Countries, see supplements to the document. NF 1520-H-139 (Preliminary Draft); Andreas Ronhovde “Degree of United States Participation in Determination of Terms of Finnish Surrender” (12 February, 1944) NF 1520-H-141; John C. Campbell and Philip E. Mosely “Romania: Problems of Occupation: Character of Military Government” (24 February, 1944) NF 1520-H-172 (Preliminary); John C. Campbell “Rumania: Political Problems: Establishment of a Provisional Government” (28 April, 1944) NF 1520-H-174 (Preliminary a); Mary E. Bradshaw “Hungary: Problems of Occupation: Character of Occupation Forces and Military Government” (23 May, 1944) Minutes of Meetings The Subcommittee on Political Problems, NF 551-44, 6 February, 1943 The Subcommittee on Territorial Problems, NF 592-17, 21 August, 1942 NF 592-39, 12 February, 1943 NF 592-40, 19 February, 1943 National Archives, Helsinki

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Memorandum by Hugh Cumming to Cordell Hull (6 May, 1944), Microfilm Collection USA T 1186:8 (760d.61/5-644)

Secondary sources Books and articles Berry, R. Michael. 1987. American Foreign Policy and the Finnish Exception: Ideological Preferences and Wartime Realities, Jyväskylä: Finnish Historical Society. Deletant, Dennis. 2006. Hitler’s Forgotten Ally: Ion Antonescu and His Regime, Romania 1940-44, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. De Santis, Hugh. 1980. The Diplomacy of Silence: The American Foreign Service, the Soviet Union, and the Cold War, 1933-1947, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Frank, Tibor. 2003. Discussing Hitler: Advisers of U. S. Diplomacy in Central Europe 1934-1941, Budapest and New York: Central European University Press. —. 1999. Ethnicity, Propaganda, Myth-Making: Studies on Hungarian Connections to Britain and America 1848-1945, Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó. Hearden, Patrick J. 2002. Architects of Globalism: Building a New World Order during World War II, Fayetteville: The University of Arkansas Press. Hitchins, Keith. 1994. Rumania 1866-1947, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Keil, Thomas J. 2006. Romania’s Tortured Road toward Modernity, Boulder, East European Monographs, New York: Distributed by Columbia University Press. Layne, Christopher. 2006. The Peace of Illusions: American Grand Strategy from 1940 to the Present, Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Lundestad, Geir. 1978. The American Non-Policy Towards Eastern Europe 1943-1947, Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Mark, Eduard. 1981. American Policy toward Eastern Europe and the Origins of the Cold War, 1941-1946: An Alternative Interpretation. The Journal of American History, Vol. 68 No. 2 (September 1981), 313-336. Miller, James Edward. 1986. The United States and Italy 1940-1950: The Politics and Diplomacy of Stabilization, Chapel Hill and London: The University of North Carolina Press. Notter, Harley A. 1949. Post-war Foreign Policy Preparation, 1939-1945, Washington D. C.: Department of State.

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Ormos, Mária. 2007. Hungary in the Age of the Two World Wars 19141945. Translated by Brian McLean. Boulder, Social Science Monographs, Highland Lakes, New Jersey: Atlantic Research and Publications. Paasivirta, Juhani. 1989. Finland and Europe: The Early Years of Independence, 1917-1939. Edited and translated by Peter Herring. Jyväskylä: Finnish Historical Society. Parmar, Inderjeet. 2004. Think Tanks and Power in Foreign Policy: A Comparative Study of the Role and Influence of the Council on Foreign Relations and the Royal Institute of International Affairs, 1939-1945. Chippenham and Eastborne: Palgrave Macmillan. Patrick, Stewart. 2009. The Best Laid Plans: The Origins of American Multilateralism and the Dawn of the Cold War, Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. Rodgers, Daniel T. 1998. Atlantic Crossings: Social Politics in a Progressive Age, Cambridge, Mass: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Romsics, Ignác. 1993. American War Time Policy Planning on Hungary 1942-1946. Hungarian Studies 8/2 (1993), Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 261-298. Rubin, Barry. 1985. Secrets of State: The State Department and the struggle over U.S. Foreign Policy”, New York: Oxford University Press. Stoler, Mark A. 2000. Allies and Adversaries: The Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Grand Alliance, and U. S. Strategy in World War II, Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press. Suchoples, Jaroslaw. 2000. Finland and the United States 1917-1919. Early Years of Mutual Relations, Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura.

CHAPTER EIGHT BALANCING BETWEEN NEUTRAL COUNTRY PROMOTION AND COLD WAR PROPAGANDA: BRITISH AND AMERICAN INFORMATIONAL AND CULTURAL OPERATIONS IN FINLAND, 1944-1953 MAREK FIELDS

After the Second World War, the United States and Britain, the two leading Western Powers, were left with few options if they wished to have any influence on Finland, which after its surrender to the Soviet Union and an earlier agreement made by the Big Three belonged to Moscow’s sphere of interests. Although Finland would remain outside the two emerging Cold War blocs, the Soviet Union’s position in Helsinki was so strong throughout this era that it greatly determined the policies the Western governments saw sensible to adopt towards the northern country. When the British and Americans were able to introduce policies that had a more profound impact on Finland, they often had to come up with operational methods that were both more innovative and flexible than those launched in other small neutral European countries, mainly Sweden and Austria. This chapter examines British and American informational and cultural operations in Finland in the late 1940s and early 1950s and, in particular, discusses the development of policies determining them. It argues that after following a cautious approach towards Finland initially, in the early 1950s both British and American governments introduced bolder policies that saw them launch broader informational and cultural activities in the country. As the British and American campaigns in the early Cold War period turned out to be in general successful, they played an integral part in encouraging Finnish people to enhance their ties to the West and continued to do so for decades to come.

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Introduction In the very first post-war years, the future of Finland was something of an enigma to the US and Britain both in terms of overall policy and informational operations. The British Government, in particular, recognised that the country lay mainly in the Soviet sphere of influence and let the Russians play first fiddle in the Allied Control Commission that was set up in Helsinki. As promoting close Anglo-Soviet ties remained as a top priority on the Foreign Office’s (FO) agenda, the British were even willing to make several concessions to the Russians on, for instance, territorial rights in eastern Finland and the degree of reparations they were to receive from Finland (Evans 2011, 12-14, 273-290). The lenient policy concerning Finland would not, however, last for very long. It soon became increasingly clear that the British wished to secure their commercial interests in the country from which it imported, in particular, pulp and timber. As the Anglo-Soviet relationship began to deteriorate in 1946, Britain’s policy of containing the Soviet Union also started to affect its dealing with Finland. Since the British Government wished to secure strategic stability in Scandinavia, a policy according to which Soviet dominance in Finland should be resisted in all respects other than the military plane was gradually adopted (Aunesluoma 2003, 6). The US Government chose a somewhat more positive policy towards postwar Finland and started channelling humanitarian aid into the country and providing it with much-needed credit (Heikkilä 1982, 207-225). As American foreign policy started to evolve into the containment of communism around the world, Finland’s geographical position increased Washington’s interest in the country. As a result, American officials observed with growing concern the Soviet Union’s constant interference with Finnish domestic politics and the growing popularity of communism in Finland. According to their view, it was not desirable to see Finland slip into communist hands and become subjected to even stronger Soviet influence in the same way as happened to several Eastern European countries. While making this assessment, they also recognised that preventing such an outcome would never be easy, particularly as according to their estimations the Soviet Union’s pressure on Finland would only grow in the future. The adopted policies discussed above suggest that even if Finland’s future as an independent and democratic country remained doubtful during the

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first post-war years in particular, the British and the Americans were not entirely willing to grant the Soviets supremacy in the country. Indeed, both London and Washington were eager to find ways to support Finland’s independence even during times of high uncertainty. Since political and military assistance remained out of the question, methods of influence were mostly limited to economic cooperation and informational and cultural operations.1 Although Soviet leverage in Finland set considerable restrictions in the latter field, the role of political propaganda and cultural diplomacy in providing moral support to the Finns grew steadily after the first Cold War years. When examining the two Western governments’ informational and cultural campaigns in the northern country, one cannot exaggerate the exceptional circumstances in which these operations were forced to be implemented. First of all, in the first post-war years the policy adopted by both the British and US governments – i.e. refraining from doing anything in Finland that would damage their relationship with the Soviet Union – was closely reflected also in the way Western officials in Helsinki allowed the Russians to strongly interfere with the Finnish cultural and informational fields almost without complaint. Indeed, if one wishes to discuss Western operations in Finland and the nature of their execution, Moscow’s substantial influence in Finnish media content cannot be ignored. The operational environment was particularly challenging in 1944-1947 when official censorship prevailed and the Finnish Government instituted a consistent control of the press to protect the nation’s new course in foreign policy. Soviet sensitivity over anything that could be regarded as unfavourable was well reflected in the Control Commission’s order for Finnish libraries and bookshops to dispose of books that did not meet its approval (for details, see Ekholm 2000). The Finnish state censorship machinery that continued to carry out its wartime duties was at its most active in 1945 when it gave as many as 130 instructions to Finnish newspapers and magazines regarding topical issues and requested the removal of 153 articles in total (on the Finnish press and censorship in 1944-1947, see Salminen 1979, 58-64). The most typical requests concerned reports on developments in the Soviet Union or Finnish-Soviet affairs. Even though formal censorship was finally lifted in 1947, the position of the Finnish press changed only to a certain extent. J.K. Paasikivi had already as Prime Minister in 1946 famously warned editors about the possible consequences of their writings and urged them to “help to shape the way towards a new kind of relationship with the

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eastern neighbour by writing about it correctly and in a better and more versatile way” (Polvinen, Heikkilä and Immonen 1999, 238). As President, he continued for some while to influence the press through telephone calls, letters and personal meetings as well as speeches on the newspapers and their contents. The regular comments and personal instructions Paasikivi and his Prime Ministers Mauno Pekkala and Urho Kekkonen gave newspaper editors played an important part in persuading the Helsinki papers to adopt an extremely sensitive course in their writings about the Soviet Union. The special amendment made to the Finnish legislation in 1948 only increased this caution as it made it possible to pass a prison sentence to a journalist for articles slandering foreign nations. Although the law was never applied, together with the leading politicians’ efforts to guide the press it laid the foundation for the dealings of the Finnish newspapers with Soviet matters during the Cold War. The Finnish press, even the more outspoken right-wing and social democratic papers, remained in general reluctant to write about the eastern neighbour. Sensitive matters, such as conflicts or various disasters, as well as developments in international politics involving the Soviet Union, were often only reported through quoting international news agencies (e.g. Vihavainen 1991, 39). According to Salminen, the exaggerated caution with which the Soviets were treated resulted in a whole practice of silence, indirect expressions and readings between the lines (Salminen 1999, 17). The rules and measures of Finnish self-censorship2 were already being defined in the first post-war years and closely guarded by the continuous monitoring of the media on behalf of the state censorship organs and the Finnish Foreign Ministry. All this did not mean that Finnish newspapers would not have practised any criticism towards events involving the Soviet Union. As the final boundaries for the Cold War were drawn in the late 1940s, the Finnish press was also divided into two camps that would relentlessly criticise each other. By attacking domestic communists, the large right-wing, liberal and social democratic publications were able to indirectly undermine Soviet actions as well. Although focussing mostly on domestic issues, the leading communist papers in turn formed a significant part of the Soviet Union’s propaganda machinery in Finland by regularly quoting Soviet newspapers on topical issues.

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Relaunch of British post-war operations: cautious yet steady start Relaunching informational and cultural operations in Finland after the war was much more important for Britain than the US. After all, the British had officially declared war on Finland in December 1941 and run a fairly consistent propaganda campaign to undermine the Finnish Government’s war-time policies through the BBC’s Finnish Service. After the operations’ launch had been held back for several months due to various organisational obstacles and technical difficulties, in December 1944 the FO finally managed to start sending British newspapers and periodicals for commercial use in Finland and distributing the usual Ministry of Information supplies of books, films, pamphlets and photographs. This development, or even the appointment of a temporary British information officer to Helsinki in January 1945 did not, however, make the British presence in the country any more conspicuous. After all, the British recognised the necessity of enormous caution in Finland, a country engaged in a bitter war and feeling somewhat alienated by the West. Since Finns were perceived as “sick of propaganda of the Nazi type” and the war in general, the FO saw that publicity should at first be based more on genuine information about subjects relating to the future, such as British democracy, social institutions, labour management and scientific progress.3 This position remained the same for quite some time although the restoration of diplomatic relations between the two countries, as well as reports noting how the general attitude of Finns towards Britain was becoming friendlier, increased British officials’ confidence to execute at least slightly more extensive activities. As the printed publicity campaign in Helsinki followed a predominantly cautious path during the first post-war years, the operations run through the British Council (BC) and the BBC Finnish Service broadcasts played a greater role in promoting the British cause in the northern country. Although the British Council office in Helsinki had an encouraging start, and Finland was ranked as a priority one country in the spring of 1945, its core activities were constantly aggravated by the lack of appropriate funds and skilful staff.4 The growing pressure on Whitehall to make cuts in overseas information operations restricted the material investments in the BC’s activities in Europe even before they had been properly launched.

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Even if limited resources hampered British cultural diplomacy in Finland in the first post-war years, conditions for British Council activities could have been much worse. The great demand of the Finns for any British, or indeed Western, cultural product was, in fact, so overwhelming after the war that the launch of books and films, through the BC and the various exhibitions it organised, was almost without exception hugely popular. The most significant development for BC work in Finland was the Finnish Government’s decision to raise the status of English by making it the first foreign language taught in schools alongside German. Even though the few officials in Helsinki were struggling with adequate resources even in language teaching, with the help of the local Finnish-British societies, as well as extra cash, the Council was soon able to play a particularly integral part in training Finnish teachers to teach English.5 Although international broadcasting offered a more direct opportunity to distribute political propaganda, in terms of transmission content the BBC Finnish Service also introduced a somewhat neutral policy in the first postwar years. Still regarded by British officials in Helsinki as the main source of information about Britain for the Finnish masses, the channel’s most important objective was to modify its broadcasts to peace time form as quickly as possible. This had a drastic effect on the popularity of the service, which fell sharply. What gradually started winning the broadcaster more listeners was, above all, the introduction of the English teaching programme, “English by Radio” and the Saturday night dance music special. The reason for this was that the Finnish domestic radio had nothing similar to offer.6 In terms of political broadcasts to post-war Finland, the BBC staff made rather the same observations as the British Legation in Helsinki previously: the Finns were sick of the war and certainly in no mood for serious propaganda. In a report written after her visit to Finland in early 1947, Liisa Morell, Programme Organiser at the Finnish section, suggested that the service should include even more light entertainment and keep political discussions as simple as possible. While saying this, she also stressed that there still was a clear demand for a service such as the BBC to give vigorous and intelligent political commentaries that would “put world events in right perspective”, particularly after a large number of Finns had developed a somewhat antagonistic approach to the national broadcasting corporation Yleisradio (YLE), which they saw serving the interests of the far left.7

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The conditions in Finland presented above kept the British actors’ opportunities to introduce activities critical of the Soviet Union or communism mostly limited. This was evident, for instance, in May 1946 when the British overseas information policy took its first turn towards a more active strategy in relation to the Soviet Union. The paper introduced in London, “The Soviet Campaign Against This Country”, encouraged British officials overseas to react against growing Soviet propaganda by increasing the distribution of the London Press Service news bulletins, feature articles, newsreels and documentaries as well as making new contacts with foreign political and trade union leaders, lecturers and journalists.8 According to Francis Shepherd, first Political Representative and then Minister to Finland, in the case of Finland it would be unwise to try to have any anti-communist articles published by the press even if the locals had the courage to include them. In his view, the Soviets could still be best countered by “encouraging the Finns to proceed with the development of their own sturdy democracy and to avoid becoming tainted with the totalitarian methods which the Communists would like to introduce”. He did, however, suggest that the Legation staff devise a more systematic programme to orally expose the lies the Russians were distributing for justifying their policies. This programme was also to include positive propaganda about the true situation in the British Empire, which, according to Mr Shepherd, the Russians persistently misrepresented.9 The unofficial campaign against Soviet views, approved by the FO’s Russia Committee, indicates that Western officials in Helsinki were already beginning to explore ways to hold at least a slightly greater influence on the Finns in spite of the operational realities. The British quickly tied close relations with a number of influential locals in the fields of media, culture, education and politics. In the latter sector, contacts with members of the Finnish Social Democratic Party (Suomen Sosialidemokraattinen Puolue or SDP) became the most frequent. Apart from the natural explanation, the Labour Government’s desire to increase cooperation with sister parties around Europe, this development can be explained by the British already coming to terms with the key role the social democrats would play in combating communism in Finland. Even in this relationship, however, the British had to maintain a relatively cautious approach, which was reflected in the way both the British Legation and the Labour Party warned a number of Finnish party officials against implementing too bold an informational policy against the Soviet Union,

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which would only push their country into unnecessary danger (e.g. Majander 2005, 119-127). The predominantly circumspect information policy did not prevent the British Government’s informational and cultural programmes from expanding in size in Finland; on the contrary, in 1946-1947 British activities increased at a steady pace. The British Legation’s press bulletin was distributed to a growing number of influential Finns, and local newspapers started to publish its articles more frequently. The BBC Finnish Service also managed to regain some of its popularity, attracting 250,000 occasional listeners according to a survey conducted in 1947.10 While British Council activities also kept growing, in particular in the fields of exhibitions, language teaching and book distribution, in January 1948 Oswald Scott, British Minister for Finland, was happy to declare that “of all foreign cultural activities in Finland the British remained by far the most extensively and effectively conducted”.11 Growing in confidence, the British Legation even started to show first signs of defending its cause against the Soviets in more official fashion when it made a number of complaints to the Finnish Foreign Ministry over articles published in Finnish communist papers, culled from the Moscow press, that it regarded strongly anti-British. Already in September 1946 the British, however, estimated that the Finnish press, in particular the social democratic publications, was becoming strong enough to react against the propaganda from the extreme left and that a further protest over antiBritish articles would no longer be necessary.12

US chooses to remain on sidelines Even if Britain was relatively slow to launch its informational and cultural activities in post-war Finland, the United States, for its part, was able to keep its presence felt in the country through the US Legation in Stockholm even before hostilities between Finland and the Soviet Union had ended. As the US had never been at war with Finland, the expansion of American informational operations did not suffer from similar bureaucratic constraints that held the British campaign back, either. According to British reports, the Americans started to import and distribute newspapers in Finland already in the early months of 1944. In September 1944, the US Legation in Helsinki obtained permission for the export of commercial films to Finland from the Trading with the Enemy Department, with the support of the State Department.13 By early 1945, US propaganda and

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cultural diplomacy in Finland had become increasingly visible, for example, through the sale of English and Swedish versions of Time magazine in leading bookshops and the opening of the American Architectural Exhibition, which was attracting large crowds. The Americans also made a specific effort to provide Finnish newspapers with a daily news bulletin both in English and Finnish as soon as possible.14 As the Americans were in the first post-war years reluctant to engage in full-scale government-led propaganda (e.g. Wagnleitner 1994, 47), it did not take long for the US to lose its lead in informational activities also in Finland. The State Department reports from early 1945 reveal that this was a perfectly conscious decision. In a summary of future operations in Finland, written in March 1945, US officials noted that it was neither desirable nor possible to introduce proper peacetime operations in the country. For the time being, American informational activities were restricted to the distribution of the press bulletin, feature articles and picture material to Finnish newspapers via Stockholm and the placement of commercial books and films to the Finnish market.15 Maxwell Hamilton, the appointed US Minister for Finland, summarised the US Government’s position towards informational activities well in one of his first reports from Finland. In the report, Hamilton, not unlike the British, stressed the importance of Finland developing friendly relations with the Soviet Union. In Hamilton’s view, a massive distribution of American informational material would only make it more difficult for the Finns to adjust themselves to informational and cultural contact with the Soviet Union and, more seriously, develop a hope that the US was sufficiently interested in Finland in order to save the country from the Soviets if the need should arise.16 The promotion of films in post-war Finland was an obvious focus area even for the Americans, not least because of the war-weary Finnish public’s huge demand for both domestic and foreign movies. Although the country suffered from a chronic shortage of raw film, the number of Finnish cinema audiences reached an all-time high in 1945 when each Finn saw ten films on average (Uusitalo 1982, 384). The American quest of pushing new films into the market as quickly as possible was to some extent decelerated by the control practices introduced in the State Department. In early 1945, the export of American film prints to Finland was managed by the US Legation in Stockholm, which assessed which films might be harmful to US interests in Finland. This arrangement was

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not to last very long, as already in June 1945 the Legation in Stockholm suggested that American film distributors in Helsinki should submit information about the films proposed for distribution directly to the Mission in Helsinki and follow its instructions.17 While British operations were growing impressively, the US campaign remained fairly modest for quite some time. According to the British Council’s view, the fact that even its resources clearly outweighed those of the American cultural attaché meant that the scope of the American operations was considerably smaller.18 Although a United States Information Service (USIS) country programme for Finland was launched in 1946, soon after the opening of a USIS library in central Helsinki, American information activities did not really pick up speed until 1947 when US officials started to give special attention to the distribution of American-produced news articles. The State Department Wireless Bulletin was now delivered on a daily basis to over a hundred clients, including Finnish Government officials and newspaper editors as well as leaders in Finnish industrial and cultural life.19 In the field of cultural diplomacy, the most significant development took place in the exchange of people, an area American leaders began to rank as a significant part of the country’s foreign policy and an important weapon in the Cold War. The importance of arranging a growing number of Finnish politicians, trade union leaders, academics, journalists and artists as well as university students to visit the US as a way of integrating them more closely into the West was gaining increasing recognition among American officials in Helsinki. The establishment of the Finnish-American Committee on Study and Training in the United States (FCSTUS) in October 1947 only boosted their interest in this field by making the implementation of the various exchange programmes more efficient. The developments discussed above show that the US Government was expressing at least some interest in Finland in the first post-war years, even if American officials refrained from becoming involved in, for instance, the writings of the communist press to the same extent as their British colleagues. This did not, nevertheless, mean that the Americans were indifferent about the Finnish informational and cultural environment. On the contrary, they followed Soviet propaganda in the country and analysed its possible effects regularly. Under particular American attention came the activities of the Finland-Soviet Union Society (SuomiNeuvostoliitto-Seura), which in cooperation with the Soviet VOKS, the

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Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries, managed to import an impressive number of Soviet artists to Finland after the war as well as promote Russian films, exhibitions, plays and literature. Although the general US policy of not doing anything that could embarrass the Finnish Government or endanger the relationship of the Finns with the Soviet Union remained unchanged, American officials were also beginning to express more positive estimations about the northern country’s future. After all, the country was still free, exports to the West kept growing and the clear majority of the nation remained orientated to the West.20 As the political methods of supporting Finnish independence were few and far between, and the possibilities to distribute political propaganda remained limited, both the Americans and the British increasingly became to realise that informational and cultural operations were likely to hold an exceptional position when attempting to influence the future of Finland. In this respect, Western activities in Finland in the first post-war years were important as they, despite their restricted nature, successfully laid down the foundation for broader and more direct operations launched in upcoming years.

“Maximum influence and minimum display” – The slow landing of British Cold War propaganda The beginning of the broad scale propaganda war between East and West brought some change to Western operations in Finland, albeit at a slower pace than in other Western European countries. The British took the lead in Western political propaganda in January 1948 when a secret anticommunist propaganda unit, known as the Information Research Department (IRD), was finally established at the Foreign Office. At the time, there was a growing realisation among FO officials that the post-war economic and military weakness of Britain required a greater dependence on propaganda as a means of defending the country’s interests than before (e.g. Wilford 1998, 355). The unit’s main mission was to collect information about communist policies and propaganda as well as co-ordinate the discreet production and dissemination of fact-based anti-communist material to opinion formers both home and abroad. In these core tasks, the IRD collaborated closely with, for instance, the leading political parties and the trade unions, several large newspapers and the BBC, which, after a period of reluctance,

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accepted its role as a tool for British propaganda and started to include IRD-originated material in its broadcasts.21 At first the IRD focussed on operations in France and Italy, but it did not take long for the FO to expand the unit’s activities to almost every corner of the world. Considering Finland’s unique position, the distribution of IRD material in the country was always going to have a slow start. As the founding of the IRD coincided with a particularly sensitive period in Finnish history, the year when communists were excluded from the government and, above all, the Agreement of Friendship, Cooperation and Mutual Assistance (FCMA) was ratified between Finland and the Soviet Union, the British had even more reason to delay the introduction of a firmer line against Soviet propaganda in the country. The FO’s first instructions concerning Britain’s more active anti-communist propaganda campaign from January 1948 had already confirmed that Whitehall’s estimation of Finland’s position remained unchanged also in terms of informational activities. With the actual telegram, a secret message was sent to British legations regarded as unable to carry out active anticommunist propaganda locally.22 The Helsinki Legation’s inclusion in this group, in addition to the ones in Warsaw, Prague, Budapest, Sofia and Belgrade, illustrates that Finland was firmly regarded as having more in common with Eastern European countries than those belonging to the West. According to the FO, legations such as Helsinki should concentrate on implementing the positive side of the news policy, i.e. to publicise the virtues of Western civilisation and let the BBC, if possible, to carry out the anti-communist campaign. In his reply to these instructions, Oswald Scott, the new Minister to Finland, agreed that it would be unwise to “press Finland to throw in her lot with the Western Democracies”.23 According to him, the British campaign in Finland would focus on presenting the virtues and material advantages of the British approach to democracy by disseminating information through personal contacts with Finns in influential positions in politics, the trade unions, industry and journalism. As for written anticommunist propaganda, Scott was more positive than his colleagues at the FO, estimating that the Legation’s output would achieve at least some publicity. In general, however, Scott labelled Britain’s policy in Finland as one of “maximum influence and minimum display”, a definition that illustrated the nature of the British campaign well in the late 1940s.

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Even if the events in 1948 increased Western concerns over Finnish independence, the actual content of the FCMA Treaty gave both British and American observers in the country some cause for optimism. As the West regarded the treaty as a less threatening pact than it originally had feared, officials in Helsinki became even more confident about Finland’s survival and started to prepare for a more long-term strategy in the country. The British kept their lead in Western propaganda operations in Finland by finally expanding their campaign in 1949. Although the majority of the British Information Office’s work still concerned overt activities, such as the distribution of “normal” printed content, the introduction of IRD material increased the attention given to more covert means. Also with this in mind, the British Legation made the distribution of its printed material to Finnish newspapers and political parties considerably more efficient. The publication of newspaper reports, in particular feature articles, was constantly discussed with various Finnish editors and journalists. At first, the “straight” material provided by the Central Office of Information (COI) totally dominated the material sent to the Finnish press through the daily press bulletin, but as time passed and Finland’s independence grew more robust, the more aggressive IRDproduced anti-communist articles were included in the bulletin to a growing extent. Already in April 1948, Oswald Scott noted that such papers as Helsingin Sanomat, Uusi Suomi and Hufvudstadsbladet, all leading nationwide publications, would hold a key position in advocating the anti-communist message under the special circumstances prevailing in Finland, as they had been “consistently resourceful and courageous in their anti-communist line”.24 In the more covert distribution of IRD material, the cooperation between the British Legation and the SDP remained, however, the closest. In addition to supplying printed content to party officials and discussing propaganda strategies with them, the British started producing a special Labour Bulletin, which was actively distributed among labour circles around the country.25 Despite the gradual increase in distributed anti-communist material, it would be an exaggeration to say that Britain practiced broad scale anticommunist propaganda in Finland in the late 1940s. Indeed, in many respects the content of British printed propaganda in Finland during this particular period remained similar to that distributed in the Eastern satellite countries. Publicity was confined to the virtues of the Western way of life. The Finns’ objection to propaganda, as well as the fact that they needed no reminding of the Soviet Union being an imperialist power, was generally

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recognised in London, and it was assessed that blatant anti-Russian propaganda might have an opposite effect to that intended. This view was not always applied to the BBC Finnish Service broadcasts, which the British Legation in Helsinki regarded as the main channel for anti-communist commentary in the late 1940s. The closer cooperation between the FO and the BBC also concerned Finnish broadcasts, which meant that the British Legation started to follow the service more closely and to provide comments and suggestions on how the programmes should be developed. The FO also requested that the Legation start sending what were known as “Aside telegrams” to London in order to provide the BBC with ammunition of a more political nature. The Aside telegrams, usually transmitted only from Soviet satellite countries, included information on the propaganda line adopted by the communist press; they were sent from Helsinki, in particular, when any attack was made on Britain or any misrepresentation of British policy appeared so that the FO could suggest the BBC on how to address them.26 While the inclusion of more political and, in particular, anti-communist content was urged by the FO, it was also acknowledged that material on the misdeeds of communism deemed as too heavy “might overexcite the Finns, most of whom are anyhow as hostile to the Russians and the communists as they could possibly be, with unwelcome results”. In February 1948, Minister Scott gave a highly detailed account on how the output of the Finnish Service should be allotted in terms of programme content. Not surprisingly, the Legation called for more political commentaries that “should be presented in a confident, almost aggressive tone, calculated to stimulate the listener’s confidence in what he is hearing”.27 FO officials agreed with these views and suggested that a greater number of the Finnish Section’s political broadcasts should focus on enlightening the Finns about such heavier issues as economic and political difficulties inside the Soviet sphere of interest, while at the same time stressing the economic and military power of the West.28 Although the BBC assured that it would remain cautious in its broadcasts to Finland, the greater amount of news material the Finnish Service gradually started to share with other regional services aligned its content more closely with the hardening anti-communist policy emerging in Britain.

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Promoting the positive of America In the late 1940s, the US Government retained an informational policy in Finland in many respects similar to the British one. American officials continued to expand their contacts with Finnish politicians, in particular those close to the labour movement, and members of the media, but refrained from introducing the same kind of a broad-scale anti-communist propaganda campaign they had started to implement both home and abroad. Indeed, although the Smith-Mundt Act, passed by Congress in January 1948, guaranteed greater funds for informational and cultural operations also in Helsinki, the shift to large-scale American activities did not take place at once. The fact that in 1948 the personnel of the US Legation’s information and cultural section included only two Americans and five local employees29 limited the execution of the press, film and library services in particular. A close relationship with the Finnish press was of great importance for the US Legation and its quest of increasing the coverage of American news in the local newspapers. After the official inception of the USIS programme in Finland, the Americans were quick to realise that Finnish newspapers were more than willing to publish their material. In September 1948, the press service had already expanded to the point at which the USIS distributed both its English and Finnish news bulletin to over 200 recipients, 112 of which were Finnish newspapers. At this stage, the largest Finnish publications, using mostly commercial news services and their own correspondents, published only one to four USIS-distributed items per month. The situation with afternoon papers such as Ilta-Sanomat and Kauppalehti was an altogether different affair, as they included one or more items every day.30 These two publications, together with some provincial newspapers, particularly the Tampere-based Aamulehti, and social democratic party affiliations were to become the best outlets for USIS-distributed material in Finland. As it remained evident that Finnish editors were not ready to publish material that could be interpreted as anti-Soviet, the Americans focussed on supplying them with more positive items about their country. There was no problem in having this kind of material published, and the Americans learnt that news on new inventions and medical discoveries was especially easy to place, as were stories on economic developments in the US. USIS officials were aware that their news service could not match the commercial news agencies in terms of reporting speed. Mainly for this

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reason, the bulletins’ primary objective was to provide material that would supplement the already reported news items and give editors some valuable background material for further articles. In addition to news articles, for example the translations of the most important speeches of leading American politicians were constantly sent to editors. In order to push their message through as efficiently as possible, the Americans gradually developed a practice that saw them closely monitoring the leading Finnish newspapers and then providing them with material on news that had been insufficiently covered or left out altogether. For this reason, and because anti-communist material was rarely used by the press, the Finnish news bulletin became highly tailored for local needs. The items were selected for “their importance as timely statements in American foreign policy, as picturing events, conditions, or life in the United States, or because of their direct or indirect interest to Finns”.31 .

As the available resources increased, the USIS office in Finland continued its steady expansion in the late 1940s. Finnish people’s eagerness to watch and read almost anything coming from the US was well reflected by the impressive pace at which the audience size for films provided by the United States International Information and Educational Exchange Program (USIE) grew. In October 1949, a total of 45,837 people viewed the films at 384 non-commercial performances. A year later, as many as 148,000 people, 117,975 of whom at non-commercial screenings, watched USIE motion pictures.32 A growth rate of this magnitude meant that the four people looking after the USIS Motion Picture Section had their hands full running its everyday business. As one of the main objectives of the USIE film programme was to give people living in sparsely-settled rural areas the possibility to see the productions, the office staff was as overwhelmed with loaning films and projectors to organisations and individuals throughout the country and arranging Finnish and Swedish translations for the films as they were with presentations in the Helsinki area, mostly in schools and other educational institutes. By 1950, the Americans were able to note that the USIS/Helsinki had become by far the chief supplier of educational films in Finland.33 This was, of course, hardly surprising considering that the total number of American films, both commercial and non-commercial, made up for an incredible 69 per cent of all film premieres given to the Finnish audience during that year (Välimäki 1992, 57-59). As important as expanding the USIS informational activities in Helsinki in the late 1940s was, the most far-reaching breakthrough was accomplished

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in the area of personal exchange. Even though American officials in Helsinki had been pleased with their progress in extending the number of Finns studying in the US through privately sponsored programmes in the late 1940s, the introduction of a much broader exchange programme between the two countries had for some years been one of their main objectives. This task, like so many in post-war Finland, turned out to be anything but simple due to the possible consequences such a move might bring to Finnish-Soviet relations. After a couple of years of planning, an educational programme for Finland was finally determined by Public Law 265, which was passed in August 1949. The Grants from the American Loan to Finland Program – Amerikan Suomen Lainan Apurahat (ASLA) – was established by a joint resolution of the two houses of the US Congress in recognition of Finland’s impeccable record of honouring its international credit commitments (Copeland 1993, 79). According to the resolution, all subsequent repayments of Finland’s First World War loan from the US should be used to support academic and professional exchanges between the two countries. A share of the funds was to be used for providing Finns with appropriate scientific books and laboratory equipment. As with almost everything else, the US Legation in Helsinki was well aware of the necessity for discretion also when presenting P. L. 265 to the Finns. The first concrete measures to implement the Finnish-American educational programme were taken in January 1950, when a temporary committee of seven prominent Finns was appointed by Minister Avra Warren. The committee completed its job at the end of January and its report on the nomination of specialist candidates and the classification of graduate student groups was submitted to the Legation. The Americans felt that the policy of appointing a committee to offer guidance in these matters would convince the Finns that this exchange programme was not to be one-sidedly administered, but was one where the Finns themselves were to be granted a substantial voice.34 Although this arrangement proved fruitful, and the number of Finns travelling to the US under the ASLA Programme grew steadily in the upcoming years, it took another three years for Finland to join the Fulbright Programme. When the Finnish Foreign Ministry finally gave up its cautious position and Finland decided to join the programme in July 1952, it complemented the ASLA Programme and the two became simply known as the ASLA-Fulbright Programme. By that time, US officials both in Helsinki and Washington had already realised that the educational

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exchange programme would occupy a special position in Finland. For years to come, the US Legation ranked the exchange of persons as its most important informational and cultural operation, and as a result resources for its implementation were increased to such an extent that according to Copeland, only five bi-national commissions recorded a larger exchange programme during the 1952-1989 period when taking into consideration the grantee-population ratio (Copeland 1993, 81). As for the exchange programmes’ long-term impact, it is evident that by providing the US with a concrete tool for supporting the independence of Finland during the Cold War they enhanced the country’s closer association with the West. Although the symbolic value of offering Finnish students and various kinds of professionals the opportunity to cross the Atlantic was immense, the way in which this activity shaped the whole Finnish society, in particular the fields of academia, journalism, heavy industry, agriculture and traditional art forms, was perhaps even more important for the development of Finland in the upcoming decades.

US takes lead as “Psychological Offensive” reaches Helsinki In the early 1950s, the Cold War entered one of its most tense periods. The massive rearmament race that followed the first atomic test conducted by the Soviet Union in August 1949 rapidly brought the superpower hostility into the homes of every American. The US Government now started hammering home the message about the evils of communism by using literature, music, art and the media, in particular television. Now that every American was expected to enlist in the Cold War, neutrality was seen as suspect (Whitfield 1991, 10). President Truman’s propaganda offensive, The Campaign of Truth, launched in April 1950, signalled a renewed determination to undermine communism across the globe. As a consequence, propaganda finally became a more acceptable activity among State Department officials who had still been suspicious of its potential intrusion upon the sensitive worlds of foreign policy and diplomacy which they inhabited (Rawnsley 1999, 31). The altered situation had a direct impact on Western informational and cultural operations in Finland, but once again the northern country’s exceptional political position meant that they would adopt a different form than in other countries. What was common for all activities in Europe was, however, that the US took the overwhelming lead in propaganda activities

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in particular due to its superior resources. At the same time, cooperation between Western governments started to grow. While in the late 1940s, the Americans and the British had to some extent competed with each other in Finland, already in August 1950 they agreed to increase consultations between the information officers of both legations in order to exchange information about newspapers, their editors and their reactions to the various materials they received, and to discuss day-to-day editing and distribution techniques. While discussing the possibility of expanding their collaboration, the major policy objective of both governments was defined as to assist the Finns to maintain and strengthen their independence, to encourage them in their beliefs in the democratic way of life and to do everything possible to reinforce their attachment to the Western world.35

Although officials from both countries stressed the importance of refraining from doing anything that was likely to endanger Finland’s relationship with the Soviet Union, hampering the influence of communists in Finland was now regarded as a definite objective. This change in approach reflected not only the intensifying world situation, above all the Korean War, but also the belief that now the time was right for the introduction of a more direct campaign in Finland as well. Albeit in general more confident about Finland’s prospects, the British and US governments had by the early 1950s become more concerned about developments that could lead to Finland gradually becoming a Soviet satellite than they were about possible military intervention. The country’s expanding trade arrangements with the Soviet Union, particularly after the final reparation payments in 1952, increased fears that Finland was becoming too closely tied to the East.36 The growing acceptance of “neutrality” and what became known as the Paasikivi Line as Finland’s adopted foreign policy raised even more eyebrows, particularly in Washington. The Americans regarded neutrality as more or less the goal of Soviet policy, or at least as a weakness to resist communism, and the Finns’ ability to oppose Soviet pressure was at times, especially during international crises, seriously undermined (e.g. Hanhimäki 1997, 84-86, 103). The Campaign of Truth and the State Department’s new determination to launch a “psychological offensive” to counter Soviet propaganda against the “Free World” gave American activities completely different magnitude also in Finland, which was ranked among the 21 countries that could either

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become the next targets of communist aggression or be in a position “where the danger of the disaffection of large groups is present or very probable”.37 As the State Department regarded a psychological offensive as necessary in each of these countries, the size of the information and cultural section was quickly extended also at the US Legation in Helsinki. By the autumn of 1951, the department employed eight American officials and well over a dozen local employees.38 New premises in central Helsinki also enabled the USIS to make its Information Centre more appealing to the general public. The increasing criticism the Finnish newspapers on the extreme left directed against the US was also among the reasons that made American officials in Helsinki revise their strategy. Although still recognising that a direct anti-Soviet crusade could damage their own image and cause trouble to the Finns, a stronger presentation of the anti-communist message was winning growing support among US officials. As early as May 1950, Minister John Cabot noted that the US must in particular seek to reach those who are sympathetic to communism but not wholly impervious to reason, and those who consciously reject communist propaganda yet innocently accept authentic some of its falsehoods regarding the United States.

One of the main objectives was to convince the Finns that communist attacks on the US were damaging to Finland and that it was in their own interests to actively combat them.39 Around this time, US officials started to finally regard the staff, finances and facilities of the USIS/Helsinki as adequate enough to make the task of encouraging Finns to resist communist pressures and strengthening Finland’s traditional attachment to the West more realistic. The objective was made even more plausible by the attitude of the Finnish people, which American officials more than once described as predominantly open to American and Western influence, and the highly organised structure of Finnish social, economic and cultural life, which provided various channels for reaching almost any conceivable audience.40 In order to meet their task of creating a more anti-communist climate in Finland, US officials started constantly looking for new channels of influence. As circumstances for warning the Finns about the evils of communism remained tricky, this objective required plenty of flexibility of the Americans. In press operations, USIS officials realised that as most of

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the anti-communist articles delivered to the Finnish press would never be published, they needed to come up with new solutions for their distribution. In 1951, the USIS/Helsinki started launching its own pamphlets for distribution to newspapers and individuals mainly through the labour organisations and the SDP. For example, the edited translation of Erwin D. Canham’s, Editor of the Christian Science Monitor, the pamphlet The Authentic Revolution, “Todellinen Vallankumous” in Finnish, which discussed the basic conflicts between the communist and the American social systems (Canham 1951), was published as an edition of 10,000 copies.41 Other pamphlets and leaflets distributed included the “Americana Free World Pamphlets”42 and adaptation of texts on more precise topics such as “Proposal for Peace” and “Two Plans for Disarmament”.43 For reaching the USIS’s number one target group in Finland, the bluecollar workforce, American officials also came up with the idea of producing a field magazine tailored for local needs. According to their view, the introduction of a regular publication in magazine format would enable a more complete treatment of certain subjects and make such information more readily available and more acceptable than mere pamphlets.44 Turning the magazine project into reality proved somewhat difficult since the Finnish legislation prohibited an entirely foreign publisher from printing and distributing its material in Finland. This problem was finally solved in the spring of 1952 when a dummy corporation known as the Publishing Company Katsaus was founded. Each of the company’s three directors was a Finnish citizen and owned one share of its stock. The first issue of the magazine Aikamme (Our Time), originally published bi-monthly but from 1954 onwards every month, was at last published in May 1952 and sold approximately 7,500 copies at newsstands. The sales figures for the following issues exceeded this level, which according to the Americans indicated that the Finns were ready to pay for a propaganda publication if it was intelligently edited and attractively presented.45 Although US officials were satisfied with the early success of the field magazine, the publication did not turn out to be as triumphant a medium as was intended. The State Department became particularly displeased about Aikamme’s content, arguing that it lacked political content that would further the aims if US foreign policy.46 The more severe problem had to do with finance. The growing expenses for the publishing of Aikamme, together with the increasingly successful USIS article placements in

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Finnish magazines, finally led to the abolishment of the publication in 1957. The way US officials sought to push their more robust message also through radio and film gives another indication of how important Finland was ranked in informational operations during this time. The introduction of Voice of America broadcasts to Finland in May 1950 was yet another attempt to deliver a more direct and political message to the Finnish audience. The more political commentaries of the service, most notably the series on the Soviet Union written by ex-communist and now SDP politician Arvo Tuominen under the pseudonym “Niilo Virta” made such revelations about the Soviet state and its labour camps that would not have been possible through other channels.47 Although the station attracted a reasonably wide audience, and the more political content was re-used in Finland by the SDP in particular48, the overall influence of VOA Finland remained fairly limited. The BBC Finnish Service continued to dominate Western broadcasts to Finland and VOA never accomplished the same credibility among its listeners. As a result of both the United States Information Agency’s (USIA) cuts made in Washington and its limited success, VOA Finland’s broadcasts were terminated as early as May 1953. The use of film in American propaganda had a much more far-reaching effect. Both American private films and the documentaries provided by USIS/Helsinki remained clear market leaders in Finland, but the introduction of more political productions proved, not surprisingly, a challenging task. Although the bulk of distributed USIE films were nonpolitical productions focussing on the projection of America, US officials had to remain careful in terms of what kind of material it could present to the Finnish audience. A considerable number of American documentaries and newsreels or certain parts of them were censored either by the Finnish Film Censorship Board or already during the preventive censorship procedure conducted by the Finnish Foreign Ministry. As a consequence, the material sent from Washington always had to be checked and its suitability evaluated. In addition to the verdict of its own staff, the USIS/Helsinki explored the opinion of some prominent Finns over the feasibility of the films for the country’s political climate by carrying out extensive field testing for almost all titles before Finnish language versions were ordered.49 In film, as in all USIS/Helsinki’s operations, reaching various labour groups was considered the top priority. In order to demonstrate the flaws

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of communism to this audience, officials in Helsinki regularly craved for features that would explain the nature and functions of American labour unions. In late 1951, they finally started receiving more of such films from Washington with Union Local and The Carpenter winning their particular blessing. After the Central Organisation of Finnish Trade Unions (Suomen Ammattiyhdistysten Keskusliitto, SAK) decided to cooperate with USIS/Helsinki in the screening of these productions, the Americans were able to distribute the message to a far greater blue-collar audience throughout the country. In this collaboration, the screening of the International Ladies Garments Union film With These Hands turned out be particular successful; during the SAK’s “Trade Union Week” in the autumn of 1952 the movie was shown to union members in more than 150 cities, towns and villages throughout Finland.50 Activity of such magnitude guaranteed that the more entertaining Hollywood production was not the only American film type viewed in early Cold War Finland.

Britain’s more direct anti-Communist campaign As the US Government expanded its operations in Finland in the early 1950s, the British had no intention to let the Americans steal the show on the psychological anti-communist front entirely. While the British Government’s general approach towards Finland in the early 1950s remained cautious, the now commonly accepted notion that Finland had a future as an independent country after all, together with Whitehall’s firmer policy on anti-communist propaganda, gave an altogether new impetus for the activities in the country. At the same time, a broader British propaganda campaign was justified by Whitehall’s increasing worry that the so-called Soviet Peace Campaign might in the long run end up in some weaker countries falling into neutrality and eventually joining the communist bandwagon; according to some FO officials, these countries included Finland.51 Although the FO finally categorised Finland as a non-communist country as far as information activities went, the country was still not treated as an outright Western European country. A report from the Cabinet Committee of Enquiry into the Overseas Information Services from May 1952 placed the country in the group of Western European “frontier countries” together with Germany, Austria, Yugoslavia and Greece. According to the committee, in these countries circumstances had created an exceptional interest in all things British or had placed Britain in a particularly favourable position to put across its point of view.52 As a consequence, the

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money allocated for informational operations in Finland was actually considerably larger than those for many other countries. Whereas the Americans relied mostly on distributing the bulk-style propaganda content produced in Washington, the British Legation in Helsinki gave great care to preparing material suitable for local conditions. The anti-communist propaganda items included in the Legation’s bulletin were carefully selected and the most aggressive remarks were edited out. This procedure proved fruitful since the number of IRD articles published by Finnish newspapers quickly exceeded many British expectations. Especially social democratic publications took full advantage of the propaganda content delivered to them with Yrjö “Jahvetti” Kilpeläinen, famous columnist of the paper Suomen Sosialidemokraatti, claiming to have used British material in over 25 per cent of his columns.53 Other leading newspapers reproducing British propaganda regularly during this time included the tabloid Ilta-Sanomat, which was more eager to publish Western content than the average Finnish publication. The British Legation’s decision of launching a more substantial anticommunist campaign in Finland was as much a result of the intensifying propaganda battle taking place in the northern country as it was a reflection of international developments. As the Finns gained more confidence to publish even controversial political content in the early 1950s, the Soviets only increased their direct pressure on Finnish newspapers to publish more of their material and give more space to Russian topics in general. As a response to Soviet involvement, the British expanded their personal contacts with influential Finns in a manner that proved even more efficient than that of their American counterparts. In particular, the collaboration with Finnish political parties expanded during this time. The new arrangement that saw British information officers inform officials of the SDP about upcoming IRD-produced articles and books made the interaction even more systematic. Another notable development in distributing British propaganda to Finnish politicians was the relationship the British managed to establish with the conservative National Coalition Party (Kokoomus) press syndicate, which resulted in British officials consulting party officials about articles that could be placed in their service.54 As direct anti-Soviet propaganda remained almost impossible to implement through Finnish newspapers, the BBC Finnish Service’s role as a source of unpublished topics grew even further. The BBC’s position as

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the most popular foreign broadcaster in Finland even during VOA’s most successful days, together with its traditional image of being a more objective news producer, offered a channel to attack Britain’s enemies in a way that would reach a wide audience and be generally perceived as credible at the same time. The attempt to “hot-up” the BBC Finnish Service can be seen as a rather typical arm wrestling contest between Whitehall officials and the broadcasting corporation. In this case, it was the job of Sir Christopher Warner, Head of the FO’s Northern Department, to try and convince Sir Ian Jacob, Director of the BBC’s Overseas Services, that political commentaries should contain some anti-communist material, while bearing in mind Finland’s delicate position. After growing pressure, the corporation finally gave in and started to increase the share of centrally-produced political programmes also in Finnish transmissions.55 The decision to broadcast anti-communist propaganda on all overseas services of the BBC from October 1950 onwards, therefore, concerned Finland as well. Broadcasts entitled “Estonian Workers under Soviet Rule” and talks on Russian concentration camps quickly became more frequent also in the Finnish language. The number of political talks increased decisively when the series In Eastern Europe and International Communism were included in the Finnish Service. Both series were written by Czech refugee Walter Kolarz, who also lent his name to several anti-communist books, pamphlets and news-feature articles that the IRD was able to place widely (Jenks 2006, 86). In particular In Eastern Europe received almost entirely positive feedback from the Finnish audience and became one of the service’s most popular programmes. Again, the sentiment among the Finns was that the BBC provided the only way for them to properly follow the issues discussed.56 With this in mind, it is hardly surprising that a BBC/VOA poll conducted in 1952 estimated that the occasional audience of the service was as large as 750,000 listeners.57 Another piece of evidence about the growing popularity of the BBC was the Soviet Union’s decision to start jamming them from January 1952 onwards. Although the effect of Soviet jamming in Finland remained fairly limited, this was something quite new in international radio communication as it was the first time in peacetime when anyone had jammed radio transmissions between two other free and independent states (Nelson 1997, 24). While the performance of the BBC Finnish Service in the early 1950s gives another indication that the British Government considered it necessary to address the Finns more directly, British officials in Finland

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continued to stress the importance of British Council activities in the country as well. Although this was a period when the promotion of American culture started to expand rapidly, the British managed to implement an effective cultural campaign of their own. In language teaching, they continued to dominate the scene well into the 1960s, partly thanks to the impressively growing number of Finns joining various anglophile societies throughout the country.58 These societies, supported by the Council, also played an important role in the promotion of British literature, drama and films as well as the organisation of lecture tours for distinguished British personalities. All in all, the location of Finland between East and West made it a particularly appealing area for all cultural activities, even though at the same time this meant that cultural competition was taken more seriously also by the locals than in many other countries. For the British campaign, the great interest the Finns showed in almost anything coming from the West compensated for what it lacked in breadth. In June 1952, Andrew Noble, Minister for Finland, summarised the situation well by noting the following: Our resources are too small to enable us to match the Russians pound for pound (winning over the Finns), but we do not need to, because we have the goodwill of the Finns on our side.59

This viewpoint was once again proved correct a month later, when the British campaign for the Helsinki Olympics matched that of any country, mainly due to the immense interest the visit of the Duke of Edinburgh stirred among the locals.60 The situation described by Mr Noble was among the key elements that made the implementation of broader and firmer Western informational and cultural operations in Finland in the early 1950s possible. The more open anti-communist sentiment of the Finns, expressed during a time that was still determined by a sensitive relationship with the Russians and general uncertainty, made it possible to channel a growing number of more controversial comments through new forms of print, film and radio content. In spite of their bolder informational policy, the British and the American governments had, however, no interest in becoming directly involved in the ever fiercer domestic propaganda war taking place in Finland. Offering their support covertly or through their own channels of communication was much more to the Western governments’ liking, and this remained the usual form of cooperation with the Finns.

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Conclusion An examination of British and American informational and cultural operations in Finland reveals that the two Western governments were, indeed, willing to introduce a large number of activities that were at least on paper rather similar to those executed in other European countries. The unique circumstances defining Finnish society, however, forced Western officials to find new ways of reaching the Finnish public. This task was largely met thanks to the high degree of innovation and flexibility the British and Americans showed in the implementation of the operations. Executing the two campaigns was always a highly sensitive affair. It required constant balancing between supporting the Finns more openly and avoiding the launch of excessively aggressive forms of propaganda that could have endangered the relationship of Finland with the Soviet Union. Even though several Finnish politicians, civil servants and journalists were under the constant scrutiny of Moscow for their collaboration with Western actors, the British and American governments managed to deliver campaigns that were suitable for the Finnish environment without neglecting their most central messages. The geopolitical position of Finland was also strongly reflected in the pace at which British and American operations were launched in the country. In the first years after the Second World War, during which the influence of the Soviet Union on the affairs of the country and on its future in general was at its largest, the Western governments kept their presence mostly limited. When the actual Cold War began in around 1948, Finland continued to make something of an exception; the British and Americans remained fairly reluctant to launch as direct propaganda campaigns in the country as they had done in many other parts of the world. The Korean War, and one of the most aggressive periods of the Cold War that followed, finally triggered the anti-communist campaigns into life also in Helsinki. The two Western governments’ adopted policy to provide the Finns with more robust moral support can be regarded as rather surprising considering that during this time the distribution of more controversial messages remained still a risky business to the Finns involved, and potentially to the Finnish Government as well. After the death of Josif Stalin in March 1953, and the slightly calmer superpower relationship that followed, the implementation of most Western activities became easier also in Finland. Although the two

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political crises taking place in Finland in the late 1950s and early 1960s61 again led to the political leadership’s tighter control of the media, many of the operations launched in the first ten post-war years continued to form a platform for British and American activities for years to come.

References Primary sources British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) Written Archives Centre, Reading, UK (WAC). Registered Files and General Correspondence: E1, E3 Files concerning the BBC Finnish Service. CIA Research Tool (CREST) (Read at NARA, College Park, Maryland, US). CIA Office of Current Intelligence; Intelligence Reports; State Department and CIA Correspondence. Documents on British Policy Overseas, Series I, Volume IX. The Nordic Countries: From War to Cold War, 1944-1951 (London 2011). Dwight D. Eisenhower Presidential Library, Abilene, Kansas, US (DDEL). White House Office NSC Staff: Papers, 1948-81; OCB Central File Series Kansallisarkisto (KA) [National Archives of Finland]. Helsinki, Finland. Arvo Tuominen’s Collection (AT) National Archives (NA), Kew, Surrey, UK: British Council (BW): BW 30. British Council Registered Files, Finland Cabinet Office (CAB): CAB 127. Cabinet Office: Private Collections of Ministers’ and Officials’ Papers; CAB 130. Cabinet: Miscellaneous Committees: Minutes and Papers (GEN, MISC and REF Series). Foreign Office (FO): FO 371 Political Departments: General Correspondence from 1906; FO 930 Ministry of Information and Foreign Office: Foreign Publicity Files; FO 953 Information Policy Department and Regional Information Departments: Registered Files; FO 1110 Information Research Department: General Correspondence (PR and IR Series) National Archives and Records Administration, College Park, Maryland, US (NARA) State Department (SD), Record Group (RG) 59 State Department Central Files State Department Decimal Files on Finland (SDDFF), 1945-1949 State Department Decimal Files on Finland (SDDFF), 1950-1954 Foreign Service Posts of the Department of State, RG 84

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US Embassy and Legation, Helsinki, Classified General Records (USEH CGR), 1942-1962 (Entry UD 2441)

Secondary sources Aunesluoma, Juhana. 2003. Britain, Sweden and the Cold War. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Canham, Erwin D. 1951. Todellinen Vallankumous [The Authentic Revolution]. Helsinki: USIS. Copeland, William. 1993. Forty Years of Academic and Professional Exchange between Finland and the United States. In Finland and the United States: Diplomatic Relations Through Seventy Years. Edited by Robert Rinehart, 79-84. Washington D.C.: Georgetown University Institute for the Study of Diplomacy. Ekholm, Kai. 2000. Kielletyt kirjat 1944-1946: Yleisten kirjastojen kirjapoistot 1944-1946 [Forbidden Books: Book Removals from Public Libraries, 1944-1946]. Jyväskylä: University of Jyväskylä Library. Evans, Helena P. 2011. Diplomatic Deceptions. Anglo-Soviet Relations and the Fate of Finland Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society. Fields, Marek. 2015. Reinforcing Finland’s Attachment to the West: British and American Propaganda and Cultural Diplomacy in Finland, 1944-1962. Dissertation. University of Helsinki. Hanhimäki, Jussi M. 1997. Containing Coexistence: America, Russia and the “Finnish Solution” Kent, OH: Kent State University Press. Heikkilä, Hannu, 1982. Credits of Export-Import Bank to Finland, 194548. Scandinavian Economic History Review, Vol. 30, No.3 (1982): 207-225. Jenks, John. 2006. British Propaganda and News Media in the Cold War. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Jensen-Eriksen, Niklas. 2006. Hitting Them Hard? Promoting British Export Interests in Finland, 1957-1972. Helsinki: Finnish Society of Sciences and Letters. Majander, Mikko. 2005. Britain’s Dual Approach: Labour and Finnish Social Democracy, 1944-51. In From War to Cold War: Anglo-Finnish Relations in the 20th Century. Edited by Juhana Aunesluoma, 105-146. Helsinki 2005: Finnish Literature Society. Meinander, Henrik. 2012. Tasavallan tiellä: Suomi kansalaissodasta 2010-luvulle [On the Republic’s Path: Finnish History from the Civil War to the 2010s], 2nd edition. Helsinki 2012: Schildts & Söderströms.

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Nelson, Michael. 1997. War of the Black Heavens: The Battles of Western Broadcasting in the Cold War. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press. Polvinen, Tuomo, Hannu Heikkilä, and Hannu Immonen. 1999. J. K. Paasikivi. Valtiomiehen elämäntyö 4: 1944-1948 [J.K. Paasikivi. The Life’s Work of a Statesman, Part 4, 1944-1948]. Helsinki: WSOY. Rawnsley, Gary. 1999a. The Campaign of Truth: A Populist Propaganda. In Cold War Propaganda in the 1950. Edited by Gary Rawnsley, 3146. London: Macmillan. —. 1999b. Cold War Propaganda in the 1950. Edited by Gary Rawnsley. London: Macmillan. Rislakki, Jukka. 2010. Paha sektori: Atomipommi, kylmä sota ja Suomi [The Evil Sector: Atomic Bomb, Cold War and Finland]. Helsinki: WSOY. Salminen, Esko. 1979. Aselevosta kaappaushankkeeseen: sensuuri ja itsesensuuri Suomen lehdistössä 1944-1948 [From Armistice to Coup Attempt: Censorship and Self-Censorship in Finnish Newspapers, 1944-1948]. Helsinki: Otava. —. 1999. The Silenced Media: The Propaganda War between Russia and the West in Northern Europe. London: Macmillan. Uusitalo, Kari. 1982. Elokuva [Film]. In Suomen kulttuurihistoria 3: Itsenäisyyden aika [Finnish Cultural History, Part 3: Era of Independence]. Edited by Päiviö Tommila, Aimo Reitala, and Veikko Kallio, 381-398. Helsinki: WSOY. Vihavainen, Timo. 1991. Kansakunta rähmällään [Nation on Its Knees]. Helsinki: Otava. Välimäki, Matti. 1992. Amerikkalaiset elokuvat Suomessa 1944-1950: tutkielma amerikkalaisten elokuvien maahantuonnista, levityksestä ja suosiosta [American Films in Finland, 1944-1950: A Study on the Import, Distribution and Popularity of American Films]. Master’s Thesis. University of Turku. Wagnleitner, Reinhold. 1994. Coca-Colonization and the Cold War: The Cultural Mission of the United States in Austria after the Second World War, translated by Diana M. Wolf. Chapel Hill NC and London: University of North Carolina Press. Whitfield, Stephen J. 1991. The Culture of the Cold War. Baltimore MD and London: The John Hopkins University Press.

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Notes 1

In recent years, a number of works have revealed that the economic and military cooperation between the Western powers and Finland during the Cold War was, in fact, broader and more important for the country’s future than it has previously been realised. For example, Jensen-Eriksen 2006; Rislakki 2010. As for informational and cultural operations in Finland and their impact on future developments, my doctoral thesis on the subject remains the only work in which the issue has been more broadly examined. This article is also predominantly based on the thesis, which provides a more detailed account on the matters discussed below. Fields 2015. 2 The concept “self-censorship” has been used widely to describe the line of action adopted by the Finnish press during the Cold War, in particular with regard to its dealings with events in the Soviet Union. See Salminen 1999. 3 Overseas Planning Committee: Plan of Propaganda for Finland. 29 August, 1945, FO 371/47374, The National Archives, Kew, Surrey, UK (NA). 4 J.B.C. Grundy to K.R. Johnstone, 19 July, 1946, BW 30/1, NA. 5 Overseas Planning Committee. Plan of propaganda for Finland. Appreciation. Aims and Objectives. 29 August, 1945, FO 371/47374, NA. 6 Finnish Intelligence Report, 7 December, 1946, E3/118/1, BBC Written Archives Centre, Reading UK (WAC). 7 Report of visit to Finland, February 20 to March 24, 1947. B Liisa Morell, E1/688, WAC. 8 The Soviet Campaign Against This Country. Memorandum by I. Kirkpatrick, 22 May, 1946, FO 930/488, NA. 9 F.M. Shepherd to O. Sargeant, 30 July, 1946, FO 371/56786. Documents on British Policy Overseas, Series I, Volume IX (London 2011), 133-135. 10 Report of Gallup survey in Finland, September-December, 1947. E3/43/1, WAC. 11 O. Scott to E. Bevin: “Annual Report on Finland for 1947”. 27 January, 1948, FO 371/71409. 12 F.M. Shepherd to E. Bevin, 25 September, 1946, FO 371/56198, NA. 13 Mr Purves to Dr. Thornton & Mr Scott, 29 September, 1944, FO 930/243, NA. 14 Propaganda to Finland. 19 January, 1945, FO 371/47374, NA. 15 H.H. Arnason to E. Bellquist, “Prospective OWI Operations in Finland”, 1 March, 1945, RG 84, US Embassy and Legation, Helsinki, Classified General Records, 19421962, Entry UD 2441 (USEH CGR), box 7, National Archives and Records Administration, College Park, MD, USA (NARA). 16 M. Hamilton to Secretary of State, “Informational Activities in Finland”, 12 April, 1945, RG 84, USEH CGR, box 7, NARA. 17 US Legation, Stockholm to State Department (SD), 22 June, 1945, RG 84, USEH CGR, box 7, NARA. 18 .B.C. Grundy to K.R. Johnstone, 14 January, 1946, BW 30/1, NA. 19 US Legation to Secretary of State, 29 April, 1947, RG 84, USEH CGR, box 7, NARA.

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20 E.g. Intelligence Report: Current situation in Finland. June 1947, CIA Research Tool (CREST). 21 E.g. “Minutes by Ralph Murray”. 17 February, 1948, FO 1110/16, NA. 22 Secret Telegram No. 11 from Foreign Office to Helsinki, 23 January, 1948, FO 1110/1, NA. 23 O. Scott to E. Bevin, 9 February, 1948, FO 1110/1, NA. 24 O. Scott to E. Bevin, “Anti-Communist publicity”. 27 April, 1948, FO 1110/8, NA. 25 Report by Labour Attaché C.L. Thomas. 26 January, 1948, FO 371/71414, NA. 26 E.g. C.F.A. Warner to O.A. Scott, 3 February, 1950, FO 953/871, NA. 27 O.A. Scott to E. Bevin. 10 February, 1948, FO 953/233, NA. 28 H.A.P. Hohler to R.M.A. Hankey. 3 November, 1948, FO 953/233, NA. 29 US Legation to SD, “Report on Information and Cultural Activities for May, 1948”. 12 July, 1948, RG 59, SD Decimal Files on Finland (SDDFF) 1945-1949, box 4808, 811.42760D SE/5-1248, NARA. 30 US Legation to SD, “Report on Information and Cultural Activities for August, 1948”, 22 September, 1948, RG 59, SDDFF 1945-1949, box 4807, 811.42760D/92248, NARA. 31 H.F. Arnold to SD, “Semi-Annual Evaluation Report”. 21 November, 1950, RG 59, SDDFF 1950-1954, box 2425, 511.60E/11-2150, NARA. 32 H.G. Arnold to SD, “Report on Information and Cultural Activities for November, 1949”. 13 January, 1950, RG 59, SDDFF 1950ņ1954, box 2425, 511.60E/1-1350, NARA. 33 J.M. Cabot to SD, “USIE Country Paper for Finland”. 28 April, 1950, RG 59, SDDFF 1950-1954, box 2425, 511.60E/4-2850, NARA. 34 H.F. Arnold to SD, “Report on Information and Cultural Activities for January 1950”. 24 February, 1950, RG 59, SDDFF 1950-1954, box 2425, 511.60E/2-750, NARA. 35 H.F. Arnold to SD, “Cooperation Between American and British Information Services”. 17 August, 1950, RG 59, SDDFF 1950-1954, box 2425, 511.60E/8-1750, NARA. 36 Unstable Economic and Political Situation in Finland. CIA Office of Current Intelligence, 11 June, 1953, CREST. 37 SD to Certain American Diplomatic and Consular Officers, “Psychological Offensive”, 13 September, 1950, CREST. 38 D.G. Wilson to SD, “Semi-Annual Evaluation Report for Period Ending October 31”. 8 November, 1951, RG 59, SDDFF 1950-1954, box 2426, 511.60E/11-2061, NARA. 39 J.M. Cabot to SD, “Propaganda War in Finland”. 11 May, 1950, RG 59, SDDFF 1950-1954, box 2425, 5.11.60E/5-1150, NARA. 40 For example, “USIS Country Plan for Finland”. 22 July, 1953, White House Office, NSC Staff: Papers, 1948-1981, OCB Central File Series, box 29, Dwight D. Eisenhower Library, Abiline, KS, USA (DDEL). 41 D.G. Wilson to SD, “Report on USIE Publication Produced Locally”. 17 July, 1951, RG 59, SDDFF 1950-1954, box 2426, 511.60E21/7-1751, NARA.

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42 J.V. Lund to SD, “Usability of Proposed Pamphlets”. 11 January, 1952, RG 59, SDDFF 1950-1954, box 2426, 511.60E21/1-1152, NARA. 43 J.V. Lund to SD, “Report on USIE Publications Produced Locally”. 10 January, 1952, RG 59, SDDFF 1950-1954, box 2426, 511.60E21/1-1052, NARA. 44 D.G. Wilson to SD, “Proposed Local USIE Publication Program”. 28 August, 1951, RG 59, SDDFF 1950-1954, box 2426, 511.60E21/8-2851, NARA. 45 J.M. Cabot to SD, “The USIS Program in Finland”. 23 August, 1952, RG 59, SDDFF 1950-1954, box 2426, 511.60E/9-1152, NARA. 46 SD to US Legation. 12 June, 1952, RG 59, SDDFF 1950-1954, box 2426, 511.60E21/6-1252, NARA. 47 Scripts of all five series of the talks aired in 1952 and 1953 can be found at Arvo Tuominen’s collection (AT), box 29, National Archives of Finland (Kansallisarkisto), Helsinki, Finland (KA). 48 V. Puskala to A. Tuominen. 10 November, 1952, AT, box 11, KA. 49 US Legation to SD, “Motion Pictures – Labor Films”. 12 March, 1952, RG 84, USEH CGR, box 29, NARA. 50 D. Wilson to SD, “Request for raw stock for priority USIS film project”. 17 September, 1952, RG 84, USEH CGR, box 29, NARA. 51 Anti-Communist Propaganda Operations. 27 July, 1951, CAB 127/296, NA. 52 Cabinet Committee of Enquiry into Overseas Information Services. Memorandum by the Foreign Office, 30 July, 1952, CAB 130/75, NA. 53 A.N. Noble to A. Eden, “Report on Information Activities in Finland”. Helsinki, 13 June, 1952, FO 953/1324, NA. 54 A.R.H. Kellas to C. Warner, “Report on Information work for the first quarter of 1951”. 13 April, 1951, FO 953/1119, NA. 55 J.I. McGhie to D. Winther. 3 March, 1950, FO 953/853, NA. 56 Report on The Finnish Panel. January 1951, E3/42/2, File2, WAC. 57 The Listeners of VOA, BBC and Other Foreign Broadcasts in Finnish – A listening survey conducted in November/December 1952 by Suomen Gallup Oy. E3/42/2, File2, WAC. 58 The British Council, Finland: Representative’s Annual Report, 1967-1968. BW 30/14, NA. 59 A.N. Noble to A. Eden. 5 June, 1952, FO 953/1324, NA. 60 The Helsinki Olympics of 1952 also turned out to be a substantial East-West propaganda battle, mainly because this was the first time when the Soviet Union took part in the games. The US in particular invested in its activities, which included the opening of a separate information office and the organisation of special film screenings during the event. The main goal of these operations was to reach visitors from communist countries. The British campaign was more modest, but the attention given to British athletes and in particular the Duke of Edinburgh’s visit to Helsinki compensated a great deal. For more about Western informational and cultural activities during the Helsinki Olympics, see Fields 2015, 220-225. 61 By these crises I refer to the so-called Night Frost Crisis of 1958 and the Note Crisis of 1961. According to the prevailing view, both of these developments both

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enhanced President Urho Kekkonen’s political position and increased the Soviet Union’s influence in Finnish affairs. See Meinander 2012, 227-339, 342-344.

CHAPTER NINE WINNERS’ HISTORIES MEET HISTORIANS’ INSIGHTS: THE INTRODUCTIONS OF THE ENGLISH EDITIONS OF THE GOEBBELS DIARIES MARJA VUORINEN

This chapter1 compares the introductory texts, by British and American authors, of the English translation editions of the diaries of Joseph Goebbels, the Propaganda Minister of the Third Reich. The aim of the analysis is to establish how their content and tone changed from the immediate post-war to the late Cold War years. The editions published on the opposite sides of the Atlantic reveal a difference between the British vis-à-vis American politics of history, which in turn relate to differences between their respective war experiences, as well as to international power politics. The first edition of Goebbels’ diaries published in English was a selection of entries from 1932-33, chosen and edited by himself; it came out in 1938. The posthumous editions published in the West from the late 1940s to the early 1980s include samples of both his wartime and 1920s diaries. They all came out before the complete set of microfilmed diaries was located in 1992. To put the introductions into historical context, I first present a brief history of the diaries: how they initially came into being, how they survived and how they eventually resurfaced. To provide ideological and psychological background, I describe the British and US anti-German imagery of the World War I and the World War II – from the city-burning, nun-raping, baby-bayonetting “Hun” to the proud and powerful, disciplined and sadistic “Nazi”.

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In the main presentation I proceed edition by edition, answering in each case the same basic set of questions, namely: when, what, who, how and why. The when sets the historical scene, positioning each text to its immediate political context, related, in turn to what needed to be said at each point, and what was perhaps best left unsaid. Juxtaposing the when with the what, I analyse how the preceding events and the prevailing public sentiments may have affected each author, both directly and through what he may have expected his intended readers to know and think. The main line of comparison follows the publication dates, from 1938 to 1982: from the pre-war to the immediate post-war to the Cold War to the post-Vietnam atmosphere. A secondary aim is to say something about introductions as a political genre. The who questions, i.e. who published each edition and who wrote its introduction, has a lot of bearing on how the events and personages were described: whether an author was British or American; journalist or academic; with or without personal contacts with the characters and events of the National Socialist regime. Based on these I also attempt, to an extent, to answer the question of personal motivation: why each commentator said what he said, why he felt duty-bound or otherwise compelled to say certain things, and perhaps deliberately chose to avoid saying others. Among historians, the interest in Dr. Goebbels’ person and career has been renewed recently by the systematic publication of his complete diaries in German (1993-2006). The latest Goebbels biography in English, by German academic Peter Longerich, came out only in 2015. The most recent Goebbels biographies by British authors are Toby Thacker’s detached and compassionate Joseph Goebbels: Life and Death (2009) and Goebbels: Mastermind of the Third Reich by the biassed yet thorough David Irving (1996); Thacker had full access to the microfilm material whereas Irving could only use parts of it. Their books are complemented by the early Doctor Goebbels: His Life and Death by Roger Manvell and Heinrich Fraenkel (1960), based on contemporary impressions as well as archival and other sources.

The surviving papers of Dr Goebbels: personal documents as spoils of war The diaries of one of the most prominent officials of the National Socialist Germany have attracted both idle curiosity and serious interest since the

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publication of the first selection. Beside Rudolf Hoess, the commandant of Auschwitz, and Albert Speer, Hitler’s architect and wartime Minister of Armaments, Goebbels is the only top Nazi who has left to the posterity a personal account of his experiences of the regime. As a day-to-day chronicle of events as they unfold, written without knowledge about how it all will end, they differ significantly from both Hoess’ retrospective prison autobiography (1959) and Speer’s equally retrospective (1970) attempted self-acquittal and/or honest report, in either case with the benefit of hindsight. Inside information about the Nazi movement is included also in Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf, but as it was published already in the mid1920s, it does not belong to the same category as the others. Joseph Goebbels was born on 29 October, 1897, and committed suicide in Berlin on 1 May, 1945 (for biographic details see Thacker 2010). He held the position of the Reich Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda from 1933 until his death; for a few hours, between the suicide of Hitler in 30 April and that of his own, he even acted as the partial successor of his deceased Führer in the capacity of the new Reich Chancellor. His diary entries from 1923 onwards record the private experiences of a romantic, embittered youth, but also his often critical impressions of the Weimar political culture. Hitler’s public appearances are first glimpsed from afar; later he is seen through the lens of personal acquaintance, admiration, even friendship. The in-office entries, from 1933, mostly concern Goebbels’ official duties and endeavours, but his family life and the Führer are still mentioned on a regular basis. The diaries contain valuable information about political developments, disputes and rivalries within the party, the functioning of the Reich propaganda machinery and, eventually, the changing destinies of war. Despite the many references to German history and mythology, recurrent in the imagery of the Nazi regime, as its Propaganda Minister Goebbels was the central figure of an essentially modern project: influencing the masses through carefully designed ideological re-education programme. His varied experiments with the fast-developing 20th century media – from staging and broadcasting political rallies and open-air sport events to the more intimate possibilities of radio, film and photography – are documented in the diaries, along with the more pedestrian endeavour to perfect the propaganda potential of traditional print media.

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The ministerial diaries were intended as a semi-official document designed to impress the posterity by showing how the millenary Reich had come into being. In 1941, Gohebbels had the diaries transferred from his home to the vault of the state bank, where they would be safe from fire caused by enemy bombs. From then on he no longer jotted his notes down by hand, but dictated them to a stenographer, who would type them, taking one carbon copy. The transcripts were stored without corrections, which adds to their authenticity (Stadelmayer 1978). Each entry begins with a summary of the military events of the previous day, moves on to political developments and ends with a personal account. From this point on the most intimate sexual and family matters as well as overly nasty comments about the Führer disappear, but the author’s reactions to the increasingly disastrous events of war are still clearly discernible. In November 1944, when defeat was imminent, Goebbels began the process of having the diaries microfilmed. The last entry is dated 10 April 1945. The films, boxes of glass plates, were sent to Potsdam and buried in the ground while the print originals were stored in the State Chancellery. Parts of the paper copies of the wartime diaries survived the devastation of occupied Berlin. First collected as waste paper, they eventually found their way, via black market and otherwise, into the hands of the Western Allies, who would later publish parts of them. Another set of handwritten diaries, from 1932 to 1941, was salvaged by Russian occupants and later used by East Bloc historians (Stadelmayer 1978). The microfilms, unearthed by the Soviet occupation forces, were shipped quietly to Moscow, where they remained undisturbed until the former Soviet archives were opened for foreign academics in 1992.2 In the 1960s and the 1970s, there were in circulation several sections of Goebbels’ diaries of varying authenticity, most of them found in or acquired to the West via East Germany, as well as rumours of a big deposit in the Soviet Ministry of Defence. Based on the sporadically preserved material, apparently in two different formats, it was believed at least until the 1960s that Goebbels had kept two separate diaries, a handwritten one for private purposes and a semi-official documentary that was dictated and typed. As Dr. Heiber ominously put it in 1962, probably only a very few people know, and these are in the East, what happened to these private and semi-official diaries, for most of what escaped destruction during the fighting in Berlin was presumably captured by the Soviets (Heiber 1962, 15; Stadelmayer 1978).

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The find of the Moscow microfilms is officially attributed to Dr. Elke Frölich, who also shouldered the responsibility of preparing a complete academic edition of the diaries. The project took her team from 1993 to 2006, followed by registers, published in 2007, and an introduction in German by Frölich published in 2008.3 True to his style, David Irving claims to have been the first to lay hands on the glass negatives in Moscow (Irving 2014, vii, xiii).

From Huns to Nazis – British and US anti-German propaganda from World War I to World War II In the Anglophone world, the image of Germans as cruel, inhuman enemies had been in the making at least since the days of World War I. The notion of the German nation as a multiform threat to the civilised world originated in Belgium, where the local civilians attacked the invading German troops. While the Allied celebrated their brave resistance, the Germans retaliated with mass shootings of civilians of all ages and sexes. The reports grew into exaggerated atrocity stories that revelled in wholesale destruction and sadistic mutilations, thus creating a wave of hysteric hatred towards all things German among both the European and the North American audiences (Hayward 2010, 2-97; Lasswell 2013, 131-133). As a result, the pillaging, wrecking, burning “Hun” in pointed helmet, sometimes disguised as a giant ape wielding a wooden club with the word Kultur carved on it, figured as a standard character of the War Bonds and Victory Bonds posters.4 In Britain, the silent threat from the air was pictured as a German war zeppelin stealthily appearing above the London skyline by night.5 World War I provided a testing ground for propaganda efforts on all available media fronts. The effectiveness of the Allied information strategy became apparent in the extent to which they came out as the moral victors. After the war followed a period of disillusionment, when several wartime information wizards came out to reveal their hoax in public. Even the conditions of the Versailles treaty began to seem less virtuous. The fantastic quality of the atrocity stories of crucified soldiers and bayoneted babies, revealed in retrospect, added to the experience of having been manipulated (Bernays 2005, 54-55; Hayward 2010, 102-112; Lasswell 2013; Lippmann 2007). Notwithstanding the intervening period of self-criticism, at the beginning of World War II, the anti-German propaganda took up basically where it

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left off in 1918. Building on the 1930s imagery of cinematic Nazi criminals, the war posters now featured scar-faced men wearing monocles and SS uniforms, while others depicted the Nazi as faceless enemy recognisable only by his uniform or the swastika.6 In Britain, German fighting potential was taken seriously, due to air scares and a fear of invasion (Hayward 2009: v-x, 1-132, 190-246). National Socialist leaders were still considered fair game for fantastic malice. In the Allied camp, they were often depicted as deviants or subhuman criminals (Lasswell 2013, 89-90; Hayward 2009, viii, 87, 9093, 145-173). For Allied ideologues, the most important novelty of the second war no doubt was the presence of efficient German propaganda machinery. Hitler’s reluctant admiration of the World War I anti-German propaganda (Balfour 1979, 11-17) had led to setting up an equivalent domestic institution. As chief enemy propagandist, Goebbels, “monkeyfaced and crippled”, figured regularly in Allied press, while Allied poster artists carefully projected back the malice they undoubtedly detected in Goebbels’ own utterings (Hayward 2009, 148).7 An immediate precursor of American post-war attitudes was What is propaganda?, a manual published by the War Department and distributed among the US soldiers in 1944, giving advice about how to deal with the Germans when entering their soon to be defeated country. The booklet is a curious amalgamation of intellectual effort and propagandist purpose. It opens by discussing the concept, history, tools and limitations of propaganda, and explains that the Germans have been brainwashed by their unscrupulous propagandists. This is not meant as an acquittal for the ordinary people, however, but rather as a way to underline the guilt of their leaders. The “honest” propaganda of a democratic country, such as the US, is legitimised by stating that American people are enlightened, free to choose, and in possession of relevant, undistorted facts. As a propaganda text in its own right, the booklet is a hilarious example of what “they” do – but “we” never will. Throughout the booklet, Hitler figures as the top propagandist of the regime. Goebbels is presented as his cunning underling, bragging on about the invincibility of German forces. Illustrations show Goebbels, recognisable by his realistically rendered facial features and narrow frame but also by his club foot and a party badge, first as happily sowing the seeds of discord, then as a magician speaking to a swastika-topped

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microphone and pulling a rabbit out of a top hat, while a missile is about to hit him on the forehead (What is Propaganda 1944, 6-8, 34).

1938 – Propaganda Minister celebrates the German Revolution The first edition of Goebbels’ diaries, encompassing entries from 1932 to early 1933, was published in Germany soon after the National Socialists came to power. Its translation, My Part in Germany’s Fight came out in Britain in 1938. Written in the intoxicated, joyful atmosphere of initial political victory, the preface gained poignancy from being reissued during the immediate pre-war phase. It became a belated message from the National Socialist regime at its height – looking towards a time of growth and prosperity, if at the cost of the political and ethnic outsiders, when the war was still a distant and possibly avoidable option. For the author, there had still been sunny days ahead, whereas the readership of four years later was looking at a darkening horizon. Whether the intended British readers were those who admired the National Socialist regime, or only wished to inform themselves about political developments in the Continent, remains an open question. The publisher, in a sales notice on the flyleaf, kept the options open. The diary grips the reader owing to the fact that it enables him to follow the struggle between the Nazis and the Communists. Street fights, virulent speeches and press campaigns, daylight murders, fiercely-fought election battles, the organisation against the Jews and the plan adopted by the Nazis to counter adverse propaganda in foreign countries, are some of the myriad facets of Hitlerite activity that are set vividly before us.

Unlike the posthumous editions, this selection of entries was carefully edited (Thacker 2009, 3). In the Introduction (1938, 7-9), Goebbels readily assumed the role of the official mythologist of the movement. As a contemporary who personally took part in the events he described, he claimed to have captured afresh the fierce enthusiasms and antagonisms of the battle. Goebbels hoped to process his notes into memoirs later on, to present the future generations with a founding myth (Gellner, 1983, 57-58, 61, 124) of a Reich that would last a millennium. The millennial ideal was shared by Albert Speer, who designed his monuments so that they would remain impressive even as ruins (Speer 2003, 96-97, 224-225) – a wish that the Allied would later efficiently wreck.

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True to his early socialist ideals, Goebbels stressed the legitimacy of the National Socialists’ rise to power by picturing it as a genuine Revolution: an inevitable outcome of historical necessity, self-evidently acceptable by the people whom it was designed to benefit. Hitler’s daring scheme to renew the economic, cultural and political life of the German nation would put an end to the humiliations of 1918 and the Weimar period once and for all. According to the diarist, something wonderful and unique was about to begin; great dreams had suddenly come true (Goebbels, ibid. 8). Seeking further legitimation, Goebbels invoked the Christian divinity: “God’s hand has been upon it all. He has visibly directed the Leader and his Movement.” He also likened the process to an irresistible force of nature. It “had grown organically, broke forth like a torrent […] and swept over the whole country” (ibid.). By combining traditional Christian rhetoric with a typically leftist force-of-nature metaphor, Goebbels possibly referred to the Third Way ideal of cross-class national unity. Above all, Goebbels praised the Leader. According to him, Hitler’s energy and resolution would at a long last create a strong government, steering the country towards a great future. The “unshakable love, fidelity, and devotion” the old comrades felt for him, as well as the trust they had for one another, was to become the nucleus of the renewed national community. The Führer principle, a simple pyramid structure based on a hierarchy of chiefs and subordinates, was applied also to the political leaders, who “felt themselves one with the political troops, entrusted to their guidance” (ibid. 9). Goebbels declared that the National Socialists had a just claim to victory and power. Emulating the emerging Nazi cult of masculinity, he praised the movement’s unsung heroes for their dependability and loyalty, enthusiasm and sacrifice. His whole book was “a monument to the Party in its great struggle, and to the Sturm Abteilung” whose actions were often described on its pages (ibid. 8-9). The contribution of the S.A. had indeed been vital in the movement’s fighting years, but the organisation had all but ceased to exist already in the summer of 1934, in the Night of the Long Knives purge (e.g. Kershaw 1999, 435, 500, 512-522). The original German version of the book bears a dedication to the Führer, dated “Berlin, am 30. Januar 1934” (Goebbels 1934, 5), revealing that the book was first published while the S.A. was still intact. Curiously enough, the English edition of four years later still celebrates this long since crushed group.

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According to Goebbels, the National Socialists never fought dirty – unlike the opponent, who by a campaign of lies in the press had enforced them “to wade in the mud” (Goebbels, ibid.). By alluding to the iconic mud of World War I as a poetic image, Goebbels perhaps delicately referred to the comradeship of the trenches as an origin of the National Socialist identity. To Goebbels, political fighting resembled a war experience – soldiering on, faithfully together, despite being smeared with lies. The allusion may even have served as a way to personally identify with the war generation, regardless that the deformed foot had prevented him from actually fighting the war. The three-page introduction of the British edition is a much shortened and somewhat rearranged version of the eight-page German original (Goebbels 1934, 7-14). The omitted passages elaborate on the theme of divine guidance, the revolutionary nature of the Nazi victory, and the personal role of the Führer, adding aspects about the ideological adversaries, mainly Soviet Union, and the great future of the German nation.

1948 – Louis P. Lochner of Associated Press remembers “the little doctor” The first posthumous, post-war English edition of the diaries came out in 1948, in the aftermath of the Nuremberg trials. The Goebbels Diaries 1942-43, selected, translated and edited by Louis P. Lochner was published in the US by Doubleday. The British edition was published by Hamish Hamilton in the same year. The book opens with a short Publisher’s note (Goebbels 1948, vii-xi), basically a sanctimonious sales pitch introducing the diarist as a vile and cynical warmonger, who almost singlehandedly brought on the Holocaust. Goebbels indulged in free and easy abuse of everybody who disagreed with him. His entries are given as he wrote them, with the gutter language into which he frequently lapsed. […] The selections reveal Goebbels as the unflagging motive force behind the vicious anti-Semitism of the Nazi regime. He urged Hitler on to the excesses which shocked the world; his aim was the extermination of all Jews. […]. Goebbels also reveals himself as violently opposed to the Christian churches. He […] he plans to deal with the churches after the war and reduce them to impotence (ibid. x-xi).

Eager to express moral condemnation, the publisher accentuates Goebbels’ anti-Christian stance. His verbal competence is dismissed in the same vein,

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presenting his calculated use of rough words as involuntary lapses of an uncouth mind. The publisher’s appetite for scandal becomes evident in the repetition of the word “reveal”. The overall tone is vindictive and devoid of relativism. The book is presented essentially as a means of posthumously bringing to winners’ justice one of the top officials of the criminal regime of the losing side. The provenience of the diary excerpts is given as a warrant for their authenticity. Dramatising the circumstances of the find, the publisher en passant takes the opportunity to play down the emerging new Cold War rival, the Soviet Union, by making snide remarks about the provinciality of the Russian occupants of Berlin – “emptying papers on the floor and shipping to Russia the filing cabinets”. A list of other documents found in the bundles of Goebbels’ mixed papers is included, possibly as evidence of extravagant lifestyle. There is an expense account of a wartime flight trip to Hitler’s headquarters; a letter from a “Nazi tax consultant”; an inventory of the valuables, such as oriental rugs and silverware, of Goebbels’ private home; a balance sheet showing his personal income of the years 19331937; a blueprint of a radio address; a list of clothes to be given to Winterhilfe; and a receipt of a purchase of six paintings by German artists, intended as gifts, in January 1945, “three months before Berlin fell”. Louis, or Ludwig, Paul Lochner (1887-1975), the editor and translator of the excerpts, was a German-American journalist and writer. During World War I, he was one of the leading figures of the American pacifist movement and had an active role in the international mediations to end the war. In 1924, he was appointed to the Berlin bureau of Associated Press. He interviewed Hitler both before and after his ascent to power, in 1930 and 1933. When the second war broke out, he followed the German Army first to Poland, then to the Netherlands, Belgium and France. His endeavour to provide objective news coverage from the German side of the war won him the 1939 Pulitzer Prize for foreign correspondence. After the declaration of war between Germany and the US in December 1941, the Berlin government interned all the Americans remaining in the country. Lochner was released in May 1942 as part of a prisoner exchange. Back home, he took up his career of a pacifist, lecturing and writing about the menace of Nazism, while acting as a news analyst and commentator for the NBC. Towards the end of the war, he returned to Europe, working as a correspondent until 1946. His later publications include several works on German history and present-day affairs (Breaking News 2007, 224, 264-270).8

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Compared with the publisher’s text, Lochner’s 26-page Introduction is personal, moderate and serious. In the beginning, he discusses the problems related to presenting a representative sample in a limited space as well as translating colloquial and slang phrases. He also assesses the documentary value of the diary and offers material details relevant to source criticism (Lochner 1948, xiii, xxi). No doubt some of the missing pages went up in flames, for there is a smell of burnt paper about the whole collection, and some pages are singed. It is also likely that large sections of the diaries, indeed whole volumes, were destroyed in ignorance of their content and importance. If this is true, the world has lost documents of inestimable value (xiii).

Lochner quotes extensively from Goebbels’ handwritten diary from August 1925 to October 1926, which had been presented to the expresident Herbert Hoover on his visit to Berlin in 1946. Comparing the 1920s text with the wartime documents, Lochner pronounces the “similarity of vituperative expression” to prove that the typed diaries were authentic and expressed the author’s real thoughts (ibid. xv-xvi). Goebbels’ neat German script that at first had appeared regular and clear, proved difficult to decipher. It seemed to reveal a sinister, dual personality, apparently frank and straightforward, with a disarming smile and ingratiating voice, [Goebbels] was in reality a master at hiding his true thoughts behind a mask of urbanity. In his handwriting, too, he evidently tried to hide something (ibid. xxi).

The introduction opens with a description of Goebbels’ formative years, at that time unfamiliar to the general public and therefore worth recounting. Lochner duly notes Goebbels’ studies of history and literature, resulting in a PhD degree in 1921, and his ambition to become a writer of fiction. The crucial period from 1922 until 1926 saw the transformation of a drifting, embittered youth with a gift of eloquence into an activist of the Party. As Lochner sees it, Goebbels converted to Nazism largely through personal affection for Hitler. He became first a travelling speaker in the Ruhr valley then occupied by France, and later the editor of the Völkische Freiheit; according to Lochner, his “articles against the French Negro troops [in the Ruhr area] were especially vitriolic”. For a while, Goebbels joined forces with Gregor Strasser, the left-wing radical of the party, with whom he managed to secure the movement a working-class following (ibid. xivxvii, xx-xxi).

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Meanwhile, Hitler was winning over the petit bourgeoisie and nationalists. Opportunist as he was, Goebbels soon sensed that Strasser and the Fuehrer did not see eye to eye, and decided that his bread was buttered on the Hitler side. He voted with his idol against his friend.

As the Gauleiter of the so-called “Red” Berlin, from 1926, Goebbels worked hand-in-glove with the local S.A., and viciously attacked the Communist press in his party papers. “This young man showed that he possessed something which many an older politician could well envy him: an uncanny understanding of the psychology of the German people” (ibid. xx-xxiv). As a journalist, resident in Berlin from the mid-1920s, Lochner had longstanding experience with the dramatis personae of the National Socialist regime. His personal impressions lend drama to the text, but also declare his stance. What struck me as I heard Dr. Goebbels that first time [in 1932], and what made me watch him closely thereafter, was the fact that this diminutive man, one of the most versatile spellbinders Germany has had for generations, was absolutely cool and self-possessed, while at the same time he gave the impression of being deeply stirred and carried away by his own eloquence. His voice, of a deeply resonant quality, seemed to quiver with emotion. His gestures seemed passionate […], however: his fascinatingly delicate hands moved in powerful gestures without the slightest trembling and belied the quiver in his voice. His gestures, although seemingly spontaneous, indicated careful planning, for he always threw himself into position for a particular gesture before actually beginning to execute it. Beside him lay a watch which he consulted from time to time […]. In short, here was a showman who knew exactly what he was doing and who calculated in advance the effect of every spoken word and every gesture (ibid. xxiv).

Time and again, Lochner refers to Goebbels as “the little doctor” (ibid. xiv, xviii, xx, xxi, xxvi, xxxviii), once also as “the fiery doctor” (ibid. xxi). Even though the nicknames, ironically pointing out the discrepancy between Goebbels’ small stature and forceful spirit, apparently were in common use (Manvell and Fraenkel 2010, flyleaf), they seem to convey odd familiarity.

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Describing Goebbels’ personality, Lochner consistently mixes the bad with the less bad, finely balancing the human and the “demon” side. Goebbels was ambitious and opportunistic; with an “almost psychopathic lust for power” and the ability to use any information to achieve that end; a nervous workaholic; colossally vain and susceptible to flattery; and despotic. On the other hand, he was a true intellectual, able to produce compelling and convincing arguments (Lochner ibid. xxi-xxv, xxxixxxvi). Unlike the publisher, Lochner obviously appreciates Goebbels verbal powers. Goebbels proved to be a wizard as a demagogue. He mixed satire with humour, irony with sombreness, quips in the vernacular with pontifical adjurations. His dark, piercing eyes, his straight black hair brushed back, his taut skin made one think of Mephistopheles (Lochner ibid. xxii).

The burning of books by the S.A. in the evening of 10 May, 1933, is one of the iconic moments of the National Socialist regime, re-enacted ever since in countless novels, films and TV-serials. Lochner’s early description is worth citing at length both for its documentary value and as an example of his – and Goebbels’ – style. All that afternoon Nazi raiding parties had been going into public and private libraries throwing on to the streets such books as Dr. Goebbels in his supreme wisdom had decided were unfit for Nazi Germany […], and every few minutes another howling mob arrived, adding more books to the impressive pyre. At dusk, university students, mobilized by the little doctor, surrounded the bonfire and greeted the first flames with songs, cheers and a war-dance. When the orgy was at its height, a cavalcade of cars appeared. It was the Propaganda Minister himself, accompanied by his bodyguard and a number of fellow torch-bearers of the new Nazi Kultur. “Fellow students, German men and women!” he said as he stepped before a microphone for all Germany to hear him. “The age of extreme Jewish intellectualism is now ended, and the success of the German revolution has again given the right of way to German sprit. […] You are doing the right thing in committing the evil spirit of the past to the flames at this late hour of the night. It is a strong, great and symbolic act – an act that is to bear witness before all the world to the fact that the spiritual foundation of the November Republic has disappeared. From these ashes there will rise the phoenix of a new spirit […].” The few foreign correspondents who had taken the trouble to view this “symbolic act” were stunned. What had happened to the “Land of Thinkers and Poets”? they wondered (ibid. xxvi-xxvii).

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Lochner criticises the top Nazis of living in luxury – giving as an example a particularly extravagant outdoor party of baroque splendour, where he himself was a guest – while projecting to the common people an image of modest domesticity (ibid. xxvii-xxix). On the other hand, he gives Goebbels credit for being genuinely interested in solving social and economic problems, and even advocating decent food and pay for the wartime slave labour, if only to stir up production (ibid. xxxv-xxxviii). About Goebbels’ family life, Lochner grudgingly admits that he loved his children, yet quotes with veiled malice the Berlin gossip about his demanding Magda to deliver one baby a year, noting also that the children helped their father in maintaining good relations with “Onkel Adolf” (ibid. xvi, xxiii-xxiv). Echoing the notions of his publisher, Lochner presents Goebbels as a major player in the Jewish question, who by spreading fabricated stories of atrocities committed by Jews had fostered anti-Semitism. He resentfully describes the press-conference in the morning after the Kristallnacht, where Goebbels brazenly declared that neither the Jews nor their property had been harmed – to foreign journalists, including Lochner himself, who had just witnessed, and reported, an evening of burning synagogues, demolished shop windows and beaten Jews. On the other hand, Lochner recounts how he rescued a Jewish friend from deportation by directly appealing to Goebbels (ibid. xxv-xxvi, xxxi-xxxiii). Summing up the historical significance of the diaries, Lochner stresses that seen from the inside totalitarianism appears inept and bungling – not efficient, as was the common belief. The diaries also reveal the amorality of the Nazi foreign policy, “ready to cheat friend, foe and neutral alike”, as well as their contempt for other nations, hate of Christianity, and the plan to exterminate Jews. Considering Goebbels’ position in the Nazi scheme of things, Lochner – in 1948 – hastens to emphasise that this was not just some self-important petty official, but an important figure, who with Hitler and Göring formed what he calls the Nazi trinity. In wartime, the “little doctor” was easily the most influential man after Hitler, “running the country while Hitler was running the war” (ibid. xxxiii-xxxviii).

1962 – 20th century master propagandist in context, by Alan Bullock The early Goebbels diaries, 1925-1926, published in the US by Praeger and in Britain by Weidenfeld and Nicolson, contain the entries already

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sampled by Lochner. The preface was written by Alan Bullock (19142004), a British historian who during World War II worked for the BBC Europe and later successfully combined progressive, social democratic ideals with an Oxford career (Knapp 2008). Bullock was an obvious choice for writing the introduction to the second set of Goebbels’ diaries that came out in English. His Hitler: A Study in Tyranny (1952), published ten years before and based on the transcripts of the Nuremberg Trials, was the first comprehensive Hitler biography. In his late magnum opus, Hitler and Stalin: Parallel Lives (1991), he analysed the Nazi regime in the broader context of a European totalitarianism. Because of his tendency to focus on the individual, personal responsibility of the key protagonists of turbulent ideological regimes, Bullock has sometimes been called a “conservative” historian. Yet societal structures and mass phenomena as motive forces also have a part to play in his interpretations. Far from passing easy moral judgements on their subjects, his books are rare feats of detached scholarship. Bullock names Goebbels the most interesting personality of the Nazi cadres, emphasising his epoch-making role in Hitler’s rise to power, his innovative take on the fast-developing media scene, and his ability to survive in the violent political atmosphere of Berlin. To put the present – pre-Berlin and pre-fame – entries into context, he describes Goebbels as the master propagandist he was yet to become, second only to Hitler as a mob-orator, and the best journalist of the party – he set a new style in political campaigning which still makes these contests classic cases for anyone who wants to understand the character of twentieth-century mass politics. And he did this, without the help of radio and television, at a time when it was still a novelty (which Goebbels fully exploited) for a political leader like Hitler to get from one meeting to the next by aeroplane. Once in power, Goebbels developed an aggressive use of radio, press and film on a scale and with a boldness and total lack of scruple which made propaganda a major instrument of political control at home and of foreign policy abroad. As a propagandist Goebbels was a master who has had few equals, a dubious claim to fame indeed but one not to be ignored in the history of this turbulent century” (Bullock 1962, 7-8).

Bullock points out that even though Goebbels was ready to oppose Hitler’s policies, e.g. the occupation of Russia, he remained intensely loyal. Mentioning Bormann’s attempts to isolate the Führer by making him distrustful of his aids, Bullock suggests that Hitler fell prey to

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machinations not unlike those that would surround the aging Stalin. He also credits Goebbels for personal courage and capacity to rise to events – he gave radio addresses when Hitler refused to perform, remained in Berlin during heavy bombing, organised civil defence operations and, as the only Nazi leader, visited bombed cities. During the last, desperate phase of the war, he refused to be evacuated and, as the only one of the 1933 cadres, remained with his Führer until the bitter end (ibid. 7-11). Describing Goebbels’ personality, Bullock lists the features already pinned down by Lochner. Goebbels was a brazen liar, unscrupulous, restless, power-hungry, and cruel; a preacher of violence and hatred, merciless to his opponents and virulent against the Jews. He was also guilty of war crimes and unrepentant – as were all Hitler’s lieutenants. On the positive side, Goebbels had practical intelligence, professionalism and orderly working habits, which made him an efficient and exacting boss for the employees of his ministry. Yet, as Bullock saw him, he was not guided by rational motives, but by emotions: prejudice, hatred and passion. At heart he was an energetic and intense performer, who carefully prepared his appearances and rehearsed his speeches (ibid. 9-11). Whatever he undertook – as agitator, demagogue, lover, Minister, or in the last scene of all, as the faithful lieutenant – he displays the same overintensity, the same self-conscious playing for effect” (ibid. 11).

Unlike the other introduction writers, Bullock comments on the immediate human environment where Goebbels operated. There is a suggestive homoerotic clang in his description of Goebbels’ fondness of overtly masculine company, e.g. how during the fighting years he employed a personal bodyguard and enjoyed rousing the storm-troopers to enthusiasm by aggressively preaching against “the System”. All in all, Bullock’s opinion of Goebbels’ party comrades was none too high: The possession of a critical mind, even when kept in blinkers, was a doubtful recommendation in the Nazi hierarchy. Goebbels had a malicious darting wit for which the stupidities and vanity of his fellow bosses provided all too many targets. It was no wonder that he was unpopular. […] In a party that swarmed with strong-arm bullies and veterans of war from which he had been excluded, Goebbels had only his brains and his tongue with which to make his way (ibid. 10).

Towards the end, Bullock gives a tentative testimony of the authenticity of the material, based on Heiber (1962). To him, the diaries of Goebbels’ early years – even though written in a self-dramatising style that “reads

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like a caricature of an adolescent’s diary”, recounting love-affairs and mood switches – nevertheless describe the key years of both personal and historical significance: the rebuilding of the movement after the Munich Putsch, when Nazis were just one of many insignificant subversive groups, the competition between Hitler and the Strassers and Goebbels’ evolving role as the eventual kingmaker (Bullock, ibid. 11-14). According to Bullock, the unusual historical role Goebbels came to play gives even his youthful self-portrait more than individual validity. Goebbels was not a typical Nazi, but he could well pass as a representative of the restless, radical intellectuals, power-loving, cynical and amoral, who have played a considerable prole in the politics of the twentieth century, and not only in Nazi Germany (ibid. 12).

Bullock’s treatise is complemented by the translated Introduction to the original German edition, by Helmut Heiber (1924-2003), a West-German historian, who in his youth served in the Wehrmacht, remained as POW in Yugoslavia until 1949 and later specialised in the history and personages of the Third Reich.9 Heiber touches upon the documentary value of Goebbels’ other published works, discusses the nature of his diary as a document of the private life of a man, whose public role affected the lives of millions, and recounts Goebbels’ biography in interesting detail (Heiber 1962, 15-25).

1978 – Hugh Trevor-Roper introduces a dead enemy The entries documenting the last spring of the Nazi era were published in 1978, in the middle of the Cold War – in Britain under the heading The Last Days, by Secker & Warburg, in the US as The Final Entries by Putnam. The book came out less than a decade after the memoirs of Albert Speer (1970), whose contribution to the subsequent image of Nazi Germany proved substantial. The book was edited and annotated by Hugh Trevor-Roper (1914-2003), a coeval of Bullock, like him an Oxbridge academic though with more aristocratic airs, who during wartime had served as an intelligence officer. Immediately after the fall of Berlin he performed, on behalf of the Western Allies, the official investigation concerning the fate of the Führer, later published as The Last Days of Hitler (1947). In his writings, Trevor-Roper rejected all mechanistic doctrines and inescapable historical forces. Instead, he focussed on the free wills of his subjects, calling them to

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account for the consequences of their actions; yet he also made use of social structures as explanations. As a historian he combined exacting standards of evidence with an interest in ideological systems and the related imagery. His late career was overshadowed by his erroneous authentication, in 1983, of a forged manuscript as the genuine diaries of Adolf Hitler (Davenport-Hines 2007; Sisman 2010; Harris 1996). Compared with the momentary “re-humanising” attempts by Lochner and Bullock, Trevor-Roper’s Introduction is not particularly gentle. Like Bullock, he finds Goebbels the most interesting of the old comrades who remained with Hitler to the end. As Trevor-Roper sees it, Goebbels needed Hitler to rise, yet also significantly contributed to his power. He recognises Goebbels’ role as the mythmaker of Nazism, whose propaganda, though crude and violent, was managed with flexibility and sophistication. Goebbels’ use of repetition was forceful, he appealed to emotions and instincts, gave precise instructions, and skilfully directed hatred and contempt. By way of meta-analysis, Trevor-Roper offers that Goebbels was “the first man to realise the full potentialities of mass media for political purposes in a dynamic totalitarian state.” For Trevor-Roper, the diaries, from the beginning planned as the main document on Nazism, were an important but also dangerous source (Trevor-Roper 1978, xv-xvi, xx, xxix). The introduction takes the form of detailed political biography, weaving the description of personality into a story of its development, proceeding from Goebbels’ youth to the in-office period, towards the war and then on, until the events described in the diary. Trevor-Roper relies heavily on earlier authors, quoting Rudolf Semmler (1947), Manvell and Fraenkel (1960) as well as Lochner (1948) for details. Strangely enough, he often quotes Albert Speer – presented as an embodiment of normalcy among the otherwise alien Nazi crowd – as a particularly reliable witness, even when Speer obviously comments on Goebbels as his rival. Like Lochner, Trevor-Roper emphasises the socialist aspect of Goebbels’ early political activity, his creative take on the style of the Nazi ceremonies, and his crucial role in the invention of the Führer cult. TrevorRoper contemptuously downplays Goebbels’ academic pursuits: “Failing to make any mark at the university” – certainly on the standards of TrevorRoper, who had begun his career as an Oxford golden boy (Sisman 2010, 25-76) – and after his dreams of a fiction writer’s career had been thwarted by a “Jew monopoly”, Goebbels joined the party early on, leading the

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Rhineland radicals with Gregor Strasser until the leader of the Munich petty bourgeois fraction, Adolf Hitler, won him over. From then on, Goebbels orchestrated everything for his Führer – rituals of devotion, demonstrations of power, persecution of scapegoats and ceremonial violence, e.g. the “spontaneous” Kristallnacht (Trevor-Roper, ibid. xvixiii). Perhaps surprisingly, Trevor-Roper recognises Goebbels as one of those who tried to avert the war. The notion is based on Speer, who, according to his memoirs, at the time had scorned Goebbels and Göring as weaklings, camouflaging their unwillingness to give up luxury and privilege with noble anti-war sentiments. During the victorious phase of the war, Goebbels’ role was reduced into that of a commentator, who ridiculed the enemy, organised victory parades and generally advertised the Reich. Military humiliations brought Goebbels back to the forefront, marking a return to the spirit of the Kampfzeit. In the diaries, he reflected with “cynical candour” the themes that were kept off the papers: the euthanasia programme, anti-church ideas, the final solution of the Jewish question and the planned conquest and exploitation in the East. In the context of the attempt to assassinate Hitler in 1944, Trevor-Roper briefly mentions Goebbels’ prompt intervention to stop the coup; then he hastens to describe the fate of the conspirators, who were “executed with revolting cruelty. They were hanged from meat-hooks and slowly strangled” (ibid. xix-xxvii). When the defeat was imminent, Goebbels advocated for negotiations for peace. Not committed to the Eastern project, he was free to suggest surrendering to Russia, possibly in the hope of forming a new alliance against the West. Failing that, Germany should engage in total war. Trevor-Roper mocks Goebbels’ desperate hopes-against-hope as “fantasies of victory”. According to him, Goebbels “snatched at every straw of comfort and often stopped to hear, and admire, the echo of his own propaganda”. On the other hand, Trevor-Roper describes the real-world Goebbels visiting bombed cities, doing his best – and failing – to coax Hitler to do the same. Yet, according to Trevor-Roper, Goebbels saw no point in saving Germany should Nazism fail (ibid. xxvi-xxxi). In the light of Goebbels’ last letter to his stepson Harald immediately before the suicide, asking him to stay true to the German nation (see Thacker 2010, 300), the accusation does not ring quite true.

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Trevor-Roper agrees with the previous authors about Goebbels’ personality. He had a lucid mind, “could distinguish the objective truth from propaganda”, was ambitious and power-hungry, and liked to picture himself as a connoisseur. In the diaries, “we see his opportunism, his radicalism, his nihilism, his hatred of humanity; but also his incredible mental energy, his unfailing flair for propaganda, and his personal courage” (Trevor-Roper, ibid. xvii, xxv, xxx). Preoccupied with the mythical and millennial aspects of the Reich, Goebbels felt compelled to dramatise even its end, in the hope that after a hundred years the whole process would be seen in a more positive light (ibid. xxxi-xxxii). Trevor-Roper’s description of this film-style “Twilight of the Gods” is a clever distillation, if not a very charitable one. He describes the events in Berlin after the marriage and double suicide of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun, ending with the lurid funeral in the Chancellery garden. Then, with all his family, [Goebbels] too committed suicide, having first seen to it that a manifesto should reach the world to put the correct propagandist gloss on this final gesture of annihilation. He destroyed himself, typically, in the shadow of his leader, whose votive lamp he had tended, making himself visible only by its rays. For Goebbels was essentially a man of words, images, gestures. He had no ideas, no beliefs of his own. Positive aims he had none: even the positive aims of Nazism – race, blood, an empire in the East – meant nothing to him. […] He depended on external stimulus because he had no inner impulse, and needed incessant activity as an escape from inner emptiness. […] His theatrical gestures were always an incitement to destruction: hymns of hate against the bourgeoisie, the Bolsheviks, the Jews. His chosen form of action was destructive violence: organised street riots, broke plate-glass windows, bonfires of books. His chosen ceremonial was the funeral: the funeral of Horst Wessel, regular funerals of SS-men, the funeral-march for Stalingrad. [… H]is last ceremony should be the funeral of Hitler (ibid. xxxii-xxxiii).

From Trevor-Roper’s text emerge several imagery clusters of semiotic significance. His obvious aim is to juxtapose certain modes of Nazi power to those characteristic of Middle Age societies. This mediaevalesque cluster includes ceremonial public violence, Berlin as Goebbels’ “fiefdom” and his conflict with other “feudatories”, his intense personal loyalty towards the Führer as his king, and the early war period when “Germany grew fat on the spoils of Europe and Göring stacked his palaces with the most priceless treasures and the costliest wines looted from the

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conquered West” (ibid. xxv-xxvi, xviii, xxi). A continuum from the mediaevalesque to the most modern is apparent in a series of Goebbels’ epithets: Trevor-Roper calls him “the great master of the lie”, a “virtuoso master of ceremonies” and an “impresario of genius” (ibid. xvi, xxii-xxiii). Another thematic cluster refers to sources and practices of power typical of the early modern court aristocracy. As Trevor-Roper sees it, in Hitler’s “court” influence stemmed from a personal relation to the “ruler” or to his favourites. This in turn resulted in intrigues and rivalries – e.g. plans to displace Bormann’s “kitchen cabinet” and snide remarks about Göring’s “baroque” style of dress. Other courtier themes include elegant conversation, cultured manners and refined tastes; palatial residences; decadence; beautiful women and love affairs. In Goebbels’ case, luxury combined with a studied image of austerity – his life was “outwardly almost puritanically simple” and the “frugality of his entertainment was notorious” (ibid. xx-xxi, xxiii-xxiv, xxvii). Unexpectedly, Trevor-Roper comes close to drawing a parallel between Goebbels and Churchill – between Stalingrad and Dunkirk. After defeat, each of them sought to rouse the same spirit. Even though Goebbels refrained from directly quoting Churchill, he fully copied his strategy of telling the truth to the people. Quoting the memoirs of Albert Speer (1970), Trevor-Roper reluctantly notes this “British” Stoicism: a dignified approach to defeat, accompanied by a resolution to fight on (TrevorRoper, ibid. xxii-xxiii). Alas, the style did not last. [Goebbels] made one of his most famous speeches, in which he demanded even greater efforts and promised that blood, sweat and tears (though not of course in those words) would bring ultimate victory. In the course of the speech he gave vent to the usual hysterical radicalism. Speer, who was there, afterwards said that he had never seen an audience so effectively roused to fanaticism. Goebbels pulled out all the stops and screamed abuse at the Jews who, he declared, were behind all Germany’s enemies. […] After his speech, he was carried shoulder-high from the hall; then he relaxed in the company of Albert Speer who was ultimately to be the effective organiser of the total war of which Goebbels was merely the trumpeter. To Speer’s astonishment, Goebbels quietly and complacently analysed, as a purely technical exercise, the speech which, at the time, had seemed as a spontaneous outburst (ibid. xxiii-xiv).

Trevor-Roper’s introduction is supplemented by Peter Stadelmayer’s The story of the Goebbels diaries, recounting the story-so-far – how the diaries came to be, and how they were stored, microfilmed, hidden, lost and partly found. He lists the previous publications and describes the microfilm copy

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(it, too, of East-German origin) on which the book at hand is based. Commenting on Goebbels’ practice of not correcting the typed versions, he likens the reading experience to being able “to listen to the most articulate of the Third Reich’s leaders dictating a rough draft” (Stadelmayer 1978, xxxv-xli).

1982 – a casual post-Vietnam foreword by John Keegan The Goebbels Diaries 1939-1941, describing the initial optimistic phase of Germany’s war, were published by Hamish Hamilton in Britain in 1982 and by Putnam in the US in 1983. The German original was translated and edited by Fred Taylor (1947-), with a foreword by John Keegan (19342012), both British historians specialising in German and military history (Reid 2016). From a publishers’ point of view, the sensationalist phase was clearly over. As the blurb of the American version states, the diary provides unique insights into the bizarre phenomenon that was Hitler’s Germany – its leaders, its mechanisms of power, and, above all, the role that Goebbels himself played in the shifting sands of totalitarian politics. What emerges is a disturbed but strangely human character: a warmonger who was a devoted family man; […] a cynical mass manipulator and selfconfessed loather of mankind who was nevertheless capable of sincere hero worship of the Führer. Here is the Third Reich stripped naked by one of its own. Few historical documents illustrate so tellingly […] the brute power, the oppressiveness, and, even at the zenith of its fortunes, the ultimate hollowness of the Nazi dream.

Compared with the earlier treatises, Keegan’s Foreword (1983, ix-xiii) is short and impersonal. It is also the only one to contain an explicit statement of authenticity – contested outright by Elke Frölich, due to the obscurity of its provenience (New York Magazine, 30 May, 1983). Keegan, too, notes the effect of the Speer memoirs on the view on wartime Germany. He recounts Goebbels’ biography with a special focus on his media work, the changing political atmosphere of Berlin, and the crucial role of the S.A. during the Party’s fighting period. Otherwise neutral, the description contains a curious slight about Goebbels’ supposedly lacking “charity boy’s education” (Keegan, ibid. ix). Like Bullock, Keegan also refrains from allowing him his Doctor title. Like Trevor-Roper, Keegan resorted to mediaevalesque terms to point out the neo-feudal nature of the National Socialist rule – Goebbels, the “lord

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of the media”, transformed Berlin into “a Nazi fief”. Keegan echoes the previous introductionists also when stating that Goebbels was a loyal follower to the Führer and a dutiful and tireless worker. He was a galvanising speaker whose “brilliant intelligence and brazen tongue could compensate for his lameness [… and] tiny stature” and a natural-born propagandist with an ability “to sway the national imagination”. Yet Goebbels never himself shrank from the truth. […] When the reality of war turned irreversibly against Germany, he was to be the first to invoke its force and, through it, seek to evoke from the Germans a will to resist to death. That so many did so resist was to be his supreme triumph as journalist and orator. That he chose to join them was a myth-maker’s identification with a story and its end (ibid. xiii).

Conclusion: introductions of three generations, through five decades Trying to analyse a series of introductions, by several authors, to the excerpts of another author’s diaries, is like taking a walk in a forest of mirrors. Considering how some people felt about someone else’s ideas about what his life “really” was like, one basically reflects the reflections of a reflection. Diaries have the makings of the most truthful of all documents, yet they also allow the author most licence to omit, interpret and misrepresent than any other genre. An introducer of such texts is almost, but not quite, as free to impose his personal notions upon those of the original diarist’s. In addition, the moment of the act of writing, moving forward in time, gives each author a particular historical perspective on the events described. The ideological regimes covered in the Goebbels diaries begin with the first war and the Weimar period overlapping with the party Kampfzeit. They are followed by the pre-war National Socialist period, the war up to, and then after, Stalingrad – until the beginning of descent towards peace. The second sequence, documented in the margins of the introductions, begins with the end of the World War II, followed by the Nuremberg trials, the beginning of the Cold War and the forming of the two Blocs. A relativising effect on the general idea of warfare was brought on by the Korean (1950-1953) and particularly the Vietnam War (1964-1975).

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The authors of the introductions represent three very different generations. Louis P. Lochner, the German-American author of the 1948 introduction, born in 1887, was in his late twenties at the beginning of the first war, and a mature man in his fifties during the second. He was the only one of the introductionists who had experienced the disillusionment following the World War I at an adult age, and the only one with long-standing personal ties with German culture. He was also the only one who had met Goebbels, and Hitler, in person, and therefore psychologically bound to do them justice. Also, his introduction was written immediately after the war, with the experience still fresh in his mind. For all these reasons, it was the most original, the most directly personal, multifaceted and richly detailed, drawn in full colour instead of black-and-white. As an experienced journalist he also knew which topics to choose, and how to bring the events alive before the eyes of his reader. The next two introductionists, Alan Bullock and Hugh Trevor-Roper, seem to have had many things in common. As exact coevals, born in 1914, they experienced World War II as young adults. Both were active within information warfare, instead of the regular killing business. Later they pursued long and successful Oxbridge careers and lived to a ripe old age. Nevertheless, their styles could not be any wider apart. Bullock looks at the diaries as a true historian – as documents of things past, not as evidence of evil deeds committed by a person. Detaching himself from moral considerations, with neither programmatic nor personal bitterness, he considers Goebbels within the wider context of the 20th-century totalitarianisms. His focus is on the historical Nazi regime, and on the significant role Goebbels played in its rise and fall. The memoirs of Albert Speer, Hitler’s architect and later his Minister of Armaments and War Production, were published in German in 1969; the English translation edition came out the following year. Speer’s revelations provided an alternative inside angle on the characters and events depicted in the Goebbels diaries, and their publication certainly left a mark on the history culture regarding the high officials of the National Socialist Germany. Rudolf Hoess’ autobiography that came out already in 1959 seems not to have influenced the preface authors as much, possibly because of its more limited focus on the regime as such. Trevor-Roper’s 1978 introduction comes with an innocent moral superiority – possibly based on his youthful contempt of the German enemy,

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combined with his wartime impressions of Goebbels as the only Nazi intellectual (Sisman 2011, 39-41; Trevor-Roper 2015, 245-248). For a former military man, introducing a diary describing the final phase of the war from the angle of a one-time mighty opponent who eventually found himself on the losing side, offered an opportunity to gloat. On the other hand, for the aging historian the past possibly glowed in nostalgic colours, evoking memories of a time when war could, at least for someone like him, still be a gentleman’s sport. Revisiting the warlike days with Albert Speer as his guide, Trevor-Roper, seemingly well pleased with his ability to partly forgive at least one of his old opponents, i.e. Speer, nevertheless saw no reason to mince words when discussing a dead enemy. Another post-Speer diary edition, the last before the discovery of the complete set, was introduced by John Keegan. Born in 1934, he had been a schoolboy in the 1940s. As a professional military historian, with little personal experience of World War II and writing long after the Vietnam War, his attitude towards past wars was necessarily even more relativistic than that of his predecessors. From 1948 to 1982, Goebbels’ image developed from a singular warmonger and liar to a “normal” 20th-century totalitarian ideologue. His significance for the Nazi regime and his vital role as its master propagandist had been established already by 1962. The introductionists were in agreement also about his efficient, restless, self-dramatising, unscrupulous and power-hungry personality. For obvious reasons related to the nature of the National Socialist regime, the introduction writers refrained from saying anything overly nice about its head propagandist. Yet a suggestion of a reluctant appreciation is discernible in their texts. All the authors, each in his way, pay homage to a fellow orator, expressing rueful admiration for a remarkable talent gone bad.

References Primary sources Bernays, Edward. 1928/2005. Propaganda. Brooklyn, N.Y.: Ig Publishing. Bullock, Alan. 1952. Hitler: A Study in Tyranny. London: Odham’s Press.

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—. 1962. Preface. In The early Goebbels diaries, 1925-1926: 7-14. New York: Praeger. —. 1991/1998. Hitler and Stalin: Parallel Lives. London: Fontana Press. Destroy This Mad Brute. 1917. World War I poster. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:'Destroy_this_mad_brute'_W WI_propaganda_poster_%28US_version%29.jpg. Accessed 17 September, 2015. Goebbels, Joseph. 1934. Vom Kaiserhof zur Reichskanzlei. Eine historische Darstellung in Tagebuchblättern. Vom 1. Januar 1932 bis zum 1. Mai 1933. München: Franz-Eher-Verlag. —. 1938. My Part in Germany’s Fight. Translated by Dr. Kurt Fiedler. Sine loco. —. 1948. The Goebbels Diaries 1942-43. Edited, translated and with an introduction by Louis P. Lochner. Garden City, NY: 1948. —. 1962. The early Goebbels diaries, 1925-1926. Edited by Helmut Heiber, translated by Oliver Watson. New York: Praeger. —. 1978. The Goebbels Diaries: The Last Days. With an introduction by Hugh Trevor-Roper. London: Book Club Associates. —. 1982/1983. The Goebbels Diaries 1939-41. Translated and edited by Fred Taylor, with a foreword by John Keegan. London: Hamish Hamilton / New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons. He’s Watching You (sine anno). World War II poster. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:THIS_IS_THE_ENEMY__NARA_-_513554.jpg Accessed 19 September, 2015. Heiber, Helmut. 1962. Introduction. In The early Goebbels diaries, 19251926: 15-26. Edited by Helmut Heiber, translated by Oliver Watson. New York: Praeger. Hitler, Adolf. 1925-1926/2008. Mein Kampf. Fortieth impression. Ahmedabad: Jaico Publishing House. Hitler Wants Us To Believe. 1942. World War II poster. http://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/96507434/. Accessed 19 September, 2015. Hoess, Rudolf. 1959/2000. Commandant of Auschwitz: The Autobiography of Rudolf Hoess. Translated by Constantine FitzGibbon. London: Phoenix. I Need Your Help: Spread More Gossip. Sine anno. World War II poster. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2824059/Unseen-BritishWorld-War-Two-information-posters-including-never-seen-HitlerGoering-cartoons-revealed-auction.html. Accessed 19 September, 2015. It Is Far Better To Face The Bullets. 1917. World War I poster.

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https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:It_is_far_better_to_face_the _bullets.jpg. Accessed 17 September, 2015. Keegan, John. 1982. Foreword. In The Goebbels Diaries 1939-41: ix-xiii. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons. Lippmann, Walter. 1921/2007. Public Opinion. La Vergne, Tennessee: BN Publishing. Lochner, Louis P. 1948. Introduction. In The Goebbels Diaries 1942-43: xiii-xxxviii. New York: Garden City. Manwell, Roger and Heinrich Fraenkel. 1960/2010. Doctor Goebbels: His Life and Death. London: Frontline Books. New York Magazine. 1983. 30 May. http://books.google.com/books?id=mICAAAAMBAJ&lpg=PA9&ots=hYYYqR227n&dq=The%20Goebbel s%20Diaries%201939-1941&pg=PA9#v=onepage&q=The%20Goebb els%20Diaries%201939-1941&f=false. Accessed 1 October, 2015. Pictorial Presentation of the True Aryan. 1941. World War II poster. https://apps.carleton.edu/museum/teaching_exhibitions/friends_enemie s/?image_id=885473. Accessed 19 September, 2015. Publisher’s note. 1948. In The Goebbels Diaries 1942-43: vii-xi. New York: Garden City. Remember Belgium. 1918. World War I poster. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:%22Remember_Belgium._B uy_Bonds_Fourth_Liberty_Loan.%22,_ca._1918_-_ca._1918__NARA_-_512441.jpg. Accessed 19 September, 2015. Rumor – Kill it. Sine anno. World War II poster. http://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/13249. Accessed 19 September, 2015. Semmler, Rudolf. 1947. Goebbels, the man next to Hitler. London: Westhouse. Speer, Albert. 1970/2003. Inside the Third Reich. London: Orion Books. This Is The Enemy. 1943. World War II Poster. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:THIS_IS_THE_ENEMY__NARA_-_513554.jpg. Accessed 19 September, 2015. To the British Troops. Sine anno. World War II poster. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:To_the_British_Troops.jpg. Accessed September 17, 2015. Trevor-Roper, Hugh. 1978. Introduction. In The Goebbels Diaries: The Last Days: xv-xxxiii. London: Book Club Associates. —. 1947/2012. The Last Days of Hitler. Basingstoke & Oxford: Pan Books. —. 2012/2015. The Wartime Journals. Edited by Richard DavenportHines. London & New York: I. B. Tauris & Co Ltd.

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What is Nazi propaganda? 1944/2009. War Department Education Manual EM-2. G I Roundtable Series. An introduction to Hitler’s propaganda techniques. First published in 1944 as What is Propaganda? by the United States Government. London: World Propaganda Classics / Foxley Books Limited.

Secondary sources Balfour, Michael. 1979. Propaganda in War 1939-1945: Organisations, Policies and Publics in Britain and Germany. London, Boston and Henley: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Breaking news: how the Associated Press has covered war, peace, and everything else. 2007. New York: Princeton Architectural Press Davenport-Hines, Richard. 2007. Roper, Hugh Redwald Trevor-, Baron Dacre of Glanton (1914-2003). Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/88756, accessed 3 May, 2016. Gellner, Ernst. 1983. Nations and Nationalism. Oxford: Blackwell. Goebbels Diaries. In Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goebbels_Diaries. Accessed 5 September, 2015. Harris, Robert. 1996/1986. Selling Hitler: The Story of the Hitler Diaries. London: Arrow Books. Hayward, James. 2002/2010. Myths and Legends of the First World War. Stroud, Gloucestershire: The History Press. —. 2003/2009. Myths and Legends of the Second World War. Stroud, Gloucestershire: The History Press. Heiber, Helmut. In Wikipedia. https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helmut_Heiber. Accessed 4 January, 2016. Irving, David. 1996/2014. Goebbels: Mastermind of the Third Reich. London: Focal Point. Kershaw, Ian. 1998/1999. Hitler 1889-1936: Hubris. Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin Books. Knapp, Wilfrid. 2008. Bullock, Alan Louis Charles, Baron Bullock (19142004). Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/94810, accessed 3 May, 2016. Lasswell, Harold. 1927/1938/2013. Propaganda Technique in the World War. Mansfield Centre, CT: Martino Publishing. Lochner, Louis P. 2015. In Wikipedia.

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_P._Lochner. Accessed 24 September, 2015. Longerich, Peter. 2015. Goebbels: A Biography. London: The Bodley Head. Reid, Brian Holden 2016. Keegan, Sir John Desmond Patrick (19342012). Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/105422, accessed 3 May, 2016. Sisman, Adam. 2010. Hugh Trevor-Roper: The Biography. London: Orion Books. Stadelmayer, Peter. 1978. The story of the 1945 Goebbels diaries. In The Goebbels Diaries: The Last Days: xxxv-xli. London: Book Club Associates. Thacker, Toby. 2009. Joseph Goebbels: Life and Death. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

Notes 1

I thank The Finnish Association of Non-fiction Writers (Suomen Tietokirjailijat ry) for providing funding for writing this chapter. 2 Wikipedia article on Goebbels Diaries. 3 Wikipedia article on Goebbels Diaries. 4 WWI posters Destroy This Mad Brute (1917) and Remember Belgium (1918) 5 WWI poster It Is Far Better to Face the Bullets (1915). 6 WWII posters To the British Troops (circa 1940), This Is the Enemy (1943) and He’s Watching You (sine anno). 7 WWII posters I Need Your Help – Spread More Gossip (sine anno), Rumor – Kill it (sine anno), Pictorial Presentation of the True Aryan (1941) and Hitler Wants Us to Believe (1942). 8 Wikipedia article on Louis P. Lochner. 9 Wikipedia article (in German) on Helmut Heiber.

CHAPTER TEN TWO BECOME ONE? VISUAL MEMORIES OF REGIME CHANGE 1989/1990 IN GERMANY LUCIA HALDER AND PETRA MAYRHOFER

The collapse of socialism in 1989 was without a doubt the most fundamental regime change across Europe in recent history. The German case was particularly striking as mass protests against communism led to the fall of the Berlin Wall and eventually paved the way to German reunification in 1990. The results of the very sudden and unexpected events that led to the end of communist rule in Eastern Europe and to the end of the Cold War are still influencing politics today and thus – certainly on the occasion of anniversaries – are an essential part of remembrance cultures. The regime changes were widely covered in, and therefore also influenced by, mass media. “Media revolutions” was the term coined by historian Frank Bösch for the events at the end of the 1980s (Bösch, 2010). Moreover, as the events have been highly mediatised, TV, film and historical photographs serve as visual means of remembrance. Hence, from the perspective of visual history, regime changes are always representations of real events as well as retrospective battles for sovereignty over their interpretation (Paul 2012, 30). If we take seriously the claims of cultural history, i.e. that history and remembrance are not only (re)constructed by textual means, it is necessary to also take images into account when addressing questions of depicting and remembering regime changes. Revolutions, political changes and therefore phases of transition in modern and contemporary history have always been communicated through media – be it simultaneously or ex post. The abstract processes of “transition” and “change” in particular require pictures in order to be communicated (Paul 2012, 32).

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Mental images such as those of friends, enemies or role models are invariably bound to material images such as photographs, paintings or caricatures, i.e. they need the constant feedback of tangible pictures. As recent studies have shown, images play a massive role in establishing patterns of interpretation of historical events (Betscher 2014; Röger 2014). In this sense they are valuable sources for questions of contemporary national identity-building and for the legitimisation of new political systems. But the accessibility of certain icons and their active role in phases of transition are not the only aspects worth a closer look when it comes to political change. Visual images can also serve as a means of commemorating historical events, as mediators between the past and the present and therefore as indicators of discourses on the past. This chapter aims to examine which visual signatures are used in mass media as an integral part of the remembrance of the German regime change of 1989/1990 and in turn, which narratives they continue to convey twenty years later. The case study retraces the mechanisms of the remembrance of a unique form of regime change. As the reverberations are still being felt of what proved to be a turning point not only in German history but also of European and global history, the interpretation of the past continues to be a source of legitimisation for a reunited Germany. Therefore, narratives regarding the regime change have to be understood by a heterogeneous society. However, conflicting interpretations have emerged about the end of the GDR and how to deal with the communist past in the present-day Germany. An analysis of how this political change is displayed, therefore, permits conclusions to be drawn about contemporary discourses on the past. Hence the question arises of how this unique form of regime change, that simultaneously led to the creation of a new state yet also restored a former state, has been remembered visually. Does a unique form of system change enhance the creation of unique forms of visual remembrance? Firstly, we take a look at the historical events of 1989/1990. Secondly, concepts of remembrance cultures will be presented, followed by an outline of the sources and methodology used within this context. Finally, narrative patterns regarding the remembrance of the system change in Germany in 1989/90 will be analysed on the basis of visual representations in German newspapers and history textbooks published in the year 2009.

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Historical context: mass exodus to the West and the fall of the Berlin Wall In an interview with the German magazine Spiegel Online in 2009 former Polish Solidarnosc union leader Lech Walesa stated that the first wall of socialist rule in communist eastern central Europe was brought down by workers in the dockyards of Gdansk in Poland. The fall of the Berlin Wall in Germany came later in 1989, but – according to Walesa – generated more pleasing pictures. According to Walesa’s statement it is the pictures that caused the fall of the Berlin Wall to become a much more vivid component of collective memory across Europe than the collapse of the socialist regime in Poland. Indeed, the photos of the fall of the Berlin Wall can be universally interpreted as depicting the end of an era and as documents reporting a fundamental change. The German regime change differs somewhat from the other regime changes in 1989. Therefore, a closer examination of the visual memory of the German case requires a brief consideration of the very subject of remembrance. As a consequence of the emerging Cold War in Europe in 1949, two German states had been founded alongside the Allied occupation zones in the West and the Soviet occupation zone in the East. Whereas the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) was a liberal-capitalist democracy, the German Democratic Republic (GDR) was under communist rule. Berlin, the former capital of the united Germany, was also subsequently divided into a Western and an Eastern part. In August 1961, as a reaction to the continuous mass emigration of East German inhabitants towards the FRG, a border fortification system containing a wall was erected which physically divided the city of Berlin until the 1980s. Following the first successful attempts to fight for more democracy in Poland in 1980, the resolve of the people to reform communism grew rapidly in 1989 in Hungary and Poland, without drawing an intervention of the Soviet Union led by Mikhail Gorbachev. The more it was reported by the Western media that Hungary was abandoning more and more of its border fortification system, the so-called “the Iron Curtain”, the more East German citizens went to Hungary and Czechoslovakia in order to flee to the FRG. At the same time as this mass exodus continued in the autumn of 1989, mass protests known as ”Monday Demonstrations” against the communist system began to emerge in the GDR itself. The regime had to react.

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Communist leader Erich Honecker was replaced by Egon Krenz and reforms were promised. On 9 November, 1989, the East German regime gave permission for its people to enter West Berlin and West Germany directly. As a consequence, that same night, the inner German borders, especially in Berlin, could be passed freely for the first time, after 28 years of separation. This event was the “fall of the Berlin Wall” which led eventually to the collapse of the communist system. As a result of an emerging movement for reunification, and with the support of the former Allies, the reunification of Germany was concluded on 3 October, 1990. In Germany, the regime change of 1989 fundamentally changed politics, economics and even frontiers as it eventually led to the reunification of the two German states in 1990. “Transition”, according to the Oxford American Dictionary, is “the process or a period of changing from one state or condition to another”. The German case constitutes more than just the moment of transition from one state into another. Binding together two histories – the history of the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) and that of the former socialist German Democratic Republic (GDR) – to form a consistent narration of the past is a unique challenge, differing from all the other bloc-bound countries at the end of the Cold War era. In order to meet this challenge, historical events have to be made comprehensible to a present-day audience. To use the words of John Pickles and Tim Unwin, “transition” here is better understood as “transformation”, a process of reworking in which legacies of the past are the resources for the struggle over the construction of whatever is new (Pickles and Unwin 2004, 9-28).

The tearing down of the Wall and the dissolution of the inner German border fortification, especially in the divided city of Berlin, represent a very expressive visual dimension of a political change. As clearly indicated by Lech Walesa’s statement, it is also the case that the West German media reported events in detail during 1989, providing information for people in both East and West Germany, and therefore also influencing the historical developments in 1989 that led to the fall of the Berlin Wall (Kimmel 2010, 41). Pictures created in real-time actually helped trigger the dissolution of the GDR, as they encouraged East German people towards the mass exodus that eventually led to the fall of the Berlin Wall in November, 1989.

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The images associated with the regime changes of 1989 trace the differences in the role of visuals within the former communist regime and the subsequent democracy, as well as the interplay between the two visual cultures. These transformations were accompanied by a fundamental change in the visual culture of society. A re-assessment of the communist past took place in the form of iconoclasm – the fall of communist monuments and the destruction of former communist symbols, e.g. removing them from the national flags (Paul 2012, 35, 43). To a far lesser extent, the protest movements calling for regime change created new visual logos and iconic pictures, such as the logo of the Polish Solidarity movement (Paul 2012, 38; Paul 2013, 540). In the reunified Germany, the predominance of the West German media establishment, including school textbook authors and producers, continues today, as the East German market after 1990 was largely taken over by West German companies. This development influenced and still implicitly influences the coverage of East Germany as a part of the unified Germany (Ahbe 2010, 61).

Visibility and remembrance As already well established in the theoretical framework of memory studies, historical events are not randomly remembered in societies; rather, certain historical events are actively remembered on the collective level (see Assmann 2013, Assmann and Conrad 2010, Oesterle 2005, Erll 2005; about politics of remembrance see Rathkolb 2011, Pakier and Stråth 2010). The remembrance of selected historical events takes place in order to provide significant meaning or identification for a society or a political entity. For this reason, remembrance underlies a framework of hegemonic narratives concerning how the past has to be received or interpreted, in order to provide meaning for the present and for the future. These narratives can only gain hegemonic status on the societal level if they form an integral part of the current hegemonic framework on the cultural and political level. As there are various agents of memory in both the formal and informal societal spheres of a democracy – politicians, journalists, intellectuals, artists and institutions, but also family members, neighbours, friends and relatives (Welzer and Lenz 2011, 196-197) – different narratives are in competition with each other, resulting in a simultaneous plurality yet fragmentation of remembrance. However, national elites are often those who predominantly shape and create the processes of active remembrance, thus creating hegemonic narratives.

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In the German case, former West German and East German citizens had been subject to decades of completely different influences by official memory politics in terms of how to deal with the past and how to perceive the then present political system. In addition to this prescribed remembrance was also each individual’s personal, more private remembrance of the past. In the unified Germany, generations of witnesses brought up either partially or entirely under the national socialist regime, communist rule or the democratic welfare state have been confronted with a generation born and/or raised within the new, unified German state. This disparity in life experiences means that different memories exist within society; disparities also exist between those who profited from the unification process and those who suffered, as well as between individuals awarded different roles under communist rule. According to the historian Martin Sabrow, there are three different types of remembrance of the former GDR past that each compete with one another. Firstly, the “dictatorship memory” (Diktaturgedächtnis) focussing on the oppression and the atrocities of the communist system, defining the East German population as victims who were eventually courageous enough to overcome the regime in 1989/90. This configuration of remembrance is notably dominant in the public remembrance and official memory politics that has been dominant among West Germans. Secondly, the “arrangement memory” (Arrangementgedächtnis) focussing on the memories of everyday lives in the GDR in comparison with lives in unified Germany. This sort of memory is dominant in the private spheres of former East German citizens. Thirdly, the “progress memory” (Fortschrittsgedächtnis), also situated in the private remembrance cultures of the former GDR-elites, seeks to remember the GDR as alternative to the capitalist social order (Sabrow 2009, 18-21). But Holocaust remembrance gained the predominant position, in terms of a “negative point of reference” (Negativer Bezugspunkt, a concept coined by Volkhard Knigge), in the German official memory landscape as, through reunification, it became a more widely remembered worldwide past (Levy and Sznaider 2007). As memory regimes are influenced by developments on the political, societal and economic level, collective remembrance and its inherent hegemonic narratives of how to perceive the past can change. Especially prevalent after the transformation process that started with the regime change in 1989/90, a “memory boom” has been experienced in Europe that has been described (Erll 2005) as the need to place a historical order upon

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the interpretation of regime changes and the remembrance of the communist past. Thus, there is interplay between memories of historical events, but also attempts to put them into a coherent, even teleological, order. This active process of remembering is described by Christoph Cornelißen as “remembrance culture” (Erinnerungskultur), a “generic term for all forms of conscious memory of historical events, personalities and processes” which strongly emphasises public communication. Concrete developments in predominant interpretations of the past can be retraced in the appearance of memorials, museums, rituals of remembrance, etc. (Cornelißen 2003, 555). Present interpretative patterns of remembrance are – following the basic assumption of this chapter – consistently reflected in the visualisations of historical events. Visuals, which are predominantly photographs or TV reports of the mass media, but also those in the public sphere such as monuments, function as a means of public commemoration because of their accessibility across a broad range of society. Representations of the memory of a political community, as expressed in official historical accounts and by the mass media, serve as communication media in the public sphere whilst also contributing to the interpretation of a historicalpolitical consciousness through their collective visualisation of the past. Therefore, the production, selection, combination and layout of images are a means of historiography as well as of remembrance culture.

Newspapers and textbooks creating a canon of images In order to examine the predominant visual remembrance culture of the German regime change, visual sources – predominantly historical photographs published in German mass media around 2009 – are used as follows. Two types of mass media are analysed: print media, including daily newspapers and a weekly magazine, and history textbooks. The study comprises pictures published at any time during 2009 in two German newspapers, namely the liberal Süddeutsche Zeitung and the more conservative Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, and the weekly news magazine Der Spiegel. These three newspapers can be defined as main opinion leaders within the media landscape in unified Germany as they influence the medial agenda as well as the interpretation of news topics more than other periodicals. Since the unification, the former West German media has retained its domination of the media landscape in the former west, but has also prevailed over what are known as the “new areas” structurally as well as in terms of staff (Ahbe 2010, 61, 65).

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Since the regime change is now part of contemporary history, a generation has already been born to whom this past has to be communicated in school. This is why further evidence of existing remembrance cultures can be gleaned from the thematic design of approbated history textbooks as they follow the curriculum laid down by the state authorities. Textbooks thus represent state-approved and legitimated knowledge (Lässig 2011, 1). They serve as “exclusive sources to explore the principles of construction of national self-portraits” (Handro 2011, 92). As “archives of canonized knowledge” (Otto and Macgilchrist 2014) they create collective memories and embody a form of “national autobiographies” (Jacobmeyer 1992) as well as representing state-sponsored memory politics. The knowledge contained in textbooks is regarded as a hybrid form of media. As mass media and a form of visual media they represent discursive knowledge as well as canonized knowledge. Furthermore, in the same way as newspapers and magazines, they are multimodal structures (Kühberger 2010; Kress and van Leeuwen 1990), which means that they are structured through text and images and use a consistent style of layout. Despite the differences in picture usage between these two media sources – textbooks present pictures in a long-lasting medium within the framework of a curriculum that dictates the presentation and interpretation of history, whilst in the quality newspapers pictures are used as a daily changing medium in accordance with journalistic news values such as regional relevance, topicality, reader interest and political relevance – both types of media have to take into consideration those pictures that represent a hegemonic, official view of the past, which is the minimum consensus on how the past is perceived by the majority. Photographs published in German mass media in 2009 were mostly published in the context of the twentieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall and subsequent German reunification. The role of the media in this context is to “create and enable remembrance cultures”, as stated by Astrid Erll, but also to mediate and transition between the individual and collective dimensions of remembrance (Erll 2005, 123-126). This is especially valid for journalistic memorials that are often created for anniversaries, as the media picks up on those historical dates which have been deemed worthy of remembrance by hegemonic influences in politics and society (Ammann 2010, 162). Referring to the theories of visual canonisation, some images are represented particularly strongly whilst others are not and memory becomes evident within lasting iconic images. This process of canonisation is connected with a hegemonic remembrance

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culture that takes place in the public sphere. This leads us to the question: which images are used when it comes to commemorating the regime changes of 1989/1990 and what makes them compatible with present demands? Visual history has only recently begun to follow up the role of pictures in the phases of political change. Single iconic images linked to political change – like the picture of the so-called “Tank man” in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square or the iconoclasms in post-socialist Eastern Europe – were explored in the two-volume anthology Das Jahrhundert der Bilder, edited by Gerhard Paul (2008 and 2009). A further approach was conceived by Martin Jung and Ana Karaminova, who held a workshop on the visualisations of change at the University of Jena in 2011 in which the strategies and semantics of images related to the end of socialism in Eastern Europe were discussed (Karaminova and Jung 2012). Systematic analyses of visual strategies in regime changes typically consider image production and distributing protagonists, largely ignoring the pictures themselves and their impact. By observing the “new” framework provided for collective memory after 1990 and disseminated by mass media (i.e. history textbooks and newspapers) and the iconification process of those pictures to which collective memory refers, the methodological approach of visual history is always combined with the theoretical framework of memory studies. The chosen source material allows the authors to examine a fairly large spectrum of the media, genre, producers, distributors and addressees of the visual history of 1989/1990. Our intention is not to analyse production or reception but to concentrate on pictures as sources and “emotional abbreviations” (Knoch 2001), following trends towards cultural studies oriented historiography. Based on Aby Warburg’s theory on collective memory and the social mediation of images, as well as Erwin Panofsky’s theory on iconology, we seek traditional visual patterns and their possible significance. Combining the concepts of visual communication and political iconography (Müller 2011; Warnke and Ziegler 2011), we conduct our research using a mixture of methods as required by the area of visual history, which does not offer a specific methodology but is rather a research field that combines the disciplines dealing with images. Therefore our methodology follows a typological approach (Marquardt 2005; Pörksen 1997). We base our study on the assumption that frequently used visiotypes cause specific patterns of

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interpretation and therefore at the same time shape and reflect the remembrance of a regime change. In the following, we are seeking particular narratives of visual remembrance for the regime change that took place in Germany in 1989/90 by examining those pictures to which collective memory referred in the two decades after the implosion of socialism and the subsequent German reunification. Discussing the specific links between visualisations of the historical events and contemporary discourses allows us to throw light on the mechanisms of visual remembrance.

Remembering the fall of the Berlin Wall and the German reunification Analysing the visual documentation of regime change in Germany 1989/1990 reveals how the remembrance cultures of two societies dominated by different politics of history are represented in the common event of regime change. Due to its parallel and yet entangled history in the period between 1949 and 1990, the German case is particularly complex. Narrating a consistent history of the changing past in 1989/90 was not an easy task in light of the ambivalent memories of East and West (see Christophe 2010). The case of the reunified Germany retraces the development of remembrance cultures that are dependent on events and developments on the European and global level. For example, people fled the GDR during the summer of 1989 in a mass exodus via Hungary, Austria, Czechoslovakia and Poland to the FRG. As such, this transnational escape became a part of the remembrance cultures of these countries as well. Moreover, German reunification in 1990 was not only the final result of tearing down the wall in 1989 but also signified the willingness of the Soviet and American superpowers, as well as former allies, to accept the reunification that was implemented in the so-called 2+4 treaty – two German states plus four Allies – and formally adopted with the Unification Treaty of 3 October, 1990 (Hertle 2009). In our case study, three hegemonic visual narratives were extracted from the sample. We shall take a closer look at these narrative patterns based on certain visiotypes, followed by a close consideration of the narrative voids.

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Revolution of the masses: protagonists of regime change On the visual level, those remembered as protagonists of political change can quickly be identified; the mass movements of East German citizens dominate the visuals. Indeed, in the context of the regime change in the GDR, often described as a “peaceful revolution”, it was the masses of refugees during the summer of 1989, the masses of protesters in the autumn of 1989 and the crowds on 9 November and afterwards, dancing on the Berlin Wall and tearing down the border fortifications. But it was not only the protesters that played a crucial role on the path to reunification. The process also involved activists in civic movements and within the church who demonstrated and eventually entered into negotiations with the SED within the framework of the Round Table Talks held between December 1989 and March 1990. That the GDR dissidents who actively promoted the process of regime change are relegated to the background of this visual history is explained by the fact that they were in favour of a “third way”, i.e. wanting to reform the GDR, and thus did not ultimately play an important role in the unified Germany. Other commonly featured personalities, in terms of the reunification process, were leading politicians, such as the former chancellor and mayor of West Berlin, Willy Brandt, who proclaimed on 10 November, 1989: “Now grows together what belongs together!” (Jetzt wächst zusammen, was zusammengehört!) and Helmut Kohl, chancellor of the FRG at that time, both of whom were strongly in favour of a unified Germany, with the support of the Allies. To sum up, in the visual remembrance of 1989 the role of the politicians as well as of the civic movements in the GDR is very limited. By contrast, there are three types of images used over and over again in relation to remembering the change: (i) Peacefully demonstrating masses, especially the pictures of the peaceful “Monday demonstrations” which started in September 1989 in Leipzig, the epicentre of the East German civil rights movement, and soon spread out, reaching other cities. The remarkably peaceful demonstrations became the symbol for the political change of 1989. (ii) Refugees leaving the GDR, moving to the west and becoming western citizens. Images of queues of Trabants (“Trabbi”, the typical East German

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car) driving across the open borders are ubiquitous. The Trabants therefore serve as visual markers for the mass exodus. Pictures of the East Germans staying in camps in Hungary, waiting for a possibility to leave the country legally for the FRG are not represented. Photos of the same scenes in the FRG embassies in Prague and Warsaw are rare. The photos of the Trabbi queues and, albeit to a far lesser extent, of trains with refugees leaving Warsaw and Prague, are more widely used to represent the refugee movement. Also the arrival of the East Germans in the FRG is visually present, especially with the motifs of East Germans waving West German passports and “welcome money” (Begrüßungsgeld): a visual representation of the abandonment of their GDR citizenship. (iii) The politically active masses (Liebhart and Mayrhofer 2014) are visually most commonly associated with crowds on the Berlin Wall [see Fig. 1.4 for more detail]. When the border, and later the Berlin Wall, became permeable, masses of people flocked through, heading to West Berlin, thus overcoming the dominating symbol of division. This motif is strongly intertwined with another narrative of German iconoclasm. The visiotype of a bursting mass as a symbol of rebellion (Warnke 2011, 280) symbolises an active crowd fighting for freedom. The specific mass demonstration, i.e. where and when it took place and why, is ultimately unimportant for mass media use. Whether the images feature a demonstration in September 1989 or in December 1989 becomes unimportant despite the fact that the circumstances would be completely different, but since the masses of 1989/1990 are used as the code for a concordant regime change, a specification is deemed to be no longer necessary. A visual mash up of events, bound together by a similar iconographic pattern, evens out the dissonances and therefore strengthens the narrative of a victory of civil society. It is important to note that this visiotype contains elements of other narrative patterns and visiotypes, as will be outlined in the following subchapter, in which the masses in the sense of “the people” are visualised as the protagonists of reunification. Mass exodus, mass demonstrations and mass euphoria, in a chronological sequence, mark a further narrative strategy, which will be examined in the following section.

Teleology of reunification vs. teleology of failure Historiography is characterised by stories whose end is clear. However, historians are not the only “backwards-facing prophets”, as a popular

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saying suggests. Each commemoration is an act of interpreting the past from a certain point in the present. Stepping back from the semantics of the images offers a deeper understanding of the usage of images within a carrier medium. As multimodal structures, newspapers and textbooks are bound to a layout. Mutual references between several images on a page, whether they be combined intentionally or by chance, can construct a narrative or even meta-narrative. A closer look at the images used to commemorate the events of 1989 and 1990 reveal that the German regime change is most often remembered in one of two ways: either as an act of seemingly inevitable reunification of the FRG and the GDR or a likewise inevitable “failure” of socialism. Textbooks in particular often work with series of images. To open a chapter, the authors usually use images and a timeline to give an overview of the succeeding chapter. What is remarkable is that almost every history textbook circulating in 2009 describes German history from 1945 until 1990 as a continuous path. “Way to Reunification” (Geschichte und Geschehen), “Divided and Reunified” (mitmischen, Zeit für Geschichte) or “Make One out of Two” (Zeitreise) are only a few examples of headlines whose accompanying pictorial programmes follow the teleological way of looking at German history after World War Two, in which German reunification is portrayed as seemingly inevitable. Similar series of images are included in almost every textbook – from the first West-German chancellor Konrad Adenauer to the construction of the Berlin Wall in 1961 and Willy Brandt’s genuflection in Warsaw to the mass demonstrations in 1989 and finally to people celebrating close to the Brandenburg Gate – thus presenting a logical “conclusion” of history in a reunified Germany. Montages of pictures as a filmstrip even strengthen this reading of a fluent process that, like a film, has a beginning and an end and in this case culminates in a happy end. The protagonists are, as previously mentioned “the people”. The people in many pictures are apparently pushing towards a predestined point. An example of the visual unity which has parallels with the dissolution of the GDR is the logo of a series on the twenty years of the fall of the Berlin Wall, published in 2009 in the German news magazine Der Spiegel. The first and last letters are removed from an international vehicle country code plate of the GDR, so the “D”, as in the official West German plate, is the only letter left. The national colours of yellow, black and red have been used as a background. The plate itself is designed like the plates in the former GDR and gives a visual reference to the GDR-car Trabant, or

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“Trabbi”, on which these plates were mounted. The design of the logo therefore serves as a key visual reference for reunification. Also, the slogan “1989 – A German revolution” (1989 – Eine deutsche Revolution) is part of the logo. The pictorial message can be read as a reduction of complexity of what was actually a fairly complex reunification process; just a case of removing two letters from the plate. As these historical events actually led to the German reunification, the call for the reunification of the two Germanys by the masses is widely represented in the media of 2009. So, the narrative of the peaceful mass demonstrations as the agents of regime change is combined with the narrative that they have been protesting insistently for reunification. The corresponding slogan “Germany, unified fatherland” (Deutschland einig Vaterland) is represented visually in a photo from 1989 by the German news agency dpa. It is featured on a banner on the cover page of the Süddeutsche Zeitung from 31 October / 1 November, 2009. At first glance, the intended meaning of this slogan seems to be self-explanatory. Indeed, the slogan originally comes from the GDR-hymn written in 1949, aiming at a unified Germany under socialist rule. However, that was certainly not the aim of the protesters in 1989, as the people standing nearby are waving the flag of the FRG, nor was it the intention when the photo was again used in 2009. The same topic is seen on banners with the slogan “We are one people!” (Wir sind ein Volk!) in the images featuring the demonstrations in 1989 and used in each of the text books analysed. Even though these photos do represent actual demands made by the protesters in 1989, the photo selection creates the sort of teleological narrative of reunification described above. Historically, it was not until the end of November and beginning of December 1989 at the Monday demonstrations in Leipzig, after the fall of the wall, that the claim for reunification was raised for the first time; until then, the mass protests had called for more freedom and democracy in the GDR. The opposition to the socialist nomenclature was originally symbolised with the slogan “We are the people!” (Wir sind das Volk!) which first emerged at the beginning of October 1989 at the Monday demonstrations in Leipzig and was a reaction to police operations. One week later, on 9 October, 1989, flyers with the slightly altered slogan “We are one people!” (Wir sind ein Volk!”) were distributed by civil right activists in Leipzig. But they were originally aimed at the police and the protesters, in a bid to

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maintain a peaceful demonstration. It was not until the 11 November when the West German tabloid newspaper BILD ran the headline: Today they are they are crying “We are the people”, tomorrow they will cry out “We are one people!” (“Wir sind das Volk” rufen sie heute – “Wir sind ein Volk” rufen sie morgen!)

During the elections in 1990 the Christian Democrats (CDU) then used the slogan “Wir sind ein Volk” for their electoral campaign (Lindner, 2014, 38-39). Reunification had not previously been on the agenda at all in the FRG (Kleßmann, 2009, 86-87). While reunification seems to be remembered in a democratic Germany as predestined, the crash of socialism seems inevitable as well, even from the outset, through the lens of remembrance. Especially in history textbooks, we find an ex-post approach to dealing with socialism on the visual level. In accordance with the curriculum, every history textbook has a chapter on the history of the ideas of socialism, centred on the tenets of the 19th century labour movements. After 1990, textbooks that had previously been arranged chronologically were broken up in order to include photographs of the end of socialism in this chapter. Photos of iconoclastic events in Eastern Europe or of the damaged Marx-Engels-statue in East Berlin tell the reader a history of the failure of socialist ideas even when describing their emergence. Iconoclasm is the means of making political transformation visible as it shows the archaic power of images. This “teleology of failure” (Dimou 2010, 301) indirectly shows that one version of memory dominates another by de-legitimising socialism as an implicitly failed concept. Two different histories of two different German states are undoubtedly still being presented twenty years after the fall of the Berlin Wall, and these histories are not easily bound together. A proper regime change actually occurred only in one part of Germany, namely the GDR, followed by a rearrangement of the elite classes and the rewriting of history. Narrating a twofold history that leads to an ineluctably strong common future is one strategy to encounter these difficulties on the visual level. The regime change in Germany is not depicted as a caesura, but more as a necessary event for the continuance of a national history. The emphasis on these teleological narratives might indicate the continued desire for a single German national identity, even after twenty years of unification.

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“Iconoclasm – the German route” Iconoclasm in this case serves as a means to visualise regime change. The legitimacy and effectiveness of a political culture depend also on the public visibility of its particular visual culture (Gamboni 2011, 144ff.). In general, the more a new regime gains control, the more the old system loses its installed visibility, which speeds up the process of delegitimation. Gerhard Paul calls this effect a “spiral of invisibility” (Paul 2013, 540). According to our findings, we argue that in the German case of 1989/90, the classical acts of iconoclasm, such as the dismantling of statues and monuments dedicated to the GDR and former socialist leaders, or the renaming of streets and sites, were not that predominant in terms of visual remembrance. The GDR nomenclature was not the central focus of public anger in the same way as the Berlin Wall, in the sense of it representing a “stone symbol of dictatorship and divide” (Paul 2013, 555). Moreover, as the GDR was completely dissolved, a classical disassociation from the old regime in the form of iconoclasm did not prove necessary. Thus, on the visual level, the dismantling of statues and street signs did not play a particularly important role, as there was no need for a new regime to gain power and to visually reinforce that the old regime had gone. The legitimation of the regime in the unified Germany was not questioned. Therefore there is a conspicuous absence of iconoclastic actions in visual remembrance culture. The symbol of a “flag with a hole”, which featured so prominently in other countries during the same period, such as Hungary and Romania, did exist in the German case in 1989, but it is not nearly as predominant in the visual remembrance as it is in the Hungarian case. The “flag with the hole” represents the removal by protestors of the communist emblems from the centre of a country’s flag. It became a symbol during the Hungarian Revolution of 1956 and continues to be represented in the Hungarian culture of remembrance for 1956 (Pribersky 2009). It stands for a clear rejection of the visual culture of the former communist regime. In the German case, it is the motif of tearing down and, even more strikingly, climbing over – thus quite literally “overcoming” – the Berlin Wall that stands in the iconoclastic tradition. Even more, it visually reunites western and eastern Germans. As mentioned above, there are image clusters of people dancing on the Wall that circulate as visiotypes and are used for visual remembrance. One of the most used photos was taken by Klaus Lehnartz on 10 November, 1989, looking from West

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Berlin towards the east. In the photo, people are standing in front of the graffiti-covered Berlin Wall, the perspective making the wall loom above them. On top of the wall stands a crowd in front of the Brandenburg Gate. The Gate also seems to rise from the crowd, the black-red-golden flag flying from its quadriga (it is in fact the GDR flag, but this can hardly be seen in the photo) and soaring to the sky. As the photo focusses on the Brandenburg Gate with the impression of the flag of the united Germany, it already symbolises German unity (Janzing 2008, 574ff.; Liebhart and Mayrhofer 2014, 227-228). This “symbolic occupation” of the Berlin Wall in front of the Brandenburg Gate was interpreted as a “universal icon and symbol of liberation” (Paul 2013, 385)

Voids As revealing as the imagery of an event itself are the things that are not visualised: the fading out or masking of certain details. Because both the analysed media source types are forced to reduce information, either due to journalistic or didactic pressures, the visuals become an especially important condensed carrier of information. However, the question of what can be seen must always be followed by the question of what is not visualised. This provides insights into the ambivalences and fracture zones of unwanted visualisations, as well as into subject matters that are simply difficult to present visually. The most striking finding is that the regime change in Germany in 1990 is not set as a zero hour in the recent history of Germany. “Founding pictures”, such as images of politicians signing treaties, or tearing down fences or barriers in order to mark a political change or a beginning of a new era were not visually represented at all in our sample. Although there were several such events during the reunification process in 1989/90, such as the signing of the 2+4 treaty or of the unification treaty of 31 August, 1990, which confirmed the entry of the former GDR into the former FRG, pictures of these events did not enter the visual remembrance culture nor did they become media icons of the regime change. There are also no photos of resignation to be found, no “regicide”, no specific winners, and no inauguration of the new head of state. Compared with the iconographic strategies of the allies when they defeated Nazi Germany in 1945, the regime change of 1989/90 follows completely different rules. Aleida Assmann gives a concise explanation to the absence of these visual memories. After the transition process started, most post-communist

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countries faced the challenge of dealing not only with the immediate communist past but also with a suppressed national socialist past. Holocaust remembrance and the need for each nation to address its role during the Holocaust challenged these countries that were emerging from two consecutive periods of dictatorship (Schlögel 2008). On the other hand, it also triggered a construction of identity based on the victimisation of the nation (Assmann 2013, 147). This predominance of remembrance as victims and of remembering the atrocities of the recent past meant that victimhood became the focus of remembrance cultures across Europe instead of more positive myths of foundation or a new start (ibid. 141144). This phenomenon is even more striking for the German case as it supplants attempts to remember the regime change and the reunification as zero hour. The 9 November would have been such a date, i.e. the day the Berlin Wall was torn down – but it was, coincidentally, also the date when National Socialists carried out the November pogroms (1938), a campaign of persecution and extermination of German Jews. According to political scientist David Art, Germany has failed to establish a resonant founding myth of a unified, democratic Germany, because of the dominance of a Holocaust-centred memory regime and the persistence of the culture of contrition that prevents “any (!) attempt to highlight a heroic narrative” (Art 2014, 202). Additional reasons for the absence of a heroic remembrance of 1989/90 are the failure of the promised “flourishing landscapes” (Helmut Kohl) and ongoing economic divisions within the unified Germany, as well as the “wall in the head” which refers to a missing common identity, a social divide between East and West Germans (ibid. 197-198).

Conclusion Pictures serve as vehicles of remembrance. As such, a typological approach provides for some nuances of differentiation and allows a clearer impression of the patterns delivered in mass media as it comes to terms with the past. Mass media pictures, particularly interesting because of their reduced complexity, have paradoxically received little attention until now. The commemoration of the German regime change in 1989/1990, as far as one may speak of a proper change, has developed a unique identification through its specific iconography. Compared with the remembrance of concurrent events in Eastern Europe, the German case offers visual

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narratives that mirror the particular case of two countries with different political pasts being united all of a sudden. One of the findings of this chapter is the marked West-German sovereignty over the visual interpretation of the regime change in German mass media. The masses represent the alleged carriers and triggers of the unification process whilst a change in the political elites is mostly invisible. The strong narrative of reunification teleology is obvious, but there is no media icon of the unification itself to be found. When it comes to regime changes in general, iconoclasms are strong motifs for representing one regime overcome the other. The German case however, as particular as it is, developed its own iconography which one might perceive as “iconoclasm light”, especially in the form of tearing down the Berlin Wall. For the German case, this specific iconography of change strongly indicates discomfort with condemning the German socialist past with all its (visual) consequences, as there is no particular iconography of change in the form of decidedly clear picture of heroes, winners or losers. Where one would expect a radical delimitation of the socialist past, teleological narratives of a common national history are strongly visualised. Pictures of the signing of the unity treaty in August 1990 and pictures from the first democratically elected premier of the GDR in 1990 do exist, but they were rarely visible in printed media either in 1990 or 20 years later. They simply are not part of the German remembrance narrative. So analysing the remembrance of the regime change of 1989/1990 in Germany is more an assessment of current tendencies and, as such, is an expression of a narrative that is still in internal conflict and as yet incomplete. Questions regarding the remembrance of the fall of the Berlin Wall, and of German reunification, after almost 40 years of an authoritarian regime, are still vivid in both public and academic discussions. To give one example, on 9 November, 2007, the German parliament decided to build a memorial to freedom and unity commemorating the country’s peaceful reunification in 1990. As agreement could not be reached among the jury members, the initial competition was suspended. The second round produced a winning concept but, after years of wrangling, there is still no such memorial.

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Ultimately, it is evident that remembrance of a regime change, especially of this regime change, is not easily captured in one single visual expression. While conflicting memories still compete with one another, mass media draws a much more homogeneous picture of remembrance regarding the regime change of 1989/1990. The popular masses, demonstrations, fleeing people and joyous celebrations do not represent regime change as a revolution but as a negotiated reunification process. Remembrance, in terms of looking back actively at the regime change of 1989/90 by the national elites, can therefore be interpreted as a strategy for legitimising the evolution of the German reunification and to provide an explanation for the end of the GDR, in order to strengthen German identity-building and the identification with the new state.

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—. 2009. Die DDR erinnern. In Erinnerungsorte der DDR. Edited by Martin Sabrow, 11-29. München: C.H. Beck Verlag. Schlögel, Karl. 2008. Orte und Schichten der Erinnerung: Annäherungen an das östliche Europa. Osteuropa, Volume 6/58: 13-25. Spiegel Online International. 2009. It’s Good that Gorbachev was a Weak Politician. Accessed 2 September, 2015. http://www.spiegel.de/international/europe/spiegel-online-interviewwith-lech-walesa-it-s-good-that-gorbachev-was-a-weak-politician-a659752.html Welzer, Harald, and Claudia Lenz. 2011. Is there a European Memory? First Results of Comparative Research on Historical Consciousness and Family Memories. In Clashes in European Memory: The Case of Communist Repression and the Holocaust. Edited by Muriel Blaive, Christian Gerbel and Thomas Lindenberger: 192-212. Innsbruck, Wien, Bozen: Studien-Verlag.

PART IV: THE POST-SOVIET PERIOD IN RUSSIA AND EUROPE

CHAPTER ELEVEN RE-IMAGINING THE PRIMAL LEADER: VLADIMIR PUTIN AND THE RHIZOMATIC EMERGENCE OF THE “NEW” RUSSIAN LEADERSHIP TUOMAS KURONEN, JOUNI VIRTAHARJU AND AKI-MAURI HUHTINEN

Lookin’ out across this town, Kind o’ makes me wonder how, All the things that made us great, Got left so far behind. This used to be a peaceful place: Decent folks, hard-working ways. Now they hide behind locked doors, Afraid to speak their mind. I think we need a gunslinger, Somebody tough to tame this town. I think we need a gunslinger, There’ll be justice all around. John Fogerty: Gunslinger (2007)

Introduction Critical times give rise to charismatic leadership (Weber 1947). Leadership is important because it infuses purpose and meaning into the lives of individuals (Podolny, Khurana, and Hill-Popper 2004). When it comes to leader characteristics, credibility is a key ingredient of authority (Tourish 2013, 14), as the role of the leader is to explain the crisis

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(Osborn, Hunt, and Jauch 2002) and provide meaning for suffering and chaos (Frankl 1985; Nietzsche 1999; Weber 1947). Thus, the leader is the one that brings about or re-creates harmony in a disrupted system (Islam 2009). The President of Russia, Vladimir Putin, is one of the most controversial leader figures in our contemporary media sphere. His devotees worship him for his strong actions in Georgia, Crimea and Ukraine, endowing him with authority and charisma. His adversaries depict him as a defiant yet crafty character with questionable personal motives. The leader image of Putin is a worthy research subject due to its stark contrast with the contemporary Western view of contractual governance and shared leadership styles. In practice, this means that recent Russian politicomilitary actions spearheaded by the Kremlin fundamentally run counter to the European understanding of how political leadership should operate in the contemporary socio-economic context. To Western audiences, accustomed to the liberal democratic arguments and predominantly NATO narratives of the new Russian “truth”, the current Kremlin narrative of force, threat and fear is very alarming. European nations have recently become cognisant of the fact that the Russian leadership does not share the Western values or “rules” of political manoeuvring – making it a potential security threat for the West. What the West may easily view as the “charismatisation” of information, culture and money is an integral part of the Kremlin’s vision for 21stcentury “hybrid” or “non-linear” power politics: there is a tendency to blur the lines between Western and Eastern values (Galeotti 2013). This has caught the slumbering Western countries by surprise: their collective imagination has concentrated on the collapse of the Soviet Union and the “victory” of Western ideology and the wake-up call has been traumatic, to a varying degree. Unsurprisingly, the deepest concerns have revolved around economic issues. In this chapter, we discuss the emergence of leadership at a controversial crossroads of different socio-politico-historical contexts. In our contemporary age, characterised by a global flow of information, leadership can be seen to take on new forms. The dominant AngloAmerican reading of leadership is challenged by new – or, rather, age-old – readings that derive their premises from other cultural contexts. What is new here is that the rapid global flow of information facilitates the possibility of various leadership images being disseminated from one

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cultural context to another, or even generating new forms. Strong and masculine “primal” leadership evokes mostly loathing and ridicule in the West. However, as insinuated by some media sources, hidden support for Putin’s leadership style also occurs within the European political parties. Putinism is everything that American social reactionaries, Australian anarchists, British anti-imperialists and Hungarian neo-Nazis want leadership to be (Pomerantsev and Weiss 2014) – leaders not only speak to their own domestic audiences but also to global ones. Instant online arguments crisscrossing between the mass media and social media debate the image of a leader. Hence, this chapter focusses on the leader image. We track how the leader persona, leadership style and leader actions constitute and contribute to the emergence of this image. However, various leader images can be interpreted in radically different ways. Therefore, we ask why and how a leader image invites such polarised interpretations and what the theoretical implications of this heterogeneity of leadership interpretations are. To achieve this, we focus on the case of Putin; on why charismatic leadership is attributed to him in the global media and how this charismatic reading thrives even when his leadership actions and styles are regarded as “unwanted” or “unethical”, according to the Western mainstream ideal of shared and democratised leadership. We establish this by tracking the emergence of the Putin administration in Russia, highlighting the events that facilitated the infusion of charisma into his person. We build our research narrative using media and scholarly texts discussing Putin, his leadership and the global and Russian political evolution. Our method is narrative analysis (Polkinghorne 1995; Czarniawska 1999), while our data consist of actions, events and arguments published in the scholarly and popular press. The result of our analysis is a story. Our story is presented as a research narrative, where we unveil our reading of the reasons for the tension between Putin’s primal leadership image and its Western interpretations. Moreover, we discuss “Russian charisma”, adopting what Alvesson et al. (2008) call a “positioning reflexive practice”. This implies that we are exploring the broader social landscape within which our research is positioned. We illustrate networks of beliefs, practices and interests that make up the different, often competing, leadership interpretations. To this end, we show the heterogeneity of leadership interpretations using the theoretical concept of the “rhizome” (Deleuze and Guattari 1983). We also

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argue that the various leadership interpretations are further escalated in a Manichaean contrasting of the cultures, values and aspirations of the global media scene. Concluding remarks on Putin’s leadership and contemporary Russia will bring this chapter to a close.

Charisma and the rhizome The research on charismatic leadership shows that there is no universal “charismatic behaviour” (Conger 2013, 377). In different cultural systems, different behaviours are perceived as charismatic (Lian et al. 2011), and perceptive leaders may learn to use the cultural cues of their own cultural sphere to their benefit (Willner 1984; Gardner and Avolio 1998). Charisma can appear in the form of the “soft and resolute leadership” of Mahatma Gandhi, but also as “strong and energetic”, as personified by Vladimir Putin. In other words, a leader is not charismatic unless described by their followers as such (House, Spangler and Woycke 1991). Rather, charismatic leadership is an attribution based on the followers’ perception of their leader’s behaviour (Conger and Kanungo 1987; Conger and Kanungo 1998). Shamir (1995) describes charismatic leaders as embodying the core values of the groups, organisations, or societies they represent, promoting follower identification. Willner (1984) identified four factors which, aided by the leader’s personality, appeared to be catalytic in the attribution of charisma to a leader: 1) the invocation of important cultural myths by the leader, 2) the performance of what was perceived as heroic or extraordinary feats, 3) the projection of attributions “with an uncanny or a powerful aura”, and 4) outstanding rhetorical skills. Followers identify with a leader who is deemed charismatic, and willingly comply with the leader’s expectations. Gardner and Avolio (1998) argue that the leader essentially seeks to construct a charismatic identity that he or she believes will be valued by those he or she targets as followers. Meindl (1990) proposed that followers will influence one another in the very process of attributing charisma to their leader through a model of social contagion. In the context of leadership, Grint (2005, 1490) points out that the appearance of the wooden horse outside the walls of Troy did not require the Trojans to bring the horse inside the wall; they chose to do it. This assertion of the role of choice in the hands of leaders does not imply that leaders are free to do whatever they want but neither are they determined in their actions by the situations they find themselves in.

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Therefore, it should be highlighted that it is not the charisma of the leader that is making people commit to certain agendas or actions. Rather, the leader depicts, characterises, manifests and explains the values and cultures of the collectives and societies s/he leads. In the leader, the collective recognises and identifies the characteristics it considers meaningful and precious – as something worth preserving and protecting. The struggle for the top position in a collective is a struggle for meaning, for a hegemonic position whereby one can interpret the collective: its history and future, its aspirations and fears. Yet, in our modern, networked global society, the leadership message can no longer be targeted solely at primary members of the collective, as other external parties, both neutral, supportive, and malicious, will also participate in making meaning vis-àvis leaders as well as the issues at hand. This is particularly salient in the media sphere, where we can see the distinctive return of the propaganda of what is right and wrong (consider, for instance, the downing of the Russian fighter jet by Turkey and the discourse surrounding it in November 2015). In the contemporary, post-modern Western world charismatic leadership could be better understood through the metaphor of the rhizome (Deleuze and Guattari 1983; for the main differences between hierarchical and rhizomatic systems, see also Glezos 2012). Deleuze and Guattari use the terms “rhizome” and “rhizomatic” to describe the non-hierarchical organisation. According to their conceptualisation, any point on a rhizome can be connected with any other. A rhizome can be cracked and broken at any point, but it starts growing again on one or more of its old lines, or on new ones. As the writers point out, “[w]e have no units of measure, but only multiplicities or varieties of measure” (Deleuze and Guattari 1983, 15). All things considered, the Internet can ostensibly be seen as being based on the idea of the rhizome. The rhizome resists the organisational structure of the root-tree system, which charts causality along chronological lines, looking for the original source of “things” and towards the pinnacle or conclusion of those “things”. The rhizome presents history and culture as a map or wide array of attractions and influences with no specific origin or genesis, for a “rhizome has no beginning or end; it is always in the middle and between things”. The planar movement of the rhizome resists chronology and organisation, favouring instead a nomadic system of growth and propagation. Rhizomes are underground formations that have no given direction of growth but are “simply” manifested:

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becoming is an intransitive verb in that it has meaning without needing to take an object – it is possible just to become, not simply to become something. This processual view recognizes that becoming has “a consistency all of its own”; it does not reduce to, or lead back to (Linstead and Pullen 2006, 1289).

Thus, we view leadership as emerging from the “soil” of social reality. The charisma of a leader has to be well aligned with the conditions presupposed by this ground – only certain organisms will find favour and flourish in certain conditions. In the next section, we will describe how Vladimir Putin rose to power, how his persona and actions satisfy the societal needs of the Russian population, as well as how they have become an essential part of Putin’s leadership image.

The re-establishment of the Empire: Vladimir Putin’s rise to power At the present time, Vladimir Putin’s position at the pinnacle of Russian power is undisputed, and his popularity among the Russian population has been growing apace, peaking at 89% in June 2015 (Nardelli, Rankin, and Arnett 2015). His leadership is further legitimised by the Russian Church, whose leader, patriarch Kirill, has called Putin a “miracle from God”, who rectified the “crooked path of history” (Tschudi 2014). This statement is interesting, especially considering that the word “charisma” originally referred to divinely conferred power (Conger 2013).1 Another example of Putin’s current dominance was encapsulated in the words of businessman Gennady Timchenko (a dual Russian-Finnish citizen whose net worth is estimated to be in the region of 12 to 16 billion US dollars), who stated in an interview in 2014: “If necessary, I am willing to hand all my assets to the state” (Rusgate.fi 2014). Arguably, Putin’s strong position and popularity have emerged at least partly as a result of his success – he was the leader who wrested control over the key assets of Russia and returned them to the state. So far, he has been victorious in his major exploits, which has legitimised his position as the leader of the nation. Putin’s leadership image is a combination of militaristic, technocratic and paternalistic elements (Priestland 2012). Analogies are often drawn between Putin’s leadership and historical strongman leaders of Russia, from Ivan the Terrible to Peter the Great and

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Joseph Stalin. Yet, to understand how Putin’s leadership came to be, we have to return to the era preceding his rise to power. One of the biggest events of the 20th century was the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. The evanescence of the former superpower has been a traumatic experience for Russians and the nation has been seeking absolution from it ever since. During the time of the collapse, Russia was led by the reformist Mikhail Gorbachev. He sought to dismantle the old, rigid communist administration that was constraining the economic development of the nation. Gorbachev was well liked in the West, as his leadership image and style were in stark contrast to the old communist guard, especially that of Brezhnev. Gorbachev’s ideas of “perestroika” and “glasnost” struck a chord with Western audiences,2 and his leadership style was perceived to be analogous with Western values. He shunned the military and strove to enhance economic growth (Priestland 2012). On the home front, Gorbachev’s objectives were perceived as too radical among his political adversaries. The failed coup attempt of August 1991 resulted in the final lowering of the Soviet red flag from the Kremlin and the emergence of Boris Yeltsin as the leader of the newly formed state of Russia. Yeltsin’s era was characterised by economic chaos and a collective revelation of Soviet-era hubris. The state’s degradation resulted in the rise of the oligarchs: the unscrupulous businessmen who amassed personal fortunes during the “overnight” privatisation of the state corporations of the communist era. The oligarchs of the 1990s are reminiscent of the “robber barons” of the US during the latter half of the 19th century (for a classic study of the US power elite, see Mills 1956). For example, in the US people such as Andrew Carnegie and J. P. Morgan amassed huge fortunes while simultaneously wielding considerable political power in the country (Bridges 1958). To illustrate their relative financial and political power, it was only after Morgan’s death in 1913 that the United States Federal Reserve System was founded, so that urgently needed financial bail-outs would not have to be arranged through networks of private businessmen (Chernow 1990). No wonder that the Russian business environment was sometimes referred to as the “Wild East” during the late 1990s (Sebenius 1999). For ordinary citizens, this era marked a deep economic downturn; life expectancy dipped rapidly, and governmental wages and pensions became almost negligible. The feared and hated oligarchs and their thugs were seen as abusing the system and prospering from it. They transferred huge fortunes overseas and promoted lifestyles reminiscent of the Russian

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aristocrats of the 19th century. The humiliation of the Russian nation peaked with a defeat in the first Chechen War (1994-1996). Even the army, which had once saved the nation from German fascists, was foundering. The general discontent resulted in Yeltsin almost losing out in the presidential elections to communist Zyuganov in 1996. Only with the financial support of the oligarchs was Yeltsin able to hold onto his position (Priestland 2012, 229). Nor did the situation improve, as the global economic instability drove the Russian economy into turmoil. The seven-year era of wild capitalism ended in the collapse of the Russian economy in August 1998. Russia was devastated militarily, economically, and spiritually. It was out of this context that Vladimir Putin emerged in Russian national politics. The sudden appearance of a previously obscure figure in the political limelight surprised many observers at the time. Boris Yeltsin invited Putin onto the stage and made him his war chief in a new war against the Chechens. Putin was, and still is, a silovik, which translates as “man of force”, a term used to describe former members of the KGB, military or police with nationalistic tendencies (Dmitriev 2015). Putin’s training and tenure within Soviet intelligence circles are used by commentators to link the Russian leader to qualities such as shrewd intelligence, warlike brutishness and a hard-nosed, unsentimental view of the world (Priestland 2012, 230). In keeping with such a view, life in an intelligence organisation not only accustoms one to working in a bureaucratised environment, but also indoctrinates one with a totalitarian, zero-sum game worldview. Moreover, it teaches one to value information and reconnaissance. Putin’s authoritarian leadership style enforces hierarchical thinking and centralized decision-making. In Russia, this is seen as a sign of strength: newspaper articles typically emphasise how a certain decision comes straight from Putin (see reporting on the destruction of imported food, Kramer 2015). It was thus on the military front where Putin notched up his first wins. During the second Chechen war, he played the part of a vindictive hero who was “out to get” the terrorists, using even brasher rhetoric than his peer George W. Bush after 9/11 (Eichler 2012). Putin came across as someone who would avenge the collective shame resulting from the loss of the first Chechen war. Yet during this era, Putin also had sympathisers in the West, which was recuperating from a surge in attacks by Al-Qaeda.

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Still, criticism abounded towards the war crimes and other atrocities perpetrated in Chechnya during the war. The second Chechen war ended more successfully for the Russians and was considered a victory. The redemption of the Russian army had begun. After this phase, Putin turned his attention towards the oligarchs (Filipov 2000), duly wresting the control of the Russian media, especially the television networks, from the oligarchs Berezovsky and Gusinsky. The power of the oligarchs consequently dwindled – many of them went into exile, some to prison (Khodorkovsky), while the rest succumbed to Putin’s power. After excelling in war, Putin subsequently concentrated on putting the national economy in order and succeeded on this front as well. The rise in oil prices occurred mainly due to the global economic growth, originating in particular from the rise of China (Review of Issues Affecting the Price of Crude Oil, 2010, 7), but the Kremlin had no qualms about taking the credit for it. Nonetheless, a substantial part of the wealth increase has been distributed to the general public with rises in governmental wages and pensions. With the aid of the media, Putin has been depicted as a protector and father of the nation, and the paternalistic elements in his leadership image have been emphasised. A pop song depicting Vladimir Putin as the ideal husband for Russian women was a hit in 2002; it was later used by the man himself as a political anthem.3 The rugged masculine media images showing Putin engaged in various sports and outdoor activities continue to baffle Western audiences. In the West, such imagery would be expected of a movie star but not from a politician.4 Yet, among the general Russian public such imagery seems to have the desired effect. Putin’s actions are seen as leading Russia back to glory, which has been further supported by the increase in the oil price during the early 21st century (Meyer, Lovasz, and Pismennaya 2014). Hence, Putin has excelled in all sectors he has focussed on: he has won wars, knocked the economy into shape, reined in the oligarchs, made sure that ordinary citizens get their paychecks on time, and provided the nation with both success and entertainment (namely the Winter Olympics in 2014, and the football World Cup in 2018). In other words, he has been on a path to restore the lost reputation of the Soviet Union/Russia as a global superpower. This track record has made him a winner – and who would not want to follow a winner?

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Next, we turn our attention to the Russian cultural landscape and ponder whether it gives rise to genuinely different leadership compared with the West.

“New” Russian leadership – a combination of the mythical and the contemporary The Soviet leader Joseph Stalin commissioned the acclaimed director Sergei Eisenstein to film the story of a well-known Russian tsar, Ivan the Terrible (1945; 1958). Rumour even has it that Stalin co-directed some sections, as showing the hard-handed tsar as a “dire Father of the Nation” was in his immediate interests. For Stalin, Ivan represented an allusion to himself as the agent of necessity: reforming the country and protecting it from its internal and external foes. In Stalin’s understanding, decades of Stalinist terror would be comparable to Ivan’s campaigns against the scheming hedonistic and materialistic boyars (nobles). In the contemporary political-leadership talk, it is often forgotten that this is the cultural and historical landscape that the Russian population is acculturated into understanding – subconsciously or at least semiautomatically. Such leader images of Ivan (“the Terrible”) and Stalin (“Man of Steel”), that for the average Western intellectual embody strangling oppression and systematic terror, represent stern father figures in the minds of millions of Russians. It is a culture in which compromise is regarded as a sign of weakness (Richmond 2009, 126). Contributors to these kinds of cultural characteristics are many, and the webs of causality regarding them complex, but what is essential to note here is that failure to understand these characteristics leads Western analysts to superficially single out the distinctive characteristics of Russian leadership. This easily leads to seeing their actions as being simply “barbarous”. When it comes to contemporary political leadership, what seems “characteristically Russian”, “oriental” or even “barbaric” in Western eyes is, in fact, merely the public side, or the visible “shop window”, of the completely logical and coherent actions of the Kremlin. Beneath the surface of such actions lies a hidden (in fact, not-so-hidden) vision – the expansion of Russia’s power on the Eurasian continent. In pursuing this, Moscow is not different from its counterparts in Washington, Beijing or Brussels. This is simply something power elites do – they maintain, solidify and expand their power. Failing to understand this is either a conscious lie designed to mask the Western pursuit of power, especially in

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the former Warsaw Pact countries, or a sign of ignorant lack of reflection. Neither of these alternatives is flattering to the Western governments that tell their citizens and the world that they are defending “humanitarian values”, “openness” and “democracy”. Perhaps the prime examples of this double standard are the two massive and ongoing expeditionary wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, “peace-keeping” operations in Africa, as well as the bombing campaigns of Libya and Syria. There are, undoubtedly, fundamental differences in how leadership “works” in these two contexts. (Here, we would like to note that there is arguably a qualitative difference between Western and Russian values). What is missing is a more nuanced explanation of this, providing that there is one in the first place. Is Russia simply experiencing a phase in its sociocultural development, or are there fundamental, irrevocable cultural “deep structures” (à la Lévi-Strauss 1967)? There are remarkable differences in the Russian vis-à-vis the Western understanding of leadership. The leader under study, Putin, is illuminating in this sense as well. Since coming to power, he has been portrayed as a “hard man” from the streets of Soviet-era Leningrad. Among his first duties as prime minister and acting president was leading Russia in the Second Chechen War, ending the decade-long independence of the spinoff Chechen Republic of Ichkeria (1991-2000) in the Northern Caucasus. In the course of this war, Putin earned a tough reputation for himself with his relentless measures against the “bandits”, vowing to “whack” them in the “outhouse”, if necessary (Camus 2006; Tisdall 2006). His consequent success and soaring approval rating confirmed that this war-like rhetoric was to the liking of the Russian population, largely wallowing in apathy after a decade of economic turmoil and the rise of the oligarchs that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union. In a similar fashion in the US, President Bush’s media talks became more charismatic and his popularity increased after the 9/11 attacks (Bligh, Kohles and Meindl 2004). Throughout history, rulers have used external threats and war to deflect attention away from their nation’s internal problems.5 We argue, however, that Putin’s leadership image is constructed as a combination of new and old, traditional and contemporary, global and locally Russian. In actual fact, it seems that his leadership mythology as the “hard man” of Russia is constructed and narrated to appeal to the largest possible proportion of Russian citizens. In this regard, he radically departs from his predecessor Boris Yeltsin, who was known to be an out-

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going and sociable person who was not averse to a drink. Putin, for his part, is known as an “intelligence officer” and a “thug” who practised judo and would later become an agent in the ranks of the KGB, acting as the head of the FSB (the successor organisation of the KGB) prior to his first term as prime minister. Western observers recognise the same elements that comprise Putin’s leadership image, but typically attach a different meaning to them. Clearly, Putin does not fit the contemporary Western ideal of a good leader, representing something “primal” instead. Western observers link Putin’s leader habitus to something they have seen either in museums in pictures of ancient kings and tribal chiefs, or in films portraying historical or mythical leaders. The masculine imagery hints at physical force and violence. Putin has been caught lying several times during his tenure.6 In the West, such behaviour would be scandalous, inviting public pressure for a politician to resign. In Russia, it implies that the leader is crafty. For example, Lt. Gen. Fredrik B. Hodges, the commander of the US Army Europe, stated in the Wall Street Journal (Ahmari 2015): They’re not burdened with the responsibility to tell the truth. So they just hammer away, and whenever somebody in the West puts out a blog or a tweet, there’s an immediate counterattack by these trolls.

The generic Western view of Putin has progressed during his reign from curious (Who is this guy?), to rather neutral (He is exotic!), to antagonistic (He is a threat!). It was only after Western and Russian interests visibly clashed that the media began depicting Putin as a sort of arch-villain, reminiscent of the characters in superhero comics. A major turn was the war against Georgia in 2008 and the new propagandist imagery that emerged in the same year and further escalated during the ongoing Ukrainian crisis that erupted in 2014. Currently, Putin is one of the focal leaders featured in the Western press. The Russian political agency is attributed to his person, which – most probably – is a simplification, despite his authoritative position in the Kremlin.7 No leader leads alone (Gronn 2002). Western myopia in treating Russia as fundamentally different and in a way “detached” from the global community stems largely from difficulties in translation. We argue that these difficulties are both cultural and linguistic; particularly the former should be taken more seriously, as it is harder to overcome. Take, for instance, the course of events after the collapse of the twin towers in New York in 2001. When the US regime headed by George

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W. Bush attacked Afghanistan in 2001 and Iraq in 2003, they claimed to be defending “democracy”, “freedom” and “human rights”, despite basing their actions on weak, non-existent or inherently doubtful evidence and intelligence data. When the regime in the Kremlin attacked Chechnya in 1999, Georgia in 2008 and Ukraine in 2014, they used similar language, as well as similarly dubious evidence. Take, for example, the alleged FSB involvement in the Russian apartment bombings of 1999 and their role as the casus belli for Russia entering the Second Chechen War (for an extensive treatment of the subject, see Dunlop 2014). Differences between these two characters are largely rhetorical. Whereas Bush emphasised the role of the revered values of the American people, as well as the importance of establishing American hegemony in the Middle East, Putin emphasised the need to restore Russia’s power over its immediate geo-political sphere of influence along the lines of restoring the “lost Empire”. In this light, Putin’s expeditions seem much more contained than those of Bush and Blair – the post-1999 Kremlin regime has only intervened militarily in the immediate backyard of Russia (with the notable exception of bombing the Syrian rebels), whereas the US and its allies are operating around the globe. Yet the Western audience sees Putin’s leadership differently. It addresses elements that people clearly link with leadership, yet feel have become politically incorrect and reprehensible. The collapse of the Soviet Union, and the era of Mikhail Gorbachev had suggested that the claim made by Francis Fukuyama in his bestselling The End of History (1992) would ring true. Fukuyama’s argument was that the war between ideologies was over and that liberal democracy had prevailed. This prognosis pacified Western commentators. It supported the claim that their value base was “right” and would win in the end. If some dictators happened to be lingering somewhere in the developing world, it would only be a matter of time before democracy would prevail. The case of Russia falsifies this claim: Russian democracy is a mockery, and Putin is like Napoleon, the emperor who took over the bickering factions after the revolution. The recent development of China is also challenging the prognosis issued by Fukuyama – who himself has abandoned his previous claim (Fukuyama 2011) – yet China does not have a similar leading figurehead who would personify the different ideological basis underlying the political order. It is no wonder that the European extreme right-wing parties are fascinated by Putin. For them, he represents

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a masculine, no-frills leader, who gets to say what he wants and who achieves what he undertakes. In Russian political rhetoric, “fascists” pose the biggest historical threat to Russia (this rhetoric invokes the great Russian myth of World War II and the victorious Red Army that defeated Nazi Germany), yet it is the Western rightists who associate their ethos with Putin’s leadership. In this light, it is also highly illuminating to consider Donald Trump’s early successes in his 2016 US presidential campaign: strong, populist rhetoric blaming others attracts both headlines and followers. Of course, all this does not mean that the expansion of one’s hegemony would be “OK” by any mainstream ethical means.8 Apart from strategy, the case of the “new” Russian leadership is intriguing at the tactical level as well. As observant readers and commentators may have noticed, Russia has been increasingly active in the media sphere, in social media in particular. In the course of recent unfolding events, Russia-linked “Internet trolls” have employed a set of tactics that seem aggressive, foreign and disturbing to many Western audiences (Sindelar 2014). This Russian discursive tactic of persistent denial and overturning opposing information is a well-known and traditionally used tool in the Russian palette of techniques, successfully implemented as early as the 1920s by the Red Army in the aftermath of the Russian Civil War (Bergman 1927). While “civilised Western intellectuals” might disagree with the wording and precise emphasis on various politically debatable subjects, at the strategic level, however, Russia is doing exactly the same as the West in its own expeditionary wars in the Middle East – securing its interests and expanding its power. In the next section, we delve into the contemporary readings of Putin’s regime and leadership. The media creates a rhizomatic meaning space, where multiple interpretations – supportive, neutral and antagonistic – are applied to promote certain “truths”. The leader character has become a focal arena in the contest of meanings in the ongoing hybrid warfare, fought especially in the media and on the Internet.

Quo vadis, Russia? After the collapse of the Soviet Union, NATO and most of the European countries adopted the premise that massive land-based warfare was a thing of the past. The idea was that economically developed nation states would not start traditional wars against each other. The discourse of the last 15

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years has been mostly dominated by the experiences of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. As the Ukrainian crisis began, the need to create a new concept for warfare appeared, namely that of hybrid war. Hybrid warfare incorporates and combines a full range of different modes of threatening action, applying military, political, economic and cultural means (Hoffman 2007). The clandestine and asymmetrical intrusion into Ukraine, orchestrated by the Kremlin using unconventional techniques, warranted the term “hybrid war” in the West. According to Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman nominee, General Joseph Dunford, Russia poses the greatest threat to the US (Lamothe 2015). The continuous and vocal statements emanating from the Russian side have made it apparent to the West that there is an increasingly widening gap between Russia and the West. One of the many ideological voices is Alexandr Dugin (2012, 30); according to him, many Russians intuitively understand that Russia has no place in the “liberal, postmodern and individual” world. In addition, the challenges and problems surrounding the neoliberal economic and post-industrial process increase their antagonistic attitude towards Western values. Recently, Putin himself questioned the nobility of the Western interest in helping Greece through its economic difficulties (Where Was EU When Greek Crisis Was Evolving?, 2015). Hence, the Russians have to seek alternative fundaments for their lives. A rather preposterous practical example of this ideological rift was the order of the Kremlin order to destroy food imported from the West in front of Russian people (Kramer 2015). In response to the perceived deficiencies in the Russian identity, the Kremlin has resorted to using military force in its attempt to regain the status of the “great old days” (in this regard, see Sperling 2014). The display of strong leadership also serves the purpose of re-establishing the lost empire. Moreover, the Kremlin has systematically centralised and taken control of nearly all of the Russian media, especially television. Approximately 90% of Russian citizens get their news via television broadcasts. Hence, Putin has an enormous opportunity to broadcast his message into the homes of ordinary Russians (Naím 2015). The Kremlin has managed to create an atmosphere of paranoia and nationalism against the West, and the Western media in particular. For instance, the so-called Project Network is designed to encourage young people to support the Kremlin’s brand of politics (Silencing Dissent in Russia: Putin’s Propaganda Machine 2015). Dugin’s (2014, 6) main idea is that the Russian lifestyle integrating religion, i.e. the Russian Orthodox Church, Soviet-style industriousness

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and an upright, honest administration constitutes a fundamental alternative to the Western rational-liberal – and decadent – way of thinking. Dugin’s propagandist argument is that the West has lost its faith. His projection of holiness onto Putin is reminiscent of Heidegger’s belief that Hitler represented the light in the dark modern world of the 1930s (Farías 1989). Since 2000, Putin has used international conflicts to send a clear message about the perceived threats to the Russian civilisation. For example, he sees the Rose Revolution in Georgia, and the Orange Revolution in Ukraine as direct attacks orchestrated by the United States and the EU against Russia. In 2014, Russia annexed Crimea and invaded Eastern Ukraine (see Beck 2015). Putin has shown that he is both willing and able to use the military as an instrument of strong Russian politics, as well as an integrated part of his leadership. Why do the Russian people continue to support the militarised politics of the Kremlin, despite the fact that they are aware of their deteriorating economic situation? The actions of the Kremlin in Ukraine are unable to benefit the Russian people, and are unable to deliver on the promises that have been made. For example, during 2014, the rouble lost 40% of its value in relation to the euro, and food prices rose significantly (Naím 2015). The Kremlin has had to deploy massive resources to bail out some of the nation’s largest companies and banks. The Russian credit rating has diminished. The continuing conflict with Ukraine may lead to more sanctions and isolation from the international community. All this begs the question of how and why the Russian leadership is able to remain in power. Is the answer simple nationalism, or is the situation more nuanced than this? One of the key narratives of the Russian population is their faith in strong leadership. To prove its right to rule, the Kremlin must lean on Putin’s persona and secure a positive development of the global oil and gas market. The charismatic leader also plays a game of expectations. The dominant Western powers try diplomacy in the first instance and beg Him – Putin – to act their way. Both sides are eager to raise expectations (for further commentary, see Turner 2011), a situation that can become routinised as we have seen during the Ukrainian crisis. The West also uses these Russian narratives in counter-propaganda. According to NATO, the Kremlin’s main narrative includes several dominant themes (2014), positioning Russian Slavic Orthodox Civilisation in opposition to “decadent” Europe; positioning Ukraine as integral to Eurasianism and the

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The arguments and counterarguments serve to evoke deeper mutual distrust. By the same token, this bifurcated process increases Putin’s charisma among his supporters and makes him appear more dangerous in the eyes of his adversaries. The arguments and counterarguments circulating in the media daily also serve to increase insecurity and ambivalence between the Russian-speaking population and other nationalities. Instead of being taken seriously or regarded as an equal partner, Russia is perceived in the West as a backward and underdeveloped but increasingly dangerous, militaristic country (Müller 2012, 290). All this merely plays into the hands of the Russian public opinion preferred by the Kremlin: Russians can deride the West for its false assumptions. The case of Guantánamo, and the killing of the black teenager in Ferguson, Missouri in 2014 serve to validate Russian attitudes against the West, and fuel their aggressive resolve to pursue their own agenda. Both sides monitor the other for all kinds of political and economic failures, seeking cases that support their interpretation of the adversary. For example, in just 45 minutes, during a speech delivered at the Munich Security Conference in February 2015, Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov rewrote the history of the Cold War, accused the West of fomenting a coup in Ukraine, and declared himself a champion of the United Nations Charter. The crowd in Germany laughed and booed, but he seemed oblivious to their taunts (Rogin 2015). Yet behind the levity lies a situation of political gravity. Putin may realise that he cannot defeat the US or the EU militarily. He may not want to declare traditional war against the West, but he may want to instil new meaning into the global political process. Indeed, he has taken classical propaganda, like Dugin’s philosophy in Russia, imported it to Russian audiences and exported it to Western Europe. The message is

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simple and designed to affect the human unconscious. The Kremlin’s actions have opened the eyes of the world to the fact that globalisation and free access to information have not only brought peace, economic growth and political consensus. Yet the Kremlin’s actions are not a new phenomenon by any means. A similar development was witnessed when the US launched its “war against terror” at the beginning of the twentyfirst century. The strong political will in the United States came to be associated with the use of military force through information and media technology. These events were followed by global economic volatility and recession. Social inequality accelerated and the extremists in our midst became even more radicalised (Borradori 2003). NATO is a key political-military instrument for the West. Without US military power, NATO can be seen as a political-economic unity without real military power. When the West constructs its “official” statement about the current most significant threats, it frames it in NATO parlance. According to the Alliance (NATO 2014), “[t]he concept of the ‘Russian World’ justifies Russia’s capability and rights to build its own human rights system, legal norms, and its interpretation of history and the justice system”. In this argument, there is no voice for Russia and no place for dialogue.

Putin and the military The Russian military forces have been undergoing extensive transformation since the collapse of the Soviet Union. The military reforms are aimed at changing the old Cold War mass forces structure, stricken by corruption and the lack of effective command and control (Mattsson 2015), into a more relevant one, equipped to confront the threats of the 21st century. During Putin’s tenure, the Russian mass media has informed the general public of the challenges pertaining to the military transformation quite openly. Huge problems remain when it comes to getting rid of old-fashioned weapon systems and boosting the motivation in units, but the overall structure has become reasonably modern and effective. The latest example of this development was the speed of communication from political decision-making to the use of actual military power during the takeover of the Crimean Peninsula. One of the most important principles in democracy is civilian political control over the military forces. In Russia, Putin exerts strong, direct political control in this sphere. At the moment, there is a strong will to

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centralise all branches – air, navy and land forces – under one military command, receiving orders directly from Putin (for details on this decree from 1996, see Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɚɹ ɝɚɡɟɬɚ 2015). In 2014, the Western media adopted the term hybrid war to describe the Kremlin’s way of waging war. On the Russian side, however, this kind of concept did not exist. Hybrid tactics are neither new, nor exclusively – nor primarily – a Russian invention. They are as old as warfare itself and Western states have often used elements of hybrid warfare quite effectively (Popescu 2015). In military history, all campaigns have included a variety of tactics such as clandestine intelligence operations, sabotage, smuggling, and the deployment of paramilitary units. The latest instruments include cyber hacking and spreading disinformation in and by social media. Rhizomatic hybridisation has a long history, effectively dating back to the infiltration by the Trojan horse. In linguistics, hybridisation occurs when one variation of a language blends with another. Similarly, globalisation can be seen as a process whereby economies and cultures merge. In terms of communication, hybridisation means the combining of information techniques developed in different countries and among non-governmental actors. Hybridisation can also be valuable to leadership. For example, religious or business leaders can take on political or military roles and vice versa. In the ongoing conflict in Ukraine, the Russian side uses proRussian separatists against the Ukrainian military (The Ukraine Crisis Timeline 2015). One reason why hybrid war is so dangerous is that it is easy and cheap to wage against external aggressors, but costly in various ways for the defenders. According to Snowden and Boone (2007), searching for the right answers in a hybrid context would be pointless. The relationships between cause and effect are impossible to determine because they shift constantly; no manageable patterns exist – only turbulence. The immediate task of leaders, actors and individuals is not to discover patterns but to staunch the bleeding and act. The interactions between multiple rhizomatic networks cannot be differentiated and solved piece by piece. Intervening to deal with one problem entails getting embroiled in others (Ho and Kuah 2014).

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Conclusion: Leadership and changing regimes In this chapter, we have discussed the charismatic leadership image of Vladimir Putin. We have tracked the developments and the turmoil that led to his ascent to the presidency, and to the current, inflated, “larger than life” interpretations of his leadership image. We have explained how the societal successes Russia has achieved since the difficulties of the 1990s are attributed to Putin and how that ensures his national popularity. Being a leader is a polarised experience: a collective success or failure heaps either praise or blame on the leader persona, even when this person has little effect on the outcomes. In this light, leadership is a demanding practice; its eventual outcomes are the strongest measures of its legitimacy. From a Russian perspective, the current Kremlin regime has been successful thus far: the economic growth, development of public governance, military successes, and international recognition of Russian interests have increased the national self-esteem of the population, and Putin is seen as the guarantor of all this. Truly, Putin is the leader who has restored harmony in a disrupted system (in this regard, see Islam 2009). Putin’s leadership image may be – in a rather untimely fashion, regarding the Western democratised ideal – understood through a primal reading. First, his person: his personal history as a silovik, action-over-talk conduct, as well as street-credible rhetoric provide cues across the spectrum of the Russian cultural sphere. Second, his leadership style: hard, masculine, and authoritarian, linking him with well-known strongmen from Russia’s past. Third, his actions: reclaiming Russia’s lost glory, taking care of ordinary citizens in the face of the “powerful”, and demanding international recognition of the national interests of Russia. Rhetorically, Putin repeatedly invokes primal Russian myths, namely references to the “sacred” Russian soil, the battle against the intruding fascists, or the inseparability of the church and the state. Such rhetoric evokes strong emotions among his followers and pours balm on the open wounds of a hurt nationalistic pride. To his followers across Russia, these aspects are true and sacred – something they connect with both individually and collectively – something that constructs and reconstructs their identity. Among Western audiences, Putin’s leadership image – in the form of his person, leadership style and actions – is interpreted radically differently. Putin’s actions have shown him to be crafty and bold, unlike the shared Western ideal of a leader. He has taken action, especially in the military

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sector, which has astonished his supporters and antagonists alike, both in the East and in the West. His masculine “no frills – I am calling the shots” style is counterintuitive to the contemporary Western readings of leadership, notably those represented under the title “post-heroic leadership” (for a discussion of the “undesirable” durability of masculineauthoritative heroism, see Fletcher 2004), and does not cave in under its criticism. Moreover, the way his leadership image is fuelled by martial arts, taming tigers and piloting military vehicles is deeply alien to Western audiences – despite the fact that it “tickles” the unconscious affect in the Russian cultural context and beyond. It seems that Western academic audiences have largely become blind to primal constructions of leadership, even though they remain relevant to us (Kuronen and Virtaharju 2015). In fact, it has been suggested that Western followers may become emotionally disengaged from leaders that use militaristic or sports metaphors in their leadership (Mccabe and Knights 2015). The increasing tension between East and West, the partially unacknowledged “hybrid” war fought in Eastern Ukraine, the erratic media space and the Internet have all contributed to a further polarisation of discourses. This, for its part, contributes to extreme contrasts in the readings of Putin’s leadership and the Kremlin regime. We argue that the image of the “resolute and strong” primal leader builds on an unprecedented multiplicative mirror effect in a rhizomatic network of geopolitical agents. Strong, heroic feats appear in the action taken against the other, in Putin’s case the antagonistic and scheming West, especially the United States, which the Russians often perceive to be behind the actions of the European Union. The charismatic leader image appears when Putin acts for the benefit of Mother Russia, sanctifying her history and arriving at a certain contemporary reading of it. In terms of her borders, for instance, Putin’s actions are aimed at protecting the nation from external foes. The Russian discourse depicts the West as a threatening and ever-voracious beast that only Putin can confront, resist and vanquish. In the current conflict surrounding a hegemonic reading of leadership, or the management of meaning (Smircich and Morgan 1982), the contributors are diverse: Putin’s Russian supporters and oppositionists; Putin’s Western henchmen, bystanders and adversaries, scholars and researchers of geopolitics and leadership; Third World political leaders: allies,

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adversaries, and neutrals. To his adversaries, Putin is not a leader, but a scheming and mendacious villain (Schumatsky 2014) or an unpredictable monster. In other words, the ongoing discourse could be described as dialectic (this-that, either-or, for-against, and so on…), instead of a dialogue. It is also telling that both sides are referring to themselves as proponents and supporters of a dialogical approach which would be possible “if only the other side would be inclined to do so, too”. In the early days of his rule, the West was mainly cautiously supportive, albeit sceptical towards Putin. Only after it became clear that the Kremlin regime would not be contained within the geo-graphical and geo-political frames defined by the West did the conflict of interests became apparent. It is this Putin and the Kremlin that the West is opposing – the one with a clear, pro-Russian vision that will not be deterred by outsiders. Western antagonists present Putin’s leadership image, aimed mainly at the Russian audience, as a clear indication of his irrationality, supremacy and “otherness” as a leader. These opposing interpretations of Putin’s actions and his image amplify the readings of him as a leader to the extreme. In other words, the polarised interpretations of Putin’s leadership oscillate in the rhizomatic network of geopolitical actors, the media and social media authors, sometimes amplifying to iconic, charismatic proportions, sometimes withering away to insignificance. The amplification of leadership happens unguided, as the network has no governing centre from where “untrue” interpretations would be extinguished. Putin’s image as “the other” is used in Russian internal communication to vindicate and legitimise his status as the protector of the nation. An example of how the leader image is amplified through media discussions – and how difficult it is to “manage” it, on either side of the discourse – is the “shirtfronting” episode that occurred prior to the G20 meeting in Australia in November 2014. Australian Prime Minister Tony Abbott said he was “going to shirtfront Mr Putin… you bet I am” (Massola 2014a). “Shirtfront” refers to a fierce tackle in Australian football. The local Russian embassy’s reply reminded the Australians of Vladimir Putin’s martial arts training (Massola 2014b). When the meeting did not involve any physical fights between the participants, but rather sulking between them, the event was interpreted in Russia mostly as a submission before their leader (Bancroft-Hinchey 2014). Previous charisma research has depicted charisma as evolving internally to a community, building on its cultural interpretations. However, the advent

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of real-time communication technology – social media in particular – has opened up leader actions and communication to a wider audience. Moreover, the case of Putin shows how charismatic leadership is fuelled by a “contagious” and polarised recursion of leader interpretations provided by proponents and adversaries, followers and resistors, internals and externals. To be a hero, or to be a villain? It may be the Realpolitik reading that it does not matter so much, as long as one stands victorious in the end. The Kremlin is playing according to clear Machiavellian logic – the ends justify the means. In this sense, the Russian metric of analysing leadership effectiveness is the same as in US corporations – most results with least effort. Is charismatic leadership actually important for the Kremlin? In the rhizomatic world, there is no time and place for a grand and systematic political plan. The key to Putin’s charisma is the ability to present himself as the way, as the instrument, and to rise above what is written, in this case the law, and command on the basis of his personal authority. The leader needs the inner capacity to act, and the energy; the ability to size up and seize opportunities, and to see that what to the people may seem a risk, is not a risk at all (Turner 2011). The strong leadership image of Vladimir Putin emerges from a field of contrasting leader images. His leadership gains meaning when it is associated both with his predecessors and his peers across the globe. Thinking of the trajectory of Russian leaders from Brezhnev, Gorbachev, and Yeltsin to Putin, we can observe how they each manifested (and formed) the ethos of their time. Brezhnev was an old and sullen character, like the Soviet Union of his time. Gorbachev was a romantic reformist, who dreamt of a better world. Yeltsin was energetic in his early days, but succumbed to the bottle and American neoliberalism and ended up dancing to the tunes of the oligarchs. Putin embodies an energetic and ruthless technocrat, a man of the security apparatus who has no qualms about achieving his goals. From Putin’s point of view, the most culpable are those leaders “who threw the power on the floor”, only to be picked up by “hysterics” and “madmen” (Trudolyubov 2015). Putin can also be seen in relation to some of his American peers. His brash rhetoric reminds us of Lyndon B. Johnson and George W. Bush and their two-dimensional view of the world as a zero-sum game: “you are either with us, or against us”. We are left with the question of whether a contemporary charismatic leader is merely a pre-modern leader mediated by advanced technology. In the light of this, we may legitimately ask if we have ever been modern after all (Burrell 1997).

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Putin is Putin precisely because the regime change in 1999 was the kind that it was, i.e. charismatic, rhizomatic, and “back to basics”, along with the trajectory that ensued over the subsequent decade and a half. Thus, the current Kremlin regime is a reflection of its precedent, the regime change itself, and the subsequent events that have shaped the nature of the ruling elite. It may well be that the West sees it as brutal, anti-liberalist, and undemocratic. This view, however, merely scratches the surface. What is relevant is the understanding that any given regime equals a balance of power that creates the conditions for leadership to take both place and shape. They will become “who they are”, in a very Nietzschean sense (1974, 180). In other words, they will become manifestations of the sociohistorico-cultural “soil” where they dwell. However, as the rhizomatic contingency cannot be controlled or forecast, there will always be a strong component of uncertainty – the rhizome is fickle. The future will show the time, the place and the shape of the next Russian regime. It seems that in the Russian world – melancholic, ruthless and violent – a hard-handed order is better than no order at all.

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Notes 1

Kivinen (2015) argues that in Russia the state and the Russian Orthodox Church have always been relationally close, and that the relationship has been characterized by “caesaropapism”, meaning that at times the state has power over the church even in theological matters. 2 “Glasnost” refers to openness in discussion on political and social issues (The Editors of Encyclopædia Britannica, n.d.). “Perestroika” refers to restructuring the

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Soviet economic and political policy (The Editors of Encyclopædia Britannica 2014). 3 Takogo kak Putin. An English version, A Man like Putin, is available on Youtube.com (Barton 2012). 4 In Finland, for instance, President Niinistö called a radio programme in July 2015 to ask the nature experts for some tips on identifying wild flowers. He did not introduce himself as the President, however, but as “Sauli from Naantali”. In the US, Arnold Schwarzenegger was quite successful when he linked one-liners from his movie past to his political activities, but he did not remove his shirt for photos during his tenure as the “Governator” of California. 5 The Hollywood film Wag the Dog (Levinson 1998) described this phenomenon through comedy. In the film, a sex scandal jeopardises the US President’s chances of getting re-elected. To counter this, the government contracts a Hollywood producer to manufacture an overseas war that the president can heroically end, all through the mass media. 6 For example: the “little green men” in Crimea, the Russian troops “on holiday” in Ukraine, the claim that Western sanctions “have no effect on the Russian economy”, and so on. 7 An interesting event occurred during 2014 when Putin was not seen in the media for a week. This event became news in itself and theories about his whereabouts were rife (“Vladimir Putin: Russian Leader Dismisses ‘Gossip’ over Absence” 2015). 8 This holds despite our foundational position: in this book in general, and this chapter in particular, we employ the principle of Verstehen – that is, understanding and interpreting the research context also from the “other” point of view – rather than moral judgement.

CHAPTER TWELVE NATION BUILDING, POLITICAL BOUNDARIES, AND CULTURAL AUTHENTICITY: POST-SOVIET BORDERLANDS IN TRANSFORMATION ANDREY MAKARYCHEV AND ALEXANDRA YATSYK

This chapter addresses a set of cultural and social practices in post-Soviet states that have been momentous for constructing their national identities. Culture is understood as shared meanings or practices that give those who share them a sense of belonging together (Hall 1997, 2; Banai 2012, 37). In this sense, cultural practices may be pertinent examples of selfidentification in terms of national consolidation and integration. We focus on those post-Soviet nations that might be described as borderlands, located at the crossroads of different cultural, ethnic, religious and civilisational flows. More specifically, the chapter seeks to uncover cultural strategies of producing identity narratives in three borderland nations – Ukraine, Georgia and Estonia – that play key roles in resisting the neo-imperial policies of Russia, and which are of primordial importance for the future of the intensely debated, albeit contested, ideas of a wider Europe and common neighbourhood versus the neo-imperial centre. We connect these issues to wider European debates on the Baltic Sea region, Eastern Europe and the South Caucasus. More specifically, we seek to address post-Soviet borderland identities in Ukraine, Estonia and Georgia as seen from the perspective of identity-making, and as exemplified by major sporting and cultural mega-events, which are seldom discussed within such a research framework.

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The essence of the analysis is to see how countries located in the borderlands define their national identities and, in so doing, help to redraw and reshape cultural boundaries in the wider Europe. This question has gained particular relevance when set against the revived binary logic of the EU-Russia confrontation.

Introduction: Borderlands in search of names Three decades after the Soviet system started disintegrating under the pressure of re-emerging national identities, the latter still need (re)interpreting and (re)conceptualising. The Soviet Union fell apart due to the escalating crisis of its rule in the colonised peripheries, from the steady reinvigoration of national movements in the three Baltic states to deadly inter-ethnic conflicts in the South Caucasus, of which the wars in Nagorno-Karabakh, South Ossetia and Abkhazia were the most tragic consequences. The dismantling of the USSR was consensually effectuated by the governments of Russia, Ukraine and Belarus, and supported by all the other republics, which seized the moment to assert their identities in post-imperial and post-colonial terms, and to launch nation-building projects of their own. However, the events of 1991, with the Belavezh agreement at their core and the underlying post-colonial logic that underpinned it, set the scene for many political controversies. One of these pertained to the fact that in Russia, the largest among the ex-USSR constituent parts and the legitimate successor of the fallen empire, the very concept of the nation-state faced existential challenges from alternative conceptualisations of the Russian identity and political strategy, based on imperial underpinnings. These were articulated through civilisational (on Eurasianism, see Glaziev 2015; Delyagin 2015; Arctogaia 2015), cultural, religious or linguistic (for a different version of the “Russian world”, see Izborskiy Klub 2015) discourses, all sharing the idea of the “incompleteness” of the Russian Federation and its incongruence with “the genuine Russia”, with all the metaphysical, if not mythical, connotations that the term implied. Paradoxically, as a proponent of a return to a system of nation-states as the foundation of the structure of international relations, Russia is, however, far from a classical nation-state, due to imperial temptations that outweigh the very idea of national integrity. Another controversy relates to the different implementation of nationbuilding projects in other post-Soviet countries. Here one sees diverse

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societal and political practices at play. From the Baltic states with their identities consolidated on the basis of strong anti-imperial attitudes and memories, to Central Asian countries with a resonant narrative that implicitly treats Russia as a civilising power and an attractive – in some cases, the most attractive – labour market. This explains at least two important points. Firstly, the tragic positioning of Ukraine in-between proRussian and anti-Russian public sentiments and expectations, and secondly, the very limited possibilities of the European Union (EU), with all its undeniable economic and normative appeal, to balance pro-Russian – and thus pro-imperial by default – trends in some post-Soviet borderlands. The unfolding of these processes against the background of globalisation adds another important controversy to this list. On the one hand, globalisation fosters and facilitates the proliferation of cultural projects of an explicit trans-border nature and a neoliberal commodification of cultural forms and products. Branding strategies can be seen as one pertinent issue. Yet, on the other hand, the post-Soviet space is replete with examples that illuminate the search for cultural traditionalism, for which an exposure to global cultural markets has only limited importance. In this chapter, we are interested in those cultural forms and strategies that can be regarded as embodying Ukrainian, Estonian and Georgian identities as related to Europe, with all the fuzzy connotations inherent in this concept. To narrow the focus of the research, in Ukraine our main geographic object is the western part of the country, with the city of Lviv as a prime example of a peculiar Galician identity, which resonated particularly strongly in Europe due to the UEFA EURO 2012 football championship, co-hosted by Poland and Ukraine. In Georgia, we have chosen to focus on the symbolic importance of Europe for the purposes of nation-branding through high-profile sports events (such as the European Youth Summer Olympic festival and the UEFA Super Cup football match, both held in Tbilisi in the summer of 2015). In Estonia, we have looked at the famous song and dance festivals that are rightly considered one of the key components of the Estonian national soul, mind and spirit. There are different ways of characterising the vast area occupied by the former Soviet Union, which today consists of countries with diametrically divergent foreign policies, from those fully integrated into the EU and NATO, to those having joined the Russia-driven Eurasian Economic Union. Concepts as different as “common neighbourhood”, “near abroad”,

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“newly independent states”, and “post-Soviet space” compete semantically with each other. This underlines the diversity of discourse and the dynamics of regional change in this part of the world. Transformations in borderland identities can be conceptualised from the viewpoint of a number of academic disciplines, among which sociology and cultural studies play crucial roles. This interdisciplinary blend warrants a variegated and multidimensional research perspective for transition studies. Political science, which is mainly focussed on mechanisms and institutions that key actors utilise for the sake of power maximisation, often fails to duly grasp the changing meanings of power that operate through channels of socialisation and cultural production. In many respects, the behaviour of human beings and their groups is as important for the analysis of specific regions as changes brought about through institutions informed by dominant powerholders. For its part, sociological analysis needs to take into account the various political repercussions of concepts of identity, cultural narratives and representations, since it is precisely through these phenomena that different logics of nation-building are effectuated. What we aim to uncover in this chapter are those practices and strategies that are actualised in certain contexts and that lie at the intersection of political and sociological analysis. It is in this cross-disciplinary sense that we use the concepts of nation-building and nation-branding. From a methodological point of view, the approach taken in this chapter relies on a specific trend in the social sciences grounded in the key concepts of British cultural studies, combining constructivist and poststructuralist approaches to identities, discourses, imageries and the politics of representation. It is mainly within post-structuralist and, to a large extent, post-colonial literature that the key starting points of our analysis are articulated (Nye 2004; Jabri 2007; Neumann and Sending 2007; Rapkin and Braaten 2009; Snochowska-Gonzalez 2012; Makarychev and Kornilov 2014). Among these, of the utmost importance are those ideas that highlight the particular significance of marginal/non-central actors/territories possessing their own cultural potential that translates into the political dynamics of inclusion and exclusion, and the making and unmaking of borders and boundaries. Another aspect of our research relates to the cultural semantics of performative events constitutive of borderland identities. In this context, the politics of representation comprises different practices of production,

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translation, mediation and transmission of cultural meanings (Hall 1997). It is based on the logic of spectacle (Alexander 2011; Alexander 2010), as embedded in the practices of nation- building through which symbols of national distinctiveness are promoted and operationalised in identitymaking. Large-scale events constitute discourses of national identity, the “narratives of the nation”. These are stories, images, historical events, national symbols and rituals, all of which are integral to the meaning of a nation (Traganou 2010; Gabrielle Rockhill and Watts 2009), as well as indispensable components of comparative research in the sociology of cultural events encompassing politically different yet comparable experiences of countries with a strong sense of nationhood. Cultural events present opportunities for many countries and cities to find their niche in the global market of cultural and branding strategies. That is why these events turn into communicative performances. They are grounded in messages and texts that promote different identities by placing local narratives in broader contexts, mostly shaped by the mass media and created for branding purposes and cultural consumption. Some of these identities are the result of social interactions and experience-sharing between the collective Self and a variety of external Others, while others are the effects of commercial strategies designed by policy consultants and PR specialists. By the same token, cultural events may also be sources of political messages and ideological articulations if they contest existing, pre-given social models and practices (Citton 2009). On the one hand, such events may spur practices of de-bordering and foster trans-border communication (as demonstrated by Ukraine and Poland co-hosting UEFA EURO 2012; see Makarychev and Yatsyk 2016). On the other hand, cultural narratives and performances may be politically subversive, and transform or disrupt the existing power relation structures, as exemplified by the Estonian “singing revolution” as a key element in peacefully toppling the Soviet regime in the country (Jõesalu and Kõresaar 2013; Waren 2012; Smidchens 2014). In tackling this issue, we subscribe to the concept of identities being based on cultural representations. As Rancière (2009, 49) puts it, “some of the most interesting works today engage with matters of territories and borders”. Apart from political discourse, it is cultural strategies that shape national identities by producing differences through, for example, cultural

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practices, public performances, commemorations, celebrations and festivities, and visual imagery (Hemple 2012, 4). Large-scale public events open up perspectives for cities, regions and countries to develop their identities and symbols, and to convey different messages to domestic and international audiences. Each cultural event is a blend of entertainment, symbolic and carnivalesque performances, enjoyment, and celebrations of national pride. Concomitantly, the sphere of “official politics” often “appears as a theatrical stage rather than as a battlefield” (Gabrielle Rockhill and Watts 2009, 120-139), with articulations of different identities resembling acts of “performing and playing, […] building a stage and sustaining a spectacle” (Gabrielle, Rockhill and Watts 2009, 140-157). Concepts of performance (Alexander 2011), festivalisation (Richards and Wilson 2004) and Disney-isation (Bryman 2004) describe the aesthetic logics of this trend in a range of societies. Cultural events can also be conceptualised from the viewpoint of a number of academic perspectives, including cultural diplomacy, soft power, and cross-border communication. These unveil competing branding strategies, identity-based narratives and media images as elements of inward and outward strategies that fuel national resurrection and reach global audiences. The research informing this chapter is mostly based on in-depth expert interviews with local practitioners – policy activists, cultural entrepreneurs, analysis and governmental officers (n=75 in total), conducted in Lviv (Ukraine, 2013 and 2014), Tallinn, Tartu and Narva (Estonia, 2014 and 2015) and Tbilisi (Georgia, 2015).

Transitory borderlands: Estonia, Ukraine, Georgia As mentioned above, Estonia, Ukraine and Georgia might be described as borderlands comprising countries located at the crossroads of different cultural, ethnic, religious and civilisational systems, with flexible and contested “in-between” identities. Estonia is an example of successful integration into European and Euro-Atlantic security institutions, while Ukraine and Georgia are countries that lagged far behind in terms of reforms, and that were only able to sign Association Agreements with the EU in 2014. Thus, the three countries represent different models of postSoviet development, which, nonetheless, does not preclude important linkages between them. Estonia seeks to actively help Ukraine and

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Georgia in their desperate attempts to rid themselves of Russian dominance, sharing its own experiences of transition and Europeanisation. By the same token, the crisis in Ukraine was conducive to a stronger rearticulation of Estonian identity, as deeply embedded in the European context, while seeking to strengthen European unity vis-à-vis the threats of revisionism coming from Russia. In the light of the crisis in Ukraine-Russia relations, it becomes increasingly evident that the future of these borderlands critically depends on EU-Russia conflictual relations, which trigger new identity divisions in each of the three nations. On the one hand, Russia’s neighbours that constitute its “near abroad” find themselves under the threat of Russian domination, with Ukraine (2014) and Georgia (2008) being targets of Russia’s military force projection, and Estonia facing a deep political conflict with Russia dating back to the Bronze Soldier monument controversy (2007). On the other hand, these countries have undergone a period of national self-assertion which, in most cases, has had complex and controversial consequences to their identities, accompanied by polarised political debates. These examples represent three divergent developmental pathways: Georgia, which is gravitating politically towards Euro-Atlantic institutions but which, culturally, has a great deal in common with Russia; a postrevolutionary Ukraine that managed to challenge the domination of Russia, yet relies heavily on Moscow economically; and Estonia, which, along with the other Baltic states, has successfully integrated into the West, yet is still vulnerable to potential Russian pressure. At the same time, these three cases share a number of common characteristics that make them comparable in one frame of analysis. First, their borderland location is conducive to the different articulations of regional and national identities, often containing strong anti-imperial – and anti-hegemonic in a wider sense – potential. It is no accident that Lviv was among the most ardent supporters of large-scale popular revolt against the pro-Moscow regime in Maidan Square in Kyiv; Georgia did much by institutionally associating with the West and experienced the loss of two territories as an upshot of direct geopolitical clashes with Russia; and Estonia is known for its “singing revolution”, a nationwide movement of peaceful resistance to Soviet rule.

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Second, the future of these post-Soviet countries is highly dependent on soft power, namely on the attractiveness of their nation-building projects. For Ukraine, this is the key to a successful domestic reintegration of the country, as it faces externally supported armed rebellion in the eastern provinces. In Georgia, the same holds true with respect to the two breakaway territories (again supported by Russia). Estonia faces the double challenge of integrating the Russian-speaking population and simultaneously making its Moscow-sceptic policy respected and comprehended in Europe, where many countries prefer to choose a more Russia-friendly stance. Third, the three cases uncover the importance of grassroots identities in reaching beyond specific territories and appealing to European audiences through a variety of performative events. In particular, sports mega-events (such as Lviv co-hosting EURO 2012) with a strong cultural background, as well as regular song festivals held in Estonia, can be studied as playgrounds for conveying important symbolic messages pertaining to cultural authenticity, on the one hand, and as developing cross-border and trans-national narratives, on the other. In 2015, Georgia also hosted European sporting events designed to contribute to its strategy of countrybranding and promotion. Each of the three countries faces the challenge of differentiating itself from both Russia and the neighbouring countries. These distinctions are not always clear for outsiders, and thus call for cultural means of selfexpression. Ukraine faces the obvious challenge of distinguishing itself culturally from Russia. Estonia, for its part, need to differentiate itself from the other “Baltic states”, which again necessitates cultural strategies of self-representation and regional positioning, demonstrated by Estonia’s previous attempts to brand itself as a Nordic country. Georgia builds its identity policy on being different from the South Caucasus with its conflictual reputation, which leads to re-branding Georgia as a Black Sea country. In addition, the identity of each country is deeply divided on the inside. Estonia is ethnically divided between the ethnic Estonian and Russianspeaking communities, with Narva, a city located on the Estonian Russian border with about one-third of its inhabitants having Russian citizenship, as the most notorious example of this division. Ukraine is fragmented along different lines: regional (with the distinction between its Western and Eastern provinces being the sharpest), and religious (such as the Moscow-controlled and the Kyiv-loyal Orthodox Churches and the Greek

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Catholic congregation). The Georgian identity is divided between proWestern attitudes, on the one hand, and Russia sympathisers, on the other. Politically, Georgia would like to extricate itself from the Russian sphere of influence, but culturally it gravitates towards the Russian model of conservatism. External powers, such as Russia, the EU and the US, use these divisions for their own policies. Brussels appeals to the pro-European and proWestern groups, while there is a Russian counter-tendency contesting Ukraine’s European identity and trying to detach it from Europe. This is what Russia uses in its soft power strategy, addressing those audiences in Georgia, Ukraine and Estonia that are sensitive to either the “Russian World” or Eurasian integration concepts. Hence, we contend that post-Soviet nation-building in countries as different as Estonia, Ukraine and Georgia plays a constitutive role in the ongoing process of constructing and deconstructing borders in a wider Europe. As a rule, this process is discussed in administrative and institutional categories, whereas at a deeper level of analysis, bordermaking/unmaking, or locking/unlocking are cultural and social constructs. They easily turn political due to the complex interplay of exclusion and inclusion, two interrelated practices that are key for the borderland identities under consideration. Fourth, we argue that regional and national identities expressed through cultural means are key components of strategies of locking and unlocking – or constructing and deconstructing, making and unmaking – borderlines in three post-Soviet regions, Eastern Europe, the South Caucasus and the Baltic Sea region. These identities are embedded in regional contexts and therefore inscribed in the dynamics of alienation and rapprochement, inclusion and exclusion, engagement and disengagement. In this vein, we claim that border-unlocking strategies are conceptually based on two premises, namely the liberal ideas of a wider Europe without dividing lines, and the post-structuralist conceptualisation of countries geographically situated in-between dominating poles as potential winners vis-à-vis their location. Fifth, by placing these identity debates in specific – regional, national and global – contexts, we unveil the symbolic roles played by Europe as a signifier in shaping various discourses on and around cultural, including sporting, mega-events, and the political connotations of the corresponding

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discourse. Drawing on constructivist conceptualisations, we argue that the normative appeal of Europe might render dissimilar effects, facilitating the erasure of certain borders and the articulation of other identitarian borderlines. Sixth, Europe cannot be approached as a singular force. It embodies diverse political and cultural forms. Due to this multiplicity, Europe “lacks an essence or centre”, and can be defined by the lines it draws (Biebuyck and Rumford 2011, 2). This argument can be expressed in the language of art. As Peter Weibel, the inspiration for “The Global Contemporary: Art Worlds After 1989” project, puts it, before 1989 it was Europe and North America that defined who was included in West-centred spaces and institutions and who was excluded. Yet nowadays they find themselves in a situation where other actors determine the dynamics of inclusion and exclusion. There are forces that challenge Europe itself and for whom Europe may be expunged as the Other (Weibel 2015). Apparently, this argument can be explored while researching the variegated processes of region-making at Europe’s margins, which to a large extent blur the lines between “who is at the centre and who is provincial” (McLean 2012, 166). Intellectual activities in culture and art, along with politics, foster new approaches to the debate that constantly (re-)establishes power relations (Strath 2010, 24), including the deeply political balance of inclusion and exclusion.

Estonia: singing together... with whom? Estonia represents an interesting case of borderland identity located at the intersection of different political institutions and cultural traditions that contain both inclusive (border-unlocking) and exclusive (border-locking) potential. Estonian identity-making was historically interconnected, in both positive and negative senses, with Europe and Russia and is thus dependent upon the state of relations between the two. Undeniably, Estonian identity is deeply linked to and embedded in the concept of Europe, which remains a dominating reference point in Estonian nation-building and the construction of the national Self. Yet this discursive hegemony is not totalising, and always contains elements of contestation and meaning-making. Prior to EU membership, the level of Euroscepticism in Estonia was one of the highest among accession countries, which could be explained by widespread concerns about preserving the nation’s independence and sovereignty (Kuus 2002, 395).

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Further, the Estonian nation-rebuilding narrative was, from the outset, grounded in a monolingual national space, which was in conflict with the more inclusive and liberal European approaches to human rights, multiculturalism and pluralism, especially when it came to the integration of Russian minorities (Hogan-Brun and Wright 2013). Thus, Estonia’s identitarian relations with Europe are rather ambiguous. Being institutionally part of the EU, Estonia eagerly joined a group of “new Europeans” (Mälksoo 2013), thus demonstrating its greater political proximity to the United States than to “old” EU member states, especially in security commitments. A few years later, Estonia portrayed itself as “anti-Greece”. This not only points to the economic side of the story, but mainly to identity. Estonians, along with the other Baltic peoples, claim to play the role of “proper Europeans”, immune to the temptations of flirting with Russia and destroying European unity (Repeþkaitơ 2015). Yet identification with Europe does not enable other forms of cultural affiliation, which are more complementary than alternative. One of these is the concept of the Finno-Ugrian world, which constitutes fertile ground for fostering cross-border relations beyond politically divisive lines, including those with such countries as Hungary and Russia, whose governments do not commit themselves to the ideas of liberal democracy. Another pathway for cultural identification lies through articulating Estonia’s attachment to the Baltic Sea region, which is widely considered “the nation’s historical space” (Pääbo 2013, 187). What complicates national identity-making is cultural intermingling with the “Russian world”. Estonia purportedly capitalised on its engagement with Europe when “negotiating with its eastern neighbour” (Lamoreaux and Galbreath 2008, 1). Yet a significant part of the Russian-speaking Estonian population sympathises with the idea of a “great Russia”, able to protect its compatriots living abroad, which often translates into their disloyalty to the Estonian state. Interviews we conducted after the annexation of Crimea did not support the claim that “Russian ethnic solidarity was weakened and the mobilisational potential of the diaspora issue for political purposes was diminished” (Kolstø 2011, 153). Home to a sizeable ethnic Russian minority, Estonia feels that its national security is being directly affected by conflicting relations with Russia, including Moscow’s reaction to the Bronze Soldier incident and the alleged Russian attacks on Estonian cyber-security in 2007. This Russian identity among Estonian Russians leads the Estonian government to appeal to major EU

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member states to take a solidary stand against Russia’s revisionism. Different security priorities and institutional affiliations alienate Estonia and Russia from each other and thus deepen the security rift between the EU and Russia, actualised by the growing neo-imperial momentum in Russia’s foreign policy. The potential for “negotiations” or bargaining with its eastern neighbour diminished with Russia’s legal questioning of Estonia’s independence from the Soviet Union. Estonia, as a neighbour of Russia, finds itself under threat from Russia’s sway and domination, and in deep political conflict with Moscow dating back to the Bronze Soldier crisis (2007). This started with the relocation of a monument to the Soviet Army from the centre of Tallinn to a military cemetery. The relocation led to violent protests by the ethnic Russian population in Estonia, supported by the Kremlin. The sentencing of Estonian security officer Eston Kohver for espionage at the Russian-Estonian border in 2015, followed by his exchange for a Russian spy arrested in Estonia, exacerbated the atmosphere of mistrust between the two countries. For Estonia, Russia is an external Other that promotes “the Russian world” concept that transcends borders and represents a bio-political tool for protecting and taking care of Russia-loyal groups. That is why Russia is viewed in Estonia and increasingly all across Europe as the inheritor of Soviet colonialism (Annus 2012), while the Russian-speaking population in these states plays the role of “the immigrant community” (Smith 2008, 429). Geopolitically, Estonia is a NATO “border-threshold” country (Minca and Vaughan-Williams 2012, 769), even “a border country of the free world” (Marko 2015); thus, as one British journalist put it, it “must prepare for the storm” (The Economist 2015, 22). In view of the dangers coming from the Russian side, the Estonian government is fortifying its border infrastructure (Gazeta.ru 2015) and welcomes the greater military presence of NATO troops on its territory as a guarantee of NATO’s Article 5, which serves as protection for Estonia should it face direct military confrontation. In the meantime, the fact that security guarantees from NATO can “entail going to war with a country that possesses the world’s biggest arsenal of nuclear weapons” is taken seriously by Estonia’s Western security partners (Blair 2015). It is through this political lens that the politics of representation of Estonian identity can be viewed. Song festivals dating back to the 19th century are a key cultural ritual that spearheads the Estonian sense of

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national solidarity and integrity. From the wider perspective of social and cultural studies, the song festival tradition is the most pronounced performative element of developing and nurturing the Estonian Collective Self, which – historically – was flexibly adaptable to social conditions and played different roles. This could be seen in the articulation of the feeling of togetherness and cohesiveness, peaceful resistance to domination and oppression, and as an instrument of “nationalistic power” (Smidchens 2014, 6). The Estonian case is an essential element for comparing experiences of post-Soviet states in developing their cultural narratives and imageries through performative actions aimed at large audiences. By the same token, the song festival tradition in Estonia constitutes a perfect case for a cultural product that is neither automatic nor globalised, nor open to commodification. The Estonian collective identity can be described not only through the concepts of collective memory (Berg and Ehin 2009), commemoration, cultural trauma and mnemohistory (Velmet 2011; Tamm 2008), but also through less developed concepts such as “singing nationalism”. This case opens up perspectives for studying the effects of cultural events related to their ability to spur practices of de-bordering and fostering trans-border communication, as well as blending different identities transcending traditional East-West divides. One of our findings is that the Estonian song festivals mostly address a domestic audience, yet they also have strong international effects by appealing to issues of wider European resonance. Such reference points include peaceful resistance to imperial rule, the integration of the Estonian nationhood through engaging the Estonian diaspora, or diversifying the cultural content of the festival through involving participants from abroad. The whole tradition of the Estonian song festivals is deeply rooted in uneasy relations with Europe and Russia. The very idea of collective singing is part of European and – more specifically – German cultural traditions. Yet from the outset, Estonian performers were eager to distance themselves from the German legacy. In the name of this cultural emancipation, the first generation of festival organisers aligned with imperial Russia and relied upon benevolence from St. Petersburg (Brüggemann and Kasekamp 2014, 262). To some extent, it reminds one of the reliance that the future leaders of Estonian independence placed on Gorbachev as a means of getting rid of old Communist nomenklatura.

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The analysis of our empirical material relating to the 2014 song festival in Tallinn reveals that it sparked debates on the attitudes to this event in the Russian-speaking community (Delfi 2014a; Delfi 2014c; Delfi 2014c). This aspect, which had never been studied in detail before, is particularly relevant against the backdrop of a drastic rise in the significance of Russia’s policy towards its compatriots living abroad, which, in the case of Ukraine, had far-reaching security implications for the whole of Europe. Estonia is one of Russia’s neighbours that has a sizeable proportion of Russian-speaking and Russia-oriented citizens, which, in the light of the Ukrainian experience, only heightens the issue of social and cultural integration.

Western Ukraine: “Another Europe” In many respects, identity debates in Ukraine are comparable with those in Estonia. Ukraine not only committed itself (even under the pro-Russian regime of ex-President Viktor Yanukovich) to the European choice as its foreign policy strategy, but it is one of only a few countries where citizens sacrificed their lives for a European future. The EuroMaidan and the ensuing loss of Crimea made this choice even clearer. Yet these events also emphasised the question of whether Ukraine is “sufficiently” European and should be included in the highest political priorities of the EU, or whether it should be discursively relocated beyond the boundaries of “real Europe” and thus dismissed as being intimately linked to the ongoing European identity debate. This question deeply divides the EU and unveils different perceptions, not only of the idea of neighbourhood, but also of Europe itself (Snyder 2015). Western Ukraine is an illuminating example of a border-located regional identity that embodies an authentic territorial spirit grounded in a strong European cultural legacy, while simultaneously proclaiming its “Ukrainianness”. In particular, this external and inner borderland positioning was the basic premise for the branding strategy of Lviv when it became a host city for EURO 2012. It promoted itself as an “open” space – “Lviv open to the world” – with a modernised Ukrainian identity symbolically “approved” by Europe. From a sociological viewpoint, the cultural meanings of these strategies are manifest in the logics of blurring and reducing the importance of borders. The motto “Ukraine: Moving on the Fast Track” reflects the spirit of a Ukraine eager to integrate into Europe as soon as possible. Europe was a key reference point for branding Lviv as a particularly European Ukrainian city (e.g. “Another Ukraine” or

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“The last unknown treasure of Europe”, see Zasadnyy et al. 2012). This strategy of reconnecting with Europe was of particular importance to Lviv, the westernmost city in Ukraine. EURO 2012 was an important element in the policy chain designed to tightly associate Ukraine with Europe. The event was originally devised as a de-bordering project, aimed at demonstrating the opportunities for cohosting a mega-event jointly by an EU member state (Poland) and a nonmember eager to move closer to the European normative order (Ukraine). Ukraine was identified with the “Orange revolution”, while Poland served as an example of a successful “return to the West”, and hence the two countries were considered a good match. In the same vein, EURO 2012 was a good opportunity for Ukraine to shed its Soviet image, and to demonstrate that the vitality of its national statehood was closely embedded in a European context. Ukraine and Poland, working together on a joint project of pan-European visibility, were expected to prove themselves as efficient and modern states. It is within this semantic framework that the transformative potential of this sporting event could be understood. Yet this politically inclusive logic was counter-balanced by a different type of discursive attitude towards Ukraine as a country that has had problems with being considered a fully-fledged European nation. In early 2012 the sharpening of the normative and value-based agenda in EUUkraine relations – particularly the debate on Yulia Timoshenko’s imprisonment – was ultimately conducive to the boycotting of Ukraine by a number of European governments, primarily Germany, whose businesses had simultaneously been investing heavily in infrastructural projects in all Ukrainian host cities. Ultimately, key EU policymakers, such as EU Commission President José Manuel Barroso, EU Justice Commissioner Viviane Reding, and EU Sports Commissioner Androulla Vassiliou, did not show up at EURO 2012 events in Ukraine. Due to the divisive issues of democracy and human rights, Ukraine, instead of turning into a Europeanisation success story, was largely portrayed in the European media and political circles as drifting away from European standards and governed by a corrupt and undemocratic regime. This served to fortify the symbolic and political divergence between Ukraine and Poland. Yet the story of EURO 2012 also unleashed some controversies within the Ukrainian context, one of which concerned the concept of Europe. The overall idea was to show that Lviv, as the westernmost city of Ukraine,

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corresponds with the most important elements of a “normal” European city, providing comfort, safety, hospitality, openness, a multi-language environment, and quality cuisine. Yet our interviews quite clearly revealed that an abstract Europe is, in most cases, reduced to two countries that are the most important for Western Ukraine, namely Germany and Poland. The latter was perceived as a country that could share a lot with Ukraine in terms of everyday governance practices, and even as a “window to Europe”. Since the two countries had undergone a period of mutual rapprochement and pacification of their relations in the 1990s, there was a strong gravitation towards Poland as a successful example of integration within European and Euro-Atlantic institutions. Yet, at the same time, there are many historical issues that still remain sensitive, which explains why identification with Poland as a full member of European and EuroAtlantic institutions was not a key priority for Lviv. The second controversy concerns the vision of Ukraine as a nation-in-themaking. “Open, blurred, fluid, shifting, multiple, ambivalent, weak, mixed, dual, situational – all these adjectives have been used by scholars to depict the characteristics of national identities in Ukraine” (Zaharchenko 2013, 246), which fuels political debates about “proper and improper Ukrainians”. Western Ukraine is usually referred to as a region possessing the strongest and the most particular sense of a “real” Ukrainian identity that is not necessarily in harmony with the vision of Ukraine that emanates from Kyiv. In this context, it is telling that in some of our interviews in Lviv, the Ukrainian capital was mentioned as a negative reference point, which betrays the complex structure of Lviv’s identity discourse. On the one hand, the city tries to underpin its Ukrainian identity in opposition to European partners that are not always amicable, such as Germany, which orchestrated a political boycott of EURO 2012 in Ukraine. On the other hand, Lviv’s identity might, conversely, coalesce with an external reference point (an abstract Europe) in an attempt to symbolically distance itself from the rest of Ukraine. Events after 2012 only emphasised these two controversial points. The hybrid war launched by Russia in so-called “Novorossiya” further complicated Ukraine’s relations with Europe. By 2015, it became clear that the only things Ukraine can expect from the EU and from its member states is a certain amount of financial, technical and political support for reforms in the country at this point in time (Potzgen 2015).

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Relations with Poland did not improve either: It did not go unnoticed in Warsaw that Ukraine’s leaders […] did not strongly insist on Poland being part of the negotiation format; instead, they opted to depend on Germany. From Kyiv’s perspective, Berlin seemed to hold all of the cards (Buras 2015).

Domestically, Western Ukraine has strengthened its special role in the ongoing nation-building, particularly by opposing the country’s federalisation and the subsequent recognition of autonomy for eastern regions, as Moscow insists. In appreciation of this position, President Poroshenko has acknowledged that Galicia is a cornerstone of Ukrainian statehood (Korrespondent.net 2015). What has to be added to this analysis is that Ukraine faces tremendous difficulties in capitalising on the positive momentum generated by EURO 2012. In 2013, Lviv was sanctioned by FIFA for the racist behaviour of local football fans and banned as a venue for international games. Due to hostilities in Eastern Ukraine, EuroBasket 2015 was transferred from Ukraine to a different country, and Lviv’s bid for the Olympic Games in 2022 was cancelled for financial reasons.

Georgia: a self-inflicted marginalisation? Georgia’s identity-in-the-making is shaped by a traumatic post-Soviet experience of nation-building and ensuing social and political deprivation. Seemingly, Georgia’s discourse on nationhood contains a great deal of self-inflicted marginalisation. In our interviews, Georgian experts often referred to their political class as inept, lacking in education, and “absurd”. Points of national consolidation are few, and even the security threat from Russia failed to become a strong basis for national unity, merely serving to divide the Georgian national Self even further. In this respect, Georgia is different from such post-Soviet countries as Estonia or Ukraine, where dangers emanating from Russia consolidated national identities. This inconsistency constrains nation- building in Georgia as a self-determined country that is free to make foreign policy choices. Being in “a state of flux” (Ditrych 2010), Georgia faced multiple challenges of trying to restore its identity under the conditions of a tug-ofwar between Russia and the EU (Pardo Sierra 2011). Emulation of the West is one possible way of anchoring this identity, which presupposes the acceptance of liberal values of human dignity and freedom. This process

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may be dubbed “meandering Europeanisation” (Delcour 2013) due to its intermingling with strong nationalist/patriotic articulations. The European Youth Summer Olympic Festival (July 2015) and the UEFA Super Cup final (August 2015) did not become high-profile events for Georgia, despite their potential for symbolically articulating Georgia’s European identity. Unlike neighbouring Azerbaijan, which invested a great deal of effort and financial resources in staging the first European Olympic Games (June-July 2015) to promote its cultural affinity with Europe, our experts expressed the view that, for Georgia, the two events it held were less visible and did not morph into a celebration of belonging to Europe. This can be explained mainly through domestic issues. Economically, Georgia simply lacks sufficient funds to stage high-profile shows of a basically symbolic nature. Politically, as one of our interviewees suggested, there is a tug-of-war between the president and the prime minister, who can’t decide among themselves who and where would better represent the country. Besides, the current regime is so averse to Saakashvili that they seem to always act against his legacy. Since Saakashvili was a PR genius, they are implicitly hesitant to do anything above average to promote the country through international events (interview with a think-tank expert, Tbilisi).

Apparently, this could be a reaction to the widely shared belief that, in many cases, the facts that were supposed to cement Georgia’s belonging to Europe, and declarations to this effect “ranged from exaggerations to simple mendacities” or “have been embroidered, embellished, or even manufactured to sustain a contemporary political narrative that seeks Georgian membership of western political, economic, and military alliances” (Ó Beacháin and Coene 2014, 932). As a consequence, we deem that the relatively low profile of the two Europe-level sports events in Georgia attests, albeit perhaps indirectly, to the ambiguous resonance of the very concept of Europe in this country. In many respects, instead of playing a consolidating role, it might be culturally divisive, since for a significant part of Georgian society, Europe is associated more with gay rights than with democratic institutions, transparency and sustainability. This partly explains a certain duality in the Georgian identity. The official Tbilisi is proud of being one of the three post-Soviet countries that managed to sign an Association Agreement with the EU, which is basically perceived as an economic move, but it is

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reluctant to associate itself with Europe symbolically. Interestingly enough, a reverse duality exists in neighbouring Azerbaijan. Azerbaijan is hesitant to take on institutional commitments with the EU, but is happy to invest huge resources in cultural projects underpinning the European elements of Azeri identity (viz. the 2012 Eurovision Song Contest and the European Olympic Games in 2015).

Conclusions In this chapter, we have shown that transformations in the post-Soviet borderlands are expressed not only politically, but also culturally and socially, with mega-events constituting platforms for symbolic identification with Europe. We have similarly shown that cultural and identitarian boundaries with Europe are constantly being reshaped and deconstructed by a series of cultural projects and gestures. Yet these boundaries, always plural in form, manifest as a complex constellation of diverse discourses, experiences and practices, and persist precisely because Europe, the multifaceted entity that it is, eludes categorisation. Comparing these three cases, we argue that they represent a peculiar combination of grass-roots cultural components, and outward-oriented messages aimed at reaching international (specifically European) audiences. In the case of Estonia, the cultural strategy of song festivals seems to be more inward-oriented and less open to either commercialisation of this event or to its greater diversification in terms of linguistic or ethnic elements. In the case of western Ukraine, we found a cultural strategy based on promoting a variety of cross-border projects that are intended to solidify Lviv’s European profile and deep interest in opening up its cultural landscapes, particularly for its European neighbours. In Georgia, we have seen a rather selective attachment to the idea of Europe. It might be accepted as signifying the prospect of Georgia’s recognition in the EU and NATO, yet situated in a more problematic context as a trigger for changing the dominant societal attitudes that remain largely conservative.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN WHEN CULTURE BECOMES A WEAPON: CULTURE AS THE NEW TOOL OF RUSSIAN SECURITY POLITICS AND REGIME CONSOLIDATION TARU U. TAKAMAA

Year 2014 drew to a close in the Russian political scene with President Vladimir Putin signing and ratifying a new state policy document called “The Fundamentals of the State Cultural Policy” (Osnovy gosudarstvennoj kulturnoj politiki) just before the Russian New Year holidays started. This document is an 18-page conceptual text defining the goals, content, principles and strategic mission of the renewed Russian State cultural policy. The document will act as a blueprint for Russian cultural politics in the coming years, having at its core a vast project of supporting domestic cultural education and production throughout Russia. What makes the new document particularly worthy of scholarly attention is the fact that its creation marks a fundamental change in the way the Russian state aims to conduct cultural politics. From now on, culture will assume the role of a state priority and it will be approached as a “mission”, as President Putin himself described the new approach. Moreover, the ambitious overall plan of the authors of the document is to substantially change the very place that culture has in Russian societal life. In the eyes of the political elite, the break-up of the Soviet Union led to a complete degeneration of Russian culture. Although the country has seen a recovery in many societal spheres in the past 20 years, the lack of official, state attention paid to culture has, in their view, prevented the recovery of this sphere until now.

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This chapter contends that the creation of this new document (henceforth simply the Fundamentals) is at the heart of a process referred to here as the cultural turn in Russian politics. This turn is part of the conservative line of developments that began with President Putin’s third presidential term in 2012. The hypothesis here is that this cultural turn is also related to a process of securitising culture, which means that it has come to be depicted by the political elite as a security issue in order to justify the need for closer state control in this sphere. The political elite’s sudden interest in culture is also related to a more general shift of emphasis discernible in Russian security thought that entails deepening the importance of the nonmilitary aspects of security. The developments resulting from the cultural turn in Russian politics are still in their infancy, however, which is why no definitive conclusions can be drawn as yet about the overall consequences of this turn. The chapter aims instead to offer a detailed view of the present state of the process, to which end the chosen approach is an empirical one. The chapter begins with a short description of the Fundamentals project, after which I will address the nature of the deepened role that culture has acquired through this so-called cultural turn in Russian politics. I will then move on to study the issue of culture and security in present-day Russia more closely by firstly applying the securitisation theory to examine the relationship between culture and security in the Russian political discourse on the elite level, and secondly by studying the role played by culture in Russian conceptual security-strategic and foreign-policy thought.

The Fundamentals of the State Cultural Policy as the project at the centre of the cultural turn The Fundamentals project was essentially based on the ideas expressed by President Putin in his speech delivered at the anniversary session of the prestigious Valdai Discussion Club in September 2013. The Valdai Discussion Club is an international forum established in 2004 and designed to serve as an unbiassed discussion forum between Russian and international intellectual elites, and to conduct a scientific analysis of the development of Russia and its place in the world (see Valdaiclub.com). The club holds an annual meeting where the president of Russia has traditionally given a speech. In 2013, President Putin gave a speech in the final plenary session entitled “Russia’s diversity for the modern world”. His speech highlighted the fact

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that Russia urgently needed to craft a national idea based on traditional Russian values to guide the future development of the nation. As such, this idea was nothing new. The same idea had already surfaced in an article entitled “Russia at the turn of the millennium”, signed by Putin and published in December 1999, right after he had become president of Russia for the first time. This time, however, Putin strongly emphasised both the importance and the urgency of the task, in addition to which he spoke of a new fundament to guide the construction of the future ideology of national development – the moral development of the individual citizen. Unfortunately, throughout our nation’s history, little value was given at times to individual human lives. […] We must treasure every individual. Russia’s main strengths in this and future centuries will lie in her educated, creative, physically and spiritually healthy people, rather than natural resources. […] Every country has to have a military, technological and economic strength, but nevertheless the main thing that will determine success is the quality of citizens, the quality of society: their intellectual, spiritual and moral strength.

After the speech, new developments quickly ensued on the Russian political scene. The meeting of the Presidential Council of Art and Culture held on 2 October was dedicated to the launch of the new important state project – the preparation of the cultural strategic document entitled “The Fundamentals of the State Cultural Policy”. A working group of experts headed by the Chief of Staff of the presidential administration, Sergei Ivanov, and the presidential advisor on cultural matters, Vladimir Tolstoy, was formed in the presidential administration and a project schedule and work plan were created. The work on the document was planned to proceed with the drafting of a document which would then, after approval by the president, be published and handed out during an extensive commenting round in different spheres of society. The idea behind engaging public discussion to such a large extent was that the Fundamentals project was meant to become a project shared by the entire society and closely related to the task mentioned by Putin at Valdai of finding a new national idea for Russia. As the president had already emphasised at Valdai: We also understand that identity and a national idea cannot be imposed from above, cannot be established on an ideological monopoly. Such a

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As the Fundamentals project was specifically intended to be a project prepared by the authorities and society in close cooperation, Putin also stipulated that the draft document should be articulated as clearly as possible. Before the official publication, however, another version started to circulate on the internet. This second draft quickly caused a minor sensation, even internationally, due to its strict tone. The draft, entitled “Material and suggestions for the fundamentals of the State Cultural Policy project” (Materialy i predlzhjeniya k proektu osnov gosudarstvennoj kulturnoj politiki) and published at least by the Izvestija magazine, included the principle that “Russia is not part of Europe”, and bluntly suggested that Russia should completely abandon the principles of tolerance and multiculturalism. To justify such sentiments, the document presented numerous quotes from President Putin’s speeches over the years. Even the Russian media seemed to be confused about the status of this draft, which some interpreted as the actual draft document of the Fundamentals project. In the end, however, the mysterious text turned out to be a version prepared by the Russian Ministry of Culture and spearheaded by Minister of Culture Vladimir Medinsky, known for his somewhat polemical patriotic comments. Medinsky subsequently commented on the sensation caused by the text, saying that the Ministry of Culture had merely been given the task of offering suggestions for the discussion on the key goals and principles of the final document, which was why such a provocative and strong tone had deliberately been adopted. When the actual draft document was finally published in May and handed out during the commenting round, the strong wordings suggested by the Ministry of Culture were nowhere to be seen. The commenting round lasted until the end of September 2014, during which time the draft document received, according to Vladimir Tolstoy, over 2000 comments, many of which were diametrically opposed to each other. Nevertheless, the draft was meant to be refined in accordance with the comments and suggestions received. The final Fundamentals document was ratified by President Putin at the last meeting of the year of the Presidential Council of Art and Culture, held on 24 December, 2014. In the discussions held at the meeting, it was strongly emphasised that the

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completed document would only mark the beginning of a much larger task. As President Putin himself commented on the issue: The preparation of the Fundamentals text is an important step, but only the first one, as our task of elevating and enhancing the social significance of culture still remains: attaining the goal that culture really becomes a natural regulator of life, defining the behaviour and actions of people, influencing their attitudes towards their country, family and the upbringing of their children.

After the ratification of the final Fundamentals document, the next steps towards the implementation of its content were nonetheless bureaucratic. That is to say that the work on the Fundamentals was followed by the task of completing another cultural strategic document, “The Strategy of the State Cultural Policy”, which was supposed to set the strategy for the implementation of the Fundamentals in the Russian society. Alongside this project, another document was still under preparation, namely the new law “On Culture”, which would replace the previous law in force since 1992. It soon became apparent, however, that implementing the Fundamentals would not be easy. In the session in which the final project document was ratified, President Putin ordered that a central state organ, “The Russian Foundation of Cultural Development”, should be urgently established to monitor and organise the implementation process (Putin on 24 December, 2014). However, by March 2015 it was evident that finding a source to fund the Foundation was not without its complications. The Russian Ministry of Finance announced that it would not be involved in the financing. As an alternative solution for the raising of funds, Minister of Culture Vladimir Medinsky suggested creating a national lottery which would be organised by the Ministry of Culture. This plan hit a wall, however, because according to the law “On Lotteries”, the Ministry of Culture isn’t among the institutions that are permitted to organise lotteries. When this option proved impossible to implement, experts concluded that the establishment of the Foundation would simply be postponed. Although the overall consequences of the Fundamentals project are not visible as yet, the general aim behind the project is, as mentioned above, to change the very place that culture has in Russian society.

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The “cultural turn” and the rise of conservative morality in Russian politics The term cultural turn refers here to the recent process in Russia whereby culture has become both a state priority and a new central feature of political discourse. The roots of this turn lie in the so-called “conservative reawakening” (Secrieru 2014) of the political regime, which began with the election of Vladimir Putin as President of Russia for a third term in March 2012. The announcement made by Putin in September 2011 that he would run for the presidency again, and the subsequent claims that the election process had been flawed, provoked a wave of unprecedentedly large demonstrations in Moscow, with angry crowds calling for regime change and the true democratisation of Russia. Understandably, this was a cause for concern for the Russian political elite since the world had just witnessed a wave of democratic revolutions sweeping through the Middle East in the process of the “Arab spring”. When the previous such wave, the series of the so-called colour revolutions, had occurred in the postSoviet space, first in Georgia in 2003, followed by revolutions in Ukraine in 2004 and Moldova in 2005, President Putin had stated that they constituted a lesson for Russia and that the Russian state would do everything in its power to prevent such events from ever happening in Russia (RIA Novosty, 20 November, 2014). Accordingly, the answer given to the public by the political elite was the complete opposite of what the demonstrators had demanded: a state ideology upholding conservative values and militant patriotism was suddenly portrayed as the only possible developmental path for Russia. At the core of this state ideology were four basic ideas – traditional family values, Orthodox religion, patriotism and anti-Westernism. Since the beginning of Putin’s third presidential term, various new means of state control have been introduced, aimed at institutionalising this conservative state ideology throughout Russian society. Traditional family values, for instance, have been promoted with vehement rhetoric targeted against radical feminism and homosexuality – an endeavour widely supported by the Orthodox Church. For example, the head of the Orthodox Church, Patriarch Kirill, commented that radical feminism and the related “pseudofreedom” of women could potentially “destroy the Motherland” (The Guardian, 9 April, 2013). Related legislative measures have also been taken, which include the so-called “gay-propaganda law” and the amendments made to the adoption law, banning the adoption of Russian children in countries allowing adoption by same-sex couples. The Russian

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state’s sudden deep interest in controlling the biological behaviour of its citizens has also been given a special name, the “bio-political turn”, by scholars Andrey Makarychev and Sergei Medvedev (2014). Other legislative measures designed to support Orthodox conservative morality have also been taken. The Pussy Riot case had already demonstrated that those who dare criticise the Orthodox Church could face severe consequences, but after the case a special law was nevertheless signed which criminalised insulting the feelings of religious believers. Apparently somewhat inspired by this law, a group of ultra-conservative Orthodox activists recently raided an underground art exhibition in Moscow and destroyed some works of art which they deemed offensive. Morality will also be safeguarded in Russian media and art today after the introduction of a law banning the use of swear words and vulgar language in their spheres (see Vesti.ru on 1 July, 2014). A draft law was also presented to the Duma recently which would have prohibited the unjustified use of foreign words and expressions in public. This draft didn’t receive much support in the Duma, however, and was rejected on the first hearing (ntv.ru 1 July, 2014). The education sphere has also been targeted with such endeavours as the order given by President Putin to introduce patriotic education into school curricula and the proposition made by Archbishop Kirill to the Education Ministry for an increase in religious education in schools from one obligatory course to eight years of tuition (The Moscow Times, 3 February, 2015). The stated objective behind all these changes has been the morality war that Russia considers it is waging against the West. In the rhetoric used by the Russian political elite, Russia has become the guardian of European civilisation and cultural heritage in a time when Europe itself has abandoned its roots for the sake of multicultural liberalism. As President Putin put it in his speech given at the Valdai Discussion Club: Countries in Europe are implementing policies that equate large families with same-sex partnerships, belief in God with the belief in Satan. The excesses of political correctness have reached the point where people are seriously talking about registering political parties whose aim is to promote paedophilia […] and people are aggressively trying to export this model all over the world. I am convinced that this opens a direct path to degradation and primitivism, resulting in a profound demographic and moral crisis.

Russia, however, has started to portray itself as the leader of the resistance against the spread of this Western disease of moral and cultural

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degradation with such vehicles of resistance as the Russkiy Mir foundation and the Sputnik International news agency, both aimed at promoting a Russia-friendly worldview outside of Russia itself. The conservative stance of the Russian state has thus become apparent in Russia domestically through a number of new mechanisms of control, and foreign policy-wise inter alia through institutions promoting the Russian mission not to submit to Western cultural imperialism. The most recent of the domestic spheres subjected to close state supervision has been culture. However, the increase in the particular interest shown by the political elite towards culture has been so sudden and far-reaching that it could in my view be rightfully described as a cultural turn. As mentioned above, with this turn the Russian political elite has elevated culture to the role of a state “mission” (Putin on 24 December, 2014), while a programme designed to strengthen the position of culture throughout Russian society has been launched. The most significant launch pad for this cultural programme thus far has been the preparation of the Fundamentals document. Although the continuum between the conservative reawakening of the state and the cultural turn seems self-evident, the political elite has also given specific reasons for the perceived need to adopt culture as a state priority. These reasons have mostly revolved around three different points. Firstly, the thinkers behind the Fundamentals project regard Russian culture as being in a dire state, resulting from a lack of state attention and funding since the collapse of the Soviet Union. In the discussions held during the preparation of the document, Vladimir Tolstoy complained that the level of cultural general knowledge has collapsed in Russian society, which he deems to be an issue that concerns both the consumers and the authors of cultural products (Tolstoy in RG, 4 February, 2014). Other thinkers involved in the Fundamentals project have emphasised that cultural sophistication among young Russians in particular has disintegrated, which has already led to the formation of a generation gap and to the endangerment of the transmission of cultural heritage. Another pressing problem mentioned by Tolstoy among others is the huge variation in the attainability of cultural products, especially between those at the centre and those on the periphery. Tolstoy cites the cinema as a particular example. Although the cinema is one of the main forms of art in Russia, he claims that only 50% of the population has the chance to visit a cinema theatre (Tolstoy in RG, 3 October, 2013). Moreover, according to Tolstoy, the forms of culture receiving support from regional budgets at the local

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level currently depend entirely on the personal preferences of the local governor (Tolstoy in RG, 24 January, 2014). The second stated reason for the focus on culture has been the sudden realisation of the importance of culture as a constituent of all societal life. The advancing of this perspective has been listed by Tolstoy as one of the most important aspects of the Fundamentals project (RG, 24 April, 2014). The view upholding the importance of culture is also apparent in the final document itself. It states, for example, that with the creation of the document, the Russian state has “for the first time” elevated culture to the rank of “national priorities”. The change of perspective on the importance of culture also entails a change in the way culture itself is understood. This becomes apparent in the definition of culture adopted in the Fundamentals document. In the final version, culture is defined as “the totality of formal and informal institutions, phenomena and factors affecting the preservation, production, broadcasting and spreading of spiritual values (ethnic, aesthetic, intellectual, civil etc.)”. This definition of the concept of culture adopted in the document is purposefully broad. The aim of such a broad definition is, as stated in the document, to emphasise the “social mission” of culture as “an instrument of transmitting to the new generation the code of moral, ethnic and esthetical values constituting the core of national identity”. The perceived uniqueness of such a definition used by the state vis-à-vis culture has also been emphasised by those involved in the project (see Tolstoy in RG, 15 May, 2014). The third and, for the purposes of this chapter, the most important reason given to the perceived need to elevate culture as a new state priority has been the view that the present degenerated state of culture could potentially constitute a threat to Russian national security. This view was apparent in the political discussions preceding the publication of the final document, and it is also present in the Fundamentals document itself. In my view, the discourse relating culture to the theme of national security has been sufficiently present in the comments made by the political elite to suggest that the issue of culture has been discursively securitised. I will now focus on this hypothesis more closely and address the role that culture can be interpreted as playing in the overall Russian security architecture.

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Securitised culture? Applying securitisation theory to the study of culture Securitisation is a process in which an issue previously not seen as a security issue becomes depicted as one. As far as the framework for analysing securitisation is concerned, it is irrelevant whether a given issue constitutes a realistic threat to a designated referent object. Instead, the researcher using the framework is usually more interested in the process of framing an issue as a threat to security. In other words, the purpose of using the framework is to focus attention on the possible political motives underlying the framing of a given issue as a security threat. The framework essentially offers a tool for addressing the way in which security issues “emerge and dissolve” (Balzacq 2011). The analytical framework has been most closely associated with the socalled Copenhagen school of international relations, as originally presented by Barry Buzan, Ole Waever and Jaap de Wilde in their 1998 book Security: A new framework for analysis. The academic context of the framework lies in broadening the agenda for studying security beyond the classical approach of addressing security exclusively in relation to state and military issues. Even though its roots lie in the realist tradition, the framework belongs to the constructivist line of approaches to security, as it regards both security and insecurity not as objective conditions but as processes of social construction (Williams 2003, 512-513). According to the Copenhagen school of thought, the process of securitisation involves three basic components: a securitising agent, a referent object perceived to be under threat, and an audience whose acceptance is required for the completion of the securitisation process. Securitisation itself works through a three-level process. Firstly, the process involves the presenting of an issue by a “securitising agent” as posing an “existential threat” to a designated referent object (Buzan et al. 1998, 21). The term “existential threat” is used here in order to emphasise that securitisation is essentially interested in the survival of the designated referent object. Secondly, the special nature of the identified security threat is used to justify the introduction of some extraordinary measures designed to handle the threat. According to the Copenhagen model, the fulfilment of these first two steps means that a “securitising move” has happened (ibid. 21). A third step involving acceptance by “the audience” is still needed for the completion

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of the securitisation process. Acceptance by the audience is needed in order to create “enough resonance for a platform to be made from which it is possible to legitimise emergency measures” (ibid. 25). Securitisation works mainly via securitising speech acts, “which do not simply describe an existing security situation, but bring it into being as a security situation by successfully representing it as such” (Williams 2003, 513). Edwin Bacon, Bettina Renz and Julian Cooper, the authors of Securitising Russia, remind us of the fact that much that has been done in Russia since the Yeltsin era, which was defined by democratisation, has been done in terms of security (Bacon et al. 2008, 16). Accordingly, the securitisation framework could be used for a wide range of issues, which in the work of Bacon et al. extend from the securitisation of the economy and religion to the securitisation of civil society, the media and the conflict in Chechnya. However, the securitisation of culture in Russia does not seem to have been addressed, as yet, as an independent subject of study. The studies that come closest thus far have addressed the securitisation of Russian identity (Morozov 2002). In my view, it does nonetheless make sense to speak of the securitisation of culture as a separate topic because the recent government actions in the sphere of culture have, to a certain extent, involved all three steps in the securitisation process promulgated by the Copenhagen theorists. The first criterion of the securitisation process is fulfilled by the fact that culture has been depicted in Russian elite-level political discourse as an essential component of Russian national security. As emphasised by Vladimir Tolstoy in the meeting in which the Fundamentals project was officially launched: We must say without exaltation, peacefully, clearly and concretely: culture is the most important factor of our national security. A contemptuous or simply neglectful, indifferent attitude towards it is fraught with the most dramatic consequences (2 October, 2013).

As can be expected, a similar perspective is also evident in the Fundamentals document itself. For example, among “the most pressing threats” to the “future of Russia” are listed such issues as the decline in the intellectual and cultural level of society, the devaluation of universally recognised values, the distortion of moral orientations and the growth of individualism.

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What then would constitute the referent object in the securitisation process in this context? The referent object would in this case have to be the object perceived to be endangered by the lack of government attention paid to culture and the free flow of Western cultural influences in Russia. The key to the issue lies in the broad definition of the concept of culture provided in the Fundamentals document. With culture defined as the transmitter of national values uniting all Russians under the “single cultural space” mentioned in the document, culture has actually come to be seen as the holder of the Russian national identity. Therefore, the weakness of the cultural sphere together with the competing identities arising from the West create the potential danger of a loss of identity. This means, of course, the loss of the Russian national identity only in the form defined by the hegemonic discourse of the political elite. This logic chimes well with the concept of “societal security” presented in the writings of the Copenhagen theorists. According to Buzan et al., the organising concept of societal security is identity. As they write: “threats to identity are thus always a question of the construction of something as threatening some ‘we’ – and often thereby actually contributing to the construction or reproduction of ‘us’” (1998, 120). The inseparable nature of culture and identity was also emphasised by Putin in a meeting conducted with Vladimir Tolstoy in April 2014 on the progress of the Fundamentals project. According to the President, [c]ulture is the main substance uniting the nation. It is not so important what is written under the heading “nationality”; what is important is how a person identifies himself […], what basic cultural principles were laid down for him in childhood.

There are, however, also those in Russia who have always considered that threats to culture would potentially constitute the most destructive threats to the existence of Russia as a nation (see Herd 2011, 19). Among the most vociferous in this group are the supporters of the so-called neoEurasianist movement, personified most clearly in the controversial thinker Alexandr Dugin. The overall influence of Dugin on Putin-era security and foreign-policy thinking can only be speculated about (on Dugin’s political influence, see Allensworth 2010), but it would nevertheless seem safe to say that many ideas presented in Dugin’s works can also be identified in the themes of the comments and speeches made by Putin.

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One could even argue that the conservative state programme, including the cultural turn in Russian politics that has arisen during Putin’s third presidential term bears more than a passing resemblance to the political ideology presented by Dugin in his The fourth political theory (2012). He suggests that the only possible option for Russia is to pursue a political ideology based on the principles of Orthodox religion, Eurasianism and conservatism, if the country wishes to survive in the contemporary world. Dugin calls this ideology “the fourth political theory” because it abandons the three main ideologies of the 20th century: communism, fascism and liberalism. Dugin’s fourth political theory also resists post-modernism. As he writes, [i]f Russia “will be”, it will automatically bring about the creation of a fourth political theory. Otherwise, there will only remain, for Russia, the option of “not to be”, which will mean to quietly leave the historical and world stage, dissolving into a global order which is not created nor governed by us (Dugin 2012, 14).

As the fear of losing the Russian identity seems to be behind the process of securitising culture, in the form defined by the political regime, the securitisation measures taken have essentially worked to strengthen the position of cultural artefacts fitting this definition of “Russianness”. In December 2014, Russian Minister of Culture Vladimir Medinsky stated in an interview with the Russian Rossiya 24 channel that although the present-day Russia does not have censorship in any form, the government would nevertheless refuse to fund projects by oppositional cultural figures. Despite this denial of the existence of censorship and various similar reassurances given by parties to the process of preparing the Fundamentals, in practice the government’s struggle against the oppositional culture clearly has not limited itself to refusing funding. For example in March 2015, one of the directors of the Novosibirsk opera and ballet theatre was fired and replaced by a Putin loyalist after making an avant-garde adaptation of Richard Wagner’s Tannhäuser, including a controversial scene of Jesus’ life considered to “hurt religious feelings”. Similarly, after its release, the Oscar-winning film Leviathan was labelled “anti-Russian” and heavily criticised by Minister Medinsky, and duly edited before its postponed domestic release, in addition to which a regional recommendation was apparently given to cinemas in the Murmansk region not to screen the film at all. These are only two of the various examples showing that the aim of the Fundamentals project to “substantially change the role of culture in Russian society” has in practice

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essentially signified the introduction of new mechanisms designed to control what Russians feel and think. Through this process, “the qualitative development of the individual citizen” emphasised by President Putin in his Valdai speech has indeed been adopted as a new state priority. Understandably, these actions by the Russian government have – despite reassurances to the contrary by politicians – raised concerns over the return of censorship. The current situation has been described by cultural workers as pressing and confusing because there is a lack of clearly defined rules of conduct (see The New York Times, 1 April, 2015). Censorship does not exist officially, because the Russian constitution prohibits the existence of both state censorship and state ideology (Articles 29 and 13). However, the freedom of artistic expression has surely diminished because cultural workers will now have to live in constant fear that too much creativity or experimentality will cause them to either lose funding or break one of the newly signed, abstractly defined laws. In accordance with the third criterion of the securitisation process, acceptance by the audience, the political elite has portrayed the new mechanisms of control as being accepted by the majority of Russians. This is apparent, for example, in the recently published article by Minister Medinsky under the title “Who doesn’t feed one’s culture will feed a foreign army” (Izvestija, June 2015). In the article, Medinsky cites the Russian May opinion polls according to which 81% of Russians believe that developing culture is an issue of paramount importance for the country, 82% of whom think the state should control the content of works of art, and 19% of whom support censorship. He goes on to argue that these numbers clearly show the understanding that political censorship differs from valuing content. “We cannot and will not ignore the opinion of the majority of our fellow citizens”, Medinsky writes. His article stands as an example of the way in which the actions of the Russian government are portrayed as mirroring the demands of the majority of Russians. The actions and the critical stances of oppositional cultural figures are accordingly portrayed merely as attempts at sabotage by an insignificant, unpatriotic and anarchic minority. “The overwhelming ordinary majority gets upset when it is faced with public disrespect of what is important or even sacred to it”, writes Medinsky when criticising disrespect towards shared societal values. Based on the points stated above, it seems justified to conclude that the issue of “culture” has indeed been securitised in the sense described by the

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Copenhagen theorists, indicating a cultural turn in Russian politics. The portrayal of culture as a security issue can be seen as part of a more general shift of emphasis that has occurred in Russian security thought. I will now focus on this shift more closely in order to elaborate on the role culture plays in the overall Russian security architecture.

The place of culture in Russian security-strategic and foreign-policy thought On its opening pages, the final Fundamentals document declares that the state cultural policy constitutes an inseparable part of the Strategy of National Security. Coupled with the Military Doctrine, the Strategy of National Security is the most important Russian effectual security-strategic document. Whereas the Military Doctrine is focussed exclusively on addressing Russia’s possible internal and external military threats, the Strategy of National Security presents a more comprehensive picture of Russia’s main security concerns. In accordance with its title, the most important concept of the Strategy of National Security is that of national security, defined in the document as the security of the individual, the society and the state from internal and external threats, which ensures constitutional rights, freedoms, an appropriate quality of life for citizens, the sovereignty, territorial wholeness and the stable development of the Russian Federation and the defence and security of the state.

Many commentators have pointed out that this understanding of national security is much wider than the one introduced in earlier security-strategic documents, which adopted a more classical military-focussed definition of the term (see Zysk 2009). This wide definition of national security is in accordance with the equally wide definition of the most pressing threats facing the country. These are defined as the direct or indirect possibility of damage to constitutional rights and freedoms, quality of life, sovereignty/territorial integrity, stable development of the Russian Federation, defence and security of the state.

Hence, as can be seen in the definitions above, national security is understood in the Strategy of National Security as a multi-layered formation covering the spheres of both hard and soft security, closely related to the idea of the stable development of the country. According to Heusala (2011, 29), in Russia this vastness of the sphere of security and its relation to the Russian way of life is taken for granted to a large extent.

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The Strategy of National Security addresses the questions of security in a broad range of societal sectors, which extend to the areas of economic growth, science and healthcare. Among the sectors mentioned, towards the end of the list, is also culture. In this document issued in 2009, the cultural sector still occupied a modest role in the overall threat perception. Accordingly, the “global competition over values and models of development” is only mentioned in passing, which fits the overall conciliatory tone used to describe Russia’s place on the world stage. The most pressing threats seen to confront the cultural sector are nevertheless those recognisable in today’s political discourse as well. Among the threats mentioned are “the dominance of the production of mass culture oriented towards the spiritual needs of marginalised groups”, “unlawful insults against cultural objects” and “attempts to revise perspectives on Russia’s history”. The issues threatening culture are thus in this threat perception all related in one way or another to the spread of harmful and undesirable perspectives, whereas the weakness of the cultural sector, for example, is not seen to pose a problem in and of itself. Hence, even in this strategic document, the concept of culture seems to have been defined in terms of values, history and heritage, albeit the threats highlighted in this sector are still seen as secondary to more pressing security concerns. The Strategy of National Security is, however, currently under revision. At the end of October 2015, President Putin ordered that the Strategy should be renewed even before the end of the year. The process of revising the Strategy was announced as early as May 2015. The need for revision was explained by the changes brought about in the geopolitical sphere and in Russia’s threat environment by the Arab spring, the situations in Syria and Iraq, and by the crisis in Ukraine (Lenta.ru, 5 May, 2015). As such, there is nothing remarkable about the announcements concerning the forthcoming changes because, according to the Federal Law on Strategic Planning, Russian strategic documents should be updated every six years. As mentioned above, the current Strategy has been in use since 2009. The Security Council of the Russian Federation commented on the changes that were in the making in the state journal Rossijskaja Gazeta (RG, 22 October, 2015). According to the secretary general of the Security Council, Nikolai Patruchev, the “important” changes are related to “the fundamental interrelatedness of ensuring the national security and social-economic development of Russia”. The revised document is meant to “consolidate the efforts of the government and civil society institutions to implement

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national priorities”, and during the discussions held on the renewal of the document, all those involved emphasised “the need to maximise the effective use of the internal reserves of Russia – the economic, political, human, cultural and spiritual potential”. In this way, the country will not isolate itself from the rest of the world, but is going to adopt a “proactive foreign policy” instead. As culture has been elevated – by the virtue of the Fundamentals project and the cultural turn in Russian politics – to the group of “national priorities” mentioned by Patruchev, it seems probable that culture, in the broadest sense of the concept evoked by the political elite, will have a more central role in the renewed Strategy than it had in the previous version. What then are the foreign-policy implications of the increased level of security-strategic significance that culture has acquired lately in Russia? The invasion of the Crimean Peninsula by Russia in March 2014 has already demonstrated the significant role that culture can potentially play in security-strategic operations. After the peninsula was annexed by Russia, the act was justified in Russia exclusively in terms of culture, in the broadest definition of the concept. The invasion was called “the homecoming” of the historical origin of the Russian people (Putin’s speechɟs 24 December, 2014, and 18 May, 2014) and the annexation was portrayed as a remarkable epoch in Russian history (Putin in Korrespondent.net, 31 December, 2014). The importance of justifying the annexation in terms of culture was also apparent in the fact that, just a few days before the annexation, the Russian Ministry of Culture published a list of over 500 signatures gathered from renowned cultural figures supporting the annexation and President Putin’s policy on the peninsula. The signatures were listed at the end of a letter stating that Russian cultural figures “cannot remain indifferent coldhearted observers” because they want “the commonality of our peoples and cultures to have a strong future”, which is why they “firmly declare our support of the position of the President of the Russian Federation in regard to Ukraine and Crimea” (Russia’s Ministry of Culture, 11 May, 2014). Putin himself commented on the bloodless annexation by saying: There was not a single armed confrontation in Crimea and no casualties. Why do you think this was so? The answer is simple: because it is very difficult, practically impossible to fight against the will of the people (Putin’s speech, 18 March, 2014).

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In Ukraine, the potential dangerousness of culture as a carrier of hidden messages supporting the aims of the Russian state has also been taken seriously. The Ukrainian government in Kiev recently announced the banning of a list of Russian books and cultural performers which and who were seen as disseminating pro-Russian information. Previously, a number of Russian films regarded as conveying Russian propaganda had already been banned. Through these and similar actions, the Ukrainian government is intent upon fighting the war of cultures started, in their view, by the Russian government. The President of Ukraine himself, Petro Poroshenko, stated that culture will become Ukraine’s “weapon in countering the attempts to blur national identity” as part of the aim that “modern cultural policy would become both an instrument to beat the enemy and an instrument to implement reforms” (Poroshenko, 9 May, 2015). In Russia, these actions have accordingly been portrayed as attesting to the Fascist rule of Ukraine (The Moscow Times, 12 August, 2015). In the international media, this situation between Ukraine and Russia has been dubbed the “culture war” (see The Moscow Times, 12 August, 2015). The reference made to warfare seems appropriate given that the purposeful, state-driven use of culture as a carrier of messages supporting security strategic goals could be interpreted as one of the Russian techniques of “information warfare”. Such techniques are focussed on the presentation and dissemination of (dis)information and used “to confuse the enemy and achieve strategic advantage at minimal costs” (Snegovaya 2015, 9). As the international media extensively reported, information warfare techniques played a central role in the Russian operation conducted in Ukraine. The techniques used included such elements as systematically denying both the presence of Russian soldiers in the country and the involvement of the Russian government in the conflict, albeit a slew of evidence suggested the contrary. Another central element was the effective harnessing of the Russian state-controlled media to deliberately portray the conflict as a civil war begun by the illegitimate “Fascist” government in Kiev, which had the firm support of the anti-Russian Western countries. In this case, these diversionary techniques proved to be relatively successful, since the West was still confused about the status of the “little green men” that had invaded the Crimean Peninsula, while President Putin had already declared the annexation of the peninsula to Russia.

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In Russian security thought, the concept of information warfare has its roots in the old Soviet concept of “reflexive control”, referring to a technique which “causes a stronger adversary to choose the actions most advantageous to Russian objectives by shaping the adversary’s perceptions of the situation deliberately” (Snegovaya 2015, 7). The term “hybrid warfare” widely used in the West to describe Russia’s actions in Ukraine is, however, a Western-derived label often applied without analytical specificity (see Kofman and Rojansky 2015). The concept of information warfare has recently entered Russian security-strategic thinking as a part of the so-called “Gerasimov doctrine”, personified by the current chief of the Russian General Staff, Valeri Gerasimov. The basic ideas of this doctrine were presented by Gerasimov himself in an article published by the journal Voenno-Promishlennyj kurier in the winter of 2013 (Gerasimov 2013). In this article, Gerasimov described how the “methods of conflict have changed and now involve the broad use of political, economic, informational, humanitarian and other non-military measures”. In accordance with these ideas, the Russian Minister of Defence, Sergei Shoigu, recently stated in a speech that the media “has become a new kind of weapon” (Vesti.ru, 28 March, 2015). The ideas forming the so-called Gerasimov doctrine are also present in the latest version of the Russian Military Doctrine published in 2014. When comparing this version of the doctrine to the previous one published in 2010, the concept of information warfare has acquired a much more central role than before. If in the earlier version of the document information warfare was described only as a parttime technique used in armed conflicts in order to achieve political goals, in the 2014 version information warfare is said to form a part of the military and non-military means used in conflict situations (see Pynnöniemi and Mashiri 2015, 24). The scholars, who have conducted a thorough analytical comparison of the 2010 and 2014 doctrine versions, conclude that the 2014 doctrine embraces a view that the boundaries between both war and peace and the real world and the cyber world have been confused (2015, 24). In addition to forming a part of the Russian techniques of conducting information warfare, the use of culture in order to achieve security strategic goals also goes hand-in-hand with the Russian concept of soft power, formally introduced into Russian strategic thought in the renewed Russian Concept of Foreign Policy published in 2013 (see Monaghan 2013). In this concept, soft power was called “an indispensable component of modern international relations” and defined as “a comprehensive toolkit

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[…] building on civil society potential, information, cultural and other methods and technologies alternative to traditional diplomacy”. The aims behind the use of the concept are closely related to the goals of increasing the influence of Russia, especially in the Post-Soviet space, and building an attractive image of the country both domestically and internationally (see Sergunin and Karabeshkin 2015). The idea of a “Russian world” (Russkiy mir) is also central to these initiatives. The concept, adopted by the Russian government in 2007, emphasises the missionary nature of Russian culture, joining all Russians around the world under one ideological commonality. Following a decree issued by President Putin in April 2007, the Russian World Foundation was established in order to further the position of Russian culture in the world. The foundation essentially aims to promote the Russian language and culture globally by sponsoring cultural programmes, supporting the study of the Russian language, and granting scholarships. The ideological motives behind the working of the foundation become apparent from the description that appears on the Foundation’s website. The Russian world – it is the world of Russia. The vocation of every person is to help his country, to care for their neighbors. One very often hears statements on what the country should do for its people. But no less important is what each of us can do for our country. A turn should be done from the feelings of dependency to the idea of serving Russia.

The brief discussions above aimed to portray the way in which the cultural turn in Russian politics and the associated securitisation of culture relate to some wider trends, which have been apparent in Russian security thought in recent years. The general trend has shifted to a deepening of the role of the non-military aspects of security, of which the aforementioned tools of soft power and information warfare form a part. This shift has been apparent both at the level of security-strategic and foreign-policy conceptual documents, in addition to which the Russian foreign-policy actions of recent years have shown that the shift has had implications at the policy level as well. As a part of this overall shift, culture has acquired a more central role than before in the overall Russian security architecture. As the cultural turn is a recent development, its overall effects on Russian strategic thought will become clearer with the publication of the new Russian Strategy of National Security, and when the upcoming Strategy of Cultural Policy is implemented in Russian society. However, even now it is clear that culture functions as a tool of Russian information warfare and soft power both domestically and outside of the borders of Russia.

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Conclusions This chapter sought to shed light on the recent process in Russian politics through which the issue of “culture” has become a new state priority. This process was referred to as a cultural turn in order to focus attention on both the suddenness and the thoroughness of the related change of perspective that has taken place at the elite level of political discussions. The stated goal behind the cultural turn has been to elevate culture to the very heart of Russian societal life with the help of a renewed state cultural policy. As was seen above, at the core of the turn was the new conceptual document, The Fundamentals of the State Cultural Policy, and the new broadened definition of culture presented on its pages. As stated above, in practice the cultural turn has so far led to an increased level of state control in artistic expression and to a prioritising of those cultural phenomena that fit the new patriotic-conservative state ideology. The key to all of this has been the new comprehensive definition of culture, which essentially frames culture in terms of values, history and heritage. The new definition of culture used in the state cultural policy has become an excuse for not supporting culture that does not portray Russianness in a way that complies with this definition. Moreover, through supporting only those cultural activities and artefacts that depict Russianness in the way approved by the political elite, culture has actually become the latest means to control what Russians feel and think. Culture has also come to be seen by the Russian government as a way to fight against separatist behaviour and, hence, as a way to preserve the singular cultural space of Russia. As preserving its unique identity is a matter of life and death for Russia, the issue of culture also seems to have been discursively securitised and elevated to a position whereby it has become a central question of Russian national security. As shown in this chapter, the use of culture as a state tool for transmitting certain perspectives is closely related to the concepts of information warfare and soft power. As the non-military aspects of security have acquired a more central role in recent years in Russian security thought, culture will probably have a deepened role in the Strategy of National Security currently under renewal. The implementation process of The Fundamentals of the State Cultural Policy will probably begin in earnest during 2016. Only time will tell whether this process will be successful and whether it will really lead to

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the situation aspired to by the political elite, i.e. that new generations of Russians will identify themselves with their motherland in accordance with political design and desire. The article was finished before the publication of the renewed Strategy of National Security of Russia on 31 December, 2015.

References Primary Sources Desant ot kul’tury. Rossijskaja Gazeta, 3 October, 2013. http://www.rg.ru/2013/10/03/kultura.html Federal’nyj zakon Rossijskoj Federacii ot 29 Ijunja 2013, No. 136-f3. Federal’nyj zakon Rossijskoj Federacii ot 30 Ijunja 2013, No. 135-f3. Feminism could destroy Russia, Russian Orthodox Patriarch claims. The Guardian, 9 April, 2013. http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/apr/09/feminism-destroyrussia-patriarch-kirill Gerasimov, V. Cennost’ nauki v predvidenii. Voenno-Promiyshlennyj kurer, 27 February-5 March, 2013. Gosduma ne budet vvodit’ štafy za ispol’zovanie inostrannyh slov. Ntv.ru, 1 July, 2014. http://www.ntv.ru/novosti/1091916/ Komu dolžen hudožnik? Rossijskaja Gazeta, 4 February, 2014. http://www.rg.ru/2014/02/04/tolstoy.html Koncepcija vnešnej politiki Rossijskoj Federacii. Ratified 12 February, 2013. Konstitucija Rossijskoj Federacii. Ratified 12 December, 1993. Materialy i predloženija k proektu osnov gosudarstvennoj kul’turnoj politiki. Published by Izvestija, 10 April, 2014. http://izvestia.ru/news/569016 Medinsky, Vladimir. 2015. Kto ne kormit svoju kul’turu, budet kormit’ þužuju armiju. Izvestija, 17 June, 2015. http://izvestia.ru/news/587771 Novogodnee obrašenie Putina: Krym vernulsja domoj. Korrespondent.net, 12 December, 2014. http://korrespondent.net/world/russia/3462742novohodnee-obraschenye-putyna-krym-vernulsia-domoi Osnovy gosudarstvennoj kul’turnoj politiki. Ratified 24 December, 2014. Osnovy zakonodatel’stva Rossijskoj Federacii o kul’ture. With changes ratified 28 November, 2015, in force from 1 January, 2016. No 357-f3. O strategiþeskom planirovanii v Rossijskoj Federacii. ot 28 Ijunja 2014, No. 172-f3.

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O vnesenii izmenenij v Federal’nyj zakon. O gosudarstvennom jazyke Rossijskoj Federacii i otdel’nye zakonodatel’nye akty Rossijskoj Federacii v svjazi s soveršenstvovaniem pravogo regulirovanija v sfere ispol'zovanija russkogo jazyka. Ratified 5 May, 2014. No 101-f3. Patriarch wants more religious education in Russian schools. The Moscow Times, 3 February, 2015. http://www.themoscowtimes.com/news/article/patriarch-wants-morereligious-education-in-russian-schools/515382.html President Vladimir Putin’s address to the Duma deputies, Federation Council members, heads of Russian regions and civil society representatives in the Kremlin. 18 March, 2014. http://kremlin.ru/events/president/transcripts/statements/20603 President Vladimir Putin’s speech in the plenary session of the Valdai Discussion Club. 19 September, 2013. http://valdaiclub.com/opinion/highlights/vladimir_putin_meets_with_ members_the_valdai_international_discussion_club_transcript_of_the_ speech_/?sphrase_id=1539 Putin: Cvetnye revolucii v rjade stran – èto urok dlja Rossii. Ria Novosty, 20 November, 2014. http://ria.ru/world/20141120/1034329699.html Putin, Vladimir. 1999. Rossija na rubeže tysjaþeletnij. Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 30 December, 1999. http://www.ng.ru/politics/1999-1230/4_millenium.html Russian Artists Face a Choice: Censor Themselves, or Else. The New York Times, 1 April, 2015. http://www.nytimes.com/2015/04/02/arts/international/russian-artistsface-a-choice-censor-themselves-or-else.html Russian Propaganda Feeds on Kiev’s Culture War. The Moscow Times, 12 August, 2015. http://www.themoscowtimes.com/news/article/russianpropaganda-feeds-on-kievs-culture-war/527837.html Russia’s Ministry of Culture. 2015. Dejateli kul’tury Rossii – v podderžku pozicii Prezidenta po Ukraine i Krymu. 11 March, 2014. Accessed 17 October, 2015. http://mkrf.ru/press-tsentr/novosti/ministerstvo/deya teli-kultury-rossii-v-podderzhku-pozitsii-prezidenta-po-ukraine-ikrymu Sila tvorþestva. Rossijskaja Gazeta, 24 April, 2014. http://www.rg.ru/2014/04/24/putin.html Šoigy: SMI stali novym vidom oružija. Vesti.ru, 28 March, 2015. http://www.vesti.ru/doc.html?id=2460073 Strategija gosudarstvennoj kul’turnoj politiki na period do 2030 goda. Strategija nacional’noj bezopasnosti Rossijskoj Federacii do 2020 goda. Ratified 15 May, 2009.

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Strategiju nacbezopasnosti Rossii do 2020 goda skorrektirujut. Lenta.ru, 5 May, 2015 http://lenta.ru/news/2015/05/05/patrushev/ The President of Ukraine. 2015. President awarded Shevchenko prizes: Culture will become a weapon for the victory and an instrument of reforms. The website of the President of Ukraine, 9 March, 2015. Accessed 15 October, 2015. http://www.president.gov.ua/en/news/prezident-vruchivshevchenkivski-premiyi-kultura-stane-zbroy-34896 Tolstoj kak zerkalo kul’turnoj politiki. Rossijskaja Gazeta, 15 May, 2014. http://www.rg.ru/2014/05/15/dz-site.html Transcript of the joint session of the state council and the Council of Art and Culture. 24 December, 2014. http://kremlin.ru/events/president/news/47324 Transcript of the session of the Council of Art and Culture. 2 October, 2013. http://kremlin.ru/events/president/news/19353 Ukaz Prezidenta Rossijskoj Federacii ot 21 Ijunja 2007. No. 796-f3. V Rossii vstupil v silu zakon o zaprete nenormativnoj leksiki. Vesti.ru, 1 July, 2014. http://www.vesti.ru/doc.html?id=1747629 Voennaja doktrina Rossijskoj Federacii. Ratified 30 December, 2014. 60 priznakov ugrozy: Sovbez vnes izmenenija v Strategiju nacional’noj bezopasnosti. Rossijskaja Gazeta, 22 October, 2015. http://www.rg.ru/2015/10/23/sovbez.html

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Heusala, Anna-Liisa. 2011. Kokonaisturvallisuus-käsite Venäjän turvallisuuden tutkimuksessa. Kosmopolis 01/2011; 41(4): 23-38. Makarychev, Andrey, and Sergei Medvedev. 2014. Biopolitics and Power in Putin’s Russia. Problems of Post-Communism, 62(1): 45-54. Monaghan, Andrew. 2013. The Russian New Foreign Policy Concept: Evolving Continuity. Russia and Eurasia Report 2013/3. Chatham House. Morozov, Viatcheslav. 2002. Resisting Entropy, Discarding Human Rights: Romantic Realism and Securitization of identity in Russia. Cooperation and Conflict: Journal of the Nordic International Studies Association 37 (4): 409-429. Pynnöniemi, Katri, and James Mashiri. 2015. Venäjän sotilasdoktriinit vertailussa: Nykyinen versio viritettiin kriisiajan taajuudelle. FIIA Report 42. Helsinki: Finnish Institute of International Affairs. Secrieru, Stanislav. 2014. Russian Conservative Reawakening. Strategic File 18 (54). The Polish Institute of International Affairs. Sergunin, Alexander, and Leonid Karabeshkin. 2015. Understanding Russia’s Soft Power Strategy. Politics 35 (3-4): 347-363. Snegovaya, Maria. 2015. Putin’s Information Warfare in Ukraine: Soviet origins of Russia’s hybrid warfare. Russian Report 1. Washington, DC: Institute for the Study of War. Williams, Michael C. 2003. Words, Images, Enemies: Securitization and international politics. International Studies Quarterly 47: 511-531.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN OLIGARCHY IN TRANSITION? THE POTENTIAL OF MILITARY PRIVATIZATION IN EARLY 21ST CENTURY RUSSIA NIKLAS EKLUND

Russia has re-emerged as a preponderant mover and shaker of military security in the European North. It is debatable when the actual build-up started and at which point in time significant military capabilities were reached. In the second decade of the 21st century, it is nevertheless obvious that Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2013 and subsequent support of insurgency in Ukraine are indicative both of such capabilities and of the political will to assert them. Involvement in the civil war in Syria, particularly in the form of long-distance flight operations, also indicates that the Russian Federation is ready and able to act militarily against its perceived political enemies. Albeit not global, the preponderance of Russian military capability and recent willingness to act aggressively is transforming the security situation particularly of neighbouring countries in the European North and in the Arctic. Currently, it is difficult to imagine what a pending shift in the military balance of the Baltic Sea area or the emergent opportunities for resource extraction and long-distance transport in the Arctic might portend. Looking at Russian policy alone makes at least one thing clear: Russia perceives of enemies in her near abroad and declares herself ready to do what is necessary to defend her national interest (cf. Vladimirov 2014). The situation is further complicated by the concept of hybrid warfare (Hoffman 2009; Williamson and Mansoor 2012). Whereas the Russian airstrike operation in Syria can be seen as a clear and present military act by easily identifiable forces, behind which is the Russian government, the

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insurgency in Ukraine is signified by unclear military identities and political deniability. The annexation of Crimea showed elements of both, where the Russian troops utilised unmarked vehicles and uniforms in the initial stages but made no secret of their identity nor their political aim after the fact. Regardless of the normative implications of such tactics, hybrid warfare is transforming the modern art of war, blurring the boundaries between regular warfare between the identifiable troops of states on the one hand and irregular groups of actors, sometimes mixed with state actors, on the other. Technological change increases the complexity of hybrid warfare also by making the line between peace and war opaque while exacerbating political uncertainty. Interpreting Russia’s military capabilities and intentions is patently difficult, however. In the wake of events in Ukraine and Syria, the generic narrative of the international security debate is that the Russian regime is guided by “a deep, recurring pattern driven by internal factors” and an “abiding great-power pride and sense of special mission” (Kotkin 2016, 6). Although not completely void of geopolitical ambition, the message from the Russian military elite is less confident. In March 2016, Chief of the General Staff of the Armed Forces, General Valery Gerasimov wrote an article in the weekly magazine Voenno Promyshlenny Kurer, calling for less theorising about the hybridity of modern warfare and more workable military solutions (Gerasimov 2016). He specifically mentions the need for more research-based ideas that can be put into practice by the Russian armed forces, thus implying a lack of capability for hybrid warfare. It would be easy to dismiss his article as false and propagandist, if it were not for the voices of independent observers. That same month, the editors of independent Russian internet magazine Fontanka publish the results of their investigation into the activities of Russian mercenaries in Syria, Crimea and Eastern Ukraine (Fontanka 2016, Vaux 2016). They tell a discouraging story about how poorly equipped and underpaid Russian volunteers are guided into military conflict by operationally incompetent private entrepreneurs. Interestingly, the editors of Fontanka are able to show how such privateers can be linked to the formal training sites and programs of the Russian armed forces, thus implying the Russian state. The base line, however, is that Private Military Companies (PMCs) have thus far been unable to improve upon Russia’s capability for hybrid warfare in different contemporary military conflicts.

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What are the prospects for change in the public-private nexus in the military development of Russia? As witnessed in the literature about PMCs, the global growth of such enterprise is linked with the overall shift towards hybrid warfare, which provides a market incentive (Singer 2003; Chesterman and Lehnardt 2007; Schouten 2014). The global private military markets are dominated by British and American firms, even though the exact relationships between enterprises and states are difficult to pinpoint. The dominant pattern seems to be that PMCs are able to provide governments with five major services, which can be categorised as covering up state interests, contributing to military expansion, safeguarding conquered territory after the regular forces have left, infiltrating the military structures of other countries or providing military intelligence, and contributing with certain offensive capabilities (Mohlin 2012). The relative independence of PMCs has been questioned, i.e. to what extent private military actors are workings strictly according to what market forces dictate and to what extent they have loyalties with particular countries. Some evidence to support the latter has been produced (Brayton 2002; Leander 2005; Rafael 2016) although more research and knowledge in the field seems desirable. Even less is known about the relationship between less democratic or outright authoritarian states and PMCs. It has nevertheless been hypothesised that the relative autonomy of PMCs, which leads to a lack of control on the part of states and governments, might be a major bone of contention for democratic and authoritarian governments alike (Berndtsson 2012). Although military privatisation is only one facet of what constitutes hybrid warfare, the aim of this chapter is to map and illustrate the ongoing public Russian debate about the state legalisation and use of private military companies (PMCs). A further aim is to discuss military privatisation in Russia conceptually as an arena for public innovation and experimentation. Revisiting the conceptual transition-transformation dichotomy and different aspects of statehood and internal regime change in Russia, the chapter draws empirical attention to the current Russian debate about the legalisation of PMCs and how this may or may not contribute to further regime change. Using not only Western academic literature but also Russian media sources in the original language, the chapter tries to go beyond simplifying dichotomies about Russian political elites and avoid usages such as

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“hawks” and “doves” or “modernisers” and “traditionalists”. Rather, the approach based on open sources is intended to produce results that can be interpreted and discussed “in an open-minded, responsive to evidence, accountable, criticism-seeking manner” (Fay 1996, 221). In this light, it appears that regime change in Russia seems finely tuned to its traditional statehood, where oligarchic politics, instrumental interpretations of international affairs, self-reliance and opportunism rest not only on managerial power, but equally on a solid conceptual basis. As the political and legal processes concerning the legalisation of PMCs in Russia are ongoing, thus rendering an analytical target in motion, this chapter offers a tentative conclusion. Among other things, it is argued that Russian deliberations of the introduction and legalisation of PMCs should be seen as linked with and contributing to public innovation and major international regime change in our time, namely the privatisation of security and hybrid warfare.

From pluralism to oligarchy and robber capitalism: the transitions-to fallacy Up to the present day, regime change in Russia is a story about mutable political elites and to which extent they have been able to dominate an essentially managerial state. Although one should be analytically wary of the potential for exceptionalism, whether it be the kind favoured by critics or proponents of political leadership in Russia, an important starting point is the historically determined state-society relationship in the country. Russia has been referred to as a “natural state”, which means that it is locked in a tradition of interdependent elite coalitions ruling the nation while protecting each other from social forces of change (North, Wallis and Weingast 2009). Others, like Stephen Krasner (1984) have used Russian and Soviet examples to illustrate the managerial maxim that organisations are the true collective historical actors. What the managerial perspective upon Russian statehood implies is that much of the social science terminology utilised to understand how open democracies evolve politically does not apply. There is, for example, a scholarly debate about hybrid institutions which particularly focusses upon the mix of public and private interests in modern service delivery which presupposes less political control from central authorities to begin with, than what is the case in Russia (Loughlin 2013). Similarly, since at least the 1990s, there is a discussion about what has been called the hollowing out (Rhodes 1994) of the open democratic state, questioning both the

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willingness and the ability of national governments to actually steer and control economic, social and political change. An analytical paradigm has been constructed around concepts such as “multi-level governance” and “meta-governance”, implying that states and governments must share political power and steering capability with other social actors and structures. Although Bob Jessop has referred to this paradigm as a “theoretical morass” (2013, 26), suffice it here to say that such paradigms have very little to say about the Russian state, where control of the state and state control are the opposite sides of the proverbial political coin. Highly centralised and controlling states are managerial states. Institutional and organisational prerequisites are determinants of regime change in Russia and suggestive of the importance of elite study. As observed in the most recent version of Hill and Gaddy’s seminal work on the aegis of current Russian president Vladimir Putin, [i]n Russia, the state is primary. The state is a stand-alone entity – sometimes rendered in a capitalized form as the “State”. The individual and society are, and must be, subordinate to the state and its interests (2015, 24).

As pointed out by the same authors, this particular variety of state-society relationship is a cornerstone of politics and the distribution of power and resources in Russia. As the bedrock for understanding, it goes a long way both before and beyond the so-called Putinism of the current regime. But does the retrenchment of state centralism and oligarchy in Russian politics indicate political backwardness and thus preclude managerial innovation? Some of the concepts by which Western scholars form their theoretical understanding of the prerequisites for regime change in Russia reveal critical analytical junctures. Since the break-down of the Soviet Union, the political regime in Russia has been likened with many things. For example, as the country was still experimenting with the introduction of pluralistic elements of democratic rule in the 1990s, under political uncertainty and confusion, Western analysts were quick to try to find labels for such a tumultuous political system. As described by Neil Robinson (2003, 149), Russian democracy was “variously labelled as ‘delegative democracy’, ‘guided democracy’, ‘electoral clannism’, ‘oligarchy’ and ‘low calibre democracy’”. The widespread search for new labels and metaphors, however, was constantly marked by what today seems like a quiet understanding between analysts not to pay too much

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attention to the institutional inertia of state structures in the Federal Republic. As the prospect for pluralism in Russian politics has waned over the past 15 years, oligarchy seems to be the term which has not only survived among analysts, but continues to serve as a guiding metaphor for the study of Russian elites and their regime (Klebnikov 2000; Fortescue 2006; Goldman 2008; Hollingsworth and Lansley 2009). In conceptual terms, however, oligarchy does little more than evoke Aristotelian and Platonic notions of an ideal regime gone awry. The ancients saw oligarchy as a perverted form of what they regarded as a more desirable regime, aristocracy. Furthermore, they saw tyranny as a perversion of monarchy and, indeed, popular democracy as the undesirable opposite to what they called moderate, or reasonable, democracy (Österud 1997, 127). Oligarchy, then, became an analytical buzzword originally to be able to grasp and comprehend the veritable explosion of robber capitalism in Russia during the 1990s. The weakness of state structures, the firm belief of president Yeltsin and his administration in pluralist notions of democracy and the lure of global capitalism were the drivers of political change in Russia all through one of its most confusing times. As shown by Vladimir Gelman (2001; 2003), however, elite behaviour in the evolving Russian system was never conducive to the theoretically most viable factors in a systemic transition from elite rule to some form of pluralist democracy. This would have entailed a solid pact of mutual recognition by interdependent elites at the top of the state structure and, equally important, the integration of local and regional elites into the new system suffused by common codes of conduct (Gelman 2011). Instead, oligarchs in the new Russia soon became the target both of social envy and scorn. Gone are the days of the optimistic and the so called “transitology” among Western analysts in the 1990s and early 2000s, at which time these seem to have been competing with each other to see who could most assiduously predict the consolidation of parliamentary democracy, the rule of law and a regulated market economy in Russia (cf. Brown 2001; Linz and Stepan 1996). Some remained sceptical (Bunce 1999; Sakwa 1996). As astutely pointed out by Jordan Gans-Morse (2004) there was more to the academic debates of the time than what first met the eye. Whether or not there actually was contradiction between “transitologist” and “transformationist” approaches in the study of post-communist regime changes, is perhaps

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only of remote academic interest today. However, we are reminded about the need for reflexivity to ensure accuracy in the assumptions and conceptual elements which provide guidance for our analysis and interpretation. When studying political parties, electoral institutions, civil society organisations, or privatized enterprises, analysts compare their findings with expectations of what these institutions and organisations would look like in a consolidated democracy and market economy. They then use this analysis to evaluate the prospects of a country’s transition to democracy and capitalism, as opposed to seeking to understand the particular and potentially unique functions that these institutions and organisations perform in the post-communist region (Gans-Morse 2004, 335).

On reflection, a critical distance from prevalent and popular assumptions about the direction of regime change in Russia or, for that matter, any other national or international regime under study would seem to be essential to meaningful results. Both oligarchy and transition are powerful conceptual tools, as they evoke images of the interplay between change and inertia in the core functions of state and political power. To allow one or the other to become imbued with self-evidence or evocative stimulus, however, can be misleading. Political regimes are always open to change, regardless of initial status. History, in this view, does not end the way closed usages of concepts like oligarchy or transition might suggest.

Competing images of the present state As a case in point, the Minchenko Consulting Communication group published a report in 2012, in which the then prevalent elite structures of Russian governance were scrutinised. The report falls back heavily on Soviet influences on the current political regime, suggesting by the title of the report that Vladimir Putin has effectively created a “Politburo 2.0”. Laden with spreadsheet information on the purportedly informal relationships between Russian oligarchs – based, as it were, on “the results of an expert survey of more than 60 participants […] strictly anonymous”. The report could be seen as a golden opportunity for any outside analyst to gauge the relative power of one oligarchic group vis-à-vis another in Russia. Over and above the sheer methodological problems and the commercial interest adhering to this “report”, however, it is interesting to note that military and scientific elites in the Russian system are in principle absent from the analysis. As the report repeatedly states that the evolution and distribution of political power in Russia is not a one man

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show, thus illustrating a core assumption about the viability of the conflict between financial and administrative oligarchs in the Russian system, the report seems to be no more and no less than a plea for continued belief in the concept of competitive oligarchy as the basis for any understanding of Russian regime change. Contrasting the Minchenko report with the encompassing analysis presented by Valdai Discussion Club, titled Russian Elite – 2020 (2013), the image of competing oligarchies essentially falls apart. Methodologically endorsed and co-authored by such Western academics as Professor Ronald Inglehart, this report shows that despite rigorous testing for generational differences among Russian political and economic elites, there is widespread conviction that the Russian presidency is the most important political institution in the country. Furthermore, the elite system in Russia is generally considered still-evolving, searching for form and content with regard to its code of conduct. Adding to the picture, there is also a conviction, particularly among the younger echelons of the Russian elite, that military affairs and the projection of military might are the most important aspects of statehood in the 21st century. The report concludes on a positive note: However, if economic growth continues at a steady pace in coming years, this will inevitably foster the spread of post-materialist values among younger Russians, especially those born after 1990. […] Given Russia’s growing integration with the international community, particularly on the economic front, and the institutional requirements that come with it, it appears that Russia’s political climate will see some significant changes in the 2020s (Valdai Discussion Club 2013, 68).

It is tempting at this juncture to use the worn phrase “and the rest is history”. The report from Valdai Discussion Club, regardless of how one chooses to look at the credentials of this organisation, illustrates two important things. First of all, it illustrates how the static, snap-shot imagery of the distribution and change of political power which is evoked by the concept of oligarchy needs to be held at critical distance. Oligarchy is part and parcel of the Russian political tradition. The concept does not, however, singularly give the key to an informed understanding of how political power in the Russian system evolves. Once an understanding is formed around a particular, historically unique set of oligarchs, chances are that time will have run away from it. Unless one is the CEO of an economically interested company or investment bank, needing to make quick decisions upon whom to trust in a given business situation, such

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information appears to be temporary and fickle. Secondly, the pivotal role of the military elite in the Russian regime comes to the fore. As the Russian regime continues to evolve, prodding new policy areas and challenging widely held notions about the inflexibility and backwardness of the Russian system, it should have become clear that transformation in its widest possible sense is taking place. To observe this more or less perpetual and seemingly opportunistic state of change under the assumption that it represents a process of transition to any kind of wellknown or conceptually familiar end state, however, seems outright fanciful in the current decade. As Russian political elites continue to adapt their regime to ever-changing global circumstances and to deliver new and sometimes curious approaches to challenges emanating from the nexus of political and economic change, it would behove analysts not to overload the conceptual discussion.

The Russian state and innovation: an uneasy or creative couple? Russia is rarely, if ever, pointed out as a hotbed of innovation by international standards. This seems to be regardless of which sphere of human and social interaction the discussion is geared up towards. More often than not, Russia is seen by Western analysts as a country forever lost in the doldrums of trying to come to terms with its own history, both long and short term. In recent decades, there has been public reform aimed at integration with international trends in public administration. Periods of success have been followed by periods of failure and public dismay, essentially leaving public administration in Russia marked by elements of marketisation and accountability in goal steering (Isakova 2005, 135-188). More often than not, attempts at public reform seem to founder upon too much steering in detail from the top and public budgets based on organisational functions rather than production of services (Maslov 2012, 11-14). Transparency and public accountability are made redundant in an administrative system, where “raiding” of both public and private enterprises takes place (Sakwa 2011, 9-13). Current Russian political leaders also play on the ensuing mental state, where publicly fostered notions about Russian uniqueness and autarchy become crucial to preserve legitimacy. The Russian national strategy, for example and as formulated and published by Major-General A.I. Vladimirov (2013, 356-359) holds forth both uniqueness and autarchy as beneficial for a different road ahead

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towards a stronger, more secure Russia based on scientific and technological innovation. In the light of Russia’s ineptitude in public reform, it would be easy to discard such ideas and visions as political bluster. Long-term analyst and historian of science Loren Graham points out that, historically, scientific innovation in Russia has proceeded by “fits-andstarts” (2013, 145-160). Overburdened by political and economic shortcomings, the Russian history of science “stretches like an arch” through history up until the present (Graham 1993, 196). In Graham’s perspective, the ability of Russia to innovate has been a more or less constant story of trying to catch up with new technologies and productive modes in the surrounding world, at certain intervals importing selected technologies and scientific innovations. For Graham, however, innovation is defined by the ability among scientists to operationalise research results into ideas and products that can be put on the market and, thus, contribute to the economic growth and welfare of a nation. Graham fails to find this type of innovativeness in Russia generally, but he also points to some areas that are innovative and therefore difficult to interpret, such as nuclear technology, space technology and computerisation, in which political control and steering have yielded positive results. According to Graham, Russian universities, institutes and other knowledgebased organisations continually produce an abundance of human talent. The historically recurrent propensity among Russian political elites to try to organise this talent in well-defined, large-scale national research projects aimed at organising and financing top-of-the-line researchers under state control is evident. Graham concludes that the Russian system of higher education and research continues to produce geniuses in a vacuum because of the lack of political, social, legal and economic support structures for marketable innovation (Graham 2013, 99-142, 145). Again, Graham nevertheless remains mystified by those scientific areas in which Russian science has been able to compensate for the country’s institutional shortcomings, most notably in nuclear and space technology, and by extension how this know-how has contributed to the development of modern weapons and an internationally successful export industry. Equally interesting to Graham is that Russia has been able to compensate for being a late starter in computerisation by foreign import and rapid development in the design and application of computer software (ibid. 9197). Scientific innovation in Russia, in other words, looks different from

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its counterparts in other political settings. This does not, however, mean that it does not exist. Public innovation involves more than sheer marketisation, particularly “organising and directing citizens, professionals, organisations, institutions and discourses to achieve certain political goals” (Johansson, Denvall and Vedung 2015, 84-85). Conceptualising signs of public innovativeness also involves political and institutional aspects. Following Hall (1993) we can assume that public innovation is generally more about high-order qualitative change than low-order quantitative change, and that it is ultimately aimed at new and creative understandings of political goals, policies and programs in specific contexts. There is, however and as pointed out by Hartley (2005), no systematic data or evidence available with regard to how public innovation processes can be analysed quantitatively; nor can we generalise the role of leadership, the different forms of steering, or the processes of diffusion in public innovation. “Research is needed to illuminate and explain the processes which support or which undermine innovation in public service organisations, viewing innovation as a journey rather than a linear process” (Hartley 2005, 34). On the one hand, it would seem far-fetched to study Russia as a worldleading producer of socially viable technological know-how and marketable goods. On the other hand, global markets are clearly marked by both Russian products and know-how in certain areas, military ordnance and nuclear technology perhaps being the most salient. The state of affairs in the world of computer software development unfortunately lies beyond the scope of knowledge of the author here, but judging by the emergent international discussion about hybrid warfare it seems that Russian know-how is an important part of the picture. Against which templates should the patterns of innovation and competition in the Russian system be gauged (Bardhan and Kroll 2006)? Which are the overarching political goals and how can these be understood (Tsygankov 2013; Rogoza 2014)? At the end of the day, what we find might be intimately related to where we look. With specific reference to the case of Russia, Richard Sakwa has warned against the inclination among Western analysts to quickly substitute their initial fascination with Russian uniqueness for trivial descriptions of systemic shortcomings and legal aberration. He writes:

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However, I do argue that Russia’s multiple reality can only be grasped by a plurality of methodologies and a diversity of perspectives. This needs to be accompanied by a greater sense of critique, in the classical sense of the word as an immanent examination of the categories of analysis and ideological paradigms employed (Sakwa 2011, 9).

Taking a broader view of where public innovation may take place and, adding to that, trying to think about innovation as related not only to the marketability of goods and services, particular current changes in Russia become interesting. In this light, a change towards military privatisation and the potential for ensuing economic and social implications both within and outside the country’s borders might be indicative of significant regime change. More often than not, the Russian military elite proper is seen as a conservative political force (Brown 2001; Barany 2007; Sakwa 2011). But what does military privatisation in a managerial state based on the political structures of oligarchy entail? Might even the role of the Russian state and its military be viewed in a different light? Thus, in the evolutionary development of military art at the beginning of the 21st century the core role will be played by all of its component and interacting theories and disciplines, of other methods of struggle, above all non-military measures and indirect effects and their elements – military cleverness and instantaneity. A special place in this process is reserved for military science, which decides the basic trajectories, causalities in the development of military art. It specifies causal dependencies in military affairs, gives practical recommendations with regard to military practice in our VS [Armed Forces] and the other military structures of the country (Chekinov and Bogdanov 2015, 43).

If it can be established that regime change in Russia flows from the top, does it by extension and necessity preclude public innovation? Might something significant with regard to the public-private nexus in military affairs be taking place? If we are to believe the current Russian-speaking literature, there is a particular Russian experience and hesitation with regard to PMCs, which might be explored (Konovalov and Valetsky 2013).

Highlights from the current Russian debate on military privatisation Little attention was paid by Western observers to when the then PM of the Russian state Duma Vladimir Putin gave his express support for the idea to create legal space for private military companies. As reported by

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RiaNovosti in April 2012, Putin suggested that Russia needs a system of such private companies which could provide protective services for Russian objects and interests as well as military training services for other nationalities. In 2012, Putin’s original suggestion was to allow such Russian PMCs, once formed, to be market actors pure and simple – i.e. to allow them to act independently of the Russian government. His initiative was met with little resistance from the parliamentary floor, but for the crucial question about whether or not such a significant legal change should first be grounded in the work of a parliamentary commission. This, as held forth by the Duma representative Alexey Mitrofanov, would seem reasonable since the legalisation and consequent formation of such companies should perhaps also allow for the potential involvement of state interests. In response, PM Putin said “I think so, yes, it is possible to think this through and to scrutinise the issue.” Although this little notice in RiaNovosti passed by largely unnoticed by Western media in 2012, it reported the start of a significant policy process in Russia. Ria Novosti also informed its readers that PMCs, particularly in the Western world and countries like the USA, Great Britain and France, come in two shapes. On the one hand there are the Private Military Companies, for which Ria Novosti chose the acronym ChVK (Chastnyie Voyennyie Kompanyi) and on the other hand the Private Protective Companies, for which the acronym ChOK (Chastnyie Okhranyie Kompanyi) was chosen. The difference between acronyms would soon appear significant. Currently available material on the website of the Russian State Duma (2015) gives information about the status of legal project # 630327-6 titled On Private Protective Companies. Most entries are from the year 2014, and it is noteworthy that reference is now made to Private Protective Companies as opposed to the original Duma discussion about Private Military Companies. As the Russian government is currently in the last stages of preparation for the new law, which will open the market to Russian PMCs both within Russian borders and beyond, it seems that something must have happened to the terminology and usage along the way. In Putin’s original address to the State Duma, his reference to military companies, ChVK, was clear. Looking for information on Russian government webpages in 2015, however, an outside observer will find references only to protective companies (ChOK). Perhaps the Russian media discussion after 2012 holds some clues as to what happened to the terminology and usage in the policy process?

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During the years 2012 and 2013, there was little or no public debate on this topic. Putin’s return to the national presidency overshadowed other discussions on policy at the time. In 2013, events in the Crimea and Eastern Ukraine pushed other items even further from the public agenda. Considering the momentous events of those two years, it seems reasonable to assume that the actual policy process, i.e. the parliamentary working group and the formulation of input into the legal process with regard to PMCs was put on hold in Russia. This is also briefly referred to in some of the sources used below, but nowhere substantiated. In the spring of 2014, nevertheless, as the fate of Crimea has faded from international news and low-intensity war continues in Eastern Ukraine, the issue of PMCs return to the Russian media webpages, now subject to debate. On 21 March, 2014, Russkaya Planeta publishes an interview with the head of national Russian security group RSB, Oleg Krinitsyn. Journalist Aleksey Alikin (2014) starts by giving the reader some generic background on the phenomenon of PMCs, stating that such military actors are part of a global trend. The 20th-century mass armies of conscription and total belonging to particular governments via the introduction of professional militaries and individual contracts have been complemented with PMCs in the new millennium. Alikin uses the acronym ChVK and, as indicated by the title of the article “ChVK – it is a very effective instrument for influence” (translation by the author), puts a straightforward angle on the military utility of PMCs. Adding to background, Alikin also quotes some figures from Washington Post which show how the American PMC Blackwater was involved in Iraq in 2006-2007, changed its name to Academi, and continues to be part of a global multi-billion dollar industry with tens-of-thousands of employees, as reported by the Western media. The angle Alikin chooses, however, is to focus upon how members of established Russian PMCs feel about the competition and the potential for legal action in the field by the Russian government. This, according to Alikin, is particularly interesting since examples can be quoted of how Russian PMC personnel have been declared illegal combatants, in some cases even arrested, because of their unclear legal status. Out of several available Russian PMCs (Tiger Top Rent Security, Feraks, AntiterrorOrel), Alikin focusses upon RSB Group and Oleg Krinitsyn. According to Krinitsyn, there is no real competition inside Russian borders today, taking into consideration that RSB Group markets itself as a genuinely military company.

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During the course of his public interview, Krinitsyn makes it clear not only that he sees the distinction between military and security companies as important, but also what this means for the relationship between the state and the market. In Russia, we currently have no competitors. […] Outside our borders, British, American, Australian, New Zealandic and Israeli companies take up heavy market positions, in principle because of their strong positions with their respective home government on the international level.

Still, Krinitsyn thinks that his company is the closest thing to a real Russian PMC today. In his view, the signs of such a company are a high order of organisation, ability to facilitate real military action via logistics, upkeep or destruction of military material, transportation in and out of war zones, protection, and delivery of reserves to fighting units. PMCs generally, according to Krinitsyn, are there to deliver services and to perform in line with state interests, not to go into combat but to facilitate the ability of regular troops to do so. On the other hand, he is quick to point out to his interviewer that his own company is organised on the basis of army principles and is prepared to go into any foreseeable form of contact in a war zone, stretching from anywhere in between intelligence gathering to actual combat. To perform well, Krinitsyn continues, a PMC must have high-level military ordnance (covering air, land and sea capabilities) since it will inevitably be taking part in crucial military action against terrorists or other types of enemy. A PMC must be ready to fight both according to a government contract and separately. Prodded by his interviewer, Krinitsyn concludes that the particular action of Blackwater in Iraq, and its consequent reorganisation and continuation under the company label Academi, symbolises the road ahead for any and all PMCs on the global military market. The core problem for the development of Russian PMCs today, according to Krinitsyn, is that they are caught in cross-pressure between Russian civil law and unfettered international competition. For the most part, Russian PMCs offer protective services but are heavily restricted in the type of armament they can use and type of action they may take. Russians fighting for money in different areas of the world, for the most part and as evidenced by the recent arrest and prosecution of Russian voluntaries in Syria, are on their own.

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Compared with their Western counterparts – Krinitsyn specifically mentions the situation in Libya under American control – Russians are poorly organised and unprotected by the contractual relationships with governments that PMCs can offer. Looking at prognoses for the development of for example Chinese PMCs over the next few years, and mentioning that he knows of approximately 26 000 Chinese currently working with security issues in Eritrea, he can only conclude that Russia, too, needs to regulate its order of business on the military security market. “If there is”, Krinitsyn states, “an official agreement with a government structure on protection – everything is in order.” To Krinitsyn at least, it is no secret but rather a fact that strong governments in the world utilise PMCs to assert themselves in areas where they cannot, or indeed will not, use regular military force. To him, a clear legal relationship with the Russian state would clarify and simplify things for a company which is already in place on this expanding world market, already delivering services in the Middle East, South East Asia, Africa, a number of Arab countries and on the High Sea.

Heating up the political debate On 28 May, 2015, an interview with Igor Korotjenko, the editor of the journal National Defence (Natsyonalnaya Oborona) in Rosbalt clarifies positions in the 2014-2015 political debate in an interview by journalist Andrey Mikhailov (2015). On the one hand, there are the proponents of a legalisation of Russian PMCs, who think that such companies are crucial for and inextricably linked with national Russian economic and security interests abroad. On the other hand, there are those who argue that Russia should not join or contribute to this development on the global military market, but rather continue to draw a line between the state monopoly on legitimate violence and other forms of violence. In the article, Korotjenko pits himself polemically against Major-General Aleksandr Vladimirov, who has made the public argument that PMCs globally are beginning to erode the most vital asset in the legitimacy of nation-states, i.e. the monopoly on armed violence, and that Russia should refrain from legalisation and continue down a different path to ensure its national interest and security. As different from the careful suggestions by the CEO of RSB Group in the foregoing, Korotjenko adds several arguments and examples in favour of legalisation. Above all, he points out that PMCs are and should be instrumental to support and carry state interests on the international scene.

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He draws a clear line between military companies and protective companies, saying that the legalisation and development of military companies on the international market should be seen as separate from the private production of security inside Russia. It is precisely because of this important distinction between internal and external security issues that Korotjenko firmly believes in legalisation. His argument rests on the notion that PMCs will be there mainly to protect economic activities. He exemplifies with Russian oil and gas exploitation and extraction in the Arctic, and how such activities were recently under attack from “aggressive ecologist organisations”. PMCs, according to Korotjenko, are private companies selling security and protection to states and industrial conglomerates in need. Professionally motivated, they are able to produce services which other state organs such as the police or military forces are unable to. Legalisation would clarify where the boundaries between private security production and public responsibilities lie. Asked about whether or not he sees any particular aspect of this relationship that the new law should be focussed upon, Korotjenko says that the essence of legalisation is the close and detailed regulation by the state of commercial services. Given that so much professional expertise rests with government institutions such as the Ministry of Defence, the Ministry of the Interior, FSB, SVR and other institutions involved with national and military security, he is convinced that the national interest will be safeguarded by law. As stated, Mikhailov’s article reveals the other position in the Russian debate over the legalisation of PMCs. It goes back to Vladmir Putin’s mystifying 2012 statement in the State Duma, in which the then Prime Minister implied that legalisation of PMCs would make it possible for the Russian government to safeguard its national interest abroad without actually being involved. Mikhailov also quotes the vice-president of the Russian Academy for Geopolitics, who has picked up on how Putin’s original intent seems to have been the creation of a mechanism through which the Russian government could “wash its hands” from actual and potential armed conflicts and, moreover, escape serious criticism from other governments in the world. Sergey Demchenko, a government representative and military expert is also quoted, from a comment on the situation in Eastern Ukraine, as saying

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[i]t is inevitable to create PMCs, strictly controlled by the state […]; with their help objectives could be met [… that are] impossible to reach today for certain political and organisational reasons.

Oleg Krinitsyn is quoted, too, as CEO of the aforementioned RSB Group, saying that as far as the Arctic is concerned, his type of company could have done a much neater job against Greenpeace than what the Russian security forces did and, thus, have avoided the serious “image risks and attention from the world” which ensued. Mikhailov finishes the article by relaying some information about the international market for security, particularly pointing out that the estimated total market value lies somewhere between 25 and 100 billion dollars, but that this market is currently dominated by Western companies such as Academi, Graystone, HALO Trust and DynCorp. On 6 July, 2015, blogger and oppositional politician Kirill Shulika (2015) enters the debate on the homepage of Radio Moscow. He concludes that he is afraid that the whole legalisation process will be finished by 2016, but that he dare not even speculate about what kind of military animal is under creation. He points out that the Russian State Duma seems almost to have fallen over itself in order to speed up the legalisation process during the summer of 2015. He notes that other legal changes than those particularly aimed at the legalisation of PMCs have taken place, exemplifying with the abridged right for Russian police to bear and present arms in the vicinity of popular crowds. This extension, Shulika remarks, is not given even to FSB personnel, which seems curious given the crucial role of the organisation in the fight against terrorism. Shulika suspects that these quick and sudden legal changes are motivated by other projects. Shulika also says that increasing numbers of the Russian work force, particularly its male portion, are occupied and salaried by institutions and organisations working with different aspects of security, both national and international. By example, he is implying that political and economic incentives converge in Russia today and that the fresh impetus for the process of legalisation of PMCs should be regarded in this light. Referring to how representatives of Russian government are now outspoken about how PMCs could facilitate “delicate missions”, such as in Donbass, or the spread of the “Russian world” in the direction of the Baltic states, he is not at all surprised by how the legalisation process has sped up. According to him, even if the Russian government has chosen a political position as mildly opposed to the idea of Russian PMCs, there is evidence that this

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governmental stance is highly temporary. Shulika sees Gennady Nosovko, the member of the State Duma who is the chair and the leading author of the parliamentary working group on PMCs in Russia, not only as outspokenly in favour of the new legislation but, significantly, as a personal link to those Russian government circles in favour of Putin’s strong, centralised form of government and policy making. Shulika furthermore argues that the convergence of political and economic opportunities, most obvious in the PMC phenomenon, will be seen by Russian decision makers as too good to pass up. In job creation, alone, there is the potential for millions of opportunities. Which, Shulika says, is in itself a good thing. He is apprehensive, however, arguing that just because there are American and other PMCs on the global market, it does not necessarily mean that they represent something desirable. He goes on to say that the social and political control of business is more open and developed in other parts of the world. In the West, he argues, the PMCs are regarded and regulated as private companies pure and simple, whereas in the Russian context even the authors of the new law are openly saying that Russian PMCs will be created for the purpose of achieving political goals. Almost in answer to the fears expressed by Kirill Shulika, the newspaper Mestnye Vesty reports on 7 July, 2015, quoting parliamentary debates and individuals like Sergey Demchenko and Gennady Nosovko, that the whole project of legalisation of PMCs in Russia is indeed instrumental to politics and, moreover, that it has a specific purpose. In an unsigned news article, the journal reports that the legalisation process of PMCs is driven by Russia’s experiences from hybrid warfare, most notably in the Ukraine. The journal also notes that a number of statements from government circles have made it clear that although the most immediate driver of PMC legislation in Russia is low-intensity warfare in Ukraine, there are several other areas of interest as well. Among those are Russian economic interests and activities in the Arctic, the preservation of cultural and political influence in the Baltic states and the need to strengthen the Russian presence and influence in the Pacific East. For the first time, the article states, the discussion about legalisation is about real political interests and an open one at that. It concludes that Ukraine should be worried, because not far from today the Russian government will be able to say that they are not involved in the fighting in Ukraine, and it will be for real. That those Russian PMCs who are active

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in the Donbass and Donetsk regions will have unlimited credit and equally unlimited access to Russian arms to support their private military activities comes through as an aside in the Russian discussion. But, the article states, not only Ukraine and parts of Eastern Europe, such as the Transdnistrian region or the Baltic states should be worried. The article quotes the Japanese newspaper Sankei Shimbun, which has observed that if Russia starts to utilise PMCs in order to strengthen any kind of anti-Western league or the international system for how military conflicts are regulated, then the Cold War is back. The article also observes that the proposed legislation of Russian PMCs will create a new form of fighting unit, which could in effect destroy precarious balances on the global military market. It observes that, whereas no real international legislation regulates international PMC today, there is the Montreux convention which stipulates approximately 70 recommendations and codes of conduct for governments and MCs on the international market. Again, the assumption is that PMC are formed and run strictly as private companies. The impending Russian construct to the contrary, the article observes, will be firmly rooted in the expert political leadership of central Russian government, particularly the FSB. The article claims access to information about how the Russian lobbyists, i.e. the proponents of the new type of legislation, claim that once the new type of Russian PMC is in place they will effectively have destroyed a significant part of the international legal system. There is, the article says, a difference between how American and British PMCs are oscillating around some kind of international code of conduct, and how this discussion occupies the minds of Western political leaders on the one hand, and the new military arm that Russia is about to create, financed by oligarchs, on the other. Almost in response to the unsigned and highly critical article in Mestnye Vesty, the internet journal Political Russia picks up the trail on 9 July, 2015. Andrey Bortsov (2015) makes an overview of the political debate up to this point, at the end saying that all of the aforementioned arguments certainly have their values and merits. However, to Bortsov, Russian PMCs really are not much to write home about. First of all, and here he makes reference to several of the positions in the debate related above, the suggested Russian PMCs will be under legal and political control. Regardless of the values one chooses to attribute to the current political and legal institutions in Russia, this formality will make Russian PMCs formally comparable to other similar international actors. Secondly,

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Bortsov quotes Gennady Nosovko referring to “[t]he biggest myth about ChVK – that is, they prepare themselves for military action” (see Nosovko 2015). Bortsov follows the line of argumentation which says that MCs are first and foremost protective units, which neither start nor end actual wars. Third, Bortsov specifically addresses the situation in Ukraine and the Russian experience from Georgia, saying that the only other way to achieve military security and protection in contested geographical areas is via the UN. This, on the other hand, builds upon a political process sensitive to international consensus, and to the extent that such consensus cannot be reached, other means must be introduced to achieve quick and expedient security solutions in contested areas. Fourth, Bortsov supports the idea that there is nothing new about Russian PMCs. Quoting the by now well-known representative of RSB Group, Oleg Krinitsyn, Russian PMCs already exist, and what is in the making is simply a legal strengthening of their position on the international military and security markets. Bortsov concludes that the current legalisation process should be regarded as a good thing for two main reasons. Looking inwards, Bortsov points to the idea that once the inevitability of Russian PMCs has been realised, it becomes of the utmost essence not to allow them to evolve into private armies for the oligarchs. For this to be achieved, close control and scrutiny by the state are vital. Looking out, he takes recourse to Soviet history, saying that part of the problem used to be that the Soviet Union, for the love of peace, allowed the West to command and control the international system, thus abstaining from the development of PMCs to the benefit of American, British and other companies which saw no competition for market space in different parts of the world. This, Bortsov firmly states, is now going to change.

Russian PMCs will be Russian It would seem far-fetched to try to draw any definite conclusions about current regime changes in Russia here. The line is drawn empirically in the winter of 2015/16 and any events or changes after that may have altered or even reversed the process of legalisation of PMCs in Russia. At least according to open sources, the process seems to be dragging on (Sivkov 2016). However, to the extent that those parts of the public debate in the Russian media, which has been mirrored here, represent a real set of

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political arguments behind which real political actors and structures can be found, some prospects for regime change in the country can at least be discussed. According to Konovalov and Valetsky (2013, 95-102) there is a particular Russian experience with regard to PMCs. They discount the global trend towards privatisation in military affairs by and large as a Western phenomenon, emphasising how it is unlikely that the military arm of the Russian state will ever hybridise. As shown in this chapter, there are other ideas involved in the public Russian discussion about PMCs and a manifest pull from private actors to expose at least some areas of military to market forces. Although it is too soon to draw conclusions from the process of legalisation of military companies in Russia, positions and arguments in the current Russian debates on the topic at least provide a sense of direction. According to media sources quoted in this chapter, and given that they can be seen as reliable, the Russian debate has moved from obscurity to clarity in a matter of only a few months. Government sources make no secret of their ambition to legalise private Russian military companies in order to facilitate their achievement of political goals. Far from being kept as an elite or central government secret, the future role of private military companies as guardians of Russian state interests in the Donbass and Donetsk regions is openly suggested. The potential for military activity as a trajectory of the politics/markets nexus emanating from military privatisation is similarly presented with a view to destabilising large parts of the international system. Whether or not this law will come into practice in Russia, rallying the disparate group of already existing military companies under the flag together with potential new ones, remains to be seen. According to the sources in this chapter, a final decision is not to be expected before 2016, potentially even later as there are no signs of imminent closure at the time of this writing. The driver of this peculiar form of public/private innovation is in all likelihood the vast intellectual resources which have gone into Russian military theory over the past decade. Precursors to the new marketoriented instrumentalism of the Russian government can be found in the process of reconceptualisation of military thought, which has been debated and fleshed out in Russian military circles since the early 2000s. In this perspective, it would behove academics, professional analysts and other outside observers to pay closer attention to what innovation in the Russian context might mean.

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Above all, when and where innovation takes place seems to merit some further attention. The much quoted and widespread quip, “When did you last meet somebody longing to drive a Russian car?” is only partially relevant for why and how innovation in Russia might be studied. It remains to be seen how the political system in Russia chooses to balance its regular military interests against the potential of privatisation trends and international markets. Following what the international literature has to say about public motivations for legalising and interacting with PMCs, the need for new sources of financing might be a significant key to understanding future policy choices. Another might be what kind of conflict the country is involved in, or perhaps preparing for. A third might be the opportunity to steer PMCs and simply utilise them as proxies for armed forces. Considering Russia specifically, however, the world may not accept such flexible and momentous managerial innovation although they have been accepted at other times and in other cases. For researchers, it seems to be of utmost importance not to make a priori assumptions about stasis in the leadership and control of the Russian political system. Only from the normative starting point of us (pluralists) being better than them (managerialists) will such analysis seem passable. Conceptually, such terms as oligarchy may facilitate an analytical understanding of how the Russian political regime works and where potential political alliances or fissures may occur. As a starting point for a study of regime change or as a harbinger of future events, however, it obscures more than it reveals. Innovation is a similarly loaded, albeit much less contested, concept. As the literature referred to in this chapter indicates, it is heavily loaded with positive connotations related to international scientific prowess and the perpetual invention and refinement of marketable, socially accepted products and services. If the initial assumption is that there is a viable and internationally legitimate ideal type, which describes and provides the guidelines for how innovation should be done properly, then, examples from Russia can simply be disregarded from the outset. If, on the other hand, we are ready to accept innovation as part of an adaptive process involving both public and private interests in less democratic and non-pluralist societies, then Russia becomes a pertinent example. As shown in this chapter, Russia might currently be innovating in a field where it can contribute to the inexorable, global march towards military privatisation. Just how that will happen remains to be seen.

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CONCLUSIONS MOMENT BY MOMENT, OR MOMENTS IN RETROSPECT?

From the Tree to the Rhizome – When a History is Always Becoming Aki-Mauri Huhtinen In the mainstream of historical writing, regime changes often appear as singular political or military events or sociological processes of fairly exact duration. But we have also another possibility to see our environment and reality, namely that the regime change has an enduring historical process as always becoming. Such historical narratives try to stop the living waves of the social-power sovereignty. They demonstrate the importance of short periods or even single days, and of individuals behind the change. The chapters of this book aim to describe how regime change can be recognised in a different way, by diverse single hints. We reject the “monumental” model that stresses the importance of the ultimate, decisive, stopped historical moments, typical of the popularising approach of mass media and favoured by its consumers. The most important metaphor in the Western thinking is that of the tree: we have the tree of life, knowledge, genealogy, science, security and state. Everything can be reduced to the main trunk of the tree. The tree as a metaphor of arborescent growth is a symbol of discipline, political power and structured order based on rationality or faith. The meaning of life has been seen as a tree trunk emerging from the God system, or in the scientific world as a trunk exemplifying the original source. As items within a hierarchy, we identify ourselves within a particular space of the trunk to gain access to ourselves. Why are we so tied to a tree model? In 1922, two important men, Einstein and Bergson met, and clashed. Einstein was to be awarded the Nobel Prize

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for his theory of relativity, which Bergson, in turn, criticised for being mechanistic, rationalistic and too uniform. The main difference of opinion concerned the nature of time. While Einstein contented with two types of time, the physical time measured by clocks, and the psychological, Bergson stressed the philosophical dimension of time as experienced in its flow. In the Einsteinian model, the “clock time” lies at the centre of the tree model of the modern hierarchies. Who owns the trunk of the tree, makes the branches waiting. Einstein searched for unity in the universe and believed that mathematical natural sciences could reveal its laws, using clock time described in the simplest (numerical) way. Bergson saw reality as a becoming process, a never-ending process of change based on intuition, vital impulse, creation, and personality, completely disregarding the mechanical clock time. To Bergson, the past, the present and the future existed at the same time and at all places. While Einstein searched for consistency and simplicity, Bergson focussed on inconsistencies and complexities (Canales 2015, 6-7, 21). Why was the Einsteinian thinking so accessible for the global audience? Because of its simplistic claim that living things are captured in a onedirectional temporality, meaning that the past has passed (gone away). This hypothesis also reflects the Christian idea that time does not exist on the other side and we will thus get rid of our sins that pollute our worldly existence. The concept of “becoming” as a reason for living has been marginalised in Western thinking. Science could not provide the metaphysics it required, and so could not really understand itself. It called for another order of reflection to understand what made it possible and why it was significant (Crocker 2013, 19).

The Western tradition of what is true is based on the idea of a permanent and unchangeable nature of reality (being) and truth. In the mathematicsbased major sciences, the aim is to try to find the first and ultimate points of meaning (the limits of the trunk), or to concentrate on the beginning or the end of something, instead of looking at the middle or intersecting lines of living and the changing situation, i.e. becoming (Chia 1999, 214). The architecture of becoming is a rhizome.

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Conclusions The rhizome grows from the middle in the sense that none of its elements are intended to be terminal points (origins or final causes) in an epistemological chain of propositions (Conway 2010, 19).

The rhizome grows as an expansion without directions and the controlled progress. In Bergson’s philosophy of duration, the whole past is co-present, even though its different parts are present in different degrees. The bounds of “immediate memory” join together two immediately successive terms, and there are a number of relations or “prehensions” binding together temporal terms which are not “contiguous”. The Bergsonian duration appears as an extremely complex “polydimensional”, or rhizome. For example, the glass on the table may remain the same when I look at it from the same side, at the same angle, in the same light. But the vision I have of it now differs from that which I have just had, even if only because the one is an instant older than other. My mental state is constantly swelling with the duration it accumulated: it goes on increasing – rolling upon itself, as the snowball on the snow. Therefore, the present is richer than the past one (Capek 1991, 17-18, 22-23). Like Heraclitus has said, we never step into the same river twice. Time always involves the active transformation of T1 into T2. We will never locate the transformation itself in either of these points because it takes place between them, in the interval, when T1 is no longer fully present, and T2 is not yet so. […] On the other hand, we must assume that the counted things are identical in some way, since they can be measured together. This mutual identity is, however, only conceivable if the units can be placed alongside one another in a homogenous medium. On the other hand, when we add two elements together, it is in order to obtain a third. The third unit is then the result of an interpenetration of the first two. The synthesis of this third alters the nature, the appearance and, as it were, the rhythm of the whole. Without this interpenetration and this, so to speak, qualitative progress, an addition would be possible. All quantities are produced through this work of interpretation, synthesis and qualitative change. So, Bergson summarizes: “Hence is through the quality of quantity that we form the idea of quantity without quality” (Crocker 2013, 23).

Modernity is the failure of representation and the corrosion of identities without living and enduring modified fetches. Rhizomes are the concepts of the fetch operations. Rhizome describes the connections that occur between the most disparate and the most similar of objects, places, and people; the strange chain of events that link people (Guha 2011, 133, 137).

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At the heart of the concept of the rhizome lies a sense of movement that is perpetually decentreing and de-stabilising, that constitutes a creative momentum. Write, form a rhizome, increase your territory […] extend the light of light. […] The linear forms of towns and roads, and counting devices and hierarchies, goal oriented schemas, individualism and cause and effect philosophies, which have defined the West, are all outcomes of the privilege given to print and vision. As a result, Greco-Roman man tends to see everything around him as continuous, uniform, connected and static as a planned regularity without uncontrolled organic growth. The telegraph liberated information from the bodies that carried it and eroded distinctions such as center and margin, and origin and terminus. Electricity further amplifies this same principle of a decentered network where the system is equally present at each point (Crocker 2013, 26).

Rhizome, as a plateau or a milieu, is vibratory; a block of space-time constituted by the periodic repetition of the component wherein exchanges between multiplicities at the virtual and intensive registers take place. All forms, particles and entities that populate it emerge only to disappear immediately, leaving behind no consistency, references or any determinate consequences. The rhizomatic network is a mapping of forces that move and immobilise bodies (Guha 2011, 138). In rhizome, events and occurrences are not stratified, layered or hierarchical, they are flat and disruptive. With it, we are moving from an arborescent mode of problematisation to a rhizomatic one, approaching “the unknown unknowns”, thus poetically termed by the US Secretary of Defence Donald Rumsfeld at the beginning of the 21st century and the War on Terror. The rhizome is the counter-point of the arboreal schema (Guha 2011, 140). Its processes are not confined to the plane of immanence, or reduced to stand-reserve; the rhizome does not generate points of immobility, which we are most familiar with as fixed points of reference. Rather, they are signatures of the locales where the intensity of the force morphs, emerges, and dissolves. It is for this reason that rhizomes, when cast against the plane of immanence, are not behind the time. Rather, they are on time, unfolding in and across the plane of immanence.

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Conclusions Rhythm is never on the same plane as that which has rhythm. Rhythm is the in-between chaos and planes of immanence. Planes of immanence are formless (Guha 2011, 142).

Rhizomes open new challenges to resist organisations. The visibility of communication may increase, but also the fragmentation of the communication into bubbles will become more obvious. Within a rhizome, an individual has a direct route to influence in a strategic level of decision making, yet the finding of the right bubble of decision making becomes more difficult. This is also a very real-life dilemma, e.g. when it comes to the current flows of refugees to Europe. What kind of history might we have had, if we had started to apply the Bergsonian notion of time? According to Evans (2010), [i]n the new millennium, traditional middlebrow values based on family, church and school have long since been swamped by a tsunami of secularism and moral decline that has left us with a public culture dominated by effete celebrities and corporate media billionaires united by their lack of civic virtue.

This Evans comment shows that we already live in rhizome and Bergsonian duration, even though without accepting this kind of reality. In regard to President Putin and the Kremlin politics, we have entered the open-ended period of post-Cold War times. History repeats itself, but in new ways, in the context of the new global information channels. Evans (2010) continues: Central to the West’s middlebrow collapse of good taste and decorum is the belief that popular culture transmitted by the internet – surely the biggest toilet wall in the history of the human race – can in some way replace the study of great books as a serious medium for education.

We try to avoid seeing our Future as tied to the Past. Thanks to the Internet, we tend to concentrate even more desperately on the Present. Embracing presentism, we waste no time thinking of our lives as a synergy of past, present and future. Since the 1960s, an anti-honour culture that severs the obligation to take into account what has been and what will be, i.e. the causes and consequences of our actions, has been prevalent in the West. Instead, we try to put past things and events in their specific places, like museums, and run for the future. We write in academic journals that the world has changed and that we are moving towards an unknown future. And we convince ourselves that what we need is new methods in order to search the unknown reality. As Evans puts it,

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[a] dark cocktail of assorted feelings, narcissism, therapy, dysfunction and victimology has largely replaced honour in the modern West. Even the criminal honour code of gangsters has not been immune to these trends (Evans 2010).

What we do not see is that the history is already there. We are living in a rhizome, which is at the same time sunny and dark, historical and reaching to the future.

References Canales, Jimena. 2015. The Physicist & the Philosopher. Einstein, Bergson, and the Debate that Changed our Understanding of Time. Oxford: Princenton University Press. Capek, Mili. 1991. The New Aspects of Time. Its Continuity and Novelties. Selected Papers in the Philosophy of Science. London: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Chia, Robert. 1999. A “rhizomic” model of organizational change and transformation: Perspective from a metaphysics of change. British Journal of Management 10, 209–227. Conway, Jay. 2010. Gilles Deleuze: Affirmation in Philosophy. Palgrave Macmillan. Crocker, Stephen. 2013. Bergson and the Metaphysics of Media. Palgrave. Evans, Michael. 2010. Stoic Philosophy and the Profession of Arms. Quatdrand Online. Available at: http://quadrant.org.au/magazine/2010/01-02/stoic-philosophy-and-theprofession-of-arms/ Guha, Manabrata. 2011. Reimagining War in the 21st Century. New York: Routledge.

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From Past to Present, to Future Marja Vuorinen For a cultural historian, the past presents itself as “another country”, best observed as an alien environment where unfamiliar things abound. To understand, let alone explain its goings-on, one should set aside the cultural codes and expectations of one’s own era, approaching this strange territory with the open-mindedness of an anthropologist. The explorer must become familiar with its “foreign” customs, rules and circumstances, and apply only the local – or, in this case, the period – codes when explaining the things encountered. A political historian, on the other hand, is tempted to treat the past as a prequel to the present. One result of this kind of thinking is known as the teleological fallacy – a presumption that the essential “purpose” of the past is/was to produce the present. A more fruitful approach involves taking as a starting point the commonplace that people in all probability will go on doing what they have always done before. The past, in this case decidedly considered “the same country”, then appears as the only lawful experiment laboratory we have for observing societal processes. What happened in a particular past situation may tell us what to expect, should similar circumstances occur again. Each historical and present-day process discussed in this book offers a unique combination of ingredients, beginning with a societal model created by previous historical developments. There is a population of a particular ethnic, cultural and economic makeup, situated in a certain geopolitical context at a specific point of time, embracing certain religious and/or ideological notions and suffering from a particular set of real and imagined grievances. Ideological formulations, intended to explain the current circumstances and show the way ahead, are offered, in turn, by a particular elite, wielding a specific array of resources and instruments, allowing them to stimulate the events in a specific way and set in motion a particular kind of development – starting a process that, for all the said reasons, will take a particular course. Even though one must be cautious when drawing parallels between different periods and processes – and decidedly refrain from expecting that similar situations will always evolve in the same way, no matter how

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tempting it may seem – it is instructive to compare different processes to find out what they may have in common.

In search of recurrent elements This book presents a spectrum of case studies stretching over a century, from the 1910s to the present. Their topics range from political and administrative to ideological and military regimes, from events-on-themove to the people who happen along the timeline. Even though they analyse different regimes and focus on different phases along their continuum, they yield items of information that contribute to mapping the general features of regime changes across their full time span. Moving from one regime to the next usually involves developing a special ideological relationship with the past, often including the existing regime that is expected to end soon. As the progressives typically see it, it is necessary to decidedly break free from the “evil” grasp of the past. To challenge the legitimacy of an established system, one must criticise its practices, listing its shortcomings as evidence of its unsuitability for the “present conditions”. A popular way to discredit a prevailing regime is thus to pronounce it a “thing of the past”. Previous experiences are essential for the legitimation of the preferred imagined future. Collective grievances, real and imaginary, and the respective hopes for the better serve as powerful incentives for political change. Skilfully hyped, they provide the public support necessary for the aspiring leaders to manage a change by attracting votes or persuading the people to take to the streets to demonstrate, e.g. by burning synagogues, or books, in the Berlin of the 1930s – or, by demanding the authorities to tear down the Wall in 1989. Whether preparing ground for a power move, consolidating a newly established regime or justifying a war, ideological power – from the “soft power” wielded through entertainment, sport events, cultural festivals and religious spectacle to downright propaganda – is a handy tool. The examples of textual and visual materials used for such purpose range from school textbooks to propaganda photographs and publications presenting models for Christmas celebrations. Images from a shared past – or, collective memory – are typically used for polishing the public image of the prevailing regime and educating new generations to accept the ideological and social circumstances. The chapters of this book show e.g.

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how the national traditions of the first republics resurfaced in the Baltic states after the second independence, and how the present Russian project to consolidate the regime involves a return to cultural traditionalism, making identity politics into a security issue as well. Ideological regimes that end in turmoil, as the Weimar system, are easily denounced as failed experiments, rightfully destined for the dustbins of history. Later on, the cadres of a new regime may intentionally downplay the achievements of their predecessors, bringing to the fore the misery they caused either wilfully or by negligence. In rare cases, notably regarding the ended regimes of the Nazi Germany, the German Democratic Republic and the Soviet Union, it is even possible to accuse the previous rulers of downright criminal activity. Achieving a brighter future through a total break with the past is the essence of revolutions of all kinds. They openly celebrate the severing of old ties while looking towards a brighter future free of chains. This kind of joyous atmosphere, traditionally thought to be the monopoly of leftist revolutions, could be experienced – and/or ideologically exploited – also by the Nazi cadres newly in power. At least on the winning side, a military victory, followed first by armistice and then peace, is likewise, and quite understandably, celebrated as the ending of a dark period, possible even in the hope of finally having fought “the war to end all wars”. Particularly showy “clean breaks” may, paradoxically, be in order when the power structures actually remain relatively unchanged, including the cases that actually resemble palace coups. During such breaks, perfectly usable objects and practices, deemed too obviously iconic to the unwanted past, may be rejected for their symbolic value alone. In extreme cases, notably after winning a battle against an ideological “arch enemy”, material objects, monuments and other cultural heritage may be looked at as representatives of the past evil and accordingly destroyed, often under the pretext of purifying and reforming the society. The churches burned down by the Bolsheviks, the Christian traditions rewritten by the Nazis, the Speer buildings pulled down by the Allies and the relocated Bronze Soldier of Tallinn all belong to this category. * * *

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The other, reactionary variety of dealing with the past is to turn to the old times for guidance. During political or military upheaval, the memories of peaceful and prosperous past gain a particular nostalgic appeal. Newly glorified as a Golden Age just waiting to be recreated, a bygone period can be presented as actual, realisable better option for the future. Particularly the ancient empires that have ceased to exist – the German Empire and the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, the old Russian Empire as a new model for Russia after the cessation of the Soviet Union, as well as the Soviet empire itself – continue to loom large particularly in the imagination of their former elites, for whom the ending of the old world meant personal degradation. Military elites, traditionalists at least when it comes to the aesthetics of the uniform and to the code of honour, are also prone to look to the victories of the past for inspiration. The reunification of Germany in the 1990s, as well the re-emergence of the Baltic states and other former Soviet republics as independent states seem to show that at least in some cases a golden age type of circumstance can actually be restored. New and renewed imperialist takeovers of territories – by sheer force, by “lending a hand” in the administrative procedure, or by introducing a friendly presence of little green men without insignia, – can be justified by invoking ancient cultural ties only lately severed. The Grand-Swedish project of reclaiming Finland in 1918 was based on the latter’s pre-1809 status as a part of Sweden. Interestingly, it was an attempt to partially restore the Swedish empire at the same moment when three other European empires were about to exit the historical scene. Likewise, the recent annexation of Crimea to Russia was justified by an array of historical, ethnic, linguistic, geopolitical and practical reasons. Separatist nationalists, aspiring to break free from empires, typically picture themselves as inheritors of small ancient realms, unjustly conquered and swallowed, in the past, by a more powerful neighbour. Newly independent, the same nations sometimes engage in pseudoimperial projects of their own. E.g. the Finnish 1940s attempt to annex the Karelian heartlands – on the other side of an “artificial border” provided by the 18th-century wars between Sweden and Russia – was justified by ancient cultural and linguistic ties binding the Karelians to the Greater Finland then in the making. An imperial past may predispose its descendants to a colonial attitude, picturing other peoples as inferiors in need of protection and benevolent guidance. Resembling the Swedish approach to Finland in 1918, the “well-

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meaning” British authority in 1933 tightened its hold of Newfoundland by revoking the self-rule and introducing a colonialist model of society. In both cases, a takeover (or an attempt thereof) was justified by a paternalist obligation to educate and take care of the inhabitants of communities allegedly unable to self-govern. * * * No regime voluntarily admits that it has gained power by fighting dirty or for unjust reasons. The official story about how and why a political regime came to power may truthfully crystallise the aspirations that formed its basis during the movement’s more innocently idealistic early years. On the other hand, it can also be presented as a smokescreen, in a blatant attempt to hide the unpleasant truth nevertheless known to all – as in the case of Dr. Goebbels insisting that the Nazi fighting methods, whether in politics or when taken to the streets, were always fair and just. The opposite kind of myth-making is directed towards the opponent, appropriately described either as the source of all evil – the role of Germany in the propaganda of the eventual winners of both world wars – or as a legitimate target easily overthrown, as in the case of the image of the Russians as presented in the German schoolbooks of the 1930s and 1940s When rewriting national history, an ideological regime modifies the collective memories to serve the present. Making the past a suitable background against which the visions of future are valued often paves way to actual power manoeuvres. Military conflicts are anticipated by skilfully enhanced narratives of past battles lost and notoriously wrongful peace treaties that followed them – such as the World War I peace treaty of Versailles, considered shameful by the defeated Germans and too harsh even by some of the victors, paving the way to a second war. When the friends of yesterday become the enemies of tomorrow, as happened in the early days of the Cold War, the required mental adjustments sometimes cause the protagonists to reassess even the shared past. A U-turn away from war-time loyalties is evident in the prefaces of the immediate post-war British and US editions of the Goebbels diaries, where the Soviet Union, a former ally, is presented basically as a collective village idiot to suit the new bipolar power constellation. Apart from the differences in sheer military strength, any obvious asymmetry between countries – based on size, level of technology,

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resources, type of economy or political makeup – exposes the “weaker” ones to many kinds of pressure. Stronger nations poke into the affairs of their smaller neighbours, while the Great Powers sovereignly “organise” an entire geopolitical sphere; at times, their management of other nations comes close to the way how the colonial powers managed their colonies. A case in point is the policy planning by the United States in the late stages of the World War II, regarding the post-war futures of certain European “fringe states” – as well as the actual media and culture-political manoeuvres, executed by both the US and Britain after the beginning of the Cold War in order to keep the Soviet influence at bay.

Moment metaphors Perceived as a series of moments, any process of change is by nature openended. The protagonists, acting in real time, in the middle of chaotic events, have limited scope for understanding the big picture. They cannot estimate the potential consequences of their choices, or assess the meaning of their actions in relation to the whole. Looking at the events from a point further in time – knowing what happened “same time elsewhere” and how it all eventually turned out – allows the observers to evaluate the impact and meaning of their individual actions in relation to the overall scheme. Simultaneously, it also becomes possible to reorganise one’s memories of the individual events. Important beginnings and “historical” turning points can be recognised only in retrospect; so, too, the seemingly minor processes that eventually proved crucial. The originally fleeting individual experiences gain significance against the backdrop of collectively processed, structured narrative. In retrospect, historical processes thus often appear both logical and inevitable. One way of organising past experiences is to use a set of pre-existing mental devices that give permanent form to the transient, known as moment metaphors – images of religious or historical origin that crystallise the psychological substance of an experience and tie it to a related dramatic moment in the shared cultural tradition. I present some of them below in the logical sequence typical of a regime change process, commenting on their potential relevance to the topics discussed in the individual chapters of this book as I go.

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Some of the following descriptions of special momentary experiences are easily classified as moment metaphors, with the word “moment” appearing as a fixed part of the expression, combined e.g. with a location, while others are more like standardised ways of describing a particular frame of mind by equalling it to a well-known historical situation or event. Poignant and emotional, they refer to messianic leaders discovered and joyous celebrations of revolutionary dreams come true, but also to experiences of impending doom, confusion, broken illusions and worlds ending. * * * The sequence of such special moments opens by two Biblical scenes that describe the events after the resurrection of Christ. Damascus Road refers to the conversion of Paul which took place when he was travelling to Damascus. It is a metaphorical reference to the experience of a sudden and radical change of heart – putting aside one’s old loyalties and habits of thought, and embracing a new set of values, e.g. adopting a sacred devotion or a new political cause. As described in the Pauline epistles and in the Acts of the Apostles, Paul, before his conversion known as Saul, was a zealous Pharisee who persecuted the followers of Jesus. His conversion occurred only after the crucifixion of Jesus. On his way to Damascus to arrest some local Christians, he experienced a miraculous encounter with the risen Christ. He became the epitome of a hateful opponent of a cause who suddenly changes sides, turning into its intense and active supporter (1 Corinthians 15:3-10; Galatians 1:11-17). The way the Pauline epistles describe Paul’s religious conversion has many things in common with the very mundane but equally intense conversion of young Joseph Goebbels, who gradually turned from a socialist into a follower of Adolf Hitler. His personal experience of the future Führer comes close to having witnessed the appearance of a living Messiah – a “great leader” expected to arise, a “saviour” of the German nation. Moreover, Goebbels’ career as a propagandist bears a resemblance to Paul’s methods of spreading the gospel, as both were said to be masters at adapting their message to different audiences (Acts 9:3-9, 22:12, 26:1219, 26). The Road to Emmaus and the following Supper at Emmaus scene record the appearance of Jesus to some of his disciples after the crucifixion. The sequence describes the change from the deep despair of having lost a

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leader and a friend, to the joy of a miraculous reunion and returning of hope (Luke 24:13-32; Mark 16:12-13). Happy encounters of this kind no doubt are recurring experiences in the context of concrete battles during a war, but the metaphor is applicable also to the changing fortunes of political warfare. * * * The Weimar moment is the most ominous of all the moment metaphors, retrospectively applied to periods that predate a colossally wrong move, recognisable with certainty only after the event. The concept originally refers to the period of political uncertainty and indecision, characteristic of the German political culture in the 1920s and early 1930s – before the decisive moment, in 1933, that ended the Weimar Republic and brought Nazis to power. It is applicable tentatively also to contemporary situations perceived to present a final time window of consideration, when things hang in the balance before a potential crucial turn towards the worst. At present, many in the West are filled with forebodings of the Weimar type as regards the developments within Putin’s Russia, fearing the rise of an aggressive, semi-totalitarian military power. The most academically elaborated moment metaphors are the series of Paris Moments of Madness, as described and termed by Aristide Zolberg (1972). He, too, takes as starting point an event of the salvation history, namely the Pentecost, or the descent of the Holy Spirit. It serves as an archetypal model for the special moments of initial victory, celebration and unity in the history of the city. Tracing backwards from the student demonstrations of 1968, Zolberg lists the liberation of Paris in August 1944; the Popular Front of 1936; the declaration of the Commune in 1871; the spring of 1848; and the original Great Revolution of 1789. Described by witnesses as volcanic eruptions of happiness, when all seems possible and the experience of sweet victory erases the bad memories of old defeats, these “moments of magic” bring with them unexpected, tender human contact. Men and women dance together in the streets in spontaneous harmony, sharing same hopes for a better future. Personal and historical experiences mingle, as each new moment in the series triggers an experience of connectedness to all the previous ones, at the same time adding a new layer to the urban and even national memory of many generations. Temporary disappearance of authority creates a regime of positive anarchy, brotherhood and youthful cross-class solidarity. A “Paris

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moment” is a happy moment amidst disorder and confusion, characterised by a voluntary suspension of disbelief and focussing on the happy possibilities, without considering the potential sequels of hatred still to come (Zolberg 1972). As a follow-up to the original Paris 1789 moment, one might take up the ensuing Napoleonic adventure which offers several instances of obvious moment potential. First of all, the imperial moment, following the rise to the power position of a little man, from the periphery and of humble origin – coinciding with the bitter recognition that the original ideals of the revolution had by then been forfeited – followed by the Elba moment of temporary defeat, still containing a modicum of hope for return and the restoration to power of the former emperor – and the final, definite St. Helena moment of no return. The Napoleonic sequence of moments seems to offer itself as a parallel to the Putin regime, described in the last section of this book, but whether or not it is a correct parallel remains to be seen. Another moment of the same adventurous, tragicomic quality, even though followed by decades of very serious consequences, is the first, surprise victory of the Russian revolution – the anticlimactic Winter Palace moment in October 1917 in Petrograd, representing the revelation that there are no blueprints for how to proceed beyond a certain key point. Until then, the Bolsheviks had focussed solely on getting the revolution going. When the first important phase of battle was over, almost in no time, there was a moment of disbelief and confusion – “victory is ours, now what?” What followed was by and large an ad hoc process of securing power, building administration, legitimating the new regime in the eyes of the people, and carrying out legal and other reforms, with hitherto professional revolutionaries acting as rulers, playing by the ear (see Bullock 1998, 52-68). The best-known moment metaphor provided by the Russian revolution is the Kronstadt moment. It refers to the change of heart among several Western European radical intellectuals, who at the initial phases of the revolution had embraced the Bolshevik ideology, honestly believing it its potential and good intentions for making the world a better place. As described in the famous book, The God that Failed (1949), an eye-opener was provided by the cruel putting down of the anti-Bolshevik, pro-Soviets rebellion, originating in the Kronstadt island fortress in 1921 and witnessed by one of the authors of the book, Louis Fischer. Later, he defined his Kronstadt experience as the final straw, making him reject an

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ideological regime that had begun to lose its attractiveness (Koestler, Wright, Fischer et al. 1949, 194-228). “The Kronstadt” marks the moment when a former ardent supporter, disillusioned with a regime, decides to leave. In a way, it is the exact opposite of both the Damascus Road and the Paris moments of madness, when supporters gather, full of hope, under a regime’s banners. * * * The history of the Allied in World War II is full of decisive key events with serious moment potential – from Dunkirk, signifying temporary defeat, and Pearl Harbor, the surprise attack that compels a hitherto reluctant, neutral party to join the fight, to the D-Day in Normandy as the beginning of victory and the Yalta Conference as its seal, marking the turn away from the war and towards the peace to come, with the victorious regimes negotiating in seeming concert about how to organise the post-war world. To round up my tale of moments of regime-changing momentum, I mention two fatal World War II defeats on the Axis side, relevant to the end stages of regimes in general, namely Stalingrad and Berlin. The Stalingrad moment, referring to the decisive battle after which the defeat of Germany was inevitable, represents the beginning of the end for a military regime. It signifies the beginning of the last stage of a war, a desperate attempt to turn back the tide – providing the historians of later wars and conflicts with the possibility of referring to the point of no return, leading to a certain defeat, by saying “that was their Stalingrad”. The Berlin moment of defeat is best localised in the Bunker, where the remaining entourage of the Führer spent their last days while the capital city was being conquered. Immediately after the war, the dramatic events in and around the Bunker were the focus of much interest, particularly for the generation growing up in the immediate aftermath of the war. One of those youngsters was my father, with whom I have had many conversations concerning the initial disbelief and growing horror after seeing the first illustrated reports of the extermination camps. It was he who first brought to my attention the universal nature – and the metaphoric usage – of what he described as the Bunker moment. It is a fitting end to the sequence of moments describing the career of regimes from the early days to the end.

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The image of the burned bodies of the former leaders, with family, on display in the Bunker Garden, makes tangible the experience of utter defeat. Perhaps disturbingly, they shift the focus to the personal tragedies of the individuals who themselves were guilty of begetting misery and horror to millions of others. Eventually, it may become possible to feel compassion simultaneously, if in very different ways, towards all those involved in the carnage of World War II, or, indeed, of any war – from the perpetrators who, deluded, saw themselves as acting for a “greater good” to the innocent victims. Anyone who enters a controversial, destructive and/or violent career, takes the risk of eventually ending up in the metaphorical Bunker Garden: the moment when all is lost, nothing gained, and at what price (see Harris 1996, 29-33, 41-42). It is a sordid ending of seemingly great schemes, a defeat heightened by an acute awareness of the suffering and destruction caused for nothing. * * * The above is a preliminary list of moment metaphors. It is intended to include all those metaphors that are in common use and have relevance to the different stages in the history of regimes. It does not pretend to be a comprehensive presentation – rather, it is an introduction to the subject. Some of the examples have been selected whimsically, others through personal interest. I invite the kind reader to come up with other metaphors of the same type, in the hope that, given time, we will have a truly comprehensive list.

References Bullock, Alan. 1998/1991. Hitler and Stalin: Parallel Lives. Fully revised second edition. London: Fontana Press. Harris, Robert. 1996/1986. Selling Hitler: The Story of the Hitler Diaries. London: Arrow Books. Koestler, Arthur, Richard Wright, Louis Fischer et al., 1963/1949. The God That Failed. Edited by Richard Crossman. New York: Harper Colophon Books. The Holy Bible, Containing The Old And The New Testaments, in the King James Version (sine anno). Translated out of the original tongues and with the former translations diligently compared and revised. Nashville: Thomas Nelson Publishers. Zolberg, Aristide R. 1972. Moments of Madness. Politics & Society 2(2): 183-208.

CONTRIBUTORS

Stephen Crocker, PhD, is Associate Professor of Sociology at Memorial University of Newfoundland, Canada. He writes about social and political theory, media philosophy and post-colonial culture. He is the author of Bergson and the Metaphysics of Media (Palgrave, 2013) and numerous essays and chapters on topics ranging from the philosophy of Henri Bergson and Michel Serres, to early experiments in participatory media, and colonialism and culture in Newfoundland. Niklas Eklund, PhD, is Associate Professor at the Department of Political Science at Umeå University, Sweden, and affiliated researcher with the Umeå Arctic Research Centre and the Swedish National Defence College. He lectures in the areas of Public administration, Leadership, Military theory and Social science methodologies. His recent research encompasses Policing in Sweden: Efficiency and Rule of Law in Police Work (Swedish Tercentary Fund), Mistra Arctic Sustainable Development (Strategic Fund for Environmental Research) and Evolving Russian Operational Art (Swedish National Defence College). Marek Fields, PhD, recently defended his doctoral thesis at the University of Helsinki. His thesis examined British and American propaganda and cultural diplomacy in Finland during the early Cold War decades as a part of the process of reinforcing Finland's attachment to the West. In addition to official propaganda and cultural diplomacy, his research interests include the history of broadcasting and journalism as well as international relations. He has previously earned a MA degree both from the University of Leeds (International Communications) and the University of Helsinki (History). Lucia Halder, MA has been working as a research fellow at the GeorgEckert-Institute for international textbook research (Brunswick, Germany) since September 2012. She is writing her doctoral thesis in the context of the collaborative Project Visual History: Institutions and media of collective visual memory (Georg-Eckert-Institute, Centre for Contemporary History Potsdam, Deutsches Museum in Munich, Herder-Institute in Marburg)

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about the images of socialism in West German textbooks. www.visualhistory.de Anne Hedén, PhD, is a journalist and lecturer in history, currently working at Södertörn University. Her research focusses on the political and social movements in Sweden in the 20th century. In her dissertation she discussed the Swedish Maoist Left, its propagandistic views on China in the 1960s and 1970s, and the motivating factors behind the campaign. During the period 2016-2018 she is involved in a research project concerning the Swedish political sphere and the Swedish right wing activism for Finland during the Finnish Civil War in 1918, seen in a transnational perspective. Her other topic of research is the Swedish women’s movement and its media strategies during the 1960s radicalisation. Kaisa Hirvonen, MA (theology), is a PhD student at the University of Helsinki, Faculty of Theology and Department of Church History. She acts as the Secretary of the Book Historical Society in Finland. Her research is about National Socialist Germany, especially the changes that were made to the Church year during the National Socialist era. Her interests include book history, propaganda, and nationalism and memory studies. Aki-Mauri Huhtinen, PhD, LTC (G.S.) is Military Professor at Finnish National Defence University, Department of Leadership and Military Pedagogy. Mr. Huhtinen is a military professor at the Finnish National Defence University. His areas of expertise are military leadership, the philosophy of science in military organisational research and the philosophy of war. He has published peer-reviewed journal articles, a book chapter and books on information warfare and non-kinetic influence in the battle space. Virpi Kivioja, M. Soc. Sci., is a PhD candidate of Contemporary History at the University of Turku, Finland. Her current research project (doctoral thesis) deals with reciprocal images of Finland and Germany in textbooks from the Cold War era. Her publications include books on Finnish war history as well as articles on the depictions of Russian people in Finnish and German textbooks, and on the use of textbooks as a propaganda instrument in Finland in the 1930s and 1940s. Her research interests include also the use of educational media in the construction of national identities and as source material for historical research

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Olli Kleemola is a PhD candidate at the department of Political Science and Contemporary History at the University of Turku, Finland. His publications include books and articles on Finnish and German war photography and Finnish visual war propaganda during the Second World War. His main research interests are the use of photographs as historical source material, the use of enemy images in war propaganda and new military history. His current research project (doctoral thesis) focusses on comparing the enemy images created in Finnish and German war propaganda by using photographic materials. Tuomas Kuronen holds a PhD in strategic management and philosophy of science (Aalto University, Helsinki). His research on the mythological leadership of the former President of Finland, Urho Kekkonen, has been published in the journal Leadership (Sage) and Management & Organizational History (Taylor & Francis). His current research interests include aesthetics of knowledge, embodiment in learning and reasoning strategies. Heikki Länsisalo, MA, is a doctoral candidate and researcher of political history in the University of Helsinki. He specialises in German ideological and political history. His other interests include the history of far right in general and the history cinema, especially that of interwar Germany and classical Hollywood. Andrey Makarychev, PhD, is Professor of Government and politics at the University of Tartu, Estonia, where he teaches courses in EU-Russia relations, Regionalism, Globalisation, and Foreign Policy Analysis. His areas of professional expertise include Russian foreign policy discourses, studies of mega-events, post-Soviet borderland identities, and research on biopolitics. Petra Mayrhofer, MA, studied history, political science and communication studies in Vienna and Paris. At present, she is a researcher and doctoral candidate at the Department of Contemporary History of the University of Vienna. Her main areas of research include visual representations of history and politics, memory studies, Austrian contemporary history of the 20th century in the European context and biographical history. She is the author of Hans Sima. Ein politisches Leben. Kärntner Landeshauptmann 1965-1974, Wien: Böhlau Verlag.

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Contributors

Ohto Rintala, PhD, is a post-doctoral researcher at the University of Helsinki. He is an expert on US State Department’s post-war foreign policy planning. His dissertation (2014) concerns the role of the United States vis-a-vis the small countries of Germany’s Coalition during the World War II. He analysed and compared the preparations to define the post-war international position of Finland, Romania and Hungary on the US State Department’s Planning Desk in 1942-1945, with a particular focus on Finland’s position in the ensuing Cold War division of Europe. He has also published several articles on the history of Finnish foreign relations. Taru U. Takamaa is a doctoral student at the department of Leadership and Military Pedagogy of the Finnish National Defence University. Her PhD thesis focusses on culture as a tool of security politics in Russia, and she is currently preparing various articles on the topic. Takamaa has acquired her Master’s Degree from the field of social- and cultural anthropology at the University of Helsinki. In her previous research she has concentrated mostly on the cultural revitalisation movements of FinnoUgric minorities living in Russia. Takamaa has also been an active participant in the international Finno-Ugric cooperative work between Finnish and Russian NGOs. Jouni Virtaharju, M.Sc. (Tech), is a researcher at Hanken School of Economics and a teacher at Aalto University, Helsinki, Finland. His research interests focus on leadership, strategy work, and organisational change. His previous international research work has been published in Leadership (Sage) and Journal of Organizational Change Management (Emerald). He will defend his doctoral thesis discussing leadership as a contextually emerging social construction in October 2016. Marja Vuorinen, PhD, is a historian and social scientist at the Department of political and economic studies, University of Helsinki. Her research interests include the study of ideological elites, the semiotics of power, and identity politics, particularly the interplay of the portrayal of political in-groups vis-à-vis their enemy images construed as inversions of the imagined self. She has authored numerous articles on the above themes and edited two collections of articles concerning similar and related issues. She acts as the chair of the Elites and forerunners network of the European Social Science History Conference (ESSHC).

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Alexandra Yatsyk, PhD, is the Director of the Centre for Cultural Studies of Post-Socialism at Kazan Federal University, Russia, and a visiting researcher at Skytte Institute of Political Studies at the University of Tartu, Estonia. Her research interests include post-Soviet national identities, sports and cultural mega-events, art and biopolitics. Her current projects address nation-building in Estonia and Georgia in light of EU-Russia relations.