ALSO BY STEPHEN KOTKIN

Stalin:

Paradoxes of Power, 1878–1928

Armageddon Averted:

The Soviet Collapse, 1970–2000

Magnetic Mountain:

Stalinism as a Civilization

Steeltown, USSR:

Soviet Society in the Gorbachev Era

Uncivil Society:

1989 and the Implosion of the Communist Establishment

PENGUIN PRESS

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Copyright © 2017 by Stephen Kotkin

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Photograph credits appear here.

Kotkin, Stephen.

Stalin / Stephen Kotkin. volumes cm

Includes bibliographical references and index. Contents: Volume I. Paradoxes of power, 1878–1928.

ISBN 9781594203794 (hardcover)

ISBN 9780143127864 (paperback)

Volume II. Waiting for Hitler, 1929–1941.

ISBN 9781594203800 (hardcover) / ISBN 9780735224483 (e-book)

1. Stalin, Joseph, 1879–1953. 2. Stalin, Joseph, 1879–1953—Psychology. 3. Heads of state—Soviet Union—Biography. 4. Dictators—Soviet Union—Biography. 5. Soviet Union—Politics and government—1917–1936. 6. Soviet Union—Politics and government—1936–1953. 7. Political culture—Soviet Union—History. 8. Soviet Union—History—1925–1953. I. Title.

DK268.S8K65 2014

947.084”2092—dc23 [B]

2014032906

Maps by Jeffrey L. Ward

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers, internet addresses, and other contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Version_1

for Alex Levine and Joyce Howe

who, beginning with the rough patches in graduate school, held me together

Midway on life’s journey

I found myself in a dark wood,

for the straight path was lost.

DANTE ALIGHIERI,

The Divine Comedy, 1308–1321

It cannot be called virtue to kill one’s fellow citizens, betray one’s friends, be without faith, without pity, without religion; by these methods one may indeed gain power, but not glory.

NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI,

The Prince, 1513

CONTENTS

ALSO BY STEPHEN KOTKIN

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

EPIGRAPH

PREFACE

MAPS

PART I

EQUAL TO THE MYTH

CHAPTER 1 | Triumph of the Will

CHAPTER 2 | Apocalypse

CHAPTER 3 | Victory

CHAPTER 4 | Terrorism

CHAPTER 5 | A Great Power

PART II

TERROR AS STATECRAFT

CHAPTER 6 | On a Bluff

CHAPTER 7 | Enemies Hunting Enemies

CHAPTER 8 | “What Went On in No. 1’s Brain?”

CHAPTER 9 | Missing Piece

PART III

THREE-CARD MONTE

CHAPTER 10 | Hammer

CHAPTER 11 | Pact

CHAPTER 12 | Smashed Pig

CHAPTER 13 | Greed

CHAPTER 14 | Fear

CODA

LITTLE CORNER, SATURDAY, JUNE 21, 1941

SOVIET ADMINISTRATIVE STRUCTURE

PHOTOGRAPHS

NOTES

BIBLIOGRAPHY

CREDITS

INDEX

PREFACE

But if there isn’t a tsar, who’s going to rule Russia?

ALEXEI, 1917, when his father, Nicholas II, abdicated for both of them

THROUGH THE FIRST THIRTY-NINE YEARS OF HIS LIFE, the achievements of Iosif Stalin (b. 1878) were meager. As a teenager, he had abandoned a successful trajectory, with high marks in school, to fight tsarist oppression, and published first-rate poems in a Georgian newspaper, which he recited in front of others. (“To this day his beautiful, sonorous lyrics echo in my ears,” one person would recall.) But his profession—revolutionary—made for a “career” of hiding, prison, exile, escape, recapture, penury. It had gotten to the point, in far northern Siberia, that even escape had become impossible. He persevered, known only to the tsarist police and some of his fellow revolutionaries, who were dispersed in remote internal exile, like him, or in Europe. Only the world-shattering Great War, the shocking abdication of the tsar and tsarevich in February 1917, the return of Vladimir Lenin to Russia that April thanks to imperial German cynicism, the suicidal Russia-initiated military offensive in June, and a fatal pas de deux between Prime Minister Alexander Kerensky and Supreme Commander Lavr Kornilov in August had altered Stalin’s life prospects. All of a sudden, he had become one of the four leading figures in an improbable Bolshevik regime. He played an outsized role in the 1918–21 civil war and territorial reconquest, and a foremost role in the invention of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. In 1922, five years removed from desolate isolation near the Arctic Circle, he found himself in the uncanny position of being able to build a personal dictatorship within the Bolshevik dictatorship, thanks to Lenin’s appointing him Communist party general secretary (April), followed by Lenin’s incapacitating stroke (May). Stalin seized that opportunity passionately and ruthlessly. By 1928, he had decided that 120 million peasants in Soviet Eurasia had to be forcibly collectivized. The years 1917–28 proved to be astonishingly eventful. But the years from 1929 through 1941—the period covered in this volume—would prove still more so.

This volume, too, examines Stalin’s power in Russia, recast as the Soviet Union, and the Soviet Union’s power in the world. But whereas in the preceding volume he was offstage for long stretches as global developments unfolded around him, now the opposite and, in fact, more difficult challenge of narration awaits: Stalin is present on nearly every page. He is now deep into the violent reshaping of all Eurasia that he announced at the end of volume I, continuing to micromanage the ever-expanding party-state machinery, delving into the granular details of armaments production and grain collections, while also conducting a comprehensive foreign policy touching all corners of the planet and, for the first time, overseeing cultural affairs. But volume II takes place largely in his office, and, indeed, in his mind. Whereas right through 1927, he had not appeared to be a sociopath in the eyes of those who worked most closely with him, by 1929–30 he was exhibiting an intense dark side. As the decade progresses, he will go from learning to be a dictator to becoming impatient with dictatorship and forging a despotism in mass bloodshed. Volume I’s analytical burden of explaining where such power comes from remains, but volume II raises questions of why he arrested and murdered immense numbers of loyal people in his own commissariats, officer corps, secret police, embassies, spy networks, scientific and artistic circles, and party organizations. What could he have been thinking? How was this even possible?

Stalin’s mass terror of 1936–38 was a central episode, but not the central episode, of his regime in the period covered by this volume. That designation belongs, first, to the 1929–33 collectivization of agriculture, then to the 1939 Pact with Nazi Germany and its aftershocks. If Stalin’s foil in volume I was Trotsky (who, though politically vanquished, will haunt him more than ever), now a second materializes, and not a foreign exile wielding little more than a pen, but another dictator presiding over the rearmament of the greatest power on the continent.

Adolf Hitler was eleven years Stalin’s junior, born in 1889 in a frontier region of Austria-Hungary. He lost his father at age fifteen and his mother at eighteen. (The Jewish physician who tended to his mother would recall that in forty years he had never seen anyone as broken with grief over a mother’s death as her son.) At age twenty, Hitler found himself on a breadline in Vienna, his inheritance and savings nearly spent. He had twice been rejected from Vienna’s Academy of Fine Arts (“sample drawing unsatisfactory”) and was staying in a homeless shelter behind a railway station. A vagrant on the next bed recalled that Hitler’s “clothes were being cleaned of lice, since for days he had been wandering about without a roof and in a terribly neglected condition.” The vagrant added that Hitler lived on various shelters’ bread and soup and “discussed politics.” With a small loan from an aunt, he got himself into better quarters, a men’s home, and managed to find odd jobs, such as painting picture postcards and drafting advertisements. He also frequented the city’s public libraries, where he read political tracts, newspapers, the philosopher Schopenhauer, and the fiction of Karl May set in the cowboys-and-Indians days of the American West or the exotic Near East. Hitler dodged the Austrian draft and the police. When they finally caught up with him, they judged the undernourished and gloomy youth to be unfit for service. He fled across the border to Munich, and in August 1914 he joined the German army as a private. He ended the Great War still a private, but its aftermath transformed his life prospects. He would be among the many who migrated from left to right in the chaotic wake of imperial Germany’s defeat.

During the November 1918 leftist revolution in Munich, Hitler was in a hospital in Pomerania, but he was released and marched in the funeral cortège of provincial Bavaria’s murdered leader, a Jewish Social Democrat; film footage captured Hitler wearing two armbands, one black (for mourning) and the other red. After Social Democrats and anarchists, in April 1919, formed a Bavarian Soviet Republic, the Communists quickly seized power; Hitler, who contemplated joining the Social Democrats, served as a delegate from his battalion’s soviet (council). He had no profession to speak of, but appears to have taken part in leftist indoctrination of the troops. Ten days before Hitler’s thirtieth birthday, the Bavarian Soviet was quickly crushed by the so-called Freikorps of war veterans. He remained in the military because a superior, the chief of the German army’s “information” department, had the idea of sending him to an antileftist instructional course, then using him to infiltrate leftist groups. The officer recalled that Hitler “was like a tired stray dog looking for a master,” and “ready to throw in his lot with anyone who would show him kindness.” Be that as it may, the assignment as informant led to Hitler’s involvement in a minuscule right-wing group, the German Workers’ Party, which had been established to draw workers away from Communism and which Hitler, with the assistance of rabidly anti-Semitic émigrés from the former imperial Russia, would remake into the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, or Nazis.

Now a transfixing far-right agitator, Hitler remained a marginal figure. When Stalin was the new general secretary of the Communist party of the largest state in the world, Hitler was in prison for a failed attempt, in 1923 in Munich, his adopted hometown, to seize power locally, which would be derided as the Beer Hall Putsch. To be sure, he had managed to turn his trial into a triumph. (One of the judges remarked, “What a tremendous chap, this Hitler!”) Indeed, even though Hitler was an Austrian citizen and convicted, the presiding judge had refrained from having him deported, reasoning that the law “cannot apply to a man who thinks and feels as German as Hitler, who voluntarily served for four and a half years in the German army at war, who attained high military honors through outstanding bravery in the face of the enemy, was wounded.” During his first two weeks in prison, Hitler refused to eat, believing he deserved to die, but letters arrived congratulating him as a national hero. Richard Wagner’s daughter-in-law Winifred sent paper and pencil, encouraging him to write a book. Hitler had an attendant in confinement, Rudolf Hess, who typed his dictation, creating an autobiography dedicated to the sixteen Nazis killed in the failed putsch. In Mein Kampf, Hitler portrayed himself as a man of destiny and pledged to revive Germany as a great power and rid it of Jews, anointing himself “the destroyer of Marxism.” In December 1924, after serving thirteen months of a five-year sentence, he was released, but his book sales disappointed, a second book failed to find a publisher, and his Nazi party proved ineffectual at the ballot box. Lord d’Abernon, the British ambassador to Berlin at the time, summarized Hitler’s political life after his early release from prison as “thereafter fading into oblivion.”

History is full of surprises. That this Austrian in a fringe political movement would become the dictator of Germany, and Stalin’s principal nemesis, was scarcely imaginable. But Field Marshal Count Helmuth von Moltke the Elder (1800–91), chief of the Prussian and then German general staff for thirty-one years, had conceived of strategy as improvisation, a “system of expedients,” an ability to turn unexpected developments created by others or by happenstance to one’s advantage, and Hitler turned out to be just such a master improviser: often uncertain, a perpetrator of mistakes and a beneficiary of luck, but a man possessed of radical ideas who sensed where he was ultimately going and grasped opportunities that came his way. Stalin, too, was a strategist in von Moltke’s sense, a man of radical ideas able to perceive and seize opportunities that he did not always create but turned to his advantage. The richest opportunities perceived by Stalin and Hitler were often supposedly urgent “threats” they inflated or invented. If history is driven by geopolitics, institutions, and ideas, especially that triad’s interaction, it takes historical agents to set it all in motion.

No country had seemed capable of surpassing Great Britain, whose overseas empire would soon encompass a quarter of the globe, and whose power obsessed both Stalin and Hitler as the prime mover of the entire world. But Stalin had also grown up in an epoch when Germany had begun to stand out for having the best manufacturing processes and engineering schools. His direct experience of Germany consisted of just a few months in 1907 in Berlin, where he stopped on the way back to Russia from a Bolshevik meeting in London. He studied but never mastered the German language. But like several tsarist predecessors, especially Sergei Witte, Stalin was a Germanophile, admiring that country’s industry and science—in a word, its modernity. For the longest time, though, Stalin had no idea of Hitler’s existence.

Tsarist Russia had aimed in the Great War to destroy forever the threat of German power by breaking up the Hohenzollern and Habsburg realms and establishing a belt of Slavic states that would presumably be friendly to Russia. German and Austrian war aims, conversely, had sought to diminish a perceived Russian menace by stripping it of its western borderlands. If Russia had won the war, it would likely have enacted something like the German-imposed Brest-Litovsk Treaty in reverse. But Russia lost (on the eastern front), just as Germany and Austria-Hungary lost (on the western front), leading to the Versailles Peace. Contrary to received wisdom, Europe’s postwar security system did not disintegrate because of spinelessness or blundering. Only the dual collapse of Russian and German power had made possible Versailles, which could have succeeded only if German and Russian power never rose again. (Britain effectively recognized the instability of Versailles, for, having failed to reach a modus vivendi with German power before the Great War clash, would spend the entire postwar period pursuing an accommodation.) The two Versailles pariahs, Germany and the Soviet Union, entered into clandestine military cooperation. Then, in 1933, as we shall see, Hitler was handed the wheel of the great state Stalin admired. The lives of the two dictators, as the biographer Alan Bullock wrote, had run in parallel. But it was the intersection that would matter: two very different men from the peripheries of Russian power and of German power, respectively, who were bloodily reviving and remaking their countries, while unknowingly and then knowingly drawing ever closer. It was not only the German people who turned out to be waiting for Hitler.

A BRIEF NOTE ON SOURCES

This is a book about authoritarian rule, coercion, manipulation of social divisions and invention of enemies, institutionalized prevarication, but it is based on research into facts. Stalin left an immense historical record. His surviving personal archive (“fond” or collection 558) exists in two parts, now brought together. The first ten sections (identified in Russian by “opis” or finding aid) consist of materials systematized from his own and other archives in connection with a biography planned for his sixtieth birthday in 1939 by the Marx-Engels-Lenin Institute (now called RGASPI). These include his personal photo albums, correspondence, and reminiscences about him. Books from his personal library (opis 4) would be added after his death. The more valuable second part consists of one vast section (opis 11), which was his working personal archive, located in the “special sector” of the apparatus, later called the Politburo (now the Presidential) Archive, but transferred to RGASPI in 1998–99. Stalin decided what would go into this working archive, but these materials do not always show him in the best light; on the contrary, many documents he kept demonstrate his policy mistakes and his gratuitous cruelty to his opponents and loyalists (who, despite their own crimes, sometimes emerge worthy of sympathy). Some of Stalin’s personal archive—how much remains impossible to say—was destroyed by him and others. For example, he was known to make notes in two sets of notebooks, one black (for technology) and one red (for personnel), but none of these have turned up, save for a few pages. Files of compromising materials on the members of his inner circle, believed to have been in his Kremlin office safe or a cupboard at his Near Dacha, have not turned up. The invaluable logbooks for visitors to his two offices (Old Square and the Kremlin) have been published, but the ones for his Moscow dacha have not and are feared to have been lost or pulped. His enormous record collection vanished, and the bulk of his library was dispersed. Nonetheless, the amount of materials that has survived and become accessible is staggering.

Not only do we have Stalin’s personal archive, but also colossal party and state archives, in the capital and in regions, while for foreign affairs there are the archives of other governments, too. Even though in Stalin’s case we lack a Mein Kampf, recorded “table talks,” or bona fide accounts by mistresses, we do have his voluminous correspondence while on holiday in Sochi or Gagra, when he issued detailed instructions to those running affairs on his behalf back in the capital. In addition, many other minions recorded his instructions—the boss of the film industry, the head of the Comintern, the notetaker for the government—in real time. Subsequent memoirs, some of which are revealing, enhance and sometimes unlock the archival materials. Regime transcripts for instructional dissemination were made of all party congresses, most of Stalin’s extended remarks at Kremlin receptions, and a handful of key politburo and Central Committee meetings. The central press, which he tightly controlled, also affords excellent material on his thinking. Archives of the secret police, counterintelligence, and bodyguard directorate remain almost entirely closed, and those for the military and foreign policy arm can be very difficult to access, but these institutions have published enormous quantities of document collections, and those scholars who have enjoyed unusually good access, including to the secret police materials, have published monographs with extensive quotations. There is also the phenomenon of scanning, which permits the quiet sharing of documents. So the evidentiary record, while not complete, is astonishingly rich.

Many scholars have been working on these materials, and this volume is indebted to the excellent research produced by R. W. Davies on the economy, Oleg Khlevniuk on the party-state machinery, Vladimir Khaustov on the secret police, Matthew Lenoe on events surrounding Sergei Kirov, Vladimir Nevezhin on the conception of the Soviet state as a great power, Adam Tooze on Nazi Germany’s grand strategy, Gabriel Gorodetsky on the British establishment and on Stalin’s foreign policy, and countless others, acknowledged in the endnotes.

Words cannot express how much better this book became thanks to my U.S.-based editor, Scott Moyers, and the rest of the team at Penguin. It exists at all thanks to him and my agent, Andrew Wylie. Many others—alas, far too numerous to list—deserve to be singled out for their kindness and perspicacity. Let me here express my gratitude to all, particularly archivists, librarians, and fellow scholars in Russia. Oleg Budnitskii took me on as an associate senior researcher at his International Center for the History and Sociology of World War II and Its Consequences at the National Research University Higher School of Economics, in Moscow. I have also benefited tremendously from being a fellow at the Hoover Institution at Stanford University, whose Library and Archives are a treasure beyond belief, and I am deeply grateful to the L&A director, Eric Wakin. Above all, Princeton University has provided me a dream scholarly home and spectacular students for the better part of three decades.

———PART I——— EQUAL TO THE MYTH

Here he is, the greatest and most important of our contemporaries. . . . In his full size he towers over Europe and Asia, over the past and the present. He is the most famous and yet almost the least known man in the world.

HENRI BARBUSSE, Stalin, 1935¹

IOSIF STALIN WAS A HUMAN BEING. He collected watches.² He played skittles and billiards. He loved gardening and Russian steam baths.³ He owned suits and ties but never wore them, unlike Lenin, and, unlike Bukharin, he did not fancy traditional peasant blouses or black leather jackets. He wore a semi-military tunic of either gray or khaki color, buttoned at the top, along with baggy khaki trousers that he tucked into his tall leather boots. He did not use a briefcase, but he sometimes carried documents inside folders or wrapped in newspapers.⁴ He liked colored pencils—blue, red, green—manufactured by Moscow’s Sacco and Vanzetti factory (originally built by the American Armand Hammer). He drank Borjomi mineral water and red Khvanchkara and white Tsinandali wines from his native Georgia. He smoked a pipe, using the tobacco from Herzegovina Flor brand cigarettes, which he would unroll and slide in, usually two cigarettes’ worth. He kept his desk in order. His dachas had runners atop the carpets, and he strove to keep to the narrow coverings. “I remember, once he spilled a few ashes from his pipe on the carpet,” recalled Artyom Sergeyev, who for a time lived in the Stalin household after his own father’s death, “and he himself, with a brush and knife, gathered them up.”⁵

Stalin had a passion for books, which he marked up and filled with placeholders to find passages. (His personal library would ultimately grow to more than 20,000 volumes.) He annotated works by Marx and Lenin, but also Plato and the German strategist Clausewitz in translation, as well as Alexander Svechin, a former tsarist officer whom Stalin never trusted but who demonstrated that the only constant in war was an absence of constants.⁶ “Stalin read a great deal,” noted Artyom. “And always, when we saw him, he would ask what I was reading and what I thought about it. At the entrance to his study, I recall, there was a mountain of books on the floor.” Stalin recommended the classics—Gogol, Tolstoy—telling Artyom and Vasily that “during wartime there would be a lot of situations you had never encountered before in life. You will need to make decisions. But if you read a lot, then in your memory you will already have the answers how to conduct yourself and what to do. Literature will tell you.”⁷ Among Russian authors, Stalin’s favorite was probably Chekhov, who, he felt, portrayed villains, not just heroes, in the round. Still, judging by the references scattered among his writings and speeches, he spent more time reading Soviet-era belles lettres.⁸ His jottings in whatever he read were often irreverent: “Rubbish,” “Fool,” “Scumbag,” “Piss off,” “Ha-ha!”

His manners were coarse. When, on April 5, 1930, a top official in the economy drew a black-ink caricature of finance commissar Nikolai Bryukhanov hanging by his scrotum, Stalin wrote on it, “To members of the politburo: For all his current and future sins Bryukhanov is to be hung by the balls; if his balls hold, he is to be considered acquitted by the court; if his balls do not hold, he is to be drowned in the river.”⁹ But Stalin cultivated a statesmanlike appearance, editing out his jokes and foul language even from the transcripts of official gatherings that were meant to be circulated only internally.¹⁰ He occasionally jabbed the air with his index finger for emphasis during speeches, but he usually avoided histrionics. “All Stalin’s gestures were measured,” Artyom recalled. “He never gesticulated severely.” Artyom also found his adoptive father reserved in his compliments. “Stalin never used expressions of the highest degree: marvelous [chudesno], elegant [shikarno]. He said ‘fine’ [khorosho]. He never went higher than ‘fine.’ He could also say ‘suitable’ [goditsia]. ‘Fine’ was the highest compliment from his mouth.”¹¹

Stalin invoked God casually (“God forbid,” “Lord forgive us”) and referred to the Pharisees and other biblical subjects.¹² In his hometown of Gori, he had lived across from the cathedral, attended the parish school, sung beatifically in the choir, and set his sights on becoming a priest or a monk, earning entrance to the Tiflis seminary, where he prayed nine to ten times per day and completed the full course of study except for sitting his last year’s final exams. By then he had become immersed in banned literature, beginning with Victor Hugo, evolving toward Karl Marx, and had come to detest organized religion and abandoned his piety.¹³ Rumors that Stalin attended church services in the 1930s have never been substantiated.¹⁴ In Stalin’s marginalia in works by Dostoevsky and Anatole France, he continued to be drawn to issues of God, the church, religion, and immortality, but the depth and nature of that interest remain difficult to fathom.¹⁵ Be that as it may, he had long ago ceased to adhere to Christian notions of good and evil.¹⁶ His moral universe was that of Marxism-Leninism.

He appears to have had few mistresses, and definitely no harem. His family life was neither particularly happy nor unhappy. His father, Beso, had died relatively young, not uncommon in the early twentieth century; his mother, Keke, lived alone in Tiflis. His first wife, Ketevan “Kato” Svanidze, a Georgian to whom he was married in 1906, had died in agony the next year of a common disease in Baku. He married again, to Nadezhda Alliluyeva, a Russian better known as Nadya, who had been born in Tiflis in 1901 and lived in Baku, too. Stalin had known her since she was a toddler. They had married in 1918, when he was officially thirty-nine (actually forty). She worked as his secretary, then as one of Lenin’s secretaries, but she had higher ambitions. The couple had two healthy children, Vasily (b. 1921) and Svetlana (b. 1926). He also had a son from his first marriage, Yakov (b. 1907), whom he had abandoned to relatives in Georgia for the first fourteen years of the boy’s life. Stalin avoided contact with his many blood relatives from his father’s and mother’s families. He did live among in-laws—Kato’s and Nadya’s many brothers and sisters and their spouses—but his interest in them would wane. Personal life was subsumed in politics.

•   •   •

STALIN WAS A COMMUNIST and a revolutionary. He was no Danton, the French firebrand who could mount a rostrum and ignite a crowd (until he was guillotined in 1794). Stalin spoke softly, sometimes inaudibly, because of a defect in his vocal cords. Nor was he the dashing type, like his contemporary the Italian aviator Italo Balbo (b. 1896), a Blackshirt squadrista who, a jaunty cigarette dangling from his lips, lived the fascist ideal of the “new man,” leading armadas of planes in formation across the Mediterranean and then the Atlantic, attaining international renown (until he died in a crash caused by his own country’s antiaircraft guns).¹⁷ Stalin turned white during air travel and avoided it. He relished being called Koba, after the Georgian folk-hero avenger and the real-life benefactor who underwrote his education, but one childhood chum had called him Geza, a Gori-dialect term for the awkward gait Stalin had developed after an accident. He had to swing his hip all the way around to walk.¹⁸ This and other physical defects apparently weighed on him. Once, near his beloved medicinal baths at Matsesta, in the Caucasus, according to a bodyguard, Stalin encountered a boy of about six, “reached out his hand and asked, ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Valka,’ the boy answered firmly. ‘Well, my name is Smallpox-Pockmarks,’ Stalin said to him. ‘Now we are introduced.’”¹⁹

Like the twisted spine of Shakespeare’s Richard III, it is tempting to find in such deformities the wellsprings of bloody tyranny: torment, self-loathing, inner rage, bluster, a mania for adulation. The boy at Matsesta was around the age Stalin had been when he had contracted the disease whose lifelong scars he bore on his nose, lower lip, chin, and cheeks. His pockmarks were airbrushed from public photographs, and his awkward stride kept from public view. (Film of him walking was prohibited.) People who met him saw the facial disfigurement and odd movement, as well as signs that he might be insecure. He loved jokes and caricatures, but never about himself. (Of course, the supposedly ultraconfident Lenin had refused to allow even friendly caricatures of himself to be printed.)²⁰ Stalin’s sense of humor was perverse. Those who encountered him further discovered that he had a limp handshake and was not as tall as he appeared in photographs. (He stood five feet seven inches, or about 1.7 meters, roughly the same as Napoleon and one inch shorter than Hitler, who was 1.73 meters.)²¹ And yet, despite their initial shock—could this be Stalin?—most first-time onlookers usually found that they could not take their gaze off him, especially his expressive eyes.²² More than that, they witnessed him shouldering an immense load, under colossal pressure. Stalin possessed the skills and steeliness to rule a great country, unlike Shakespeare’s Richard III. He radiated charisma, the charisma of dictatorial power.

Dictatorship, in the wake of the Great War, was widely understood to offer a transcendence of the mundane, a “state of exception,” in the words of the future Nazi theorist Carl Schmitt.²³ For Soviet theorists, too, dictatorship promised political dynamism and the redemption of humanity. In April 1929, Vladimir Maksimovsky (b. 1887), who had known and once opposed Lenin (over the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk with imperial Germany) and had supported Trotsky’s right to be heard, delivered a lecture on Niccolò Machiavelli that he published the same year in the USSR’s main Marxist history journal. Maksimovsky turned the Renaissance Florentine into a theorist of “revolutionary bourgeois dictatorship,” which the author deemed progressive in its day, in contrast to the reactionary dictatorship of Mussolini. The assessment rested on the class base. Thus, the working-class Soviet dictatorship was progressive, too. Maksimovsky, following Machiavelli, conceded that dictatorship could descend into tyranny, with a ruler pursuing purely personal interests.²⁴ But Maksimovsky did not explicitly address the question of a given dictator’s personality, or how the process of exercising unlimited power affects a ruler’s character. Subsequent scholars have rightly noted that only a near-permanent state of emergency—made possible by Communist ideology and practice—allowed Stalin to give free rein to his savagery. But what has been missed is that Stalin’s sociopathology was to a degree an outgrowth of the experience of dictatorial rule.

Stalin’s childhood, diseases and all, had been more or less normal; his years as general secretary were anything but.²⁵ He emerged from the 1920s a ruler of seemingly irreconcilable contradictions. He could flash burning anger, visible in yellowish eyes; he could glow with a soft, capacious smile. He could be utterly solicitous and charming; he could be unable to forget a perceived slight and compulsively contrive opportunities for revenge. He was single-minded and brooding, soft-spoken and foul-mouthed. He prided himself on his voracious reading and his ability to quote the wisdom of Marx or Lenin; he resented fancy-pants intellectuals who he thought put on airs. He possessed a phenomenal memory and a mind of scope; his intellectual horizons were severely circumscribed by primitive theories of class struggle and imperialism. He developed a feel for the aspirations of the masses and incipient elites; he almost never visited factories or farms, or even state agencies, reading about the country he ruled in secret reports and newspapers. He was a cynic about everyone’s supposed base motives; he lived and breathed ideals. Above all, his core identity was as heir and leading pupil of Lenin, but Lenin’s purported Testament had called for his removal, and from the time it first appeared, in the spring and summer of 1923, the document haunted him, provoking at least six resignations, all of which had been rejected but left him embattled, resentful, vengeful.

Stalin’s painstaking creation of a personal dictatorship within the Leninist dictatorship had combined chance (the unexpected early death of Lenin) and aptitude: he had been the fifth secretary of the party, after Yakov Sverdlov (who also died prematurely), Yelena Stasova, Nikolai Krestinsky, and Vyacheslav Molotov. His self-fashioning as savior of cause and country who was menaced from every direction dovetailed with fears for the socialist revolution and Russia’s revival as a great power menaced from every direction. Lenin’s party, with its seizure of power in the former Russian empire, had enacted upon itself a condition of “capitalist encirclement,” a structural paranoia that fed, and was fed by, Stalin’s personal paranoia. But those feelings on his part, whatever their now untraceable origins, had ballooned in his accumulation and enactment of the power of life and death over hundreds of millions. Such were the paradoxes of power: the closer the country got to achieving socialism, the sharper the class struggle became; the more power Stalin personally wielded, the more he still needed. Triumph shadowed by treachery became the dynamic of both the revolution and Stalin’s life. Beginning in 1929, as the might of the Soviet state and Stalin’s personal dictatorship grew and grew, so, too, did the stakes. His drive to build socialism would prove both successful and shattering, and deeply reinforcing of his hypersuspicious, vindictive disposition.²⁶ “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely,” an English Catholic historian wrote in a private letter in reference to the Inquisition and the papacy.²⁷ Absolute power also shapes absolutely.

Communism was an idea, a dream palace whose attraction derived from its seeming fusion of science and utopia. In the Marxist conception, capitalism had created great wealth by replacing feudalism, but then it became a “fetter” that promoted only the interests of the exploiter class, at the expense of the rest of humanity. But once capitalism was overcome, the “forces of production” would be unleashed as never before. What is more, exploitation, colonies, and imperialist war would give way to solidarity, emancipation, and peace, as well as abundance. Concretely, socialism had been difficult to imagine.²⁸ But whatever it was, it could not be capitalism. Logically, socialism would be built by eradicating private property, the market, and “bourgeois” parliaments and putting in their place collective property, socialist planning, and people’s power (or soviets). Of course, the capitalists would never allow themselves to be buried. They would fight to the death against socialism, using every means—wrecking, espionage, lies—because this was a war in which only one class could emerge victorious. The most terrible crimes became morally imperative acts in the name of creating paradise on earth.²⁹

•   •   •

MASS VIOLENCE RECRUITED legions ready to battle implacable enemies who stood on the wrong side of history.³⁰ The purported science of Marxism-Leninism and the real-world construction of socialism, on the way toward Communism, offered ostensible answers to the biggest questions: why the world had so many problems (class) and how it could be made better (class warfare), with a role for all. People’s otherwise insignificant lives became linked to building an entirely new world.³¹ To collect grain forcibly or operate a lathe was to strike a hammer blow at world imperialism. It did not hurt that those who took part stood to gain personally: idealism and opportunism are always reinforcing.³² Accumulated resentments, too, fueled the aspiration to become significant. People under the age of twenty-nine made up nearly half of the Soviet population, giving the country one of the younger demographic profiles in the world, and youth proved especially attracted to a vision that put them at the center of a struggle to build tomorrow today, to serve a higher truth.³³ The use of capitalism as antiworld also helps explain why, despite the improvisation, the socialism that would be built under Stalin coalesced into a “system” that could be readily explained within the framework of the October Revolution.

Stalin personified Communism’s lofty vision. A cult would be built around him, singling him out as “vozhd,” an ancient word that denoted someone who had earned the leadership of a group of men through a demonstrated ability to acquire and dispense rewards, but had become tantamount to “supreme leader,” the Russian equivalent of duce or Führer.³⁴ By acclaiming Stalin, people could acclaim the cause and themselves as devotees. He resisted the cult.³⁵ Stalin would call himself shit compared with Lenin.³⁶ In draft reportage for Pravda of his meeting with a collective farm delegation from Odessa province in November 1933, he inserted the names Mikhail Kalinin, Molotov, Lazar Kaganovich, simulating collective leadership.³⁷ Similarly, according to Anastas Mikoyan, Stalin rebuked Kaganovich, saying, “What is this? Why do you praise me alone, as if one man decides everything?”³⁸ Whether Stalin’s objections reflected false modesty, genuine embarrassment, or just his inscrutable self remains hard to say, but he indulged the prolonged ovations.³⁹ Molotov would recall that “at first he resisted the cult of personality, but then he came to like it a bit.”⁴⁰

•   •   •

STALIN ALSO PERSONIFIED the multinational Union. The USSR, like imperial Russia, was a uniquely Eurasian sprawl across two continents, at home in neither. Stalin was skeptical that nationality would eventually wither, unlike many leftists who worshipped class.⁴¹ Nation, for him, was both stubborn fact and opportunity, a device for overcoming perceived backwardness.⁴² Implanting loyal party rule in, say, Ukraine or his native Georgia would preoccupy him, but not nearly as much as the history and geopolitics of Russia.⁴³ Russia had come to see itself as a providential power ordained by God, with a special mission in the world. Its court splendor surpassed any other monarchy, but for all its industrialization it had remained an agrarian empire resting on the backs of peasants. Resources never stretched as far as ambitions, a discrepancy compounded by the circumstance that Russia lacked natural boundaries. This had spurred conquest of neighboring lands, before they could be used as presumed springboards of invasion, thereby creating a dynamic of “defensive” expansionism. Such was the Russia that the Georgian inherited and wholly devoted himself to as the socialist motherland.

A human being, a Communist and revolutionary, a dictator encircled by enemies in a dictatorship encircled by enemies, a fearsome contriver of class warfare, an embodiment of the global Communist cause and the Eurasian multinational state, a ferocious champion of Russia’s revival, Stalin did what acclaimed leaders do: he articulated and drove toward a consistent goal, in his case a powerful state backed by a unified society that eradicated capitalism and built industrial socialism.⁴⁴ “Murderous” and “mendacious” do not begin to describe the person readers will encounter in this volume. At the same time, Stalin galvanized millions. His colossal authority was rooted in a dedicated faction, which he forged, a formidable apparatus, which he built, and Marxist-Leninist ideology, which he helped synthesize. But his power was magnified many times over by ordinary people, who projected onto him their soaring ambitions for justice, peace, and abundance, as well as national greatness. Dictators who amass great power often retreat into pet pursuits, expounding interminably about their obsessions, paralyzing the state. But Stalin’s fixation was a socialist great power. In the years 1929–36, covered in part III, he would build that socialist great power with a first-class military. Stalin was a myth, but he proved equal to the myth.

CHAPTER 1 TRIUMPH OF THE WILL

We reject the concept of rule-of-law state. If a person seeking to claim the title of Marxist speaks seriously about a rule-of-law state and moreover uses the term “rule-of-law state” in connection with the Soviet state, this means he is led by bourgeois jurists. This means he departs from Marxist-Leninist teaching on the state.

LAZAR KAGANOVICH, Institute of Soviet Construction, November 4, 1929¹

There, in Europe, let them meow, in full voice . . . about the USSR’s “collapse.” They will not alter one iota either our plans or our cause. The USSR will be a first-class country with the largest, technologically best-equipped industrial and agricultural production. Socialism is invincible. No longer will we have “miserable” Russia. An end to that! We’ll have a powerful and prosperous modern Russia.

Stalin to Maxim Gorky, in Sorrento, December 1930 ²

MAURICE HINDUS, an émigré who returned to his native village in southern Ukraine to bear witness, grasped that Stalin’s forced wholesale collectivization and breakneck industrialization were “a stupendous gamble.”³ Twelve years earlier, a separate peasant revolution, parallel to the urban Bolshevik one, had expropriated most of Russia’s gentry, as well as many peasant landholders, and resulted in the creation of a smallholding population of 25 million peasant households. Undoing this new socioeconomic landscape of de facto land ownership seemed a nearly unimaginable proposition. Lenin’s quasimarket New Economic Policy had been a grudging concession to this peasant revolution, and although the mass of Communists had little love for farmers, as the NEP’s benefits were available to be appropriated, many Communists in the countryside had come to accept peacefully growing into socialism. Ironically, this vision was never stronger than at the height of central party actions—price regulation, creeping statization, industrialization ambitions—that fatally undermined NEP’s already faltering viability. Stalin repudiated pro-NEP Communists in the same way he lacerated European Social Democrats and their so-called parliamentary road to socialism. “Can we imagine that?” he wrote in the margins of an essay by Engels, republished in 1930, on the peaceful attainment of socialism in France and the United States. “No, that is incorrect!” ⁴

Stalin insisted that small farms had to be consolidated to enable the mechanization and application of agronomy needed to achieve higher levels of output. All that was possible without collectivization, of course—it had happened in the United States, as Stalin himself pointed out, but there it had entailed large-scale, mechanized private farms, and for Marxist-Leninists, class and property relations ultimately determined political systems. Some politburo members did think or hope they could collectivize agriculture voluntarily, but as of 1928, voluntary collectivization had occurred on just 1 percent of the country’s arable land. Coercion was the only way to attain wholesale collectivization. The extreme violence and dislocation would appall many Communists. But Stalin and his loyalists replied that critics wanted to make an omelet without breaking eggs. The only real alternative to forced collectivization was Communist acceptance of capitalist social relations and the long-term political consequences that entailed. Either the peasant revolution would be overcome or the regime would be under permanent threat. To these weighty considerations was added a do-or-die imperative to industrialize, which had to be financed somehow. Getting more grain, including for export, by squeezing the peasants seemed to be the answer and was dubbed primitive socialist accumulation. Russia had experienced centuries of cruelty toward peasants, but the inhumanity was now given supposed scientific and moral authority.⁵

Stalin was not head of the government (the Council of People’s Commissars). He was general secretary of the Communist party, which controlled all regime communications, personnel appointments, the secret police, and the army, and supervised the government. (For elucidation of the workings of the Soviet party-state system, see the explanatory note on page 907.) From his office (Room 521) at party headquarters on Moscow’s Old Square, he propelled the building of socialism in a furious storm of mass mobilization.⁶ His actions in 1929–30 were improvised, but they sprang from deep Marxist premises.⁷ Stalin, like Lenin, accepted the historical obsolescence of the “petit bourgeois” peasantry, the irredeemability of capitalism, the vileness of class enemies, the inevitability of violence in revolution, and the value of tactical flexibility amid firmness of will. He was Leninist to the core.⁸ Stalin sharpened the sense of urgency to force-build socialism by banging on about the dangers of “capitalist encirclement.” Millions of urbanites and some of the rural populace became entranced by the combination of real class warfare and modern machines. The mass appeal of taking part in the creation of a new and better world recruited a new generation of party activists, and captured imaginations worldwide.

The savage upheaval of building socialism would also further reveal, and further shape, the darkness within Stalin’s mind. “Right deviationists,” “social fascists,” “liquidation of the kulaks,” “wreckers,” “right-left bloc,” “terrorist acts,” “military coup plots,” “Trotskyites”—all these tropes, rooted in the Bolshevik repertoire, now took on an even more sinister edge. Stalin emerges in the documents as self-assured yet on a knife’s edge, a supreme bully with a keen eye for others’ weak spots yet roiling with resentment. Even his moments of satisfaction come across as laced with venom. No matter how much he crushed rivals, he was under siege. No matter how many enemies were deported, imprisoned, or executed, new ones emerged—and they were coming after him. No matter how much power he accumulated, he needed more. All the while, regime violence seemed to beget the very foes within and threat of war from without that secret police reports incessantly warned about. Stalin’s chip-on-the-shoulder, suspect-the-worst persona fed into, and was fed by, the drive to build socialism in the overheated atmosphere he fostered. The revolution’s destiny and Stalin’s personality became increasingly difficult to distinguish.

THE VICTIM

For a man possessed by raison d’état, Stalin’s actions were often highly personal. Nikolai Bukharin, unlike Trotsky, was close to the Soviet dictator. The two had met in Vienna in 1913, and from the mid-1920s Stalin had shown genuine affection for him. Alexei Balashov, who as a young man worked loyally in Stalin’s inner secretariat, would recall, late in life, that “when they brought him the forms with the results of politburo member voting by telephone poll, frequently, without looking up from the document, Stalin would ask, ‘How did Bukharin vote?—For?’ Stalin, for a time, held Bukharin’s views in high regard, and they informed the positions he himself would take.”⁹ Also unlike Trotsky, Bukharin had been careful not to come out in open opposition to Stalin. But in 1929, while forcing through his radical shift to coercive wholesale collectivization, Stalin charged Bukharin and his allies with “deviation” from the party line. Thus did the dictator fashion for himself and the regime a new high-profile internal foe.¹⁰

Bukharin, who had been instrumental in enabling Stalin to smash Trotsky, inadvertently facilitated his own demonization by Stalin. The stepped-up attacks were set in motion by the sudden appearance of a pamphlet published by a shadowy Trotskyite underground on January 23, 1929, which carried Lev Kamenev’s “notes,” nominally for Zinoviev, of a clandestine meeting Bukharin had initiated with Kamenev back on July 11, 1928.¹¹ Bukharin was caught out: he had met on the sly with a former oppositionist and divulged to him internal party matters while privately voicing the opposite position to the July 1928 plenum resolutions that he himself had drafted. The incident went to the party’s Central Control Commission, chaired by the Stalin loyalist Sergo Orjonikidze, who generally disliked Stalin’s political vendettas and, till now, had tried to reconcile Bukharin and his patron. But Kamenev’s “notes” had Bukharin asserting that Orjonikidze had bad-mouthed Stalin behind his back. Kamenev, for his part, submitted written testimony, which, like the “notes” themselves, proved damning of Bukharin, a further act of ingratiation with Stalin. Bukharin belatedly surmised that he had fallen into a trap, while Stalin gave the appearance of being pained to have to take action. (“Sad as it is, I must report the fact of . . .”) At the first of two joint sessions of the politburo with the presidium of the Central Control Commission, on January 30, 1929, Stalin condemned Bukharin, as well as his associates Mikhail Tomsky and Alexei Rykov, as “a right deviationist, capitulationist group advocating not for the liquidation of capitalist elements of the city and countryside, but for their free development.”¹²

Thus did opposition to forced collectivization and coercive grain collection become advocacy for capitalism. Bukharin, Rykov, and Tomsky wrote an appeal invoking Lenin’s Testament—“since these words were written, this ‘unbounded power’ has become even more ‘unbounded’”—but on February 9, 1929, with Orjonikidze in charge, the party censured Bukharin, for having met Kamenev, and Rykov and Tomsky, for having failed to report it.¹³

Stalin, in parallel, had been reading summaries by the secret police (OGPU) of the intercepted correspondence between Trotsky and his adherents exiled at the far ends of the USSR who were gloating that Stalin’s radical turn had vindicated their long-standing leftist advocacy for class war against kulaks and NEPmen. Stalin read out excerpts at the politburo, which acceded to his pique and voted to deport Trotsky.¹⁴ Turkey granted a visa, and on January 20, the OGPU appeared in Alma-Ata and loaded up the Trotsky family and their belongings. On February 10 in Odessa, an OGPU convoy smuggled him, his wife, Natalya Sedova, and their elder son, Lev Sedov, aboard the steamship Ilich. Troops lined the harbor. There were no other passengers. The order for deportation was silent about Trotsky’s personal archives—and if not expressly told to confiscate, the secret police did not confiscate. Trotsky managed to carry out crates of documents and books.¹⁵ It took fewer than two weeks for two of his essays to appear in the “bourgeois” press. In “How Could This Happen?” Trotsky explained his defeat by allowing that Stalin was “gifted in a practical sense, endurance, and perseverance in the pursuit of outlined goals,” but added that “his political horizon is inordinately narrow. His theoretical level is just as primitive. His pastiche booklet Foundations of Leninism, in which he tries to pay tribute to the party’s theoretical traditions, teems with schoolboy errors. . . . What is Stalin?” Trotsky concluded. “The outstanding mediocrity in our party.”¹⁶

Trotsky was evicted from his temporary residence at the Soviet consulate in Istanbul, and for safety he relocated to Prinkipo (Prince’s Isle), twelve miles away, or an hour and a half by boat, in the Sea of Marmara. It had been used to exile rivals to the Byzantine emperors and now was mostly deserted except for summer holidaymakers.¹⁷ He arrived at the “red-cliffed island set in deep blue” (in the words of Max Eastman) on March 8, 1929, and took up residence at a spacious, run-down villa in the outskirts of the main village. Turkish policemen stood guard outside the gates to the rented quarters, where there was little in the way of furniture. But, as in Soviet Sukhum, where Trotsky used to convalesce, a veranda faced the sea. Lev Sedov set up shop on the ground floor to keep track of the voluminous correspondence, and Trotsky began outfitting an office on the second floor. He tried to move on to Europe, but governments refused him a visa, beginning with Germany’s Social Democrats, whom Trotsky had incessantly ridiculed.¹⁸ From remote Prinkipo, his exposure of the Soviet regime’s lies reverberated around the world—and inside Stalin’s office.¹⁹

While still in the Soviet Union, Trotsky had lost any public voice, but abroad he not only wrote for periodicals in several European languages but also established a Russian-language Bulletin of the Opposition (Leninist-Bolsheviks). His inaugural publisher’s note set out the party opposition’s right to exist and promised facts and documents; in that vein, he wrote an open letter to the workers of the USSR denying that he had left the Soviet Union voluntarily.²⁰ The OGPU spread a rumor that Trotsky had been deported to enliven the revolutionary movement in the West, an invitation for émigré White Guards to assassinate him.²¹ The Bulletin, printed in Paris in small print runs, was not legally available inside the USSR, though for a time some Soviet officials who traveled abroad would smuggle the exotic broadsheets home and pass them around.²² It carried an astonishingly well-informed account of the party sessions behind closed doors in Moscow involving Bukharin, who complained that “in the twelfth year of the revolution [there is] not a single elected provincial party chief; the party does not participate in decision making. Everything is done from above.” Bukharin was shouted down: “Where did you pick that up—from whom? From Trotsky!”²³

Trotsky, in fact, refused common cause with Bukharin and those he deemed expressions of petit bourgeois class interests. “The rightists think that if one affords greater space to individual peasant economy, then the current difficulties can be overcome,” he wrote in a March 1929 essay, also in the Bulletin’s inaugural issue. “A wager on the capitalist farmer (the European or Americanized kulak) would doubtless yield fruits, but they would be capitalist fruits that at some near-term stage would lead to the political downfall of Soviet power. . . . The course toward the capitalist farmer is absolutely incompatible with the dictatorship of the proletariat.”²⁴ For Stalin, however, the “right deviation,” which wanted to continue the existing party policy of the NEP, was in cahoots with the smashed left opposition, which had wanted to overturn the NEP. Both, in criticizing the party line, exposed disunity and therefore weakness, an invitation for the capitalist powers to intervene and overthrow socialism. And because Stalin incarnated party unity and the resolve to build socialism, he was, logically, their prime target of assassination. Thus did opposition to Stalin’s policies become equated with terrorism, thanks also to a big hand from Wiaczesław Mężyński, chairman of the OGPU.²⁵

All the while, Stalin’s inner circle craved his favor. On March 10, 1929, Pravda had published a report by Klim Voroshilov to a Leningrad provincial party conference analyzing the international situation, socialist construction, and the party opposition to collectivization, and four days later Voroshilov wrote to the dictator asking whether he had “screwed up 100 percent or just 75 percent.” Stalin responded by praising his account as “a good, principled report,” and, in reference to the U.S. president and the British foreign secretary, added, “All the Hoovers and Chamberlains and Bukharins got it in the ass.”²⁶

Bukharin had grimly foreseen that Stalin would twist his words and label him a schismatic to extract political advantage, but Stalin’s cruelty was something his friend would puzzle over for a long time. And no matter how underhandedly the dictator undercut Bukharin, Stalin was the victim. “Don’t try to compel me to be quiet, or hide my opinion by your shouts that I ‘want to teach everyone,’” Stalin wrote to Bukharin on April 16, 1929, the day of a politburo confrontation. “Will you at some point desist from the attacks against me?”²⁷

NO PITY

Following the politburo session, on that same day, Stalin convened a punitive joint Central Committee–Central Control Commission plenum, lasting a week, at which his loyalists spewed venom at Bukharin.²⁸ On April 18, amid intense heckling, Bukharin launched a counterattack against Stalin’s peasant policy for coercing poor and middle peasants, too, insisting that “the number of kulak households is few,” and that “we can allow individual farming to develop without fear of rich peasants.” Stalin did not formally respond until the evening session on April 22. “Friendship is friendship, but state service is service,” he noted. “We all serve the interests of the working class, and if the interests of the working class diverge from the interests of personal friendship, then down with personal friendship.”²⁹

Stalin wielded a compelling strategic vision—accelerated, noncapitalist modernity—but he was at pains to deny that he was abrogating Lenin’s NEP. (Otherwise, he would be the deviationist.) The NEP, he explained, had always had two sides—a retreat, to be followed by a renewed offensive—and “Bukharin’s mistake is that he does not see the two-sided nature of NEP; he sees only the first side.”³⁰ Stalin cited Lenin to the Manichaean effect that everything came down to “‘who defeats whom,’ us or the capitalists. . . . Every advance of capitalist elements is a loss for us,” and that the peasantry was “the last capitalist class.” He reminded attendees that Rykov and Bukharin had been the first to repudiate his offer to resign (back in December 1927), and he threw Lenin’s Testament back in Bukharin’s face, reading aloud the parts about Bukharin and commenting, “A theoretician without dialectics. A theoretician of our party about whom it can scarcely be said—with great doubts can it be said—that his outlook is fully Marxist.” After all that, Stalin posed as conciliator, coming out “against the expulsion of Bukharin and Tomsky from the politburo.”³¹

Stalin might not have had the votes for expulsion. All the same, Bukharin was sacked as editor of Pravda, and Tomsky quit as head of trade unions. Rykov remained head of the government, which coordinated the economy.³² Stalin managed to have the plenum repudiate Rykov and Bukharin’s policy alternatives, such as importing grain (“It is better to squeeze the kulak and extract from him surplus grain, which he has in no small quantity”), but plenum resolutions summarizing the right’s position (even in condemnation) were not published.³³

Developments in the countryside supported Stalin’s critics. The 1928–29 harvest had come in at only 62–63 million tons (well below the official figure of 70–71 million), and total state grain collections amounted to only around 8 million tons—2 million less than the previous year.³⁴ Leningrad had already introduced food rationing in November 1928. Moscow soon followed, as did other industrial cities, going beyond bread to sugar and tea, then meat, dairy, and potatoes. But Stalin argued that the problems caused by his antimarket coercion required more coercion. In spring 1929, he dispatched Kaganovich as a plenipotentiary to the Urals and Western Siberia, some of the same districts the dictator himself had visited the year before. By summer 1929, however, food shortages loomed. The regime would need to spend scarce hard currency (the equivalent of 30 million convertible or gold rubles, or almost $15 million) to import a quarter million tons of grain.³⁵ Those were just facts. Stalin anticipated that the ramped-up coercion would serve as a device of political recruitment, cleaving off the poor and middle peasant from the kulak. This was a complement to his invention of a schismatic “right deviation,” which forced his faction to redeclare its loyalty and held the party mass in check.³⁶

Stalin’s political opportunism was at the service of implanting socialism (noncapitalism) in the countryside and collecting grain to feed and finance noncapitalist industrialization in the cities. He had seized the gift of Bukharin’s political amateurism, but in a larger way he had created his own moment, taking advantage of a crisis that his emergency measures had helped create to force through permanent emergency-ism. Mikoyan would admit, in June 1929, that “had it not been for the grain difficulties, the question of strong collective farms and of machine-tractor stations would not have been posed precisely at this moment with such vigor, scope, and breadth.”³⁷ He had been appointed by Stalin a candidate member of the politburo already in 1926, at age thirty, as well as head of trade, making him the youngest people’s commissar. In that capacity he worked directly under Rykov and, for a time, was close to Bukharin (like Stalin), but now Mikoyan emerged as one of Stalin’s key minions who enacted the new hard line. And yet, Mikoyan remained the recipient of Stalin’s relentless pressure. “No concessions in grain procurements,” Stalin would soon write to him. “Hold the line and be maximally unyielding! If you now pity them and vacillate even one iota from our plan, . . . no one will pity either the Central Committee or the trade commissariat.”³⁸

GEOPOLITICAL DILEMMA

Upon the close of the plenum, the regime convened the 16th party conference (April 23–29, 1929), which once more ratified the “optimal” (maximalist) variant of the Five-Year Plan.³⁹ This wild-eyed scheme, which had officially commenced in October 1928, reversed the NEP-era loss of revolutionary élan and envisioned a nearly fourfold increase in investment in the state sector of the economy, to achieve a GDP leap of around 20 percent per annum.⁴⁰ The phantasmagorical document also foresaw an absolute increase in household consumption. Still, the emphasis fell upon machine building, or, in Marxist terms, expansion of the means of production, in order to emancipate the USSR from dependence on foreign capitalists.⁴¹ That age-old dream, which predated the Bolshevik regime, always went unrealized, because the West possessed critical advanced technology that Russia needed in order to compete against the West. Stalin’s gamble on collectivization and socialist industrialization to emancipate Russia depended on eliciting foreign capitalist cooperation as well.⁴² But the Soviets broadcast an intention to overthrow capitalism globally.⁴³

The young Soviet state had been unable to reclaim tsarist Poland, Finland, Estonia, Latvia, or Lithuania, which had become independent states; Bessarabia, which had been seized by Romania; or Kars and Ardahan, which were claimed by Turkey. Communist revolutions in Hungary and parts of Iran had been overturned or aborted; Communist coups had failed abjectly in Germany, Bulgaria, and Estonia. Attempts to forge a loyal ally out of Nationalist-governed China had blown up in Stalin’s face. Traditional Russian influence had emerged enhanced in Mongolia, a Soviet satellite, but diminished in Korea and Manchuria (Japan had annexed the first and coveted the second). And so, even as the Soviets laid claim to being the antidote to the existing world order of imperialism, they found themselves pursuing a policy of coexistence, meaning trying to win recognition and trade from the capitalists.⁴⁴ Lenin had once boasted that the capitalists would sell the rope that the Communists would use to hang them, but because of his repudiation of tsarist and Provisional Government debts, the Soviets had not been able to secure long-term credits for foreign purchases.⁴⁵ Stalin’s extreme violence and accompanying desecration of churches added to the reputational costs for capitalists if they sold to the Communists. It remained a mystery how Stalin was going to obtain blueprints, machines, and know-how from the advanced capitalist countries.

POPULISM

Soviet industry, construction, and transport employed, at most, 6 million workers in 1929—of whom 4.5 million performed manual labor—out of a working population of well more than 60 million.⁴⁶ Alongside familiar output norms, piece rates, and labor discipline, Soviet factories were supposed to be crucibles for new forms of socialist labor. “Shock work,” connoting overfulfillment of work norms via all-out exertion and rationalization, spread during the Five-Year Plan in conjunction with so-called socialist competitions among brigades for honors and better rations.⁴⁷ In early 1929, Pravda had published “How to Organize Competition?” This previously unpublished article by Lenin, about unleashing workers’ creative energies, was part of a campaign in which workers took vows, often in writing, not to slack off or show up drunk or go AWOL, and to fulfill the plan. Some work collectives were afforded Union-wide publicity.⁴⁸ Stalin had never really been a worker himself, had clashed bitterly with the one genuine worker in the politburo (Tomsky), and rarely visited factories. But he nurtured a deep populist streak.

A journalist for the newspaper Female Peasant, Yelena Mikulina (b. 1906), was having difficulty publishing her pamphlet, “Socialist Competition of the Masses,” on textile workers in Ivanovo-Voznesensk. In early May 1929, she boldly dropped the manuscript off for Stalin at the party secretariat, imploring his aides for an audience. Stalin, surprising his functionaries, had his top aide, Ivan Tovstukha, summon her to Old Square on May 10. “You wanted to tell me something?” he was said to have asked Mikulina, who recalled answering, “‘I have nothing to say, because I am frightfully afraid, and completely stunned.’ . . . ‘Ha, ha ha,’ Stalin laughed. And in his laugh he showed his teeth. And his entire face, sown with large pockmarks, also laughed.” They talked about where else Mikulina might venture to write firsthand about socialist construction—perhaps Kazakhstan, where the Turkestan–Siberian Railway was being built.⁴⁹ She asked Stalin to write a preface to her essays, which he did the next day, sending it by courier to her dormitory. The preface, which touted how “the powerful production rise of the toiling masses has begun,” was published in Pravda (May 22, 1929). The state publishing house immediately issued Mikulina’s pamphlet in a print run of 100,000. She sent Stalin an autographed copy, with the dedication “I cannot tell you how powerfully I love you.”⁵⁰

Stalin, in his preface, warned anyone who dared to impede “the creative initiative of the masses.”⁵¹ Then the reviews arrived. One, from a newspaper editor in Yaroslavl, told Stalin that “workers greet the pamphlet with mocking laughter,” but nonetheless inquired whether his own censorious draft review (which he enclosed) merited publication.⁵² Another, forwarded to Stalin by the party boss of Ivanovo-Voznesensk, provoked a response. “It is not so easy to take in comrade Stalin,” the dictator wrote. “I am decisively against writing prefaces only for pamphlets and books of literary ‘big-shots,’ literary ‘names.’ . . . We have hundreds and thousands of young capable people, who are striving with all their might to rise up from below.”⁵³

“SOCIAL FASCISTS”

Bolshevism, like Italian fascism, was an insurrection against both a liberal constitutional order and European Social Democracy. In Stalin’s formulation, codified at the Sixth Comintern Congress (1928), a bourgeoisie desperate to retain its hold on power sought to establish extreme fascist regimes by co-opting Social Democrats. Therefore, Social Democracy—which reconciled workers to capitalism, and thus lured them away from their supposed true home in the Communist party—constituted a handmaiden of fascism (“social fascism”).⁵⁴ Social Democrats returned and often instigated the enmity, expelling Communists from trade unions and agitating against the Soviet regime. During clashes on May Day 1929, the German Social Democrat Party supported the police against banned worker street rallies encouraged by German Communists; 30 people were killed, nearly 200 injured, and more than 1,000 arrested.⁵⁵ The Comintern condemned the Berlin events as Social Democratic “terror.” A German Communist party congress the next month resolved that “Social Democracy is preparing . . . the establishment of the fascist dictatorship.”⁵⁶

In Moscow, the Comintern opened its tenth expanded plenum on July 3, 1929, with seventy-two delegates, half of whom had voting rights. Otto Kuusinen, the Finnish-born Comintern secretary general, noted that “factories would determine the outcome of the next war and the next civil war,” a summons to close ranks behind Soviet industrialization.⁵⁷ Stalin had inserted the following into the theses: “The Comintern executive committee plenum suggests paying special attention to strengthening the fight against the ‘left’ wing of Social Democracy, which is retarding the disintegration of Social Democracy by sowing illusions about this wing’s opposition to the policies of Social Democracy’s leadership, but in fact strongly supports social fascism.”⁵⁸ Bukharin, formally chairman of the Comintern executive committee, had not even been showing up at headquarters, and on the plenum’s final day (July 19) he was replaced by Molotov.⁵⁹ Privately, Clara Zetkin, the high-profile German Communist, had confided to a Swiss comrade that “the Comintern has turned from a living political body into a dead mechanism, which, on the one hand, is capable only of swallowing orders in Russian and, on the other, of regurgitating them in different languages.” Publicly, she continued to lend her prestige to the cause by keeping her mouth shut.⁶⁰

Other foreign Communists exulted in the Soviet party’s militant turn under Stalin. Klement Gottwald, responding to allegations that the Czechoslovak Communist party was under Moscow’s thumb, boasted to his country’s National Assembly, “We go to Moscow to learn from the Russian Bolsheviks how to wring your necks. (Outcry). And you know the Russian Bolsheviks are masters at it! (Uproar).”⁶¹

ADVANCED TECHNOLOGY, ARRESTS

Voroshilov, as he wrote privately (June 8, 1929) to Orjonikidze, who was away convalescing, had gotten into a row with Bukharin at a politburo session. “I lost my self-control and blurted out in Little Nikolai’s face, ‘You liar, bastard, I’ll punch you in the face,’ and other such nonsense and all in front of a large number of people,” he lamented. “Bukharin is trash and is capable of telling the vilest fabrications straight to your face. . . . Still, I did not behave properly. . . . After this scene Bukharin left the politburo meeting and did not return.” Voroshilov had just voted to accommodate Bukharin’s wishes in the matter of his next appointment, forming part of a rare politburo majority in that vote against Stalin.⁶² Soon thereafter, Stalin had the politburo revisit the military aspect of industrialization, just months after formal approval of the maximalist variant of the Five-Year Plan. On July 15, two secret decrees were issued that, to a considerable degree, belatedly sided with Voroshilov and the Red Army against Rykov’s fiscal prudence.⁶³

The first decree underscored the long-standing view that all the states neighboring the USSR to the west needed to be viewed as a “likely enemy,” which required attaining military parity with them. It also called for acceleration of the components of the Five-Year Plan that served defense (nonferrous metals, chemicals, machine building) by means of “foreign technical assistance and aid, and acquisition of the most vital prototype models.”⁶⁴ Red Army growth was set to reach 643,700 active troops by the end of the Five-Year Plan. Improvements were mandated in soldiers’ housing and vigilance against “kulak moods, anti-Semitism, [and] distorted disciplinary practices” (hazing). The second decree, on military factories proper, complained that they were overseen by “the caste of old tsarist-era specialists,” many of whom stood accused of “wrecking.” Voroshilov tasked the army staff—headed by Boris M. Shaposhnikov, a tsarist-era officer descended from Orenburg Cossacks—with redoing its economic plans and administration to facilitate mass production of advanced aircraft, artillery, and tanks.⁶⁵ “Everyone has a magnificent impression,” the commissariat’s business manager wrote to Voroshilov of the secret decrees. “Boris Mikhailovich even declared that he got more effect from this document than from his medical treatment in Germany.”⁶⁶

Secret military cooperation with Germany, in violation of the Versailles Treaty, had been under way for years. More than 100 Soviet officers had attended German general staff academy courses on state-of-the-art military science. (Some German officers, such as Friedrich von Paulus, presented guest lectures in Moscow.)⁶⁷ Most of the Soviet brass, including Mikhail Tukhachevsky, made brief trips to Germany, but a few, such as Jeronimas Uborevičius, known as Uborevich, studied there for long stretches (in his case, from late 1927 through early 1929).⁶⁸ A peasant from Lithuania (a land of free peasants) who had graduated from imperial Russia’s artillery school, then joined the Bolsheviks in 1917, Uborevičius spoke fluent German, resembled a German general staff type—precise, punctual, professional—and admired that country’s technology and organization. He became a favorite of the Reichswehr while enjoying Stalin’s favor, who assigned him to the new armaments directorate.⁶⁹ The entire Red Army tank park numbered perhaps ninety units, mostly of Great War vintage, such as French-made tanks captured from the Whites. Artillery had been an area of rapid technological change since the Great War, but in August 1929 Stalin received yet another damning report deeming Red Army artillery “on the same technical level as in 1917, if not 1914,” despite considerable expenditure.⁷⁰ In late summer and fall 1929, almost the entire artillery directorate and inspectorate were arrested for wrecking. Ten people were executed; others “testified” against tsarist-era military specialists beyond those in artillery, foreshadowing more arrests to come.⁷¹

TIGHT LEASH

All dictators risk overthrow when, for their own power, they empower a secret police. Kamenev’s “notes” of his conversation with Bukharin included the latter’s assertions about the OGPU’s supposed sympathies (“Yagoda and Trilisser are with us”). Genrikh Yagoda and Meyer Trilisser, aka Mikhail Moskvin, the longtime head of OGPU foreign intelligence and, like Yagoda, an OGPU deputy chairman, had been compelled to submit explanations to Stalin, with a copy to Orjonikidze at the party Control Commission.⁷² Yagoda had to admit that he met regularly with Rykov, who, after all, was the head of the government, including in Rykov’s private apartment (in the same building as Stalin’s). Yagoda and Rykov both hailed from the Volga region.⁷³

Complicating the situation, the OGPU chairman, Mężyński, suffered numerous ailments, from severe asthma to a spinal injury as a result of a car accident in Paris. (He often received subordinates while half lying on a couch.) People whispered that he had never fully recovered his spirits after his young wife had died during surgery.⁷⁴ Stalin ignored his requests to resign. On April 21, 1929—precisely the moment of Stalin’s machinations against the right deviation—Mężyński had a massive heart attack. He was ordered to curtail his smoking and sugar intake and to rest. After several months, on August 1, the doctors allowed him to return to work, but only if he went to the office every other day and for no more than five hours each time; Mężyński rejected these conditions and returned to Lubyanka anyway.⁷⁵ But his absences and continued illness heightened the already sharp jockeying in the secret police. With Yagoda down south on holiday, Trilisser, at a meeting of the Sokolniki ward of the Moscow party organization where OGPU officials were registered, demanded self-criticism to rid the secret police of unworthy people, and accused Yagoda of “retreating from the general line of the party with the right deviation.”⁷⁶

Police operatives had recently been instructed to omit the name and location of their branch even when signing their secret internal correspondence, so as to reduce any outsider’s ability to decipher the organization’s structure in case of a leak.⁷⁷ Now, Stalin wrote to Mężyński (September 16, 1929), “it turns out you (the Chekists) have taken a course toward full-bore self-criticism inside the GPU. In other words, the Chekists are committing the same mistakes that were committed not long ago in the military body. . . . Do not forget that the GPU is no less a militarized agency than the military body. . . . Would it be impossible to undertake decisive measures against this evil?”⁷⁸ Trilisser lost out, replaced by Stanisław Messing, who was close to his fellow Pole Mężyński. At the same time, the Stalin favorite, Yefim Yevdokimov, was brought from the North Caucasus to run the central OGPU secret-political directorate, which oversaw the secret, counterintelligence, special (army), informational (intelligence analysis), Eastern, and operative departments—a counterweight to Yagoda.⁷⁹

Among the 2,000-odd operatives in the central OGPU at this time, Yevdokimov stood out. His North Caucasus bailiwick had become the most medal-bedecked in the Union, thanks to the protracted counterinsurgency against a well-armed populace (“bandit formations”), a civil war after the civil war.⁸⁰ What is more, the place where Stalin took his holidays fell within his jurisdiction. In conspiring with the dictator to manufacture the 1928 Shakhty trial, Yevdokimov had become an all-Union star (and in 1930 would receive his fourth Order of the Red Banner).⁸¹ He looked after his subordinates’ families and gathered them at his house for banquets and singing—Ukrainian choral songs, Cossack songs, Russian folk ditties—with one Chekist playing the piano and another the accordion. “Yevdokimov had formed a powerful group that would implement his any command,” recalled one member. “By giving out awards, taking care of their daily life concerns, and corrupting their behavior, Yevdokimov had succeeded in forging a strong nucleus of Chekists loyal to him to the end. In turn, these people forged groups of operatives loyal to one another and, by extension, to Yevdokimov.”⁸²

There was no assignment from which Yevdokimov would shrink on behalf of his patron. Innocently, Stalin, in the letter to Mężyński on September 16, 1929, had written: “I got wind that Yevdokimov is being transferred to Moscow to secret-operative work (it seems in place of Deribas). Would it not follow to simultaneously make him a member of the OGPU collegium? It seems to me it would follow.” Yevdokimov was named to the collegium even before his relocation to Moscow took effect.⁸³

Stalin did not instigate this anti-Yagoda revolt. But he had again extracted advantage from others’ actions. Yagoda was promoted to first deputy chairman of the OGPU, from merely “deputy,” while Messing became a new second deputy chairman. But Stalin allowed Yevdokimov to implant his North Caucasus minions into the many departments in the capital that he now oversaw.⁸⁴ Yevdokimov’s top deputy was now Jan Kulikowski, known as Olsky (b. 1898), another Pole of noble descent, who remained the head of the powerful counterintelligence department while becoming concurrently head of the special department for the army. Artur Artuzov, deputy chief of foreign intelligence and a long-standing Yagoda nemesis, became Yevdokimov’s other top deputy.⁸⁵ Yagoda would have to overexert himself to demonstrate separation from the “right deviation” and loyalty to Stalin.

THE GENERAL SECRETARY’S WIFE—A RIGHTIST

All during the OGPU machinations, Stalin was on holiday down south, from the third week of July 1929, staying mostly at the Puzanovka dacha in Sochi. He had caught severe flu. He promoted “Bolshevik self-criticism” when it suited him, but in a letter of July 29 to Molotov, whom he had left in charge, he denounced some articles he had seen in Communist Youth League Pravda and the journal Young Guard as tantamount to “a call for a review of the general line of the party, for the undermining of the iron discipline of the party, for the turning of the party into a discussion club.”⁸⁶ Stalin drafted politburo resolutions and instructions on foreign affairs, ordered that close attention be paid to the new iron- and steelworks under construction, and directed that the internal exile Cristian Rakovski, whose damning essay Stalin had read in the first issue of Trotsky’s Bulletin of the Opposition (July 1929), be deported to an even more remote locale (which turned out to be Barnaul, Siberia). Stalin complained about low grain procurements and demanded surveillance over collective farm directors and arrests of urban “speculators.” He congratulated Molotov (August 29) for savage attacks against Bukharin in Pravda, and reported, “I’m beginning to recuperate in Sochi.”⁸⁷

Stalin directed talks to restore diplomatic relations with Britain (severed in mid-1927). The negotiations, supported by British industrialists, were launched after the Labour party won elections and the Labourite Ramsay MacDonald was returned as prime minister (in June 1929). “No haste should be displayed on the British question,” he instructed Molotov, denigrating deputy foreign affairs commissar Maxim Litvinov. “Remember we are waging a struggle (negotiations with enemies is struggle) not with England alone, but with the whole capitalist world, for the MacDonald government is the vanguard of the capitalist governments in the work of ‘humiliating’ and ‘bridling’ the Soviet government with ‘new,’ more ‘diplomatic,’ more ‘masked,’ in a word, more ‘valid’ methods. The MacDonald government wants to show the whole capitalist world that it can take more from us (with the help of ‘soft’ methods) than Mussolini, Poincaré, and Baldwin, that it can be a greater Shylock than the capitalist Shylock himself. And it wants this because only in this way can it win over the trust of its own bourgeoisie (and not only its bourgeoisie). We would be the bottom of the barrel if we could not manage to reply to these arrogant bastards briefly and to the point: ‘You won’t get a friggin’ thing from us.’”⁸⁸

Stalin was assiduously courting Maxim Gorky, the Russian writer, to return permanently from Italy, and in 1929, for the second year in a row, he visited the USSR. “I heard Gorky evidently went to Sochi,”—Stalin’s wife, Nadya, wrote to him on August 28.⁸⁹ “He will probably visit you, a pity, without me.” After traveling down the Volga, Gorky made it to Tiflis and, apparently, Sochi, but soon began spitting blood and cut his trip short.⁹⁰ Nadya was in Moscow to sit entrance exams for the Industrial Academy. “I send you a big kiss, like the kiss you gave me when we parted,” she wrote to her husband in the August 28 letter, delivered by airplane. He wrote the next day about how “I have already managed to take two medicinal baths. I think I’ll take ten.” On September 1, he wrote that he had evidently “been close to pneumonia,” and still suffered from a persistent cough. “As soon as you get 6–7 free days, get down here to Sochi. How are things with the exam? I kiss you, my Tatka.”⁹¹

Nadya wrote the next day of daily life in the capital, “I must say that the mood about food supplies, among students and teachers, is only so-so; everyone is worn out by the queues.” She added knowingly, “Do not be angry at such details.”⁹² She had the further audacity to intervene on behalf of a member of Pravda’s editorial collegium, the secretary of its party cell, Kovalev, who had fallen afoul for publishing a critical article about the need for criticism, without seeking prior authorization from the Central Committee. But Kovalev had received authorization from higher-ups at Pravda. “I cannot be indifferent about the fate of such a good worker and comrade of mine,” Nadya wrote to Stalin, revealing that she knew a politburo meeting had been scheduled to adjudicate the matter. (Nadya also wrote, “And, if you can, send 50 rubles, I do not have a kopeck left.” Stalin sent her 120 rubles.) He accepted her account of Kovalev’s scapegoating (“I think you are right”) and sent a telegram to Molotov that same evening asking to delay any decision. The next day, Stalin instructed Orjonikidze and Molotov to establish firmer control over Pravda. Orjonikidze wrote to Stalin that “Kovalev has so far not been touched even though he committed a mass of idiocies. I agree with you that the leaders of Pravda are more at fault.” (Kovalev would be fired from Pravda all the same.) Orjonikidze pointedly added, “I must say, the sooner you return, the better.”⁹³

Molotov and Orjonikidze had just written a joint letter to Stalin (September 13, 1929), pleading for newspaper criticism of leading officials to be reined in, but that same day, Stalin wrote back, “I consider your proposal risky in that it could objectively lead to curbing of self-criticism, which is unacceptable.” The next day, he added that “full-on self-criticism activates the mass and creates a state of siege for all and all kinds of bureaucrats. This is a great achievement.”⁹⁴

Stalin read newspapers assiduously on holiday. After finding an account in Pravda of a mid-September Rykov speech, he erupted in a telegram he sent to Molotov, Voroshilov, and Orjonikidze, making known that at a minimum, he wanted Rykov removed from chairing politburo sessions. (“Can you not put an end to this comedy?”)⁹⁵ Meanwhile, Nadya wrote to him from Moscow (September 27) that “without you it is very, very boring,” and pleaded, “In a word, come back. It will be nice together. . . . I kiss you firmly, firmly.” She detailed the infighting at the Industrial Academy, where she was studying chemical dyes and synthetic fibers for clothing applications. “Students here are graded as follows: kulak, middle peasant, poor peasant. There is such enormous laughter and argument every day. In a word, they have already put me down as a rightist.”⁹⁶

Stalin did not react to her naïve “joke” on the touchiest (for him) of subjects in his next letter (September 30), noting only that he would be back in Moscow in a week. On October 3, Britain and the USSR signed a one-page protocol restoring relations, without settling their outstanding disputes, just as Stalin had insisted.⁹⁷ With his return imminent, he wrote to Molotov (October 6), “It is necessary to think Bukharin will be kicked out of the politburo.”⁹⁸ Stalin also revealed his prickliness yet again. “For some reason, recently, you have started praising me,” he wrote to Nadya (October 8). “What does this mean? Good, or bad?”⁹⁹

TREMORS

Stalin had not been abroad since 1913. “How good would it be if you, comrade Stalin, changing appearance, traveled for a certain time abroad with a genuine translator, not a tendentious one,” foreign affairs commissar Georgy Chicherin had recently written. “You would see reality.”¹⁰⁰ (Stalin would not set foot outside the USSR until 1943.) The dictator continued to direct intelligence officials to focus on threats posed by Britain, France, Germany, and Japan, as well as the “limitrophes,” the immediate borderland states (Poland, Finland, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Romania). They were reporting what he solicited.¹⁰¹ “The Turkish general staff has received testimony from Germany, Poland, and England that war between the USSR and Poland will happen in early 1930,” one report stated (October 11, 1929), in passages Stalin underlined. “Poland is seriously preparing for war. . . . Rumors are circulating as well among the [military] attachés in Moscow about a war coming soon.”¹⁰²

Gorky had returned to Sorrento already, and Stalin, back in Moscow, resumed his side of their correspondence via diplomatic pouch. “Things are not going badly here,” he noted (October 24). “We’re moving the cart along; of course, with creaking, but we’re moving forward. . . . They say that you are writing a play about wrecking and that you would not be against receiving related materials. I gathered materials on wrecking and I’ll send them to you presently. . . . How’s your health?”¹⁰³ Other pressing business included dispatching central functionaries to oversee grain collections in the North Caucasus, Bashkiria, the Central and Lower Volga, and Ukraine.¹⁰⁴ Stalin was using the heavy-handed procurements to force peasants into collective farms. He and other regime officials either ignored the disposition of animals altogether or publicly insisted on immediate full socialization. Rather than hand their animals over to the collectives, peasants had been trying to sell them since summer, but markets were flooded and prices had cratered, so the peasants had begun slaughtering animals en masse in protest. The livestock that had been socialized were often up to their knees in dung, and dying.¹⁰⁵ A catastrophe was unfolding.

Also on October 24, the United States stock market lost 11 percent of its value at the opening bell. Trading on that “Black Thursday” was heavy, and the ticker tape could not keep up—people had no idea what stocks were worth. Bankers tried to arrest the slide with bulk purchases of blue chips above trading prices. But when the market opened on Monday, it fell 13 percent. “Black Tuesday” (October 29) saw a 12 percent drop amid record trading (a record not broken for four decades), which brought the Dow Jones to 40 percent below the peak it had reached in September. The Wall Street crash came after a speculative boom in which stocks were being purchased at an average price-to-earnings ratio of 32, far above historic levels, thanks partly to the invention of margin buying. When prices dropped, investors could not pay back the loans they had assumed to purchase the stocks. Just one in six U.S. households owned stocks, but the shock provoked business bankruptcies, credit contraction, worker layoffs, and psychological uncertainty. Most remarkable, the weeklong drop in share prices occurred almost instantaneously on all financial markets in the world except Japan—and the Soviet Union, which, of course, did not have a stock market.¹⁰⁶

On November 5, 1929, following protracted negotiations between Britain and the Soviet Union, the House of Commons ratified restoration of diplomatic relations by a wide margin (324 to 199).¹⁰⁷ Each government continued to accuse the other of treachery, but for Stalin, diplomatic recognition by the world’s “leading imperialist power” denoted acknowledgment of the Five-Year Plan for rapid industrialization.¹⁰⁸ That same day, a politburo decree ordered the execution of the OGPU espionage operative Yakov Blyumkin. His fatal act had been to meet on Prinkipo with Trotsky, his former patron, who revealed that he had managed to carry out secret documents, which he intended to publish to expose Stalin, and predicted the regime’s downfall, averring that the underground “Bolshevik-Leninists” needed to strengthen their opposition. Blyumkin evidently sensed that Trotsky was fantasizing, yet he had agreed to carry messages to Moscow from Trotsky, written inside books in invisible ink.¹⁰⁹ He became one of the first Communist party members executed by the Soviet regime for a political crime.

A GREAT BREAK

The permanency, or not, of ad hoc regime violence in the countryside was set to be clarified at the year’s second Central Committee plenum, scheduled to open November 10, 1929, and Stalin went on the offensive, with a newspaper article, “The Year of the Great Break,” in Pravda on the revolution’s anniversary (November 7). “We are going full speed ahead by means of industrialization to socialism, leaving behind our traditional ‘Russian’ backwardness,” he declared. “We are becoming a country of metal, a country of the automobile, a country of the tractor.” In the run-up to the plenum, regime officials had begun to boast of fulfilling the Five-Year Plan in just four years, and, at the plenum itself, this would become a “vow” attributed to “the proletariat” and, soon, a ubiquitous slogan—“ 5 in 4.”¹¹⁰ His article predicted giant new farms of 125,000 to 250,000 acres, larger than even the biggest U.S. farms of the time, and insisted that “the peasants are joining collective farms . . . as whole villages, whole counties, whole districts, even sub-provinces”—a supposed movement from below, refuting the rightists. He further boasted that “the country in something like three years will become one of the most grain-rich, if not the most grain-rich, in the world.”¹¹¹ That would allow for vast grain exports, to pay for imported machinery.¹¹²

Local party committees, under intense central pressure, claimed to have doubled the number of collectivized households since June 1929—the basis of Stalin’s plenum’s assertions—but even so collectivization still amounted to only 7.6 percent of households.¹¹³ And it was eyewash anyway. “We had wholesale collectivization on the territory of dozens of villages,” the Ukraine party boss Stanisław Kosior admitted to the plenum, “and then it turned out that all of it was inflated, artificially created, and that the population did not take part and knew nothing.” Critical comments were also uttered by Sergei Syrtsov, who had hosted Stalin in Siberia the year before and been brought back to Moscow by him in 1929, becoming a candidate member of the politburo and head of the Russian republic’s Council of People’s Commissars (Rykov’s lesser position, taken away from him).¹¹⁴ When Syrtsov bemoaned the lack of thought given to policy implementation, Stalin interrupted, “You think everything can be ‘prepared beforehand’?”¹¹⁵

Stalin had the plenum compel a new capitulation from the rightists, which Pravda would publish (“We consider it our duty to declare that . . . the party and its Central Committee have proved right”), and on the final day (November 17) he prompted them to expel Bukharin from the politburo.¹¹⁶ But the dictator, passing a handwritten note to Orjonikidze acknowledging the hall’s sentiment, proved unable to finish off Rykov.¹¹⁷ Still, plenum resolutions warned of “the sharpening of the class struggle and the stubborn resistance by capitalist elements to socialism on the offensive.”¹¹⁸ In fact, before the year was out, the secret police would record at least 1,300 spontaneous, uncoordinated peasant protests against party policy.¹¹⁹ But Stalin forced through a decree that transformed his theretofore ad hoc pronouncements into an official mandate for wholesale Union-wide collectivization.¹²⁰

SHOW OF FORCE

Also on November 17, 1929, the Soviet Union launched the second part of a major military operation in Manchuria. Stalin’s China policy, a “united front” that forced the Chinese Communists into a junior partnership with the Soviet-supported “bourgeois” Nationalists (or Guomindang) to prioritize resistance to imperialism, had been in disarray. The Nationalist leader Chiang Kai-shek had massacred Chinese Communists, and had gone on to unify much of north and south China. The main exception was Manchuria, ruled by a warlord based in Mukden, Zhang Xueliang, known as the Young Marshal, who had taken over for his Japanese-assassinated father. In a conspiracy coordinated with Chiang, Zhang raided the Soviet consulate in Harbin, produced documents of Soviet subversion, and occupied the jointly managed Chinese Eastern Railway, a tsarist-built shortcut for the Trans-Siberian that afforded a sphere of influence.¹²¹ Aiming to evict the Soviets, Zhang’s troops violated the extraterritoriality granted by treaty and detained Soviet rail officials, charging them with spreading Communist propaganda and instigating rebellion. The USSR arrested Chinese merchants on Soviet soil and, in August 1929, broke off diplomatic relations.¹²²

Stalin suspected that the Mukden warlord, no less than the Nationalist government in Nanking, was in the pay of the British, the Japanese, or the Americans (or all three), so that the railroad seizure might be a diversionary action. He authorized formation of a Special Far Eastern Army consisting of local conscripts (as well as some ethnic Germans from the Volga region, a separate ethnic Buryat cavalry division, and one battalion of Soviet Koreans). They were commanded by Vasily Blyukher, the former top military adviser to Chiang.¹²³

Zhang’s Mukden regulars and irregulars numbered up to a quarter million, aided by thousands of former émigré White Guards. Japanese troops were stationed just 125 miles south of Harbin, guarding a rail spur, the South Manchurian Railway, from Harbin down to Port Arthur, which tsarist Russia had also built, but ceded the lease to Japan as war spoils in 1905. (This area was known in its Chinese characters as Guāndōng or Kwantung, meaning “east of the mountain pass,” beyond which lay Manchuria.)¹²⁴ Given these realities, Stalin had hesitated to punish the Chinese by force, despite Voroshilov’s urgings, but after the Soviet consul general in Tokyo obtained assurances from a well-connected Japanese industrialist that Japan would not interfere in a Soviet showdown with China as long as Red Army forces did not move too deep into Manchuria, Stalin agreed to the strike.¹²⁵ More than 300,000 soldiers, sailors, and aviators were mobilized on the two sides, including Soviet reserves and border guards—approximately 20 percent of the entire Red Army ended up being sent to or near the front. Blyukher drew up the war plan (availing himself of pre-1917 archives); Voroshilov took up field headquarters in Chita, Siberia. Both Chiang and the Young Marshal had underestimated Soviet resolve and capabilities, such as their superior air power and battlefield command.

Blyukher’s offensive was cleverly designed to annihilate the enemy before its full force could be mustered. Employing fast maneuvering in a combined sea-air-land operation, he encircled Chinese troops in just forty-eight hours, despite Soviet shortages of artillery. The Far Eastern Army had managed to operate on two salients separated by 600 miles and to synchronize three major operations: naval and amphibious assaults down the Sungari River (October 1929), a western thrust from Manzhouli, and an eastern one from Suifenhe (both in November 1929). The Soviets claimed to have had just 812 killed in action (though the toll was likely higher).¹²⁶ The Far Eastern Army was awarded the Order of the Red Banner.¹²⁷ Some foreign newspapers in the Far East lauded Blyukher as a “Red Napoleon.”¹²⁸ China’s government sued for peace, agreeing to restore Soviet co-control over the railroad and “disarm the White Guard detachments and expel their organizers and instigators from [China’s] Three Eastern Provinces.”¹²⁹ The Soviet military action beyond its borders reinforced deep anxieties among Polish and French diplomats. Japan’s Kwantung Army command, for its part, was in no mind to accept Soviet successes in Manchuria. High officials in Tokyo—who had allowed the Soviets to weaken Chinese forces—now concluded that Chinese troops could be easily vanquished, an inference that, if acted upon, could bring Japan and the USSR into collision.¹³⁰

Stalin was ecstatic. “Obviously our fellows from the Far East Army gave [the Chinese] a good scare,” he crowed on December 5, 1929, to Molotov (now the one on holiday). “We rebuffed America and England and France rather rudely for their attempt to intervene. We could not have done otherwise. Let them know what Bolsheviks are like! I think the Chinese landowners will not forget the object lessons taught them by the Far East Army.” Stalin added: “Grain procurements are progressing. We are raising the supply allocations for industrial cities like Ivanovo-Voznesensk, Kharkov, and so on. The collective farm movement is growing by leaps and bounds. Of course, there are not enough machines and tractors—how could it be otherwise?—but simply pooling peasant tools results in a colossal increase in sown acreage.”¹³¹

EVERYWHERE, VICTORY

From December 5 through 10, 1929, the regime staged the First All-Union Congress of Shock Brigades. “Workers took to the podium and spoke not only about their factory, their plant—they spoke about planning in general, about standardization, about control figures, and so on,” Valerian Kuibyshev, the head of the Supreme Council of the Economy, boasted from the dais. “That is how people can speak who feel themselves the masters of their country.”¹³²

On December 15, seven weeks after Black Tuesday on the New York Stock Exchange, a Pravda editorial declared that a general economic crisis had engulfed the United States. As other customers for large capital orders became scarcer, Stalin shopped the great capitalist department store. Starting with the American companies Freyn Engineering and Arthur McKee, Moscow signed “technical assistance” contracts to import the new American wide-strip steel mills and heavy blooming mills with which to build brand-new integrated steel plants at Magnitogorsk (Urals), equivalent in size to the flagship U.S. Steel plant in Gary, Indiana, as well as others in Kuznetsk (Siberia) and Zaporozhe (Ukraine). Additionally, the Soviets contracted with the Ford Motor Company to build an integrated mass-production facility in Nizhny Novgorod for cars and trucks, on the basis of recent Ford patents and its famed River Rouge plant. Caterpillar was engaged to re-equip factories in Kharkov and Leningrad to mass-produce tractors and harvesters, while giant tractor plants were contracted for Stalingrad and, very soon, Chelyabinsk, intended to be the largest in the world. Contracts would be signed with DuPont and Nitrogen Engineering to manufacture ammonia, nitric acid, and synthetic nitrogen, and Westvaco for chlorine. There would be ball-bearings technology from Sweden and Italy, advanced plastics and aircraft from France, turbines and electrical technology from Britain.¹³³ Virtually every contract would contain at least one turnkey installation—an entire plant from scratch to operation.¹³⁴ The Soviets had to pay with foreign-currency-earning exports (grain, timber, oil) or gold reserves.¹³⁵ But now Stalin’s regime even managed to obtain foreign credits, which, although short term, were frequently on favorable terms with foreign government guarantees and did not even necessitate that they redeem the pre-Communist state debts.¹³⁶

On December 21, 1929, Stalin officially turned fifty. Pravda had begun printing congratulations three days earlier, and on the actual day, the paeans occupied six and a half of the issue’s eight pages, with some of the approximately 1,000 congratulatory telegrams coming from factories and organizations, but not from collective farmers.¹³⁷ Molotov sent a private note. “I know that you are diabolically busy,” he wrote. “But I shake your fifty-year-old hand.” ¹³⁸ The state publishing house issued a collection of the tributes in an edition of 300,000 copies. “Wherever Stalin is,” it stated, “there is success, victory.”¹³⁹ The Pravda birthday issue carried the iconic photograph of Stalin with Lenin at the latter’s dacha and hailed the dictator as “the best pupil, heir, and successor of Lenin.” But that made him a target: “Stalin stands at the head of the Leninist Central Committee. Therefore he is invariably the object of savage abuse on the part of the world bourgeoisie and the Social Democrats.”¹⁴⁰

Stalin struck a modest pose in a published response (December 22), crediting the Leninist party and the working class, “which bore me and reared me in its own image and likeness,” and making a solemn vow: “You need have no doubt, comrades, I am prepared to devote to the cause of the working class, the cause of the proletarian revolution and world Communism, all my strength, all my ability, and, if need be, all my blood, drop by drop.”¹⁴¹

The newsreel agency produced a six-part silent amalgamation of Stalin moments caught on film: smiling, waving, graciously accepting accolades, wise, benevolent.¹⁴² It conveyed his revolutionary bona fides with tsarist-police photographs and fingerprints and images of the shacks he inhabited during exile in Solvychegodsk and Kureika. Viewers also saw his birth hovel and hometown of Gori, with its medieval-fortress ruins on the hill, a pantheon of childhood photos, and a long interlude at the current Tiflis home of his bespectacled mother, Keke Geladze, as she assembled a care package with his beloved homemade walnut jam. Now Stalin also became the organizer of the Red Army, an innovation canonized in Voroshilov’s birthday pamphlet, “Stalin and the Red Army.” Trotsky was provoked to consider writing a history of the Red Army and the civil war in rebuttal, but that would not get done: a suspicious fire at his residence destroyed many of his papers and books on the subject.¹⁴³ Voroshilov’s draft, meanwhile, had been sent to Stalin for prior approval. The defense commissar had written that Stalin made fewer mistakes than the others. Stalin wrote back, “Klim! There were no mistakes—cut that paragraph.”¹⁴⁴

CLOSE TO THE MASSES (METAPHYSICALLY)

Those who wanted to be part of the world-historical building of socialism would have to fall in line. “It is now completely clear that one cannot be for the party and against the present leadership,” the Trotsky apostate and state bank head Georgy “Yuri” Pyatakov wrote in Pravda (December 23, 1929). “One cannot be for the Central Committee and against Stalin.”¹⁴⁵ Unlike Italian fascism, however, Marxism had trouble admitting a cult of the leader. This delicate question was directly addressed—for perhaps the last time under Stalin—in the lead article of the journal Party Construction, published in connection with Stalin’s jubilee. The author, K. Popov, characterized leadership as necessary and Stalin’s as “armed with Marxist-Leninist revolutionary theory, forged by multiyear experience of the struggle for Leninism, hand in hand with Lenin.” Popov referred to a “leading group” within the party and to Stalin as “the genuine ‘first among equals,’” because, in his struggle for Leninism, he “invariably expresses the will of hundreds of thousands and millions.” Stalin’s illiberal regime, in other words, was democratic. Popov quoted Lenin to the effect that “one person can represent the will of hundreds and tens of thousands of people,” and underscored the “democracy” of party congresses, whereby “the will of the collective party leadership and the will of the leaders merge with the will of the masses.”¹⁴⁶

Soviet newspapers had taken to berating actual Soviet workers as shirkers, absentees, and drunks, ruining the regime’s industrial plan with indiscipline. The Menshevik émigré press speculated that “capitalist” types had regained control of the factories. Gorky, also abroad, was taken aback. “Negative reports must be balanced by positive reporting,” he urged in a letter to Stalin in late 1929. “Progress in carrying out the Five-Year Plan must be reported on a week-to-week and month-to-month basis . . . : the construction of housing, factories, plants, bakeries, community centers, canteens, and schools. . . . The press should keep reminding itself and its readers . . . that socialism is being built in the USSR not by sloppy individuals, hooligans, and raving morons, but by a genuinely new and mighty force—the working class.” Soon enough, updates on “socialist construction” and worker heroes—alongside the encomiums to Stalin and lurid tales of sabotage—would saturate the public sphere.¹⁴⁷

LIQUIDATION OF THE KULAKS AS A CLASS

Already by early December 1929, the Soviet state had procured 13.5 million tons of grain—more than twice as much as in any preceding year of the regime.¹⁴⁸ But the state had to feed many more rural folk (who had previously purchased or traded for food on the market), set aside grain for ambitious surges in export, and meet the rationing norms for the industrial cities and construction sites, as well as the Red Army.¹⁴⁹ In that connection, the November 1929 plenum had created a new USSR land commissariat. Stalin appointed Yakov Epstein, known as Yakovlev, the editor of Peasant Newspaper and a member of the disciplinary Central Control Commission, as commissar.¹⁵⁰ He presided over a commission on the tempos of collectivization and forms of collectives, which decided not on the kommuna—full socialization of everything—but on an intermediate form, the artel, with socialization of land, labor, draft animals, and fundamental implements, but private ownership of cows, other livestock, and some everyday tools. Collectivized peasants were also to be allowed to retain household plots. The commission’s thorniest question was whether the “class enemy” kulak would be permitted to join the new socialist agriculture. Disposition of kulaks had largely been left to locals, and many collective farms were admitting them. The Yakovlev commission warned against any blanket approach.¹⁵¹

Suddenly, however, in a speech on the last day (December 27, 1929) of a weeklong Congress of Agrarians-Marxists, Stalin preempted the commission, thundering in words Pravda carried two days later that “we have gone over from a policy of limiting the exploiting tendencies of the kulak to a policy of eliminating the kulaks as a class.” Liquidating an entire class? “Is it possible to accelerate tempos of our socialized industry more while having such an agricultural base as small peasant farms, incapable of expanding production and yet predominating in our economy?” he asked rhetorically. “No, not possible. Is it possible to continue for a more or less long period to base Soviet power and socialist construction on two different foundations—on the foundation of the largest and most consolidated socialist industry and on the foundation of the most subdivided and backward small-scale peasant economy? No, not possible.” He continued: “What’s the solution? The solution is to make agriculture large-scale, make it capable of accumulation, of expanding production, and in this way transform the agricultural base of our economy.”¹⁵² Stalin had a famously soft voice, but one audience member called his ultra-class-war speech “electrifying.”¹⁵³

Once again, the dictator had enacted a conspiracy within the regime: at Old Square, more than a month before, he had received the OGPU hierarchs—Yagoda, Messing, Yevdokimov, and others—as well as Georgy Blagonravov, the former head of the secret police transport department and now first deputy commissar of railroads.¹⁵⁴ This would be the kulak liquidation team.

Stalin also used his pencil to hand victory to the more rabid members of the Yakovlev commission: the partially socialized artels were no longer to be allowed as the main form of collectives indefinitely, but would be superseded by a leap to the “higher-form” kommunas. Stalin also crossed out mention of farmers retaining minor implements, chickens, or a milk cow and wrote in that collectivization was to be completed in just one to two years (depending on region), using dekulakization. All this became a politburo resolution approved on January 5, 1930.¹⁵⁵ Six days later, Yagoda asked his top subordinates how many people could be interned in existing labor camps and where new camps might be quickly established, encouraging them to “think creatively.”¹⁵⁶ The upshot was that each territory would have a deportation quota.¹⁵⁷ “Not everyone has the nerves, strength, character, and understanding to appreciate the scenario of a tremendous breakup of the old and a feverish construction of the new,” Stalin exulted in a letter to Gorky in Sorrento (January 17). “Naturally, with such a ‘baffling turmoil,’ we are bound to have those who are exhausted, distraught, worn out, despondent, and lagging—and those who go over to the enemy camp. These are the inevitable ‘costs’ of revolution.”¹⁵⁸

Stalin issued secret circulars to local party machines on the dekulakization of more than 2 million peasants, using every available instrument: the procuracy, courts, regular police (militia), secret police, party activists, urban workers, and, if necessary, soldiers.¹⁵⁹ Orjonikidze let slip the recklessness at the Central Control Commission on January 18: “Do not forget that in our conditions, what yesterday was considered correct today might already be incorrect.”¹⁶⁰

BUILDERS OF THE NEW WORLD

There were more than 500,000 settlements in just the European part of the Soviet Union. Newspaper articles and decrees made their way to the county level and even below, but the party-state lacked rural cadres that could see through consistent implementation.¹⁶¹ Stalin, however, had an ace in his deck: a decision to recruit urban workers to build socialism in the countryside had been announced at the November 1929 plenum. Trade unions (“Time does not wait!”) were recruiting “politically literate” workers who were to inject their superior “consciousness” into the vast “spontaneity” of the petit bourgeois countryside.¹⁶² Worker volunteers were backed by considerable force. Red Army men would be used sparingly—the OGPU was warning of “kulak” moods even among poor peasant soldiers—but thousands of OGPU internal troops were deployed.¹⁶³ “Those who are joining the collective farm, sign up with me,” one activist announced. “Those who do not want to join, sign up with the police chief.”¹⁶⁴

Of Stalin’s many instruments, however, none was greater than the enchanted vision of building a new world. The regime had planned to mobilize up to 25,000 urban workers; more than 70,000 were said to have volunteered, and around 27,000 were accepted. More than two thirds were party members, and more than four fifths were from industrial regions. The vast majority had between five and twelve years’ factory experience, but nearly half belonged to the 23–29 age cohort.¹⁶⁵ Only one in fourteen were female. “Your role is the role of the proletarian leader,” Kaganovich told a group of Moscow and Leningrad “25,000ers” about to depart for villages. “There will be difficulties, there will be kulak resistance and sometimes even collective farmer resistance, but history is moving in our favor. . . . Either we destroy the kulaks as a class, or the kulaks will grow as a class of capitalists and liquidate the dictatorship of the proletariat.”¹⁶⁶ Semyon Budyonny, the civil war cavalry hero, and Voroshilov had appeared at Moscow train stations to conduct send-offs to “the grain front.”¹⁶⁷ One worker recruit was quoted as saying, “It has been necessary for a long time to carry out such a firm policy, the sooner to catch up to capitalist countries.”¹⁶⁸

The 25,000ers descended on the countryside in late January/early February 1930, in advance of the spring sowing drive.* They discovered that the regime-instigated class war was eliciting both social solidarity—poor peasants hiding or aiding kulaks—and peasant eagerness to benefit from expropriating those betteroff.¹⁶⁹ Peasant property, seized in the name of the state without compensation, was supposed to be turned over to the new collectives after settlement of outstanding debts of the household in question, and its value counted toward the joining fees for poor peasant members.¹⁷⁰ But activists (or onlookers) who evicted “kulaks” could take their possessions. One OGPU report stated that members “of lower echelons of the party-soviet apparatus deprived members of kulak and middle peasant households of their clothing and warm underwear (directly from their body), ‘confiscated’ headwear from children’s heads, and removed shoes from people’s feet.”¹⁷¹ A favored trick was the “auction”: one new village party secretary managed to obtain a four-room house, valued at 700 rubles, for 25.¹⁷²

The OGPU secretly reported that some of the volunteers tried to rape village women and lusted for power. (“If I command it, you must do it, whether to jump into water or fire, otherwise it’s a bullet to the forehead.”)¹⁷³ Administrative chaos ensued in many places. Even conscientious 25,000ers were not well versed in management or agronomy, and most faced material hardships on-site, as well as armed resistance. “Remember, you sons of bitches, we’ll get even with you,” read notes delivered to 25,000ers in their names.¹⁷⁴ Ambushes by peasants with axes and sawed-off shotguns spread fear, concretizing the Manichaean propaganda.¹⁷⁵ But the orgy of confiscation occurred alongside rampant idealism.¹⁷⁶ Some 25,000ers reported indignantly that kommuna—not artel—collective farms had been imposed; others wrote earnest letters about “violations of socialist legality” (to the very authorities who committed them), risking charges of playing into the “kulak’s hands.” Many of the 25,000ers had escaped villages not long before and imagined that they were helping to overcome darkness and bring modern life to the countryside.

WRATHFUL SPRING

Early OGPU reports had been channeling Stalin’s delusion that “middle” and “poor” peasants were “turning toward the collective farm,” but soon enough the secret police reported mass resistance. (“Down with collectivization!” “No one is taking an ounce of grain from here!”) In March 1930 alone, the OGPU would register more than 6,500 spontaneous “anti-Soviet group protests.”¹⁷⁷ Peasants could not coordinate their opposition across regions, had no transregional leaders or access to the press, and were armed, if at all, only with hunting rifles. This was by no means a “civil war.” Of the 2.5 million peasants who joined protests, according to the secret police count for the year, most did so nonviolently, refusing to join the collectives. Still, peasants would assassinate more than 1,100 rural officials and activists in 1930. Another weapon was arson, “the Red Rooster,” set loose on administrative buildings.¹⁷⁸ Most frequently, protesters destroyed their own livestock: already one quarter of the country’s farm animals had been lost, a higher proportion than during the cataclysmic civil war. Almost half the mass peasant actions in 1930 would occur in Ukraine, where, in strategic regions bordering Poland, revolt overtook every inhabited settlement. Many villages elected their own leaders, ringing church bells to signal mobilization. Hundreds of leaflets were printed, in thousands of copies: “Down with Soviet power!” “Long live a free Ukraine!”¹⁷⁹

Stalin had been warning of how “liquidation of the kulaks” and the “sharpening of the class struggle” would encourage “imperialist intervention” in the USSR.¹⁸⁰ Had the “imperialists” been anywhere near as aggressive as he and Soviet propaganda painted them, they would have taken full advantage of his reckless destabilization.

Almost no one had foreseen Stalin’s stunning turn to complete liquidation of the kulaks, but now came another bolt from the blue: on March 2, 1930, Pravda published his article “Dizzy with Success,” castigating local functionaries as “blockheads” caught up in “communist vainglory” who “feared acknowledging their errors.” Stalin took no responsibility himself for the dislocation. “The collective farm must not be imposed by force,” he admonished. “That would be stupid and reactionary.”¹⁸¹

Despite his apparent retreat, intended to ease the pressure, the OGPU reports on domestic rebellion kept coming: uprisings in Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan, the Central Black Earth region, Siberia’s Barabinsk steppe.¹⁸² Enraged especially about the overthrow of Soviet governing bodies along the frontier with Poland, Stalin privately ripped into the OGPU “to stop making speeches and act more decisively” (March 19, 1930). An offended Vsevolod Balytsky, Ukraine OGPU chief, claimed to the republic party boss, Kosior, that he was already doing just that, from a command post in the field. Orjonikidze, dispatched to the scene, wrote that peasant rebellions in border regions were being smashed “using machine guns and, in some places, cannons.”¹⁸³

Trotsky, of all people, published an open letter to the Communist party (dated March 23) condemning the “adventurism” of violent collectivization and breakneck industrialization. Very few Soviet Communists could read the exile’s text, but they did not have to.¹⁸⁴ The Pravda issue with Stalin’s article was reselling for 3, 4, or 5 rubles in the countryside, and peasants were gathering to listen to it being read.¹⁸⁵ One peasant in the Lower Volga observed, “We have two governments—one in the center that writes to take back everything and the other local one that does not want this.”¹⁸⁶ In fact, some local officials did reject Stalin’s retreat. “If they saw someone with a newspaper, they beat them harder and condemned: ‘So, you’re reading comrade Stalin’s article,’” M. Kvasov wrote, in a letter published in Peasant Newspaper, apropos of a village assembly on March 27. “When the peasants showed the party cell secretary, Petrov, Stalin’s article, they declared, ‘You are concealing the party line.’ But Petrov answered coldly: ‘You, comrades, are non-party, and this does not concern you. Don’t believe everything in the newspapers.’¹⁸⁷ Local officials began to accuse Stalin of “right deviationism.”¹⁸⁸

In the regime’s urban strongholds, money was giving way to barter amid galloping inflation, coins (which contained silver) were being hoarded, and even cigarettes could not be had. “At Moscow Tricotage no. 3,” a trade union functionary wrote in his diary (March 14), “one worker gave a speech stating, ‘Stalin wrote a correct article, only late. Bukharin wrote about this half a year ago and now it is being done Bukharin’s way. Ilich was right, saying, “Don’t trust Stalin, he will ruin you.” ’”¹⁸⁹ Moscow provincial party boss Kārlis Baumanis—who had been ahead of Stalin in publicly promoting wholesale collectivization—was now made a sacrificial lamb, accused of extreme leftism. Kaganovich replaced him as party boss for Moscow in April 1930, while remaining a Central Committee secretary. Dispatched to Western Siberia that month (Roberts Eihe, the party boss there, was said to have appendicitis), Kaganovich got an earful, but he forced the local party bureau to adopt a secret resolution condemning as “leftist” their complaints against Stalin’s scapegoating of them.¹⁹⁰

Nikolai Kin, a worker in the southern Ukraine city of Kherson, sent Stalin a blistering rebuttal to “Dizzy with Success,” detailing how the Central Committee was at fault, the party’s authority was damaged, and regime policies were self-defeating: “We are liquidating the kulak, and developing orphans and the indigent, throwing the children of kulaks, who are guilty of nothing, on the street.” Stalin responded privately. “Time will pass, the fury will subside, and you will understand that you are incorrect from beginning to end,” he wrote (April 22), admonishing Kin not to take pride in being a worker. “Among workers all kinds of people are found, good ones, bad ones. I know old workers with long experience in production who are still following the Mensheviks and even now cannot emancipate themselves from nostalgia for the old capitalist masters. Yes, comrade Kin, all kinds of workers are found on the earth.”¹⁹¹

PROPAGANDA AND HUNGER

To immense fanfare, on April 25, 1930, the separate constructions of the northern and southern sections of the Turkestan–Siberian Railway, known as Turksib, were joined at Aina-Bulak, some eight months ahead of schedule, using excavators purchased abroad and gargantuan amounts of manual labor, amid climate extremes and self-generated chaos. The Soviets engaged and persecuted “bourgeois” specialists and Kazakh jataki (horsemen without herds); unemployed Slavic workers had flocked in for the ration cards. The upshot would be Siberian grain imported to Central Asia to allow further expansion of cotton crops, and, in the short term, a propaganda coup.¹⁹² To the ceremony/banquet for thousands in the steppes (“Long Live Turksib! Long Live Stalin!”), a special train from Moscow carried officials and foreign guests, “a microcosm of the Soviet world . . . and its capitalist encirclement,” quipped an American journalist.¹⁹³ A single Turksib could occlude many fiascoes, especially for people who wanted to believe. Not every person would be ideologized to the same depth, but life outside Communism was becoming unthinkable.¹⁹⁴

The Rostov Agricultural Engineering Works followed, the largest of its kind in Europe, pronounced complete on June 1, 1930, after three years of construction.¹⁹⁵ An iconic power station, Dneprostroi, at the cataracts of the Dnieper in Soviet Ukraine, was under fevered construction. Never mind that, for a time, half the derricks were occupied picking up the other half: the symbolism of harnessing nature in order to power a new industrial complex of projected aluminum plants and an integrated steel plant at Zaporozhe was linked in saturation coverage to individual transformation. “We build the dam, and the dam builds us” became the oft-repeated slogan.¹⁹⁶ Epic constructions of the state-of-the-art steel blast furnaces—and of new people—at far-off Magnitogorsk and Kuznetsk were bathed in bright spotlights, too, attracting hordes of foreign correspondents, many of whom were moved to renounce their skepticism.

The sites also drew peasant laborers seeking to transform themselves, escape from dekulakization, or find food. Reports of spot food shortages and starvation-induced disease were most extensive already in summer 1930 and emerged from the Central Black Earth region, the North Caucasus, Ukraine, the Soviet Far East, and Western Siberia.¹⁹⁷ The authorities in Kiev implored Mikoyan to send emergency supplies (“All local resources have been used”). The OGPU noted that collective farmers in Ukraine were refusing to work because they were not being fed, threatening a vicious food-shortage circle.¹⁹⁸ But it was in the Kazakh autonomous republic that hunger and mass flight were most extensive in the summer of 1930. More than 150,000 Kazakhs, and their nearly 1 million head of livestock, were said to be heading for Siberia, Uzbekistan, Iran, Afghanistan, and China.¹⁹⁹ Propaganda notwithstanding, the collectivization that was supposed to finance industrialization was instead threatening to starve it.²⁰⁰

LUCK BEYOND BELIEF

Stalin kept up the pressure to suppress resistance; the OGPU had made 140,724 arrests between January 1 and April 15, 1930, and from the latter date through September 30 it would make another 142,993. But he was powerless to reverse an anticollectivization wave unintentionally incited by his “Dizzy with Success” article.²⁰¹ The proportion of collectivized households, on paper, would collapse, from 56 percent as of March 1, 1930, to 24 percent by the summer.²⁰² In the Tatar autonomous republic, collectivized households fell from 83 to 13 percent. Altogether, perhaps 8 million households quit, taking 7 million draft animals. At the same time, at least 5 million households remained in collectives, and more than 4 million of them had joined only recently, meaning that this was their first agricultural season in the new way.²⁰³ The regime’s violence and the peasants’ resistance had put the spring sowing and thus the fall harvest under threat, with consequences for industrialization. Stalin—and the country—needed a miracle.

Getting collective farms up and running was not for the squeamish. A few 25,000ers were able to pry loose scarce tools, scrap metal, construction materials for barns and silos, spare parts for machines, generators, books, tobacco, and workers from their home factories for their collective farms, and many put their skills to use as mechanics to repair inventory. Peasants went from threatening 25,000ers to protesting their transfers.²⁰⁴ Tellingly, the vast majority of the volunteers would end up staying in the countryside as new rural officials. (On average, a 25,000er ended up in one of every three collective farms in the principal grain-growing regions, and in one of every five collective farms overall.) By and large, despite minimal regime support and their own ignorance, it seems they helped salvage the spring 1930 sowing season. One key contribution was their introduction of the brigade system into the fields.²⁰⁵

Regime concessions were even more consequential for the spring sowing. Peasants who quit collective farms were given back their seed grain if they promised to sow crops. Belatedly, the regime made clear that although the main fields, draft horses, and plows would be collectivized, some livestock could remain in households’ possession. For those who stayed in the collectives, gigantomania, whereby entire counties were combined into a single collective farm, was abandoned.²⁰⁶ Those who remained were also permitted to cultivate their own household plots of fruit and vegetables. Perhaps 33 percent of what these farmers grew in 1930 would come from these plots. The regime was keen to demonstrate the collectives’ superiority to individual household farming and allowed the collective farms to retain a sizable 3.5 tons of grain per household. Stalin would never again countenance such a generous retention. What the farmers did not consume, they could sell. Stalin assumed that the collectively worked fields would soon render small household plots and the maintenance of animals uneconomical, but for now his regime sent out a decree to “forbid the closing of markets, reopen bazaars, and not hinder the sale of their products on the market by peasants, including collective farmers.”²⁰⁷

Beyond 25,000er mobilization and grudging regime flexibility, local solutions to the chaos emerged. The central authorities had proved unable to settle on how collective farmers would be compensated, but the farmers sowed crops anyway as locales came up with their own compensation formulas.²⁰⁸ Sheer luck made an incalculable contribution in the form of spectacularly favorable weather. “Nature gave us an extra month of spring,” one official rejoiced, and, given how late the sowing campaign had begun, that month was crucial for the harvest.²⁰⁹ With harvest projections suddenly going from doubtful to promising, grain exports to earn hard currency for machinery imports would be increased far beyond what the Five-Year Plan had anticipated for 1930, to more than 5 million tons. Mikoyan crowed at a Moscow regional party conference in early June that “one more year, and we shall not only secure ourselves enough grain, but become one of the largest grain producers in the whole world.”²¹⁰

LAUGHTER, APPLAUSE

In the early summer of 1930, Stalin had sent Nadya to German doctors in Karlsbad for a stomach ailment. “Tatka! . . . What was the journey like, what did you see, have you been to the doctors, what do they say about your health, write to me,” he wrote on June 21. “We open the [party] congress on the 26th. Things are not too bad. I miss you very much. Tatochka, I am at home alone, like an owl. . . . Come home soon. I kiss you.”²¹¹ The 16th Party Congress opened as scheduled, the first since December 1927 and a massive affair, attended by 2,159 delegates, 1,268 of them with voting rights. Yet another purge had expelled more than 170,000 party members, especially in the countryside, for “passivity,” drunkenness, “defects in personal life,” “alien” social origins, or being “concealed” Trotskyites, and intimidated those who sympathized with the rightists.²¹² But because of new recruitment of worker members, sometimes of entire factory shops, membership in 1930 would rise by more than 500,000, to 2.2 million. Still, that was 1.4 percent of a total population of perhaps 160 million. Only one quarter of state functionaries belonged to the party, and in industrial management it was significantly less.²¹³

Stalin’s lengthy political report, over both the morning and the afternoon of June 27, proceeded in his now familiar catechism fashion of rhetorical questions, enumerated points, and key-phrase repetition, in a self-congratulatory tone. “Today there is an economic crisis in nearly all the industrial countries of capitalism,” he gloated. “The illusions about the omnipotence of capitalism in general, and about the omnipotence of North American capitalism in particular, are collapsing.” He deemed the crisis one of overproduction, and asserted that capitalism’s contradictions were sharpening, which goaded the bourgeoisie to foreign adventurism. “Capitalist encirclement is not simply a geographical conception,” he warned. “It means that around the USSR there are hostile class forces, ready to support our class enemies within the USSR morally, materially, by means of financial blockade, and, when the opportunity arises, by means of military intervention.” Stalin bragged, however, that the party’s industrialization tempos were making the Trotskyite super-industrialists of the 1920s seem “the most extreme minimalists and the most wretched capitulators. (Laughter. Applause.)”²¹⁴

Stalin remonstrated that “people who chatter about the necessity of reducing the rate of development of industry are enemies of socialism, agents of our class enemies (applause).” “Dizzy with Success” rural caution was abandoned: “Either we vanquish and crush them, the exploiters, or they will vanquish and crush the workers and peasants of the USSR.”²¹⁵ Because the “socialist sector” had come to dominate the economy, he declared, the USSR had entered “the period of socialism.” Congress delegates enjoyed the right to purchase scarce goods at the restricted OGPU store, including fabric for a suit (3 meters for just 54 rubles), a coat, a shirt, a pair of shoes, two pairs of underwear, two knitting needles, two chunks of regular soap, and one of bath soap. They also received, gratis, 800 grams of meat, 800 grams of cheese, 1 kilo of smoked sausage, 80 grams of sugar, 100 grams of tea, and 125 cigarettes. “This is, of course, a blatant buy-off,” observed Ivan Shitts, a Russified Baltic German (Shutz) and an editor at the Great Soviet Encyclopedia, in his diary, noting that despite propaganda trumpeting the “heady growth of production,” the opportunity to buy mundane goods was treated as a perquisite.²¹⁶

Budyonny, the country’s most famous horseman, joked at the congress that “we will destroy the horse as a class.” He had in mind not the peasants’ destruction of livestock, which the regime had provoked, but the introduction of tractors. Just in time for the congress, the Stalingrad Tractor Factory, whose construction had been rushed through the brutal winter, produced its first tractor. Stalin had sent a congratulatory telegram, printed in Pravda on June 18, thanking “our teachers in technology, the American specialists and technicians,” and lauding the plant’s prospective annual tractor output as “50,000 missiles exploding the old bourgeois world, and laying the road to a new socialist order in the countryside.”²¹⁷ This was the USSR’s first conveyor belt plant, but only 60 percent of the machine tools had been installed. Instead of a planned 2,000 tractors in the July–September 1930 quarter, the factory would produce 43, and an American engineer on-site noted that “after 70 hours of work they begin to go to pieces.” Soviet steel was awful, copper ribbon for radiators arrived scratched beyond use, thousands of the assembly-line workers were touching nuts and bolts for the first time. Two of the high-priced American engineers died from typhoid; others begged to go home.²¹⁸ Mastering Fordist assembly lines would take time. But a twenty-five-year-old Pravda correspondent, before he died of tuberculosis, gushed about the “uninterrupted flow of life, if you wish, the conveyor belt of History, the laws of its development in socialist conditions with all its breakdowns, terrible disruptions, savagery, filth, outrages.”²¹⁹

At pre-congress meetings in educational academies, factories, and major party organizations, sharp attacks had been leveled at party policy.²²⁰ But rather than attempt to lead this widespread sentiment—that is, behave like an opposition—Rykov and Tomsky had traveled to party gatherings and warned of attempts by “petit bourgeois elements” in the village and the “bourgeoisie” abroad to take advantage of divisions inside the party. Their reward was to be rebuked at the congress for insufficient zeal in repudiating their potential followers.²²¹

Bukharin, ill with pneumonia—what Trotsky contracted while under political assault—had gone to Crimea, where he hooked up with Anna Larina; she was sixteen, he was forty-one.²²² Rykov was left to shoulder the burden and, through vicious heckling, once again admitted his errors (“of tremendous political significance”) but denied that he was part of any opposition.²²³ During the proceedings, Stalin wrote to Nadya (July 2) in Germany, “Tatka! I got all three letters. I could not reply immediately, as I was very busy. Now at last I am free. The congress will end the 10–12th. I shall be expecting you, do not be too long coming home. But stay longer, if your health makes it necessary. . . . I kiss you.”²²⁴ The congress dragged on to the 13th. Tomsky, Bukharin, and Rykov were reelected to the Central Committee, which returned Rykov to the politburo. But Tomsky was left out of the politburo, and his people were systematically purged from trade union positions. “It could be said that this is a violation of proletarian democracy,” Kaganovich told the congress delegates, apropos of the firings, “but comrades, it has long been known that for us Bolsheviks democracy is no fetish.”²²⁵

Kaganovich was “elected” to full membership in the politburo. Voroshilov and Orjonikidze departed the capital immediately for holidays of around two months. On July 17, the Stalin loyalist Sergei Kirov reported on the party congress to the Leningrad party organization he oversaw. “In a word, do not be in a hurry,” he said, mocking the rightists. “If the question arises that it is necessary to press the kulak, why do it? We are building socialism anyway, and sooner or later the kulak himself will disappear. . . . If we need to conduct grain collections, if the kulak must hand over his surplus, why squeeze him when the price paid could be raised and he will then give it over himself. . . . In a word, the rightists are for socialism, but without particular fuss, without struggle, without difficulties.”²²⁶

Two days later, state bank chairman Pyatakov, the recanted Trotskyite, who had been talking heart to heart to Orjonikidze, wrote to Stalin detailing a fiscal crisis and runaway inflation from lack of attention to costs and promiscuous printing of money. He proposed radically streamlining imports, curbing exports of animal products, raising prices on many goods, and tightening expenditures at the wasteful iconic construction projects.²²⁷ It was, effectively, a belated post-congress brief for a course correction. Stalin did not immediately respond.

AN ANTICAPITALIST SYSTEM IN EMBRYO

Stalin’s personal dictatorship—known as the party’s “secret department”—got a new director on July 22, 1930: Alexander Poskryobyshev (b. 1891), whose father, like Stalin’s, had been a cobbler and who had trained as a nurse before the revolution. “One day,” the shaven-headed Poskryobyshev would recall, “Stalin summoned me and said, ‘Poskryobyshev, you have a frightful look about you. You’ll terrify people.’ And he engaged me.”²²⁸ On July 23, Stalin departed for his annual southern holiday, taking Poskryobyshev with him. Molotov was left to mind the store in Moscow. Nadya, after visiting her brother Pavel Alliluyev, the Soviet trade representative in Berlin, had returned from Germany and joined her husband. On July 26, Stalin’s Rolls-Royce, exiting the territory of the Puzanovka dacha, crashed into a car from the nearby resort Red Storm. Nadya, Budyonny, and Stalin’s main bodyguard, Ivan Jūsis, were also in the vehicle. A piece of flying glass cut Stalin’s left eyebrow.²²⁹

Stalin had been suffering occasional dizziness and a flaring of nerves, and doctors confirmed a diagnosis of neurasthenia.^{230, 231} His medical record for 1930, signed by Usher Leib “Lev” Levin, a top Kremlin physician who had taken care of Lenin, characterized the ruler’s living conditions (“good”), diet (“good”), work conditions (“intellectual, significant, interesting, indeterminate number of hours in the day”), drinking (“rare”), and smoking (“a lot”). It listed his appendectomy, which had left a scar, and illnesses over the years (chest pains, flu, polyarthritis, chronic tonsillitis, coughing). Stalin’s outward appearance was noted as “fatigued”; his liver and spleen as not enlarged. He was said to have frequent pain in his left shoulder muscles, which were atrophying, a result of a childhood contusion. Down south, he had his usual joint and muscle aches and undertook sulfur baths at Matsesta, near Sochi, which worked wonders. “After the course of baths, K. E. Voroshilov came over for a walk, and they drank cold, naturally carbonated water,” Stalin’s physician, Ivan Valedinsky, recalled. “After the walk Stalin’s throat hurt, [and he developed] so-called follicular sore throat with attacks and flaring.” Stalin’s temperature reached 102. It took four days to drop. After that, he complained of pains in his left leg. Valedinsky saw his patient every day for three weeks, and the dictator appreciated his company, speaking to him on a wide variety of topics: labor discipline, collective farms, the intelligentsia. When it was time for Valedinsky to depart, Stalin inquired how he could recompense him. “I asked for help in changing my apartment, which was a former merchant’s horse stable,” the doctor recalled. “Stalin smiled after this conversation. When I returned to Moscow, I was called by the Central Committee and told they would show me an ‘object,’ which turned out to be a five-room apartment.”²³²

Stalin cherished his recuperative time on the Black Sea. On August 13, 1930, he notified Molotov, back in Moscow, “P.S. Bit by bit I’m getting better.” Exactly one month later, he would write, “I’m now completely recovered.”²³³ But, as always, this was a working holiday, and he received ciphered telegrams every day, and fat packets of longer documents eight to twelve times a month. Many of the far-reaching changes to the country and the regime he set in motion the previous winter and spring were now consolidated.²³⁴ The secret police enjoyed a further ballooning in personnel.²³⁵ Strangely, there had been a reversal of fortunes between agriculture and industry. Meat and dairy production had fallen off a cliff, but the grain harvest—ultimately fixed at 77.2 million tons—turned out to be the best in Soviet history to date.²³⁶ With the agricultural cooperatives that had been marketing peasant products transformed into collectors of grain, and machine tractor stations also facilitating collections, the regime would procure a whopping 22 million tons at state-set prices. (The peasants ate or sold the rest on the market.)²³⁷ All the while, however, from July through September 1930, critical metal-producing and fuel industries declined, undermining industry as a whole. Labor supply became tight, railways devolved into bottlenecks, and inflation proceeded unabated. Glaring underproduction of tractors compared with plan targets and mass loss of livestock cast doubt on agriculture’s future, too.

Already in the summer and fall of 1930, while luminaries such as H. G. Wells, the British science fiction writer, were lauding the Five-Year Plan as “the most important thing in the world today,” the “planlessness” of Soviet planning was exposed in an incisive analysis by the Menshevik émigré newspaper Socialist Herald, which pointed out that setting maximal quantitative targets and goading each factory to meet them, where some would succeed and others not, and where even successes would be at varied levels, rendered coherence impossible. Overfulfilling the output target of nuts only led to waste if they exceeded the production of bolts; an increased supply of bricks provided no extra utility with insufficient mortar.²³⁸ Hoarding and wheeling and dealing via illegal markets—a shadow economy—became indispensable to the working of the “planned” economy but rendered shortages and corruption endemic. “We buy up materials we do not need,” noted the head of supply at Moscow’s electrical engineering plant, “so that we can barter them for what we do need.”²³⁹ With no legal market mechanisms to control quality, defective goods proliferated. Even priority industrial customers suffered anywhere from 8 to 80 percent defective inputs, with no alternative suppliers, and one factory’s poor inputs became another factory’s low-quality output.²⁴⁰

Stalin was well informed about the problems.²⁴¹ But he understood next to nothing of the structural pathologies he had embedded by eliminating private property and legal market mechanisms. Unaccountable regional party machines, meanwhile, were consumed by skirmishing. After a collective denunciation had arrived from Western Siberia against Roberts Eihe, Stalin wrote to Molotov (August 13, 1930) that Siberia had just been divided into two regions, west and east, and that no one had complained about Eihe when he had run all of Siberia. “Suddenly Eihe turns out to be ‘unable to cope’ with his assignments? I have no doubt this is a crudely masked attempt to deceive the Central Committee and create ‘their own’ artel-like regional committee based on mutual protection. I advise you to kick out all the intriguers and . . . put full trust in Eihe.”²⁴² Convoluted infighting near his holiday dacha, in the South Caucasus federation, involving Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan party bosses, was giving Stalin fits.²⁴³

The dictator also kept a close eye on Mikhail Kalinin, who enjoyed a high profile because of his peasant origins and his role as ceremonial head of state (chairman of the Soviet central executive committee).²⁴⁴ At the politburo, Kalinin occasionally allowed himself to vote against Stalin (as in the case of closing the cafeteria for the Society of Old Political Prisoners). Orjonikidze, at the party Control Commission, had received materials from the tsarist police archives to the effect that Kalinin, as well as Jānis Rudzutaks, had squealed while under arrest, leading to incarceration of other comrades in the underground.²⁴⁵ Then, individuals accused of belonging to a fabricated “Laboring Peasant Party” testified in prison about their plans to include Kalinin in a replacement government. Molotov hesitated to circulate the extracted testimony. “That Kalinin has sinned cannot be doubted,” Stalin insisted (August 23), intent on narrowing Kalinin’s scope to act independently. “The Central Committee must definitely be informed about this in order to teach Kalinin never to get mixed up with such rascals again.”²⁴⁶

Even as he attended to his personal power, Stalin drove the financing of industrialization. “We have one and a half months left to export grain: starting in late October (perhaps even earlier), American grain will come onto the market in massive quantities, and we will not be able to withstand that,” he warned Molotov (August 23). “Once again: we must force through grain exports with all our might.”²⁴⁷ Stalin insisted on sales even though world grain prices had fallen 6 percent in 1929 and would fall another 49 percent in 1930. (The equivalent of a year’s grain exports were being stockpiled across countries.) Prices for industrial machinery remained more or less stable, meaning that in 1930, twice as much Soviet grain had to be exported per unit of machinery imported than had been the case in 1928.²⁴⁸ “Some clever people will come along and propose holding off on the shipments until the price of grain on the world markets rises ‘to its ceiling,’” he cautioned Molotov in the August 23 letter. “There are quite a few of these clever people in trade. They ought to be horsewhipped, because they are dragging us into a trap. In order to hold out, we must have hard currency reserves. But we don’t have them. . . . In short, we must push grain exports furiously.”²⁴⁹

The Soviets would export just over 5 million tons of grain at an average price of only 30 rubles per ton (half that of 1926); they would earn 157.8 million foreign-currency rubles, equivalent to a bit more than $80 million.²⁵⁰ But whereas Soviet cereals had effectively accounted for zero percent of world market share in 1928, before 1930 was over the USSR would capture fully 15 percent.²⁵¹

Stalin continued to insist that the economic troubles in the capitalist world had only reinforced the dependence of Poland, Finland, and the Baltic states on the imperialist powers, which eyed these states as platforms for attacking the Soviet Union. In fact, the Polish government had secretly rebuffed the urgent entreaties of the Ukrainian national movement in Poland to invade the Soviet Union, evidently deterred by Soviet military measures on the frontier.²⁵² Still, Stalin warned Molotov about likely provocations by Poland or Romania and about Polish diplomacy. “The Poles are certain to be putting together (if they have not already done so) a bloc of Baltic states (Estonia, Latvia, Finland) in anticipation of a war against the USSR,” he wrote (September 1, 1930). “To repulse both the Polish-Romanians and the Balts we should prepare to deploy (in the event of war) no fewer than 150 to 160 infantry divisions, that is, (at least) 40 to 50 divisions more than are provided for under our current guidelines. This means that we will have to bring our current army reserves up from 640,000 to 700,000 men.” Otherwise, Stalin asserted, “we are not going to be able to defend Leningrad and the right bank of Ukraine.”²⁵³

CONSPIRACY OF LOGIC

The bulkiest papers in Stalin’s holiday mailbag had become OGPU reports of plots and accompanying protocols of interrogation. Thousands of specialists had been sentenced.²⁵⁴ From Sochi, Stalin had instructed Molotov to circulate to Central Committee members new “testimony” extracted from specialists in two agencies (food supply and the statistical administration). That same day, in a belated and indirect response to Pyatakov’s devastating memo on state finances, Stalin wrote to Mężyński demanding a report on “the struggle” against speculators.²⁵⁵ He had also written to Molotov “that two or three dozen wreckers from the [finance commissariat] must be executed.” He wanted them linked to the rightists, adding that “a whole group of wreckers in the meat industry must definitely be shot and their names published in the press.”²⁵⁶ Pravda (September 3) duly publicized arrests of prominent specialists. Executions would follow.

Privately, Stalin acknowledged his didactic purposes. “By the way,” he wrote to Molotov, apropos of a “Menshevik Party” trial, “how about Misters Defendants admitting their mistakes and disgracing themselves politically, while simultaneously acknowledging the strength of the Soviet government and the correctness of the method of collectivization? It would not be a bad thing if they did.”²⁵⁷ A scapegoat dimension was also manifest: on September 13, he wrote that supply commissariat “wreckers” had plotted to “cause hunger in the country and provoke unrest among the broad masses and thus facilitate the overthrow of the dictatorship of the proletariat.”²⁵⁸ Pravda announced the executions of forty-eight “food wreckers,” and the OGPU reported worker approval and intelligentsia disapproval of the sentences. (“In tsarist times there were also executions, but they were rare; now they look at people as if they are dogs.”)²⁵⁹ Stalin issued instructions for a trial of a “Union for the Liberation of the Ukraine,” which was staged in Kharkov’s Opera House with forty-five defendants: writers, theologians, philologists, schoolteachers, a librarian, medical personnel. “We ought not to hide the sins of our enemies from the workers,” he wrote to the bosses of Soviet Ukraine. “In addition, let so-called ‘Europe’ know that the repressions against the counterrevolutionary part of the specialists who try to poison and infect Communists-patients are completely justified.”²⁶⁰

The entire country, it seemed, was honeycombed with wreckers—including in the Red Army command: on September 10, 1930, Mężyński sent Stalin interrogation protocols incriminating Tukhachevsky and other high-placed military men in a conspiracy against the regime.²⁶¹

Tukhachevsky had been demoted from chief of staff to commander of the Leningrad military district. He remained a polarizing figure, a former nobleman who mixed prominently with tsarist general staff types, even though he had never gone to the general staff academy. Many people deemed him, as one put it, “smart, energetic, firm, but vile to the last degree, nothing sacred besides his own direct advantage.”²⁶² At a public book discussion, he had been the target of resentful shouts in the hall (“You should be hung for 1920,” a reference to the Polish-Soviet War debacle).²⁶³ Recently, he had submitted a fourteen-page memorandum to Voroshilov calling for massive increases in military industry. Tukhachevsky argued that no modern army could prevail without tanks, aircraft, chemical weapons, and parachute infantry for greater mobility. He called for annual production of no less than 50,000 tanks and 40,000 airplanes (which would rise in the future to 197,000 tanks and 122,500 aircraft). This unsolicited program had put Voroshilov—already anxious about Stalin’s fondness for Uborevičius, another modernizer—on the spot.

Voroshilov had had the memo vivisected by the new chief of staff, Shaposhnikov. Although Tukhachevsky had not specified the size of his proposed standing army, Shaposhnikov reckoned it at a preposterous 11 million, fully 7.5 percent of the Soviet population.²⁶⁴ Then the defense commissar had sat on these materials for weeks.²⁶⁵ Immediately after “Dizzy with Success” was published castigating excesses, Voroshilov had sent the original and Shaposhnikov’s damning assessment to Stalin, noting that “Tukhachevsky wants to be original and . . . ‘radical.’”²⁶⁶ Stalin had answered, “You know that I greatly respect comrade Tukhachevsky as an especially capable comrade,” a remarkable admission. But Stalin, too, dismissed Tukhachevsky’s “‘fantastic’ plan” as out of touch with “the real possibilities of the economic, financial, and cultural order,” and concluded that “to implement such a ‘plan’ would entail ruining both the country’s economy and the army. It would be worse than any counterrevolution.”²⁶⁷

Stalin’s letter had deemed Tukhachevsky a victim of “faddish ‘leftism,’” but in Mężyński’s September 10, 1930, letter, he was accused of harboring “rightist” sentiments as the head of a military plot. Collectivization had provoked hints of wavering in the Red Army (something Voroshilov denied), and Stalin was preternaturally given to seeing an ideological affinity between the party right deviation and the tsarist-era officers. Police informants who suffused the military milieu reported gossip, on the basis of which the OGPU had arrested two military academy teachers close to Tukhachevsky.²⁶⁸ At first their “testimony” was vague, involving his Gypsy lover (who might be working for foreign intelligence), but under police direction they began to “recollect” Tukhachevsky’s possible links to “right deviationists,” until soon enough they spoke of a monarchist-military plot to seize power.²⁶⁹ “I reported this case to comrade Molotov and asked for authorization, while awaiting your directives,” Mężyński wrote in his letter to Stalin, asking whether he should immediately arrest all the top military men named or await Stalin’s return, which, given the alleged existence of a coup plot, could be risky. Stalin instructed Mężyński to “limit yourself to maximally careful surveillance.”²⁷⁰

Had Stalin believed in the existence of a genuine military plot, could he have suggested waiting to arrest the plotters and remained on holiday, far from the capital, for another month? It is impossible to establish his thinking definitively. Still, it appears that for him the “coup plot” derived not from facts per se, but from Marxist-Leninist logic: criticism of collectivization ipso facto meant support for capitalism; support for capitalism meant colluding with the imperialists; furthering the cause of imperialism meant effectively plotting to overthrow the Soviet regime; plotting an overthrow perforce entailed assassinating Stalin, since he embodied the building of socialism.

Elections in Germany on September 14, 1930, meanwhile, delivered a sensation: the National Socialists received 6.37 million votes, 18.25 percent of the total, and increased their parliamentary deputies from 12 to 107, becoming the second-largest party in the Reichstag, after the Social Democrats, at 143. Communist deputies increased from 54 to 77. Pravda (September 16) deemed the vote a “temporary success of the bourgeoisie,” even while noting that millions of those who had voted for the Nazis had rejected the existing order.

Stalin at this time seems to have been more fixated on his nemesis Rykov, complaining to Molotov (September 13) that “the Council of People’s Commissars is paralyzed by Rykov’s insipid and essentially anti-party speeches. . . . Clearly, this cannot continue. Radical measures are needed. As to what kind, I shall tell you when I get to Moscow.” But Stalin could not wait, writing again from Sochi, “Rykov and his lot must go as well. This is now inevitable. . . . But for the time being, this is just between you and me.” By September 22, Stalin was urging Molotov to take Rykov’s place as head of government. “With the arrangement I am proposing to you,” Stalin noted, “we will finally have a perfect union between the top levels of the state and the party, and this will reinforce our power.” Stalin instructed Molotov to discuss the idea “in a tight circle with close friends” and report any objections. He appears to have written the same to Kaganovich.²⁷¹ Stalin also showed deep frustration over circumvention of central directives, despite newspaper exposés. In the same letter, he proposed “a standing commission established for the sole purpose of systematically checking up on implementation of the center’s decisions.”²⁷²

From reports of eavesdropped conversations, Stalin could read that the populace was unhappy with the consequences of wholesale collectivization, dekulakization, and accelerated industrialization—which was why Rykov was especially dangerous: he was a leader who could rally the disaffected and the opportunistic. It was not Rykov alone, moreover: at a politburo meeting on September 16, 1930, the Stalin protégé Syrtsov, head of the Russian republic’s Council of People’s Commissars, had agreed with Rykov, head of the USSR Council of People’s Commissars, regarding an accumulation of problems not being addressed, and supported Rykov’s proposals to sell scarce goods, such as sugar, at market prices to stabilize state finances.²⁷³ Molotov told the dictator that at the politburo meeting, Syrtsov had spoken “with frantic right-wing opportunist claims that it is not possible to solve acute economic problems with repressive ‘OGPU’ methods.”²⁷⁴ Despite Stalin’s impatience, the removal of Rykov—an ethnic Russian with a peasant background, who had worked with Lenin, occupied Lenin’s former position, and refused to embrace the role of opposition—would be no simple matter.²⁷⁵

Stalin forwarded the OGPU interrogation protocols incriminating Tukhachevsky to Orjonikidze on September 24. “Read without delay the testimony,” he suggested. “The material, as you see, is utterly secret, and Molotov, myself, and now you are the only ones to know about it. I do not know if Klim knows. It turned out that Tukhachevsky is a captive of anti-Soviet elements and was thoroughly worked over by anti-Soviet elements from the ranks of the rightists. . . . Is it possible? Of course, it is possible, since it is not excluded. . . . It seems the rightists are prepared to embark on the path of military dictatorship if only to escape from the Central Committee, collective and state farms, Bolshevik tempos of industrialization.” Here, again, was that objective “logic” of conspiracy. And yet, Stalin concluded the letter ambiguously: “We cannot end this affair in the usual way (immediate arrest and so on). We need to think this through.”²⁷⁶

On October 2, 1930, Mężyński sent Stalin interrogation materials relating to a clandestine Industrial Party. “To the OGPU, comrade Mężyński. In person only. From Stalin,” the dictator wrote back, specifying the exact content of the conspiracies and demanding corroborating testimony, which, if extracted, “will be a serious victory for the OGPU.” Stalin either believed or made it appear that he believed in the fabrications, instructing Mężyński’s interrogators to ascertain: “1) Why was the [foreign military] intervention in 1930 put off? 2) Is it because Poland was not ready? 3) Perhaps because Romania was not ready? 4) Perhaps because the Baltic states and Romania have not yet come to terms with Poland? 5) Why have they put off the attack to 1931? 6) Might they put it off to 1932?” Stalin added that the confessions would be made available to “the workers of the world. We shall launch as broad a campaign as possible against interventionists and thwart them in their attempts for the next one or two years, which is of great significance to us. Everything understood?”²⁷⁷

RUN THE GOVERNMENT?

Nadya had already returned to Moscow in August. “How was your travel?” Stalin had written with tenderness (September 2, 1930). “Write about everything, my Tatochka. I’m getting a little better. Your Iosif.” Writing again, he asked her to send his textbook for English.²⁷⁸ On September 8, he had written her about his difficult dental work. He sent peaches and lemons from his Sochi orchard. But something was amiss. “The Molotovs scolded me for leaving you alone,” she answered him (September 19). “I explained my departure by reference to my studies, but that of course was not the real reason. This summer I did not feel that you would like me if I prolonged my stay; quite the contrary. Last summer I felt very much that you would, but this time I did not. Of course, there was no point in staying in such a mood. Write, if my letter does not make you cross, but as you like. All the best. A Kiss. Nadya.” Stalin (September 24) denied that her presence had been undesirable (“Tell the Molotovs from me that they are wrong”) and assured her that, despite having had eight teeth filed down in a single day, “I am healthy and feel better than ever.” On September 30, she wrote that she had required an operation on her throat and had been bedridden for days. On October 6, she complained that “for some reason I am not hearing anything from you. . . . Probably you are distracted by your quail-hunting trips. . . . I heard from a young, interesting lady that you are looking fantastic—she saw you at lunch at Kalinin’s. She said that you were exceptionally jolly and gave no rest to everyone taken aback by your personage. I am glad to hear it.”²⁷⁹

On October 7, Molotov, Voroshilov, Orjonikidze, Kuibyshev, Mikoyan, and Kaganovich—but not Kirov (in Leningrad), Kosior (in Ukraine), Rudzutaks, or Kalinin (both away on holiday and outside the innermost circle)—met without Stalin to discuss his proposal that Molotov replace Rykov.²⁸⁰ The next day, Voroshilov wrote to Sochi that “Mikoyan, Molotov, Kaganovich, in part Kuibyshev, and I think that the best resolution would be unification of the leadership.” He left out Orjonikidze. Voroshilov added that “as never before, the Council of People’s Commissars needs someone with the strategist’s gift.” Stalin’s episodic interventions in day-to-day government operations had a disruptive quality, and regularizing them could be beneficial.²⁸¹ It is also possible that they reasoned that having Stalin shoulder responsibility for the details of government could diminish his dictatorial behavior, for someone else would have to run the controlling party apparatus. Voroshilov admitted in his letter that “the most important, the most, from my point of view, acute question in the combination under discussion would be the party leadership.”²⁸²

Mikoyan, in a separate letter, affirmed his support for “a consolidated leadership,” “like what we had when Ilich was alive.” Kaganovich wrote to Stalin (October 9) leaving it to him to decide, noting that “the most important strategic maneuvers in the economy and politics were determined, and would be determined, by you, wherever you might be. But will things get better if there is a change? I doubt it.” He concluded that this argued for Molotov’s appointment. Molotov wrote that same day, listing the reasons he was unsuitable and encouraging Stalin to take the post, but acknowledging that party work and the Comintern would suffer. Unsurprisingly, Stalin decided to hold on to the party apparatus, which afforded him the final word on policy and personnel without the day-to-day burdens of the government. Orjonikidze had ascertained from private conversations that Stalin felt it was “inexpedient at the current time to have a complete (including externally, in front of the whole world) merger . . . of the party and Soviet leadership.” Orjonikidze, perhaps the other obvious choice to replace Rykov, agreed with Stalin that Molotov should be the one. “He [Molotov] expressed doubts about how much authority he would hold for the likes of us,” Orjonikidze wrote to Stalin, “but of course all that is nonsense.”²⁸³

FICTION

Stalin returned to Moscow and, on October 14, 1930, received the OGPU hierarchs Mężyński and Olsky (the newly named head of the special department for the army).²⁸⁴ That same day, Bukharin phoned him on Old Square, requesting a face-to-face meeting. Stalin had forwarded to Bukharin some Industrial Party interrogations that mentioned a terrorist plot against the dictator, with connections to the right deviation. On the phone, Stalin accused Bukharin of fostering an atmosphere for terrorist acts by criticizing the party line. Bukharin exploded that day in a private letter: “I consider your accusations monstrous, demented slander, wild and, in the last analysis, unintelligent.” Stalin circulated the missive to the other politburo members.²⁸⁵ On October 15, the politburo removed Pyatakov from the state bank but postponed a decision on Bukharin until he could appear in person.²⁸⁶

Formal politburo sessions continued to take place, as in the time of Lenin, in the rectangular meeting room on the third floor of the Kremlin’s Imperial Senate, in front of Lenin’s preserved corner office. But officials were bypassing formal structures to obtain Stalin’s approval. Back from holiday, in his Old Square office, he received economics officials, the head of the railroads, a professor who had founded the Soviet biochemical industry, and the new head of foreign trade, Arkady Rosenholz (known as Rozengolts), in tandem with the foreign affairs commissar.²⁸⁷ On October 17 and again on the eighteenth, Stalin received Vissarion “Beso” Lominadze, recently appointed South Caucasus party boss, whom he did not trust, and Ruven “Vladimir” Polonsky, newly appointed Azerbaijan party boss. The second day’s tête-à-tête to sort out the Caucasus infighting lasted three and a half hours.²⁸⁸

The politburo assembled again (October 20) and, with Syrtsov reporting, ordered the designation of several priority regions—Moscow, Leningrad, the Donbass, Baku—with higher norms of supply for workers.²⁸⁹ The body also directed the OGPU to continue investigations of wrecking by alleged underground parties; decided to move the secret department of the central party apparatus from Old Square to the Imperial Senate, instructing Voroshilov to clean out undesirables still living in the Kremlin; and obliged Stalin to cease walking on foot in Moscow.²⁹⁰ Bukharin seems to have asked what more was demanded of him, accused Stalin of violating their truce, and stormed out of the session. The politburo ruled that Stalin had been correct in refusing the one-on-one meeting. The dictator supposedly said, “I wanted to curse him out, but since he has left, there’s nothing to say.”²⁹¹

Stalin was not the only one engaged in provocations. On October 21, Boris Reznikov, a student and party organizer at the Institute of Red Professors, who had worked under Syrtsov in Siberia as a deputy newspaper editor and had joined Syrtsov’s group of intimates in Moscow, sat in the office of Lev Mekhlis, a Stalin aide and editor at Pravda, and wrote a denunciation of “factional activities” by Syrtsov as well as Lominadze. According to Reznikov, Syrtsov’s “group” foresaw a collapse of Stalin’s regime as a result of economic catastrophe. Mekhlis forwarded Reznikov’s denunciation to Stalin that evening.²⁹² Reznikov, who nursed his own grievances against the dictator, played the role of agent provocateur, initiating a second informal meeting on October 22, in a private apartment, where he and Syrtsov again made critical remarks about the Stalin regime. Reznikov had aggressively solicited secret information from Syrtsov about the recent politburo meeting, and proposed that they link up with the right deviation, which profoundly worsened Syrtsov’s indiscretions.²⁹³ That same day, Stalin summoned Syrtsov to Central Committee HQ, on Old Square.²⁹⁴ Those present when Syrtsov had spoken, summoned to a confrontation with Reznikov, repudiated his accusations, but all the same, they were expelled from the party and arrested, and they confessed. As Orjonikidze would put it, “They did not want to speak the truth to the Central Control Commission, but when they were imprisoned in the OGPU they bared their souls in front of comrade Mężyński (laughter).”²⁹⁵

Reznikov further claimed that Syrtsov had said that if push came to shove, a number of party secretaries, including Andrei Andreyev (North Caucasus), Nikolai Kolotilov (Ivanovo-Voznesensk), and Roberts Eihe (Western Siberia), “might turn on Stalin.” Syrtsov had also stated, according to Reznikov, that “a large share of party activists, deeply dissatisfied with the current policy and political regime, still believe a tradition of collective leadership exists in the politburo. . . . We need to dispel these illusions. The ‘politburo’ is a fiction. In reality, all decisions are made behind the backs of politburo members, by a small clique of party insiders, who meet in the Kremlin or in the former apartment of Clara Zetkin.”²⁹⁶

The next day, Stalin forwarded the written denunciations by Reznikov against Syrtsov and Lominadze’s factional group (“essentially right-deviationist”) to Molotov—now the one away on holiday—commenting, “It is unimaginable vileness. Everything goes to show that Reznikov’s reports correspond with reality. They played at staging a coup; they played at being the politburo.”²⁹⁷

Meanwhile, Tukhachevsky, in the presence of Stalin, Voroshilov, Orjonikidze, and other politburo members, had been made to confront his two accusers from the military academy, and he, in turn, accused them of lying. It seems that Jan Gamarnik (head of the army political department), Iona Yakir (commander of the Ukrainian military district), and the latter’s deputy, Ivan Dubovoi, were also present and vouched for Tukhachevsky.²⁹⁸ Whether Stalin intended merely to intimidate the military men or had really wanted to incarcerate them remains unclear. In the October 23, 1930, letter to Molotov, he wrote, “As for the Tukhachevsky affair, he turns out to be 100 percent clean. This is very good.”²⁹⁹

Syrtsov and Lominadze would not get off as easily. “I considered and consider Stalin’s unwavering firmness in the struggle against Trotskyites and the right opposition an enormous historical service,” Lominadze wrote in his defense (November 3, 1930). “But at the same time I thought that Stalin has a certain empiricism, a certain lack of ability to foresee. . . . Further, I did not like and do not like that sometimes (especially during the days of his 50th jubilee), in certain speeches in the press, Stalin was placed on the same plane as Lenin. If memory serves, I said this to comrade Orjonikidze and pointed to the corresponding places in the press.” Lominadze’s admission put Orjonikidze in a bind.³⁰⁰

Their cases were adjudicated at a joint session of the Central Committee and the Central Control Commission presidium (November 4), where Lominadze and Syrtsov both confessed to engaging in political discussions with the other. Syrtsov did not back down from claims that politburo decisions were pre-decided.³⁰¹ “I did not doubt for one minute the need for the liquidation of the kulaks as a class,” he stated. “But I believe that, in addition to slogans, it is necessary and correct to have a detailed discussion of the implementation of these measures in a Central Committee plenum or a detailed meeting of the politburo. It seems to me we could have avoided many of the costs by doing so.” For stating the achievements of regime policy but also the problems—the precipitous drop in workers’ real wages, the shortages of goods (“an enormous counterrevolutionary danger emanates from queues”), the mass loss of livestock, inflation, budget shortfalls—and for suggesting the reintroduction of market mechanisms such as free trade, Syrtsov was accused of being a right opportunist and pro-capitalist, like Rykov.³⁰²

Stalin in his remarks denied using Clara Zetkin’s unused Kremlin apartment in the Grand Kremlin Palace—except maybe a little, to avoid distracting phone calls as he composed his report to the party congress. “While I was working in this apartment at different times, Molotov, Kalinin, Sergo, Rudzutaks, and Mikoyan each came to see me once,” he further divulged. “Did we, certain politburo members, occasionally meet? Yes, we did, mostly in the Central Committee building [on Old Square]. What is bad about that?” In a passage Stalin would edit out of the transcript, he inadvertently confirmed Syrtsov’s charge, elaborating how the regime actually worked: “Sometimes a question arises, you phone Voroshilov: Are you home? Home. Come over, let’s talk.”³⁰³

So Syrtsov was right: the “politburo” had become a kind of fiction.

Stalin played the victim (“Let them abuse me. I’m used to that”) and sought to accentuate the seriousness of the affair.³⁰⁴ “School pupils gathered, fancied themselves big politicians, and decided to playact as the politburo—is it worth it for us to waste time on these pupils?” he asked. “In another time and under different circumstances, one could agree with that assessment. But in the current conditions, when the class struggle has sharpened to the ultimate degree, when every factional sally against the party leadership strengthens the front of our class enemies, and double-dealing of unprincipled people is transformed into the most dangerous evil of interparty life—in such conditions, such an assessment of the ‘left’-right bloc would, at the least, be careless.” He characterized talk that blamed him as an invitation to “a host of terrorists.” Before closing, he turned his fangs on Rykov: “Your post does not exist for ceremonial purposes, but for implementing party orders on a daily basis. Is this the case now? Unfortunately not. . . . Such a state of affairs cannot last long.”³⁰⁵ When it came to the decision on Syrtsov and Lominadze, Stalin sought to appear the moderate, as usual, proposing only their demotion from full to candidate status. But a vote for expulsion from the Central Committee had already passed.³⁰⁶

SELLING OUT TO THE CAPITALISTS

Soviet newspapers (November 11, 1930) published lengthy indictments of prominent scientists and engineers accused of establishing a clandestine Industrial Party. It was said to contain more than 2,000 members who had worked undetected for years to wreck Soviet industry and transport and, ultimately, overthrow the regime with the assistance of foreign military intervention (by half a dozen countries), thereby delivering Ukraine’s wealth to Poland and France, and Caspian oil to Britain. “If the enemy does not surrender,” Gorky, from Italy, obligingly wrote in Pravda (November 15), “they will be annihilated.”³⁰⁷ Under klieg lights in the chandeliered House of Trade Unions (the former nobility club) on November 25, in front of scores of Soviet and foreign correspondents, eight engineers stood in the dock. Meetings at Soviet factories and the Academy of Sciences approved resolutions demanding the death penalty. Columns of workers were marched through snow in Moscow and other cities carrying banners: NO MERCY FOR THE CLASS ENEMIES.³⁰⁸ Thirteen days of delirium and treason tales ensued, with blanket coverage. The politburo decree specified the headlines, including “Our answer to the class enemy—millions of workers in the ranks of shock workers.”³⁰⁹

The problems faced by Soviet workers were all too real. An internal report (November 10) from a secret OGPU survey of cafeterias noted that half were being patronized far beyond capacity, and that “in all cafeterias (even in restricted ones) there are long queues, which causes worker dissatisfaction and negatively affects labor discipline.” The OGPU found rats (dead and alive), cockroaches, and flies (including in the soup), a lack of spoons, forks, and knives (forcing long waits for their reuse), lunches far below daily caloric norms, theft by employees, and filth beyond description.³¹⁰

Just as in the Shakhty trial two years earlier, the only “evidence” in the Industrial Party trial consisted of confessions recorded in secret police custody, which were repeated at the proceedings. (The published indictments had noted that one arrested engineer had “died under questioning.”) No witnesses were called. All eight defendants pleaded guilty. Leonid Ramzin, director of the All-Russian Thermal Engineering Institute, confessed to leading the underground “party,” and spoke of foreign panic at Soviet successes and of a pending invasion by Romania, to be joined by Poland, then France, and supported by the British Royal Navy, with émigré collusion.³¹¹ Two of the émigrés named had died before the supposed meetings took place. Also, Ramzin named as the prospective head of a replacement “bourgeois” republic a Russian engineer who admired Herbert Hoover (as an engineer) but who had already been executed, without a public trial, in a previous case.³¹² Never mind: Nikolai Krylenko, the prosecutor, hinted at veiled links between the “bourgeois specialists” and rightists in the party. All in all, the published trial transcript might be the best extended record to date of the workings of Stalin’s mind: the possible and the actual were fused into a narrative that could be—must be—true.³¹³

Stalin’s truculence, too, was evident. If in the Shakhty case he had willfully put several German citizens in the dock during negotiations for a Soviet-German trade agreement, now he targeted France, which he had recently called “the most aggressive and militarist country of all aggressive and militarist countries of the world.”³¹⁴ France had imposed restrictions on Soviet imports; the Soviets had countered with reductions in imports from France.³¹⁵ Krylenko elicited laughter by reading out French news accounts of Russian émigrés in Paris gathering in protest of the proceedings: grand dukes, clergy, merchants—that is, “former people.” But Ramzin testified at trial that he and other plotters had cooperated directly with none other than the former French president and prime minister Raymond Poincaré. The latter’s office issued a denial, which was adduced at trial as “proof” of the plot.³¹⁶ A foreign affairs commissariat official tried to render the charges credible, giving a briefing for foreign representatives that waved off necessarily simplistic propaganda of an imminent military intervention but insisted that influential anti-Soviet circles in capitalist countries were inciting war through provocations such as assassinations of Soviet foreign envoys, seizure and publication of secret Soviet documents, and press campaigns about Soviet kidnappings abroad.³¹⁷

Stalin needed no further evidence of such Western plots, but he had received a copy of a transcript of a recent confidential conversation between Winston Churchill, the former chancellor of the exchequer (out of office following the Labour party victory), and Prince Otto von Bismarck, a grandson of the famous chancellor. Churchill was recorded as telling the prince, who served in the German embassy in London, that “the growing industrialization of the Russian state presents all Europe with an extremely great danger, against which we can manage . . . only by creating a bloc of all the rest of Europe and America against Russia.”³¹⁸ Behind the scenes, Czechoslovakia’s foreign minister, Edvard Beneš, had sought to ingratiate himself with Moscow by telling the Soviet envoy in Prague (September 1930), “Confidentially, not long ago in Geneva, the French strongly insisted on action by Poland against the USSR with the active support of all members of the Little Entente” (an alliance of Czechoslovakia, Romania, and Yugoslavia, which the French hoped to direct against Germany and the members saw as directed against Hungary). Beneš shocked the Soviet foreign affairs commissariat by adding that if a military intervention against the USSR by France, Britain, and Italy took place, Czechoslovakia was “a member of the European states and will do the same that they do.”³¹⁹

Presiding judge Andrei Vyshinsky, as per instructions, read out guilty verdicts, sentencing three to prison terms and five, Ramzin included, to death. This came without right of appeal. The hall erupted in an ovation. Two days later, the regime announced that Soviet power was strong and had no need for revenge: the executions had been “commuted” to eight- or ten-year terms.³²⁰ The morning after sentencing, Ramzin was spotted at his institute office cleaning out his desk, without apparent guard.³²¹ He was permitted to continue scientific work while serving his prison term.³²² Some Soviet workers saw through the “wrecking” burlesque.³²³ But the leniency might have provoked the greater fury.³²⁴ Even émigré enemies of the USSR acknowledged that a majority of workers accepted the guilt of the “bourgeois” specialists. “They got 3,000 [rubles per month] and traveled in cars, while we live on bread and potatoes,” the well-informed Menshevik Socialist Herald quoted Soviet workers as saying. “They sold themselves to the capitalists.”³²⁵

Lurking in the background was Stalin’s long-standing personal nemesis, whose pen was once again prolifically engaged.³²⁶ Now forty-eight years old, Trotsky in 1930 published My Life: An Attempt at an Autobiography, in Russian, German, English, and French, aiming to document how he was the true Leninist. He also wrote a stirring three-volume History of the Russian Revolution, in which his own and Lenin’s roles were uppermost and Stalin’s nonexistent; the book’s preface was completed on Prinkipo on November 14, 1930. As it happened, that same day, Stalin returned a devoted young apparatchik of uncommon diligence to the central party apparatus as department head for economic personnel. His name was Nikolai Yezhov (b. 1895). Stalin received him on November 21, the first of what would be hundreds of private audiences connected to rooting out sabotage and treason.³²⁷

MYSTERY MAN

Rumors that Stalin had been killed were being spread out of independent Latvia, where many governments ran their intelligence operations against the Soviet Union, and on November 22 Eugene Lyons, a Belorussia-born, New York–raised UPI correspondent in Moscow and a Soviet sympathizer, suddenly got summoned to Old Square for a seventy-minute audience. Stalin had last granted an interview four years earlier, to the American Jerome Davis, and was still pursuing the same aim of normalizing relations with the United States, which had become the USSR’s third-largest trading partner, after Germany and Britain, but remained the only great power that withheld diplomatic recognition. In Stalin’s office, Lyons noted portraits of Marx, Engels, and Lenin on the wall. “My pulse, I am sure, was high,” he would recall. “No sooner, however, had I stepped across the threshold than diffidence and nervousness fell away. Stalin met me at the door and shook hands, smiling. . . . He was remarkably unlike the scowling, self-important dictator of popular imagination. . . . ‘Comrade Stalin,’ I began the interview, ‘may I quote you to the effect that you have not been assassinated?’ He laughed.”

Lyons established for a foreign audience that Stalin had a wife and three children (the Soviet populace did not know), and that he could be charming. “Commenting on the fact that he is called Russia’s Dictator,” Lyons wrote, “Comrade Stalin exclaimed with another hearty laugh: ‘It is just very funny!’”³²⁸ Lyons was treated to tea and sandwiches in an adjacent room while typing his dispatch. Russia’s dictator approved the typescript (“in general, more or less correct”), allowing it to be transmitted to New York, where the scoop created a sensation. Lyons returned to the United States for a twenty-city lecture tour. “One cannot live in the shadow of Stalin’s legend,” he observed, “without coming under its spell.”³²⁹

The Soviet-friendly New York Times correspondent Walter Duranty erupted at his handlers over Lyons’s scoop. Belatedly, Duranty, too, was granted an interview, also of seventy minutes, on November 27. He wrote that Stalin believed that the current global crisis in capitalism would deepen but not mark its demise, and yet the result would be a war over markets in the future, and the downfall of the the Versailles settlement.³³⁰ “Stalin is the most interesting personality in the world,” Duranty enthused in his telegram to the United States, which passed Soviet censors. “But of all national leaders he is the least known, he remains removed from everyone, mysterious, like a Tibetan Dalai Lama.”³³¹

A friend of Duranty’s, H. R. Knickerbocker, got his own scoop: an interview with Stalin’s mother, Keke Geladze, in Tiflis, for the New York Evening Post (December 1, 1930). “Revolutionary posters and the eternal appeal for harder work on the Five-Year Plan reminded one that all the way from Siberia to the edge of Persia the Soviet Union is dominated today by a single purpose, and a single will,” Knickerbocker wrote. Keke, speaking through an interpreter of Georgian, took responsibility for Stalin’s failure to finish the seminary: “He was not expelled. I took him out on account of his health. He did not want to go. I took him out. He was my only [surviving] son.” She pointed at a pile of periodicals, all mentioning Stalin. “See how he works,” she said. “All this he has done. He works too hard.” The article was titled “Stalin Mystery Man Even to His Mother.”³³²

STOUT INNER CIRCLE

All authoritarian regimes require a sense of being under siege by sinister “enemies.” The inhabitants of the USSR found themselves exhorted to relentless vigilance against class enemies, supposedly longing for foreign military intervention to overturn the Soviet regime, restore capitalism, and exact revenge. Under such a vision, even diehard socialists could be denounced as “White Guards”—as Lenin and Trotsky had denounced the Kronstadt sailors in 1921—if they opposed the Soviet regime. Pervasive domestic difficulties rendered the treason tales plausible, press reports gave them life, and Stalin afforded them great intensity.³³³ During the proceedings against Syrtsov and Lominadze, he had interrupted Mikoyan to say of his Communist party critics, “Now they are all White Guards.”³³⁴ Working intimately with the obliging Mężyński, he had elaborated a comprehensive scenario: a right deviation, a right-left bloc, “bourgeois specialist” wreckers, and a military conspiracy with right-deviation links, all of them with foreign ties, aiming to bring on war, reverse collectivization, sabotage industrialization, and remove him.³³⁵ He was the fulcrum.

On December 1, 1930, Syrtsov became the first politburo official expelled by the method of merely polling Central Committee members over the phone, without a plenum.³³⁶ During the whole year, not a single multiday Central Committee plenum had taken place. One had been postponed, perhaps because Stalin had to cajole members into accepting the sacking of Rykov.³³⁷ Now Stalin wrote to Gorky in Sorrento, divulging Rykov’s imminent replacement by Molotov, calling it “unpleasant business” while championing Molotov as “a bold, smart, utterly modern leader.”³³⁸ As for Bukharin, Stalin wrote to him on December 13, in his now customarily put-upon fashion, that “I have never refused a conversation with you. No matter how much you cursed me, I have never forgotten that friendship that we had. I am leaving aside the fact that the interests of the cause require each of us unconditional forgetting of any ‘personal’ insults. We can always talk, if you want.”³³⁹

Finally, on December 17, 1930, the delayed plenum opened, and at the last minute it became a joint session of the Central Committee and the punitive Central Control Commission.³⁴⁰ On the third day, after Rykov’s report had been lacerated by all and sundry, Kosior suddenly proposed relieving Rykov of his post and nominated Molotov to head the government. No one could doubt who stood behind the move. The vote was unanimous.³⁴¹ “Until now I have had to work mostly as a party functionary,” Molotov told the joint plenum. “I declare to you, comrades, that I go to the work in the Council of People’s Commissars as a party functionary, as a conductor of the will of the party and its Central Committee.”³⁴² Bukharin, in a speech also delivered on December 19, mocked himself and his allies and joked about executions of rich peasants and the shooting of party oppositionists, eliciting laughter, while still managing to score points about Stalin’s wild-eyed industrialization and collectivization—a bravura performance. (“This is turning into an incoherent discussion. I am deeply sorry for this fact, but it is not my fault.”)³⁴³ Over repeated interruptions, Bukharin had finally just told Molotov that they would do whatever they wanted, since “all power and authority are in your hands.”

Molotov had no prior experience in government, but he would prove himself up to the task. Born the ninth of ten children, in 1890, to a shop clerk in central Russia, under the name Skryabin (he was a nephew of the composer and pianist Alexander Skryabin), he had joined the Bolshevik faction in 1908 while a teenager, and in 1912 took the name Molotov (“Hammer”). Bukharin, speaking to Kamenev, had fumed about “that blockhead Molotov, who tries to teach me Marxism,” but Molotov had attended the St. Petersburg Polytechnic and edited Pravda before Bukharin did. Molotov’s underground hardening and diligence had attracted him to Lenin, who called him Comrade Filing Cabinet. An underling recalled that “everything he was given to do was done faultlessly, in time, and at any price.”³⁴⁴ Another observer, who described Molotov as “fully conscious of his importance and power,” noted that he could sit for long hours of hard work and was informally called Stone Ass.³⁴⁵

On the final day (December 21), Rykov was expelled from the politburo; Orjonikidze assumed his spot on that supreme body.³⁴⁶ Kaganovich assumed Molotov’s place as Stalin’s top deputy in the party. Whereas Molotov had been methodical and wooden, Kaganovich was dynamic and showy. The Menshevik Socialist Herald rightly judged the latter to be “of quite exceptional abilities,” with an excellent memory for names and faces, “a quite exceptional ability to deal with people,” an immense capacity for work, and willpower.³⁴⁷ Kaganovich ran the orgburo, which oversaw personnel and ideology, but Molotov, as head of government, would now chair politburo meetings, by tradition going back to Lenin. Molotov had known Stalin since 1912, and Kaganovich had known Stalin since 1919.³⁴⁸ “He was generally personally always against me,” Molotov recalled of Kaganovich later in life. “Everybody knew this. He would say, ‘You are soft, you are an intelligent, and I am from the workers.’” Molotov added, “Kaganovich, he is an administrator, but crude; therefore, not all can stand him. He not only pressurizes, but is somewhat personally self-regarding. He is strong and direct—a strong organizer and quite a good orator.”³⁴⁹

Voroshilov and Orjonikidze were closer to Stalin personally (the former had known him since 1906, the latter since 1907), and while Voroshilov continued to oversee the military, Stalin appointed Orjonikidze head of the Supreme Council of the Economy, in place of the faltering loyal dog Kuibyshev, who was transferred to the state planning commission.³⁵⁰ Kuibyshev had gone from voicing skepticism about lunatic plan targets to promoting them zealously; now Orjonikidze went from sharply criticizing industrial cadres to being their protector, and gathered around him capable “bourgeois” experts, even if they had been imprisoned for a time.³⁵¹ Sounding a bit like the sacked state bank chairman and former Trotsky supporter Pyatakov, whom Orjonikidze would make his deputy, he pointed out, in a long memorandum on industry in December 1930, that “money is being spent without any budget. . . . Accounting is exceptionally weak and muddled.” Stalin made only superficial notes on the memo; these were Orjonikidze’s worries now.³⁵²

None of the men in Stalin’s faction had the revolutionary profiles of Zinoviev or Kamenev, let alone Trotsky, but the Stalinists were hardened Bolsheviks and, under the pressure of events, strove to enforce his line and resolve problems, sometimes presenting him with solutions.³⁵³ He confided in them, writing scathingly about everyone else in the regime, and to an extent he allowed them room to work, reserving the right to reverse any of their decisions; they acknowledged his power to do so, knowing the burdens he shouldered. The heart of the regime remained awkwardly divided between party headquarters on Old Square, where Stalin had his principal office, and the Imperial Senate in the Kremlin, where the government had its offices but where the secret department of Stalin’s apparatus had moved, the politburo met, and Central Committee plenums were held. Voroshilov, in his letter concerning Rykov’s replacement, had noted that “having the headquarters and main command point” on Old Square was “cumbersome, inflexible, and . . . organizationally problematic,” adding that “Lenin in the current situation would be sitting in the Council of People’s Commissars” in the Kremlin.³⁵⁴ Clara Zetkin’s empty apartment in the Kremlin had served as a kind of transition to a permanent move to the Kremlin by Stalin, but this transition would be gradual; he continued to use his top-floor Old Square suite.³⁵⁵ In any case, as Kaganovich had mentioned, the regime was now wherever Stalin’s person happened to be.

•   •   •

INTO 1929, his seventh year as general secretary, Stalin had continued to enlarge his personal dictatorship within the Bolshevik dictatorship, and by the end of 1930 he had amassed still vaster power. This process of acquiring and exercising supreme power in the shadow of Lenin’s supposed Testament calling for his removal and the criticisms in the party made Stalin who he was.

Around the time of the December 1930 plenum, Iona and Alexander Pereprygin, two of the six siblings of Lydiya Pereprygina—the orphaned, scandalously young teenager with whom Stalin had had a long cohabitation during his last Siberian exile—were arrested for long-ago White Army service. They wrote an appeal to Stalin, reminding him of the “former friendship you nourished with us.”³⁵⁶ The brothers did not mention the son (Alexander) whom Stalin had allegedly fathered with Pereprygina and abandoned, but it is possible that one of Pereprygina’s sons was Stalin’s. (“Ёsif was a jolly fellow, singing and dancing well,” Anfisa Taraseyeva, of Kureika village, would recall. “He desired girls and had a son here, with one of my relatives.”)³⁵⁷ Pereprygina, who had married a local fisherman, was now a widow with numerous children; Stalin never assisted her. What action, if any, he took in response to her brothers’ letter remains unknown.³⁵⁸ When doodling, Stalin would sometimes draw wolves, but his days in a remote eight-log-cabin settlement among the indigenous Evenki on the Arctic Circle—where he almost died in sudden blizzards while hunting or fishing through holes cut in the ice—were a world away.

What Stalin forced through all across Eurasia was flabbergasting, using newspaper articles, secret circulars, plenipotentiaries, party discipline, a few plenums, a party congress, the secret police and internal troops, major foreign technology companies and foreign customers for Soviet primary goods, tens of thousands of urban worker volunteers and a tiny handful of top politburo officials, and the dream of a new world. Trotsky perceived him as an opportunist and cynic, a representative of the class interests of the bureaucracy, a person bereft of convictions. With Rykov’s expulsion from the politburo, Trotsky even predicted, in his Bulletin of the Opposition, that “just as the rout of the left opposition at the 15th Party Congress [in 1927] . . . preceded the turn to the left . . . the rout of the right opposition presages an inevitable turn to the right.”³⁵⁹ Others in the emigration knew better. “Stalin is acting logically in the new peasant policy,” Boris Bakhmeteff, the former Provisional Government ambassador to Washington and a civil engineering professor at Columbia University, had observed of collectivization to a fellow émigré as early as February 12, 1929. “If I were a consistent Communist, I would be doing the same.” No less shrewdly, he added, “Stalin is capable of adapting, and, in contrast to other Bolshevik politicians, possesses tactical gifts. But it seems to me wrong to think that he is an opportunist and that for him Communism is a mere name.”³⁶⁰

The Soviet state, no less than its tsarist predecessor, sought control over grain supplies to finance imports of machinery to survive in the international system, but Stalin ideologically excluded the “capitalist path.” His vision was one of anticapitalist modernity. The perpetual emergency rule required to build socialism afforded free rein to his inner demons as well. Stalin’s persecution of his friend Bukharin in 1929–30 revealed new depths of malice, as well as self-pity.³⁶¹ At the same time, his deft political neutering of Bukharin, Tomsky, and Rykov had demanded considerable exertion.³⁶² The rightists possessed an alternative program that—whether or not it could possibly work to achieve socialism—commanded support. Indeed, it is striking how much potential power the right wing of the party had possessed within the politburo, and how Stalin crushed them anyway.³⁶³ They were hard pressed to match his cunning, and immobilized by their own aversion to schism: amid the mass peasant revolts that Rykov himself had predicted, the rightists shrank from too public a challenge to the party line.³⁶⁴ Tactics aside, the rightists were handcuffed by party structures and practices: they had no way to capitalize on the deep disillusionment in the army and the secret police, except via a conspiracy, even when they were still members of the politburo. Rykov was respected but had made no friends throttling army budgets, and, unlike Stalin, had not earned plaudits at the front in the civil war.³⁶⁵

Stalin had adroitly positioned himself as the incarnation of the popular will and historical necessity, but his resounding political triumph of 1929–30 had demonstrated a certain dependency, beyond even the luck of the harvest. His power rested on Mężyński and Yagoda, who were in operational command of the secret police and not personally close to him, though keen to demonstrate their loyalty—but could Stalin be sure? Not for nothing had he promoted Yevdokimov. More fundamentally, Stalin’s power rested upon just four fellow politburo members: Molotov, Kaganovich, Orjonikidze, and Voroshilov. The first two seemed unlikely ever to waver. But Orjonikidze and Voroshilov? Had they acted on their knowledge of the dangerous muddle Stalin had created with his “Great Break” and embraced the well-founded critiques put forward by the Stalin protégé Syrtsov and the Orjonikidze protégé Lominadze, the two authoritative figures in the politburo could have taken Stalin down. Of course, the question would have been, Who could replace him? No one in Stalin’s faction appeared to consider himself the dictator’s equal. Still, what if, going forward, they changed their minds? What if further difficulties arose, and this time foreign capitalists selling their state-of-the-art technology, and the peasants and the weather delivering a bounteous harvest, did not come to Stalin’s rescue?

CHAPTER 2 APOCALYPSE

Using deception, slander, and cunning against party members, with the aid of unbelievable acts of violence and terror, under the guise of a struggle to uphold the purity of Bolshevik principles and party unity, and using a powerful centralized party apparatus as his base, Stalin has over the past five years cut off and eliminated from positions of leadership all the best, genuinely Bolshevik cadres in the party and has established his personal dictatorship within the party and throughout the country as a whole, breaking with Leninism and taking a path of the most unbridled adventurism and uncontrolled personal tyranny, bringing the Soviet Union to the brink of the abyss.

MARTEMYAN RYUTIN, Communist party official, August–September 1932 ¹

IN THE FALL OF 1930, Japan celebrated the twenty-fifth anniversary of its victory in the Russo-Japanese War with fanfare, paying tribute to Admiral Tōgō (who was still active) and other “war gods” and reenacting Port Arthur’s capture at the Kabuki Theater. “As a father,” a general declares in the play, spurring wild applause, “I am pleased with the death of my two sons for the emperor.”² That same fall, as soon as the surprise harvest bounty had been gathered, Stalin renewed his all-out forced collectivization and kulak deportations.³ The December 1930 Central Committee plenum rubber-stamped his extremism, demanding 80 percent collectivization over the course of the next year in top grain-growing areas (Ukraine, North Caucasus, Lower Volga, Central Volga), and 50 percent in the next group (Central Black Earth, Siberia, Urals, steppes of Ukraine, Kazakhstan).⁴ When the Eastern Siberians balked, Stalin replied that 50 percent was “a minimum target.”⁵ The plenum had also formally approved fulfillment of the Five-Year Plan within four years (by the end of 1932), while stipulating that 1931 would see the most ambitious industrial leap yet: a 35 percent rise in GDP, and a 45 percent jump in industry.⁶ Stalin was spearheading a depiction of industrialization as class war, a revolutionary upsurge against a stepped-up offensive by alien elements, which struck a deep chord.⁷ Some contemporaries did note the obvious falseness of the regime’s ubiquitous slogans, but other observers, such as the American journalist Eugene Lyons, would remark that “these boys are geniuses for advertising.”⁸

Mikhail Koltsov, the journalist-propagandist, boasted in Pravda (January 1, 1931) that “we are welcoming this new year happily and joyfully, without vacillations and doubts.”⁹ To enforce that steadfastness amid his distrust, Stalin used the police and party discipline.¹⁰ He also turned to the bully pulpit, decrying the inept factory boss, the consummate red-tapist, the windbag, all of whom were successes at profusions of loyalty but failures at delivering the goods. More ominously, he would warn of deliberate deception, collusion, double-dealing, and sabotage. But the dictator himself would turn out to be the grand saboteur, leading the country and his own regime into catastrophe in 1931–33, despite the intense zeal for building a new world.¹¹ Peasants would speak of the biblical Apocalypse, some saying that the Virgin Mary had sent a letter in golden script warning that bands of horsemen would descend and destroy the collective farms.¹² Instead, the Four Horsemen arrived in the form of the enforcement of the collectives and mass starvation. Rumblings within the party would surface, demanding Stalin’s removal.

BULLY’S MIND-SET

Henry Ford popularized the fact that manufacturing could be revolutionized by large capital investments and superior organization, throwing up a direct challenge for industry throughout the world economy. Mass manufacturing required costly, risky, up-front investments and a large market, but the Soviet statized economy removed competition (internal and foreign) and manipulated domestic demand, enabling industry to take advantage of assembly lines.¹³ During the Five-Year Plan, the USSR would erect from scratch or wholly rebuild more than 1,000 factories, many in Fordist fashion.¹⁴ All the advanced technology, with the exception of synthetic rubber, would be imported from leading foreign companies, and had to be paid for in hard currency.¹⁵ The imports were assimilated with difficulty, and limited to priority sectors, such as steelmaking, chemicals, and machine building. The construction industry continued to use brick and timber rather than concrete; steam, not electricity, continued to power railways.¹⁶ And even where blast furnaces or turbines were installed, auxiliary work was often still performed by hand or with primitive tools. Still, industry expanded significantly, and simultaneously with a plunge in production all across the capitalist world. Tsarist Russia had produced almost no machine tools in 1914; the Soviet Union, in 1932, produced 20,000.¹⁷

Under the slogan “Catch and Overtake” (the capitalists), the regime was on its way to acquiring not just a new industrial base but, finally, a substantial working class.¹⁸ Already in 1930, employed labor nearly reached the plan target for 1932–33. Full employment, a magical idea, resonated globally. By the end of 1930, unemployment had reached 2.5 million in Great Britain, more than 3 million in Germany (it soon doubled from that), and more than 4 million in the United States (it soon tripled). But the disappearance of the unemployed in the USSR gave rise to unprecedented labor turnover—workers had options—which in turn provoked draconian laws such as prison sentences for violations of labor discipline or perceived negligence, and mandatory labor books to track workers.¹⁹ Many workers and some managers fell into the inconsistently applied dragnet, but the excess of demand over worker supply subverted regime efforts to “plan” labor allocation. The flux was staggering: as many as 12 million rural folk permanently resettled in cities or at construction sites that became cities during the plan. (Moscow, which received migrants from other cities, too, swelled from 2 million to 3.7 million.)²⁰ Many tramped from place to place.²¹

No central decree explicitly outlawed private trade, but Stalin incited attacks against NEPmen (traders).²² The number of shops and kiosks shrank from more than 600,000 in 1928 to 140,000. Party-state pressure also squeezed out individual artisans. (Molotov then decried the severe scarcity of wooden spoons at factory canteens and the sheer impossibility of having clothes or shoes mended.)²³ Many NEPmen disappeared back to villages, but a large number found employment in supply departments, enjoying privileged positions in the new socialist order.²⁴ Meanwhile, with rationing for bread and other staples already introduced in major cities, Stalin had placed the Achilles’ heel of worker provisioning on the December 1930 plenum’s agenda. The gathering endorsed a practice, initiated at some factories, to form “closed” cooperatives inside the gates to distribute groceries and clothes. The larger factories would soon establish their own farms, granaries, and goods warehouses, an unplanned yet foreseeable result of the suppression of legal private trade and private enterprise.²⁵

Simply by virtue of its monopoly over politics and the public sphere and its dynamic mass organizations, the Soviet party-state stood out from other contemporary authoritarian regimes, but piecemeal introduction of a socioeconomic monopoly, too, added another major dimension to fulfilling the aspirations of totalitarian control. Centralized procurement and distribution imposed a nearly impossible administrative burden, and vast corruption and everyday ingenuity afforded people space to maneuver. Still, the Soviet state now asserted sway over not just people’s political activities and thoughts but also their employment, housing, children’s schooling, even their caloric intake—effectively, their families’ life chances.²⁶

The state itself was in upheaval, undergoing headlong expansion, thanks to elimination of private property, and political purging.²⁷ Skilled workers were promoted to fill many of the vacancies created by expansion and arrests.²⁸ This altered the demographics of the apparatus (but not its behavior) and of the working class, pushing the ratio of workers in large-scale industry aged twenty-two and under up to one third; the percentage of female workers rose as well.²⁹ New managers and engineers would have far more hands-on experience than tsarist-era ones, but for now, competence was in short supply and, combined with the frenzied pace, caused an epidemic of accidents and waste.³⁰ Some high-profile projects had to be shelved. Orjonikidze opened an All-Union Conference of Leading Personnel of Socialist Industry (January 30–February 4, 1931) with a speech that defended quantitative output targets but called for controlling costs, supplementing centralized allocation with direct factory-to-factory contract relations for additional supplies, and holding managers accountable for financial results and output quality. Further, he defended the “bourgeois” specialists, who for eighteen months had been subjected to withering public denunciations and trials for wrecking.³¹

But on the final day, Stalin arrived in the hall. “It is sometimes asked whether the pace can be reduced a bit, and the speed of development restrained,” he stated. “No, this is impossible!” His reasoning was revealing: “To slacken the tempo would mean falling behind. And those who fall behind get beat up. But we do not want to get beat up! One feature of the history of old Russia was the continual beatings she suffered because of her backwardness. She was beaten up by the Mongol khans. She was beaten up by the Turkish beys. She was beaten up by the Swedish barons. She was beaten up by the Polish-Lithuanian pans. She was beaten up by the Anglo-French capitalists. She was beaten up by the Japanese lords. All beat her—because of her backwardness, her military backwardness, cultural backwardness, political backwardness, industrial backwardness, agricultural backwardness. Such is the law of the exploiters: beat up and rob the backward and the weak, capitalism’s law of the jungle. You are backward, you are weak—and therefore you are wrong; therefore you can be beaten up and enslaved. You are mighty, therefore you are right, therefore we must handle you carefully.” He concluded: “We are a hundred years behind the advanced countries. . . . We must make good this gap in ten years. Either we do it, or they will crush us.”³²

The dictator tapped into Russia’s perennial torment over relative weakness vis-à-vis the West, and more recent fears of foreign forces ganging up on the socialist motherland. One participant would recall that Stalin “literally opened a valve through which the steam could be released.”³³ But he challenged bosses to get out of their offices. “There are many people among us who think that management is synonymous with signing papers,” he said. “This is sad, but true. . . . How is it that we Bolsheviks, . . . who emerged victorious from the bitter civil war, who have solved the tremendous task of building a modern industry, who have swung the peasantry on to the path of socialism—how is it that in the matter of the management of production, we bow to a slip of paper? The reason is that it is easier to sign papers than to manage production.” He enjoined them to “look into everything, let nothing escape you, learn and learn again. . . . Master technology. It is time Bolsheviks themselves became experts. . . . Technology decides everything. And an economic manager who does not want to study technology, who does not want to master technology, is a joke and not a manager.”³⁴

DROUGHT AND REGIME SABOTAGE

Who, precisely, was a kulak—an owner of three cows? Four cows? Criteria could be murky. But centrally imposed quotas forced answers.³⁵ Naming “kulaks” often involved preemptively denouncing others to save oneself or settling old scores. “Socialism was a religion of hatred, envy, enmity between people,” a group from Kalinin province (formerly Tver) wrote to Socialist Husbandry (March–April 1931).³⁶ Some peasants were motivated by class-war sentiments, but the quotas could be met only if many middle and poor peasants suddenly got classified as “kulaks.” Those who refused to join the collectives became “kulaks,” no matter how poor. The designation “kulak henchman” made anyone fair game, and ambitious secret police officials exceeded their quotas.³⁷ According to the OGPU’s own classifications, many of those swept up in antikulak operations were petty traders, “former people,” priests, or random “anti-Soviet elements.”³⁸ The haste, arbitrariness, and wanton violence facilitated the operation by inciting chaos and fears of things slipping out of control, spurring further harsh measures.³⁹ Stalin ordered a second wave of internal deportations beginning in late May (through early fall 1931), which proved nearly twice as large as the previous year’s.⁴⁰ He relied on local party bosses but especially the OGPU, and on the barbed rivalry between Yagoda and Yevdokimov for his favor.⁴¹

All told, around 5 million people were “dekulakized”—by the police, by their fellow peasants, or by choosing to flee, with an untold number perishing during deportation or not long after. Up to 30,000 heads of households were summarily executed. OGPU operatives improvised colonization villages, soon rechristened “special settlements,” which were intended to be self-sufficient, but despite a torrent of decrees, actual settlements with housing would be formed only belatedly.⁴² The dispossessed who survived the journeys in cold, dark cattle cars to the taiga had to make it through the first winter in tents or under the open sky.⁴³ They helped build the Magnitogorsk Metallurgical Combine, the Chelyabinsk Tractor Plant, and other Five-Year Plan showcases. The self-dekulakized and peasants who were dispossessed but not internally deported sought livelihoods at the same construction sites, provoking accusations of “infiltration.”⁴⁴ The deputy OGPU plenipotentiary to Eastern Siberia reported mass flight from the special settlements, too, because of “severe living conditions and the food situation,” as well as “epidemic diseases and high mortality among children.” People, he wrote, “were completely covered in filth.”⁴⁵

All the while, the regime was supposed to be facilitating the planting for the next harvest, the first in which the collective and state farms would predominate.⁴⁶ The Five-Year Plan had originally envisioned a 1931 harvest of 96 million tons, and as late as the end of 1930 the harvest was estimated at 98.6 million, far larger than the best prerevolutionary harvests.⁴⁷ But in 1931, a cold spring followed by a summer drought—a fatal combination—struck the Kazakh steppes, Siberia, the Urals, the Volga, and Ukraine.⁴⁸

Stalin got warnings of lagging harvest preparation as well as locust infestation and ordered some actions, but the regime seems not to have perceived the danger.⁴⁹ Kalinin wrote to the holidaying Avel Yenukidze (May 27, 1931), the secretary of the central executive committee of the Soviet, about the “unprecedented weather” in Moscow (“It’s just like the hot south; rain is rare and brief”) yet still asserted that “by all data the harvest should be good.”⁵⁰ He made no mention of the devastating loss of draft animals (slaughtered animals do not consume grain, but they do not pull plows, either).⁵¹ Matters were most dire in Russia’s Kazakh autonomous republic, where the regime had decided that, in order to overcome “backwardness,” it would force-settle nomads.⁵² This region was the country’s main meat supplier, but it was made a destination for several hundred thousand deported kulaks, further diminishing land for herds and increasing claimants on local food. State procurements took such a large proportion of the grain grown here that herders and their animals were effectively left to starve.⁵³ Reports reached Moscow of significant deaths among Kazakhs from famine and of mass flight to Uzbekistan, Siberia, Turkmenistan, Iran, and China in search of food.⁵⁴ Only the mountain territories of Dagestan matched the depth of starvation and epidemics seen again in 1931 in the Kazakh autonomous republic, a territory larger than Western Europe.⁵⁵

Urban rationing, meanwhile, was mired in bureaucracy, while investment in housing, health care, and education took a backseat. Stalin attended both days of a conference of industrial managers (June 22–23, 1931).⁵⁶ In a rousing closing speech, he stressed no-excuses fulfillment of plan targets, while enumerating six conditions for industrial development, such as promoting higher-education graduates and factory workers into administration, and observed that “no ruling class has managed without its own intelligentsia,” a euphemism for the emerging Soviet elite. His other conditions included expanding trade and differentiating workers’ wages to stimulate productivity. “Socialism,” Stalin concluded, “is the systematic improvement of the position of the working class,” without which the worker “will spit on your socialism.”⁵⁷

“SPRINGTIME”

Control over the military is always an issue in a dictatorship. OGPU special departments continued to maintain watch lists for officers with tsarist pasts. Anti-Soviet émigré organizations, in parallel, strained to perceive tensions within the Red Army and infused their correspondence with fantasies about an officers’ anti-Communist putsch. But the OGPU had infiltrated émigré groups and created front organizations to intercept their correspondence, track agents infiltrating from abroad, and entrap disaffected military men at home.⁵⁸ Many former tsarist General Staff Academy graduates would have been glad to see the Communist regime evolve into something else, but, having been relegated to administrative or teaching posts, they were in no position to work for an overthrow.⁵⁹ The smarter ones feared a foreign military intervention, precisely because the regime would round them up as presumed traitors (or, conversely, the occupiers would not forgive them for serving the Reds).⁶⁰ Voroshilov, the only quasimilitary figure in Stalin’s politburo, beat back the OGPU provocations to dredge up “enemies,” including against his own aide-de-camp.⁶¹ Still, dossiers accumulated.⁶² The central special department, in a kind of military equivalent to the Industrial Party trial, brought together initially disparate arrests, alleging a plot for a putsch in coordination with a military attack by the old Entente powers in spring 1931. Hence, the counterintelligence operation was code-named Springtime.

Mężyński certainly knew how to please Stalin, but he might have received direct instructions.⁶³ Stalin suspected Red Army commanders, few of whom were proletarians, to be “rightist” sympathizers secretly opposed to collectivization who would prove “opportunistic” in the event of an aggression from without. The roots of the “plot” were placed in Ukraine, even though the head of the Ukraine OGPU, Balytsky, had initially not taken to the task—until Mężyński reminded him that Ukraine’s Chekists had missed the Shakhty Affair (a “discovery” of the North Caucasus OGPU).⁶⁴ Balytsky telegrammed Moscow (February 15, 1931) about a “counterrevolutionary military organization” in Kharkov. “Ivanovsky talked about the existence of a general operational plan for an uprising in Ukraine,” he wrote of extracted testimony. “The plan was sketched on a map, which Ivanovsky destroyed during the Industrial Party Trial.” Ivanovsky was also said to have corresponded with a parallel Moscow organization; that correspondence, too, had been burned.⁶⁵

More than 3,000 former tsarist officers in Kharkov, Kiev, Moscow, and Leningrad were charged with conspiracy and espionage.⁶⁶ Shaposhnikov, the chief of staff of the army, whom Stalin had recently allowed to enter the party without the mandatory period of candidate status, was made to confront an arrested staff officer who accused him of belonging to the clandestine “organization.” Shaposhnikov exposed his accuser as a slanderer, avoiding arrest but suffering demotion, in April 1931, to commander of the Volga military district.⁶⁷ Several score officers were not merely intimidated but executed. The sixty-six-year-old tsarist major general Andrei Snesarev—who, despite having joined the Reds, was Stalin’s old nemesis during the Tsaritsyn days of 1918—was already in a labor camp on a death sentence commuted to ten years. Now he became one of the alleged plot’s “leaders” and was resentenced to death in summer 1931, although, once again, the dictator commuted his sentence (“Klim! I think, for Snesarev, we could substitute ten years instead of the highest measure”).⁶⁸

Tukhachevsky’s name, yet again, had surfaced in the “testimony” of those arrested. But Soviet intelligence had intercepted and decoded a telegram sent March 4, 1931, by the Japanese military attaché in Moscow, Lieutenant Colonel Yukio Kasahara, to the general staff in Tokyo, belittling the Red Army’s capabilities, and urging “a speedy war” before the propitious moment passed.⁶⁹ After four discussions of Japan at the politburo, on June 10, in a surprise for the brass, Stalin returned Tukhachevsky from the Leningrad military district and promoted him to replace the head of armaments, Uborevičius (who went to the Belorussian military district).⁷⁰ As a deputy defense commissar to Voroshilov once more, Tukhachevsky made a summer inspection tour of strategic regions. Thus was the sweeping Springtime operation wound down, for now; the collection of compromising materials on Tukhachevsky and others did not cease.⁷¹

Stalin, in parallel, kept a watch on military technology. In mid-June 1931, with Voroshilov in tow, he visited the central aerodrome, in Moscow, to inspect Soviet aircraft, climbing into the cabin of the new Polikarpov I-5 fighter, under the direction of Alexander Turzhansky (b. 1898), of the Air Force Research Institute. “Listening to my explanations, Stalin suddenly asked, ‘Where’s the radio?’” Turzhansky recalled. “‘On fighters there is no radio yet.’ ‘And how do you fight an air battle?’ ‘By maneuvering the aircraft.’ ‘That is unacceptable!’” A radio engineer hastened to the rescue, reporting that there was a prototype plane with a radio, but it awaited testing. Next up for inspection was a French Potez aircraft. Stalin asked, “‘And the French plane has a radio?’” Turzhansky answered in the negative. “‘Aha!’ said a surprised Stalin. ‘All the same, we need a radio on our fighters. And before them.’”⁷²

UPHEAVAL

Some OGPU operatives looked askance at the primitive fabrications against what were unthreatening military administrators and teachers already on a short leash. Additionally, although Yagoda liked to advertise his office on the third floor of Lubyanka, 2, as open, many operatives despised him. Messing, the second deputy chief and head of foreign espionage, teamed up with Olsky, Yevdokimov, and Abram Levin (who oversaw the regular police and was known as Lev Belsky), to accuse Yagoda and Balytsky of artificially “inflating” cases.⁷³ The rebels were hardly strangers to fabrication (Yevdokimov and Olsky had recently framed a group of microbiologists).⁷⁴ But they saw Yagoda as walking on eggshells over alleged ties to the right deviation. Mężyński’s continuing ill health helped spur the intrigue as well. His weight had ballooned to more than 250 pounds, exacerbating his heart condition, bronchial asthma, and endocrinal deficiency, and he had been reporting to work at Lubyanka perhaps twice a week for a few hours, before finally being sent to Crimea.⁷⁵ (He evidently spent time studying Persian, dreaming of reading the verses of the medieval polymath Omar Khayyám in the original.)⁷⁶ Mężyński returned to work only on June 8, 1931, and not at full strength.⁷⁷

Stalin could have seized on the intrigues to promote a favorite, such as Yevdokimov. The latter knew Stalin had no fondness for Yagoda, but he had miscalculated the dictator’s appetite for disorder in the organs, and for having Chekists force personnel decisions on him. On July 15, 1931, Stalin had Yevdokimov sent on holiday to the spa town of Kislovodsk and, ten days later, installed Ivan Akulov (a deputy head of the workers’ and peasants’ inspectorate) as first deputy chief of the OGPU. Yagoda nominally fell to second deputy. Stalin also advanced Balytsky to third deputy, a new post.⁷⁸ Akulov’s appointment from outside was Stalin’s response to the criticisms of OGPU illegalities.⁷⁹ Balytsky’s spot in Ukraine was given to Stanisław Redens, Stalin’s brother-in-law (through his first wife). Yevdokimov was assigned to run the OGPU in Leningrad in place of Filipp Medved (who was reassigned to Belorussia), but then the politburo reversed itself.⁸⁰ Medved stayed; Yevdokimov ended up in Central Asia.⁸¹ The regime warned those transferred not “to bring along any functionary at all close to him from the regions they were leaving when transferring from one place to another,” an entrenched practice of cliques that no decree could halt.⁸² A clique was how Stalin had achieved and exercised power.

Global financial shocks were spiraling, but how much Stalin understood or paid attention remains uncertain. France and the United States together held two thirds of the world’s gold, but their monetary authorities intervened to hold down the money supply, thereby failing to check the inflows of gold and causing global deflation. On July 6, 1931, France reluctantly accepted Herbert Hoover’s proposal for a one-year moratorium on intergovernmental payments, including Germany’s reparations. Hoover was concerned that Germany would default after the failure, in spring 1931, of Creditanstalt, Austria’s largest bank, founded by the Rothschilds and considered impregnable (but lacking liquidity because of efforts to sustain the country’s old industrial structure). That, in turn, had provoked bank runs in Hungary and Germany, too, and attacks on sterling. On July 8, strict controls were imposed on all German foreign exchange transactions, but five days later, one German bank collapsed. British officials fumed over France’s perceived intransigence vis-à-vis Germany’s hardship. “Again and again be it said,” British prime minister Ramsay MacDonald confided to his diary (July 22), “France is the enemy.”⁸³ British recognition of the need to “fix” the Versailles Treaty had only become more acute.

Despite the intense pressure on him, Stalin’s flashes of anger were rarely seen, although at the politburo on August 5, 1931, he exploded in full view at a fellow Caucasus comrade for not removing a skullcap.⁸⁴ The next day, evidently his last in Moscow, he convoked an ad hoc politburo “commission” to draft a party circular on the OGPU events. It explained that the dismissed operatives had “conducted a completely intolerable group struggle against the leadership of the OGPU” by spreading rumors that “the wrecking case in the military was artificially ‘inflated.’”⁸⁵ New rumors spread about what had really transpired.⁸⁶ Yagoda dispatched his own secret circular, approved by Stalin, admitting that “some individual operatives” had “forced the accused to give untrue testimony,” but Yagoda denounced accusations of systematic falsification as slander by “our class and political enemies.”⁸⁷

HOLIDAY MAILBAG

Voroshilov traveled for more than two months in the summer of 1931, stopping in Khabarovsk, Vladivostok, Blagoveshchensk, Ulan Ude, Chita, Irkutsk, Novosibirsk, Chelyabinsk, and Magnitogorsk, and writing to Stalin about the benefits. “You are right: we do not always take into account the colossal significance of personal travel and firsthand familiarization with people, with business,” Stalin answered. “We would gain a lot (and the cause would especially gain a lot) if we traveled more frequently to locales and got acquainted with people at work.” But the dictator did not follow his own advice, leaving Moscow only for Sochi: “I did not want to leave on holiday, but then I surrendered (I got tired).”⁸⁸

Stalin took full advantage of his southern holiday, writing to Yenukidze about having spent ten days in Tsqaltubo, in central-western Georgia, twelve miles from Kutaisi, where he had once sat in a tsarist prison. Its radon-carbonate springs boasted a natural temperature of 91 to 95 degrees Fahrenheit. “I took twenty baths,” he observed. “The water was marvelous.”⁸⁹ But field couriers delivered regime business in staggering volume: OGPU reports about Japan’s aggressive behavior, fuel problems, foreign currency expenditures, forestry, nonferrous metals, politburo minutes.⁹⁰ Functionaries often sat paralyzed until he responded. His mailbag was the nexus of what normally would be called the policy-making process. He chose what to read (or not), and his preferences and habits profoundly shaped state behavior. He tended to go on holiday during harvest season and inquired often about grain procurements while paying little attention to the cultivation of crops or animal husbandry.⁹¹ Stalin’s non-holiday mail was also voluminous. In the six months leading up to August 1931, the apparatus processed 13,000 private letters in his name—enumerating each writer’s identity, social origins, and employment and appending summaries of every letter, transferring most to the archives, sending some to government agencies for response, and forwarding 314 of them to Stalin.⁹² His aides tended to pass him letters purporting to be from former acquaintances (requesting material aid or seeking the status of association with him); any that took up Marxist-Leninist theory; and those proposing scientific inventions (one letter from Egypt was forwarded with the annotation “not particularly trustworthy proposal for invention of ‘death rays’”).⁹³ Another type concerned allegations of abuse by officials. Stalin usually forwarded this filtered correspondence to responsible functionaries, expecting an answer. (In May 1931, a member of the Young Pioneers scouts group had written back to report that local officials had finally come through with a pair of boots, making school attendance possible, thanks to Stalin’s intervention.)⁹⁴ “You are now all-powerful,” wrote one correspondent. “Your word determines not only the life but even the freedom of a person.”⁹⁵

The holiday correspondence revealed that Stalin knew of the terrible food situation. “Now it is clear to me that Kartvelishvili and the Georgian Central Committee secretariat, with their reckless ‘policy of harvest gathering,’ have brought a number of regions in western Georgia to famine,” he wrote to Kaganovich (August 17, 1931), using a word the regime would not publicly allow. “They do not understand that the Ukraine methods of harvest gathering, necessary and expedient in grain-growing regions, are not expedient and harmful in non-grain-growing regions that in addition lack any industrial proletariat. They’re arresting people by the hundreds, including party members openly sympathizing with those dissatisfied and not sympathizing with the ‘policy’ of the Georgian Central Committee.”⁹⁶ Stalin directed Mikoyan to send emergency grain to western Georgia.⁹⁷ One could never know which denunciation might catch Stalin’s eye.⁹⁸ He could even rise to officials’ defense when he perceived them to be victims of a vendetta.⁹⁹ Word reached him that one of his old Tiflis Theological Seminary teachers, seventy-three-year-old Nikolai Makhatadze, was imprisoned. “I know him from the seminary and I think he cannot present a danger for Soviet power,” Stalin wrote to Kartvelishvili in Tiflis. “I request that the old man be released and that I be informed of the result.”¹⁰⁰

Kaganovich was now Stalin’s top deputy in the party, and for the first time, the thirty-eight-year-old was managing affairs in the dictator’s absence. Stalin took pride in what he called, to Kaganovich, “our leading group, which was formed historically in the struggle with all forms of opportunism,” and reacted angrily to quarrels among them.¹⁰¹ “I don’t agree with you about Molotov,” he wrote to Orjonikidze (September 11, 1931). “If he’s giving you or the Supreme Economic Council a hard time, raise the matter in the politburo. You know perfectly well the politburo won’t let Molotov or anyone else persecute you or the Supreme Council of the Economy. In any event, you’re as much to blame as Molotov is. You called him a ‘scoundrel.’ That can’t be allowed in a comradely environment. You ignore him, the Council of People’s Commissars . . . Do you really think Molotov should be excluded from this ruling circle that has taken shape in the struggle against the Trotsky-Zinoviev and Bukharin-Rykov deviations? . . . Of course Molotov has his faults. But who doesn’t have faults? We’re all rich in faults. We have to work and struggle together—there’s plenty of work to go around. We have to respect one another and deal with one another.” Soon, an exasperated Stalin would reprimand Orjonikidze yet again: “We work together, come what may! The preservation of the unity and indivisibility of our ruling circle! Understood?”¹⁰²

In Sochi, Stalin was staying up high at the Zenzinovka dacha and measuring temperature differences with the lower Puzanovka dacha, in a reprise of his youthful days as a weatherman at the Tiflis observatory. Nadya had again departed early; her fall classes were resuming. “Everything is according to the usual: a game of gorodki, a game of lawn bowling, another game of gorodki, and so on,” he wrote, addressing her affectionately as “Tatka!” (September 9, 1931). Nadya replied that she had gotten safely back to a dreary capital. On the 14th, he wrote again: “I’m glad you’ve learned how to write substantive letters. There’s nothing new in Sochi. The Molotovs have left. They say Kalinin is coming. . . . It’s lonely. How are you doing? Have Satanka [Svetlana] write something to me. And Vaska, too. Continue to keep me ‘informed.’ I kiss you.” Nine-year-old Vaska (Vasily) wrote to his father (September 21) about how he was riding his bike, raising guppies, and taking photos with a new camera. Stalin wrote to Nadya about a visit from Kirov. “I went one time (just once!) to the seaside. I went bathing. It was very good! I think I’ll go again.” Nadya wrote back, “I’m sending the book by Dmitrievsky (that defector) On Stalin and Lenin. . . . I read about it in the White press, where they say that it has the most interesting material about you. Curious?”¹⁰³

MANCHURIAN SURPRISE

Instigator of mayhem at home, Stalin received a jolt from abroad. On the morning of September 18, 1931, an “explosion” just outside Mukden, on the South Manchurian Railway, disrupted a few yards of track; it did not even prevent the arrival of the latest train.¹⁰⁴ But within an hour, Japan’s Kwantung Army had begun massacring Chinese garrison soldiers sleeping in their barracks in northern Mukden, and by September 19 the Japanese flag already flew over the Chinese city. Japan’s military quickly seized other Chinese cities, revealing a premeditated plan.¹⁰⁵ Manchuria had long been a kind of Balkans of the east, a battleground in successive clashes dating back to the Sino-Japanese War (1894–95). Now, Japan claimed to be restoring stability following the supposed vacuum opened up by the Red Army withdrawal after its 1929 military confrontation with China over the Chinese Eastern Railway.¹⁰⁶ Half the world’s soybeans were grown in Manchuria, which found a hungry market in Japan, while exports of Manchuria’s iron ore enabled Japan to become the top steel producer in East Asia. Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist government in Nanking, which faced opposition from Chinese Communists and a breakaway Nationalist faction in Canton, ordered no retaliation by the Manchurian warlord Zhang Xueliang, and sought recourse in the League of Nations.¹⁰⁷

Soviet-Japanese relations had been tense, but Soviet exports to Japan had doubled between 1925 and 1931, while Japanese exports to the USSR, from a very low base, had increased tenfold. Still, Japan’s actions in Manchuria violated the 1905 Treaty of Portsmouth, which recognized a Russian sphere of influence around the Chinese Eastern Railway. Tokyo pressured Moscow to allow it to use that rail line to move its troops against Chinese forces and, when Moscow refused, arrested some of the Soviet employees; one died in custody (from typhus, Japan claimed), another from supposed suicide. Belatedly, the Soviets acquiesced in Japan’s use of the railroad to chase down Chinese resistance—right to the borders of the Soviet satellite Mongolia and the Soviet Union itself.¹⁰⁸ And so, after all the propaganda about looming “imperialist intervention” and the fabricated crimes of Red Army officers supposedly lying in wait to commit treason in the event of an external attack, an “imperialist” power had acted.

Stalin was preoccupied with the limitrophes, the former tsarist lands on the western frontier.¹⁰⁹ Soviet war plans took as their point of departure an enemy coalition of neighboring states, above all Poland (P) and Romania (R), which would be incited and supported by the Western imperialist powers. This “PR series” of contingency plans, drawn up in 1931–32, envisioned advancing in the Baltic region to protect Leningrad and the right flank, but mostly defending the presumed main axes, the center and the south, even retreating as far as the Dnieper River until full Soviet mobilization enabled a counteroffensive.¹¹⁰ But Stalin was well aware of Soviet vulnerabilities in the Far Eastern theater, too. By 1931, Japan’s Kwantung Army numbered 130,000, with another 127,000 Manchurian soldiers, out of a total Manchurian population of 30 million, versus fewer than 100,000 troops in the Soviet Far Eastern Army and a total Soviet Far East population of just 800,000, of whom one quarter were ethnic Koreans and Chinese.¹¹¹ Soviet rail capacity there was perhaps no more than four or five trains per day, too slight for mass reinforcements.¹¹² The Soviet Far Eastern Army had yet to acquire a fleet, air force, or storehouses in case the Trans-Siberian artery was cut off by enemy air strikes. Japan’s military did not need to read the secret OGPU reports to know that collectivization and dekulakization had undermined Red Army morale. The Kwantung leadership judged the USSR incapable of real war, so that if the Red Army did engage, the Japanese would pounce—and if the civilian government in Tokyo opposed a full-scale clash, then let it fall.¹¹³

Stalin chose not to hurry back to Moscow. At the politburo, some officials demanded resolute action to uphold Soviet administration of the Chinese Eastern Railway, just as in 1929, but Stalin suspected other countries would take advantage of a Soviet-Japanese clash, especially after Kaganovich and Molotov informed him of the lack of reaction by the British and the French. “Most probably, Japan’s intervention is being conducted by agreement with all or some of the great powers on the basis of the expansion and strengthening of spheres of influence in China,” he speculated to his minions (September 23, 1931). “Our military intervention is, of course, excluded; even diplomatic involvement is now not expedient, since it would only unite the imperialists, when it is advantageous to us for them to quarrel.”¹¹⁴

On October 1, 1931, the Council of People’s Commissars quietly raised the investment plan for armaments. Production had barely increased in the first nine months of the year.¹¹⁵ Stalin finally left Sochi for Moscow on October 7. Ten days later, the regime created a “committee of reserves” charged with stockpiling grain in anticipation of war. The ambitious export plans to pay for imported industrial machinery remained in place.¹¹⁶ But heavy rains were hitting drought-stricken areas, ruining part of the harvested grain that had been stacked. Across the Union, the larger-than-expected bulge in the urban labor force had pushed the number of people on rations to 46 million by fall 1931, from 26 million at the start of 1930.¹¹⁷ The army and the growing prison population, not to mention the bureaucratic hydra responsible for distribution of grain, had to be fed, too.¹¹⁸ Grain stocks in the entire Soviet Far East amounted to a mere 190,000 tons.

GLOBAL EARTHQUAKE

On Monday morning, September 21, 1931—nearly simultaneously with the Japanese aggression in Manchuria—Great Britain stunned the world, abandoning the gold standard, even though it had not run out of reserves.¹¹⁹ Within four weeks, eighteen countries followed the UK off gold. Stocks on the New York exchange lost half their value, the second crash in eighteen months. The pound’s resulting devaluation had global consequences, because Britain, along with the United States, served as the world’s principal short-term lender.¹²⁰ Soon London would embrace “imperial free trade,” meaning free only for British dominions, alongside protectionist tariffs for other countries, and would improvise a sterling bloc. This effectively ended a long epoch of Britain upholding an open global economic order.¹²¹

Pravda (September 22, 1931) triumphantly deemed the gold-standard démarche “not only a weakening of Britain, but a weakening of international imperialism as a whole.” Marxists like Stalin assumed the crisis inhered in the functioning of capitalism. In fact, human decisions transformed structural problems into what came to be known as the Great Depression. Central bankers and their acolytes had long believed in the necessity of convertibility between currencies and gold, but a fixed-exchange-rate system works only if there is convergence in the macroeconomic performance of the participants (similar levels of wage and price inflation, public and private deficits, competitiveness) and an absence of shocks. Now, confronted with a shock, monetary authorities chose to raise interest rates, exacerbating the problems. And finances became unglued anyway. By year’s end, nearly 3,000 banks in the United States, the citadel of world finance, would fail or be taken over as confidence and GDP cratered, accompanied by deflation in asset and commodity prices, disruption of trade, and mass unemployment.¹²²

The Depression’s impact proved worse in Eastern Europe than in Western, because largely peasant countries were whiplashed by the commodity price crash while their governments (Czechoslovakia excepted) depended on foreign financing, which dried up. Most Eastern European countries hesitated to depreciate their currencies, for fear of a repeat of hyperinflation, but they closed banks, imposed foreign-exchange and trade controls, raised tariffs, and postponed or suspended foreign debt payments—moves toward autarchy that magnified arbitrary bureaucratic power at the expense of markets and imparted further impetus to authoritarianism, right-wing populism, and xenophobia.¹²³ The USSR was also a predominantly peasant country, and although capitalist economic troubles initially had allowed Stalin to enjoy nearly unfettered Western technology transfer, now he was caught out, dependent on commodity prices and foreign financing for those industrial purchases.¹²⁴

Stalin had been preoccupied with a possible French-led collective boycott that could cut the Soviets off from all advanced technology, and Orjonikidze had bent over backward to a delegation of German industrial luminaries, while Stalin restrained the insurrectionist impulses of the German Communists.¹²⁵ Berlin, for its part, faced shrinking foreign markets and rising unemployment—and was coming around to the idea that Stalin’s crazy building of socialism might work. A bilateral trade agreement had been signed that extended German government-guaranteed credits to the USSR for a period of twenty-eight months, longer than the usual. The Soviets were to use the funds to purchase an additional 300 million marks’ worth of German industrial goods, at favorable prices.¹²⁶ The deal was supposed to underwrite the wild industrial leap of 1931 and put to rest, for now, the feared anti-Soviet boycott. German exports to the USSR would jump to double the level of 1929. But the agreement had not resolved the severe Soviet balance-of-payment problems.¹²⁷ The Soviets even failed to reap the benefits of the pound’s devaluation because of their renewed economic reliance on Germany.¹²⁸

Soviet reliance on expensive short-term credits—the only kind predominantly available to the Communist regime—imposed relentless pressure to retire maturing debt and obtain new loans. With Soviet foreign debt more than doubling in the period 1929–31 (it would increase 50 percent in 1931 alone), rumors of a pending default spread in the Western press. (Turkey and much of Latin America defaulted at this time.)¹²⁹ On October 6, 1931, the British chargé d’affaires in Moscow wrote to London that the severe Soviet balance-of-payments crisis, on top of the failures to meet 1931 output targets, would even compel Moscow to break off rapid industrialization and collectivization.¹³⁰ Wishful thinking aside, the worsening terms of trade and tariffs did force the Soviets to curtail imports of consumer and even capital goods.¹³¹ But the Soviets meticulously paid their debts. The pressure to do so partly explains the regime’s continued export of grain despite fears for the harvest and low global prices.¹³² Only state-imposed deprivation allowed the USSR to avoid external default.

THE STRUGGLE AGAINST KULAK SABOTAGE

Compared with the robust 1930 harvest—officially estimated at 83.5 million tons, but closer to 73–77 million—the 1931 harvest would come in somewhere between 57 million and 65 million tons. A cutback in grain exports loomed, but Stalin stalled the reckoning, continuing to lash out at the “liberalism” of rural officialdom for failing to extirpate “the kulak.”¹³³ He also countenanced intensified religious persecution and ruination of churches.¹³⁴ Still, he had grudgingly allowed a slight reduction in procurement targets for the Volga, the Urals, Siberia, and Kazakhstan, the most drought-stricken regions, while holding the line on Ukraine’s targets and raising the quotas for the North Caucasus (which had largely escaped the drought).¹³⁵ Mikoyan, on October 31, 1931, told a Central Committee plenum that on the eve of the harvest, “we had awaited the season of the grain collections with rainbow perspectives.”¹³⁶ Regional party bosses, given the floor, uttered the truth: drought and a poor harvest had rendered even the reduced quotas impossible. Stalin—who got his back up when officials cited natural causes as excuses—exploded, sarcastically mocking one speaker’s “exactitude” in adducing data on lower crop yields.¹³⁷ And yet, the dictator agreed to gather separately with plenum delegates from the grain-growing regions, which resulted in additional procurement reductions.¹³⁸

Growers were reluctant to sell even what they had at the regime’s punishingly low prices: in 1931, the market price per tsentner of rye was 61.53 rubles, versus the state price of 5.50; for wheat, the disparity was greater still.¹³⁹ But now, procurement agents grabbed even the food for minimal consumption. State collections in fall 1931 (and into early 1932) would leave farmers with less grain, meat, and dairy than in any year since the mid-1920s. “Comrade Stalin, I ask you to look into how collective farmers live on the collective farms,” urged one of the countless letters pouring in about the starvation. “At the meetings it is impossible to speak up; if you do speak up, then they say you are an opportunist.”¹⁴⁰

Stalin was the sole bulwark against retreat from building socialism. On November 16, 1931, as he was walking the short distance between party headquarters on Old Square and the Kremlin, down Ilinka Street, a former White officer and presumed British agent, whom the OGPU had under surveillance, chanced upon him.¹⁴¹ The man, who used the alias Yakov Ogarev, was said to have been so startled that he failed to pull his revolver from under his heavy overcoat. In another telling, the OGPU operative shadowing him had grabbed the enemy’s hand. Either way, Ogarev was arrested. “I recognized [Stalin] immediately from the likeness to his portraits I had seen,” he would testify. “He appeared shorter than I expected. He was moving slowly and looked at me intently. I also did not take my eyes off him.” There was no trial, no mention in the press.¹⁴² The politburo issued another secret resolution forbidding Stalin from walking Moscow on foot. The chance encounter somewhat recalled that of Gavrilo Princip and Franz Ferdinand on a Sarajevo street outside Moritz Schiller’s Delicatessen in 1914. But the armed Ogarev was no Princip.

QUEST FOR NONAGGRESSION

Japan, with its invasion of Manchuria, had seized an industrial territory larger than Germany, France, and Austria combined, while losing just 3,000 killed, 5,000 wounded, and 2,500 frostbitten.¹⁴³ “Japan plans to seize not only Manchuria but also Peking,” Stalin wrote presciently to Voroshilov (November 27, 1931), adding, “It is not impossible and even likely that they will seize the Soviet Far East and Mongolia to soothe the feelings of the Chinese clients with territory captured at our expense.” He further surmised that the Japanese would claim to be safeguarding the region from “Bolshevik infection” while creating their own economic base on the mainland, without which Japan would be boxed in by “militarizing America, revolutionizing China, and the fast-developing USSR.”¹⁴⁴ Stalin supported “serious preventive measures of a military and nonmilitary character,” including additional units for the Soviet Far East, walking a fine line between showing weakness, which might invite attack, and overly strong measures, which might offer a casus belli.¹⁴⁵ He also reinforced Soviet efforts to conclude nonaggression pacts with countries on the western frontier. Such a pact had been signed with Lithuania (1926), but he sought them with Latvia, Estonia, Finland, Romania, and, above all, Poland.¹⁴⁶

Amid reports that the French government was encouraging Japan to launch a war against the USSR and trying to insert a clause into its draft bilateral pact with Moscow that would be invalidated by just such a third-party attack—all of which fit Stalin’s cynical view of the imperialist powers—he suffered an unpleasant surprise: fierce resistance to a nonaggression pact with Poland from inside the foreign affairs commissariat.¹⁴⁷

Stalin, finally, had replaced foreign affairs commissar Chicherin—a hypochondriac frequently absent abroad for treatment—with his deputy, Maxim Litvinov.¹⁴⁸ (In a bitter parting memorandum, Chicherin fulminated against Litvinov, the Comintern, and “the GPU, [which] deals with the foreign affairs commissariat as with a class enemy.”)¹⁴⁹ Litvinov, never a close associate of Stalin’s, became the face of the USSR abroad.¹⁵⁰ Whereas Chicherin was aristocratic and urbane, Litvinov was rough hewn. He was also Jewish. He had lived in exile in the UK from 1907 through early 1918 and afterward as a midlevel embassy counselor, spoke fluent accented English, and had married an English writer, Ivy Low, the daughter of a prominent Jewish family, whom he called his bourgeoise. He continued Chicherin’s orientation on Germany while seeking to make all of Europe his bailiwick, but Stalin subdivided the department and inserted rivals.¹⁵¹ Still, issues of Stalin’s control remained (foreign affairs personnel, about one third of whom were Jews, were better educated than functionaries of any other government body).¹⁵² A Polish offer to Litvinov to resume talks for a nonaggression pact had been rebuffed—and Stalin had been informed only ex post facto.¹⁵³

The dictator was convinced that Poland’s ruler, Józef Piłsudski, was secretly working to undermine Ukraine, but also that, without Poland, a major imperialist attack on the Soviet Union would be far less feasible.¹⁵⁴ A Polonophobe himself, he nonetheless warned Kaganovich not to be taken in by the foreign affairs commissariat’s “anti-Polonism.”¹⁵⁵ Stalin discovered, however, that any decrease in tensions with Poland threatened bilateral relations with Germany: the Reichswehr chief of staff, on a visit to Moscow, expressed fears that a Soviet-Polish nonaggression pact would guarantee Poland’s existing borders.¹⁵⁶

Litvinov was also working assiduously, alongside his deputy Lev Karakhan, for a nonaggression pact with Japan, hewing to Stalin’s line to stress Soviet noninterference and to make concessions.¹⁵⁷ On December 13, 1931, the OGPU decoded and forwarded to Stalin an intercepted transcript of a conversation between the Japanese military attaché in Moscow, Kasahara, and his superior (visiting from Tokyo), advocating for war before the USSR became too strong and underscoring that “the countries on the Soviet western border (i.e., at a minimum Poland and Romania) are in a position to act with us.”¹⁵⁸ The attaché added that the Japanese ambassador to Moscow, Kōki Hirota, thought “the cardinal objective of this war must lay not so much in protecting Japan from Communism as in seizing the Soviet Far East and Eastern Siberia.” Stalin circled these territories and circulated the intercept to the politburo and the military command, advising that the Soviet Union risked becoming, like China, a rag doll of the imperialists.¹⁵⁹

Also on December 13, Stalin sat for a two-hour interview with the German psychoanalytical writer Emil Ludwig. When Ludwig noted “a bowing before all things American” in the USSR, Stalin accused him of exaggerating. “We do respect American business-like manner in everything—in industry, in technology, in literature, in life,” the dictator allowed, adding: “The mores there in industry, the habits in production, contain something democratic, which you cannot say of the old European capitalist countries, where, still today, feudal aristocrat haughtiness lives.” Still, in terms of “our sympathies for any one nation, . . . I’d have to say it would be the Germans.” Stalin had been exiled in Siberia, and Ludwig delicately suggested a contrast with Lenin’s European emigration. “I know many comrades who were abroad for twenty years,” Stalin answered, “lived somewhere in Charlottenburg [Berlin] or the Latin Quarter [Paris], sat for years in cafés and drank beer, and yet did not manage to acquire a knowledge of Europe and failed to understand it.”¹⁶⁰ Ludwig inquired whether Stalin believed in fate. “Bolsheviks, Marxists, do not believe in fate,” he answered. “The very notion of fate, of Schicksal, is a prejudice, nonsense, a survival of mythology, the mythology of the ancient Greeks.” Ludwig pressed: “So the fact that you did not die is an accident?” Stalin: “There are internal and external factors whose totality led to the circumstance that I did not die. But utterly independent of that, another could have been in my place, because someone had to sit right here.”¹⁶¹

CONCEALED MILITARIZATION

Despite Soviet groveling, the Japanese government did not bother to reply through diplomatic channels to renewed offers of a nonaggression pact.¹⁶² Voroshilov, in a note to his deputy Gamarnik (January 13, 1932), parroted Stalin’s line of a likely Japanese invasion, yet added skepticism. “The creation of a Far Eastern Russian government is being projected and other claptrap,” he noted. “All of this is rumor, very symptomatic.”¹⁶³ On January 29, Artuzov forwarded to Stalin a secret report (obtained via a mole) by French military intelligence, which envisioned four scenarios for the outbreak of a war: German occupation of the Rhineland, following a possible Nazi revolution; an Italian strike against Yugoslavia, drawing in France; a grudge match between Poland and Germany; and “a conflict with the USSR agreed by many countries.”¹⁶⁴ The fourth scenario—Stalin’s fixation—was supported by other reports of France supplying Japan and Franco-German rapprochement.¹⁶⁵ Anti-Soviet circles in Paris were fantasizing that Japan would make available liberated Soviet territory for the émigrés’ triumphal return.¹⁶⁶ Molotov, at the 17th party conference (January 30–February 4, 1932)—lower in stature than a congress—warned that “the danger of imperialist attack has considerably increased.”¹⁶⁷

A pseudonymous “letter from Moscow” published in Trotsky’s Bulletin abroad reported that at the party conference, Stalin had been largely silent. “After every sitting, delegates and visitors were asked, ‘What did Stalin say?’” the report claimed. “‘Nothing.’”¹⁶⁸ True enough. Secretly, however, Stalin had embarked on energetic steps. Japan had changed his mind.

Whereas Tukhachevsky and the brass had long wanted to prioritize military production, Stalin prioritized heavy industry in general—the base of a modern economy, in his view—but now, just six months after having rejected Tukhachevsky’s wild spending requests, Stalin was himself demanding forced creation of 40 to 50 new divisions.¹⁶⁹ Following the replacement (January 5) of the Supreme Council of the Economy by three commissariats—heavy industry, light industry, and forestry—the regime created a unified main mobilization directorate in heavy industry for the defense factories.¹⁷⁰ On January 19, Stalin agreed to a commission on “tankification” of the Red Army, on which he placed Tukhachevsky, and rammed through a plan for 10,000 tanks in 1932. Fewer than 2,000 had been manufactured in 1931, but Stalin wielded the preposterous new target to force expansion of assembly lines and creation of systematic tank-building capability at tractor and automobile factories, too.¹⁷¹

Stalin needed advanced tank designs—and, amazingly, he got them. The Soviet trade mission in Britain had secured permission to purchase 15 Vickers-Armstrong medium (six-ton) tanks, 26 Carden Loyd light armored machine-gun carriers, and 8 Carden Loyd amphibious tanks, as well as a license for production and blueprints.¹⁷² In parallel, working undercover at the Soviet trade organization in New York, the OGPU had overcome the lack of diplomatic relations and a legal injunction to procure specifications for the Christie M1931 tank. (J. Walter Christie was an engineer, who sometimes tested his designs with race car driving, and his dual-drive tank designs were notable for their innovative suspension and speed; he had offered to sell the technology to the U.S. military, but it had declined.) Two “tractors” shipped out of New York were in reality Christie tanks without the turrets, which became the basis for production of the Soviet track-wheeled “BT” at the Kharkov Locomotive Plant.¹⁷³ The imported designs demanded more sophisticated motors, gearboxes, chassis, caterpillar tracks, optics, traversing mechanisms, and armor plating than Soviet industry had been producing.¹⁷⁴ Still, by the end of 1932, the Soviets, who had been incapable of producing a single decent tank, would manufacture 2,600.¹⁷⁵ Soviet military spending would skyrocket in 1932 to 2.2 billion rubles, from 845 million—all of which Stalin kept concealed.¹⁷⁶

OMINOUS SIGNS

Japanese troops entered Harbin, the main Soviet railway junction in China, on February 5, 1932, to the euphoria of anti-Soviet émigrés.¹⁷⁷ In late February, Soviet intelligence delivered another intercepted Kasahara letter to Tokyo promising that “if we were to attack the USSR, Poland, Romania, and the Baltic states would join (but not immediately), supported actively by the French and the not inconsiderable force of White Russians along the border.”¹⁷⁸ Japanese military aircraft were violating Soviet airspace; Stalin ordered Soviet forces not to yield to the provocations of warmongers.¹⁷⁹ Still, the regime established the Far Eastern Fleet as a separate command and ordered up additional submarines.¹⁸⁰ On March 4, 1932, Izvestiya published excerpts from the decrypted secret Japanese telegrams calling for seizure of Siberia and the Soviet Far East. (Evidently, the Japanese had discovered that the Soviets had broken their codes.) Izvestiya underscored that, while Moscow maintained neutrality in the Sino-Japanese conflict, “the Soviet Union will not permit anyone to violate Soviet borders, advance into its territory, and capture even a tiny parcel of Soviet soil.”¹⁸¹ Tukhachevsky revisited the “PR” war plan, with preemptive destruction of Poland by “heavy bomber strikes in the Warsaw region” and tank armies on the ground.¹⁸²

Japan did not annex Manchuria, as it had the far smaller Taiwan and Korean Peninsula, but it orchestrated the proclamation of a puppet state of Manchukuo (Manchu Land) and, on March 9, installed Henry Pu-Yi, the deposed last Qing emperor (whom the Japanese had recently kidnapped), as head of state in what was the Qing ancestral homeland.¹⁸³ Ten days later, Karakhan offered assurances of Soviet restraint to Japan’s ambassador Hirota, who secretly advised Tokyo that it could do as it pleased in Manchuria.¹⁸⁴ Quietly, the Soviets were offering to recognize Manchukuo, sell Japan the Chinese Eastern Railway, and negotiate fishing rights, oil leases, and trade, in exchange for a Japanese halt to sponsorship of anti-Soviet émigré groups, but Tokyo displayed indifference. The Soviet envoy in Tokyo was instructed to convey that Moscow would not be intimidated.¹⁸⁵ Stalin’s options were narrow, however. Negotiations for nonaggression pacts had been concluded with Finland (January 21, 1932) and Latvia (February 5), and one would be signed with Estonia (May 4), but talks with Romania deadlocked over its disputed annexation of Bessarabia.¹⁸⁶ Negotiations with France were torturous and would not succeed until late fall.¹⁸⁷

Stalin received fresh reports that Warsaw had not desisted from attempts to destabilize Ukraine or cooperate with Japan in a possible military strike against the USSR.¹⁸⁸ Even so, negotiations with Poland would bear fruit in late summer, albeit in a pact valid for just three years. German fears were borne out: Stalin would bow to Poland’s insistence to insert a clause about the inviolability of the latter’s frontiers.¹⁸⁹ But Voroshilov had complained bitterly in a letter (March 12, 1932) to the Soviet envoy in Berlin that only because of necessity were the Reichswehr high commanders “‘friendly’ with us (hating us in their hearts).”¹⁹⁰ The pacts with Poland and France would effectively mark a break in the Soviet pursuit of the elusive special relationship with Germany predicated on Versailles pariah status. This posture had always been aimed at preemption of an anti-Soviet bloc, which the 1931 trade agreement with Berlin and the 1932 nonaggression pacts with Warsaw and Paris would manage to accomplish, for now.¹⁹¹ Still, Soviet intelligence, obsessed with the emigration, had difficulty discerning the motives of foreign governments.¹⁹² And the USSR had no alliances. Nonaggression pacts were signed between enemies.¹⁹³

PRESSURE FOR RETREAT

A land commissariat internal report in early 1932 noted that peasants were quitting the collectives by the hundreds of thousands to roam industrial sites in search of food.¹⁹⁴ The politburo shrank the bread allocation in cities for people on the lower-priority ration lists (numbers 2 and 3), affecting 20 million souls. There was little to ration.¹⁹⁵ Stalin knew. But every time he conceded grain procurement reductions, every time he allowed strategic reserves to go unfilled, the already low rations for workers had to be lowered and grain was not exported, putting the military-industrial buildup at risk. The much delayed first blast furnace at the Magnitogorsk Metallurgical Combine had been started up early 1932, in a furious rush in horrendous frosts, to coincide with the 17th party conference. Two giant chemical factories, the first aluminum factory, and a ball-bearing plant were started up, and the first four trucks rolled off the line at the Nizhny Novgorod auto factory. But these were political startups. At Magnitogorsk, the new blast furnace’s cone caved in; it had to be completely rebuilt. Industrial output began to stagnate or even decline in spring 1932.¹⁹⁶

Voices were being raised. “Although you, comrade Stalin, are a pupil of Lenin, your behavior is not Leninist,” the delegate Fedorintseva of the rural soviet “Soldier,” in the Black Earth region, wrote to Izvestiya in spring 1932. “Lenin taught: factories to the workers, land to the peasants, and what do you do? You confiscate not only land but livestock, huts, and possessions from the middle and poor peasants. You threw out Trotsky and call him a counterrevolutionary, but you, comrade Stalin, are the real and first Trotskyite, and a pupil not of Lenin but of Trotsky. Why? They taught us in political circle that Trotsky proposed to build socialism with force at the expense of the muzhik.”¹⁹⁷ Trotsky added his own voice. “Separated from the apparatus, Stalin is . . . a nullity, an empty void,” he wrote in a new “open letter” to the party, in his Bulletin of the Opposition (March 1, 1932), predicting that “the man who yesterday was the symbol of the might of the apparatus tomorrow might become in everyone’s eyes the symbol of its bankruptcy.”¹⁹⁸

Suddenly, the regime backed down from socialization of all livestock, with a decree (March 26, 1932) initiated by land commissar Yakovlev and accepted by Stalin. Functionaries in the commissariat interpreted it as a retreat from collectivization—some asked whether it contained a typo—but the aim was tactical: to end flight from the collectives. Local officials did not hurry to return collectivized animals.¹⁹⁹

Not coincidentally, speculation about the dictator’s health, typical in any dictatorship, intensified. “This is not the first time that false rumors that I am ill have circulated in the bourgeois press,” Stalin wrote in a letter published in Pravda (April 3). “Sad though it may be, the fact is that I am in perfect health.”²⁰⁰

Ukraine party boss Kosior reported to Stalin that one quarter of the republic’s horses had died, and that the surviving ones were “skin and bones.”²⁰¹ The OGPU reported that in Borisov, in the Belorussian republic, a crowd had seized grain warehouses, and several hundred women and children had marched on the local Red Army barracks (“signs of commiseration could be seen among the soldiers and officers”).²⁰² In the textile mills of the Ivanovo region, ration cuts of up to one half, on top of labor intensification measures, provoked strikes and spontaneous assemblies.²⁰³ A sign placed in a shopwindow read “Even as the starving workers of Vichuga and Teikovo were being fired upon because they agitated for bread, here, behind the store’s drawn curtains, Communist functionaries and Red police of the GPU were fattening themselves up.”²⁰⁴ Ten thousand demonstrators ransacked the party and police buildings (“Toss the Communists . . . out the window”). Stalin dispatched Kaganovich, who mobilized local party agitators to speak with workers and himself heard out their grievances.²⁰⁵

Ivanovo’s striking workers did not reject socialism, only its building at their expense, and mostly blamed local officials for their plight.²⁰⁶ They shared a resolute anticapitalism with the Soviet regime, but that anticapitalism afforded the regime bureaucratic control over workers’ employment, housing, and food. The strikers were further stymied by the state monopoly over newspapers, radio, and the public sphere. More profoundly still, the strikers were trapped in the socialist vocabulary of class war.²⁰⁷ Kaganovich’s report for Stalin unfurled clichés, but, unlike the workers, the regime drew power from Bolshevik language: in conditions of “capitalist encirclement,” Kaganovich could equate worker criticism with playing into the imperialists’ hands. He managed to browbeat most strikers back to the shop floor, after which the OGPU arrested worker organizers and officials accused of worker sympathies.²⁰⁸

GRUDGING CONCESSIONS, PRIVATE APOLOGY

In parades on the May Day holiday in 1932, the Soviets offered the first public demonstrations of the Red Army’s mechanization—not only in Moscow, but in Leningrad, Kharkov, Kiev, Tiflis, and Khabarovsk.²⁰⁹ That same day, the first stage of the Dneprostroi hydroelectric dam supplied power, and this launch would prove durable. (“We are talking to you from the roof of an immense Bolshevik triumph!” gushed Soviet radio.)²¹⁰ Still, workers could not eat or clothe themselves with tanks and electricity.²¹¹ On May 4, Stalin led a politburo discussion that culminated in reduced procurement targets and acceptance of a commission’s recommendation to purchase hundreds of thousands of livestock from Mongolia, western China, Iran, and Turkey.²¹² On May 6 and 10, the regime issued decrees announcing the grain procurement reductions for collective farmers and the remaining individual household farmers, from 22.4 million to 18.1 million tons. The targets for state farms were raised, from 1.7 to 2.5 million, for a new overall target of 20.6 million. This was just 81 percent of actual 1931 procurements. The decrees even forbade further liquidation of individual household farms, ordered the return of confiscated livestock and an end to lawlessness, and stipulated that, after peasants had met procurement quotas for the harvest (deadline: January 15, 1933), they could freely trade in any surplus directly with consumers at “collective farm markets.”²¹³

Could it be? As recently as the October 1931 party plenum, Mikoyan, speaking for Stalin, had flatly rejected suggestions to permit rural trade at market prices after fulfillment of state obligations.²¹⁴ But now peasants were permitted to maintain their own cows (though not horses), cultivate household plots, and sell a significant portion of the fruits of their labor at market prices.²¹⁵ To be sure, private property in the means of production remained outlawed (household plots could not be sold or inherited). Still, it turned out that peasants had to be incentivized with private livestock holdings and market sales of even some of their collective farm output. Workers, too, had to be provided incentives through wage differentiation.²¹⁶ State-owned and state-managed factories were not permitted to engage in direct marketlike relations with one another, but they did so illegally. “The necessity of avoiding a break in production,” one official at Magnitogorsk explained, “will compel the receiving factory to seek the necessary materials from other sources by every possible means.”²¹⁷

The surprises kept coming. Stalin returned Shaposhnikov to a high-profile post in the capital, as director of the Frunze Military Academy, and on May 7, 1932, he even sent a written apology to Tukhachevsky for having denounced his January 1930 super-rearmament memorandum as Red militarism. “Two years later,” Stalin wrote, with a copy to Voroshilov, “when some unclear matters have become clearer for me, I must confess that my judgment was too severe, and that the conclusions of my letter were not correct in all respects.” Stalin noted that Tukhachevsky had been suggesting a peacetime army not of 11 million (per Shaposhnikov’s accusations) but of “8 million souls” and suggested that 6 million well-supplied, well-organized troops were “more or less within our capabilities.” (Soviet forces still numbered fewer than 1 million.) Stalin added: “Do not curse me for the fact that I corrected these shortcomings outlined in my [1930] letter with a certain tardiness.”²¹⁸

What was next? Stalin had long forbidden directing more consumer goods to villages to incentivize the flow of grain, but now he acquiesced in this, too.²¹⁹ He even agreed to importing grain (“54,000 tons of grain have already been purchased in Canada,” he telegrammed the party boss of Eastern Siberia on May 8. “You will get your share”).²²⁰ Tellingly, however, Stalin does not appear to have initiated a single one of these concessions, and invariably he issued barbed reminders of the need for unconditional fulfillment of centrally assigned procurement targets and the perfidy of capitalism.²²¹ Unlike Lenin in 1921, Stalin was not willing to admit a “retreat” or neo-NEP.²²² This reflected his touchiness about admitting any mistakes, desire to maintain his authority at the system’s apex, and nonnegotiable ideological commitment.²²³

Mongolia, the Soviet satellite, provides a stark contrast. Zealots of the Mongolian People’s Party, egged on by Comintern advisers, had launched a “class war” against “feudalism,” confiscating estates, ransacking Buddhist lamaseries, killing nobles and lamas, and collectivizing herders.²²⁴ At least one third of the livestock—the country’s main wealth—was lost. Inflation soared, shortages proliferated. In spring 1932, revolts led by lamas overtook four provinces in the northwest, amid rumors that either the elderly Panchen Lama (from Tibetan exile) or the Japanese would arrive with troops to liberate Mongolia from Communist occupation.²²⁵ The uprisings took Stalin by surprise (“The latest telegrams reported successes; therefore, such an unexpected and sharp deterioration is incomprehensible”). The Soviets dispatched consumer goods and ten fighter planes, which strafed the rebels; about 1,500 would be killed. Facing annihilation, rebels engaged in murder and cannibalism.²²⁶ On May 16, the politburo condemned the Mongolian party for “blindly copying the policy of Soviet power in the USSR.” Mongolian ruling officials were ordered to abandon collectivization of nomads, proclaim an “all-people’s government,” and publicly repudiate the noncapitalist path in Mongolia’s current conditions. The shift would be confirmed at a Mongolian People’s Party plenum and be dubbed the New Course.²²⁷ It was the full reversal Stalin would not countenance at home.

PANIC AROUND HIM

Whether the grudging concessions could save the situation was uncertain. “Stalin figured out trade with collective farms late,” the OGPU reported of one worker’s reaction in Minsk. “If he had thought about this in 1929–30, it would have been better, but now nothing will come of it, because the peasants have nothing; everything was destroyed.”²²⁸ Union-wide stocks of food and fodder amounted to perhaps a month’s supply, with less than that in Ukraine, the North Caucasus, and the Lower Volga. A rattled Kuibyshev handwrote a supersecret memo in blue pencil on May 23, 1932, proposing to slice rations even for those with absolute highest priority (“special list” and “list 1”). The politburo rejected this, but it reduced allocations to the Red Army by 16 percent and resolved to accelerate grain imports from Persia.²²⁹ Molotov led a commission to Ukraine that reported (May 26) that “the situation is worse than we supposed,” and suggested granting still more “loans” of seed, fodder, and food. Stalin conceded release of another 41,000 tons of seeds from the strategic reserves in Ukraine and Belorussia.²³⁰ These loans—which would reach 1.267 million tons Union-wide for the year, three times the amount provided in spring 1931—were supposed to be returned from the pending 1932 harvest, seed for seed.²³¹

In late May, Stalin departed for his annual southern holiday, which would be especially prolonged (through late August). “The number of politburo inquiries has no effect on my health,” he wrote from Sochi. “You can send as many inquiries as you like—I’ll happily answer them with pleasure.”²³² He rebuffed requests to send Red Army troops to Mongolia. “We cannot conflate Mongolia with Kazakhstan or Buryatia,” he instructed Kaganovich (June 4), adding that Mongolian officials “should announce that the leaders of the rebellion are agents of the Chinese and especially the Japanese imperialists, who are seeking to strip Mongolia of its freedom and independence.”²³³ He also ordered documents concerning Soviet-Mongolian relations evacuated from Ulan Bator.²³⁴ “The Japanese, of course (of course!), are preparing for war against the USSR,” he wrote to Orjonikidze in June 1932, “and we need to be ready (for sure!) for everything.”²³⁵ Stalin kept up the pressure. “Will our industrialists produce the planned number of tanks, airplanes, antitank weapons?” he wrote to Voroshilov (June 9). “Have the bombers been sent to the East? Where, exactly, and how many? The trip on the Volga was interesting—I’ll say more: magnificent. A great river, the Volga. Damn.”²³⁶

Stalin’s mood oscillated. “It seems I shall not be getting better anytime soon,” he complained to Kaganovich in mid-June. “A general weakness and real sense of fatigue are only now becoming evident. Just when I think I am beginning to get better, it turns out that I have a long way to go. I am not having rheumatic symptoms (they disappeared somewhere), but the overall weakness is not going away.”²³⁷ He was chauffeured to his usual polyarthritis salt baths at nearby Matsesta. While on the terrace or out fishing, he would tell tales of the revolutionary underground and prison. He tended to his mandarins, berries, and grapes and played badminton or skittles with a cook against a bodyguard. Evenings, he competed in billiards, and the losers, which included himself, crawled under the table to absorb the winners’ banging from above. Gypsy dances and other performances accompanied the late-evening meals and drinking. The lights usually went out in his quarters at 2:00 or 3:00 a.m.

Stalin’s holiday mailbag delivered increasingly dire news. “Because of the general famine, as you know, villagers have started flocking” to train stations, the Stalin loyalist Hryhory Petrovsky, in Ukraine, wrote on June 10, 1932. “In some cases, two thirds of the men had left their villages in search of bread.”²³⁸ (Yagoda reported on construction of a dacha settlement in the environs of Moscow using state funds for the grain collection commissariat.)²³⁹ Stalin held firm, proposing (June 18) the convocation of party secretaries from the main grain-growing provinces and republics to ensure “unconditional fulfillment of the plan.”²⁴⁰ He ordered up an editorial in Pravda demonstrating “with documentation the complete victory of the collective and state farms in agriculture, since the weight of the individual farming sector this year does not even reach 20 percent” (a reference to sown acreage). He added, “It is necessary to curse rudely and sharply all the lackeys of capitalism—Mensheviks, SRs [Socialist Revolutionaries], Trotskyites, and right deviationists—stating that the attempts of the enemies of the toilers to return the USSR to the capitalist path have been decisively defeated and turned into ashes, that the USSR has irreversibly adopted the new socialist path, that the decisive victory of socialism in the USSR can be considered already finalized.”²⁴¹ The editorial duly appeared (June 26, 1932). That same day, Stalin conceded a significant reduction in grain exports for the third quarter.²⁴²

The first mass-produced Soviet heavy bomber, the four-engine TB-3, had been tested in the air, but Voroshilov reported (“Dear Koba”) that just four had been manufactured, and that even these had malfunctioning radiators.²⁴³ He also had to inform Stalin about a shocking number of crashes in training: eleven aircraft downed just between June 5 and 20, killing thirty crew members. Voroshilov asked permission to join Stalin for a few days down south (“I have not been sleeping normally for a long time”). Stalin wrote back on June 24: “The most worrisome are the crashes and the deaths of our aviators. The loss of airplanes is not as scary (the hell with them) as the loss of living people, aviators. Live human beings are the most valuable and most important thing in our entire cause, especially in aviation.”^{244, 245}

Regional party bosses gathered in Moscow on June 28, 1932, and Molotov read out Stalin’s stern letter (sent ten days earlier): “In Ukraine, despite a harvest that was not bad, a number of districts with good harvests turned out to be in a state of ruin and famine.”²⁴⁶ This was the second known documented instance when Stalin used the word “famine” (golod).²⁴⁷ Molotov and Kaganovich approved only a slight reduction in procurements.²⁴⁸ Stalin, in two telegrams (July 1 and 2, 1932), spewed venom on Ukraine’s leadership (“demobilizers”) and ordered both of his top minions to attend Ukraine’s upcoming party conference.²⁴⁹ At that gathering (July 6–9), Kosior (a USSR politburo member) pointed out that some regions were already starving, while Ukraine government head Vlas Chubar (a candidate USSR politburo member) challenged Molotov and Kaganovich to go out and see for themselves.²⁵⁰ Afterward, Kaganovich wrote to Stalin that “all members of the [Ukraine] politburo . . . spoke in favor of lowering the plan” for deliveries, but “we categorically turned aside a revision.”²⁵¹

Then, on July 24, Stalin undermined their hard work. “Our governing directive that the grain collection plan for the USSR be fulfilled unconditionally is correct,” he wrote to Kaganovich and Molotov. “But bear in mind that an exception must be made for the districts in Ukraine that have suffered especially. This is necessary not solely from the point of view of justness, but also in view of the special condition of Ukraine and its common frontier with Poland.”²⁵² The next day, he again tried to explain his turnabout, suggesting that at the time of the Ukraine party conference he had not wanted “to derail the grain procurements.” What Kaganovich and Molotov made of Stalin’s zigzagging remains unknown. Stalin was banking on the harvest, whose “prospects,” he wrote, “will become clear (they have already become clear!): they are doubtless good for the USSR as a whole.” But the harvest was being overreported, and Stalin latched on to what he wanted to hear.²⁵³

Sown acreage had shrunk noticeably. Tractive power, seed grain, and fodder were scarce. The spring sowing season had proved short, and wheat sown beginning in late May always produced lower yields and was more susceptible to August rains, which would descend torrentially as early as the beginning of the month. Rust epiphytotics damaged a significant part of the wheat harvest, to the surprise of officials who had failed to identify it.²⁵⁴ Demoralized farmers forced into collectives were threshing and using manure sloppily and showing disregard for collectivized animals.²⁵⁵ Voroshilov had been granted his holiday, and on July 26 he wrote to Stalin about what he saw traveling south: “a scandalous infestation of the grain with weeds” in the North Caucasus.

The defense commissar appeared to be buckling under the pressure, complaining that “when one sees our military cadres, it is enough to make one a misanthrope,” and adding: “I cannot even say that these people do not work; on the contrary, they work until they are exhausted, but with no results.”²⁵⁶ Stalin kept up the pressure. “Six bombers for the Far East is nothing,” he responded (July 30). “We need to send no fewer than 50 to 60 TB-3s. And this needs to be done as soon as possible. Without this, the defense of the Far East is only an empty phrase.”²⁵⁷

An OGPU report to the “Central Committee” (August 1, 1932) estimated rifles at just 85 percent of needs, stationary machine guns at 68 percent, hand grenades at 55, revolvers at 36, modernized howitzers at 26 percent, 107-millimeter shells at 16 percent, and 76-millimeter shells at 7. Only a third of the projected 150 divisions could be fully outfitted.²⁵⁸ Nonetheless, that same day, the politburo confirmed Kuibyshev’s recommendation to reduce capital investments by a whopping 10 percent—more than that in heavy industry. Orjonikidze exploded. Kaganovich sought to conciliate him (“My friend, the financial situation required it”) while making clear that Stalin had signed on (“We wrote to our chief friend, and he thought it absolutely correct and timely to make cuts”).²⁵⁹ In mid-August, yet another Chinese commander resisting the Japanese managed to flee to Soviet territory, but the Japanese army pursued him. The war minister in Tokyo was said to have been barely restrained from launching an attack on the USSR.²⁶⁰

SUMMER DOOM

Telegrams, letters, and reports swamped Sochi with news of mass death of horses, mass failure to sow crops, mass starvation, mass flight from collective farms, and a bewildering lack of government response.²⁶¹ Andrew Cairns, a Scottish Canadian agricultural expert sent by the Empire Marketing Board, in London, to determine if Western farmers might learn something from Soviet collectivization, managed to travel around Ukraine, Crimea, the North Caucasus lowlands, and the Volga valley from May through August 1932, and he observed women pulling up grass to make soup. Of urban canteens he noted, “As each worker finished his meal there was a scramble of children and one or two women and men for their soup plates to lick, and their fish bones to eat.”²⁶² Throughout August 1932, unsigned editorials in Pravda lashed out at kulak “machinations” and grain “speculators.”

Stalin also received reports that “spoilage” was exaggerated and that grain was being stolen from slow-moving freight trains or slipped into ample pockets during mowing, stacking, or threshing, or just not being gathered (remaining in the fields to be eaten). He insisted to Kaganovich that just as private property under capitalism was sacred, so state property under socialism had to be recognized as “sacred and inviolable.”²⁶³ The dictator drafted a law, issued on August 7, 1932, that imposed the death penalty for the minutest theft of collective farm grain.²⁶⁴ He congratulated himself (“It is good”) and ordered a follow-up secret directive on the law sent to party organizations.²⁶⁵ Pravda (August 8) placed the pitiless law on an inside page; Kaganovich corrected this the next day with a front-page editorial.²⁶⁶ Other articles called for firing squads no matter the size of the theft. (One could view the compulsory state grain procurements—paying a mere 4.5 to 6.1 rubles per 100 kilos of rye, and 7.1 to 8.4 rubles for wheat, below production costs—as a form of grand theft, even as this enabled black bread to be sold in cities for just 8 to 12 kopecks a kilo.)²⁶⁷ Some politburo members had objected to the law in draft, but in reporting the objections to Sochi, Kaganovich had omitted names.²⁶⁸

Stalin exploded at Kaganovich (August 11) over fresh requests from Ukraine to lower procurement targets yet again. “Things in Ukraine have hit rock bottom . . . about fifty county party committees having spoken out against the grain procurement plan, deeming it unrealistic. . . . This is not a party but a parliament, a caricature of a parliament.” He demanded removal of Kosior and Chubar, and the demotion of Ukraine OGPU chief Redens. “Bear in mind that Piłsudski is not daydreaming, and his agent network in Ukraine is much stronger than Redens or Kosior think,” Stalin noted. “Also keep in mind that the Ukrainian Communist party (500,000 members, ha-ha) contains quite a few (yes, many!) rotten elements, conscious and unconscious Petliurites [a reference to the civil war Ukrainian nationalist], even direct agents of Piłsudski. If things get worse, these elements will not hesitate to open a front inside (and outside) the party, against the party.” Stalin warned direly: “Without these and similar measures (economic and political strengthening of Ukraine, in the first place in its border districts and so on), I repeat, we may lose Ukraine.”²⁶⁹

Polish spies were infiltrating the USSR, and being caught.²⁷⁰ At the same time, the Polish government had just signed the three-year bilateral nonaggression pact with Stalin, easing the pressure.²⁷¹ Perhaps he was using the threat to sustain Kaganovich’s severity or just could not let go of his fixation on an imperialist intervention provoked by internal difficulties. In the same note, Stalin informed Kaganovich that he had decided to appoint Balytsky as OGPU plenipotentiary in Ukraine and had already spoken with Mężyński. On the sacking of Kosior and Chubar, however, the crafty Kaganovich pushed back, ever so gently—“It is harder for me to judge than you”—and Stalin relented.²⁷² Belatedly, the dictator also accepted land commissar Yakovlev’s critique of excessive expansion of sown area, which disrupted crop rotation, and he reluctantly allowed a slowing to enable crop rotation to be reintroduced.²⁷³ But when, on August 20, 1932, Boris Sheboldayev, party boss in the North Caucasus, telegrammed to report that the harvest had turned out even lower, and farmers were in revolt, Stalin answered, with a copy to Kaganovich: “Either the local party committee is being diplomatic toward the population or it is leading the Central Committee by the nose.”²⁷⁴

Nadya had again accompanied him to Sochi, with the children, Vasily (then ten) and Svetlana (five), but she again returned to Moscow before he did. “We have built a marvelous little house,” Stalin wrote of a new Sochi dacha, to the man in Moscow responsible for such properties down south, Yenukidze, just as his holiday was coming to a close.²⁷⁵

“GRAVEDIGGER OF THE REVOLUTION AND OF RUSSIA”

Stalin had made the USSR more vulnerable to its enemies, especially Japan. Collectivization-dekulakization was his policy, which all party officials knew, having been bombarded by extremist directives in his name. They also knew that the right deviation had predicted calamity. Individual efforts to get Stalin to ease up provoked his rage. Officials’ ability to act collectively was limited to Central Committee plenums, but those took place under the watchful eye of his hard-line loyalists, the secret police, and the stool pigeons who chauffeured vehicles and staffed hotels. Conspiratorially, late one night in August 1932, a few veterans of the revolution and the civil war gathered in a private apartment near Moscow’s Belorussia train station that belonged to Martemyan Ryutin (b. 1890), an editor at Red Star, the army newspaper, to discuss the crisis.²⁷⁶ Stalin had promoted the peasant-born Siberian to candidate membership in the Central Committee—the top elite (then 121 people)—but then in 1928 had sacked him for a “conciliatory attitude toward the right opposition.” Not long thereafter, he had Ryutin expelled from the party.²⁷⁷ Now, Ryutin and the party members Vasily Kayurov, a department chief in the state archives, Mikhail Ivanov, an employee of the Russian Soviet Federated Socialist Republic (RSFSR) workers’ and peasants’ inspectorate, and Kayurov’s son Alexander, a senior inspector in the USSR supply commissariat, had channeled their worries into a seven-page “Appeal to All Members of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks),” which labeled Stalin an “unprincipled intriguer,” “a sophist, a political trickster, and actor,” “theoretically worthless,” “a dictator” like “Mussolini, Napoleon, Piłsudski, Horthy, Primo de Rivera, Chiang Kai-shek,” and “the gravedigger of the revolution in Russia.”²⁷⁸

“Gravedigger” was the epithet that Trotsky had once hurled at Stalin. Ryutin, infamously, had been a Trotsky scourge.²⁷⁹

Secretly, at a hut in a village about forty miles outside Moscow, on August 21, 1932, Ryutin presented the “Appeal to All Members” as well as a much longer document, “Stalin and the Crisis of the Proletarian Dictatorship,” to perhaps fifteen middling officials in various bureaucratic entities.²⁸⁰ They constituted themselves as the Union of Marxist-Leninists and held elections to leadership posts. One of them hosted a follow-up meeting in his apartment, where it was decided that the documents should be circulated hand to hand. Jānis Stens, an ethnic Latvian professor at the Institute of Red Professors, passed copies to Kamenev and Zinoviev at the dacha they shared outside Moscow. Another conspirator passed copies to Trotskyites in Kharkov. A copy got to the disgraced former Moscow party boss Nikolai Uglanov (Ryutin’s former patron), who was close to Bukharin. (Bukharin would later deny that he had received a copy or knew of the Ryutin group.)

Ryutin’s nearly 200-page “Stalin and the Crisis of the Proletarian Dictatorship” was a marvel. It condemned the “adventuristic rate of industrialization” and “adventuristic collectivization with the aid of unbelievable acts of violence and terror,” defended Trotsky as a genuine revolutionary despite his shortcomings, and excoriated the rightists for capitulation, yet underscored how “the right wing has proved correct in the economic field.” Ryutin brimmed with rage at Stalin’s muzzling of party members, and with idealism about Marx and Lenin. (“To place the name of Lenin alongside the name of Stalin is like placing Mount Elbrus alongside a heap of dung.”)²⁸¹ He proposed twenty-five concrete measures, from new elections to party organs on the basis of intraparty democracy to a mass purge of the OGPU, from dispersal of coercively formed collective farms and loss-making state farms to ending dekulakization, state procurements of grain and livestock, and agricultural exports.²⁸² Ryutin’s prerequisite for these proposals was fulfilling Lenin’s Testament. He concluded that “putting an end to Stalin the dictator and his clique” was “the primary duty of every honest Bolshevik.”²⁸³

There it was again. Remove Stalin. Lenin’s Testament. The subject of endless party discussions that had prompted Stalin to offer to resign at least six times between 1923 and December 1927.

Ryutin acknowledged that “the removal of Stalin and his clique via the normal democratic means guaranteed by the rules of the party and the Soviet Constitution is completely impossible” and explained that “the party has two choices: to continue meekly to endure the mockery of Leninism and the terror, and wait calmly for the final collapse of the proletarian dictatorship; or to remove this clique by force and save the cause of Communism.”²⁸⁴ But his text, even in the version of the document typed up by the OGPU, made no direct call for assassination. And he undertook no such preparations.²⁸⁵ Instead, having diagnosed the party as the instrument of oppression, he imagined it as the instrument of liberation.²⁸⁶ Two party members with knowledge of Ryutin’s texts sent a written denunciation to the apparatus on September 14, 1932.²⁸⁷ Stalin was informed the next day. Arrests followed. Ryutin was hauled in on September 22. That same day, Kamenev and Zinoviev were summoned to explain why, having read the Ryutin documents, they had failed to report them, a party crime.²⁸⁸

Ryutin was not alone. In its September 1932 issue, Trotsky’s Bulletin published a “draft platform” (missing the first page) attributed to unnamed members of a “left opposition” underground in the USSR. It declared a “crisis of the Soviet economy” and called for fixing (in Marxist terms) the imbalance between industry and agriculture by reducing expenditures on industry to ease inflation, dispersing nonviable collective farms, ceasing the coerced liquidation of kulaks, and attracting foreign capital through the old practice of leases (or foreign concessions). Quixotically, the authors even offered to cooperate with “the faction that is ruling at present,” as part of a shift from “the current obviously unhealthy and obviously nonviable regime to a regime of party democracy.”²⁸⁹ That same month, a traveling Soviet official passed a second text, by Ivan Smirnov, a onetime Trotsky supporter who worked as deputy head for transport equipment in the state planning commission, to Trotsky’s son Lev Sedov, in Berlin, who amplified it and published it in the Bulletin. It consisted of selected material from an internal state planning commission report on the first six months of 1932. “In view of the inability of the present leadership to extricate itself from the economic and political blind alley,” the published article concluded, “the conviction is growing in the party that it is necessary to replace the leadership.”²⁹⁰

Sedov wrote to his father—in invisible ink—that a “bloc” had formed inside the USSR of “Zinovievites, the Sten-Lominadze group, and Trotskyites,” an apparent reference to the small Ryutin conspiracy. But Trotsky fretted that the “left” was incorrectly throwing its lot in with the “rightists” and instructed Lev that, with the émigré Constitutional Democrat “Milyukov, the Mensheviks and Thermidorians of all sorts” demanding Stalin’s removal, “we may temporarily have to support him. . . . The slogan ‘Down with Stalin’ is ambiguous and should not be raised as a war cry at this moment.”²⁹¹

THE FOUR HORSEMEN

In September 1932, back from his three-month holiday, Stalin quietly softened his August 7 law: no death penalty for theft of tiny amounts of grain, just sentences of ten years.²⁹² The 1932 harvest was coming in at fewer than 60 million tons, and possibly as low as 50 million, which was close to the horrific result in the famine year of 1921.²⁹³ Reports to Stalin would peg the harvest as bad but much higher than reality, up to 69 million tons, a discrepancy he never came to appreciate.²⁹⁴

Half of all Kazakhs—as many as 2 million—had picked up their tents and remaining herds and fled the collectives. Half of the party functionaries in that republic were said to have deserted their posts.²⁹⁵ One official report to Stalin in August had noted that the Kazakh autonomous republic now counted 6 million head of livestock, down from 40 million in 1929.²⁹⁶ Finally, on September 17, he presented a decree for a politburo voice vote that loosened the form of collective farms in Kazakh territories, allowing each household to own eight to ten cattle, up to 100 sheep and goats, and three to five camels, but still insisted that forced settlement would continue “to eradicate economic and cultural anachronisms.”²⁹⁷ He also authorized reductions in grain collections for the Kazakh regions (47,000 tons), along with food assistance (33,000) and postponement of repayment of seed and food advances (98,000)—which together totaled more than one quarter of their original procurement plan.²⁹⁸ Quotas had already been reduced for Ukraine, but “it is completely incontrovertible that Ukraine will not deliver this amount of grain,” the Ukraine official Mendel Khatayevich had courageously written to Stalin, who underlined this passage in red pencil.²⁹⁹ At the end of September, the North Caucasus received a massive 660,000-ton grain procurement reduction, albeit to a level still unattainable.³⁰⁰

Exports cratered. In 1932, the regime would export just 1.73 million tons of grain, down from 5.06 million in 1931 and 4.76 in 1930. Tsarist Russia in 1913 had exported more than 9 million tons of grain.³⁰¹

With the country in famine’s death grip, Stalin convened a joint Central Committee–Central Control Commission plenum (September 28–October 2, 1932) devoted to trade, consumer goods, and ferrous metallurgy. With the harvest over, he aimed to reduce the spring concessions to household plots and private markets. The plenum also condemned the Ryutin group “as traitors to the party and to the working class who, under the flag of a spurious ‘Marxism-Leninism,’ have attempted to create a bourgeois-kulak organization for the restoration of capitalism and particularly kulakdom in the USSR.” Ryutin, under OGPU interrogation, had claimed sole authorship, to shield his comrades. The plenum adopted Stalin’s resolution calling for immediate expulsion of all who knew about but did not report the group.³⁰² Zinoviev, Kamenev, and Uglanov, who visibly wept, repented yet again, but they were nevertheless kicked out of the party yet again and sentenced to internal exile for three years (Zinoviev to Kustanai, Kazakhstan; Kamenev to Minusinsk, Eastern Siberia).³⁰³

Several tons of meat, sausage, chicken, and fish, 300 kilos of caviar, 600 kilos of cheeses, and large amounts of fruit, vegetables, and mushrooms had been ordered up for the plenum, some of which the attendees were allowed to haul home.

Gossip in Moscow had Stalin tendering his resignation, only to have it rejected.³⁰⁴ In fact, the inner circle closed ranks behind him. “Now,” Kirov stated in a report (October 8, 1932) on the plenum to the Leningrad party, published in Pravda, “everyone can see that we were utterly correct, that the further we proceed on the path of constructing socialism, the more manifest is the counterrevolutionary character of every oppositionist tendency.” Ryutin got ten years. He was remanded to the prison near the large Urals village of Verkhne-Uralsk, joining Trotskyites he had once condemned.³⁰⁵ On November 7, 1932, the revolution’s fifteenth anniversary, in the first of Ryutin’s many letters from prison to his wife, Yevdokiya—aware that any correspondence was read by the authorities—he wrote, “I live now only in the hope that the party and the Central Committee will in the end forgive their prodigal son.” He added, “You will not be touched. I have signed everything.”³⁰⁶

A PERSONAL BLOW

For someone building a new world, Stalin’s home life was unremarkable. As only insiders knew, he lived in an apartment on the second floor of the three-story Amusement Palace, the Kremlin’s only surviving seventeenth-century boyar residence, with vaulted ceilings and wood-burning stoves. He slept on a divan in an undersized bedroom. Nadya had her own, more ample room, with an oriental carpet of distinct color, a Georgian takhta (divan) on which she placed embroidered pillows, as well as a bed, desk, and drawing table. Her window opened onto the Kremlin’s Alexander Garden and scenic Kutafya Tower. Between the couple’s bedrooms was the dining room, “large enough to have a grand piano in it,” their daughter, Svetlana, would recall. Down a hall were bedrooms for Svetlana and Vasily; Svetlana shared hers with a nanny, Alexandra Bychkova. (“If it hadn’t been for the even, steady warmth given off by this large and kindly person,” Svetlana would later write, “I might long ago have gone out of my mind.”)³⁰⁷ Vasily bunked with Artyom, known as Tom (also the nickname for the boy’s deceased father). Stalin’s grown son from his first marriage, Yakov, no longer lived with them. Farther down the same hall, the governesses had a room, as did Karolina Til, an ethnic German from Latvia who oversaw the household. The children could see their father everywhere—on posters and newspaper front pages—but not so much at home.

Most visitors to the Kremlin apartment were regime officials. Stalin had no surviving siblings, and his father was deceased. Keke, his mother, lived alone in Tiflis; Nadya, in letters, expressed regret that Keke could not come to Moscow because of the severe climate. The one surviving letter from Keke to her son, from the 1920s, has her wishing him complete annihilation of his enemies.³⁰⁸ Eighteen of Stalin’s letters to her (in Georgian) have survived, containing a word about his health and the children and wishes for her health and long life, all brief and signed “Your Soso.”³⁰⁹ They invariably included an apology for their rarity (“I, of course, am guilty”).³¹⁰ Stalin had nothing to do with his mother’s or father’s relations. Relatives from both of Stalin’s marriages would stop by the Kremlin apartment: Alexander Svanidze (the brother of Stalin’s deceased first wife, Kato) and his wife, Maria, a former opera singer from a well-off Jewish family; Kato’s sisters, Mariko and Sashiko; Nadya’s father, Sergei Alliluyev, and mother, Olga; Nadya’s brothers, Fyodor and Pavel, and the latter’s fetching wife, Yevgeniya (Zhenya); and Nadya’s sister Anna, who had married Redens (they lived in Kharkov).³¹¹ Several of them lived at the Zubalovo dacha complex, where the Stalins had a dacha that they had remodeled, adding a balcony to the second floor and an outdoor bathhouse. He planted an orchard, and raised pheasants, guinea fowl, and ducks, and liked to lie down on the warm tiled stove in the kitchen to alleviate the pain in his joints.³¹² He also liked to wind up the player piano or gramophone and sing. While Kirov, Voroshilov, and even Molotov danced, he watched.³¹³

Nadya made occasional use of her husband’s position, but she refused to play the smiling wife of the leader, an opportunity other Kremlin wives would have killed for.³¹⁴ “We spoke among ourselves, and many times to Nadya, that she was not a match for him,” recalled Galina Serebryakova, the spouse of a regime official. “He needed a different wife!”³¹⁵ She attended the Industrial Academy under her maiden name, Alliluyeva, and it remains unclear whether her fellow students knew she was Stalin’s wife.³¹⁶ (Nadya belonged to the party, and Nikita Khrushchev, the academy’s party secretary, learned her husband’s identity.) The effects of her exposure to the student milieu—young women in the city selling themselves to make ends meet; students with ties to the famine-stricken countryside—remain difficult to gauge. She kept an emotional distance.³¹⁷ She dressed simply: a white blouse, navy blue skirt below the knee, low-heeled shoes, little jewelry, no perfume. “There was nothing striking about her,” recalled Irina Gogua, who worked in the Kremlin. “In Iosif’s presence she seemed plain; it was obvious that she was tense.”³¹⁸ Svetlana would later try to recollect moments of tenderness, or even attention, from her mother but could not.³¹⁹ “A woman of very strong character,” Karl Pauker, the head of regime bodyguards, was said to have told a Kremlin doctor. “She is like a flint. The Master is very rough with her, but even he is afraid of her sometimes. Especially when the smile disappears from her face.”³²⁰

Nadya was diagnosed with a defective heart valve, angina, and general exhaustion and suffered from migraines, evidently from a cranial impairment that the best doctors could not alleviate. (Some observers thought she had clinical depression or schizophrenia.)³²¹ Regime intimates witnessed shouting matches between her and Stalin, laced with his obscenities. But there were episodes of affection, too. “Once, after a party at the Industrial Academy, where Nadezhda was studying, she returned home severely ill from having drunk some wine, and she felt badly,” Vladimir Alliluyev, the son of Anna and Stanisław Redens, recalled. “Stalin laid her down, comforted her, and Nadezhda said, ‘Anyway, you love me a little bit.’”³²²

Nadya rarely revealed the stress of their almost parallel lives. “Altogether, we have terribly little free time, both Iosif and I,” she had written to Keke. “You have probably heard that I have gone back to school (in my old age). I do not find studying in itself difficult. But it is pretty difficult trying to fit it in with duties at home. . . . Still, I am not complaining, and so far I am coping with it all quite successfully. Iosif has promised to write to you himself. As far as his health is concerned, I can say that I marvel at his strength and his energy. Only a really healthy man could stand the amount of work he gets through.”³²³

In November 1932, Nadya was weeks from graduation and facing exams.³²⁴ On November 7, Svetlana, Vasily, and Artyom watched the Revolution Day parade on Red Square. Nadya marched with the Industrial Academy delegates. “It was cold, and Stalin was on the Mausoleum, as always, in an overcoat,” recalled Khrushchev, who marched with her. When the wind gusted, she said to him, “Look at mine: he did not bring his scarf, he’ll catch a cold and again be sick.”³²⁵ After joining her children, according to Artyom, Nadya complained of a headache and went home early. The children were taken to the Sokolovka dacha, another state facility used by the family, where they could ski. On November 8, Stalin was in his office between 2:30 and 8:05 p.m., which resulted in a menacing circular to Ukrainian officials that cut off all consumer goods until grain flowed again, and a telegram to the Kazakh leadership accusing it of providing low harvest numbers aimed at “deceiving the state.”³²⁶

Nadya was in the apartment, preparing for the customary holiday banquet that evening in the Voroshilov residence in the Grand Kremlin Palace.³²⁷ She put on an unusually stylish (for her) black dress of fabric imported from Berlin, with embroidered red roses, and placed a red tea rose in her dark hair. She was thirty-one years old; her husband was turning fifty-four.³²⁸ Stalin, it seems, sat across from her and drank more than usual. Some witnesses say he flirted with Galina Yegorova, the thirty-four-year-old actress wife of his military crony Alexander Yegorov. There had been much talk of dalliances (a hairdresser; a pretty woman who worked in protocol).³²⁹ Voroshilov tried to ease the tension, but an eruption occurred. Stalin threw something at Nadya (a bread crust, an orange peel, a cigarette butt).³³⁰ She stormed out. Molotov’s wife, Pearl Karpovskaya, known as Polina Zhemchuzhina, followed her. Witnesses mostly cite Stalin’s rudeness; Molotov faulted Nadya. “Alliluyeva was already something of a psychopath at that time,” he would recall. “She left the gathering with my wife. They took a walk on the Kremlin grounds. It was late at night, and she complained to my wife: ‘I do not like this, I do not like that. . . .’ She spoke about the young female barber Stalin saw. It was all simple: Stalin had drunk a little too much, he made some jokes. Nothing special, but it had an effect on her.”³³¹

On the morning of November 9, Karolina Til found Nadya in a pool of blood in her room, near a small toy-sized pistol. (It fit into a lady’s handbag; her brother Pavel had brought it from Germany as a gift.) When Stalin emerged from his room into the dining room, Til evidently told him, “Nadya is no longer with us.”³³²

Nadya had shot herself in the heart.³³³ A call came in to the Sokolovka dacha to prepare the children for return to Moscow; apparently, Voroshilov went to pick up Vasily and Artyom and tried to talk to Svetlana, who was six and a half, but he kept breaking down in tears. Svetlana appears to have remained behind with her nanny.³³⁴ Nadya’s open casket was placed upstairs in a nonpublic section of the State Department Store (GUM), across from the Kremlin on Red Square, where the central executive committee presidium, run by Yenukidze, had offices. “Early morning for the ceremony of bidding farewell, we climbed the second floor of GUM,” Artyom recalled. “Vasily and I climbed the stairs ahead of Stalin. He moved in silence. He was glum. I remember: as soon as Iosif Vissarionovich approached the casket, he began simply to cry, he broke down in tears. . . . Vasily literally hung on to him and said, ‘Papa, don’t cry, Papa, don’t.’”³³⁵ Molotov recalled, “I had never seen Stalin weeping before, but as he stood there by the coffin, tears ran down his cheeks. She loved Stalin very much—that is a fact. . . . He went up to [the coffin] and said, ‘I did not take enough care of you.’”³³⁶

Pravda (November 10, 1932) announced the death of Nadezhda Sergeyevna Alliluyeva in what was the first mention in the Soviet press of Stalin’s marriage.³³⁷ No cause was given.³³⁸ She had been diagnosed with acute appendicitis but had put off the operation until after her exams, and this became the unofficial cause of death, spread by the secret police.³³⁹ Rumors that Stalin shot her over political disagreements were instantaneous. Some people claimed they heard from a Kremlin doctor or a servant that Nadya’s screams for him to stop had been heard by neighbors (through impossibly thick walls).³⁴⁰ Others whispered that he had driven her to suicide.³⁴¹ Still other rumors had Stalin marrying Kaganovich’s sister Rosa (no such person existed).³⁴² Kirov and Orjonikidze, Stalin’s two closest comrades, were said to have stayed in the Kremlin apartment with him the night of her death. Bukharin, who used to visit Nadya in the apartment, would offer to exchange Kremlin apartments with Stalin. Stalin accepted. Soon, however, he and the children instead moved into the Imperial Senate, to an apartment one floor below his Kremlin office. It comprised seven rooms on a long corridor, with rooms for servants and bodyguards at each end and windows looking out onto the Arsenal.³⁴³

The casket was placed on a white catafalque for an unhurried procession to the Novodevichy Cemetery on November 12. The newspaper had announced the schedule, and Moscow’s streets were lined with people (many of them plainclothes police). Stalin exited the Kremlin on foot, behind the horse-drawn hearse. Whether he marched the full four miles, through many narrow and winding streets, is uncertain.³⁴⁴ TASS announced that grave-site eulogies were delivered by Bukharin (for the Krasnaya Presnya ward party committee, Nadya’s primary party organization) and Kaganovich (Moscow party boss). “We are burying one of the best, most loyal members of our party,” Kaganovich stated. “Raised in the family of an old Bolshevik proletarian, going forward after the revolution for many years in a state of the greatest loyalty to the cause of the working class, Nadezhda Sergeyevna was organically linked with the worker movement, with our party. . . . We, close friends and comrades, understand the severity of the loss of comrade Stalin, and we know what duties this imposes on us with respect to comrade Stalin.”³⁴⁵

After Nadya was lowered into the grave, “Stalin threw a handful of dirt on it,” Artyom recalled. “He told Vasily and me to do likewise. Returning home, we had lunch. Stalin sat silently, contemplatively. Soon he left for a meeting of the government.”³⁴⁶ Pravda published a grace note from the dictator (November 18) offering “heartfelt gratitude to all organizations, comrades, and individuals who had expressed their condolences on the occasion of the death of my close friend and comrade Nadezhda Sergeyevna Alliluyeva-Stalina.” He exhibited remorse and self-pity, fury and his sense of victimhood.³⁴⁷ Svetlana’s subsequent account, unreliable in most respects, rightly surmised that her father “was too intelligent not to know that people always commit suicide to punish someone.”³⁴⁸

ENEMY WITH A PARTY CARD

Secret reports were now mentioning a threat of starvation even for Moscow and Leningrad.³⁴⁹ Military intelligence estimated that Japan had a standing army of 1,880,000, Poland 1,772,000, Romania 1,180,000, Finland 163,000, Estonia 75,000, and Latvia 114,000.³⁵⁰ Absorbing his personal loss, his subjects starving, his eastern and western borders facing formidable enemies, Stalin could have been moved to carve out a breathing space. But the spring 1932 concessions had failed to produce a harvest miracle, and now he ratcheted up the repression again to squeeze blood from a stone.³⁵¹ He had formed a commission to purge the party in the North Caucasus, sending Kaganovich there to bang heads, and returned Yevdokimov to its capital, Rostov, ordering that villages that failed to fulfill grain quotas be deported in their entirety. (Their houses and fields were to be taken by “conscientious Red Army collective farmers who have too little land or bad land in other regions.”)³⁵² Molotov was dispatched to Ukraine, whence he complained to Stalin (November 21) that in the “opportunist, bourgeois, kulak situation,” local functionaries were urging that farmers’ consumption needs be met before more grain went to the state.³⁵³ That same day, Stalin accused the party boss in the Kazakh republic, Filipp Goloshchokin, of having surrendered despite “a maximal reduction” in procurement quotas, and ordered him to “strike those Communists in counties and below who are in the hands of petit bourgeois anarchy and have slid onto the rails of kulak sabotage.”³⁵⁴

The Soviet agricultural press in November 1932 carried headlines of peasants dying from starvation in Poland (“It is not a crisis; it is a catastrophe”), Czechoslovakia (“dying villages”), China (“hunger despite a good harvest”), and the United States (“poverty and ruin”).³⁵⁵ Not a word about the famine in the Soviet Union.

Once again, the party “opposition” played into Stalin’s hands: he received a denunciation (on or before November 19) against two officials, Nikolai Eismont, commissar of food for the RSFSR, and Vladimir Tolmachev, head of road transport for the RSFSR, who, in connection with the Revolution Day holiday, had been drinking in Eismont’s apartment. They gathered again the next day with Alexander Smirnov, a former agriculture commissar who had been demoted to a position in forestry, and criticized anew Stalin’s destructive policies. Smirnov had become a Central Committee member back in 1912, the same year as Stalin. Eismont had been on the recent commission to the North Caucasus led by Kaganovich and had seen the swarms of starving refugees at railroad stations. Under the influence, the trio had discussed possible replacements for the general secretary: Voroshilov, Kalinin, even Smirnov.

There it was, yet again. Remove Stalin.

The Central Control Commission, now overseen by the Stalin minion Jānis Rudzutaks, deemed the lubricated conversations a “counterrevolutionary grouping.”³⁵⁶ Stalin added the disgraced rightist Mikhail Tomsky (head of the state publishing house) to the “conspiracy,” and summoned a joint session of the politburo and the Control Commission presidium on November 27. “These people,” the attack dog Yemelyan Yaroslavsky fulminated, “are like the Ryutin group, only in a different form.” By now, though, the crisis under Stalin’s rule was pervasive and even some arch-loyalists shrank from full-throated condemnation of their loose-tongued comrades. Kuibyshev referred to Smirnov by his nickname (“Foma”) and recalled their long association, dating back to Narym exile. (Stalin had been there, too, and Smirnov had fed him.) Mikoyan, who used to be Eismont’s boss, awkwardly said almost nothing (until the very end).³⁵⁷

Rumors again circulated that Stalin had verbally offered to resign, and that after an awkward silence Molotov had spoken up to reassure him he had the party’s confidence.³⁵⁸ Be that as it may, Stalin found himself defending his policies.³⁵⁹ He grumbled that the conspirators “represent matters as if Stalin were guilty of everything” and warned that the choice was between becoming a victim of the imperialists—the fate of China—or a socialist industrial power that could defend itself. “What matters is not Stalin, but the party,” he concluded. “You can remove Stalin, but things will continue just as they are.”³⁶⁰

Eismont and Tolmachev were the ones expelled from the party, and Smirnov from the Central Committee, although they were not arrested.³⁶¹ Stalin had a transcript of the proceedings made for circulation to party organizations. He sent another vituperative telegram (also signed by Molotov), this one to officials in the Urals (December 7, 1932), condemning as “unpersuasive” their explanations for local state farms’ failures to fulfill procurement quotas. “The provincial leadership cannot escape its responsibility,” it said, asking for names of the state farm directors. “Announce to the directors that a party card will not save them from arrest, that an enemy with a party card warrants greater attention than an enemy without a party card.”³⁶²

SHARPENING THE CLASS STRUGGLE

On December 12, 1932, the Soviet Union restored diplomatic relations with Chiang Kai-shek’s government in Nanking. The next day, Japan belatedly replied to the Soviet offer of a nonaggression pact in a note to Soviet envoy Alexander Troyanovsky with a rejection.³⁶³ The Japanese leaked distorted versions of the exchange; the Soviet press published the originals, aiming to demonstrate Japan’s belligerence.³⁶⁴ Stalin, meanwhile, decided to widen the party purge he had imposed on the North Caucasus: on December 11, Pravda had carried a resolution in the name of the Central Committee announcing a multiregion party cleansing for 1933.³⁶⁵ His mood was captured in his greeting to the secret police on the fifteenth anniversary of their founding, December 20, which Pravda printed that day—“I wish you success in your difficult task of extirpating the enemies of the dictatorship of the proletariat!”³⁶⁶

Stalin also took the time to repudiate Thomas Campbell, an agricultural expert from Montana who several years earlier had been afforded an audience, and had now published a book about his experiences and meeting with Stalin (“piercing black eyes which concentrate on you even while talking through an interpreter”). It was mostly sympathetic, but on the touchy subject of Comintern subversion, he wrote that Stalin had “unhesitatingly admitted, with disarming frankness, that under Trotsky there had been an attempt to spread Communism throughout the world. He said this was the primary cause of his break with Trotsky. . . . He explained that they had neither the time nor the money to try to communize the whole world, even should they wish to do so.” In his published repudiation (December 23, 1932), Stalin denied that Trotsky’s name had come up, and noted that Campbell’s book mentioned a transcript of their conversation but shrank from including it. Stalin’s rebuttal contained a purported transcript, which had him stressing the need for diplomatic recognition to normalize trade relations and had Campbell mentioning meeting with then President-elect Herbert Hoover prior to setting out for the Soviet Union and promising to convey the Stalin conversation back to Hoover.³⁶⁷

Before the year was out, Stalin pushed through a decree on an internal passport system to purge urban areas of “alien” and “non-laboring elements.”³⁶⁸ Recipients were to include permanent residents aged sixteen or older in cities and towns, and at construction sites, as well as transport workers and state-farm laborers, but not collective farmers. He aimed to diminish the pressure on the urban food supply and force peasants back into the collectives.³⁶⁹ On December 29, 1932, a furious directive in the name of the politburo threatened collective farms that failed to meet procurement quotas with a compulsory early repayment of credits, a cutoff from machine-tractor-station equipment, and confiscation of “all the grain they had, including the so-called seed funds”—the basis for the spring sowing campaign.³⁷⁰

Despite the greater repression, procurements as of January 1, 1933, had reached only 17.4 million tons, 3.7 million fewer than collected by the same time the previous year (and 3 million below the plan).³⁷¹ On January 7, Stalin opened another joint plenum of the Central Committee and the Central Control Commission, boasting that “we had no iron and steel industry. . . . We now have one. We had no tractor industry. We now have one. We had no automobile industry”—and so on, through aircraft and more. He admitted that the first Five-Year Plan prioritized heavy industry but baldly asserted that living standards had improved. He had reduced industrial growth targets for the second Five-Year Plan to a more realistic 13–14 percent per annum.³⁷²

Stalin’s most important declaration concerned a sharpening of the class struggle as the country got closer to socialism, a cudgel he had used against Bukharin in 1928 (and a concept Trotsky had articulated a decade earlier). “We need to keep in mind that the increase in the power of the Soviet state will strengthen the resistance of the last holdovers of dying classes,” Stalin asserted. “Precisely because they are dying out and in their last days, they will switch from some forms of striking to other, sharper forms, appealing to the backward strata of the population. . . . On this soil, smashed groups of old counterrevolutionary parties of SRs and Mensheviks, bourgeois nationalists of the center and periphery, may stir and come to life, shards of counterrevolutionary elements of Trotskyites and right deviationists may stir and come to life.” He added: “This, of course, is not scary. But all this needs to be kept in mind if we want to do away with these elements quickly and without especially large numbers of victims.”³⁷³

Opposition, according to Stalin, now worked “on the sly,” masked behind simulated loyalty. In a second set of remarks to the plenum (January 11), he asserted—in line with the reports he received—that “our harvest was not worse, but better than in the previous year.” He blamed any problems on “anti-Soviet elements” and concealed “nests of counterrevolution.” “They sit right in the collective farm, holding positions as storemen, business managers, bookkeepers, secretaries, and so on,” he averred. “They will never say ‘Down with the collective farm.’ They are ‘for’ the collective farm.”³⁷⁴

Trotsky was ever present—his writings had been demanding that 1933 be the year of the major overhaul, an otherwise obscure proposal condemned at the plenum as “slander.”³⁷⁵

The politburo closed ranks around the dictator, and the others fell in line. “We, as members of the Central Committee, vote for Stalin because he is ours. (Applause.),” declared Rudzutaks. “You won’t find a single instance when Comrade Stalin hesitated or retreated. That is why we are with him. Yes, he vigorously chops off what is rotten, he chops off what is slated for destruction. If he didn’t do this, he would not be a Leninist.” Similarly, the disgraced Bukharin stated, “We have won dazzling victories in the building up of the Five-Year Plan. We are currently at war and must exercise the strictest discipline. . . . That is why such groupings must be hacked off without the slightest mercy, without being in the slightest troubled by any sentimental considerations concerning the past, concerning personal friendships.” Smirnov, in futile self-defense, denied that he or any other party member could have uttered the words about the need to “remove comrade Stalin”: “I think that only someone drunk out of his mind or insane could ever say such a thing.”³⁷⁶

At the plenum’s close (January 12), the regime announced suspension of recruitment into the party and the pending purge. That same day, Stalin permitted the politburo to approve, in a poll vote, another reduction in the yearly grain procurement for Ukraine, of 457,000 tons; other regions got smaller reductions. Twelve days later, the dictator sacked the party bosses in Ukraine’s Dnepropetrovsk, Odessa, and Kharkov provinces.³⁷⁷ He did the same to the party boss of the Kazakh republic.³⁷⁸ Yagoda reported that eighty-seven “Trotskyites” had been rounded up or soon would be.³⁷⁹ Regime decision making was becoming more and more informal, with most key matters adjudicated in Stalin’s office.³⁸⁰ Secret police reports were claiming an ever greater share of his paperwork.³⁸¹ He floated the notion with the OGPU of deporting another 3 million peasants, a target soon sliced to 2 million, then 500,000, and finally only half of that.³⁸²

The OGPU, in any case, was consumed with forming local detachments to enforce a draconian decree, on January 22, 1933, ordering interdiction of peasant flight from grain-growing regions and blaming local authorities for allowing an exodus, which had helped spread epidemics and become a weapon for discrediting regime policies.³⁸³ Railway ticket sales were suspended and dragnets set up from the Caucasus to the Urals on one side and along the western borderlands on the other.³⁸⁴ Perhaps Stalin feared an unraveling of the collective farm order. In any case, the decree showed that he was very anxious to prevent the spread of further discontent to the urban socialist core. He also had to feed the cities, which could become death traps. Overall, the number of fleeing peasants captured and sent back would be relatively small (low hundreds of thousands, when there were 17 million peasants in collective farms in Ukraine alone). Many farmers were already trapped in regions without adequate food.³⁸⁵

Molotov, meanwhile, gloated to the central executive committee of the Soviet on January 23, 1933, that more and more capitalist states were recognizing the Soviet Union. “Some clever ones still consider further ‘study’ of the USSR necessary (i.e., to delay recognition),” he stated. “It should not be difficult to guess how Soviet might has increased, how our economy is expanding, how much the international weight of the USSR has grown. Those who are full of useless and empty phrases about further study of the USSR are the ones who have the most to lose from the absence of diplomatic ties.”³⁸⁶ Stalin sent a congratulatory note: “The confident-contemptuous tone with respect to the ‘Great Powers,’ the belief in our own strength, the simple spitting in the pot of the swaggering ‘Great Powers’—very good. Let them ‘eat it.’”³⁸⁷

GEOPOLITICAL CATASTROPHE

The Nazis had lost thirty-four seats in Germany’s November 1932 parliamentary elections, seeing their vote drop by 2 million—to 33.1 percent, from 37.4 percent in July 1932.³⁸⁸ The party, an amalgam of territorial organizations and divergent interests, was wracked by dissension and defections, partly triggered by Adolf Hitler’s refusal, even after the electoral reversal, of any post short of chancellor.³⁸⁹ A key driver of Nazi support, the Depression, had bottomed out, and a slow recovery was under way. And yet, traditional conservatives desperate for stability and order proved unable to fashion a parliamentary majority that achieved their goal of excluding the Social Democrats and defanging the trade union movement and the Communists.³⁹⁰ The maladroit octogenarian president, former field marshal Paul von Hindenburg, had appointed defense minister Kurt von Schleicher, another soldier turned politician, as chancellor in early December 1932, elbowing aside the ambitious archconservative Franz von Papen. But when Hindenburg refused to declare a state of emergency and allow Schleicher to dissolve the Reichstag to avoid a no-confidence vote, the chancellor resigned. Schleicher colluded with Hitler to try to stop the return of his nemesis von Papen, while the latter persuaded Hindenburg to appoint Hitler, even though the field marshal had trounced the Nazi in elections to the presidency and mocked him as a mere corporal.³⁹¹ Traditional conservatives imagined that they could “tame” Hitler and the radical right while achieving a broadened anti-left coalition. On January 30, 1933, von Papen—having secured the vice chancellorship for himself—escorted the Nazi ruffian into the Chancellery, for the oath of office, through a rear door.³⁹²

“A stubby little Austrian with a flabby handshake, shifty brown eyes, and a Charlie Chaplin mustache,” wrote the world’s best-selling daily newspaper, the London Daily Herald. “What sort of man is this to lead a great nation?”³⁹³

Nazi ranks were electrified. “Hitler is Reich Chancellor,” marveled Joseph Goebbels. “Just like a fairy-tale.”³⁹⁴ Goebbels improvised a torchlight parade through Berlin, playacting a seizure of power, even though Hitler had come to power legally (just like Italy’s Mussolini).³⁹⁵ Success had not come out of nowhere, however. By 1929, the Nazis had 3,400 party branches around the country and were mounting countless public rallies, sponsoring concerts, putting up Christmas trees and maypoles, spotlighting local heroes. They spoke to German people’s fears and prejudices, but also to their aspirations and interests, promising a reckoning with the disgraceful recent past and a future of national unity and rebirth.³⁹⁶ Paramilitary Nazi Brownshirts, known as the SA, engaged in street brawling with the Social Democrats and the Communists (who fought each other as well). The Nazi leadership encouraged violence and lawlessness, just as the Bolsheviks had on their path to power, but the Nazis accused the Communists of fomenting the chaos and called for order.³⁹⁷ Organized opposition to the Nazis was either irresolute or at loggerheads.³⁹⁸ The Reichswehr was focused on rearmament.³⁹⁹

There was one political force that could compete with Nazi storm troopers in the streets—the Communists—but they proactively subverted Weimar democracy, even knowing that this facilitated Nazi aims. Through the Comintern, Stalin was enforcing a struggle to the death—with Social Democracy. “The Nazi tree should not hide the Social Democrat forest,” the German Communist leader Ernst Thälmann had warned.⁴⁰⁰ The catastrophe of the Comintern policy of “social fascism” was vividly brought home in the November 1932 elections, when German Communists had garnered nearly 6 million votes, and the Social Democrats more than 7 million, as compared with the Nazis’ 11.7 million. In no free and fair election did the Nazis ever win more votes than the Communists and Social Democrats combined.⁴⁰¹

Many Communists imagined Nazism, which they labeled “fascism,” to be the terminal stage of the crisis of “monopoly capitalism,” so that the turmoil in Germany would eventually redound to them, which meant they needed to make themselves ready by outbattling their rivals on the left.⁴⁰² Some Communists even welcomed the Nazi accession to power. Stalin did not.⁴⁰³ Still, he appears to have underestimated Hitler, as many—but not all—contemporaries did. He interpreted Hitler and Nazism as creatures of finance capital, a class-based analysis, and assumed that German militarists would continue to shape state policy.Secret German-Soviet military cooperation had been failing.⁴⁰⁴ But Stalin hoped it would be renewed.⁴⁰⁵ Werner von Blomberg, who had played a hand in Hindenburg’s appointment of Hitler and stayed on as war minister, would pass on to the Soviet embassy that “a change in Soviet-German relations is out of the question under any circumstances.”⁴⁰⁶ But Nazism’s appeal to German workers was manifest, and its intense ideological radicalism was directed at the Soviet Union.⁴⁰⁷

RADICAL REALIGNMENTS

As the Nazis reveled in Hitler’s chancellorship, Stalin’s regime staged the First all-Union Congress of Collective Farm Shock Workers (February 15–19, 1933), attended by more than 1,500 delegates, nearly 900 of whom held no bureaucratic office and half of whom were not party or Communist Youth League members. They were recognized for labor performance.⁴⁰⁸ Kaganovich addressed them in a folksy manner, reciting peasant proverbs, while praising the vicious injunction against theft of socialist property as a “great law.” He boasted of the creation of 200,000 collective farms and 5,000 state farms, asserting that only collectivization had made possible industrialization and the preemption of foreign military intervention.⁴⁰⁹ One collective farm brigadier, who had been asked by Kaganovich whether the collectivized system was better, answered, “Things are, of course, better now. Still, before I was master of my fate, and now I am not the master.”⁴¹⁰

On the final day, Stalin, putting on a folksy air, too, warned biblically that he who did not work would not eat, but promised that each collective farmer would have a cow (“prolonged applause”).⁴¹¹ He scolded those who underestimated women (“Women on the collective farms are a great force”). He acknowledged that “quite a number of people, including collective farmers,” had been skeptical of party policy, but dismissed the idea of a third way, individual farming without capitalists and landowners, because it would inevitably give rise to a “kulak-capitalist regime.” Silent on the famine, he asserted that “the multi-million-mass poor peasants, previously living half starving, have now become middle peasants in the collective farms, they have become well-off. This is an achievement that the world has not seen before.”⁴¹²

On February 27, a fire consumed the German Reichstag, and a young, unemployed bricklayer, recently arrived from the Netherlands, was found inside and arrested. He was a member of the Dutch Communist party. The Nazi party was still a minority in the parliament, but now Hitler persuaded President Hindenburg to sign an emergency decree suspending the governments of Germany’s federal states and most civil liberties “as a defensive measure against the Communists.”⁴¹³ Dissolution of parliament and snap elections, which were scheduled for March 5, afforded Hitler a campaign of intense hysteria about Communist subversion. The Nazis still won only 43.9 percent (288 of 647 seats), but with their partners, the German National People’s Party, who won 8 percent, they had a governing majority.⁴¹⁴ Hitler had been handed power, but now he seized it, proposing an Enabling Act to promulgate laws on his authority as chancellor without the Reichstag for a period of four years. It required a two-thirds vote. Only the Social Democrats, twelve of whose deputies had been imprisoned, voted against the measure, which passed 441 to 94.⁴¹⁵ Soon the Nazis were the sole legal party in Germany.

Hitler—who had become a German citizen only in 1932—was dictator of the country, upending the traditional conservatives.⁴¹⁶ “With few exceptions, the men who are running this government are of a mentality that you and I cannot understand,” the American consul general wrote in a message to the state department. “Some of them are psychopathic cases and would ordinarily be receiving treatment somewhere.”⁴¹⁷

Elements in the Nazi movement—assisted by colluding police—exuded fanatical delight in physically annihilating leftist property, institutions, and people. Hitler fulminated against “Judeo-Bolshevism” as a worldwide conspiracy.⁴¹⁸ At the same time, he received the Soviet envoy, Lev Khinchuk, on April 28, 1933, and shortly thereafter allowed Germany to ratify the long-delayed extension of the 1926 Berlin treaty, ostensibly reaffirming good bilateral relations.⁴¹⁹ “The cornerstone of Soviet foreign policy is the maintenance of peace,” Izvestiya editorialized (May 6). “In this spirit, the Soviet Union does not wish to alter anything in its attitude to Germany.” But Radek penned an essay in Pravda (May 10) noting that the fascist regimes led the way in “revision of the robber baron peace of Versailles,” and warning that this would entail “the creation of a worse Brest-Litovsk peace.” He hinted at a Soviet effort to cozy up to Poland.⁴²⁰

Communist parties outside the USSR numbered 910,000 members, and the German party had accounted for 330,000 of them, the second largest after China (350,000).⁴²¹ But Hitler crushed them. This left the French and Czechoslovak parties, with just 34,000 and 60,000 members, respectively, as the next largest. Communists in France and Czechoslovakia pressured Moscow to abandon the “social fascism” policy. But in spring 1933, when seven Social Democratic parties issued a joint public appeal for a nonaggression pact with Communists, Stalin approved instructions “to step up the campaign against the Second International,” arguing that “it is necessary to emphasize the flight of Social Democracy to the fascist camp.” This stance was shared by many of the foreign Communists he had gathered at Comintern HQ.⁴²² The long-standing civil war on the left persisted.⁴²³

EDUCATION OF A TRUE BELIEVER

Upward of 50 million Soviet inhabitants, perhaps as many as 70 million, were caught in regions with little or no food.⁴²⁴ More than a million cases of typhus would be registered in 1932–33, and half a million of typhoid fever.⁴²⁵ The OGPU claimed in a report to Stalin (March 1933) that it had interdicted 219,460 runaways in search of food, sending 186,588 back to their points of origin and arresting the others.⁴²⁶ Human and animal corpses littered county roads, railroad tracks, the open steppe, the frontiers. Peasants ate dogs and cats, exhumed horse carcasses, boiled gophers. The Dnepropetrovsk OGPU reported to Kharkov (March 5, 1933) “on the rising cases of tumefaction and death on the basis of famine, verified and confirmed in documents by physician observation.” The regional OGPU boss sent tables with the numbers of starving families by county, and named conscientious laborers who were starving, adding that a traveling commission had delivered grain from the reserves to the suffering areas.⁴²⁷ It was, of course, too little too late.

Death and disease wracked the entire Soviet wheat belt—Ukraine (including the Moldavian autonomous republic), the North Caucasus (including the Kuban, Stavropol, and Don provinces), the Middle and Lower Volga valley (from Nizhny Novgorod to Astrakhan, including the Volga German autonomous republic), and the Central Black Earth region—but also Vologda and Arkhangelsk in the north, the Urals, and the Kazakh autonomous republic.⁴²⁸ Party officials begged for emergency aid to “save the lives of many people from starvation death,” as the ethnic Kazakh official Turar Ryskulov wrote to Stalin (March 9, 1933).⁴²⁹ An OGPU operative assembled a summary of starvation in the cities in the Urals, Volga valley, and North Caucasus, underscoring the negative effects on workers’ political mood.⁴³⁰ Reports of cannibalism in Ukraine were averaging ten per day. Parents were killing one child and feeding it to the others; some prepared soup stock and salted the remaining flesh in barrels to preserve it.⁴³¹ The secret police reported on cannibal bands that targeted orphans: “This group cut up and consumed as food three children, including an eleven-year-old son and an orphan whose parents perished from starvation.”⁴³²

Reports and letters to Stalin’s office were graphic.⁴³³ The documents show that he became livid not when he learned that people were driven to eating human flesh but when he learned that an American correspondent was given permission to travel to famine-stricken regions (“We already have enough spies in the USSR”).⁴³⁴ When even the unsqueamish Kaganovich confirmed the catastrophe, it evidently got through to the dictator.⁴³⁵ On March 20, 1933, the politburo, with Stalin signing the protocol, resolved to supply more tractors (though fewer than requested), send more food aid to Ukraine, allow free trade in foodstuffs in Kharkov and Kiev, and mobilize all internal resources for the sowing campaign.⁴³⁶ (That same day, the politburo directed the OGPU to remove guns from the population.) ⁴³⁷

Voroshilov, on holiday again, had written to Stalin complaining of insomnia and stomach problems. Stalin answered, “I still feel poorly, sleep little, and am not getting better, but this is not manifested in work.” Orjonikidze wrote to Voroshilov (April 9) that he was sick and exhausted and complained about how his first deputy, Pyatakov, worked hard but did not believe in the party’s strategy, and how Orjonikidze needed a trusted deputy who could relieve him as commissar, because “I am rather ill and cannot make it much longer.”⁴³⁸

How did the regime not come apart altogether? How did higher-ups writing and receiving the reports not concede that the situation called for repudiation of regime policies? How did local officials persist in implementing orders?

Lev Kopelev (b. 1912) was a Communist Youth League militant, the editor in chief of an agitation paper, and a 25,000er requisitioning grain in his native Ukraine from late 1932 into spring 1933. He had been arrested, for ten days in 1929, for putting out leaflets defending the “Bolshevik-Leninists” (as Trotskyites called themselves).⁴³⁹ Young and naïve, he had admitted his error. His life rippled with meaning. “The grain front!” he recalled of the procurement campaigns. “Stalin said the struggle for grain was the struggle for socialism. I was convinced we were warriors on an invisible front, fighting kulak sabotage for the grain which was needed by the country, by the Five-Year Plan.” Kopelev noted how a local OGPU operative was the son of a miner and had worked in a mine himself (“We believed him without reservation”), while meetings with villagers took place under religious icons. “Every time I began to speak, I wanted to prove to these people that they were making a serious mistake by hiding the grain”—after all, workers in the cities were putting in two and three shifts yet did not have enough food; Japanese militarists and now German fascists surrounded the country. Villagers were eating grass and gnawing on twigs, denying that they had grain to give, before being hauled off—“and I persuaded myself, explained to myself: I mustn’t give in to debilitating pity,” Kopelev said. He convinced himself that “the famine was caused by the opposition of suicidally unconscientious peasants, enemy intriguers, and the inexperience and weakness of the lower ranks of [party and soviet] workers.”⁴⁴⁰

Kopelev was “speaking Bolshevik,” or making the revolution personal, internalizing its inescapable vocabulary, worldview, and presentations of self. The regime compelled people to write and recite autobiographies using prescribed categories and ways of thinking. Kopelev was a true believer, but it was not necessary to believe. It was, however, necessary to appear to believe and even the reluctant came to employ the language and thought processes of the regime to view the world through party directives and official reportage—class and enemies, factory output, and imperialist threats, false versus genuine consciousness. This is what gave Stalin’s regime its extraordinary power.⁴⁴¹

Even in the hospital with diarrhea, Kopelev devoured the reportage of Five-Year Plan triumphs and Stalin’s catechismal speeches. If doubts crept in, he took inspiration from role models—like the orphaned son of a hired farm laborer who had worked for “kulaks” but become chairman of a village soviet. Stalin purged the Ukrainian party apparatus and replaced the Kharkov party boss with Pavel Postyshev, a Bolshevik originally from industrial Ivanovo-Voznesensk, who now became the number two in Ukraine. Postyshev, Kopelev wrote, “stood in line at grocery stores, cafeterias, bathhouses, and he sat with petitioners in the waiting rooms of various government establishments.” Postyshev opened cafés in factory shops, had flowers planted, and viciously condemned Ukrainian intellectuals as bourgeois nationalists and agents of fascism. “For me, Postyshev became a hero, a leader, a paragon of the true Bolshevik—and not for me alone.”⁴⁴² In newspaper photographs of turbines and tractors, in live glimpses of freight cars loaded with steel, Kopelev saw the new world coming into being. When a peasant tried to burn down a collectivized barn, Kopelev was confirmed in his conviction that sabotage existed. Capitalist encirclement was a fact. In 1933, he was awarded a coveted place at Kharkov University.⁴⁴³ “I believed,” Kopelev wrote, “because I wanted to believe.”⁴⁴⁴

CONSEQUENCES

Hay carts were going round to gather the corpses, as during the medieval plagues.⁴⁴⁵ “I saw things that are impossible to forget until one’s death,” the Cossack novelist Mikhail Sholokhov wrote to Stalin (April 4, 1933) of his native Don River valley. Stalin responded (May 6) that he had directed that the area be provided food aid and that the information in Sholokhov’s letter should be investigated, but he stood his ground. “Your letters create a somewhat one-sided impression,” Stalin wrote. “The esteemed grain growers of your region (and not only your region) carried out a ‘sit-down strike’ (sabotage!) and would not have minded leaving the workers and the Red Army without grain.” He deemed their actions “a ‘quiet’ war with Soviet power. A war of attrition, dear comrade Sholokhov.”⁴⁴⁶

Stalin was indeed at war—with the peasantry, and with his own Communist party for supposedly going soft at this perilous hour. On May 4, he had received a report from Yagoda on how newly arrived emaciated conscripts were eager for the promised bread toasts and a lump of sugar, while relatives trailed them, looking for handouts. One was overheard to say, “When there were no collective farms, peasants lived a lot better. Now, with collective farms, everyone is starving. If war breaks out, no one will defend Soviet power; everyone will go against it.”⁴⁴⁷

Japan’s Kwantung Army attempted to seize Jehol, in Inner Mongolia, a springboard for attacking both Peking (Beijing) and Outer Mongolia, the Soviet satellite.⁴⁴⁸ Chiang Kai-shek’s earlier appeal to the League of Nations had merely resulted in Japan quitting that body, which Tokyo had come to see as a racist Anglo-American conspiracy to emasculate it.⁴⁴⁹ On the last day of May 1933, Kwantung generals signed a truce with “local” officials in the port of Tientsin (Tianjin), in northern China, that extended Manchukuo’s borders to the Great Wall, gave Japan control of the strategic mountain pass, and created a demilitarized zone extending sixty miles south of the wall and just north of the Peking-Tientsin district.⁴⁵⁰ Stalin suspected that Chiang, whose signature was not on the truce, was secretly negotiating an end to the war, which would free up Japan to attack him. Presumed Japanese saboteurs were crossing into Soviet territory.⁴⁵¹ The dictator received intercepted communications between the British ambassador in Tokyo and the foreign office in London, asserting that Japan’s military buildup went beyond its aims in China and that Japanese army observers viewed war with the Soviet Union as inevitable.⁴⁵² Stalin had Soviet newspapers publish intelligence excerpts, in disguised form, to expose Tokyo’s aggressive desires.⁴⁵³

The party journal Bolshevik tried to rebut a sense of “the capitulation of the Soviet Union in the face of world imperialism in general and Japanese imperialism in particular.”⁴⁵⁴ But whether the USSR could even fight a war had become doubtful. On May 7, 1933, the politburo had prohibited the OGPU from imposing the death penalty—the Soviet Far East was granted an exception—and the next day Stalin and Molotov had issued a secret directive to party organizations and OGPU branches suspending mass peasant deportations and ordering release of Gulag inmates guilty of lesser infractions, in light of “the three-year struggle that has destroyed our class enemies in the village.”⁴⁵⁵ “The moment has arrived when we no longer need mass repressions,” the decree explained, conceding that further “severe forms of repression” could “bring the influence of our party in the village to zero.”⁴⁵⁶ But then, when Kosior and others in Ukraine had reported on severe repression being undertaken against peasants there, Stalin responded (May 31), “Finally you are beginning to apply yourself in Bolshevik fashion.”⁴⁵⁷

Early June brought a small measure of relief: berries, green onions, young potatoes, carrots, and beets became ready for consumption, for those who maintained household gardens (and guarded them round the clock).⁴⁵⁸ Hungry children who were discovered rooting around in the plots were sometimes killed, then and there, by farmers protecting their families’ food.⁴⁵⁹ The regime was purchasing livestock from western China and again reducing grain exports. For 1933, it would end up at 1.68 million tons, when the original plan had been for 6.2 million. Exports in 1933 would bring in a mere 31.2 million gold rubles, a fivefold revenue plunge since 1930.⁴⁶⁰ The general crisis forced a halt to the generous increases in military expenditures, which would decrease in 1933 to 2 billion rubles (from 2.2 billion).⁴⁶¹

On June 1, 1933, the announced party purge commenced. The procedures specified ferreting out self-seekers, the politically passive, and the morally depraved, but also—in a conspicuous indication of Stalin’s hand—“open and hidden violators of party discipline, who do not fulfill party and state decisions, subjecting to doubt and discrediting the plans by the party with nonsense about their ‘unreality’ and ‘unattainability.’” The party journal explained that the enemy, unable to proceed openly and frontally (like the class-alien targets of the previous general purges), deceitfully penetrated the party and hid behind a party card to sabotage socialism from within (“double-dealers”).⁴⁶²

During the Five-Year Plan, membership had ballooned by more than 2 million, to 3.55 million (2.2 million full members, 1.35 million candidates). Each party organization established its own purge commission, and every Communist—this now included Central Committee members—had to place their party cards on the table, recite their autobiographies, and submit to interrogation. The commissions usually had records of previous autobiographies and any denunciations; the proceedings were open to non-party workmates to chime in. The previous purge, in 1929–30, had expelled around one in ten. Now, nearly one in five would be expelled, and nearly as many would quit rather than submit to the procedure, bringing the total number who did not keep party cards to more than 800,000.⁴⁶³ Expulsion was not cause for arrest, which required accusations of a crime, but Stalin’s commentary implied guilt until proven innocent.⁴⁶⁴

STALIN’S FAMINE

Before 1917, to import machinery, Russia had been exporting more than would have seemed permissible, given domestic consumption needs. (“We will not eat our fill, but we will export,” Alexander III’s finance minister had remarked.)⁴⁶⁵ A famine had broken out in 1891–92. In the four years prior, Russia had exported about 10 million tons of grain, but then a dry autumn, which delayed fall planting, severely cold winter temperatures without the usual snowfalls, a windy spring that blew away topsoil, and a long and dry summer damaged the harvest. The tsarist state had contributed to the vulnerability by reducing the rural workforce (conscripting young males), enforcing peasant redemption payments for former gentry land in connection with the serf emancipation, and having tax collectors seize vital livestock if payments fell short. Even after crop failure and hunger were evident, grain exports continued for a time. And the finance minister had opposed even this belated stoppage. The tsarist government refused to use the word “famine” (golod), admitting to only a “failed harvest” (neurozhai); censors prevented newspapers from reporting about it. Around 500,000 people died, primarily from cholera epidemics triggered by starvation.⁴⁶⁶

Stalin’s famine, involving extirpation of capitalism and denomadization, was incomparably worse. In 1931–33, famine and related epidemics probably killed between 5 and 7 million people. Perhaps 10 million more starved nearly to death.⁴⁶⁷ “I don’t know how they stood it!” Molotov would say later in his long life. In the Kazakh autonomous republic, starvation and disease probably claimed between 1.2 and 1.4 million people, the vast majority of them ethnic Kazakhs, from a population of roughly 6.5 million (of whom perhaps 4.12 million were ethnic Kazakhs). This was the highest death ratio in the Soviet Union.⁴⁶⁸ In Ukraine, the death toll was around 3.5 million, out of a population of 33 million. Statistics on livestock were not published in the Soviet press in 1932 or 1933, but the country likely lost half of its cattle and pigs and two thirds of its sheep. The horse population declined from 32.6 million to around 16 million; by 1933, tractors supplied only 3.6 million to 5.4 million horsepower equivalents. Kazakh livestock losses were beyond staggering: camels from 1.06 million to 73,000, sheep from 21.9 million to 1.7 million, cattle herds from 7.5 million to 1.6 million.⁴⁶⁹ By 1933, a Kazakh family owned, on average, just 3.7 cattle, compared with 22.6 in 1929. And Kazakhs ended up only nominally collectivized: the regime reinstituted private control of animals, and the majority of Kazakhs worked household plots and failed to work the requisite number of days for the collectives. But the damage to the USSR’s meat supply was done, and enduring.⁴⁷⁰

Many contemporaries, such as the Italian ambassador, who traveled through Ukraine in summer 1933, deemed the famine deliberate.⁴⁷¹ Monstrously, Stalin himself made the same accusation—accusing peasants of not wanting to work.⁴⁷² Regime propaganda castigated the starving refugees besieging towns for “passing themselves off as ruined collective farmers.”⁴⁷³ Nonetheless, the famine was not intentional.⁴⁷⁴ It resulted from Stalin’s policies of forced collectivization-dekulakization, as well as the pitiless and incompetent management of the sowing and procurement campaigns, all of which put the country on a knife-edge, highly susceptible to drought and sudden torrential rains.⁴⁷⁵ Stalin appears to have genuinely imagined that increasing the scale of farms, mechanization, and collective efficiency would boost agricultural output. He dismissed the loss of better-off peasants from villages, only belatedly recognized the crucial role of incentives, and wildly overestimated the influx of machines. He twice deluded himself—partly from false reporting by frightened statisticians, partly from his own magical thinking—that the country was on the verge of a recovery harvest.

Always grudgingly, Stalin approved, and in some cases initiated, reductions in grain exports, beginning already in September 1931; in 1932 and 1933 he signed reduced grain collection quotas for Ukraine, the North Caucasus, the Volga valley, Crimea, the Urals, the Central Black Earth region, the Kazakh autonomous republic, and Eastern Siberia on nine occasions.⁴⁷⁶ The 1933 grain procurement target fell from 24.3 to 19.6 million tons; the actual amount collected would be around 18.5 million tons.^{477, 478} Altogether, the regime returned about 5.7 million tons of grain back to agriculture, including 2 million tons from reserves and 3.5 million from procurements. Stalin also approved clandestine purchase of grain and livestock abroad using scarce hard currency.⁴⁷⁹ Just between February and July 1933, he signed or countenanced nearly three dozen small allocations of food aid to the countryside, primarily to the North Caucasus and Ukraine, as well as the Kazakh lands (which necessitated sharp reductions in the bread rations for city dwellers, many of whom were put on the brink of starvation). All of these actions were woefully insufficient for avoiding the mass starvation in the countryside caused by his policies, in the face of challenging natural conditions. Still, these actions do not indicate that he was trying to exterminate peasants or ethnic Ukrainians.⁴⁸⁰ In the Kazakh autonomous republic, probably between 35 and 40 percent of the titular nation—as compared with 8 to 9 percent of Slavs there—perished from starvation or disease, not because the regime targeted Kazakhs by ethnicity, but because regime policy there consisted of forced denomadization. Similarly, there was no “Ukrainian” famine; the famine was Soviet.⁴⁸¹

In the spring of 1933, officials gave the famine a self-justifying pedagogical gloss. Ukrainian party leader Kosior wrote that “the unsatisfactory preparation for sowing in the worst affected regions shows that the hunger has not yet taught many collective farmers good sense.”⁴⁸² In the same vein, an official report to Stalin and Molotov from Dnepropetrovsk claimed that collective farmer attitudes had improved as a result of “the understanding that . . . bad work in the collective farm leads to hunger.”⁴⁸³ Such reports followed Stalin’s lead. He admitted privately to Colonel Raymond Robins of the American Red Cross (May 13, 1933)—who had met with Lenin during the acknowledged Soviet famine of 1921–23—that “a certain part of the peasantry is starving now.” Stalin claimed that hardworking peasants were incensed at the indolent ones who caused the famine. “The collective farmers roundly curse us. It is not right to help the lazy—let them perish. Such are the morals.” It was ventriloquism.⁴⁸⁴

Once Stalin had caused the horror, even complete termination of exports would not have been enough to prevent famine. The regime had no strategic grain reserves left, having released them.⁴⁸⁵ Only more aggressive purchases of food abroad and open appeals for international assistance could have averted many (and perhaps most) of the deaths. The world had plenty of food in 1933—indeed, the glut was depressing global prices for grain—but Stalin refused to reveal vulnerability, which, in his mind, would incite enemies. Admission also would have been a global propaganda debacle, undermining the boasts about the Five-Year Plan and the collective farms.

•   •   •

STALIN HAD CAUSED A DOMESTIC CALAMITY and rendered the Soviet Union vulnerable in the face of Japan’s expansionism, while contributing significantly to the ascent in Germany of Hitler, who threatened expansionism, and provoking blistering internal critiques.⁴⁸⁶ But his faction felt compelled to rally around him. “Loyalty to Stalin,” wrote a military official who later defected, “was based principally on the conviction that there was no one to take his place, that any change in the leadership would be extremely dangerous, and that the country must continue in its present course, since to stop now or attempt a retreat would mean the loss of everything.”⁴⁸⁷ A correspondent wrote to Trotsky on Prinkipo, in early spring 1933, that “they all speak about Stalin’s isolation and the general hatred of him, but they often add: ‘If it were not for that (we omit the strong epithet), everything would have fallen to pieces by now. It is he who keeps everything together.’”⁴⁸⁸

Resolute in extremis, Stalin ordered the forced return of peasant escapees, the blacklisting of entire counties (they would suffer the highest mortality), and the banning of fishing in state waters or even private charity—anything that would have made it possible to avoid the collectives.⁴⁸⁹ The OGPU arrested 505,000 people in 1933, as compared with 410,000 the year before.⁴⁹⁰ Some farmers were still refusing to sow crops, since the regime would only take the harvested grain away.⁴⁹¹ But most weeded the fields, sowed, and brought in the harvest. “All the collective farm workers now say: ‘We understand our mistakes and we are ready to work,’” one local report noted. “‘We will do everything expected of us.’”⁴⁹² Officials concluded that they had broken the peasants’ will, indirectly suggesting the regime had partnered with famine to achieve subjugation.⁴⁹³ Indeed, it was the famished peasants who would lift the regime and the country out of starvation, producing between 70 and 77 million tons of grain in 1933, a bumper crop comparable to the miracle of 1930.⁴⁹⁴ The peasants, in their land hunger and separate revolution, had made possible the advent of a Bolshevik regime in 1917–18; now enslaved, the peasants saved Stalin’s rule.⁴⁹⁵

Through it all, he had revealed escalating rage and pathological suspicion, to the point that not only bourgeois specialists or former tsarist officers were considered as enemies, but many workers and party loyalists. At once self-righteous and self-pitying, the aggressor who somehow was always the victim, full of rage, Stalin could display affection as well. He wrote (June 25, 1933) to Avel Yenukidze, the overseer of Kremlin affairs, who had gone to Germany for treatment of a heart condition, recommending he avoid fats. “Try to observe a diet, move about more, and get fully healthy,” Stalin wrote. “We extended the length of your holiday by a month, and now it’s up to you.” The dictator exhibited his own good spirits. “We have ramped up agriculture and coal,” he added. “Now we’re going to ramp up rail transport. Harvest gathering in the south has already begun. In Ukraine and the North Caucasus, the harvest is taken care of. This is the main thing. In other regions, the outlook so far is good. I’m healthy. Greetings! Your Stalin.”⁴⁹⁶

CHAPTER 3 VICTORY

Imagine that a house is being built, and when it is finished it will be a magnificent palace. But it is still not finished, and you draw it in this condition and say, “There’s your socialism”—and there’s no roof. You will be a realist, of course—you will be telling the truth. But it is immediately apparent that this truth is in actual fact an untruth. Only the person who understands what kind of house is being built, how it is being built, and who understands that it will have a roof can utter socialist truth.

ANATOLY LUNACHARSKY, former commissar of enlightenment, 1933 ¹

MARXIST IMPERATIVES OF transcending capitalism—combined with inordinate willpower—brought apocalypse. During the first Five-Year Plan, the volume of investment quadrupled, to 44 percent of GDP by 1932 (measured in 1928 prices), but none of the massive net increase in investment came from higher agricultural surpluses.² Grain exports did not end up paying for imports of machinery.³ Soviet agriculture made no net contribution to industrialization; on the contrary, it was a net recipient of resources during the plan. True, a key driver of the industrial spurt was new labor power from villages, but the statist system used those workers grossly inefficiently. Another key driver of the spurt was brutally suppressed consumption (reinforced by that thief called inflation).⁴ Should we view peasant starvation as a source of “investment”? Even if we did, collectivization and dekulakization lowered agricultural output dramatically.⁵ Stalin’s policies did expand state procurement of grain, potatoes, and vegetables, but at breathtaking economic, to say nothing of human, cost. Collectivization involved the arrest, execution, internal deportation, or incarceration of 4 to 5 million peasants; the effective enslavement of another 100 million; and the loss of tens of millions of head of livestock. The industrialization and accompanying militarization began to revive the Soviet Union as a great power, a necessity for survival in the international system, but collectivization was not “necessary” to “modernize” a peasant economy or industrialize.⁶

Collectivization was necessary from the point of view of Marxism-Leninism, which asserted that only a noncapitalist “mode of production” could undergird a Communist regime.⁷ Once the fall 1933 harvest proved to be good, and the unbalanced investments of the first Five-Year Plan finally produced results in the second plan, even skeptics gave Stalin his due: his lunatic gamble had panned out. Socialism (anticapitalism) was victorious in the countryside as well as the city. But culture, too, for Marxists, was an integral aspect of any system of class relations, and in culture Stalin was still groping his way. Letters from cultural figures got to his desk quickly—his aides understood his interest—and, as in foreign policy, he made just about every significant decision (unlike in the economy, for want of time or interest).⁸ But the challenges proved different, not amenable to blunt class warfare. Culture did not offer the equivalent of capitalist private property or “bourgeois” parliaments to eradicate as the path to socialism. Certainly for Stalin, the party had the right to determine the disposition of all writers and artists, but not in a clumsy way.

This chapter examines the period from summer 1933 to early fall 1934, although at times it will track back in time to illuminate the trajectory of Stalin’s engagement with the artistic intelligentsia, while weaving in the workings of the Union and continuing developments in foreign affairs. Trotsky, early on, had argued that the literary sphere had its own relatively autonomous dynamic and therefore should not be administered the same way as the economy or politics (“Art must make its own way and by its own means”).⁹ He had objected to a drive for an exclusively “proletarian” culture, championed the works of “fellow travelers,” a term he coined for those who did not join the party but sympathized with the cause, and defined the party’s task in culture as ensuring that influential fellow travelers did not go over to the side of “the bourgeoisie.”¹⁰ Stalin had taken exactly the same position. A politburo decree had denied a monopoly to the early movement for proletarian culture, and supported a “society for the development of Russian culture,” to be headed by a non-party “Soviet-minded” writer of stature.¹¹ Stalin approved a proposal for a non-party writers’ periodical, Literary Newspaper.¹² The militant culture movement endured under the name Russian Association of Proletarian Writers.¹³ Factions for and against an exclusively proletarian culture, with the former tending to be Russocentric and the latter tending to see themselves as internationalist, dragged Stalin into their political-aesthetic and personal vendettas.¹⁴ But in culture, he blocked intransigent enforcement of Communist ideology, groping his way to a socialist aesthetic.

PHARAOH

Solovki, the regime’s original prison labor camp, which provided timber and fish, got displaced in the early 1930s by giant new forced labor complexes, such as one in northern Kazakhstan for ore mining and metals.¹⁵ Most ambitiously, in the harsh Chukotka territory, the Far Northern Construction Trust, or Dalstroi, was formed to extract gold.¹⁶ Prisoners traveled in cattle cars across the length of the USSR, then, from the railway terminus at Vladivostok, by ship more than 1,700 miles across the Sea of Okhotsk to Nagayevo Bay and the settlement of Magadan. The first slave labor ships had arrived there in June 1932, mostly with thieves, bandits, and murderers, almost half of whom failed to survive the journey.¹⁷ To reach the gold-digging areas, Dalstroi used tank crews to clear a path northward up the Okhotsk coast and in along the Kolyma River, then had prisoners lay roadbeds of logs over frozen earth, shortening what had been multiweek trips by reindeer. Thanks partly to a relatively rational treatment of slave laborers, more than 100 million rubles’ worth of gold would be mined each year.¹⁸ Beyond Dalstroi, though, the expected savings on cheap prison labor were often undone by low productivity and high administrative costs.¹⁹ Still, the Gulag was crucial for developing remote areas. The Union was not only an ethnoterritorial but also an economic structure.

Stalin did not visit the slave labor complexes, with one notable exception: the White Sea–Baltic Canal. Declared finished on June 20, 1933, after just twenty-one months, it extended for 155 miles, longer than the Panama and Suez canals, through difficult terrain.²⁰ Under Yagoda’s chaperoning, from July 18 to 25, Stalin, Voroshilov, Kirov, and Yenukidze sailed the entire canal, also touring the Kola Peninsula, the Northern Fleet, and the polar port of Murmansk. Kirov had driven to Moscow and chauffeured his guests to Leningrad.²¹ Stalin’s fellow Georgian Orjonikidze was the dictator’s oldest close friend in the regime, but Kirov—a Russian who had spent the underground years in the Caucasus—had become even closer.²² Stalin called him Mironych, an affectionate diminutive of his patronymic, and sometimes Kirych.²³ As a new general secretary, Stalin had given him a copy of his On Lenin and Leninism, inscribed TO MY FRIEND AND MY BELOVED BROTHER.²⁴ Stalin had transferred Kirov from Baku to replace Zinoviev as head of the Leningrad party organization, the most important after Moscow, a posting Kirov had resisted, yielding only after Stalin agreed it would be temporary (allowing him to return to the Caucasus). Kirov stayed on to rout the entrenched Zinoviev machine.²⁵ It was partly the chance to spend time with Kirov that drew Stalin to visit the canal.

Kirov’s personal qualities—straightforward, amiable—endeared him to more conniving Bolsheviks. “Stalin loved and respected Kirov above all others,” a longtime bodyguard would recall. “He loved him with a kind of touching, tender love. Kirov’s trips to Moscow and the south were for Stalin a genuine holiday. Sergei Mironovich would come for a week, two. In Moscow he would stay at Stalin’s apartment, and Stalin would literally not separate from him.”²⁶ “Stalin loved him,” Molotov recalled. “He was Stalin’s favorite.”²⁷ Kirov stood a mere five feet five inches (1.64 meters), shorter than the dictator.²⁸ He sent game he hunted to Stalin and, following Nadya’s death, stayed with him when in the capital (Kirov had earlier bunked with Orjonikidze). “Kirov had the ability to dissipate misunderstandings, to convert them into jokes, to break the ice,” recalled Artyom (whose deceased father had also been friendly with Kirov). “He was astonishingly bright-natured, a person like a beam of light, and at home they loved him very much, the members of [Stalin’s] family and the service personnel. They always waited upon his appearances . . . and called him Uncle Kirov.” Kirov jestingly called Stalin “the Great Leader of All Peoples of All Times,” according to Artyom, and Stalin “would retort that Kirov was the ‘Most Loved Leader of the Leningrad Proletariat.’”²⁹

The canal held strategic promise for developing mineral-rich Soviet Karelia and opening a reliable pathway from Leningrad to the north, but it ran a mere sixty feet deep and eighty feet wide, limiting its use. Stalin was said to have been disappointed, finding it “shallow and narrow.”³⁰ Nonetheless, the pharaonic visit was recorded on Soviet newsreels. Kremlinologists noted Yagoda’s prominence in the footage, even though Mężyński remained OGPU chairman. Overseeing such construction was Yagoda’s forte, and he would receive the Order of Lenin for the canal. More than 126,000 forced laborers did the work, almost entirely without machines, and probably at least 12,000 died doing so, while orchestras played in the background. Some of the surviving builders were “amnestied” with fanfare; others were transferred to construction of a Moscow–Volga Canal.³¹

GOLDEN FLEECE

Nine-year-old Svetlana had gone ahead to Sochi with her nanny. “Hello, my Dear Daddy,” she wrote on August 5, 1933. “I received your letter and I am happy that you allowed me to stay here and wait for you. . . . When you come, you will not recognize me. I got really tanned. Every night I hear the howling of the coyotes. I wait for you in Sochi. I kiss you. Your Setanka.”³² On August 18, the dictator boarded a train with his son Vasily, Artyom, and Voroshilov for Nizhny Novgorod, whence they embarked with local party boss Andrei Zhdanov on the steamship Clara Zetkin down the Volga for four days. From Stalingrad, the group traversed the steppes by automobile to Sochi, reaching the resort on August 25, after a 2,000-mile journey. “Yet again,” Voroshilov wrote to Yenukidze, “I sensed the whole limitlessness of our expanses, the whole greatness of the proletariat’s conquests.”^{33, 34} No more than an hour after having arrived in Sochi, Stalin set out in his car with Voroshilov on a drive to Green Grove, near Matsesta. At the Riviera Bridge, in Sochi’s center, they collided with a truck. It was dark, and the road unlit. Stalin’s guard detail, in the trailing car, immediately opened fire. The truck driver, who appears to have been drunk, fled in the darkness. It is unclear how severe the collision was, but Stalin was unharmed.

Stalin was remarkably hardy, all things considered. (A medical report covering family history listed incidences of “tuberculosis, syphilis, alcoholism, drug abuse, epilepsy, mental difficulties, suicide, metabolic disorders, malignant tumors, diseases of the endocrine glands.”) This was his first southern sojourn following Nadya’s death, but third consecutive one during the famine. He and his entourage had passed through settlements emptied by an absence of food and an abundance of typhus, but whether they took note remains uncertain. “Koba and I visited one (of the ten) of our horse state farms near the cities of Salsk and Proletarskaya,” Voroshilov continued in the letter to Yenukidze about Rostov province. “There we saw the most splendid horses—mothers and foals, foals and working horses. We saw magnificent merino sheep, livestock of good Kalmyk (red) lineage, geese, chickens, pigs. All this is well cared for, and the steppes are fully assimilated.” Voroshilov took up residence at Sochi’s second-best dacha, Blinovka (where his wife awaited him), but complained of dubious types being accommodated at neighboring facilities, as well as bacteria in the water, and the medical staff, especially Degtyarev (“He’s a doctor in the way that you and I are astronomers!”). Yenukidze answered (August 30, 1933) that officials all went south at the same time and things got overrun. “Koba has been feeling wonderfully the whole time, but the fourth day now he’s complaining of his teeth,” Voroshilov wrote back (September 7).³⁵ A dentist (Shapiro) had arrived to attend to Stalin’s mouth.³⁶

Stalin finally had secure high-frequency phone lines in Sochi, though he still used telegrams and field couriers, too.³⁷ In Moscow, officials were convening in his Old Square office, usually with Kaganovich presiding.³⁸ Of the 1,038 politburo decisions taken that summer, Stalin would intervene in 119, the vast majority at prompts from Kaganovich, whose correspondence was filled with plaintive requests for more guidance. “I cannot and should not have to decide any and all questions that concern the politburo,” Stalin replied (September 5, 1933). “You yourselves can consider matters and work them out.”³⁹ This instruction came immediately upon the heels of a scolding. Orjonikidze, along with land commissar Yakovlev, had objected to criminal prosecutions for managers who had shipped agricultural combines without the full complement of parts. They had the politburo formally rebuke the USSR deputy procurator general, Vyshinsky. Stalin exploded. “Sergo’s behavior can only be characterized as antiparty,” he wrote, “because its goal is to protect reactionary elements of the party against the Central Committee.” They reversed their decision.⁴⁰

On September 22, Stalin left the Puzanovka dacha to inspect a new one being built for him near Gagra, a small resort on Abkhazia’s northern Black Sea coast.⁴¹ He fell in love with this land, close by the site, according to ancient Greek legend, of the ram with a golden fleece, a symbol of authority and kingship.⁴² Entirely mountainous, with passes up to 10,000 feet above sea level and deep valleys cut by crystal-clear rivers, this seaside haven enjoyed ample moisture, and, because the mountains came almost up to the coast, Sukhum, its gracious capital, was shielded from cold northern air masses. Abkhazia had the warmest winters in the USSR. Its mountains teemed with wild boars for hunting, and its rivers and plentiful lakes with fish. Its naturally carbonated sulfur springs added to its allure. Local Bolsheviks had nationalized the neglected, malaria-infested prerevolutionary resorts, but officials in Moscow sought to claim them as well. The revived spas, as well as the citrus groves, grapevines, and tobacco fields, would forge a link to the far-off Eurasian capital. The man who would build that link was a native son, Nestor Lakoba.⁴³

“I AM KOBA, YOU ARE LAKOBA”

Short and deaf, with refined features and a cropped mustache, Lakoba carried himself with elegance. He did not pound a fist on the table or shout profanities, like his hotheaded friend Orjonikidze. Whereas Bolshevik rule in ethnic Georgian regions had, for a time, been dicey—a mass uprising had broken out in the 1920s—in Abkhazia it looked firm. Lakoba won wide popularity through the customary patronage (apartments, dachas, scarce goods), but also by attentiveness to ordinary people. He cultivated social harmony, downplaying the peasantry’s supposed social stratification, and managed to delay collectivization of the citrus groves and tobacco fields and even avoid dekulakization, otherwise unheard of. Almost uniquely among local bosses, his power base was not in the party. The Abkhaz Communist party was merely a provincial organization of the Georgian party, but the Soviet state was federal, and Lakoba served as chairman of the Abkhaz government (Council of People’s Commissars) in the 1920s, and after 1930 as chairman of the Abkhaz soviet’s central executive committee.⁴⁴ Often, he skipped meetings of the party organization.⁴⁵

Wits dubbed Abkhazia “Lakobistan.” A traveling commission had complained that such “a personalized regime is always a bad thing, always kills social life and weakens organizations, demoralizes cadres and encourages a slavish passivity among them.”⁴⁶ But Orjonikidze sent Lakoba regular telegrams about taking care of high-level Moscow visitors at the spas.⁴⁷ Trotsky (who had recuperated often in Sukhum) admired Lakoba, though he noted that, “despite the special sound amplifier he carried in his pocket, conversing with him was not easy.”⁴⁸ (The regime soon acquired a new, bulky Phonophor hearing device for him from Siemens.) Stalin called him the Deaf One, and loved that Lakoba could whip top Soviet military men at billiards and shoot like a sniper. “When Lakoba came to Moscow, you would always see him at Stalin’s place, either at the apartment or at the dacha,” Khrushchev would recall, adding, “Stalin trusted him completely.”⁴⁹ Artyom recalled that visits by Lakoba brightened up the house, noting: Stalin “loved Lakoba very much.”⁵⁰ The dictator was said to joke, “I am Koba, and you are Lakoba.”

The two men shared a great deal. Lakoba (b. 1893) did not remember his father, who had died of a bullet wound. Two stepfathers had died as well. His mother, after many tries, got him into a religious school and then the Tiflis seminary—where Stalin had studied more than a decade earlier—and whence Lakoba, too, was expelled. Lakoba had helped lead the Red Army’s civil war reconquest and Bolshevization of Abkhazia, while Stalin had egged on Orjonikidze to do the same in Georgia.⁵¹ The Abkhaz had become a minority in Georgia-controlled Abkhazia, but Lakoba and other Abkhaz Bolsheviks were determined to redress this by remaining independent.⁵² Stalin had ended up caught between the Abkhaz, who proclaimed their own republic, and the Georgians, who tried to force the territory back into Georgia.⁵³ He had approved a fudge recognizing Abkhazia as a “treaty republic.” Such decisions among competing claims had to be made across the Union, given the more than one hundred languages and the threescore recognized “nations.”⁵⁴

The USSR consisted of three levels: (1) Union republics, initially reserved for Russia, Ukraine, Belorussia, and the South Caucasus Federation (Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan), then Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan; (2) autonomous republics inside Union republics for concentrated populations such as the Tatars, Bashkirs, and Yakuts in the RSFSR; the Moldavians in Ukraine; and (3) autonomous provinces, many of them in the RSFSR and the South Caucasus Federation.⁵⁵ In former tsarist Turkestan, the inhabitants, who were often multilingual, had been compelled to choose one national identity, then fought over territory. The prize cities of Bukhara and Samarkand, despite populations categorized as predominantly Tajik (Persian), had gone to Uzbekistan (Turkic), thanks to Uzbek leaders’ dynamism and Tajik leaders’ fumbling.⁵⁶ But then Stalin had acceded to Tajik demands for equal status, upgrading their autonomous republic in Uzbekistan to a self-standing Union republic.⁵⁷ Uzbeks seized the opportunity to become a national elite and aligned their future with the central regime, coercing their cereal-growing republic toward intensive cotton production. Mosques were forcibly shuttered.⁵⁸ Power was centralized in Moscow, but there were internal ethnoterritorial borders, local state institutions, vernacular official languages, and growing ranks of indigenous Communists.⁵⁹ The regime fostered not nationalism per se but Soviet nations, with Communist institutions and ways of thinking.

With the “treaty republic” status, Stalin had allowed the Abkhaz to perceive themselves as akin to a Union republic but not join the USSR as a fourth constituent of the South Caucasus Federation. His dispensation stemmed from his wariness of Georgian nationalism, his admiration for Lakoba, and Abkhazia’s uniqueness as the Soviet Union’s only subtropical region. But belated collectivization in the region’s Gudauta district had provoked a mass peasant uprising.⁶⁰ Lakoba negotiated a settlement without bloodshed, but Stalin terminated the “treaty republic” designation, specifying it as an “autonomous republic” in Georgia.⁶¹ This spurred further protests, including in Lakoba’s home village of Lykhny; the local party boss blamed Lakoba’s indulgence of “kulaks.”⁶² Lakoba managed to disperse the crowds peacefully again, promising to travel to Moscow on their behalf.⁶³ The OGPU arrested putative ringleaders, but Lakoba did manage to see Stalin and extract an accommodation: collectivization would resume, yet exclude horses.⁶⁴ Still, Stalin’s upheaval affected governing structures, too, and empowered a man who emerged as Lakoba’s cunning rival: Lavrenti Beria.⁶⁵

“A GOOD ORGANIZER”

Beria’s Mingrelian family was descended from a feudal prince, but he was born, in 1899, to modest circumstances in a hillside village in Abkhazia. He attended Sukhum’s city school, whose subjects included Russian, Orthodox theology, arithmetic, and science. His mother, Marta, like Keke Geladze, worked as a seamstress to pay for school; Beria, also like Stalin, might have been helped by a rich patron (a textile merchant who employed Marta as a domestic). Beria joined the party after the tsar’s abdication, served in the army, and graduated from high school with honors.⁶⁶ He missed the revolution, and spent part of the civil war on the wrong side: the Musavat (“Equality”) party of Azerbaijani nationalists had established an independent republic through the meddling of Ottoman and then British occupation forces, and after the British left, Beria joined Musavat counterintelligence.⁶⁷ Following the Bolshevik reconquest, he was arrested. A meeting was called and Orjonikidze and others ruled that the party had likely assigned Beria to infiltrate the “bourgeois nationalists.”⁶⁸ Beria enrolled at the newly established Polytechnic University, on the premises of his old high school, with a state stipend, to fulfill his dream of becoming an engineer, but Mircafar Bagirov (b. 1896), the twenty-four-year-old head of the Azerbaijan Cheka, recruited Beria and, after a few weeks, named him deputy secret police chief, at age twenty-one.⁶⁹

Beria’s Soviet secret police dirty work provoked numerous investigations for abuses.⁷⁰ “I feel that everyone dislikes me,” he wrote to Orjonikidze (May 1930). “In the minds of many comrades, I am the prime cause of all the unpleasantries that befell comrades over the recent period, and I figure almost like a stool pigeon.”⁷¹ Underhandedly, Beria attacked everyone else, but he felt perpetually put upon—just like Stalin.

In fact, Beria had become a legend. His early top boss, Solomon Mogilevsky, chairman of the South Caucasus OGPU, had died in a mysterious plane crash whose cause could not be established by three separate commissions of inquiry.⁷² His next boss, Ivan Pavlunovsky, pleaded at staff meetings for his deputy Beria to cease the intrigues against him.⁷³ Stalin replaced Pavlunovsky with Redens, an ethnic Pole, who knew none of the Caucasus languages or personnel. In the wee hours on March 29, 1931, after a sloshy birthday gathering for Beria at a private apartment, a drunk Redens departed—with no bodyguard detail. He made his way to the building of a young female OGPU operative who had previously rebuffed his advances; Redens tried to break down her door, and neighbors called the regular police, who arrested the disorderly drunk. His identity was established only at the station house. Word of the humiliation spread inordinately quickly. Beria immediately phoned Stalin, who transferred Redens to Belorussia (and shortly thereafter to Ukraine). Stalin was said to have delighted in Beria’s artfulness at compromising the dictator’s hapless brother-in-law.⁷⁴ Beria was promoted to chief of the South Caucasus OGPU, overseeing Azerbaijan, Armenia, and Georgia, including Abkhazia.⁷⁵ Mężyński noted, on the tenth anniversary of the Georgian branch of the OGPU, that “comrade Beria always finds his bearings precisely, even in the most complex circumstances.”⁷⁶

Lakoba, six years Beria’s senior, had everything the young secret police operative did not: heroic prerevolutionary and civil war exploits, colossal popularity among the masses, and intimate ties to Stalin.⁷⁷ But Stalin’s southern holidays were beset by epic local infighting: Georgians against Armenians, Georgians against Georgians. Stalin blamed locals’ ability to appeal to Orjonikidze, and wrote to Kaganovich that “if we don’t intervene, these people by their stupidity may ruin things.”⁷⁸ Orjonikidze was pushing for the restoration as party boss of Mamiya Orakhelashvili, a protégé (who had the university diploma Beria coveted), while Lakoba pushed for Beria (and sent him a transcript of a three-way conversation he’d had with Stalin and Orjonikidze).⁷⁹ Lakoba midwifed a three-day Beria visit to Abkhazia to see Stalin.⁸⁰ Beria soon got appointed first secretary of Georgia and concurrently second secretary of the South Caucasus Federation (under Orakhelashvili).⁸¹ He could now see Stalin during the dictator’s holidays without special intercession.⁸² In summer 1932, Beria poured poison in the dictator’s ear about Orakhelashvili.⁸³ The latter begged Stalin, and especially Orjonikidze, to be relieved of his post as Beria’s nominal superior.⁸⁴

Nothing rankled Stalin more than the suspicion that provincial officials sabotaged central directives, but in his homeland he had found someone who fulfilled orders to the letter. “Beria makes a good impression,” Stalin wrote to Kaganovich (August 12, 1932). “He’s a good organizer, a businesslike, capable functionary.” Stalin also prized Beria’s antagonism to Orjonikidze and the Georgian old guard. “In looking over South Caucasus affairs, I have become all the more convinced that in personnel selection, Sergo is an irredeemable bungler,” Stalin’s note concluded. Kaganovich wrote back (August 16): “Beria came to see me. He does indeed make a good impression as a top-level functionary.”⁸⁵ On October 9, Orakhelashvili was relieved of his post, and Beria promoted to first secretary of the South Caucasus Federation, while remaining party boss of Georgia.⁸⁶ Beria was recorded as being in Stalin’s office for the first time on November 9, just after the holiday celebrations.⁸⁷ On December 21, Beria had the Georgian party issue a formal reprimand to Lakoba.⁸⁸

NEAR-FATAL LAUNCH

The three-story dacha under construction in Gagra that Stalin visited with Lakoba on September 23, 1933, stood only twenty-five miles from Sochi. It had been carved right into the steep cliff, 700 feet above sea level, and was well concealed by tree cover, blending in with its green paint.⁸⁹ The rooms had parquet flooring, wooden ceilings in patterns, wooden furniture, and a wood-paneled cinema. Handwoven Caucasus rugs graced the floors, and nets wrapped the chandeliers to protect from possible falling glass. Each room had an emergency button. The smallish bedrooms had mattresses filled with seaweed and medicinal herbs. Salt water was piped into the bath. An auxiliary structure housed a billiard room, kitchen, and pantry. The menu consisted largely of freshly slaughtered animals, especially lambs, held live on the grounds. Lemon trees, guard booths, and a rocky hillside of fragrant eucalyptus, cypress, and cherry trees surrounded the villa; tobacco was planted as well. Guards also circled the property with truncheons, on the lookout for snakes. During the day, donkeys could be seen, and at night, jackals. Down below lay a stone beach. A small, rapid stream at the dacha gave it its name: Cold Spring. Here, Lakoba would organize a hunting party. First, however, on the day of his arrival, Stalin and entourage went for a boat ride on the Black Sea.

Yagoda had had a launch sent in, the Red Star, used on the Neva River in Leningrad. Small and unseaworthy, it had only some glass over the cabin, through which everyone was visible. At around 1:30 p.m., the group pushed off southward—Stalin, Voroshilov, and Beria, along with Vlasik and L. T. Bogdanov (bodyguards) and S. F. Chechulin (cipher specialist). “We headed for the Pitsunda Cape,” Vlasik would recall. “Entering the pier, we disembarked on the shore, relaxed, drank and snacked, walked about, spending a few hours on the shore.” Their picnic, beginning around 4:00 p.m., included Abkhaz wine. “Then we embarked again and headed back,” Vlasik continued. “At the Pitsunda Cape, there is a lighthouse and, nearby on the shore, a border post. When we exited the pier and turned in the direction of Gagra, there were rifle shots from the shore.” The boat was some 600 to 700 yards out. Vlasik claimed that he and Bogdanov covered Stalin and returned fire; Beria would claim that he covered Stalin’s body with his own. The bullets from the shore (three in total) landed in the water. The boat pulled farther from the coast. High waves rose up—a storm was in the offing—and it took the launch three harrowing hours to make it back to the Old Gagra pier.⁹⁰

Stalin, according to Chechulin, had initially joked that the Abkhaz were accustomed to greeting guests with gunshots, but after returning to Cold Spring, he sent Bogdanov back to Pitsunda to investigate. A few days later, Chechulin handed Stalin a letter from a local border guard who asked to be forgiven for shooting at the unregistered launch, which he had taken to be a foreign vessel. Sergeant N. I. Lavrov, commander of the border post, further explained that the boat had entered the restricted zone, so, as per regulations, they signaled it to stop, and when it kept going they fired warning shots in the air. Stalin did not label the incident an attempted assassination.⁹¹ Beria had Sergo Goglidze, the head of border guards for the South Caucasus, “investigate,” and he brought forward “witnesses” who testified that the shots were fired at the launch itself, blame for which, in Abkhazia, could be laid on Lakoba.⁹² But Yagoda evidently instructed Beria to portray it as a misunderstanding (in line with Stalin’s preference). The Georgian secret police sacked the Abkhaz OGPU chief and punished six Abkhaz border guards with two to three years in the Gulag; Lavrov got five.⁹³ Goglidze was soon named OGPU chief for Georgia. Legends circulated that Beria had organized hoodlums to stage the incident to discredit Lakoba, after which Beria’s henchmen had executed the perpetrators.^{94, 95}

GERMAN GAMBIT

While Stalin was in remote Gagra, a trial for the Reichstag fire was taking place in Leipzig. It had opened on September 21, 1933, and among the accused were the German Communist party leader Ernst Thälmann and Georgi Dimitrov, a Bulgarian and undercover head of the Comintern’s Western European Bureau in Berlin. One of eight children from a workers’ family, Dimitrov had been sentenced to death for his political activities in his native country after he escaped to Yugoslavia. In Germany he operated in obscurity, but in the Leipzig courtroom he outdueled the state witnesses, Goebbels and Hermann Göring, and made the three-month trial an international antifascist sensation. (The Nazis did not have prearranged scripts for defendants who were broken to confess publicly.) “I am defending myself, an accused Communist,” Dimitrov said from the dock. “I am defending my political honor, my honor as a revolutionary. I am defending my Communist ideology, my ideals.” Germany’s high court would convict only the Dutch Communist apprehended at the scene, who would be guillotined just shy of his twenty-fifth birthday. Dimitrov would be acquitted for lack of evidence. Journalists from the world over were admitted to the proceedings, but two Soviet reporters seeking access were arrested, leading to a diplomatic row. Mikhail Koltsov, however, reported out of Paris for Pravda (September, 25, 26, 28, 29, 30), transforming Dimitrov into a household name in the USSR and fostering the legend of Communists as courageous opponents rather than facilitators of the rise of Nazism.⁹⁶

At the Reich Chancellery on September 26, at a meeting of department heads, the state secretary (the number two) at the foreign ministry insisted that Germany had little to gain from a breach with the USSR, given the countries’ economic compatibility. Hitler concurred on avoiding handing Moscow a pretext to sever relations, but he warned officials not to indulge in delusions (“The Russians were always lying”) and predicted that the Soviet government would never forgive the smashing of German Communism and that the new order in Germany had crushed every hope of world revolution.⁹⁷ Hitler was furtively accelerating a military buildup set in motion by his predecessors, in violation of Versailles restrictions, and told every Briton he could reach that German expansionism would be at Soviet expense and that Germany’s purely continental interests did not conflict with Britain’s global empire. He disavowed wanting to annex Austria (a wish that pre-1933 German governments had not disguised).⁹⁸ He would also insist to an interviewer for Le Matin that he wanted to live in peace with France.⁹⁹ Stalin followed the least hints of Franco-German as well as Anglo-German rapprochement, and of supposed British instigation of Poland and Japan and Polish-Japanese collusion.¹⁰⁰ He saw danger not in “superstructure” ideologies in any single capitalist country, such as Nazi Germany, but in the underlying “class interests” of all capitalist powers, led by Britain and France, which, axiomatically, strove to catalyze an anti-Soviet bloc.

On September 28, amid Soviet negotiations to sell the Chinese Eastern Railway to Manchukuo, the Japanese had Manchukuo authorities arrest six Soviet employees. The Japanese were evidently trying to force a sale at a rock-bottom price. The Soviets had requested 250 million rubles; the Japanese offered the equivalent of one tenth that sum: 50 million paper yen. Stalin terminated the negotiations. He also ordered up a propaganda offensive against Japanese “militarism”—not something he did vis-à-vis Nazi Germany.¹⁰¹

Yenukidze, a Germanophile and Stalin confidant, concocted a scheme with German ambassador Herbert von Dirksen to find a modus vivendi by sending someone with stature to Hitler, even without formal invitation. They decided that the Jewish Nikolai Krestinsky, a former Soviet ambassador to Germany who was fluent in the language and was taking a rest cure at Kissingen, was to stop over in Berlin on the way home. Litvinov advised against such a move, but Molotov and Kaganovich favored it. Stalin agreed. Hitler reluctantly acceded to his foreign ministry’s urgings to receive the “Judeo-Bolshevik” envoy.¹⁰² Right then (October 14, 1933), however, the Führer declared on the radio that Germany would pull out of the League of Nations.¹⁰³ France erupted with loose talk of launching a preventive war.¹⁰⁴ Molotov and Kaganovich wrote to Stalin (October 16), reversing their support for Krestinsky’s Berlin stopover. “It is incomprehensible why Krestinsky’s trip should be called off,” the dictator fired back that same day. “What do we care about the League, and why should we conduct a demonstration in honor of an insult to the League and against its insult of Germany?”¹⁰⁵ But the foreign affairs commissariat had already backed out of the gambit.¹⁰⁶

AMERICAN GAMBIT

Stalin had traveled again, a few miles south of the Pitsunda Cape, arriving on October 9, 1933, at Mysra (Myussera in Russian), site of a secluded seaside Romano-Greek estate recently owned by an Armenian oil magnate.¹⁰⁷ Nearby, Lakoba had instigated construction of yet another luxury dacha for Stalin. (Only the urinals were of domestic make.)¹⁰⁸ The next day, in New York, Henry Morgenthau Jr., acting treasury secretary, had brought a Philadelphia millionaire and Franklin Roosevelt confidant, William Bullitt, to a meeting with an unofficial Soviet representative. Roosevelt was eager to find common cause in containing Japanese expansionism, concerned about Hitler, and being lobbied by U.S. business for continued access to the Soviet market, after orders from that country had shrunk. Bullitt delivered a draft letter from the president, addressed to Kalinin (formal head of state), containing an invitation to Washington for a chosen representative. Stalin, who had hurried back to Gagra, instructed Molotov to accept and recommended sending Litvinov. The latter begged off in a cipher, but Stalin and Kalinin wrote to Molotov and Kaganovich (October 17) insisting on Litvinov and urging them to “act more boldly and without delay, since now the situation is favorable.”¹⁰⁹

On November 2, 1933, Stalin finally left Sochi for Moscow.¹¹⁰ Yagoda soon reported to Voroshilov that, in connection with a “counterrevolutionary terrorist monarchist plot” to assassinate Stalin, twenty-six arrests had been made, almost all former gentry and a lot of them women. One was said to have “connections” through children to people living in the Kremlin.¹¹¹ (During 1933, there would be at least ten serious attempts on Hitler’s life.)¹¹²

In mid-November Litvinov managed what he himself had doubted: U.S. recognition, after sixteen years of no relations. He had conceded nothing on repudiated tsarist and Provisional Government debts, other than a willingness to discuss them, and made an empty pledge that the Soviets would not interfere in U.S. domestic affairs by supporting American Communists.¹¹³ Molotov took to publicly praising Litvinov.¹¹⁴ Stalin awarded him a state dacha and a bodyguard detail, a mark of Litvinov’s rising value—and the need to keep him under 24/7 surveillance. Anxieties in Tokyo about U.S.-Soviet collusion in the Far East intensified.¹¹⁵ Japan, without allies and in violation of international covenants, pursued hegemony in its region, which entailed formidable simultaneous military burdens: defeat of the Red Army in a possible war; subjugation of mainland China; and attainment of home-island security against the U.S. Navy.¹¹⁶ But for now, the depth of any U.S.-Soviet cooperation remained uncertain.¹¹⁷

The Americans promptly dispatched their own Marx to the USSR, Harpo, on a pantomime goodwill tour. His act brought the house down. (After he convinced a Soviet family that he had not pilfered their silver, they shook hands, and 300 table knives cascaded to the floor from his sleeves.)¹¹⁸ Bullitt had arrived as ambassador on December 11, 1933, and Litvinov immediately dropped the bombshell that the USSR, in anticipation of war with Japan, wished to join the League of Nations.¹¹⁹ On December 20, at a banquet in Bullitt’s honor at Voroshilov’s apartment, Bullitt was taken by the charm of the “cherub” host; the pair danced a medley of Caucasus moves and American foxtrot.¹²⁰ Stalin attended and asked Bullitt for 250,000 tons of steel rails to complete strategic double-tracking of the Trans-Siberian. “If you want to see me at any time, day or night, you have only to let me know and I will see you at once,” the dictator volunteered. “President Roosevelt is today, in spite of being a leader of a capitalist country, one of the most popular men in the Soviet Union.” Then Stalin planted a wet kiss on Bullitt’s cheek.¹²¹

At this very moment, the Comintern executive committee approved theses for the American Communist party’s upcoming convention in Cleveland (to be held in the spring). “The ‘New Deal’ of Roosevelt is the aggressive effort of the bankers and trusts to find a way out of the crisis at the expense of the millions of toilers,” the theses stated. “Under cover of the most shameless demagogy, Roosevelt and the capitalists carry through drastic attacks upon the living standards of the masses, increased terrorism against the Negro masses. . . . The ‘New Deal’ is a program of fascistization and the most intense preparations for imperialist war.”¹²²

Granting an interview to the reliably pro-Soviet Walter Duranty (December 25, 1933), Stalin spoke publicly about his diplomatic coup with the United States. Sitting between portraits of Marx and Lenin, with a drawing of a projected 1,312-foot Palace of the Soviets that was supposed to eclipse the Empire State Building, the dictator lauded Roosevelt as “by all appearances . . . a courageous statesman.” He assured American business that the Soviets paid their debts (“Confidence, as everyone knows, is the basis of credit”). He put Japan on notice as well. Then, when Duranty, on cue, inquired of the Soviet stance vis-à-vis the League of Nations, Stalin responded, “We do not always and in all conditions take a negative attitude toward the League,” adding that “the League may well become a break upon or an obstacle to war.”¹²³

The United States was not a member of the League. Any Soviet bid would have to be shepherded by France, and three days later the Soviet envoy in Paris communicated Moscow’s terms for joining the League as well as a regional alliance.¹²⁴ Franco-Soviet talks would proceed glacially. Distrust ran deep.¹²⁵ Édouard Herriot, who had signed the Franco-Soviet nonaggression pact and now wanted to counter Hitler, had demonstrated the price of rapprochement when, in summer-fall 1933, he had visited the USSR during the famine, disembarking at Odessa. Just before he reached Kiev, streets were washed, corpses removed, shops with windows stocked with goods (the populace was not allowed in), and a “festive crowd” assembled from OGPU and Communist Youth League personnel. In Kharkov, he was shown a “model” children’s facility, the tractor factory, and a museum devoted to the Ukrainian writer Taras Shevchenko. He asked to see the countryside and was taken to a collective farm where he again encountered activists and operatives, this time disguised as farmers. Everywhere, he ate his fill. Soviet Ukraine was “like a garden in full bloom,” Herriot observed in Pravda. “When one believes that the Ukraine is devastated by famine, allow me to shrug my shoulders.”¹²⁶

LAMAS AND WOLVES

Duranty had been followed into Stalin’s office by the co-chairs of the politburo’s Mongolia commission, Voroshilov and Sokolnikov, and two Mongolian officials, a deputy prime minister for finance and a leftist party scourge of the lamas. Mongolia served as a Soviet showcase and experimental laboratory for the colonial world and, even more important, a territory that supplied defense in depth for the southern Siberian border, meat and raw materials for the Soviet economy (paralleling Kazakhstan), and a link with China, should war with Japan break out.¹²⁷ Since imposing the “New Course” retreat stabilization, Stalin had worried that Mongolia’s NEP equivalent had allowed a revival of traders (NEPmen) and better-off nomads (kulaks), and persistent sway of the lama “class.” Voroshilov told the Mongols that, against a population of just 700,000, there were still 120,000 lamas with undue influence (“Beyond that, the lamas engage in homosexualism, corrupting the youth who return to them”). Stalin asked how the lamas supported themselves. The Mongols answered that lamas drew substantial income from the lamaseries and served as spiritual leaders, physicians, traders, and advisers to the arats (common people). “It’s a state within a state,” Stalin interjected. “Chinggis Khan would not have permitted that. He would have cut them all down.”

Soviet proconsuls were instigating a terror against fabricated Japanese spies, which destroyed the head of the Mongolian People’s Party and brought perhaps 2,000 arrests.¹²⁸ Stalin asked about the budget, and the Mongols replied that their GDP totaled just 82 million tugriks, while the state budget was 33 million; the Soviets extended a loan of 10 million, but the army alone cost 13 million. “A large part of your budget is being swallowed up by white-collar employees,” Stalin admonished. “Can it be impossible to get away with fewer?”¹²⁹

Sometime either before or after Stalin received these two Mongols, he met with Mongolian prime minister Peljidiin Genden, but in Molotov’s office. The dictator would write Genden in a courtesy follow-up note, “I am very glad that your Republic has, finally, taken the correct path, that your internal affairs are succeeding, that you are strengthening your international might and strengthening your independence.” He advised that Mongolia needed “full unity” in the leadership, full support of the arats, and an army on the highest level, and promised continued fraternal assistance. “In that, you should have no doubts,” he concluded. “Voroshilov, Molotov, and I together thank you for the gifts you sent.” The Soviet Union was reciprocating with new automatic rifles. “They will come in handy in a battle against wolves of all types, two-legged and four-legged.”¹³⁰

WHITES AND REDS

In the field of culture—unlike foreign affairs and nationalities—Stalin had long hesitated to make his instructions public. “What kind of a critic am I, the devil take me!” he had written in response to Gorky’s urgings in 1930.¹³¹ When Konstantin Stanislavsky sought approval for staging The Suicide, by Nikolai Erdman (b. 1900), Stalin had replied, “I am a dilettante in these matters.”¹³² The dictator began to work out how he would manage the artistic intelligentsia with the Kiev-born writer Mikhail Bulgakov (b. 1891), who in the 1920s serialized a novel depicting a family of Kiev White Guardists, the Turbins, during the civil war, which muddied the red-white, good-evil picture.¹³³ Only two thirds of the work appeared before it helped prompt the journal’s closing, but it proved a sensation.¹³⁴ Bulgakov turned it into a play titled The Days of the Turbins. Directed by Stanislavsky and Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko, it revived the fortunes of the Moscow Art Theater, which the pair had founded in 1898, premiering Chekhov’s The Seagull. Muscovites queued day and night for Bulgakov’s portrayal of the tragedy that befell those who had joined the counterrevolution in Ukraine.¹³⁵

Bulgakov’s daring work had no Reds at all, and his portrayal of the Whites as human beings provoked slander that he was a White Guardist enabling “former people” who had lost loved ones and possessions to mourn. Party militants likened him to the “rightists.”¹³⁶ Stalin acquiesced to the outcries to ban Bulgakov’s play Flight, another civil war story, about a family that opted to emigrate rather than live under Bolshevism.¹³⁷ But the dictator went to see Turbins, privately approved it, and publicly defended it.¹³⁸ At a meeting with irate pro-regime Ukrainian writers, Stalin pointed out that “it won’t do to write only about Communism. We have a population of 140 million, and there are only one and a half million Communists.” Bulgakov, Stalin allowed, was “alien,” “not ours,” for failing to depict exploitation properly, but he insisted that The Days of the Turbins remained “useful” to the cause, whatever the author’s intent.¹³⁹ The furious polemics would not cease, however, and Stalin finally let the play be shuttered. Censors now prohibited even publication of Bulgakov’s works, and he wrote the first of several despairing letters to the authorities asking to be deported abroad with his wife, to no avail.¹⁴⁰

Bulgakov wrote again “to the government” on March 28, 1930, pointing out that he had unearthed 301 reviews of his work over a decade, three of which had been positive, and pleading again to be allowed to emigrate with his wife or, failing that, to be appointed as an assistant director at the Moscow Art Theater; failing that, as a supernumerary there or, failing that, as a stagehand.¹⁴¹ On April 18, one of Stalin’s top aides phoned the poet at his Moscow apartment, asking his wife, who answered, to summon him. Bulgakov thought the call a prank. (This happened to be Good Friday, a significant day for Bulgakov, son of a theologian.) Stalin came on the line. “We received your letter,” he stated. “And read it with the comrades. You will get a favorable answer to it. . . . Perhaps we really should permit you to travel abroad? What, have we irritated you so much?” Bulgakov: “I have thought a great deal recently about whether a Russian writer can live outside his homeland, and it seems to me he cannot.” Stalin: “You are correct.”¹⁴² What motivated Stalin to make his first phone call to a major non-party writer remains uncertain. But four days earlier, the greatest poet in the revolution, Vladimir Mayakovsky, who was mercilessly heckled at his public recitations, fatally shot himself in the heart. (“Seriously, there is nothing to be done,” he wrote in a suicide note, as if echoing Chernyshevsky. “Goodbye.”)¹⁴³

Bulgakov got appointed as a stage director’s assistant. One writer sent him a fake summons to the Central Committee, a poor joke about his desperate petitioning. Bulgakov developed neurasthenia.¹⁴⁴ Bereft of a public, he was said to be narrating stories at his apartment over tea. One such story, according to a fellow writer, involved Bulgakov sending long letters nearly every day to Stalin, signed “Tarzan” to disguise himself. Stalin, frightened, ordered that the letter writer be identified. Bulgakov was found out, brought to the Kremlin, and confessed. Stalin noticed his shabby trousers and shoes and summoned the commissar of supply. “Your people can steal, all right,” Stalin yelled at the minion, “but when it comes to clothing a writer, they’re not up to it!” Bulgakov, in the story, took to visiting Stalin in the Kremlin regularly and noticed he was depressed. “You see, they all keep screaming: Genius, genius! And yet there’s no one I could have a glass of brandy with, even!” When Stalin phoned the Moscow Art Theater on Bulgakov’s behalf, he was told the theater director had died—that very minute. “People are so nervous these days!” Stalin was depicted as saying. “No sense of humor.”¹⁴⁵

Like Bulgakov, Yefim Pridvorov (b. 1883), known as Demyan Bedny (bedny meaning “the poor one,” though many called him Bedny [Poor] Demyan), had been born in Ukraine and made his mark in Moscow, but while Bulgakov sought no more than a modus vivendi, Bedny tirelessly served the regime. He traveled the sites of the Five-Year Plan, declaiming verse to workers, and acquired a personal Ford and a sumptuous apartment in the Grand Kremlin Palace (his wife, children, mother-in-law, and nanny lived with him).¹⁴⁶ Bedny knew Stalin before the revolution and, like him, had published his first verse as a teenager (and was dogged by rumors of uncertain parentage). He flaunted his access to the dictator.¹⁴⁷ But two of Bedny’s poem-feuilletons irked the dictator deeply, one for mocking Russian national traditions (peasants sleeping on their warm stoves, which Stalin also did), and the dictator promulgated a resolution criticizing him. Bedny wrote to him melodramatically (“The hour of my catastrophe has come”).¹⁴⁸ Stalin exploded. “Dozens of poets and writers have been rebuked by the Central Committee when they made mistakes,” he answered. “All this you considered normal and understandable. But when the Central Committee found itself compelled to criticize your mistakes, you suddenly started to fume and shout about a ‘noose.’ . . . Is your poetry perhaps above criticism?”¹⁴⁹

Voroshilov protected his Grand Kremlin Palace neighbor Bedny, whose sloshy charm and erudition played well with the defense commissar.¹⁵⁰ But on September 1, 1932, the politburo heard a report on the poet’s debauched life, and Stalin had him evicted from the Kremlin. Bedny apologized to the dictator for his “life befouled with egotistic, greedy, evil, false, cunning, vengeful philistinism,” but begged for an equivalent-sized apartment for his private library, the largest in the regime, perhaps 30,000 volumes; Stalin promised space for it. (Yenukidze allocated Bedny an apartment in a small building at Rozhdestvensky Boulevard, 15, which the poet, in a sarcastic note to him, called “a rat’s barn.”)¹⁵¹ Bedny had worsened his predicament by indiscretion: one regular at his Kremlin apartment had recorded (and distorted) the often inebriated poet’s table talks, including a complaint that when he loaned books to Stalin, they came back stained with greasy finger marks.¹⁵² Stalin allowed Bedny to receive the Order of Lenin in connection with the poet’s fiftieth birthday, accompanied by a citation recognizing him as an “outstanding proletarian poet.”¹⁵³ Bedny had just written to Stalin, “I am afraid of nothing more than my letters. Especially my letters to you.”¹⁵⁴

HUMAN SOULS

As Bedny sank, Gorky rose. (“Previously,” the gifted children’s writer Nikolai Korneychukov, known as Korney Chukovsky, punned slyly in his diary, “literature was impoverished [o-bed-nena]; now it is embittered [o-gor-chena].”)¹⁵⁵ Stalin, with OGPU assistance, had finally coaxed Gorky, already a literary giant before the revolution, permanently back from fascist Italy. Preparing the ground, on April 23, 1932, the dictator, without warning, had disbanded the Russian Association of Proletarian Writers.¹⁵⁶ The zeal of the self-styled proletarians—such as Bedny—with each striving to expose the tiniest ideological deviation in rivals, was outweighed by their lack of creative achievement. At the same time, the deep political suspicion about the non-party writers—such as Bulgakov—was balanced by their usually superior abilities. The abolition decree also established a committee to organize a founding congress for a new Union of Soviet Writers, open to non-party members. (Other arts were supposed to be organized in similar fashion.) Stalin wanted Gorky, whom the Association of Proletarian Writers had denounced as “a man without class consciousness,” to be its head.

Alexander Fadeyev, one of the chairmen of the dissolved Association of Proletarian Writers, wrote in indignation to Kaganovich (May 10).¹⁵⁷ The next day, Stalin sat in his office with Fadeyev, two other leaders of the proletarian writers’ association, two culture apparatchiks, and Kaganovich, for more than five hours. On May 29, the dictator met with some of them again for thirty minutes, just before departing for his long summer holiday.¹⁵⁸ Ivan Gronsky, one of the attendees, would later explain that Stalin had no intention of revisiting the dissolution of the proletarians, but had asked what creative method to propose. Gronsky claimed he had answered that prerevolutionary realism had been “progressive” in its “bourgeois-democratic” day, producing many great works, but now they required a literature to advance the “proletarian socialist” stage, and he suggested “proletarian socialist realism” or “Communist realism.” Stalin countered that they needed an artistic method to unite all cultural figures, and supposedly suggested “socialist realism” for its brevity, intelligibility, and inclusiveness. Whether or not it was actually the dictator who came up with this formulation, he made the decision to adopt it.¹⁵⁹

Stalin named Gorky honorary chairman of the organizing committee for the proposed new writers’ union.¹⁶⁰ On September 17, 1932, the regime awarded Gorky the Order of Lenin, renamed Moscow’s central Tverskaya Street, the Volga city of Nizhny Novgorod (Gorky’s birthplace), and the Moscow Art Theater for him. It also launched a weeklong celebration of forty years of his artistic production, culminating on September 25 in the Bolshoi. Gronsky would later claim he had objected to such excessive adulation, to which Stalin supposedly replied, “He is an ambitious man. It is necessary to bind him to the party.”¹⁶¹

Not long thereafter, Stalin attended two meetings with writers—not at Central Committee headquarters on Old Square, but at the luxurious mansion granted to Gorky in central Moscow (Malaya Nikitskaya, 6), an art moderne masterpiece expropriated from the prerevolutionary industrialist and art patron Stepan Ryabushinsky. At the first session (October 20, 1932), Stalin and entourage met with writers who belonged to the party, and he explained the party decision to disband the Association of Proletarian Writers. He praised the superior power of live theater, citing Alexander Afinogenov’s Fear, which was seen by millions and dramatizes waverers among intellectuals, but has a party organizer saying, “We are fearless in the class struggle—and merciless with the class enemy,” while an angel child asks, “Papa, which is the greater menace—a left deviation or a right deviation? I think the greatest menace is double-dealers.”¹⁶² But Stalin was trying to urge the gathered party loyalists toward tutelage. “The sea of non-party writers is multiplying, but no one leads them, no one helps them; they are orphans,” he stated. “At one time, I was also non-party and did not understand many things. But senior comrades did not push me away; they taught me how to master the dialectic.”¹⁶³

Six days later, non-party writers were included in a second gathering with the dictator and his entourage. Invitations had gone out only over the phone, with the proviso not to divulge the information, perhaps in order to enhance the sense of being chosen. (Neither Bedny nor Bulgakov was invited.) Few of the fifty assembled literary figures had ever met Stalin, let alone spent an intimate evening with him. Emotions ran high. At the first break, they surrounded Stalin, and one asked about state dachas. “From under his bushy eyebrows, his eyes quickly and carefully survey the rows of those present,” the literary critic Koreli Zelinsky wrote in a private account the next day. “When Stalin laughs—and he does so often and quickly—he squints and bends over the table, his eyebrows and mustache run apart, and his visage becomes sly. . . . What the portraits do not at all convey is that Stalin is very mobile. . . . He is very sensitive to the objections and in general strangely attentive to everything said around him. It seems he does not listen or forget. But, no, it turns out he caught everything at all wavelengths in the radio station of his mind. The answer is ready at once, in the forehead, straightforward, yes or no. Then you understand that he is always ready for combat. And, at the same time, watch out if he wants to please. There is a vast gamut of hypnotic tools at his disposal.”¹⁶⁴

Stalin wanted to conjure into being a coterie of writers of stature whose utterances would carry weight and yet who could be more or less controlled. “I forgot to talk about what you are ‘producing,’” he remarked, after allowing many writers to speak. “There are various forms of production: artillery, locomotives, automobiles, trucks. You also produce ‘commodities,’ ‘works,’ ‘products.’ . . . You are engineers of human souls. . . . As some here rightly said, the writer cannot sit still; he must get to know the life of the country. Rightly said. People are transforming life. That is why I propose a toast: ‘To Engineers of Human Souls.’”¹⁶⁵ Voroshilov interjected, “Not really.” Everyone applauded. Stalin turned his whole body to the defense commissar: “Your tanks would be worth little if the souls inside them were rotten. No, the production of souls is more important than the production of tanks.”

During a second break, the tables were laid with food and drink (this was still during the famine time), and Fadeyev importuned Stalin to repeat what he had told the Communist writers at the earlier gathering: intimate details of Lenin’s last days. Stalin stood, raised his glass, and said, “To a great man, to a great man,” then repeated it again, as if a little drunk. “Lenin knew he was dying,” Stalin said, and “asked me once when we were alone together to bring him a cyanide capsule. ‘You are the most severe person in the party,’ Lenin said. ‘You are able to do it.’ At first I promised him, but then I could not do it. How could I give Ilich poison? I felt bad. And then, you never know how the illness will progress. So I didn’t give it to him.” There were further toasts, and the atmosphere became ever more visionary (an entire writers’ city; no more paper shortages). “I still remember how Gorky bid farewell to Stalin, kissing like a man on the mustaches,” Zelinsky wrote. “Gorky, tall, stooped to Stalin, who stood straight like a soldier. Gorky’s eyes shone and, ashamedly, unnoticeably, he wiped away a small tear.”¹⁶⁶

Fadeyev followed the meeting with a diatribe in Literary Newspaper against his former comrades in the Association of Proletarian Writers and preserved his position of influence with the regime. Gorky faced opportunities and dilemmas he had not encountered back in Sorrento.¹⁶⁷ One of the first major services he performed, on August 17, 1933, was to lead a “brigade” of 120 writers who followed Stalin’s tour to the White Sea–Baltic Canal with their own OGPU-supervised visit and glorified slave labor, in the name of a supposedly higher humanism. “I saw grandiose structures—dams, sluices, and a new waterway,” the satirist Mikhail Zoshchenko wrote in one of the many thank-you notes to Yagoda (August 22). “But I was taken more by the people, who worked there and who organized the work. I saw thieves and bandits (now shock workers), who gave speeches in a human tongue, summoning their comrades at work to follow their example. Previously I had not seen the OGPU in the role of educator, and what I saw was for me extraordinarily joyful.”¹⁶⁸

WHO WOULD WRITE THE BIOGRAPHY?

Distribution of Stalin’s writings inside the USSR reached an estimated 16.5 million copies as of early 1934.¹⁶⁹ His Questions of Leninism alone had been issued, in 17 languages, in more than 8 million copies by then. But the problem of Stalin’s biography remained acute: the only Russian-language text, written by his aide Tovstukha, dated back to the 1920s and was the length of a newspaper essay.¹⁷⁰ Although Mikhail Koltsov had written a lively Life of Stalin for serialization in the Village Newspaper, it remained unpublished, evidently because Stalin had rejected it.¹⁷¹

Foreign publications, meanwhile, were making the leader of the world proletariat into a bandit/bank robber, and recounting his alleged betrayals of comrades as an undercover agent for the tsarist secret police.¹⁷² A psychoanalytic memoir by a Gori and Tiflis classmate (who had emigrated) alleged that Stalin’s father, Beso, had beaten him, so that, “from childhood on, the realization of his thoughts of revenge became the aim to which everything was subordinated.”¹⁷³ A Comintern official in Germany wrote alarmingly to Moscow about the sullying of Stalin’s image by enemies, singling out in particular Essad Bey.¹⁷⁴ A Baku-born Jew (1905) whose birth name was Lev Nussimbaum, Bey had gone to a Russian gymnasium in Berlin, taken classes in Turkish and Arabic at Friedrich Wilhelm University, begun wearing a turban, reinvented himself as a Muslim prince, and become a bestselling author who frequented the Café Megalomania. His colorful Stalin, published in Berlin in 1931, portrayed an outlaw in vivid orientalist strokes and embellished or invented evidence so that the dubious became possible, the possible probable, and the probable certain. “The difference between poetry and truth,” he wrote, “is not yet recognized in the mountains.”¹⁷⁵

Bey’s competition proved to be another orientalist-fabulist: Beria. No sooner had the regional party organization fallen under his control than it established a Stalin Institute to collect materials pertinent to “Stalin’s biography and his role as theoretician and organizer” of the party in the South Caucasus.¹⁷⁶ But Stalin’s aide Tovstukha, deputy director of the Marx-Engels-Lenin Institute in Moscow, started trying to transfer all original Stalin-related materials from Georgia.¹⁷⁷ Regime officials, meanwhile, had sounded out Gorky to write the biography, but he demurred.¹⁷⁸ Instead, the apparatus accepted a proposal by the French writer Henri Barbusse to write a book about Stalin, with oversight by Tovstukha (to ensure the desired depiction of the struggle against Trotsky).¹⁷⁹ Anyone taking on Stalin’s life had to confront his constant discouragement. When the latest History of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks) referred to him in standard parlance as “the wise leader of all the toilers,” Stalin wrote, “An apotheosis of individuals? What happened to Marxism?”¹⁸⁰ He rejected the Society of Old Bolsheviks’ plan to mount an exhibit about his life as “strengthening a ‘cult of the personality,’ which is harmful and incompatible with the spirit of our party.”¹⁸¹

“CONGRESS OF VICTORS”

The year 1934 dawned. Soviet industry was booming. The capitalist world remained mired in the Great Depression. The United States had recognized the Soviet Union. The famine was mostly over. It was time to gloat. In “The Architect of Socialist Society” (Pravda, January 1, 1934), sycophant supreme Karl Radek depicted a future historian giving lectures in the revolution’s fiftieth year at the School of Interplanetary Communications. The lecturer, looking back from 1967, would emphasize the surprise among the world bourgeoisie that a new leader had succeeded Lenin and built socialism, at a necessarily furious pace, against the fierce resistance of capitalist elements and their facilitators. Stalin was called “the great pupil of great teachers who himself had now become the teacher, . . . the exemplar of the Leninist Party, bone of its bone, blood of its blood.” His success was attributed to his “creative Marxism,” his proximity to cadres, his resolve, and his fealty to Lenin. “He knew that he had fulfilled the oath taken ten years earlier over Lenin’s casket,” the essay observed. “And all the working people of the world and the world revolutionary proletariat knew it, too.”¹⁸²

Ten years to the day after Stalin had been sworn that oath, January 26, the 17th Party Congress opened in the Grand Kremlin Palace, bringing together 1,225 voting and 739 nonvoting delegates, representing 2.8 million members and candidates. Party statutes had specified an annual congress, but three and a half years had elapsed, the longest interval yet.¹⁸³ Pravda headlined it as the “Congress of Victors.” Magnanimously, the dictator had allowed high-profile opposition figures back into the party after they had again publicly admitted their errors. From the rostrum they issued self-flagellating calls for “unity,” with Kamenev defending Stalin’s personal dictatorship (in contrast to his bold denunciation of it back at the 14th Party Congress).¹⁸⁴ Bukharin, whom Stalin would appoint editor of Izvestiya, told the congress regarding the right deviation: “Our grouping was unavoidably becoming the focus for all the forces fighting against the socialist offensive, and primarily for the strata most threatened by the socialist offensive—the kulaks and their urban intellectual ideologists,” which had heightened the danger of “an untimely foreign intervention.” He praised the plan and quipped, “Hitler wants to drive us into Siberia, and the Japanese imperialists want to drive us from Siberia, so the entire 160 million population of our country would have to be located on one of the blast furnaces of Magnitogorsk.”¹⁸⁵

Stalin delivered a five-hour keynote on opening night. “He spoke unhurriedly, as if conversing,” one witness wrote in his diary. “He was witty. The more he spoke, the closer he became to the audience. Ovations. Explosions of laughter. Full-blooded. But a practical, working speech.”¹⁸⁶ The dictator issued a call to accountability, speaking of “difficulties of our organizational work, difficulties of our organizational leadership. They are concentrated in us ourselves, in our leading functionaries, in our organizations. . . . The responsibility for our failures and shortcomings rests, in nine out of ten cases, not on ‘objective conditions’ but on ourselves and only on ourselves.” He denounced chancellery methods of management (“resolutions and decrees”) and called for criticism from below, worker competitions, getting bosses into the factories and farms, getting skilled workers out of offices and into production, and refusing to tolerate people who failed to implement directives. “We must not hesitate to remove them from their leading posts, regardless of their services in the past.”¹⁸⁷

After the applause died down, Stalin offered an example of empty-words leadership:

STALIN: How goes the sowing?

FUNCTIONARY: The sowing, comrade Stalin? We have mobilized. (Laughter.)

STALIN: And?

FUNCTIONARY: We posed the question squarely. (Laughter.)

STALIN: And then?

FUNCTIONARY: We have a breakthrough, comrade Stalin, soon there’ll be a breakthrough.

(Laughter.)

STALIN: And in fact?

FUNCTIONARY: There is movement. (Laughter.)

STALIN: But in fact, how goes the sowing?

FUNCTIONARY: So far, the sowing is not happening, comrade Stalin. (General guffaws.)¹⁸⁸

Stalin pointedly added that provincial officials, “like feudal princes, think the laws were written not for them but for fools.”

Against capitalism’s “raging waves of economic shocks and military-political catastrophes,” Stalin contrasted how “the USSR stands apart, like an anchor, continuing its socialist construction and struggle for keeping the peace.” He accused the capitalists, without irony, of “deepening their exploitation via strengthening the intensity of their labor, and at the expense of farmers, by further reduction in the prices of products of their labor.” Fascism, and especially National Socialism, he averred, “contained not an atom of socialism,” and “should be seen as a sign of the bourgeoisie’s weakness, of its lack of power to rule by the old parliamentary methods, forcing it to turn internally to terrorist methods of rule” and externally to a “policy of war.” Without naming the likely aggressor, he foresaw a “new imperialist war” that “will certainly unleash revolution and place the very existence of capitalism in question in a number of countries, as happened during the first imperialist war.”¹⁸⁹

Stalin observed that fascism in Italy had not prohibited good bilateral relations with the USSR, and dismissed as “imaginary” German complaints that the Soviet Union’s many nonaggression pacts signified a “reorientation” toward Western Europe. “We never had any orientation toward Germany, nor have we [now] any orientation toward Poland and France,” he insisted. “We were oriented in the past and are oriented in the present only on the USSR. (Stormy applause.)” He also warned Japan: “Those who desire good peace and relations would always meet a positive response, but those who try to attack our country will receive a crushing rebuff to teach them in future not to poke their pig snouts into our Soviet garden. (Thunderous applause.)”¹⁹⁰

RUDELY INTERRUPTED

As Stalin basked in the Grand Kremlin Palace spectacle, Hitler intruded, announcing a ten-year nonaggression “declaration” with Poland. The text contained no recognition of existing borders, but, sensationally, each side vowed not to “resort to force in the settlement of such disputes” as might arise between them.¹⁹¹ Hitler’s foreign policy adviser, Alfred Rosenberg, had vowed to annihilate Poland. Poland’s participation was no less head spinning: it had a military alliance with France as well as a defensive alliance with Romania (both dating to 1921). But Poland had only a poorly equipped army to defend long borders facing two dynamic dictatorships, both of whose predecessors had made the country disappear from the map. Adding to that sense of vulnerability, the Versailles Treaty had made the predominantly ethnic German city of Danzig an autonomous “free city” under the League of Nations, leaving Poland without a Baltic port, and placed a so-called Corridor of Polish territory between German East Prussia and the rest of Germany, a recipe for instability.¹⁹²

Even though the declaration did not legally invalidate the Franco-Polish alliance, Hitler had effectively broken the encirclement ring. Poland’s political class, meanwhile, dreamed of playing an independent role in European affairs. “It was,” one interwar observer noted, “a tragedy for Poland to have been reborn too weak to be a power, and strong enough to aspire to more than the status of a small state.”¹⁹³ French officials privately called Poland a bigamist.¹⁹⁴ But of course, Paris was in talks with Berlin as well. Piłsudski received the French ambassador after the signing (January 29, 1934), explaining that “he had hesitated, had dragged things on, but the Franco-German negotiations had made him decide to expedite them, because if the [French] proposals were accepted by Germany, France would openly abandon the [Versailles] peace treaty.”¹⁹⁵ The nonaggression declaration with Germany promised Poland reduced economic tensions as well (an end to trade and tariff wars). Moreover, even though France based its security on relations with Britain, not its eastern alliances, French foreign ministers now finally began to visit Warsaw.¹⁹⁶

Stalin was caught out worse than the French. Seeking to keep Poland out of any anti-Soviet alliance, he had allowed the Galicia-born Radek to meet secretly with Polish officials. Radek insisted that Poland’s private gestures toward Moscow constituted “an about-face and not a maneuver.”¹⁹⁷ Artur Artuzov, the intelligence official, tried to puncture this wishful thinking, arguing that the Poles were flirting with the USSR solely to raise Germany’s interest in a bilateral deal, but Stalin accused Artuzov of “misinforming the politburo.”¹⁹⁸ Voroshilov, too, had gotten into the act, requesting a meeting with the sympathetic German ambassador, Rudolf Nadolny, and dwelling “a particularly long time on Hitler’s Mein Kampf, in which connection he finally said that two words of the chancellor’s in public would be enough [to dispel] the impression that the anti-Soviet tendency of the book still had validity today.”¹⁹⁹

Hitler’s intelligence reports had warned of a pending Polish-Soviet alliance—Radek’s back-channel flattery and calculated leaks had done the work for Piłsudski.²⁰⁰ Stalin, ready to betray Germany to Poland and Poland to Germany, had been one-upped by both.²⁰¹

Piłsudski had made plain to a German interlocutor that “Poland would never under any circumstances respond to any German attempts to turn Polish efforts toward Russian Ukraine.”²⁰² But in Moscow, suspicions were rife that the anodyne German-Polish declaration contained secret military and territorial clauses.²⁰³ Colonel Józef Beck—who had helped Piłsudski carry out his 1926 military coup—made the first visit to the Soviet Union by a Polish foreign minister since their state’s reestablishment. He had little love for Poland’s ally France (having once been ejected from that country as persona non grata) and prided himself on being able to handle Germany, but he wanted to avoid appearing to tilt between Poland’s two big neighbors. He was hosted at a luncheon by Voroshilov, and engaged thrice by Litvinov (February 13, 14, and 15, 1934), who noted that his Polish counterpart “does not see danger on the part of Germany or general danger of war in Europe at this time.” The Polish-born Litvinov gloated that when he reminded Beck that Poland had signed nonaggression pacts with the USSR for three years, and with Germany for ten, “Beck became manifestly embarrassed (the one time during our entire conversation).” But the minister vowed this could be fixed, and indeed their bilateral pact would soon be extended to ten years (and their legations upgraded to embassies). Beck returned from Moscow with pleurisy.²⁰⁴

KIROV AND OTHERS ACCLAIM THE LEADER

The party congress had continued through February 10. Stalin belatedly acknowledged the livestock losses (his report carried a table), which he attributed to kulak sabotage, yet he urged that “1934 must and can be a breakthrough year to growth of the whole livestock economy.” The dearth of meat was widely felt.²⁰⁵ Orjonikidze proposed that industrial production plans be cut, rather than increased, and the congress approved a resolution for the rest of the second plan, stipulating 18.5 percent growth in consumer goods, versus 14.5 for producer goods. Many speakers underscored the imperative to ramp up retail trade and living standards.²⁰⁶ But Kaganovich affirmed that Stalin’s “revolution from above was the greatest revolution human history has known, a revolution that smashed the old economic structure and created a new collective farm system.”²⁰⁷ Even Yevgeny Preobrazhensky, the erstwhile ardent Trotsky supporter, marveled from the rostrum, “Collectivization—that is the heart of the matter! Did I predict collectivization? I did not.”²⁰⁸

Kirov, afforded the honor of closing out discussion of Stalin’s report, celebrated all that had been achieved, assuring delegates that “the chief difficulties are behind us,” while reminding them to keep shoulders to the wheel. His oratory elicited repeated clapping, especially when he proposed that every word of Stalin’s political report be approved as marching orders. “Comrades, ten years ago, we buried the man who founded our party, who founded our proletarian state,” Kirov concluded. “We, comrades, can say with pride before Lenin’s memory: we fulfilled that vow; we in future, too, shall fulfill that vow, because that vow was made by the grand strategist of the liberation of the toilers of our country and the whole world, comrade Stalin. (Stormy, prolonged applause, a warm ovation by the entire hall, all stand.)”²⁰⁹

Stalin declined to give the heretofore customary reply to the discussion, citing “no disagreements at all.”²¹⁰ He dictated the composition of the new Central Committee: seventy-one members and sixty-eight candidates. The number of candidates he permitted to stand equaled the number of slots, although, by party tradition, delegates could cross out anyone they opposed. In the voting on February 9, 1934, only 1,059 of 1,225 ballots ended up in the record. (At the previous congress, 134 voting delegates had not returned ballots.)²¹¹ Only Kalinin and Ivan Kodatsky (Leningrad province soviet chairman) were elected unanimously in the official accounting. Three votes went against Stalin, though apparatchiks might have tossed out a few negatives. Kirov received four against. (Back at the 16th Congress, Stalin, like Kirov, had officially received nine votes against.)²¹²

Rumors circulated in Moscow and then abroad about some provincial party bosses having sought to have the aw-shucks Kirov replace Stalin.²¹³ Lev Shaumyan (b. 1904), a newspaper editor (and the unofficially adopted son of Mikoyan), would later assert that “the thought ripened in the minds of certain congress delegates, primarily those who remembered Lenin’s Testament well, that it was time to transfer Stalin from the post of general secretary to other work.”²¹⁴ But the idea that Kirov was widely viewed as worthy of replacing Stalin, or that he led a “moderate faction” opposed to Stalin, is contradicted by the evidence.²¹⁵ Kirov seemed a provincial by comparison with his predecessor in the second capital, Zinoviev, who had worked closely with Lenin and headed the Comintern. At the same time, Kirov had turned out a lot like Zinoviev: a talker, a bon vivant. Still, there was a difference. “At meetings, he never once said anything about any question,” Mikoyan told Khrushchev of Kirov. “He sat silent, and that was it.”²¹⁶ Selecting the general secretary, moreover, fell not to the congress but to the one-day plenum of the newly elected Central Committee afterward. Another gloss on the whispering was provided by the Leningrad delegate Mikhail Rosliakov. “Generally,” he would recall, “the talk was that the party had matured, grown stronger, that there were even people capable of replacing Stalin if the necessity arose.”²¹⁷

A congress report by the apparatchik Yezhov revealed that 10 percent of the party membership had joined during the civil war or before 1917, but that this profile applied to 80 percent of the congress delegates. In other words, 1,646 of the 1,966 delegates had become Communists when Lenin was the leader.²¹⁸ But Lenin-era Communists showed loyalty to Stalin. One was Veniamin Furer (b. 1904), a talented organizer in a mining town of Ukraine who had been given the floor at the congress during the February 7 session. “At the 16th Party Congress, comrade Stalin spoke of those reserves that lurk in the depths of our Soviet system,” Furer said in his remarks at the 17th. “If one breaks the bureaucratic knot, if one advances organizational work, these reserves would surface. . . . These reserves are the creative energy, the creative initiative of the mass.” He hit all the Stalin notes: “Thousands of new people have grown in the Donbass and constitute the proletarians of the Stalinist epoch. . . . They present to us, to our organizational work, to our leadership, more demands, demands that are more complex. . . . Our new worker judges us, in localities, on concrete questions: apartment repair, club organization, development of shops and canteens. . . . This party congress, opening a new plane of battle for socialism, should task the entire party and each Communist with the fighting task of studying and fully mastering the Stalinist style of work. (Applause.)”²¹⁹

MERE SECRETARY

A military-industrial parade on Red Square punctuated the victors’ congress. On February 10, 1934, Stalin and his inner circle met, apparently before the Central Committee plenum that evening, and he proposed that Kirov relocate to Moscow as a Central Committee secretary. “What are you talking about?!” Molotov later recalled of Kirov’s response. “I’ll be no good here. In Leningrad I can do as well as you, but what can I do here?” Some evidence suggests that Orjonikidze supported Kirov’s refusal, Stalin stalked out, and Kirov went to mollify him.²²⁰ A compromise ensued: Kirov would become a Central Committee secretary but remain party boss in Leningrad.²²¹

This provoked the hasty transfer of Andrei Zhdanov from Gorky (Nizhny Novgorod) to Moscow as Central Committee secretary.²²² Born in Mariupol (1896), Zhdanov was the grandson of a priest and the son of a school inspector (who had died when the boy was just three) and a classical pianist (who had health issues after giving birth to him).²²³ He affected the trappings of an intellectual, had an easy demeanor in Stalin’s presence, and was a Russian nationalist. Khrushchev recalled him as a charming fellow who would carry out any assignment.²²⁴ Zhdanov was not even a politburo candidate member, but, in the absence of the dictator or Kaganovich, he would sign politburo meeting protocols.²²⁵

Working sessions of the politburo were giving way to “commissions” (an invention of Kaganovich), while the use of telephone polls for approving politburo decisions had grown to between 1,000 and 3,000 times a year. Even so, Stalin was often just dictating “politburo” decrees to Poskryobyshev or his other top aide Boris Dvinsky. (Ever the functionaries, they would note, “No telephone polling of politburo members taken.”)²²⁶

Further reflecting the changes wrought by collectivization-dekulakization, Stalin elevated several secret police officials to full membership in the Central Committee without prior candidate status: Yagoda (43 years old), Yevdokimov (43), Balytsky (42), and Beria (35). Yezhov (39) and Khrushchev (39) also became full members without having been candidates. Zhdanov (38) was promoted from candidate to full member; Poskryobyshev and Mekhlis became candidate members, even though they had not even been congress delegates.²²⁷ The post-congress Central Committee returned all members of the politburo from the previous congress, in 1930, except for Rykov.²²⁸ Stalin’s name came first on the list of members of the politburo, the orgburo, and the secretariat (after the 16th Congress, his name had appeared alphabetically). His portrait in the gallery of politburo members was rendered far larger, and his khakis lightened to make him stand out. Tellingly, however, Stalin decided that he should be formally listed as merely a “secretary,” in what looks like yet another indication of the long shadow of Lenin’s Testament about removing him as “general secretary.”²²⁹

PRIVATE LIFE

Inside the triangular Kremlin, the Imperial Senate formed its own triangular fortress, and Stalin’s wing was a fortress within the fortress. Even the regime personnel given regular Kremlin passes for state business needed a special pass for Stalin’s wing. Located one floor below where Lenin’s had been and on the building’s opposite side, it came to be known to regime insiders as “the Little Corner.”²³⁰ Stalin had marked his permanent shift to the Kremlin by having the interiors redone. The walls in the offices were lined with shoulder-height wood paneling, under the theory that wood vapors enhanced air quality, and the elevators were paneled with mahogany. The tiled stove in Stalin’s office yielded to central heating. Behind his working desk hung a portrait of Lenin. In a corner, on a small table, stood a display case with Lenin’s death mask. Another small table held several telephones (“Stalin,” he would answer). Next to the desk was a stand with a vase holding fresh fruit. In the rear was a door that led to a room for relaxation, rarely used, with oversized hanging maps and a giant globe. In the main office, between two of the three large windows that let in afternoon sun, sat a black leather couch where, in his better moods, Stalin and guests sipped tea with lemon. In the country’s darkest moments he could exude optimism, but when, to others, matters seemed brightest, he could become gloomy, withdrawn.

Ten miles away, in Volynskoe village, near the town of Kuntsevo on the right bank of the Moscow River, the OGPU completed construction on a new dacha for him in 1934—within just a year, using fiberboard panels (not long-lasting, but easy to put up).²³¹ In contrast to the neo-Gothic style of Zubalovo, Meran Merzhanyants, known as Miron Merzhanov, an ethnic Armenian and the head architect for the central executive committee, adopted a simpler neoclassicism for the one-story, seven-room villa with sundeck and veranda.²³² The Near Dacha, as it became known, sat on thirty acres in a deep wood and was encircled by a solid wall made of plywood, four to five meters high, which was painted green, like the residence, to blend in. The site proved easy to secure but at first noisy (to one side lay the village of Davydkovo, which filled with drunken men at night, and to another, the Kiev Station freight depot).²³³ For a time, Stalin continued to sleep at his new Kremlin apartment and use the Zubalovo dacha, but Nadya’s absence weighed on him at places they had shared. Soon he decided on the Near Dacha as his permanent residence.²³⁴

Hitler lived at the eighteenth-century Palais Schulenburg, at 77 Wilhelmstrasse, the chancellor’s residence since 1871, which during the Weimar Republic had acquired a modernist addition, where Hitler had his formal office. The Führer had the palace part remodeled, recovering the original grandeur but with an elegant simplicity. He would also have his Munich apartment (16 Prinzregentenplatz) refurbished in rectilinear forms, opening up larger light-filled, strikingly modern and spare spaces. These interiors were photographed for the German public. Additionally, Hitler vastly expanded the chalet-style farmhouse in the alpine border town of Berchtesgaden, in the Obersalzberg, where he had stayed on holiday. It had been rechristened the Berghof (“mountain farm”) and now had more than thirty rooms.²³⁵ An ample dining room, study, and great hall were built with Swiss stone and pinewood paneling, and the Teutonic furniture, too, was deliberately oversized. Picture windows and an open-air terrace afforded panoramic views of the snowcapped Bavarian Alps and Austria in the distance. Over time, the entire mountain area would be closed in a wide security perimeter with a high fence, but the loss of physical accessibility was compensated for by images of Hitler’s domestic life published in periodicals. Commercially available photo albums also depicted him hiking in the pure mountain air with his dog or entertaining blond children at his mountain retreat. Postcards for sale showed him feeding deer on the terrace—a private, softer Führer.²³⁶

No public mention was made of the existence, let alone location, of Stalin’s private Moscow residence, even as the entire regime became organized around it. A team of chauffeurs remained on twenty-four-hour call at the special Kremlin garage, which was jammed with foreign makes. Stalin had acquired a 1929 Rolls-Royce but was usually driven in a Packard, a premier luxury brand he had come to love since the Tsaritsyn days (when he rode in a Packard Twin Six “touring car”).²³⁷ In 1933, the regime had purchased the new Packard Twelve in the United States (Stalin would travel with the top down, from Sochi to Abkhazia and back, just for the ride). He preferred the jump seat, facing forward, which he pulled down himself. One guard sat on the backseat, and another next to the driver. Stalin’s Packard drove right up to his entrance of the Imperial Senate; exiting the Kremlin, at the Borovitskaya Gates, he traveled west along Znamenka, then the Arbat, Smolensk Square, Borodino Bridge, Great Dorogomilov Street, and onto the old Mozhaisk Highway to a hidden sharp left turnoff at Volynskoe. Service personnel nicknamed the route “the Georgian Military Highway,” in reference to the actual road in the Caucasus.

Inside the dacha, Stalin and his guests, by custom, wore slippers (he tucked his trousers into his socks). An intercom connected all the rooms. The hot water heater was imported. A separate building, some 200 yards from the principal residence, housed a kitchen, which had a traditional Russian-style stove, which beckoned when his rheumatism acted up. The auxiliary structure contained a Russian-style bathhouse and billiard room, too. Master artisans from around the country fabricated much of the furniture, doors, and wall paneling at Moscow’s Lux Factory. A wooden bed that workmen had used became Stalin’s. Contrary to legend, he slept in the bedroom (some 200 square feet). The floors were also made of wood. The dining room, off to the right of the entrance, had a long table, an upright piano, and a gramophone. Stalin collected records, favoring the danceable light romances of Pyotr Leshchenko and especially the émigré Alexander Vertinsky.²³⁸ During and after meals, he convened regime meetings. According to Mikoyan, the dictator ate slowly but had a healthy appetite. “Stalin loved a variety of fish dishes,” he wrote. “Danube herring he loved very much. . . . He loved poultry: guinea fowl, duck, flattened young chicken. He loved thin rack of lamb cooked on a spit. . . . Thin bones, a little meat, dry-broiled.”²³⁹ Lakoba would bring racks of lamb from Abkhazia.

The Near Dacha was built with children’s bedrooms, but Vasily (age thirteen) and Svetlana (eight) continued to live in the Kremlin apartment below their father’s office and to spend weekends and summers at Zubalovo.²⁴⁰ (Yakov Jughashvili, age twenty-six, lived at Granovsky, 3.) Full-time care of the children fell to Til as well as Pauker, who had been born in Habsburg Lemberg (Lwów, Lviv, Lvov), of Jewish extraction, the son of a barber, from whom he had learned the trade.²⁴¹ Vasily, red haired like his mother, with a pimply face, initially was sent to School No. 20; Svetlana began at No. 25, a model school known for “very tough, strict discipline,” as Pauker reported to Stalin. (Vasily was transferred there.)²⁴² Their father’s portrait hung in the school, which offered radio and electrotechnology, airplane and automobile modeling, ballroom dancing, theater, a rifle team, parachute jumping, volleyball, hockey, excursions to the State Tretyakov Gallery, summer camps in Crimea. Perhaps 85 percent of the teaching staff did not belong to the party. Vasily’s closest friend was nicknamed “Collective Farm Boy” (his mother, from a village, scrubbed the school’s floors). But his friends could not visit him at home. Stalin would sometimes read aloud to Vasily and Artyom. “Once he almost laughed to the point of tears,” Artyom recalled of a reading of the satirist Mikhail Zoshchenko, “and then he said, ‘And here comrade Zoshchenko remembered about the GPU and changed the ending!’”²⁴³

Stalin’s own son was a rambunctious type, signing his letters “Red Vaska.” Perhaps he misbehaved, at least in part, to get his father’s attention. “With a reluctant heart,” the bodyguard Vlasik would recall, “we had to report his behavior to his father, ruining his mood.”²⁴⁴ Vasily observed how his father doted on his younger sister, with constant reminders that Svetlana was a good example.²⁴⁵ Svetlana studied hard under the guidance of her nanny, Bychkova.²⁴⁶ “Stalin, someone who absolutely lacked sentimentalism, expressed such untypical gentleness toward his daughter,” recalled Candide Charkviani, a Georgian official. “‘My Little Hostess,’ Stalin would say, and seat Svetlana on his lap and give her kisses. ‘Since she lost her mother, I have kept telling her that she is the mistress of the house,’ Stalin told us.”²⁴⁷ Stalin instructed her to issue orders, and she would address written commands to “Secretary No. 1,” and he would answer, “I submit.” She also recalled, however, that he was absent. “Once in a while,” she wrote, “he enjoyed the sounds of children playing.” Stalin would overnight at the Near Dacha. “Sometimes before he left, he’d come to my room in his overcoat to kiss me good night as I lay sleeping,” Svetlana added. “He liked kissing me while I was little, and I’ll never forget how tender he was to me.”²⁴⁸ She was heard to utter, “Let the whole world hate me, as long as Papa loves me. If Papa tells me to go to the moon, I’ll go.”^{249, 250}

Into the public vacuum about Stalin’s personal life stepped Kyrill Kakabadze, a Soviet trade representative in Berlin for Georgia’s manganese mines, who had defected and published a defamatory essay in the British Sunday Express (April 8, 1934) that purported to describe Stalin’s “orgies” at a “personal estate” in Zubalovo of 300,000 acres. “Stalin lives like a tsar,” he wrote, supposedly costing the state ₤300,000 a year and 1,000 lives a day. “Stalin took for himself huge apartments that had once been inhabited by Ivan the Terrible.” Soviet representatives in London begged for compromising material on Kakabadze for release to the British press (the OGPU went to work, discovering that he was from a merchant family), then the German press republished the Kakabadze articles.²⁵¹ Stalin took it out on Beria, his minion for all things Georgian, writing (April 14) that, “besides the Georgian carousers and scamps arrested in Moscow hotels, there is another large group in Leningrad. The dissoluteness of so-called representatives of Georgian economic organizations has placed shame on the South Caucasus organizations. We oblige you to take immediate measures to liquidate the unseemliness, if you do not want the South Caucasus to end up in the court of the Central Committee.”²⁵²

COMMON ENEMIES

Stalin had fixed a covetous eye on Chinese Turkestan, or Xinjiang (“New Territory”). From January through April 1934, he fought a small war there. Renewal of a mass Muslim rebellion had spurred Comintern operatives to contemplate pushing for a socialist revolution, but Soviet military intelligence had pointed out that, even though the rebels commanded the loyalty of almost the entire Muslim population (90 percent), a successful Muslim independence struggle in Chinese Turkestan could inspire the Kazakhs and Kyrgyz in Soviet Turkestan or even the Mongols. Stalin had decided to send about 7,000 OGPU and Red Army soldiers, as well as airplanes, artillery, mustard gas, and Soviet Uzbek Communists, to defend the Chinese warlord. Remarkably, he allowed Soviet forces to combine with former White Army soldiers abroad, who were promised amnesty and Soviet citizenship. A possible Muslim rebel victory turned into a defeat. Unlike the Japanese in Manchuria, Stalin did not set up an independent state, but he solidified his informal hold on Xinjiang, setting up military bases, sending advisers, and gaining coal, oil, tungsten, and tin concessions. Some 85 percent of Xinjiang’s trade was with the USSR.²⁵³ British and Japanese observers and Chinese newspapers railed against Soviet “imperialism.”²⁵⁴ Chiang Kai-shek became dependent on Soviet goodwill to communicate with Xinjiang’s capital, Ürümqi.²⁵⁵

Ambassador Bullitt, who had returned to the United States after his brief December whirlwind in Moscow, came back. “The honeymoon atmosphere had evaporated completely before I arrived,” he wrote to Roosevelt (April 13, 1934).²⁵⁶ That very day, the U.S. Congress passed the Johnson Act, which prohibited foreign nations in default from marketing bonds in the United States, effectively preempting Roosevelt’s government from underwriting loans to the Soviet Union as negotiations proceeded for belated repayment of tsarist and Provisional Government debt.²⁵⁷

For Stalin, in any case, the threat of an immediate Japanese attack had receded.²⁵⁸ Hitler’s Germany was the greater puzzle.²⁵⁹ On April 19, Stalin’s spies delivered a copy of a secret document sent by the British ambassador in Berlin, Eric Phipps, to London, quoting Hitler to the effect that “it’s better to be respected and unloved than weak and loved.” Phipps asserted that “in relation to Russia, however, Hitler is ready to leave personal feelings aside and conduct a policy of realism.”²⁶⁰ A follow-up intercepted assessment from Phipps stated, in Russian translation, “The [Nazi] regime is solid, and the storm troopers are so disciplined that [Hitler] can be endangered only as a result of a serious uprising or a slow process of internal decay.” Stalin underlined this passage.²⁶¹ Balytsky, OGPU chief in Soviet Ukraine, sent Stalin a report on the German consulates in Kharkov, Kiev, and Odessa, which were now run by Nazi party members who were said to be recruiting Nazi youth and storm troopers on Soviet territory among the half million ethnic Germans in Soviet Ukraine. Balytsky initiated arrests of Soviet “fascists.”²⁶²

On May 5, 1934, Polish foreign minister Beck, as promised, signed an early renewal of the nonaggression pact with the Soviet Union.²⁶³ But Stalin took talk of Poland trying to maintain neutrality vis-à-vis both its giant neighbors as disinformation, and behind Poland—indeed, behind every Soviet foe—he saw Britain. Stalin could not or would not grasp that “imperialist” Britain had the same enemies as the USSR: Nazi Germany in Europe and militaristic Japan in Asia.²⁶⁴ British-Soviet relations were poor.²⁶⁵ The British embassy official Sir William Strang had reported from Moscow that Pravda was calling the Nazi ideologue Rosenberg “a lackey of British imperialism.”²⁶⁶ Officials in London were also incredulous at Soviet assertions that the British were “the real force behind German and Japanese fascism,” as the Comintern’s Dmytro Manuilsky had put it at the 17th Party Congress. The son of an Orthodox priest from Ukraine, he had charged, in typical contradictions-of-capitalism fashion, that Britain was instigating these two powers against the Soviet Union to avoid a new intra-imperialist war over colonies.²⁶⁷ Even the tsarist-era military men Alexander Svechin and Boris Shaposhnikov wrote that Poland, Romania, and other limitrophe states were ultimately subordinated to the will of London and Paris.²⁶⁸

Internally, Tukhachevsky urged that, since Poland or Romania was sure to attack at some point, the Red Army ought to take advantage of the poor state of these implacable enemies’ railways to deliver a knockout blow before they could fully mobilize. The appeal of such preemptive war had been enhanced by a perceived shift toward military attacks without formal war declarations.²⁶⁹ But for all the talk about the inevitability of war, Stalin was not looking to fight one.²⁷⁰

Neither was Britain. Although Japan eyed British-controlled parts of Southeast and South Asia, it was preoccupied with China, but Germany under Hitler looked less contained—and British credibility was on the line.²⁷¹ British society, however, was overwhelmingly desirous of avoiding another catastrophic war and mostly sympathetic to Germany’s grievances against the Versailles Treaty. Added to this was the political-ideological challenge of the Comintern and, behind it, the Soviet Union, whose industrialization—contrary to British expectations—had seemed to succeed. For London, no less than for Stalin, some sort of accommodation with Nazi Germany seemed the path to security.

POET TO POET

The poet Osip Mandelstam, outraged over the famine, had composed sixteen lines that blamed Stalin. The verses, which he read to a handful of intimates, did not mention the dictator by name, but mocked a “Kremlin highlander” with oily fingers, a criminal underworld past, and part Ossetian descent. In April 1934, Mandelstam saw fellow poet Boris Pasternak on the street—the two had known each other since 1922—and he recited the rhymed invective to him. Hearsay has Pasternak deeming the lines an act of suicide, responding, “I didn’t hear this; you didn’t recite it to me.”²⁷² On the night of May 16–17, Mandelstam was arrested at his apartment, where the police confiscated manuscripts, letters, and his address book. The poet was allowed to take a few personal items and books. He was said to have selected Dante’s Inferno.²⁷³

The admission process to the new union of writers had commenced, and on May 15, Fadeyev, Bedny, Pasternak, and others were inducted.²⁷⁴ A devastated Pasternak now learned of Mandelstam’s arrest from Anna Gorenko (b. 1889), known as Akhmatova, who had arrived from Leningrad that evening. He went to see Mandelstam’s wife, Nadezhda, and they evidently tried to call Bedny, who had once promised to defend Mandelstam if necessary, but had ceased to have contact with Stalin and deemed intervention useless.²⁷⁵ Nadezhda managed to get into the Kremlin to see Yenukidze, but also with no results. It seems Pasternak went to Izvestiya and implored Bukharin to intercede. (Pasternak was doing literary translations for the newspaper as a source of income.)²⁷⁶ According to the woman who later would become Pasternak’s lover, he “raced frantically all over town, telling everybody that he was not to blame and denying responsibility for Mandelstam’s disappearance.” In fact, Pasternak did not know but Mandelstam, under interrogation, had not named all the people to whom he had recited the poem—only those already known to the interrogator—and omitted Pasternak.²⁷⁷ At the other extreme, the short-story writer Pyotr Pavlenko boasted to acquaintances that he’d been allowed to listen secretly to Mandelstam’s interrogation at Lubyanka, evidently from behind a door in an adjacent room.²⁷⁸

In a surprise, Mandelstam was sentenced not to death or even a Gulag camp, but exile in Cherdyn (northern Urals), and allowed to take his wife. In early June 1934, he attempted suicide, jumping out a window. Bukharin wrote to Stalin about the poet’s frail psychology, noting that “Boris Pasternak is utterly at a loss over Mandelstam’s arrest and no one knows anything.”²⁷⁹ Then, on June 13, Pasternak was summoned to the phone at his communal apartment on Volkhonka Street. The caller said Stalin would be getting on the line, but Pasternak, like Bulgakov some years earlier, thought it a prank and hung up. The phone rang again, the same voice stating the call was from Stalin’s office and, to eliminate disbelief, dictated a special number to call. Pasternak dialed it and soon heard, “Stalin speaking.”

Stalin told Pasternak that Mandelstam’s case had been reexamined and the result would be favorable. (The sentence was commuted to mere banishment from the largest cities; he and his wife moved to Voronezh.) Stalin asked if Mandelstam was Pasternak’s friend—a tricky question. If Pasternak said yes, he could be implicated; if he said no, he was betraying Mandelstam. “Poets rarely make friends,” he answered. “They envy each other.” Stalin told him that if something terrible had befallen one of his friends, he would go to the wall to aid him. Then Stalin asked if Mandelstam was genuinely a “master.” Again, tricky: this could have referred to the verses about the “Kremlin highlander.” What Pasternak answered remains a matter of dispute. He seems to have suggested that they meet face-to-face. Stalin hung up. Pasternak dialed the number again, asking Poskryobyshev to reconnect him, but Stalin’s aide said the dictator was busy. Pasternak asked whether he could tell others of the call; Poskryobyshev said he would leave it to him.²⁸⁰ That very day, Pasternak told Ilya Ehrenburg (who was living in Paris with a Soviet passport but had just arrived in Moscow with André Malraux). Ehrenburg spread the sensational news to select other writers.²⁸¹ For Pasternak, the call had happened extremely quickly, but it would reverberate in his head for a lifetime.

A NEW AUTHORITY

Georgi Dimitrov, the acquitted but still imprisoned Bulgarian Comintern operative, had finally been deported from Germany. He arrived in Moscow by plane (February 27, 1934), and Stalin afforded him a hero’s welcome and Soviet citizenship.²⁸² “It is difficult to imagine,” Dimitrov recorded in his diary, “a more grandiose reception or more sympathy and love.”²⁸³ He had become the best-known Communist internationally after Stalin.²⁸⁴ Dimitrov was given an apartment at the Comintern’s Hotel Lux, which also housed a young Yugoslav named Josip Broz Tito and a Vietnamese named Nguyen Ai Cuoc, later known as Ho Chi Minh.²⁸⁵ (Dimitrov would soon obtain one of the 550 grand apartments in the new Government House, an elite complex colloquially known as the House on the Embankment, designed by Boris Yofan and built by Yagoda, on the site of wine warehouses along the Moscow River, a stone’s throw from the Kremlin walls.)²⁸⁶ Stalin took to phoning him. Convalescing outside Moscow at a dacha in Arkhangelskoe, on the former estates of Princes Golitsyn and Yusupov, Dimitrov requested an audience. On April 6, Stalin had him named to the Comintern executive committee, and the next day he received him in the Little Corner, one on one.²⁸⁷

Some Communists, including Germans who had managed to escape into exile from Nazi terror, were lobbying for a shift toward cooperation with other parties on the left.²⁸⁸ But Stalin stressed the need to win over European workers from parliamentarism, whose absence had allowed Russian workers to be revolutionary in 1917. “In all countries, the bourgeoisie will proceed to fascism,” he told Dimitrov, which he presented as an opportunity for Communists to win workers’ allegiance, provided the latter were made to understand that the era of parliamentarism was ending, meaning Social Democrats could be outmaneuvered. Still, he concluded that “we cannot immediately and easily win millions of workers in Europe.” In the meantime, he encouraged Dimitrov to seize leadership inside the Comintern: “Kuusinen is good, but an academic; Manuilsky—agitator; [Wilhelm] Knorin—propagandist! [Osip] Pyatnitsky—narrow . . . Who says that this ‘foursome’ must remain [in charge]?” Molotov chimed in: “You have looked the enemy in the face. And after prison, you now take the work into your hands.”²⁸⁹

At the 1934 May Day parade, Stalin motioned Dimitrov to come up to the dictator’s side on the Mausoleum, a Kremlinological sign for all. Dimitrov seized the moment, asking to be received again privately when convenient; Stalin agreed to an audience the next day. “Select yourself where and how to appear and what to write,” he instructed him in the Little Corner. “Don’t let yourself be talked into anything.”²⁹⁰ Dimitrov drew inspiration from recent events in France, where workers, in response to antiparliamentary riots by far right, monarchist, and fascist leagues, had ignored party divisions on the left and united in a general strike to prevent France from following Germany’s path.²⁹¹ “The wall between Communist workers and Social Democrats should be demolished,” Dimitrov told the visiting Maurice Thorez, the French Communist party leader, on May 11. But this was a call not to cooperate with Social Democrat party leaders but to redouble efforts to reclaim their rank and file.²⁹² Additional urgency arrived on May 19, when a fascist-inflected coup succeeded in Dimitrov’s native Bulgaria. And yet, not only Stalin but also Pyatnitsky (real surname Tarshis), Béla Kun, Wilhelm Knorin, Solomon Lozovsky (Dridzo), and Jenő Varga detested Social Democrats and opposed a broad leftist front to combat fascism.

BUNGLING

Stalin summoned Artuzov, who had predicted Poland’s behavior, to a series of discussions in the Little Corner. (Litvinov exited when the intelligence officials entered.)²⁹³ Soviet military intelligence in Europe had suffered a string of catastrophic exposures several years running, as a result of violating elementary tradecraft: recruiting agents among local Communist party members (who were under police surveillance).²⁹⁴ A list compiled by Yagoda for Stalin and Voroshilov of every agent exposure with names, dates, and causes, covered ten pages and highlighted “infestation by traitors,” “recruitment of foreign cadres among dubious elements,” and “non-observance of the rules of conspiracy,” all of which had resulted in the USSR being fed “a mass of disinformation.”²⁹⁵ On May 26, 1934, Stalin appointed Artuzov deputy chief of military intelligence, concurrent with his post as head of OGPU foreign intelligence, an unprecedented combination.²⁹⁶

Within a month, Artuzov had written a detailed analysis—one copy to Stalin, one to Voroshilov, and none to Jan Berzin, the nominal military intelligence chief—detailing that the Soviets now had essentially no military intelligence operations in Romania, Latvia, Estonia, Finland, France, or Italy. His solution was to prohibit, once again, recruitment of foreign Communists as spies and to improve the pay and housing of operatives abroad. Fatefully, Stalin also accepted Artuzov’s recommendation to liquidate military intelligence’s department for analysis, the one central clearinghouse for assessing the mass of all incoming information. Artuzov pointed out that there was no such all-knowing and therefore risky department of analysis in the OGPU foreign directorate (which was one of its weaknesses).²⁹⁷ Military intelligence was subordinated directly to the defense commissar, who emerged with enhanced powers.²⁹⁸

In terms of counterintelligence, the secret police claimed that a Soviet spy in Chinese Harbin was a double agent who had helped Japan roll up part of the Soviet espionage network in the Far East.²⁹⁹ Stalin demanded to know from Yagoda which Soviet operative had recruited the spy.³⁰⁰ A far more important case remains confounding. The OGPU had put the head of Red Army external relations, Colonel Vasily Smagin, under observation on the basis of intercepted deciphered telegrams from the Japanese military attaché Torashirō Kawabe. “We have precisely established that Smagin in January 1934, using the possibilities in his position, took from a rank-and-file operative in the Fourth Department [military intelligence] fifty-seven file cards of secret agent material about Japan and twenty-nine about China to his home for three days,” Yagoda wrote. “This had nothing in common with his official duties.” Stalin underlined this passage, and another about Smagin’s closeness to Kawabe. Smagin, however, was only sacked and left unemployed—and eventually given a teaching position.³⁰¹

LONG KNIVES

Hitler’s renunciation of the League of Nations had begun to lift the postwar taboo in France on the idea of any “alliance.”³⁰² Since Hitler’s takeover, Litvinov had been urging a regional pact against him, borrowing the phrase “collective security” from the League and arguing that “peace is indivisible” (i.e., either every country had peace or none had it). Lenin had sized up Litvinov as “the most crocodile-like of our diplomats,” who tore into and held on to people.³⁰³ Stalin, however, was not keen on a regional pact that, without Germany, would come across as anti-German while not even guaranteeing Soviet border security on the Baltic Sea. He also wanted to avoid giving a pretext for a Polish-German bloc on his immediate border.³⁰⁴ Still, he viewed talks with Paris as a useful instrument for his talks with Berlin, exactly as the French did.³⁰⁵

The USSR won diplomatic recognition on June 9, 1934, from Czechoslovakia and Romania, members of the Little Entente, and by the 27th the draft of a comprehensive Eastern Pact—France, the Soviet Union, the Little Entente, the Baltic states, Germany, Poland, Finland—was being circulated alongside a separate Franco-Soviet agreement.³⁰⁶ On June 29, Stalin received an OGPU intelligence report (“from a serious Polish source”) asserting that, by having invited Goebbels to Warsaw, Piłsudski was showing Paris he had options to discourage the latter’s bruited alliance with Moscow.³⁰⁷

The counterpart to a Soviet security deal centered on France was a Comintern shift toward a united front with Social Democrats against fascism. Dimitrov wrote cryptically in his diary (June 29), “Stalin: I never answered you. I had no time. On this question, there is still nothing in my head. Something must be prepared!” (Dimitrov also wrote to himself, “So lonely and personally unhappy! It’s almost more difficult for me now than last year in prison.” But then Dimitrov, despite being married to the cause, addressed his personal loneliness, resuming correspondence with Rosa Fleischmann, a Jewish Communist from Czechoslovakia’s Sudetenland whom he had met in Vienna years earlier, and who would soon become his second wife and companion, something Stalin did not have.)³⁰⁸

The Central Committee was holding a plenum, the first such full meeting since the party congress, devoted to meat supply and livestock.³⁰⁹ Early on the morning of June 30, 1934, Hitler arrested Captain Ernst Röhm, chief of staff of the street-fighting SA (Sturmabteilung), in a Bavarian resort town; as many as 2,000 more arrests ensued. Surly and overweight, with a prominent scar on his left cheek, and openly homosexual, Röhm was one of the few who used the familiar du (“thou”) with Hitler. He led some 3 million SA members, poorly armed and disorganized, but more than were in the Nazi party, and nearly thirty times the size of the Reichswehr (limited by the Versailles Treaty).³¹⁰ His Brownshirt militia sought a permanent place in the Nazi order as a reward for helping bring Hitler to power and targeting Nazi enemies (leftists, Jews), but he had toned down his rhetoric of a continuing revolution and accepted Hitler’s request to go on medical leave and send the Brownshirts on leave as well (most were due to return in August). But Reichswehr generals—who reported to Hindenburg, not the chancellor Hitler—were adamant that the paramilitary SA be neutered. The Nazi Schutzstaffel, or SS (Heinrich Himmler), Sicherheitsdienst, or SD (Reinhard Heydrich), and Gestapo (also Heydrich) had no love for their SA rivals, either. Rumors of a pending crackdown against the SA had spurred the latter to yet another drunken rampage in Munich on the evening of June 29.³¹¹ At the same time, Hitler had been told that President Hindenburg was ready to declare martial law and receive the former conservative prime minister Franz von Papen on June 30. In the end, after much stalling, the Führer felt compelled to move against both the SA and the traditional conservatives.

The army brass put its resources in SS hands, and left the latter to fabricate the damning evidence of a supposed SA “putsch” with the aid of an unnamed foreign country.³¹² Still, it was awkward: the SA had been just as crucial (and just as dispensable) to the Nazi revolution as the Kronstadt sailors had been to the Bolshevik revolution in Russia. In a two-hour, radio-broadcast speech to the Reichstag (twelve of whose members would be among those to be executed), Hitler highlighted storm trooper moral laxity and Röhm’s homosexuality and declared that he had acted patriotically to preempt a planned SA “Night of the Long Knives.”³¹³ Stalin was said to have badgered his newly arrived envoy in Berlin for details of the “bloodbath.”³¹⁴ Izvestiya dedicated four columns on its front page to Hitler’s Reichstag speech about the Night of the Long Knives.³¹⁵ “What a guy [molodets],” Stalin exclaimed to his inner circle, according to Mikoyan’s later recollections. “Well done. Knows how to act!”³¹⁶ A Comintern instant analysis, clueless about the dynamics of the Nazi regime, wrote that the “monopolist big bourgeoisie” had crushed the “petit-bourgeois strata.”³¹⁷ Pravda (July 2, 1934) editorialized that “German fascism once again revealed itself as the agent of finance capital.” British intelligence did little better, misperceiving a triumph of the Reichswehr over the party and a “return of the Rapallo line” of closeness to the Soviet Union.³¹⁸ In fact, the episode solidified a Nazi accord with the army and large-scale industry on Hitler’s terms, while clearing the way for him to merge the chancellorship with the presidency upon Hindenburg’s passing. The SS would be even more radical, ideologically, than the SA.

If the hearsay about Stalin’s enthusiastic reaction is correct, he was also wrong. This was the first (and would be the sole) violent regime purge of Hitler’s rule. The Führer had agreed to dispatch Röhm only under pressure from Göring, Himmler, and Heydrich, yet he still hoped Röhm could be persuaded to do the deed himself. (The Brownshirt fighter did not touch the pistol left for him in his prison cell and had to be executed.)³¹⁹ For all the sensation, a mere eighty-five known people were summarily executed without legal proceedings, and just fifty of them even belonged to the SA. Some individual scores were settled.³²⁰ What Stalin and British intelligence most failed to grasp was the consolidation of the Nazi regime’s anti-Bolshevism.³²¹

Stalin, however, was not ready to surrender on winning over Nazi Germany. On July 1, 1934, following the conclusion of the Central Committee plenum, Dimitrov sent him a draft of his political report for a proposed 7th Comintern Congress (scheduled for the fall). Dimitrov could defy Hitler, Göring, and Goebbels, but he remained inordinately deferential toward the Soviet dictator. Stalin, in turn, asked that Dimitrov “consider” his suggestions, and his marginal comments indicate that he was far from letting go of his thesis on Social Democracy as the left wing of fascism. Dimitrov’s text asked “whether it is correct to refer to Social Democracy indiscriminately as social fascism,” and “Are Social Democrats always and everywhere the main social bulwark of the bourgeoisie?” Stalin wrote in the margins, “As to the leadership—yes, but not ‘indiscriminate.’” Beyond this tiny concession, where Dimitrov gently tried to rehabilitate some Social Democrats as a basis for cooperation in the struggle against fascism, Stalin pointedly inserted, “Against whom is this thesis?”³²² On July 5, the politburo was informed that Germany, still suffering the effects of the Depression, had raised the prospect of a 200-million-mark credit for the purchase of German machinery.³²³ Dimitrov, suffering from latent malaria, chronic gastritis, and other illnesses, departed for two months to Georgia on medical leave.

STRENGTHENING SOCIALIST LEGALITY

On July 10, 1934, after six months of internal back-and-forth, the regime announced the replacement of the OGPU by the NKVD (the people’s commissariat of internal affairs).³²⁴ Mężyński had appealed to Stalin yet again in early 1934 to be allowed to resign. (“No activities. Only lying down 24 hours a day,” he had written in his notebook in Kislovodsk. “This is death. You lie all day in the hammock, and death sits across from you.”)³²⁵ Stalin proposed that Kaganovich confer with him and possibly accept his request. Then, on May 10, Mężyński’s heart had stopped. Four days later, his ashes were interred in the Kremlin Wall, with an artillery salute.³²⁶ Rumors had Stalin set to appoint Mikoyan, which frightened Yagoda’s gang and brightened other Chekists who appreciated Mikoyan’s sly humor and lectures at their club.³²⁷ But Stalin named Yagoda commissar and Yankel Sorenson, known as Yakov Agranov, his first deputy.³²⁸ The regime had just expanded Article 58 of the RSFSR criminal code (regarding counterrevolutionary activities) with new subarticles (2–13) to cover attempts to seize power, espionage, anti-Soviet propaganda and agitation, and Trotskyism.³²⁹ As Stalin had proposed, military desertion was now punished as treason, with sentences of execution or, in extenuating circumstances, ten years in confinement.³³⁰ Nonetheless, the formation of the NKVD was conceived as a genuine legal reform.³³¹ The politburo would soon decree a parallel expansion in the number of judges and procuracy personnel, with pay raises.³³² Kaganovich explained that “the reorganization of the OGPU means that, as we are in more normal times, we can punish through the court and not resort to extrajudicial repression, as we have until now.”³³³

This new mandate had to be explained to police operatives.³³⁴ “In capitalist countries, instead of the ‘celebrated’ bourgeois order, there is chaos, a sea of blood, extrajudicial executions, gas, machine guns and armored cars on the streets,” Yagoda told them in a speech at the NKVD’s founding. “If now, in the village, we do not have expansive kulak formations that we had previously, if in the city the counterrevolution does not have the character it had before, the question arises: What guises, what forms are possible for the activities of counterrevolutionary agents?” He answered that former parties (SRs, Mensheviks, bourgeois nationalists) could reanimate and link up with Communist oppositionist elements (Trotskyites, rightists) for espionage and sabotage, requiring the NKVD to abjure mass arrests in favor of “subtle, painstaking, and probing investigations.”³³⁵ Investigations had to be conducted with greater observance of procedural rules.³³⁶ Ultimately, the reform was aimed at better coherence of the state, under the slogan “strengthening revolutionary legality.”³³⁷ But none of this meant imposing limits on Stalin’s power, whose extralegal operation caused many of the very problems of arbitrariness about which he complained.³³⁸

ARTISTS AND THE STATE

Technically, the Union of Soviet Writers was a civic organization, but it was blatantly an arm of the state.³³⁹ It was spending almost no time on aesthetics.³⁴⁰ Its main activity, in the run-up to the anticipated founding congress, consisted of endless meetings of its governing board and manifold committees, and entertainment. The union’s headquarters occupied a nineteenth-century mansion on Vorovsky (formerly Cooks’) Street, in what had been Moscow’s most aristocratic neighborhood, part of the ancient Dolgorukov estate. (This figured in Tolstoy’s War and Peace as the Rostov estate.) Known as the “Central House of the Writers,” the HQ had a library with newspapers and journals, a restaurant, a competitive billiards team, sport groups for tennis, chess, and horseback riding, and study sections for thematic subjects and foreign languages. It also took over a fledgling dacha colony, at Peredelkino, which, like the Moscow HQ, would afford a certain degree of self-organized intellectual life (circles, house visits), although this was shadowed by willing and blackmailed informants.³⁴¹

Two years after the politburo decree announcing it, the writers’ union’s founding congress had still not met, having been postponed several times. Gorky had been set to deliver the keynote, but on May 11, 1934, his son Maxim Peshkov passed away, at age thirty-eight. He had taken part in a drinking binge with some secret police operatives at a May Day picnic, been left to sleep it off outside on a bench, and been diagnosed with influenza. He was buried at Novodevichy Cemetery on May 12 (the day before Mężyński’s body was placed on view at the House of Trade Unions). Gorky was shattered. “He no longer belonged to himself, and seemed that he was not a person but an institution,” obliged to carry on, noted one close friend.³⁴² Gossips speculated that the regime had killed Gorky’s son to intimidate him.³⁴³ But as the congress’s new opening date approached, Gorky would write a forceful letter to Stalin, asking to be relieved of his role as chairman, and would submit a heated article for Pravda lashing out at party hacks trying to control literature (which Kaganovich authorized Mekhlis to hold back). “Literary affairs are sharpening,” Kaganovich would write to Stalin, who, preoccupied with other matters on which Kaganovich sought guidance (Japan, grain procurements), would answer, three days later, “It must be explained to all Communist writers that the Master in literature, as in all other areas, is only the Central Committee, and that they are obliged to subordinate themselves unconditionally to the latter.”³⁴⁴

A Literary Fund was established on July 28, 1934, with the aim of subsidizing cultural figures in need, including up-and-coming writers, formalizing an ad hoc practice whereby they were granted shoes or winter coats. The money came from 10 percent deductions in the honoraria paid by publishing houses, as well as 0.5 to 2 percent of the fees for live performances. Additionally, the state budget contributed 25 percent of the Literary Fund’s resources. Soon, about 100,000 requests for aid accumulated (many writers submitted multiple petitions).³⁴⁵ Behind closed doors, writers disagreed vehemently on whether such subsidies enhanced productivity or blocked it by removing hunger.³⁴⁶ The Literary Fund obtained permission to build more dachas at Peredelkino as well. Of the three dozen writers’ families initially granted residency, few were Communist party members. Most writers failed to pay the nominal rent.³⁴⁷

WRITING HISTORY

On July 23, 1934, Stalin received the British writer H. G. Wells—who had interviewed Lenin—and they argued the world.³⁴⁸ (Radek would send Stalin a translation of passages about the dictator in Wells’s autobiography, published the same year, noting, “We didn’t manage to seduce the girl.”)³⁴⁹ Stalin’s last meeting in Moscow was July 29. Vlasik arranged for their special train to stop at Sochi’s remote freight yard for security reasons, but Stalin—for all his security anxieties—detested having to hide and insisted on detraining at the regular passenger station. His black Rolls-Royce awaited him, but he enjoyed walking a bit on foot, startling onlookers.³⁵⁰ That summer, he planned to work on a new history textbook. A few years back, in a letter to the journal Proletarian Revolution, he had exploded in fury at one historian’s criticisms of Lenin for supposedly having insufficiently criticized the danger of centrism in German Social Democracy before the Great War. Stalin, right on the facts, had tendentiously exaggerated the author’s argument, and called the article “anti-party and semi-Trotskyite.” Stalin also rejected the author’s claim that more documents remained to be uncovered. “Who besides hopeless bureaucrats would rely only on paper documents?” he wrote. “Who besides archival rats do not understand that the party and its leaders need to be assessed above all by their actions, and not only by their declarations?”³⁵¹

Not long thereafter, the politburo had formed a commission to write a new history of the party. But even the textbook drafted by the lapdog Yaroslavsky had been rejected, for lacking vivid individual heroes.³⁵² Stalin had his minions force the issue.³⁵³ Functionaries assembled a large group of historians. “We went into the hall like geese,” Sergei Piontkovsky recorded in his diary. “In all, there were about 100 people in the room. . . . Stalin stood up frequently, puffed on his pipe, and wandered between the tables.” He interrupted the main speaker and finally just took the floor. “Stalin spoke very quietly. He held the secondary school textbooks in his hand and spoke with a slight accent, striking the textbooks with his hand, proclaiming, ‘These textbooks are good for nothing. What the heck is the “feudal epoch,” “the epoch of industrial capitalism,” “the epoch of formations”—it’s all epochs and no facts, no events, no people, no concrete information, no names, no titles, no content.’” Piontkovsky’s diary continued: “Stalin said what we need are textbooks with facts, events, names. History should be history.”³⁵⁴

Of course, behind closed doors, Stalin was using just such a schematic vocabulary: feudal epoch, capitalist mode of production, bourgeois democracy.³⁵⁵

In Sochi, the dictator summoned Kirov, who arrived in early August and stayed at the Zenzinovka dacha (where Rykov used to stay). Writing history was not exactly Kirov’s forte. But Stalin also summoned Zhdanov, the dictator’s youngest favorite. Speaking to Alexandra Kollontai, Soviet envoy to Sweden, before departing Moscow, Stalin had playfully posed as a “right deviationist,” contrasting himself with Zhdanov, a “left deviationist,” a statement less about Stalin’s politics than Zhdanov’s extremism.³⁵⁶ Vasily and Artyom were also in Sochi all July and August, and Stalin gave them the draft history to test it. Zhdanov’s fifteen-year-old son, Yuri, invited to join the group for lunch, recalls that Stalin, to general laughter, observed that historians divided history into three successive schemata: matriarchate, patriarchate, and secretariat.³⁵⁷

After work, Stalin and Kirov grilled kebabs, sang old songs (“There’s a Cliff on the Volga”), and worked the garden with shovels, while Kirov chased the ducks and guinea fowl. Stalin did not like to swim (he was from the mountains), but Kirov did, and Stalin would wait for him at the shore. Stalin even permitted Kirov to go with him to the Russian steam bath, where they pounded each other with birch leaves.³⁵⁸ The dictator permitted no mistresses or prostitutes. Kirov got bored. “I am devilishly sick of this place,” he wrote to his wife back in Leningrad, complaining that they could not even play skittles. “We had intense heat, then six days and nights of intense rain. . . . Now, again, tedious heat has struck.”³⁵⁹ Stalin could not be torn from his beloved Sochi, but Kirov was back in Leningrad already by August 30, 1934, having departed in a train with Andrei Andreyev’s family. “He had a strong suntan,” recalled Natalya Andreyeva, the functionary’s daughter. “His teeth were white; he smiled often.”³⁶⁰

Grain procurements were severely lagging, despite the comparatively good harvest, and Kaganovich and Molotov wrote to Stalin about easing the burden on transport by purchasing 100,000 tons of Argentine and Australian wheat for the Soviet Far East. “Wheat imports now, when abroad they are shouting about the lack of wheat in the USSR, can only be a political minus,” he objected.³⁶¹ Instead he proposed they apply “maximum pressure.” Molotov was deployed to Siberia, Kaganovich to Ukraine, Mikoyan to Kursk and Voronezh, Chubar to the Middle Volga, and Zhdanov to Stalingrad province. Voroshilov, on fall maneuvers, was instructed to look into harvest gathering in Belorussia and the western province.³⁶² Kirov was sent to Kazakhstan to ensure harvest collection under his former protégé, local party boss Levon Mirzoyan. Stalin was now taking a restrained approach to the Kazakhs. Kirov got the head procurator for East Kazakhstan fired for abuses and asked Yagoda to remove police operatives for mistreating collective farmers.³⁶³ But when Kaganovich wrote to Stalin requesting a reduced procurement quota for Ukraine, Stalin warned him and the inner circle of a slippery slope.³⁶⁴

EXTRAVAGANZA

Finally, the founding congress of the Union of Soviet Writers had opened on August 17, 1934, with 597 delegates (377 with voting rights) and 40 foreign guests.³⁶⁵ The union had admitted around 1,500 members and 1,000 candidate members, of whom 1,535 lived in the Russian republic, including slightly more than 500 in Moscow, 206 in Ukraine, around 100 in Belorussia, 90 in Armenia, 79 in Azerbaijan, and 26 in Turkmenistan. About one third of the total membership and one half of the congress attendees belonged to the party.³⁶⁶ “Literally all writers submitted applications to join the writers’ union,” the newly appointed deputy head of the Central Committee culture department stated at a pre-congress gathering of the union’s party members. “Not a single writer did not submit an application, except Anna Akhmatova.”³⁶⁷ An exaggeration, but not by much. “On the threshold of its opening, the question unexpectedly arose of how to decorate the Columned Hall of the House of Trade Unions,” recalled one playwright of the venue. “Several of the projects were completely fantastic and unacceptable. At the last meeting, which took place in [culture and propaganda chief Alexei] Stetsky’s office, . . . I suggested we hang portraits of the classic writers. Stetsky stood, shook my hand, and said the question was decided.”³⁶⁸

A grandiose affair, broadcast over the radio and shown on newsreels, the congress lasted sixteen days. Crowds massed outside the hall to catch glimpses of the famous writers. Inside, an ovation greeted Gorky’s appearance to launch the proceedings. His report, “On Soviet Literature,” offered a potted history of literature from the dawn of writing that did not take up a single Soviet writer and, vaguely, called for a “folklore of the toiling people.”³⁶⁹ Samuil Marshak gave a report on children’s literature (August 19), Radek on the literature of dying capitalism (August 24), Aleksei Tolstoy on dramaturgy (August 27).³⁷⁰ “Everyone is consumed by the congress; the West through government glasses,” the literary critic Mikhail Kuzmin laconically wrote of the long speeches.³⁷¹ Zhdanov informed Sochi (August 28) that “everyone praises the congress right up to the incorrigible skeptics and ironists, who are not few in the writers’ milieu.”³⁷² By contrast, Chekists reported from informants that Mikhail Prishvin and Pantaleymon Romanov had ridiculed the “outstanding boredom and bureaucratism,” while the romanticist P. Rozhkov called the congress “a sleepy kingdom.” Isaac Babel labeled it “a literary wake.”³⁷³

One revelation emerged from the report (August 20) on literature in the Georgian republic, delivered by the university rector Malakia Toroshelidze, who at Stalin’s insistence began with the Middle Ages. It attracted the most attention of all the reports on national literatures in the USSR, and sparked discussion about ignored achievements, given the obsession with Europe.³⁷⁴ The Frenchman Malraux, the most prestigious foreigner in attendance, in prepared remarks read by an interpreter, noted that “if writers are really engineers of human souls, do not forget that an engineer’s highest calling is to invent. Art is not submission; art is conquest. (Applause.)” He added, “You should know that only really new works can sustain the cultural prestige of the Soviet Union abroad, the way Mayakovsky sustained it, the way Pasternak does. (Applause.)”³⁷⁵ This was the nub of the dilemma Stalin faced.

When novelist Fyodor Gladkov invited Ivan Kirilenko (b. 1902), an infamous hard-liner, and other Ukrainian writers to “tea,” they declined, fearing it would be seen as “a grouping.”³⁷⁶ An NKVD analysis of the delegates turned up several former SRs, anarchists, nationalists, and members of anti-Soviet “organizations.” Someone distributed an unauthorized leaflet to the foreign delegates; nine copies were found, written in pencil, and the NKVD tried handwriting analysis to identify the anonymous author. “You organize various committees to aid the victims of fascism, you gather the antiwar congresses, you establish libraries of books burned by Hitler, all that is wonderful,” the leaflet stated. “But why do we not see your activity in connection with aiding the victims of our Soviet fascism, carried out by Stalin. . . . Why do you not establish libraries to rescue Russian literature. . . . Personally we worry that in a year or two Iosif Jughashvili (Stalin), who did not finish seminary, will not be satisfied with the title of world philosopher and demand, on the example of Nebuchadnezzar, that he be considered, at least, a ‘sacred cow.’”

Stalin, from Sochi, intervened with his whip hand so that the politburo decreed coverage by more than just Evening Moscow and Literary Newspaper.³⁷⁷ “It is necessary for Pravda or Izvestiya to print the speeches of the representatives of Ukraine, Belorussia, the Tatar autonomous republic, Georgia, and other republics,” he had written to Kaganovich and Zhdanov (August 21, 1934). “They need to be printed fully or at a minimum two thirds of each speech. The speeches of the nationals are no less important than others. Without their publication, the congress of writers would be colorless and uninteresting. If this requires that we supplement the number of newspaper pages, then it should be done, without regard for paper.”³⁷⁸ The dictator also expressed outrage at the party organizations of Buryat-Mongolia, Yakutia, the Volga Germans, and Bashkiria for not taking the gathering seriously. “The writers’ congress is a very important matter, for it unites and strengthens the intelligentsia of the peoples of the USSR under the flag of the Soviets, under the flag of socialism. This is very important for us, very important for socialism. The above-named republics turned out to be in the tail of events, they turned out cut off from the living cause and disgraced themselves. We cannot overlook such a failure.”³⁷⁹

The congress would cost 1.2 million rubles, significantly over budget, with breakfasts, lunches, and dinners amounting to about 40 rubles per day per attendee. The average cost of a canteen lunch for a worker was 84 kopecks, for a white-collar employee 1.75 rubles; lunch in a commercial restaurant cost 5.84 rubles.³⁸⁰ (In 1934, worker salaries averaged 125 rubles per month, schoolteacher salaries around 100.)

Delegates could avail themselves of a tour of Moscow’s Museum of Western Painting, an excursion to the planetarium, a trip to the cinema for The Way of the Enthusiasts or Dziga Vertov’s Three Songs About Lenin. A Moscow theater was staging The Miraculous Alloy, Vladimir Kirshon’s comedy of optimistic youth. Pasternak and his company tried Moscow’s recently opened Georgian restaurant, Aragvi, where a meal cost a small fortune. The vast majority of delegates took part in Aviation Day festivities (August 18). Gorky hosted soirées at his dacha for foreign guests and intimates.³⁸¹ Delegates were also afforded a special showing of the documentary Chelyuskin, about 104 people on an Arctic research mission whose icebreaker of that name had sunk, stranding them on an ice floe for months, until their rescue (on the twenty-eighth landing) by daring Soviet aviators, who were then given a ticker tape parade in Moscow.³⁸² Stalin had gone to greet the returning Chelyuskin expedition scientists and sailors at Moscow’s Belorussia train station. Soviet radio had focused world attention on the expedition’s plight, but the dictator evidently had declined an American offer of assistance.³⁸³

FAIRY TALE

Zhdanov, in his speech at the congress, had called for literary depictions of “reality in its revolutionary development,” geared toward “the ideological remolding and education of the toilers in the spirit of socialism.” He demanded “a combination of the most austere, sober, practical work, with supreme heroism and the most grandiose prospects.”³⁸⁴ Some speakers urged multiple ways to achieve this. “We should tell our artists, ‘Everything is permitted,’” urged the thirty-four-year-old screenwriter Natan Zarkhi. “Everything that serves the defense of the motherland, its strengthening, the victory of Communism, Bolshevik ideas, everything that leads to the development of Soviet culture and the flourishing of the creative individuality of the people, growing not in spite of the collective but because of it.”³⁸⁵

Socialist realism’s precise forms, in other words, remained to be adjudicated even just in literature.³⁸⁶ Any definition for music was deferred without end. Musicians effectively lost the ability to experiment at the composition level but could pursue refinement of instrumental and vocal techniques. Many “class enemies” (sons of former tsarist generals, nephews of tsarist interior ministers, daughters of former nobles, former ladies-in-waiting) were allowed to remain at positions in music and conduct training, a tolerance perhaps reflecting Stalin’s intense interest in quality traditional music.³⁸⁷ Painting had its own specificities. Standard realism had already triumphed by the 1920s, but many painters had little experience in narrative forms and had trouble finding a place in the new order.³⁸⁸ Stalin, who in the underground days had collected postcards of famous paintings, in power chose not to live surrounded by oil paintings on the walls. (On the contrary, he had allowed the sale abroad of “bourgeois” artworks accumulated in tsarist Russia, altogether some four thousand paintings, including forty-four of the highest order—Rembrandt, Rubens, Raphael, Titian, van Eyck—until meager receipts and international scandal prompted an end to the fire sales.)^{389, 390}

Pasternak had harbored illusions about the likely philosophical level of the congress. “I am murderously downtrodden,” he was said to have repeated in intimate company. “You understand: murderously.”³⁹¹ Many writers who disagreed vehemently about aesthetics agreed on the need for top-down imposition of a single approach for everyone. They were also zealous about getting state recognition, as opposed to public favor, and not a few lobbied for or welcomed repressive measures against rivals. Socialist realism served as an administration system as much as an aesthetic: party directives, censorship, prizes, apartments, dachas, travel—or their denial—as well as myriad personnel employed as cultural apparatchiks, editors, and censors, what Bulgakov called “people with ideological eyes.”³⁹²

On August 29, 1934, with the congress set to draw to a close in three days and “elections” imminent for the position of writers’ union secretary (or party controller), Zhdanov and Kaganovich wrote to Sochi proposing candidates.³⁹³ Stalin narrowed their list to two, and they selected the bespectacled Alexander Shcherbakov (b. 1901), whose education at the Communist Academy and the Institute of Red Professors had been interrupted (on official documents he wrote: “according to my education, a teacher of the history of the party”).³⁹⁴ Summoned out of the blue by Kaganovich, Shcherbakov arrived to find Zhdanov with him. “Here’s the thing,” they told him. “We want to assign you work that is extremely important and difficult; you probably will be stunned when I tell you what kind of work it is.” He was contemplating northeastern Kazakhstan. “I was genuinely stunned,” Shcherbakov recorded in his diary. They dispatched him directly from Old Square to the writers’ milieu. “I spent a half hour at the congress. I left. Nauseating.”³⁹⁵

Aleksei Tolstoy, author of science fiction, historical novels, and children’s books, would call Shcherbakov “a rabbit who swallowed a boa constrictor.”³⁹⁶ Tolstoy (b. 1883), a distant relative of Leo Tolstoy and Ivan Turgenev, embodied many of the paradoxes Stalin faced with writers. He had emigrated to Paris with the Whites but returned in 1923 to a hero’s welcome, supporting the revolution. He took up residence in a villa with servants in Tsarskoye Selo, where Nicholas and Alexandra had lived, earning the nickname “the workers-and-peasants’ count.” (Stalin first met him in 1932 at Gorky’s.) After the success of the first two installments of Tolstoy’s novel Peter the First (1934), which celebrated the founding of the Russian empire and compared Peter to Stalin, he was told to relocate to Moscow, where he got a state apartment and a dacha in elite Barvikha. (“He collected mahogany and birch pieces made during Paul I’s reign” to furnish his residences, one Soviet musician wrote.)³⁹⁷ The count wore a fur-lined coat with beaver collar, caroused in Moscow’s restaurants with a rat pack, married his young secretary (his fourth wife), and enjoyed permission to travel to Europe at state expense. “The great trait of the personality of Aleksei Tolstoy,” the contemporary literary historian Dmitry Svyatopolk-Mirsky observed, “was the astonishing combination of enormous natural gifts with a complete lack of brains.”³⁹⁸ But he toed the line.

Writing to Zhdanov from Sochi, Stalin, based on newspaper accounts, deemed Gorky’s congress speech “a bit pale from the point of view of Soviet literature,” and complained that Bukharin’s speech had introduced “an element of hysteria,” but concluded that “in general the congress went well.”³⁹⁹ The congress concluded on September 1, 1934, by “electing” thirty-seven preapproved members of the union’s governing body chaired by Gorky, which that same day “elected” Shcherbakov as head of its secretariat.⁴⁰⁰ The NKVD secretly reported that the writers were busying themselves with personal matters: purchase of cars, construction of dachas, departures on writing trips or holidays, some doing so even before the final day of the congress. “What is striking, above all,” the operative noted, “is that after the congress the writers talk very little about it. It is as if everyone conspired to keep silent.”⁴⁰¹ In fact, the writers expended considerable energy parsing the power of this or that person on the governing board, who was up, who down, what it would mean for their careers and the course of literature. Many viewed Gorky as a guarantee of literary values, and a balance of power among egos and tendencies.

•   •   •

TSARIST CENSORS HAD SUPPRESSED parts of the work of the bravura satirist Mikhail Saltykov-Shchedrin, and in the early 1930s, Leningrad writers had issued Unpublished Shchedrin, a compilation Stalin acquired and assiduously marked up in red and blue pencil, indicating multiple readings of its vivid passages about bureaucrats, scoundrels, debauches. “Write your denunciations, wretches,” Stalin underlined. “Grief goes to that city whose boss showers it with decrees without thinking, but still greater grief occurs when the boss is unable to apply any decrees at all.”⁴⁰² In a gesture calculated to win intelligentsia favor, he allocated state funds to the son of Saltykov-Shchedrin, and the OGPU compiled a report on conversations among Leningrad writers about it. The critic V. Medvedev was quoted to the effect that Stalin was “a most decisive and severe politician,” but also “a great liberal and patron in the best sense of that word. Every day we hear about a conversation between Stalin and some writers, or about some assistance rendered at his initiative to one of the mass of writers. In Stalin, literature and writers have a great friend.”⁴⁰³ That was precisely how the dictator wanted to be seen.

Stalin’s success in getting the creative intelligentsia in line had been uncanny. Every major cultural figure in the USSR in the 1930s had his or her own love affair with him. They exaggerated their own significance, and the attention he paid to them. The best ones, however, were correct: he did oversee them personally. Stalin tended not to imprison or execute those he considered the highest talents (Bulgakov, Akhmatova, Pasternak, even Andrei Platonov), and would accept a lightening of the sentences of those on whom punishment seemed unavoidable, such as with Mandelstam’s exile. Many cultural figures were lied to and coerced to conjure up a socialist paradise of joy and plenty.⁴⁰⁴ But blandishments and the prospect of a mass audience proved effective in recruitment as well. The prestigious names, like Tolstoy, who were neither Communist nor anti-Communist but cynics, were precisely whom Stalin had in mind when he insisted that art could best be categorized as loyal (or disloyal), that is, as Soviet (or anti-Soviet). The problem, however, was artistic quality. Blast furnaces and even collective farms turned out to be a lot easier than novels, poems, or plays, let alone symphonies or canvases.⁴⁰⁵ That said, much of the mass Soviet public—who wanted to believe in a brighter future—embraced socialist realism.⁴⁰⁶ As the opening line had it in a hit song, “Everything Higher: Aviation March,” by Pavel German and Ilya “Yuli” Khait, which would prove popular only in the 1930s: “We were born to turn fairy tale into reality.”

Yenukidze sent Stalin a long, upbeat account of Moscow affairs (September 5, 1934), beginning with the writers’ congress, which he predicted would have “gigantic consequences for the writers of all our republics and not less for the foreign proletarian and in general advanced writers.” He congratulated Stalin on his wisdom for having the speeches published and his advice to Toroshelidze concerning the report on Georgian literature, which Yenukidze, a fellow Georgian writing to Stalin in Russian, singled out for special praise. He touched on the removal of the ancient Kitaigorod walls in front of Old Square, where Stalin had kept his party office, and on reconstruction work inside the Kremlin, where Stalin had his now predominant office. Yenukidze was having the Kremlin walls repainted, the roofs fixed, and interior lawns replaced. He lauded construction of the metro, the liveliness of Moscow streets, the opening of the theater season, and the good weather, lamenting only the pending departure of his close friend Voroshilov for a holiday in Sochi. “The children arrived fine,” Yenukidze concluded in reference to Vasily and Svetlana. “I saw them three times. They are going to school. I’m ending, otherwise you will curse me for these prolix trivialities. Be healthy.”⁴⁰⁷

CHAPTER 4 TERRORISM

Yesterday I was at the NKVD. . . . I understood that, in order to demonstrate my loyalty, I need to work harder for the NKVD. He said that if I work well, everything will remain a secret, but otherwise I could be deported from Moscow. I was given three main tasks in my work . . . the October Revolution celebrations and conversations. Is an assassination attempt against Stalin not being prepared . . . By the way, in front of him lay a file two fingers high all about me.

Informant’s notes, November 1934¹

STALIN’S UNDERSTANDING OF WORLD markets remained amateurish, but he had a keen appreciation for technology. As of 1934, the Soviets possessed 3,500 tanks (T-26s, BTs, T-28s), as well as another 4,000 armored vehicles (T-27s). Fighter planes of Soviet make and mobile artillery were also coming off assembly lines in numbers. Even radios were beginning to spread widely in the armed forces (in 1930, there had been zero among the field units). Overall troop strength had grown from 586,000 in 1927 to nearly a million. The command staff was more educated, having completed courses at the many military academies.² From August 30 to September 4, 1934, the Red Army conducted its annual fall maneuvers in Ukraine, which the Polish consul in Kiev interpreted as “a demonstration against foreign countries, particularly Japan.” The exercises went badly, though. Mechanization presented underappreciated organizational and logistical challenges, raising the stakes for Soviet diplomacy.³

Much of Stalin’s holiday back-and-forth with Moscow, from Gagra and Sochi, in September 1934 concerned his customary pressure on the harvest collection but also foreign affairs.⁴ Over the summer, Czechoslovakia, Latvia, Estonia, and Lithuania had conveyed their readiness to sign on to the Franco-Soviet proposal for a broad Eastern Pact, but Estonia and Latvia made their membership conditional on Germany’s and Poland’s. So did Britain, which also made its support for a parallel Franco-Soviet alliance conditional on Germany’s inclusion in that.⁵ On September 11, 1934, Hitler definitively rejected any Eastern Pact. Poland’s rejection would soon follow. Stalin was urged to grasp the French option without Germany, embracing an antifascist coalition.⁶ Negotiations for the large state credit from the German government, initiated at Berlin’s request, had bogged down. But Stalin reassured Kuibyshev (September 14), in a telegram, which, as usual, became a politburo decree, that “the Germans will not walk away from us, because they need a [trade] agreement with us more than we need one from them.”⁷ Nonetheless, on September 18, the Soviet Union formally joined the League of Nations, after intensive diplomacy to line up other countries’ votes.⁸ Many Communist party and Youth League members cringed at joining the Versailles imperialist order.⁹ Stalin himself had once denounced the League as “an anti-working-class comedy.”¹⁰

Soviet newspapers explained that some imperialist powers, although ill-disposed toward socialism, did not want to see an anti-Soviet military intervention, for fear it would spark a world war directed at themselves.¹¹ Joining the League was also a prerequisite to alliance with France or a broader regional security structure. Nonetheless, at Stalin’s urging, the politburo resolved (September 23), “Do not hurry with the initiative of an [Eastern] Pact without Germany and Poland.” France slowed for its own reasons.¹² It was courting Mussolini in a common front to guarantee Austria’s sovereignty against Nazi pressure, part of which involved France’s help in normalizing Italo-Yugoslav relations. On October 9, Yugoslavia’s King Alexander I landed on a state visit at the Marseilles harbor, where he was promptly assassinated. French foreign minister Louis Barthou was killed in the police cross fire. The assassin, beaten to death on the spot, was Macedonian and a member of the Croatian terrorist ring, the Ustaše, led by Ante Pavelić and protected by Mussolini.¹³ Soviet intelligence suspected the Nazi secret police of aiming to destabilize Yugoslavia and to liquidate a bulwark of friendly Franco-Soviet relations. Stalin wrote to Kaganovich and Molotov, “In my opinion, the murder of Barthou and Alexander is the work of the hand of German-Polish intelligence.”¹⁴

Inside the Comintern, Dimitrov, supported by Manuilsky, Kuusinen, Thorez, and Wilhelm Pieck, continued pushing for a shift to a popular front, while Pyatnitsky, Knorin, Kun, and others held to the anti–Social Democrat line. Dimitrov implored Stalin for assistance in changing the structure and personnel of the Comintern’s “leading organs.” Eventually Stalin got around to sending a handwritten note. “As you can see, I am late in replying, and I apologize for that,” he wrote. “Here on holiday, I do not sit in one place, but move from one location to another. . . . I entirely agree with you regarding the review of the methods of work of the Comintern organs, their reorganization and the changes in their composition. I have already mentioned this to you during our meeting at the Central Committee. . . . I hope to see you soon and to discuss all in detail. I have no doubt that the politburo will support you. Greetings!”¹⁵ The planned 7th Comintern Congress was postponed yet again.¹⁶

The zigs and zags were seen domestically, too. A group at the Stalin metallurgical factory in Novokuznetsk, Siberia, had been arrested, and Stalin instructed Kaganovich that “all those drawn into spying on behalf of Japan be shot.” Local party head Eihe was empowered to approve executions on his own from September through November.¹⁷ The same power was soon granted to party bosses in Chelyabinsk and in Central Asia, in connection with alleged sabotage of the cotton campaign.¹⁸ At the same time, petitions reached Stalin from people in the Gulag convicted in fabricated cases of wrecking and espionage on behalf of Japan, and the dictator (September 11, 1934) redirected the claims of confessions extracted under torture to Kuibyshev and Zhdanov, noting that “it is possible the content of both documents corresponds to reality,” and called for a commission to “cleanse the ranks of the secret police of bearers of certain ‘interrogation devices’ and punish the latter regardless of who it might be.” The commission upheld the two petitions and brought additional cases, detailing, in an October 1934 report, how NKVD operatives were detaining those accused in freezing cells for days on end, holding them in suffocating positions, and threatening to shoot them until they “confessed.” Stalin approved a suggestion to send plenipotentiaries to Azerbaijan for a “thorough investigation” of efforts to advance careers through sheer quantity of confessions extracted.¹⁹

A need for recovery and reconciliation following the famine had been evident, and in that regard the conciliatory “Congress of Victors” had been a success. But now a vague sense of a bigger shift—League of Nations membership, a less hectic second Five-Year Plan, a stress on legality—gained momentum. To be sure, reconciliation hardly suited Stalin’s character or his theory of rule: the sharpening of the class struggle as socialism became successful; the special danger of enemies with party cards.²⁰ Nonetheless, secret police arrests started declining precipitously.²¹ A relative relaxation was visible in culture as well, even beyond Stalin’s indulgence of non-party writers. “Not long ago a music critic, seeing in his dream a saxophone or [Leonid] Utyosov, would have awoken in a cold sweat and run to Soviet Art to confess his errors,” wrote the militant Komsomol Pravda (October 27, 1934) about the Soviet Union’s newly famous jazz band. “Now? Now there is no refuge from ‘My Masha.’ Wherever you go, she sits ‘At the Samovar.’”²²

Stalin finally returned to Moscow on October 29, 1934.²³ While he was away, 1,038 of that year’s 3,945 politburo agenda items had been decided, most with his approval; sixteen of the year’s forty-six politburo meetings had taken place in his absence.²⁴ Litvinov again wrote to Stalin and Molotov (November 1) insisting that Germany’s rebuilt military power would assuredly be used against the USSR, with the support of Poland, Finland, and Japan. The next day, Stalin relented: the politburo authorized negotiations for an Eastern Pact with just France and Czechoslovakia, or even France alone, an apparent concession to “collective security.”²⁵ Stalin remained attentive to his own security as well. Inside his suite at Old Square, in his wing in the Kremlin’s Imperial Senate, and at his Moscow and southern dachas, only NKVD personnel were permitted to carry weapons. Those whom Stalin received were supposed to check any weapons they had upon entering the premises. (Some were searched.)²⁶ Propaganda notwithstanding, the prospect of an assassination—akin to what had happened to the Yugoslav king in Marseilles—seemed utterly remote.

KIROV AND CHAPAYEV

Stalin’s return from southern holidays was still being marked by informal gatherings initiated by members of his extended family, who showed up at his apartment in the Imperial Senate at suppertime and played with the children, waiting, hoping to catch him. “Yesterday, after a three-month interval, I saw Iosif,” Maria Svanidze, his first wife’s sister-in-law, wrote in her diary (November 4, 1934). “He looked well, tanned, but he had lost weight. He suffered from flu there. . . . I[osif] joked with Zhenya, that she had again filled out, and he was very tender with her,” Svanidze added. “Now, when I know everything, I observed them.” Yevgeniya “Zhenya” Alliluyeva, an actress, was married to Pavel Alliluyev (the brother of Stalin’s second wife, Nadya), and a jealous Svanidze suspected an affair. Stalin had deeper interests. “After the meal Iosif was in a very good-natured mood,” she continued. “He took the Intercity vertushka and called Kirov, joking with him about the end of rationing and the price rise for bread. He advised Kirov to come to Moscow immediately, in order to defend the interests of Leningrad province against an even higher price rise than in other provinces. Evidently Kirov demurred, and Iosif gave the phone to Kaganovich, who urged Kirov to come for a day. Iosif loves Kirov and after returning from Sochi really wanted to see him, steam in a Russian bath together.”²⁷

The revolution’s seventeenth anniversary approached. At the Bolshoi on the evening before the November 7 parade, the ballerina Marina Semyonova (b. 1908) performed a Caucasus dance. “She danced in a light gray Circassian vest and light gray Astrakhan ‘Kubanka,’ and when, with the last gesture, she held back her Kubanka on her head, her blond hair sprayed down her shoulders,” Artyom recalled. “This made a colossal impression on the audience; everyone shouted ‘Bravo, encore.’” Semyonova went to curtsy at the left loge, where Stalin sat, over the orchestra, practically on the stage. He bent down to the ballerina and said something. “She nodded, gave the orchestra a signal, and repeated the dance.” After the concert, Stalin said to his entourage, “Semyonova is the best of all.”²⁸ She was the common-law wife of Karakhan, the former first deputy foreign affairs commissar, demoted by Stalin to ambassador to Turkey; rumors spread of her affair with Stalin.²⁹

Stalin’s bachelor life was not all rumors. Kirov did come, after the November holiday. In the evenings, now that Nadya was gone, Stalin had taken to watching films with his entourage.³⁰ On November 10 (and into the morning of the 11th), Boris Shumyatsky, head of the motion picture industry, screened the new film Chapayev for the dictator, Kirov, and Molotov.³¹ Shumyatsky had been born in Ulan Ude (1886) near Lake Baikal, was a former Soviet envoy to Iran and former rector of the Communist University of the Toilers of the East, and had replaced Martemyan Ryutin as head of the film industry back when it was considered a backwater, but had built it up. At the Kremlin cinema soft chairs with ample armrests and high backs, concealing who was in them, were placed three across, in several rows. The floor was covered in a drab gray cloth, over which was placed a runner, muffling noise from movement. Stalin issued comments during the screenings, in the dark, and afterward when the lights were back on. Tables for Georgian mineral water and wines sat alongside each chair.³² “We used to go after dinner, about nine in the evening,” Svetlana recalled. “It was late for me, of course, but I begged so hard that my father couldn’t refuse. He’d push me to the front with a laugh: ‘You show us how to get there, House Mistress. Without you to guide us, we’d never find it!’” Stalin often watched more than one film, and Svetlana would go to bed sometimes after midnight, even on school nights. “I’d get out of the movie late and go racing home through the empty, quiet Kremlin. The next day at school, I could think of nothing but the heroes I’d seen on film the night before.”³³

Chapayev portrayed the civil war hero of that name as a real human being, warts and all, and the Whites as worthy foes. Stalin had already seen it twice and fallen in love with its down-home details. “You should be congratulated,” he had said to the always anxious Shumyatsky. “It’s done very well, cleverly and tactfully. Chapayev, Furmanov, and Petka are good. The film will have great educational significance. It’s a nice gift for the holiday.” Chapayev induced Stalin to push for construction of sound cinemas all across the Union (there were just 400 to 500 of them, out of some 30,000 film-showing installations).³⁴ “I will be taking a greater interest in this than previously,” he had told Shumyatsky on November 9–10.³⁵ At the November 10–11 screening, Stalin turned to Kirov and accused him of never visiting the film studio in Leningrad (Chapayev was their production). “You know, here people are speaking about your Leningrad films, and you don’t even know them. You don’t know the riches lurking there, probably you never even watch films.” Kirov, Stalin joked, had “bureaucratized.”³⁶

Stalin invited Shumyatsky to stay for supper. The film boss seized the moment to point out that the state planning commission was being tight with funding, allocating 50 million rubles for the next year instead of the “minimal” 92 million requested. “You hear that, Molotov? That’s not the way,” Stalin said. “Look into it.” Shumyatsky also mentioned that initial reviews of Chapayev were favorable but had stressed the wrong themes.³⁷ “Akh, those critics,” Stalin responded. “They disorient people.” The dictator phoned Mekhlis and ordered something more glowing, which Pravda published the next day (November 12). Stalin—now also joined by Kalinin and Molotov’s wife, Zhemchuzhina—decided to view Chapayev for a second time that night. “The more you watch it,” he said, “the better it seems, the more you find new aspects in it.” The evening lasted until 2:00 a.m.³⁸ On November 13, after work, Kirov accompanied Stalin to the Zubalovo dacha, where they played billiards and watched a puppet show put on by Svetlana and other children, before repairing to Stalin’s new Near Dacha for supper. At Zubalovo, the Stalin family dined on the smelt and whitefish Kirov had brought. “With Kirov,” Svanidze noted, Svetlana “has a great friendship, because I[osif] is especially close and good with him.”³⁹

UNDER THE GUN

Filipp Medved’s nerves were on edge. An ethnic Belorussian (b. 1889), he had joined the party in 1907 (one of his recommenders was Felix Dzierżyński) and had recently helped organize the White Sea–Baltic Canal construction. Now he headed the secret police in Leningrad, an international port and frontier city swimming with foreign consulates and military factories. Known to relish banquets, Medved had put on weight and taken to drink (Armenian brandy), while his wife, Raisa Kopylovskaya, came on to other men in public. (Rumors had Medved imprisoning the Leningrad torgsin shop manager after Raisa flirted with him; she might have been involved in self-enrichment schemes, too.) Whisperings about Medved’s supposed homosexuality (he had kissed the openly gay jazzman Utyosov on the mouth in public) further undermined his authority.⁴⁰ His first deputy, Ivan Zaporozhets, was widely seen as Yagoda’s “spy.”⁴¹ And those were the least of Medved’s worries.

Stalin had no confidence in him. The dictator continued to be frustrated over a perceived NKVD mishmash of promiscuous arrests and indolence against enemies.⁴² Yagoda (“in accordance with your instructions”) had sent a team of operatives to investigate the Leningrad and Siberian NKVD branches. “The facts that were uncovered,” he had reported to Stalin (September 1934), “convinced me that [Nikolai] Alekseyev (Western Siberian NKVD) and Medved are absolutely incapable of leading our work in the new conditions and providing that sharp turnabout in state security management methods now necessary.” Yagoda proposed sacking the two branch chiefs, to set examples, and recommended a chessboard of transfers, which would bring Henriks Štubis (b. 1894), an ethnic Latvian known as Leonid Zakovsky (“unquestionably a strong and capable operative”), from Belorussia to Leningrad, with Medved recalled to Moscow to determine “if he is still fit for work in the NKVD or utterly burned out.”⁴³

This was the second time Medved’s transfer had been bruited; the first, in 1931, Kirov had blocked. The Leningrad party boss socialized with him (the childless Kirov was especially fond of Medved’s boy Misha).⁴⁴ Kirov was also an infamous womanizer, whose carousing was a matter of citywide gossip. Kirov’s wife, Maria Markus (b. early 1880s), was Jewish (like the wives of Molotov, Voroshilov, Andreyev, Kuibyshev, and Poskryobyshev). They had met in Vladikavkaz in 1909, at the offices of the newspaper Terek, where she worked as a bookkeeper. She suffered from headaches, insomnia, and a hormonal disorder, frequently screamed, and threatened to kill herself; her windows had been barred. She’d had a few small strokes and was effectively confined to a state rest home in suburban Tolmachevo.⁴⁵ To what extent she knew of her husband’s extramarital affairs—ballerinas, young women in the apparatus—remains unclear, but they were certainly Medved’s worry: he had to help conceal them, even as he was under severe pressure from Pauker in Moscow to strengthen Kirov’s protection.⁴⁶ Kirov’s personal guard had ballooned from three to as many as fifteen men after Stalin’s visit to Leningrad in summer 1933, and Kirov’s office had been relocated to a less accessible location.⁴⁷

MONGOLS AND KIROV

On November 15, 1934, Stalin received a delegation led by Mongolian prime minister Genden, the latter’s third annual audience with Stalin, an unusual number for any foreign leader, but impoverished, landlocked Mongolia was the Soviet Union’s sole “ally.” As a result of purges and mass quitting, the Mongolian People’s Party, already severely outnumbered by lamas, had dropped to half its peak strength of 40,000.⁴⁸ Stalin, over the course of three hours, pressed Genden on the lamas: How numerous and powerful were the monks? Did the people follow them or the Communists? How did the monks finance their activities? These issues, Genden tried to answer, were “complex,” “subtle.” “In a war in which you cannot defeat the enemy by a frontal assault, you should use roundabout maneuvering,” Stalin advised. “Your first action should be to put your own teachers in the schools to battle the monks for influence among the youth. Teachers and activists must be the direct conduits of your policy. . . . The government must build more water wells to show the people that they, not the monks, are more concerned about their economic needs.” He also advised producing films and promoting theater in the Mongolian language and building a strong army of functionally and politically literate conscripts.

Stalin divulged his theory of rule. “In connection with the big lamas who commit this or that political crime, you need to punish them, bringing them to court for treason against the motherland, and not for general indictment of counterrevolutionary work,” he explained. “In such cases, you need open trials so that the commoners, the arats, understand that the lamas are linked to foreign enemies; they betrayed the motherland. But you can do this only from time to time at this point.” He added: “Foreign powers will not recognize you as long as it is unclear who is stronger, you or the monks. After you strengthen your government and army and raise the economic and cultural level of your people, the imperialist powers will acknowledge you. If they do not, now being strong, you can spit in their faces.”⁴⁹

This was how Stalin was ruling the Soviet Union.

Genden, the offspring of a poor nomad family who had learned to read and write, was a gifted politician with a feel for the masses, and full of guile. Trying to ingratiate himself, he announced that the illiterate Choibalsan (b. 1895), minister of livestock and agriculture, who had spent considerable time in Moscow being groomed by Voroshilov, would become first deputy prime minister. Choibalsan was already serving as a Soviet agent in the Mongolian leadership.⁵⁰

Agranov forwarded to Stalin a decrypted intercept of a telegram (November 17, 1934) from ambassador Joseph Grew, in Tokyo, to the U.S. State Department, concerning a conversation with Japanese foreign minister Kōki Hirota, who had stated that, given the various agreements among European powers, Japan could not remain isolated and would have to follow suit. “A decision was taken such that the foreign ministry would search for an ally,” Hirota was quoted as saying of the cabinet. “The chosen country should above all have no specific interests in Asia. In this category could be included Russia or England.” Stalin underlined that passage. “But the USSR is completely excluded as a potential ally because of its aggressive position toward Japan and its interests.” By contrast, Hirota thought a deal could be reached with Britain over weapons sales and trade, provided Japanese interests were recognized in China. The United States was also on Hirota’s potential ally list, and he concluded what Grew deemed an “unusual conversation” with a desire for friendly relations. Stalin wrote on the document, “And so it happens, it’s become tough for Hirota. Interesting.”⁵¹

On November 27, Stalin received the Mongols again, this time with Kirov in tow, even though he was not a member of the politburo’s Mongolia commission.Stalin began by noting that he was forgiving all of Mongolia’s debt as of January 1, 1934—30 million tugriks, the equivalent of almost 10 million gold rubles (at the official exchange rate)—and half the debt accumulated in the coming year: another 33 million tugriks, with the other half to be paid starting in 1941. “If you do not have a good army, the imperialists, Japan, will swallow you,” he said, pointing out that the Mongolian army numbered only 10,000. He said their army budget was 14 million tugriks but offered to pay 6 million a year for five years for expansion, and advised the Mongols to pay their portion with state monopolies on tobacco, salt, and matches, alongside alcohol. He also informed them that they needed to sign bilateral pacts of nonaggression and of mutual assistance, but that the second, for now, would not be published, a message for Japan, but not an overly provocative one.⁵² The nonpublic pact would allow the Red Army to defend the USSR by reassuming advance positions on Mongolian territory. “There should be a difference between Soviet assistance in wartime and in peacetime,” Demid, a graduate of the prestigious Officers’ Cavalry School in Tver, urged.⁵³ Resistance proved futile, however.⁵⁴ Soon, some 2,000 Red Army troops would reenter Mongolia.

Kirov had returned to Moscow because of a Central Committee plenum, the third and final of the year, from November 25 to 28, 1934. It dealt with the end of bread rationing, which involved some 50 million people, a costly subsidy and administrative expense amid financial challenges. Rye bread, which cost 50 kopecks per kilo in a state store with a ration coupon (and 1 ruble 50 kopecks at commercial shops), would now cost 1 ruble, a significant increase for workers.⁵⁵ “What is the idea of the policy of abolition of the rationing system?” Stalin remarked at the plenum. “The cash economy is one of the few bourgeois economic mechanisms that we socialists must make full use of. . . . It is very flexible, and we need it.”⁵⁶ Kirov said little, as usual. Afterward, Stalin took a small group, including Kirov, to the Kremlin cinema, where Shumyatsky showed Chapayev, which Stalin said he was seeing for the eleventh time. Orjonikidze, meanwhile, was suffering from heart palpitations and stomach pains. He had been the only member of the inner circle left out of that fall’s harvest mobilization, and had had his holiday extended. Stalin had compelled him to stay away from the capital until November 29. By the time Orjonikidze returned to Moscow, his friend Kirov had left.⁵⁷ Stalin saw Kirov off at the station.⁵⁸

A TERRORIST

Leonid Nikolayev (b. 1904) was a misfit. He had been born in Leningrad, the son of an alcoholic (who died when the boy was three or four), suffered from rickets as a toddler, and developed bowed legs. He left school around age twelve, when his mother, a night cleaning woman at a tram depot, apprenticed him to a watch repairman. But 1917 had revolutionized Nikolayev’s fortunes: he served as a village soviet chairman in 1919–20, while barely a teenager; became a candidate and, within a month, a full member of the party in 1924 (during the “levy” following Lenin’s death); and got appointed as a Communist Youth League functionary in Zinoviev’s Leningrad machine.⁵⁹ Nikolayev was sent to the nearby town of Luga, where he met and, in 1925, married Milda Draule (b. 1901), an ethnic Latvian and gymnasium graduate, petite, round-faced, with brown hair, who worked as a bookkeeper in the county party apparatus and was a zealot, too. She and Leonid moved in with his mother, grandmother, unmarried sister, married sister, and brother-in-law in Leningrad, and in 1927 the couple had their first child, whom they named Karl Marx (“Marx” for short). Milda quit working for a time. The Five-Year Plan had opened further horizons for working-class offspring such as Nikolayev, but matters went sour. He had a quarrelsome nature. In 1929, he was fired from his latest job (as a clerk at the Red Arsenal Factory), and then from another factory, and in spring 1930 he was mobilized by the party to Eastern Siberia for the sowing and harvest campaigns.

Milda got hired as a bookkeeper in the Leningrad provincial party apparatus, now under Kirov, and was soon promoted to the department for light industry personnel. Nikolayev returned from Siberia in 1931, and in April he got a position as an assessor in the provincial party apparatus. In November 1931, the couple had a second child, Leonid. They were able to obtain a three-room apartment in a fee-based cooperative. Her elderly, infirm parents lived with them.⁶⁰ But in the meantime he had been shifted to the Youth League’s Down with Illiteracy Society, his thirteenth place of work (as recorded in his official labor book).⁶¹ Acquaintances got him a post in the workers’ and peasants’ inspectorate, but he was fired in October 1932. Draule had lost her provincial party sinecure, being transferred in August 1933 to the provincial heavy-industry bookkeeping squad, at first as a temporary worker, though she obtained regular status in January 1934 and was awarded prizes. Nikolayev signed on as an itinerant lecturer for the Institute of Party History, in the provincial party organization, but on March 31, 1934, he was summoned before a party commission for refusing “mobilization” to transport (to give lectures to railroad workers). A party meeting deemed him “rude, extremely unrestrained, hysterical.” After he spoke, one of the members asked, “Is Nikolayev’s psychological condition normal?”⁶²

Nikolayev was expelled from the party and fired, losing his ration coupons. On appeal, his expulsion was reversed in May 1934, and replaced by a severe reprimand—still a black mark in his file. Out of work, angry at perceived party slights, and reduced to living off his wife’s earnings, he petitioned like a demon to overturn his reprimand and secure what he regarded as suitable employment for a working-class Communist—as an apparatchik. In July 1934, he wrote to Kirov, and on August 25 to Stalin, only to have his letters rerouted to the perceived source of his troubles: the Leningrad party machine.⁶³ On October 9, with his family facing eviction from their cooperative apartment, a despairing Nikolayev wrote to the politburo, “I request that I be given in the first instance, in the shortest possible time, treatment at a sanatorium-resort, but if such a possibility does not exist, then I must give up belief and hope in a rescue.” This letter, too, was rerouted to the Leningrad party.⁶⁴ Nikolayev began stalking Kirov. On October 15, he trailed him on the long walk from the Uritsky (Tauride) Palace to the Trinity Bridge and on toward his residence, in the elite building at Red Dawn Street, 26–28. (Chekhov had lived there before the revolution.) The guard detained Nikolayev and took him to NKVD headquarters (“the House of Tears,” as he called it).

Nikolayev’s torn attaché case was found to contain newspapers and books. He had a party card and his old pass from when he had worked at party HQ. “He was a member of the party, had earlier worked in Smolny, and (only) tried to approach Kirov with a request for help in getting a job,” surmised the responsible operative Alexander Gubin, who, after a subordinate’s oral report, ordered Nikolayev’s release.⁶⁵ Like many civil war veterans, Nikolayev owned a Nagant revolver—1895 model, 1912 issue—which he had obtained in 1918 and reregistered in 1924 and 1930 (both times allowing the registration to lapse). But whether he was carrying the gun that day remains uncertain.⁶⁶ On October 19, 1934, Nikolayev was in Smolny but failed once more to obtain an audience with Kirov. He was increasingly incensed at the discrepancy between the workers’ state and the state of workers, as reflected in his own life.

Nikolayev had been keeping a notebook/diary about himself and Milda, devout Communists living through world-historical times, which originally was intended for their children’s edification but now became a place to ponder his options. His text contained grammatical errors, but Nikolayev read Aleksei Tolstoy and Gorky, imagining he could impart a literary quality to his writings.⁶⁷ He wrote of Milda as “my only true companion” but began to reproach her, too, recording, on October 26, “M., you could have prevented much, but you did not wish to,” evidently disappointed she had not used her connections to land him a position. “Wrote to everyone, no one left, wrote to Kirov, Stalin, politburo, party Control Commission, but no one pays attention,” he recorded, portraying himself as one of the few brave people ready to sacrifice himself “for the sake of (all of) humanity.”⁶⁸

Three days later, an entry averred that “the time for action has arrived” and evoked the organizer of Alexander II’s assassination, Andrei Zhelyabov of the People’s Will, who had been executed (Lenin had compared him to Robespierre). “As a soldier of the revolution, no death frightens me. I am ready for anything now, and no one has the power to preempt that.” Nikolayev appeared to be using his diary writing to steel his resolve, and contemplated going over the heads of the party bureaucracy to the working masses, to teach the party a lesson.⁶⁹

Nikolayev diagrammed Kirov’s routes, some possible shot angles and methods of assassination: “After first shot, run to his car: a) smash window and fire; b) open door.” He also continued to write plaintive letters seeking recourse, while underscoring the plight of workers stuck in queues versus the good life of speculators. On November 5, 1934, he glimpsed Kirov’s passing car but did not shoot through the glass.⁷⁰ On November 14, Nikolayev went to Leningrad’s Moscow Station yet again, looking for Kirov to arrive on the overnight train; this time Kirov did disembark, but Nikolayev could not get close. On November 21 he wrote another farewell to Milda (“My days are numbered, no one is coming to our aid. . . . Forgive me for everything”).⁷¹ After Kirov departed for the plenum in Moscow, Nikolayev stalked the station once more, but on November 29, when Kirov returned, he again could not get close. As it happened, however, Nikolayev read in that day’s Leningrad Pravda that at 6:00 p.m. on December 1, in the old Tauride Palace, Kirov would be reporting on the recent plenum in Moscow to the Leningrad “party active.”

HISTORIC OPPORTUNITY

On the morning of Kirov’s speech, Nikolayev called Milda at work, twice, for assistance in getting a ticket. By 1:00 p.m. he had learned that she could not or would not deliver. He went to the ward party committee around 1:30 p.m. One official suggested he could get him a ticket by the end of the day. For insurance, Nikolayev went to Smolny to try his luck with former co-workers. Smolny was an entire complex of buildings where 1,829 people worked and thousands more came and went. Besides the province and city party machines, more than fifteen organizations had offices there, including a department for the disfranchised and the workers’ and peasants’ inspectorate (on the second floor), where Nikolayev had worked. The inner courtyard connected to a residential building that housed 160 families, and there was a pigsty for supplying the cafeteria. The door to the building’s north wing, where top officials had offices on the third floor, required a special key, but it was given out freely: there was a hairdresser on the first floor, through the same entryway.⁷² Access to the third floor was governed by mere possession of a party card (for non-party members, a special pass). Nikolayev showed his party card and for an hour traipsed from office to office. His acquaintances rebuffed his pleadings for a ticket, but one promised to come through at the end of the day. Nikolayev exited and walked around. Close to 4:30 p.m., he returned and climbed to the third floor. He stopped off at the toilet, to relieve himself or hide (or both). He claimed that when he came out, he unexpectedly saw Kirov in the long corridor, coming toward him, fifteen to twenty paces away, unaccompanied.⁷³

Whether Kirov was expected at Smolny that day—a Saturday—before his speech remains uncertain. His purpose in stopping by also remains unclear. One story has it that he wanted to inquire about the preparations for the end of rationing, which was generating social anxiety. Mikhail Chudov, the second secretary, was chairing a meeting of some twenty apparatchiks at 3:00 p.m. to draft resolutions for a Leningrad party plenum on rationing that was scheduled for the day after Kirov’s ticketed speech. Or maybe Kirov wanted to touch up his speech one last time with his deputy.⁷⁴ Be that as it may, at 4:00 p.m. Kirov had exited his apartment building, walked toward the Trinity Bridge, and gotten into his chauffeured car. He was trailed by the usual escort car with two guards, but at what distance remains unclear: Kirov would hound Medved after he had spotted a trailing vehicle. The traveling guard was supposed to deliver Kirov to other members of the detail once at Smolny. Inside, Kirov’s head bodyguard, Mikhail Borisov—who had started in Kirov’s detail in the 1920s—was to accompany him everywhere and, when Kirov entered his office, to remain in the reception room with Kirov’s top aide, Nikolai Sveshnikov. But the guard detail had been complaining to superiors that Kirov interfered with their duties (their latest complaint had been on November 16, 1934, to Pauker).

Kirov—a politburo member—insisted that the guards stay back and not cross his vision.⁷⁵ On December 1, the fifty-three-year-old Borisov, who was not in good physical form, was maintaining a fair distance, as many as thirty paces. The corridor was L-shaped, and, after Kirov turned left onto the shorter part, where his office had been relocated for safety, Borisov could not see him.⁷⁶

Kirov’s two-room suite at the far end of the short corridor was near a special stairwell and elevator protected by a lockable glass door (many people had keys), but he refused to use this special side entrance established for him. His back room, accessible only from his front one, was used not just by him but also as a private lunch space by leaders of the provincial and city party committees and provincial and city soviets. Directly across the hall was a canteen that attracted traffic, too. Workmen were coming and going on the third floor that day. As Kirov approached Nikolayev in the long part of the L-corridor, Nikolayev turned his back. Kirov passed. The corridor was dim. (Kirov was farsighted yet refused to wear glasses in public, wary of resembling a member of the intelligentsia.)⁷⁷ Nikolayev looked around and, he claimed, saw no one else. “When he turned left toward his office, whose disposition I knew well, the entire half of the [short] corridor was empty—I rushed forward five steps, pulled the Nagant revolver out of my pocket on the run, brought the muzzle to Kirov’s head, and fired one shot into his forehead,” Nikolayev would testify. “Kirov immediately fell face first.” Nikolayev then tried to shoot himself but either was foiled by an electrician who had heard the first gunshot or lost consciousness and slid down the wall next to Kirov’s body, now in a pool of blood.⁷⁸

Medved was two miles from Smolny, at NKVD headquarters (Volodarsky, formerly Liteiny, Boulevard, no. 4), when the call came in. He threw down the receiver and exclaimed, “Kirov’s been shot.”⁷⁹ First deputy Zaporozhets was away (he had broken his leg by falling from a horse during an equestrian competition and, after his cast was removed, had been given a holiday on November 13 at an NKVD resort in Sochi).⁸⁰ Medved and second deputy Fyodor Fomin (an old Yevdokimov protégé) dashed over to Smolny. Kirov had been shot between 4:30 and 4:37 and found to have no pulse seconds later. Testimony suggests that he was carried into his office around seven or eight minutes later and laid on the conference table, where doctors vainly attempted to resuscitate him.⁸¹ Local security personnel, having heard the shot, claimed that they had secured Smolny’s third floor and that very soon the general alarm had been activated, a signal to seal the entire building. About twenty minutes after Medved had hastened out of the NKVD building, he ordered a contingent of thirty NKVD operatives dispatched to Smolny to detain and question everyone inside. But already, in Chudov’s office, adjacent to Kirov’s, the first interrogation was recorded as having commenced at 4:45, just minutes after the shooting—it was the questioning of Milda Draule. If this was accurate, she had to have been on-site when the shooting occurred.⁸²

Ten or so witnesses on the third floor that day—bodyguards, an electrician attending to circuit breakers after some lights went out, a stockman, the director of the circus awaiting a meeting, various functionaries, Nikolayev himself—all placed the shooting in the corridor outside Chudov’s office. Kirov was said to have been found on the floor facedown, head toward the back stairwell, Nikolayev on the floor faceup, head the other way.⁸³ But a special forensic analysis performed by a Russian defense ministry team in 2004 on the bullet hole in the rear of Kirov’s cap concluded, from the angle of entry, that either Nikolayev was lying on the floor when he fired the gun or Kirov was lying down. The forensic analysis also turned up large stains from dried semen on the underpants that Kirov had been wearing (on the front top, inside). In theory, NKVD interrogators could have arranged the testimony of even multiple witnesses to disguise the morally damaging circumstance that an esteemed leader had not been carried to the conference table in his office but was already on it, in flagrante delicto.^{84, 85} Crucially, however, there was no way to prove the exact position of the cap while it was on Kirov’s head.

Two shots had been fired. (All seven bullets in the gun were accounted for: five were still inside the revolver.) Kirov was hit by only one bullet (later extracted from his head), which was confirmed to have been fired from the Nagant registered to Nikolayev.⁸⁶ The second bullet was recovered from the floor (a ricochet mark was found on a cornice where wall and ceiling met). The upward angle of the bullet entry, fired from behind at close range, can likely be explained by the fact that although Kirov was short, Nikolayev was even shorter.⁸⁷

As for the semen, already on the night of December 1 rumors were circulating—tracked by the NKVD—of a liaison with Draule having caused Kirov’s demise. Despite arrests, this gossip persisted. At one enterprise, the non-party Khasanov was overheard to say, “Nikolayev killed comrade Kirov because he lived with his wife.” A candidate member of the party, Gubler, when asked why Nikolayev had killed Kirov, responded, “Because of tarts.” At the Leningrad timber company: “Rumors are circulating that Kirov was killed because of personal score-settling, since he lived with Nikolayev’s wife.” An employee of the Southern Water Station: “I know why they killed Kirov—I spoke with Kirov’s cook and she told me that it was because of a woman, because of jealousy.”⁸⁸ The pants semen does seem to indicate some sort of tryst the day of the assassination, but that would have been far easier to arrange and hide at Kirov’s residence, where he spent most of the day, with his wife away at Tolmachevo. (Kirov answered the door when a courier delivered documents.)⁸⁹ As we saw, Draule was in Smolny. The rumors seem to reflect a timeworn trope of the jealous husband and Kirov’s general reputation rather than specifics.⁹⁰ Of course, even if nothing happened that afternoon between Kirov and Draule, the pair could have been lovers. Draule, under interrogation, denied an affair with Kirov.⁹¹ But if she was lying, it is still striking that neither Nikolayev’s handwritten notebook/diary nor his testimony alluded to being cuckolded by Kirov.⁹²

Nikolayev had been bundled into a side office on the third floor, whence he was whisked to NKVD headquarters, where he alternated between wailing uncontrollably and falling silent while staring at a single point. He was carried on a stretcher to the NKVD’s internal clinic for examination at around 6:40 p.m.⁹³ Only around 10:00 or 11:00 p.m. could the NKVD interrogate him. Besides the gun, Nikolayev had been carrying his attaché case and was found to be in possession of a party card, a pass to the Smolny cafeteria (from his workers’ and peasants’ inspectorate days), which was how his identity was quickly established, and an address book, which is how his relatives were quickly found. At searches of his and his mother’s apartments, operatives found copies of his various letters to the authorities, the numerous notebooks comprising a diary, the sketch of Kirov’s routes, a fragmentary plan of assassination, secret letters to his wife about his plotting and willingness to die, and instructions on where to find these letters—the kind of treasure trove of documentary evidence never adduced at any of the countless fabricated trials.

“I prepared the whole thing myself,” Nikolayev was recorded as having told Medved, Fomin, and other Leningrad operatives the night of the assassination, “and I never let anyone know of my intentions.” He added: “There was a single reason—estrangement from the party, from which the events in the Leningrad Institute of Party History pushed me away, my unemployment, and the lack of material and, above all, moral assistance from the party organizations. My whole situation reverberated from the moment I was expelled from the party (eight months ago), which discredited me in the eyes of party organizations.” Nikolayev enumerated all his fruitless letters for redress, adding, “There was a single aim of the assassination: for it to become a political signal to the party that over the past eight to ten years on my path of life and work, there has accumulated the baggage of unjust treatment of a living person on the part of certain state persons. . . . This historic mission has been accomplished by me. I had to show the whole party where they had brought Nikolayev.”⁹⁴

CAVALCADE

Medved had the unenviable task of informing Yagoda, his superior. In the office of the second secretary of the Leningrad city party committee, he composed a telegram: “On December 1, 16:30 in Smolny, third floor, twenty paces from comrade Kirov’s office, Kirov was shot in the head by an unknown assailant who approached him and who, according to party documents, is Leonid Nikolayev, b. 1904, party member since 1924. Kirov is in his office. With him are professors of surgery . . . and other doctors.” The message mentioned that “several functionaries at Smolny recognized Nikolayev . . . as someone who had earlier worked” there, and that an arrest warrant had been issued for his wife, misnamed as Graule. Medved lied that Borisov “had accompanied Kirov to the point of the incident,” concealing NKVD negligence. Inexplicably, the message was stamped as sent at 6:20 p.m. and received and decoded in Moscow by 7:15 p.m.⁹⁵ Already just after 5:00 p.m., Chudov had called Stalin’s office number; Poskryobyshev picked up.⁹⁶

As Kirov lay dead, shot by an assassin at party headquarters in Leningrad, Stalin was in his office at party headquarters in Moscow. Members of the inner circle—Molotov, Voroshilov, Kaganovich, Zhdanov—had entered the dictator’s suite on Old Square at 3:05 p.m. When the news from Leningrad arrived, according to Kaganovich, Stalin “was shocked at first.”⁹⁷ Yagoda appeared at 5:50 p.m. and called the Leningrad NKVD twice, likely from Stalin’s office, to inquire whether Nikolayev was wearing foreign clothing (he was not).⁹⁸ Molotov, later in life, recalled that Stalin had rebuked Medved over the phone (“Incompetents!”).⁹⁹ At 6:15, Pauker arrived with his deputy and the Kremlin commandant Rudolf Peterson; ten minutes later, they were dismissed to prepare a special train for that evening. Others began arriving: Kalinin, Mikoyan, and Orjonikidze at 6:20, Andreyev at 6:25, Chubar at 6:30, Yenukidze at 6:45. They all cleared out except for Yagoda, who stayed until 8:10, when Mekhlis (editor of Pravda), Bukharin (Izvestiya), Stetsky (culture and propaganda department), and Mikhail Suslov (a Control Commission functionary) entered, staying ten minutes. Stalin edited the text of a bulletin that would run in central newspapers under the names of all politburo members. “You were dear to us all, comrade Kirov, as a true friend, a true comrade, a dependable comrade-in-arms,” it stated, using the familiar ty (“thou”) inserted by Stalin. “You were always with us in the years of our hard struggles for the triumph of socialism in our country, you were always with us in the years of wavering and trouble inside our party, you lived through all the difficulties of the last years with us. . . . Farewell, our dear friend and comrade, Sergei!”¹⁰⁰

Stalin then held back Yagoda, alone, for twenty minutes, until 8:30 p.m.¹⁰¹ At some point the dictator had drafted a short, vaguely worded law stipulating expedited handling of terrorist cases, with immediate implementation of the death penalty and no right of appeal, which Yenukidze signed as secretary of the Soviet’s central executive committee (and which, subsequently, Kalinin signed as chairman of that body).¹⁰² Leningrad party officials, convening their own meeting in Smolny at 6:00 p.m., drafted their own announcement, formed their own funeral commission, and instructed lower-level party committees to call meetings at factories that very night.¹⁰³

Soviet radio announced Kirov’s murder at 11:30 p.m.; workers heard over factory loudspeakers. Newspaper editors around the country were called. Meanwhile, another coded telegram had arrived from Medved at 10:30 p.m., with a short record of Draule’s interrogation, which had only basic information about her, as if just her role as Nikolayev’s wife was of interest. She was quoted as stressing his sense of grievance. (“From the moment of his party expulsion, he descended into a down mood, waiting the whole time for rectification of his status and reprimand and not wanting to work anywhere.”) A third Medved telegram, forty minutes after midnight, indicating that the NKVD had started analysis of the materials seized in searches, quoted Nikolayev’s “political testament” (letter to the politburo) about his efforts to assassinate Kirov, and reported that his address book contained entries for the German consulate (Herzen Street, 43; telephone, 1-69-82) and the Latvian consulate (telephone, 5-50-63).¹⁰⁴ Yagoda was already on the train with Stalin.

Kaganovich had summoned Khrushchev to lead a Moscow delegation of some sixty party officials and workers. The grandson of a serf and the son of a coal miner, Khrushchev (b. 1894) had attended a village school for four years and become a skilled metalworker in the Donbass town of Yuzovka (the name was changed in 1924 to Stalino), where he had hankered after further study while rising in the apparatus, catching the eye of Kaganovich (then Ukraine party boss), who promoted him to the Ukrainian capital. At the 14th Party Congress, in Moscow in 1925, Khrushchev would later recall, he had encountered Stalin for the first time and was surprised to meet a general secretary with a modest demeanor, proletarian plainness, even abrasiveness—a stirring role model for working-class Communists such as the ambitious Khrushchev. “He dreamed of being a factory director,” one contemporary recalled of Khrushchev. “I’ll go to Moscow, I’ll try to get in the Industrial Academy, and if I do I’ll make a good factory manager.” Thanks to Kaganovich, he had been able to enroll, despite meager academic qualifications. In a mere year and a half, Khrushchev had leapt from the Donbass coal region to Kharkov to Kiev to Moscow. Now he was leading a train, in parallel to Stalin’s train, to Leningrad. Stalin made Kaganovich stay behind in Moscow. Khrushchev recalled tears in Kaganovich’s eyes.¹⁰⁵ Stalin also refused to allow Orjonikidze to go on the train (ostensibly over worries for his weak heart).

Around 10:00 or so that morning of December 2, Stalin and entourage—Molotov, Voroshilov, Zhdanov, Yezhov, Alexander Kosaryov, a large contingent of NKVD operatives, and at least 200 armed men (the Dzierżyński regiment)—alighted at Leningrad’s Moscow Station. Enveloped by the massive security force, the group proceeded to the Sverdlov Hospital morgue, then to Smolny, where they took over Kirov’s office. “I saw a group approaching,” one Communist Youth League functionary recalled. “I saw Stalin in the middle; in front of him was Genrikh Yagoda with a revolver in his raised hand. The latter gave an order: ‘Everyone, faces to the wall! Hands on your trouser seams!’”¹⁰⁶

Agranov ordered Fomin to accompany him to Leningrad NKVD HQ, where he commandeered Medved’s office and all the case materials.¹⁰⁷ A shattered Borisov, the bodyguard—who had been interrogated the previous night but proved nearly unable to speak (his service revolver had been discovered still unloaded in its holster)—was summoned in the opposite direction, to Smolny.¹⁰⁸ As he was being driven, his head smashed into the wall of a building at around 10:50 a.m. and he died almost instantly. Neither the driver nor the three NKVD operatives accompanying him were hurt. The NKVD had used a one-and-a-half-ton Ford truck to transport Borisov, who was placed in the truck bed. Apparently, no other vehicles were available at the garage because of the cavalcade that had descended from Moscow. A spring on the truck’s front suspension was known to be defective and jerry-rigged, although deemed safe to drive at slow speeds. The driver might have been speeding—the summons was urgent—when he crossed tram tracks in the road. The truck swerved rightward violently. The driver tried to compensate by steering left. A tire blew. The truck ran a sidewalk and struck a building on the side where Borisov happened to be. A piece of his overcoat was caught by a metal clamp holding a drainpipe.¹⁰⁹ It is conceivable that he smashed his own head against the wall once the vehicle swung. It is also possible, though even less likely, that the Leningrad NKVD killed Borisov to hide evidence of incompetence—which was what Stalin suspected.¹¹⁰

Nikolayev was brought before Stalin.¹¹¹ The dictator had a hard time accepting that anyone ever acted alone.¹¹² But it was especially difficult to believe the pathetic Nikolayev could have carried out such a momentous assassination by himself. He stood a hair over five feet (1.53 meters), with “simian arms” down to his knees and very short legs, and, though he was only thirty years old, was a physical and emotional wreck. By then he was also severely sleep deprived. “An unprepossessing appearance. A clerk. Not tall. Scraggly,” recalled Molotov. “I think he was, it seems, angry with something, expelled from the party, aggrieved.”¹¹³ What Stalin managed to extract from the petulant, megalomanical, delirious Nikolayev remains unclear. (A rumor in Smolny suggested that Nikolayev had failed to recognize Stalin until he was shown an official portrait alongside the person before him.) Taken to a waiting vehicle on the street, where people were going about their business, Nikolayev was said to have shouted, “Remember me—I am the assassin. Let the people know who killed Kirov!”¹¹⁴

FAREWELL

Kirov’s open casket was placed for public viewing in the vestibule of the former Tauride Palace on December 2 for two days. His widow, Leningrad and Moscow officials, and delegations of workers from the two capitals paid their respects, many through tears. Initially, Pravda (December 2) accused “enemies of the working class and Soviet power, White Guards.” The next day, the newspaper identified the assassin as Nikolayev, labeling him a former employee of the workers’ and peasants’ inspectorate, omitting his employment in the party committee and his party membership.¹¹⁵ The NKVD was investigating foreign involvement: Nikolayev had visited the German consulate a few times and the Latvian once. He testified that he had found their numbers in the phone book and hoped to be introduced to foreign journalists, but had been brushed off by the German consul while trying to sell anti-Soviet documents (his writings) for money.¹¹⁶ Nikolayev might have sought a visa to Latvia for escape. Also on December 3, at a detached house in Leningrad’s Stone Island neighborhood that Stalin and his entourage were using, the dictator dressed down Medved and Fomin. (Yagoda that day issued an indictment of them and six other Leningrad NKVD operatives.) “The murder of Kirov is the hand of an organization,” Stalin told Medved and Fomin, “but which organization is difficult to say right now.”¹¹⁷

Around 10:00 p.m. on December 3, Stalin claimed Kirov’s casket and led a processional to the station, where his special train departed after midnight. It was met in Moscow by an air force squadron overhead. On December 4 and 5, Kirov’s casket was placed for viewing in Moscow’s Columned Hall of the House of Trade Unions. That afternoon and evening, Stalin received a large number of officials in his office and, among other business, appointed a new trade representative to Hitler’s Berlin, David Kandelaki. Normally, Soviet trade representatives never met with Stalin, but Kandelaki, who was Georgia born and Germany educated, would be received an inordinate number of times in the Little Corner starting in late 1934.¹¹⁸ “Kandelaki,” noted the Soviet press officer at the Berlin embassy, “clearly gave us the impression that he had confidential instructions from Stalin personally, and the power to go beyond economic subjects in talks with the Germans.”¹¹⁹

Departing his office that night of December 5 at 10:00, Stalin arrived at the House of Trade Unions for a final farewell as the Bolshoi Orchestra played Chopin’s funeral march. He evidently kissed the dead Kirov on the lips and stated, “Farewell, dear friend.”¹²⁰ The body was taken to be cremated. Back at the Kremlin, Shumyatsky showed Stalin, Voroshilov, Molotov, Orjonikidze, Mikoyan, Kaganovich, and Zhdanov clips from a documentary by Yakov Bliokh of Kirov’s life and death. “Koba especially tensely watched those parts depicting the deceased Kirov in motion,” Shumyatsky noted, using Stalin’s nickname. “When they showed the episodes of the population reading the sad news, everyone noted that the reaction to the event was depicted powerfully and clearly. . . . Koba and the others watched especially tensely the parts in Leningrad—in the Tauride Palace, at the casket, and the accompanying of the casket with the body to the train station.” It was silent footage, but Shumyatsky had also brought film of two of Kirov’s speeches. Stalin liked Kirov’s speech at the last Leningrad provincial party conference, where he had spoken about Marxist-Leninist education.¹²¹

On Red Square the next day, a full military funeral took place. A devastated Orjonikidze was afforded the honor of interring the urn in the Kremlin Wall. Stalin also allowed Orjonikidze’s signature to be placed second under Kirov’s obituary in Pravda, after the dictator’s, out of the usual hierarchy.¹²² Molotov delivered a eulogy (Stalin complimented him on it). Stalin had the orchestra play a Kirov favorite, Shatrov’s “On the Hills of Manchuria,” which dated to the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–5: “The crosses for magnificent bygone heroes show their whiteness, and the shades of the past circle about, hardening us about those who fell in vain. . . . But believe me, we will avenge you and celebrate a bloody funeral feast.”¹²³ Pravda that morning (December 6) had already announced that seventy persons were being tried in other cases on charges of “preparing terrorist actions against Soviet authorities.” The inner circle repaired to Stalin’s apartment in the Imperial Senate for a luncheon. The dictator, full of grief, according to Artyom, said Kirov had been an optimist, a lover of life, so if anyone was to cry, to “let out snot,” they would be dishonoring his memory. He played songs on the gramophone Kirov loved. “Everyone there was in a crushed mood.” Stalin requested that they watch the Kirov documentary footage again and invited Vasily and Svetlana, calling her the Mistress of the House and asking her to direct the viewing. Stalin again reminded Shumyatsky to insert footage of the liveliness of the streets and squares as Kirov’s casket was brought to the capital. Postyshev said Shumyatsky needed to include a speech by Stalin, whose voice had not yet appeared in sound footage. “Film is a powerful instrument for propaganda and agitation,” Stalin intoned. Then they watched Chapayev until 1:00 a.m.¹²⁴

Unlike the pioneer Mussolini, the Soviet dictator chose not to speak directly on radio. The twenty-year-old Yuri Levitan had become Stalin’s voice from around the time of the 17th Party Congress, when he had read the five-hour congress speech over the radio. On December 6, 1934, Levitan was on the air when Kirov’s ashes were interred in the Kremlin Wall: “Farewell, pupil of Lenin and friend of Stalin, leader of the Leningrad proletariat, farewell!”¹²⁵ That night, after the film screening, Pavel Alliluyev stayed at the Near Dacha to keep an eye on his brother-in-law. “I’m an utter orphan,” the dictator supposedly told him, putting his head in his hands. Stalin also said Kirov had looked after him as one does for a child.¹²⁶

THE INVESTIGATION

At Stalin’s suggestion, to get Nikolayev to admit complicity in a “group,” he was plied with food, cigarettes, and the usual promises to spare his own and his family members’ lives. Interrogators lied that Milda had not (yet) been arrested. Agranov and his team were making suggestions to him about “ties,” and Nikolayev began to go along, admitting that he did belong to a “group.” He also tried to jump out the window. The interrogators were now interested in his acquaintances Ivan Kotolynov and Nikolai Shatsky, both at one time expelled from the party and figures in Nikolayev’s notebook/diary. Kotolynov was being called a Trotskyite, but, as it happened, he and others had been Communist Youth League functionaries when Zinoviev was party boss.¹²⁷ Voilà. The names of Zinoviev as well as Kamenev started to crop up in the interrogation protocols, which Agranov was forwarding to Stalin.¹²⁸ (In the Kirov case, the dictator would receive at least 260 interrogation protocols, a new genre of belles lettres.)¹²⁹

The NKVD drafted a scenario, which Stalin edited, of parallel terrorist organizations, a “Leningrad Center” and a “Moscow Center.” None of this had been part of the interrogations before December 4, 1934, when Stalin had summoned a large group to his office, including prosecutors, court officials, secret police operatives, and Agranov, who came from Leningrad.¹³⁰ During discussions over the next several days, Stalin shifted Zinoviev and Kamenev from the Leningrad to the guiding Moscow Center. The Leningrad Center was now said to be led by Nikolayev, Kotolynov, and their associates.¹³¹

Amid a mood for bloodthirsty revenge, the ethnic Pole party boss of Ukraine, Kosior, wanted to respond to the assassination with directives for mass relocations of Soviet ethnic Poles from the frontier. But a calculating Stalin softened a secret circular sent by party channels (December 7, 1934) to both Ukraine and Belorussia regarding their ethnic Polish border populations, evidently to avoid complications in Soviet-Polish and Soviet-German relations. By contrast, in response to a plan to deport 5,000 “socially alien” families from the Karelian autonomous republic and Leningrad province—both near the Finnish border, where geopolitical complications were largely absent—Stalin wrote, “Why not more?”¹³²

On December 9, after meetings in his office with the prosecutors, judges, and NKVD officials, among many others, until 7:30 p.m., Stalin suppered one floor below at his Kremlin apartment with Kaganovich, Zhdanov, Orjonikidze, and Molotov, a practice that was becoming increasingly routine. The relatives had come over on the pretext of giving Svetlana, said to be distraught over Kirov’s death, some gifts to cheer her up. “It broke my heart to look at him,” Maria Svanidze wrote in her diary of Stalin at the table. “He is suffering greatly.”¹³³

In Leningrad, fourteen people—all save Shatsky—testified that they had participated in an underground Zinovievite “group,” but all denied complicity in the assassination except Nikolayev. Interrogators had tried to get him to admit that his working-class father had hired laborers, making him the offspring of a class alien, but he refused. Nonetheless, Nikolayev, a working-class Communist of conviction—precisely why he had killed Kirov—somehow had to be turned into a “class enemy.” Over time, the wily Agranov seems to have persuaded him that he could realize one more great deed: the destruction of the Zinovievites. Nikolayev apparently would not fully realize until later that this task on behalf of the cause required retrospectively making him a member of the 1920s Zinoviev opposition.

Accused Zinovievites were arrested in waves, and one turned out to be hiding the archives of the Zinoviev opposition. (All told, 843 “former Zinovievites” would be arrested by the NKVD in the ten weeks after the murder; thousands would be exiled administratively.) The few core genuine supporters of Zinoviev did not hide their critical feelings toward Stalin and his policies: they believed, for example, that Hitler’s rise in Germany had resulted from Comintern passivity.¹³⁴ They also freely admitted that they occasionally met and discussed these views. And so it was “an organization” and “anti-party.” They were also found to have copies of Lenin’s Testament and the Ryutin appeal calling for Stalin’s removal, and almost every one of them turned out to have a gun at home, sometimes more than one, usually acquired and held legally since civil war days. And so it was “terrorism,” too.

Was it not plausible that these former party oppositionists—armed and, by their own admission, meeting to criticize Stalin—would in shadowy ways have taken part in the killing of Kirov, who, after all, had displaced their patron Zinoviev?¹³⁵ Kotolynov, according to one interrogation protocol (December 12), would admit only that “our organization bears the political and moral responsibility for the murder of Kirov by Nikolayev, having reared Nikolayev in an atmosphere of embittered relations to the leaders of the Soviet Communist Party.” Here was one formula.¹³⁶ On December 16, Zinoviev and Kamenev were arrested.¹³⁷ Zinoviev confessed to a host of fictitious crimes, and agreed to name “all those I can and will remember as former participants in the anti-party struggle.”¹³⁸ Pravda and Leningrad Pravda (December 17) ran the same front-page editorial asserting that Nikolayev had been directed by the former Leningrad opposition “Zinovievites” to kill Kirov. Here was a different formula.

FIRST TRIAL

Stalin sent Zhdanov to replace Kirov as first secretary. With the regime and much of the country in mourning, the dictator ordered that his official birthday, on December 21, 1934—his fifty-fifth—not be celebrated publicly. Nonetheless, the apparatchiks gathered the obligatory well-wishes.¹³⁹ On the day itself, Agranov, Vyshinsky, and Akulov arrived from Leningrad and, along with Yagoda and Ulrich, were in Stalin’s office for an hour, until 8:30 p.m., evidently to go over the pending trial.¹⁴⁰ Then a private celebration took place at the Near Dacha, in the company of the in-laws from both deceased wives and the inner circle. They had to add a second table. Stalin, Artyom would recall, “read the birthday congratulations in the newspapers, and commented on them humorously.” ¹⁴¹

Orjonikidze pronounced a toast for Kirov, which, according to Maria Svanidze’s diary, elicited tears and a moment of silence. Someone mentioned that Dora Khazan-Andreyeva had attended the Industrial Academy with Nadya. Stalin stood. “Since the Academy was mentioned,” he said, “permit me to drink to Nadya.” “All stood and silently approached Iosif to clink their glasses,” Svanidze wrote. Around 1:00 a.m., they got up from the table and Stalin put on the gramophone and people danced—the Caucasus lezginka or Cossack hopak—though there was not much room. Budyonny played the accordion, Zhdanov the piano. “The Caucasus people,” Svanidze recorded, “sang sad songs, polyphonic—the Master sang in a high tenor.”¹⁴²

Newspapers announced the next morning that the NKVD had turned over the investigatory results for trial. But on December 23, Pravda, shockingly, announced that “the NKVD has established a lack of sufficient evidence to turn Zinoviev and Kamenev over to the courts.” Stalin also decided against a public trial of the remaining “Zinovievites,” perhaps because the extracted confessions were of anti-Stalin conversations, not plotting terrorism. The indictments published in Pravda and Leningrad Pravda of fourteen people headed by Nikolayev mentioned a connection to a foreign consulate but stopped short of naming it, as if afraid to have to prove it, or wary of involving Nazi Germany in discussions of Kirov’s murder.¹⁴³

In Leningrad, Ulrich opened the closed trial on December 28 at 2:20 p.m., and read the guilty verdicts before dawn the next morning: death penalty. Not a single Smolny witness had been summoned to the trial. (Nearly fourscore of them—every witness to the events that day and many others—would soon be transferred to other work, expelled from the party, or exiled.) “Nikolayev shouted, ‘Severe,’” according to one of Agranov’s soft-pedaling telegrams to Stalin, which failed to report that Nikolayev and others recanted their testimony.¹⁴⁴ The executions were carried out within an hour; the head executioner was said to have broken down in tears at memories of the fallen Kirov.¹⁴⁵ Kotolynov was shot last. “This whole trial is rubbish,” he had told Agranov and Vyshinsky. “People have been executed. Now I’ll be executed, too. But all of us, with the exception of Nikolayev, are not guilty of anything.”¹⁴⁶

Hundreds more would be shot, none of whom had any link to the murder. (Union-wide, as many as 6,500 people might have been arrested and charged under the December 1 antiterror law in the first month alone.)¹⁴⁷ “It’s hard to believe that in the twentieth century there is a corner of Europe where medieval barbarians have taken up residence, where savage concepts are accompanied so strangely by science, art, and culture,” Nina Lugovskaya, an atypical fifteen-year-old student in Moscow, the daughter of a persecuted “bourgeois” economist, recorded in her diary (December 30). “To call Nikolayev a coward! He went willingly to his death for what he believed in, he was better than all those so-called leaders of the working class put together!”¹⁴⁸

REWRITING THE CAUCASUS

Beria had been pressing his minions in Tiflis to produce a Stalin hagiography. He had ordered systematic gathering of “recollections” of Stalin in the underground years and appointed Toroshelidze, chairman of the Writers’ Union of Georgia, Tiflis University rector, and director of the Stalin Institute, to galvanize the work. The “reminiscences” were assembled, but the “scholarly” biography did not materialize.¹⁴⁹ Lakoba, meanwhile, had been active, too. Hashim Smyrba, an old brigand, had once hidden Stalin in his hut a few miles outside Batum, in the Muslim region of Ajaristan, in 1901–2, when Stalin and his accomplices, disguised with veils to look like Muslim women, transported illegal leaflets to Batum in fruit baskets. Hashim had died in 1922, at age eighty-one. Lakoba had an ethnographer collect material and forwarded to Stalin a pamphlet, Stalin and Hashim, the Years 1901–1902: Episodes from the Batum Underground. “Comrade Lakoba!” he wrote back. “Your Caucasus essay makes a good impression. And Hashim, as in life, is simple, naïve, but honest and devoted. Such helpmates were not few in the revolution; with their hearts they felt the truth.”¹⁵⁰ Lakoba published the pamphlet in Abkhazia, in a print run of 20,000. (Kaganovich sent the paper.) It called Stalin “a person such as history gives to humanity just once in a hundred or two hundred years.”

Playfully, the pamphlet noted that Hashim and other villagers had surmised that “Soso” was counterfeiting money and asked for some, but the business turned out to be revolutionary leaflets. Hashim: “You’re a good man, Soso. Only it’s a pity that you are not a Muslim.” Stalin: “And what would happen if I were a Muslim?” Hashim: “If you converted to Islam, I would give you in marriage seven beauties the likes of which you probably never, ever saw. Do you want to be a Muslim?” “Comrade Stalin answered with a smile, ‘OK!’ and shook Hashim’s hand.” (Stalin ended up being imprisoned.)¹⁵¹

Lakoba wrote the preface to the Hashim pamphlet, emphasizing that Stalin, too, was simple, close to the masses—a winning formula.¹⁵² By contrast, Beria had a far more ambitious and difficult aim—not two years in Batum, but the entire Caucasus before 1917, and falsification of a past that many people knew firsthand.¹⁵³ One of those people was Yenukidze, who was the godfather of the deceased Nadya by virtue of his acquaintance with her father, the worker-revolutionary Sergei Alliluyev. Yenukidze was also a founding member of the Baku group of the party (spring 1901) and had established the illegal printing press in the Caucasus—code-named “Nino” (Nina in Russian), with his cousin Trifon—that had reprinted the exiled Lenin’s illegal Iskra newspaper. Known in the underground as the Little Golden Fish, Yenukidze had serialized his autobiographical Our Underground Printing Presses in the Caucasus in a journal in 1923 and had not artificially magnified Stalin’s role.¹⁵⁴ As business manager of regime affairs from early on, he had served Stalin faithfully.¹⁵⁵ But Mekhlis, writing to Stalin (January 4, 1935), listed a number of “mistakes” in a Yenukidze Pravda article (December 29, 1934) on the thirtieth anniversary of the 1904 Baku strike, and criticized his book on the illegal printing press, whose third edition had just been published. Stalin had Mekhlis’s denunciation of Yenukidze circulated to the politburo, and marked up the text himself: When was the Baku party committee established? Who created the printing press? Yenukidze seemed to be placing himself above the martyr Lado Ketskhoveli, the youth who had introduced Stalin to Marxism.¹⁵⁶

LAUGHTER

Long focused on the impact of live theater, Stalin had not grasped the full power of film immediately.¹⁵⁷ But Shumyatsky had persisted, and goaded the party to issue a directive to film all major events in the USSR, design handheld cameras to be put into wide production, and have regional officials treat newsreels the way they treated the press. Stalin began to review the newsreels at the Kremlin cinema sessions.¹⁵⁸ But it had really been Chapayev that transformed him—a person accustomed to working with written texts—from someone who occasionally viewed films for diversion to their executive producer, from the backgrounds of scenes to the dialogue and score. The dictator played a decisive role in supporting not just subjects of political import but also farce. In that regard, an enormous breakthrough was wrought by a young assistant to the virtuoso Sergei Eisenstein, after the latter’s scandalous failure to finish a film in Mexico.¹⁵⁹ Shumyatsky had suggested that Eisenstein next make a Soviet comedy, but the director showed little interest. But his assistant, Grigory Alexandrov, using every Hollywood trick he had learned in their travels, cowrote and directed Jolly Fellows, which became a smash hit.¹⁶⁰

Stalin’s inner circle had divided over the appropriateness of comedy. When Shumyatsky was set to premiere Jolly Fellows in the Kremlin, Voroshilov, who had seen it, stated, “It’s an interesting, jolly, thoroughly musical film featuring Utyosov and his jazz.” Kaganovich objected that Utyosov had no voice; Zhdanov complained that Utyosov was a master only of criminal underworld songs. “You’ll see,” Voroshilov countered, “he’s a very gifted actor, an extraordinary humorist, and sings delightfully in the film.” He was right. “Brilliantly conceived,” Stalin said to Voroshilov after viewing one scene with a jazz orchestra rehearsal that devolves into a hilarious fight, and another with collective farm livestock run amok. “The film allows you to relax in an interesting, entertaining fashion. We experienced the exact feeling one has after a day off. It’s the first time I have experienced such a feeling from viewing our films, among which have been very good ones.” After watching another film, Stalin returned to discussion of Jolly Fellows, lauding the bold acting of the female lead, Lyubov Orlova, and male lead, Utyosov, as well as the excellent jazz. “He talked about the songs,” Shumyatsky wrote. “Turning to comrade Voroshilov, he pointed out that the march would go to the masses, and began to recall the melody and ask about the words.”¹⁶¹

A new genre, the Soviet musical comedy, was born.¹⁶² Shumyatsky’s determination had paid off.¹⁶³ He had witnessed a live performance of Utyosov’s band—whose musicians sang, danced, and acted—and had suggested they team up with the director Alexandrov. Utyosov, for his part, had insisted on music by Isaac Dunayevsky (b. 1900), a graduate of the Kharkov Conservatory who had made a name for himself at the Moscow Satire Theater and more recently the Leningrad Music Hall. Vasily Lebedev-Kumach (b. 1898), the son of a Moscow cobbler and himself a writer at the satirical periodical Crocodile, composed the lyrics. When ideologues attacked the resulting work, Shumyatsky galvanized Stalin’s support.¹⁶⁴ Jolly Fellows had gone into final editing, following the dictator’s suggestions, but its public opening was delayed by Kirov’s assassination. It premiered publicly on December 25, at Moscow’s Shock Worker cinema, where Orlova, Utyosov, and Alexandrov were in the audience. A banquet followed at the Metropole. General release took place in January 1935, and soon an astonishing 6,000 copies of the film were in circulation Union-wide. The publicity campaign, unprecedented for the Soviet Union, borrowed American techniques, with postcards of scenes from the film and phonographic records of the songs. Shumyatsky even had sheet music of the score published with an attractive cover, and there were tie-in cookies from the baking trust and cigarettes from the tobacco trust. The film’s stars featured in radio appearances.

Many cultural figures collaborated with the Soviet party-state precisely for its wherewithal to deliver mass audiences.¹⁶⁵ To be sure, whereas listeners in Britain or Germany could tune in to several stations, including some that originated from abroad, the Soviets invested in cable (wire) radio, which was inexpensive and durable, enabling mass production, and imposed far stricter state control over content, since the wires delivered just the two official stations.¹⁶⁶ Only the privileged had hard-to-procure wireless receivers with tuners. Wire radios were installed in outdoor public spaces, factories, meeting halls, clubs, and dormitories.The Soviet Union had 2.5 million radio reception points already by 1934.¹⁶⁷ Radio Moscow and Radio Comintern were broadcasting approximately eighteen hours per day, creating an ambient Sovietness.¹⁶⁸

“Boring agitation is counter-agitation,” one Soviet film critic argued.¹⁶⁹ Surveys of radio listeners’ letters showed that they wanted fewer symphonies and more humor, information about the outside world, advice on childrearing, medical issues, and other daily life concerns, and entertainment, such as folk music, Gypsy romances, jazz, operettas (not operas), and songs from the latest films.¹⁷⁰ While Germany had Marlene Dietrich, and America Greta Garbo, the Soviets had Orlova, promoted in the press, books, and fan postcards.¹⁷¹ (She and Alexandrov would begin a love affair and later marry.) The songs proved to be easily and widely memorized. From streets to shop, almost the entire USSR was singing “Such a Lot of Nice Girls” (or the tango version, “Heart,” released by Pyotr Leshchenko) and the march (“A happy song lightens your heart”). Even in profoundly anti-Soviet Poland Jolly Fellows would find popularity. The comic master Chaplin would praise the film as better propaganda for the Soviet cause than executions.¹⁷²

Stalin authorized an all-Union Creative Conference of Workers in Soviet Cinema (January 8–13, 1935), albeit without formation of a formal union such as the writers had. Eisenstein was awarded the task of delivering the keynote. “When I heard Eisenstein’s report, I was afraid that he knows so much, and his head is so clear that, it is obvious, he’ll never make another film,” director Oleksandr Dovzhenko said in his follow-up speech. “If I knew as much as he does, I would literally die. (Laughter, applause.)”¹⁷³ Pravda (January 11) published a congratulatory note from Stalin to Shumyatsky. “Greetings and best wishes to the workers of Soviet cinema on the day of its glorious fifteenth anniversary,” the note stated. “Soviet power expects from you new successes—new films that, like Chapayev, proclaim the greatness of the historic cause of the struggle for power of the workers and peasants of the Soviet Union, mobilize for the attainment of new tasks, and remind us of both the achievements and difficulties of socialist construction.”¹⁷⁴

That same day, Stalin attended the ceremony at the Bolshoi where, for the first time, state awards were handed out to film workers. He had edited the proposed awards list: Orders of Lenin were given to the Leningrad Film Studio, Shumyatsky, Pavel Tager (who had helped introduce sound to Soviet films), and numerous directors. Eisenstein had been proposed for the lesser Order of the Red Banner, which Stalin crossed out, substituting something lesser still: “honored artist.”¹⁷⁵ After this humiliation, Eisenstein had to offer the closing remarks. “No one here has had to listen to so many compliments about highbrow wisdom as I,” he stated. “The crux—and this you know—is that I have not been engaged in film production for several years, and I consider the [awards] decision a signal from the party and government that I must enter production.”¹⁷⁶ The gathering concluded with a performance of the third act of Swan Lake.¹⁷⁷

Shumyatsky did not speak at the ceremony or at the conference, but Pravda (January 11) published an excerpt from his forthcoming book, Cinema for the Millions. “The victorious class wants to laugh with joy,” he wrote. “That is its right, and Soviet cinema must provide its audiences with this joyful Soviet laughter.” He admitted, however, that “we have no common view on such fundamental and decisive problems of our art as the interrelationship between form and content, as plot, as the pace and rhythm of a film, the role of the script, the techniques of cinema.”¹⁷⁸ In fact, all he and other film people had to go on was Stalin’s utterances or their own intuition about what might please him.

THE SECOND TRIAL

On January 13, 1935, a plebiscite took place in a small region on the western side of the Rhine known as the Saar, which the Versailles Treaty had taken from Germany and put under the League of Nations, stipulating such a vote after fifteen years. Some 445,000 Saarlanders, 90.35 percent, freely voted to join Germany under Nazi dictatorship rather than France or remain under the League. The French and British expected this removal of a German grievance to be followed by German compliance. Hitler perceived only a removal of restraint, and would exult that “blood is stronger than any document or mere paper. What ink has written will one day be blotted out in blood.” Large ethnic German populations resided in Czechoslovakia, Poland, Hungary, Romania, and even the Soviet Union.¹⁷⁹

The Kirov documentary opened publicly on January 14.¹⁸⁰ The NKVD had been planning a second public trial of eight “Zinovievites” willing to incriminate themselves, with Draule testifying about their links to Nikolayev. In the event, she would be tried in camera, while several high-profile Zinovievites were added to the eight unknowns for a public trial, which took place January 15–16. The nineteen defendants, now headlined by Zinoviev himself, Kamenev, and Grigory Yevdokimov, were charged with fostering a “moral atmosphere” conducive to the terrorism that had resulted in Kirov’s death. They had been promised their lives if they fulfilled their party duty and publicly confessed. Zinoviev admitted that he’d had conversations with people whom the NKVD called the Leningrad Center, for example with Vladimir Levin back in 1932, during his work in livestock requisitions. Kamenev at first refused to go along with the canard that his private conversations signified participation in a so-called Moscow Center or had somehow inspired acts of terrorism.¹⁸¹ Yevdokimov confessed to having suggested that collectivization was a mad adventure, that the tempos of industrialization would turn the working class against the party, and that there was no party anymore, since Stalin had usurped its role.¹⁸² Zinoviev was sentenced to ten years, Yevdokimov to eight, Kamenev to five.¹⁸³

Pravda’s trial report (January 18, 1935) acknowledged that incitement of the Kirov murder by the Moscow Center had not been proven, but insisted that the Moscow Center had known about the “terrorist sentiments” of Nikolayev and his Leningrad Center. That same day, Stalin sent an explanatory letter to all party organizations, which accused the former Zinoviev opposition of “two-facedness,” equated them with “White Guard wreckers, spies, and provocateurs,” and deemed expulsion from the party insufficient: they needed to be imprisoned so they could no longer pursue sabotage. The circular excoriated the Zinoviev opposition’s concealment of its views in professions of loyalty, and blamed the NKVD for complacency. (“Is it that difficult for a Chekist to understand that a party card can be forged or stolen from its owner?”) The circular called for better teaching of party history, especially the foul deeds of the various oppositions, and instructed local party organizations to seek enemies among any party members who had ever expressed criticism of Stalin and his ruling group.¹⁸⁴ The NKVD distributed its own secret circular to branches explaining that Nikolayev’s long-existing “center” for terrorism had eluded the Leningrad NKVD because of the latter’s failure to heed Yagoda’s instructions to strengthen Kirov’s guard.¹⁸⁵

Three days later, regime favorites assembled for the anniversary of Lenin’s death.¹⁸⁶ Shumyatsky showed a new documentary about Lenin, to which was added the speaking footage from the Kirov documentary—the first time a recorded speech had been heard at the Bolshoi. “The whole hall at first went silent,” the cinema boss wrote, “then people could not contain themselves, and stormy applause, from the heart, eclipsed the inspiring speech of Mironych about the significance of Marxist-Leninist rearing.” When the sound parts ended and the silent parts resumed, the orchestra started playing but could not be heard. “The end of the film, with the appearance of I. V. Stalin, was drowned out in a stormy ovation.” Stalin had Shumyatsky summoned to the imperial box and “again reiterated the exceptional power of film.”¹⁸⁷

The regime held a closed trial of the Leningrad NKVD on January 23, 1935. Borisov’s death was ruled an accident, and four operatives were released. Twelve others were convicted, including Medved and Zaporozhets (three years each), as well as Gubin and Fomin (two years). Almost all ended up serving their time as commandants at the Dalstroi gold camps in the far northeast.¹⁸⁸ Three days later, 663 former Zinovievites in Leningrad were exiled to Siberia, and 325 others transferred to jobs in other regions. In the meantime, on January 25, Valerian Kuibyshev died of heart failure, at age forty-six. The autopsy would find arteriosclerosis and blood clots. His heavy drinking had resulted in unpredictable work absences, a constant refrain in Stalin’s correspondence.¹⁸⁹ He was cremated, and the urn with his ashes interred in the Kremlin Wall, adjacent to Kirov’s.¹⁹⁰

NAZISM’S WINDFALL

Soviet military intelligence, for all its blowups and failures, amassed a breathtaking network in Warsaw—thanks to Hitler. Rudolf Herrnstadt, born in the Silesian town of Gleiwitz (1903), a correspondent for the left-wing Berliner Tageblatt and a Jew, had joined the German Communist party as Rudolf Arbin, began working for Soviet intelligence around 1931, and fled the Nazis to Warsaw in 1933 with his lover, also a Soviet agent. He maintained journalist cover and recruited Gerhard Kegel (“X”), a junior banker and journalist (b. 1907) also from Upper Silesia, who had joined the German Socialist Party and then the Communists and now worked in the trade department of Germany’s embassy in Warsaw. Herrnstadt’s lover, the angular-faced Ilse Stöbe (b. 1911), code-named “Alta,” the daughter of working-class parents in Berlin, had worked for the same newspaper as Herrnstadt. She had been directed to join the Nazi party and, in mid-1934, was named a cultural attaché of the Nazi party’s foreign office in Poland. Stöbe would recruit the Silesia-born (1897) Rudolf von Scheliha (“Aryan”), the son of a Prussian squire, who joined the Nazi party at the suggestion of Soviet intelligence and in late 1934 had gotten himself named as the top aide in Warsaw to German ambassador Hans-Adolf von Moltke. Other recruits included the radioman Kurt Schulze (“Berg,” b. 1894), Kurt Welkisch (“ABC,” b. 1910), a German journalist and diplomat, and his wife, Margarita Welkisch (“LCL,” b. 1913).¹⁹¹ They were linked in their anti-Nazism.

Inside Nazi Germany, Wilhelm “Willy” Lehmann (b. 1884), code-named “Breitenbach,” a long-serving Berlin policeman, had been secretly recruited even before the Nazis came to power, then moved into the Gestapo, where he was assigned to nothing less than counterintelligence against the Soviet Union. (He had been tasked with summary executions during the Night of the Long Knives, which helped solidify his bona fides.) Lehmann passed to Moscow details of German intelligence’s organizational structure and forthcoming operations and, in 1935, of early German rocket tests. That same year, Harro Schulze-Boysen (b. 1909), a Prussian aristocrat officer at Göring’s Luftwaffe, contacted the Soviet embassy offering his services; he was given the code name “Elder.” Not long thereafter, Arvid Harnack (b. 1901), a senior official in the Nazi economics ministry and onetime leftist youth organizer, also made contact with the Soviet embassy; he was advised to join the Nazi party and given the code name “Corsican.” No other country would field such an undercover network in the halls of the Third Reich.

Another remarkable anti-Nazi Soviet spy was in Tokyo, Richard Sorge, the offspring of a Russian mother and a German father, who, in preparation for assignment to Japan, had traveled to Germany and happened to meet the publisher of the Journal of Geopolitics, a zealous Nazi who gave him a contract as a stringer and a letter of introduction to the German embassy in Tokyo. Sorge, code-named “Ramsay,” joined the Nazi party, took with him a radio operator, and charmed the ambassador in Japan, Herbert von Dirksen. Other contacts gave Sorge entrée to Colonel Eugen Ott, who became the German military attaché (and would one day replace Dirksen). Sorge also had spectacular success penetrating Japanese officialdom, partly thanks to the esteem in which the Germans held him. German diplomats discovered that the journalist stringer Sorge had better information about Japan than they did, and they let him help compile embassy reports to Berlin, copies of which surreptitiously went to Moscow.¹⁹²

Soviet intelligence enjoyed gobsmacking success in the UK, too. Harold Philby, nicknamed “Kim” after the Rudyard Kipling character, had been born in British India (1912); his father was an adviser to the Saudi king, and the son aimed to join the foreign office. As a student at Cambridge University, Philby had been helped by Maurice Dobb, an economics lecturer and an early British Communist party member, to go abroad and work for the World Committee for the Relief of the Victims of German Fascism. Aiding refugees from Nazism in Austria, Philby married a Hungarian-Jewish divorcée who belonged to the Austrian Communist party and came to the attention of Tivadar (Theodore) Maly, a Hungary-born Soviet intelligence operative who secretly recommended him for recruitment. Back in London, a friend of Philby’s wife set up a meeting in Regent’s Park with the Artuzov protégé Arnold Deutsch, a chemical engineer born in Habsburg Slovakia, of Jewish extraction, who had joined the Austrian Communist party and relocated to the Soviet Union, before being posted as station chief to the UK.¹⁹³ Deutsch transformed Philby, a budding journalist, into a playacting right-winger and reliable courier with a valuable British passport. Through Philby, Soviet intelligence recruited Guy Burgess (b. 1911), another Cambridge University student; Anthony Blunt, a Cambridge student and then tutor in art history; and the invaluable Donald Maclean, a fourth Cambridge University graduate who entered the British foreign office in 1935. Artuzov’s team would even penetrate MI6.¹⁹⁴

All the while, Soviet counterintelligence was spending as much or more time on its own diplomats and military officers as on foreign governments. NKVD special department operatives for watching the Red Army had ballooned to an all-time record of 3,769 by January 1935.¹⁹⁵ Mark Stokland, known as Gai, the head of the special department, received yet another phantasmagorical secret “report” from the informant Tatyana Zaionchkovskaya, who socialized with Tukhachevsky, among others, and asserted that the “counterrevolution” inside the USSR was counting on former officers to shoot Stalin. “This is complete rubbish of a stupid old woman who has lost her mind,” Gai wrote. But such “reports” kept coming.¹⁹⁶

What use Stalin and the Soviet regime would make of the intelligence windfall inadvertently delivered by Hitler and Nazism, meanwhile, remained to be seen. Hermann Göring, under the pretext of a hunting trip, was invited to undertake a diplomatic trip to Poland from January 26 to 31, 1935. He had just spent several days with Hitler in the Obersalzberg, and now, on the anniversary of the nonaggression declaration with Poland, he told Beck that Germany would not sign a broad Eastern Pact or any treaty with the Soviet Union, and that “the chancellor has decided to continue the policy of developing good neighborly relations with Poland.” Göring told Józef Lipski, the Polish envoy to Berlin, who was back in Warsaw for the occasion, that Germany would have to expand, but not at Polish expense, and that Poland might acquire more Lithuanian territory in any deal over the Polish Corridor. At a reception in his honor, Göring tried to prove a lack of aggression toward Poland by pointing out that, for Germany, creating a common border with the USSR would be “highly dangerous.” At the former tsarist family hunting grounds in the Białowieza (Belovezh) Forest, in the presence of two Polish generals, Göring “almost proposed an anti-Soviet alliance, and a joint march on Moscow,” according to the Polish record. “Ukraine would be a Polish sphere of influence, while northwestern Russia would go to Germany.” Göring conveyed something similar in his audience with President Piłsudski, even offering that the marshal could command a joint Polish-German attack on the USSR. The elderly president answered that Poland, having a 600-mile border with the Soviet Union, needed peace.¹⁹⁷

Public knowledge of Göring’s visit, combined with the secretiveness of its substance, sparked all manner of speculation.¹⁹⁸ On January 30, Stalin had Tukhachevsky—who had a sky-high profile abroad—deliver a policy speech to the 2,000 delegates of the 7th USSR Congress of Soviets. He declared that the Red Army was concentrating soldiers in the Far East and, in general, was a force not to be underestimated, revealing for the first time that the military budget had risen to more than 5 billion rubles—10 percent of total expenditures—and was projected to reach 6.5 billion in 1935. In fact, 1934 outlays had amounted to a gargantuan 5.8 billion (as compared with 417 million a decade before), and internal projections for 1935 were 7.5 billion.¹⁹⁹ But even the deliberately lowball figures were impressive. Tukhachevsky added, accurately, that troop strength had increased to 940,000. “We are working for the development of mobility and daring, for the development of initiative, independence, persistence—to put it crudely, ‘nerve,’” he explained of the new military doctrine, adding that commanders accustomed since the civil war to cavalry had had to “adjust to a new level, to be able to utilize the mobility of aviation and our mechanized troops and tanks. [It] is not so simple.” Both when he had first appeared on the dais and after he finished, the entire hall stood in applause for a good long time. “The ovation was marked out from others by its force and sincerity,” one attendee recalled. “Tukhachevsky was a good orator, and his speech stirred the audience to its depths.”²⁰⁰ The rousing account of Red Army might was published in Pravda (January 31) along with a photograph of Stalin, Voroshilov, and other politburo members listening to Tukhachevsky.²⁰¹

LITTLE BLACKBERRY

Nikolai Yezhov, along with Agranov, was the point man on the Kirov assassination fallout. Stalin convened a one-day Central Committee plenum on February 1, 1935, to formalize Yezhov’s appointment as a Central Committee secretary. Officially, he had been born (1895) to a working-class family in industrial St. Petersburg, but he hailed from Mariampol, in tsarist Lithuania, and his father was a musician, then a forest warden, brothel (“tearoom”) owner, and housepainter. His mother was the maid of the musical ensemble’s conductor and either an ethnic Lithuanian or a Russian who grew up in Lithuania. (Yezhov spoke Lithuanian and Polish, which he hid.) Having completed only first grade, he went to the imperial Russian capital at age eleven to apprentice to a tailor, before signing on to the Putilov Works and then being conscripted. He joined the Bolshevik party in 1917 (before October) and served as a military commissar during the civil war, after which his star rose as a regional party functionary in Tatarstan, then in Mari-El (east-central Russia), where he provoked anger for running roughshod over the local ethnics, and then in the Kazakh steppe (Semipalatinsk).²⁰² Yezhov enjoyed playing guitar, composing verse, reading—he had been dubbed Kolya the Book Lover—and building model ships.²⁰³ He was nervous and shy, and developed a reputation as mild-mannered, but he stood out for his uncommon energy.²⁰⁴ In 1927, Ivan Moskvin, the head of the Central Committee’s assignments and records department, had brought Yezhov into the central apparatus (they had met in the hotel at the 14th Party Congress). “I don’t know a more ideal worker, or rather executive,” Moskvin wrote to his son-in-law. “If you entrust him with anything, you need not check up: you can be sure, he will do it. Yezhov has only one fault, admittedly a fundamental one: he doesn’t know where to stop. . . . And sometimes one has to keep an eye on him in order to stop him in time.”²⁰⁵

Yezhov displaced his mentor Moskvin as head of assignments and records.The dictator had taken a shine to him, nicknaming him the Little Blackberry (Yezhevichka), and allowed him to attend politburo sessions, oversee personnel in the economy, and help run the orgburo.²⁰⁶ In late 1933, the émigré Socialist Herald had published a revealing essay on “the dictator’s inner circle” that ridiculed Yezhov. “Short in stature, nearly a dwarf, with thin curved legs, an asymmetric face, bearing the marks of his birth (his father was a hereditary alcoholic), with evil eyes, a thin squeaky voice, and a severely sarcastic tongue,” read the profile, calling him “a typical representative of the Petersburg lower-foreman type, whose determining character trait was rage against those born in better circumstances . . . enormous rage against the intelligentsia, including the party intelligentsia.”²⁰⁷ The ridicule confirmed Yezhov’s meteoric rise. Now a Central Committee secretary, he enjoyed a grand office on Old Square, on the top floor near the dictator’s, and use of a three-story villa with a private cinema, tennis court, nanny, and staff, in Meshcherino, the prerevolutionary artists’ and writers’ colony on the Pra River just outside Moscow. (Yezhov had divorced his first wife and married Yevgeniya Feigenberg Khayutina Gladun, a social climber whom he met at a government resort in Sochi—it was her third marriage—and she began to convene literary salons.)²⁰⁸

Stalin also promoted Chubar and Mikoyan, longtime candidate members of the politburo, to full membership, giving them the voting slots of Kirov and Kuibyshev. Zhdanov and Eihe became candidate politburo members.²⁰⁹ On February 27, 1935, Kaganovich replaced Andreyev as transport commissar, who became a Central Committee secretary. The railways had long been a bottleneck, and others posted there had not fared well (including Andreyev). On February 28, Stalin convened another one-day Central Committee plenum to formalize Andreyev’s promotion. Khrushchev got Kaganovich’s post as head of the Moscow party. Yezhov was put in charge of party personnel and local party organizations and freed from overseeing industry and managing the orgburo (responsibilities transferred to Andreyev). Yezhov also took over chairmanship of the party Control Commission from his mentor Kaganovich.²¹⁰ In a word, Kaganovich’s protégés in the apparatus became Stalin’s, and instead of the powerful post of de facto second secretary, held first by Molotov and then Kaganovich, Stalin now had a troika of three younger apparatchik deputies: Yezhov, Zhdanov, and Andreyev, of whom only Andreyev had met him before 1917.²¹¹ The most frequent visitors to Stalin’s Kremlin apartment for meals were now Molotov, Voroshilov, Kaganovich, Mikoyan, and Andreyev.²¹² But the Little Blackberry spent more and more time in Stalin’s office.

SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT

Henri Barbusse’s Stalin: A New World Seen Through One Man came out in French in February 1935. The Frenchman was the sole foreign intellectual who had met Stalin both recently and in the past (1927, 1932, 1933, 1934), and at both his office and his apartment.²¹³ His draft manuscript had been submitted for review to the Soviet functionary Stetsky, who faced a dilemma: the book not only mentioned Trotsky, but also portrayed him as a thinker, while not portraying Stalin as such.²¹⁴ In a delicate dance to avoid alienating Barbusse, Stetsky managed to obtain changes. “Stalin is the Lenin of our day,” the final text felicitously stated. “Stalin is a person with a scholar’s mind, a worker’s figure, and a simple soldier’s dress.” Barbusse portrayed the cult, much maligned in Western Europe, as a natural phenomenon arising from the depths (“If Stalin believes in the masses, the masses believe in him”), and humanized the dictator. “It is not so much that his expression is a little wild as that there seems to be a perpetual twinkle in his eye,” Barbusse wrote. “He laughs like a child,” and “people who laugh like children love children.”²¹⁵

Barbusse made his motivations plain, writing that “every state except one is moving through fascism towards ruin.” But his knowledge of Soviet realities was dim.

Collective farms had stabilized, and the size of the harvests improved, in part from belated mechanization, in part from fortunate weather, but also from regime concessions to the farmers, who had been allowed to maintain “household plots” and personal cows, pigs, sheep, and chickens (though not horses, a sore point). In the Grand Kremlin Palace from February 11 to 17, 1935, the regime convened a Second all-Union Congress of Collective Farm Shock Workers, attended by 1,433 delegates, the majority of whom were not party members. Crop growers, herders, and tractor drivers were given the floor.²¹⁶ Maria Demchenko, of the Comintern Collective Farm in Kiev province, pledged to harvest 500 centners of sugar beets per hectare (“We must bombard the country with sugar”), which the regime made into a “movement” of 500ers (the average at her farm was 245). Stalin did not deliver a formal speech, but came and went all seven days. “Iosif Vissarionovich,” Demchenko told the delegates, “laughs with us, converses with us, shares his thoughts with us on how to work on the collective farm and how we can live better.”²¹⁷ One Kazakh tractor driver, Beken Tankin, a former nomad whose Russian was shaky, had been put in the position of chairing one of the nine sessions and became bewildered when delegates started shouting “Hurrah!” The ovation persisted. Finally, someone came up from behind and turned Tankin around: Stalin had reentered the congress presidium. Smiling, the dictator pointed to a button on the table for Tankin to press for quiet. “I’ll go home to my collective farm,” he said to himself, “with something to talk about.”²¹⁸

Delegates “elected” a commission of 170 members to consider a new charter for collective farms drafted by the Central Committee agriculture department.²¹⁹ At the commission, on February 16, Stalin went through the text point by point, grandly asserting that members were not taking into account the interests of collective farmers. Instead of the 0.10–0.12 hectare for household plots some people were recommending, he proposed 0.25 to 0.5, and even up to 1 hectare in some regions, depending on conditions, as well as up to one cow and two calves, one sow and its progeny, up to ten sheep and goats, unlimited poultry, and twenty bee-hives. “Comrade Stalin,” Kalinin objected, “we do not have enough land.” Voroshilov interjected that those getting 0.5 hectare would in any case be “a minority.” Stalin disagreed: “Our country is big, the conditions are very various.”²²⁰ He also recommended maternity leave of two months (at half average pay), a nod to the outsized role that ambitious women such as Demchenko played.²²¹ The final charter, approved on February 17, granted the leave, personal livestock, and household plots of the size Stalin suggested, and the press let the rural laborers know who was responsible for the ostensible largesse.²²² In fact, Stalin despised the household plots, and his regime strove to contain them.²²³

One contemporary émigré analyst deemed the 1935 household-plot-size concessions a “collective farm NEP,” but still likened the collective farms to the Gulag system, only larger.²²⁴ The state dominated the grain trade, imposing very heavy quotas and very low state prices, paying collective farmers subsistence wages, predominantly in kind, and forcing them to work in brigades—a demotion from peasant to laborer, which encouraged dependency and sloth.²²⁵ The regime also imposed unpaid obligations for roadwork, timber felling, and hauling, and required rural laborers (unlike urban workers) to deliver quotas of meat, milk, and eggs from their household plots, even if they did not own a cow or livestock. But after all the blood and tears of dekulakization, the new charter belatedly conceded legal entry into collective farms to former kulaks, albeit supposedly only “after a strict check to ensure that wolves in sheep’s clothing were not getting in on the pretext of being reformed characters.”²²⁶ The Soviet village ended up stratified, with rich and poor, based on bureaucratic position.²²⁷

“FORMERS”

Three women in their early twenties who worked as cleaning personnel in the Kremlin had sat down to “tea” and gossiped. One supposedly said, “Stalin has people do the work for him—that’s why he’s so fat. He has servants and luxuries.” The second: “Stalin killed his wife. He’s not Russian but Armenian, very evil, and never looks at anyone with a nice glance.” The third: “Comrade Stalin gets a lot of money and he misleads us, saying that he only makes 200 rubles [per month].” Rudolf Peterson, the Kremlin commandant—who had been one of the first to see Nadya’s body after she shot herself and was said to have given her vanished suicide note to Stalin—passed a report of these conversations to Yenukidze, who did nothing.²²⁸ But another denunciation came forward, and on January 20, 1935, the NKVD’s Pauker, Georgy Molchanov, and Genrikh Lyushkov, all of whom were involved in the investigation of Kirov’s murder on the NKVD’s watch, conducted interrogations. Yagoda sent Stalin a report that day about cleaning personnel who were said to belong to “a counterrevolutionary group” in the Kremlin.²²⁹

Yezhov, meanwhile, had invited the dictator to join him at a closed-door operational gathering of all NKVD central and provincial bosses on February 3; Stalin accepted, and delivered a speech on vigilance.²³⁰ At the gathering, Agranov contradicted the official line on the Kirov murder, stating, accurately, that “Nikolayev was gripped by ecstasy over fulfilling an historical mission, comparing himself to Zhelyabov and [Alexander] Radishchev.” Agranov went on to issue a mea culpa: “We did not succeed in proving that the ‘Moscow Center’ knew and prepared a terrorist act against comrade Kirov.”²³¹

In the testimony of Kremlin employees, each person mentioned other names, leading to new arrests, and on February 5, Yagoda sent Stalin a report with interrogation protocols containing confessions of private complaints about daily life and a lack of democracy, as well as “Trotskyite interpretations of Lenin’s so-called Testament” and speculation about how Stalin’s wife had really died.²³² While interrogating Kremlin janitors, the NKVD heard about some daughters of former nobles who worked as librarians in the Kremlin, transporting books back and forth from the private residences. Yagoda’s power ended at the Kremlin walls—inside, Yenukidze’s central executive committee apparatus and Voroshilov’s defense commissariat ruled—and the NKVD chief evidently made professions that he could not be responsible for the safety of the leadership with such women going about using special passes. Testimony was spun into the existence of an “aristocratic nest” around Nina Rozenfeld, an ethnic Armenian, educated at gymnasium, who was said to have boasted of her descent from an ancient Muscovy clan. (One arrested colleague defended her as “a Soviet-inclined person.”)²³³ Stalin read, numbered, and marked up the voluminous interrogation protocols with queries or comments. On one, where it was noted that the accused had initially been a cleaning lady before becoming a Kremlin librarian, he underlined the sentence and wrote, “Ha-ha, cleaner-librarian?”²³⁴

These were indeed small fry.²³⁵ Nonetheless, on February 14, the politburo substituted the NKVD for the central executive committee as the defense commissariat’s partner for oversight of the Kremlin.²³⁶ The NKVD took over the reconstruction of the Grand Kremlin Palace’s Andreyev and Alexandrov halls and of the Sverdlov Hall in the Imperial Senate. This looked like a triumph for Yagoda, but on February 22, the politburo directed Yezhov, not Yagoda, to conduct a verification of the central executive committee apparatus. NKVD interrogation protocols in the “Kremlin Affair” had to be sent to him.²³⁷ Zinoviev, meanwhile, had been hauled out of prison and re-interrogated in Moscow on February 19 in connection with the Kirov murder. “To Kamenev belongs the winged formulation on how ‘Marxism is now whatever is convenient for Stalin,’” he testified. “Kamenev and I did discuss Stalin’s removal, but we thought only in terms of his being replaced in the post of general secretary. . . . I did not hear declarations by Kamenev about a terrorist act in the struggle with the party leadership.”²³⁸ Yezhov had work to do. Soon the politburo would formally task him with reviewing the statutes governing the NKVD: further pressure on Yagoda.²³⁹

Yezhov praised Zakovsky, whose Leningrad Chekists were poring over prerevolutionary archives, address lists, and phone books, stringing together people like beads to form counterrevolutionary “organizations” of former nobles, merchants, factory owners, rentiers, old regime functionaries, priests, and family members.²⁴⁰ Zakovsky had been a Red Guard protecting Smolny during the October Revolution, and his Cheka service dated from its founding, in December 1917 (he was said to have been invited to join by Dzierżyński). He had completed just two years of schooling, yet he was credited with compiling the internal NKVD training textbook. He had reported to Yagoda on the more than 11,000 “former people” employed in the city’s party and government institutions.²⁴¹ Yagoda, in a note to Stalin (February 26), objected to indiscriminate roundups of “formers,” unless they were proven counterrevolutionaries, because of the potential for a negative press campaign abroad, but Stalin brushed the memo aside (“to the archive”).²⁴² Beginning on February 28, Zakovsky and his minions began “cleansing” the former people, the universities, and the border zones, requesting authorization for ever more arrests in “unmasked” conspiracies and boasting of preventing terrorist acts against the new Leningrad party boss, Zhdanov.²⁴³

FOREIGN MODELS

Bulgakov’s The Days of the Turbins had been returned to theaters, partly as a result of Gorky’s determination and political weight.²⁴⁴ By some accounts, Stalin saw it fifteen times.²⁴⁵ In 1935, he sent the fourteen-year-olds Vasily and Artyom to see it. Artyom recalled not comprehending the play, because it showed no Reds, only Whites, and the latter fought among themselves. Stalin explained that “between the Reds and the Whites there was a spectrum from almost Red to almost White, so that the people who fight in the play, some are very White, others a bit pink, but not Red. They could not get along, so they fought. Never think that you can divide people between purely Red and purely White. That is only leaders, the more literate, conscious people. The masses follow these or those, frequently confusing them, and do not go where they are supposed to go.”²⁴⁶

Stalin approved an International Film Festival in Moscow (February 21–March 2, 1935) and allowed the world-renowned Eisenstein to chair the jury. Captions under photographs of the Soviet participants read “director,” while Eisenstein’s read “Extraordinary World-Class Director,” but speakers pointedly asked why he had not made a film in six years, accusing him of silence about Soviet achievements.²⁴⁷ Walt Disney animations—Three Little Pigs, Peculiar Penguins—were featured (and, before the year was out, shown to the Soviet public).²⁴⁸ An American film about Mexico called Viva, Villa! was also screened, prompting the poet Alexander Bezymensky to accuse Jolly Fellows of having plagiarized its music from this film. This spurred renewed ideological attacks against mere laughter. “Jolly Fellows creates the impression that some bourgeois directors sneaked into the studios at night and secretly shot the film using a Soviet stage set,” a French critic remarked, as quoted in the Soviet press.²⁴⁹ Stalin ordered Mekhlis at Pravda to defend Shumyatsky, and the attack dog editorialized, without irony, that “both editors [of Izvestiya and Literary Newspaper] have apparently forgotten the elementary rules of decency essential to Soviet newspapers.”²⁵⁰

At the concluding ceremony in the Columned Hall of the House of Trade Unions, Leningrad Film took first prize, primarily for Chapayev; The Last Billionaire by the French-born René-Lucien Chomette, known as René Clair, took second; and Disney third.²⁵¹ Clair’s film, a commercial flop in France, portrays a nearly bankrupt fictional European kingdom (“Casinaria”) that begs for help from the earth’s richest man (“Monsieur Banco”), who, upon arrival, is accidentally hit in the head and awakens a babbling imbecile. Casinaria soon becomes a dictatorship.²⁵²

Certain types of foreign literature were being translated, and, once in Russian (or another Soviet language), they could be incorporated, alongside Lev Tolstoy, into the Soviet canon as “classics of world literature.” This included Cervantes, Molière, Balzac, Goethe, and especially Shakespeare, all of whom were often translated freely, rather than literally.²⁵³ “Shakespearize More!” (an exhortation credited to Marx) had been revived, with propagandists characterizing him as a “people’s bard.”²⁵⁴ For a March 1935 international theater festival in Moscow—Bertolt Brecht, Kurt Eisler, and Edward Gordon Craig participated—the featured Soviet entrant was Shakespeare’s King Lear, which had premiered at the Moscow State Jewish Theater in Yiddish, with Solomon Mikhoels playing Lear.²⁵⁵ Of course, Lear had lost all his territory and descended into insanity.²⁵⁶

TAKE CARE

Local officials all around the Union were reporting to Stalin on steel, chemicals, military hardware. Beria was reporting on Baku oil and Georgian rare metals, the boost in manganese output at Chiatura, the performance of the Tiflis railway shops now named for Stalin, and the output of new plants: the Tiflis machine-tool factory, now named for Kirov; Zestafoni Ferroalloy Plant; Inguri Pulp and Paper.²⁵⁷ Lakoba’s reports concerned tea, citrus, tobacco, and geraniums. He sent crates of tangerines and lemons to Stalin and Orjonikidze in Moscow. But Abkhazia’s resorts left a lot to be desired. “Authority, comrades, does not arise by itself; it needs to be won. It arises where living people get things done, not from books, not from formulas,” he had told the 7th Congress of Soviets of the Abkhaz autonomous republic in March 1935. “You know, comrades, in resort construction we still look very weak.. . . . We have not managed to reestablish our old resorts fully.”²⁵⁸ Nonetheless, the Abkhaz autonomous republic was awarded the Order of Lenin, partly for tobacco production (which was largely the work of family farms, not collectives).²⁵⁹

As the NKVD interrogated ever more Kremlin personnel, Yenukidze’s name inevitably came up.²⁶⁰ Well liked, he ran a regime of favors, doling out unique state resources and using his status as Stalin’s intimate to take care of old friends and solve sticky matters involving elite households.²⁶¹ The fifty-eight-year-old had never married and had not himself moved into the Kremlin, continuing to live in the Metropole, where the central executive committee had had its original offices, but if he was trying to keep his bedding of underage females out of sight, he failed. During testimony, some arrested Kremlin employees mentioned Yenukidze’s “girls.” Irina Gogua, another Kremlin employee who fell into the NKVD’s net, was the daughter of an old Menshevik who had gone to school with Yenukidze in Tiflis. “He was a fantastic guy, very charming, a flaming redhead who, thanks to graying, had become such a soft blond,” she would recall of Yenukidze. “True, his face was pockmarked, even more so than Iosif Vissarionovich’s. . . . You see, it was a paradox. He was accused of debauchery, devil knows what. But he was a very warm person. He had one quality: he hated to say no, he helped people, independent of who they were. He had one weakness: girls who married his closest friends with whom he would fall in love.”²⁶²

What really got Yenukidze into trouble was his quiet disbursal of state funds to help the often destitute families of non-Bolshevik revolutionaries from the underground years, former Communist party oppositionists (Kamenev’s relatives), even former nobles (like himself) for whom he found jobs in the sprawling central executive committee. Kirov’s assassination had made such actions especially sinister but, protected by Voroshilov, Yenukidze was merely demoted on March 3, 1935, to a position in the central executive committee of the South Caucasus.²⁶³ Ivan Akulov, USSR procurator general, became secretary of the central executive committee; Andrei Vyshinsky took over as USSR procurator general.

The Kirov and Kremlin Affair investigations were now running in parallel. In Leningrad on March 10, Draule was tried and executed, along with her sister and brother-in-law; there was no public announcement.²⁶⁴ The next day, a secret NKVD circular observed that enemies had been smashed mercilessly but as a result had “gone deep underground,” so operatives had to dig deeper to find them.²⁶⁵ In Moscow, in further testimony (March 11), Nina Rozenfeld was said to have attributed Nadya Alliluyeva’s death to differences over party policy, while complaining about the removal of Zinoviev and Kamenev and a lack of democracy. Rozenfeld happened to be the former wife of Lev Kamenev’s brother Nikolai, and their son, Boris N. Rozenfeld, was labeled a Trotskyite.²⁶⁶ Nikolai Kamenev had been arrested, and found to have painted watercolors of Stalin. Finally, Lev Kamenev was interrogated (March 21) and asked about his brother, who Lev was told had confessed to planning to kill Stalin. Lev Kamenev said that after the arrests of the Zinoviev followers Ivan Bakayev and Grigory Yevdokimov in the wake of the Kirov murder, an agitated Zinoviev had come to him expressing fears of an action like Germany’s Night of the Long Knives against him and others. Stalin circulated the document to Molotov, Kaganovich, Voroshilov, and Yezhov, writing, “Idiotic interrogation of Kamenev.”²⁶⁷

Stalin had the politburo approve by telephone poll a secret party circular absolving Yenukidze of knowing of plans to assassinate the dictator, but deeming him to have been used by the class enemy. His demotion to the South Caucasus was judged too light a punishment.²⁶⁸ Gorky was following press accounts of the Kremlin Affair. “What is striking is not so much the behavior of Yenukidze, but the shameful indifference to this behavior of the party-ites,” he wrote ingratiatingly to Stalin (March 23, 1935). “Even the non-party people long ago knew and spoke about how the old man was surrounded by nobles, Mensheviks, and, in general, shitty flies.” Gorky asserted that the strangely well-informed émigré Socialist Herald got its inside information from Yenukidze’s staff. “The closer we get to war, the stronger will be the efforts of these jokers of all suits to try to assassinate you, in order to decapitate the Union,” Gorky stated in his letter, which Stalin circulated to the politburo. “This is natural, for the enemies see well: there is no one who could take your place. With your colossal and wise work, you have inculcated in millions of people trust and love to you—that’s a fact. . . . Take care of yourself.”²⁶⁹

Also on March 23, after protracted negotiations, the Soviets sold the Chinese Eastern Railway to Manchukuo for the convertible currency equivalent of 140 million yen, a fraction of its market (let alone strategic) value.²⁷⁰ (Stalin’s regime left behind a network of undercover agents.) On the same day, the politburo decreed that the payment would be used for more equipment purchases in the United States, Britain, and Germany for Moscow’s ZIS Factory, which manufactured heavy trucks and, soon, luxury sedans.²⁷¹ Chinese patriots said the railroad was not the Soviets’ to sell, and the Nationalist government in Nanking lodged an official protest. Chiang Kai-shek had opened semiofficial negotiations for a friendship treaty with Japan’s representative, who proposed a Sino-Japanese alliance. As a dedicated anti-Communist, Chiang would have been a natural ally of Japan (as well as Germany) against the Soviet Union.²⁷² But “Chiang Kai-shek did not go for this,” the Soviet chargé d’affaires in China had reported of the alliance proposal. Chiang did raise the Japanese legation to the status of an embassy, and the two countries announced an exchange of ambassadors. This provoked anti-Japanese protests in Tientsin and Peking. Japan, leaping on the “insult” of the protests, had its garrison in Tientsin expel the Chinese Nationalist authorities and soldiers from Hebei province, and then from the Chahar province of Inner Mongolia, as it spread its control over northern China. Japan would also ramp up pressure on the Soviet satellite Outer Mongolia.²⁷³ The Soviet chargé d’affaires, in the same report about Chiang, warned that another faction in the Nanking government “favors an alliance” with Japan.²⁷⁴

JOYRIDE

On April 22, 1935, after concluding meetings in the Little Corner at 7:00 p.m., Stalin went downstairs to his apartment for supper. It was the birthday of Svetlana’s governess, and the relatives had come by. Stalin was said to be in a good mood. During the toasts, Svetlana said she wanted to ride on the new Moscow metro. Her governess, Maria Svanidze, and others were to accompany her and Vasily; Kaganovich sent the party with his deputy. Suddenly Stalin said he wanted to go, too. Molotov was phoned to join. “Everybody was terribly concerned,” Svanidze wrote in her diary. “There was a lot of whispering about the danger of such an outing without proper preparation.”

A now pale Kaganovich suggested that they wait until midnight, when the metro shut down. Stalin insisted they go immediately. They drove in three cars to Moscow’s Crimea Square and descended into the station, waiting for what turned out to be twenty minutes; a train arrived already packed. Workers decoupled the car with the motor and Stalin’s group was off, to Hunters’ Row, the station closest to the Kremlin, where he inspected the station and the escalator; onlookers erupted. Stalin ended up surrounded by well-wishers. Bodyguards and police had arrived and tried to bring order. The crowd smashed an enormous metal lamp. Svanidze was nearly smothered against a column. Vasily was scared for his life. Svetlana was so frightened, she stayed in the train car. We “were intimidated by the uninhibited ecstasy of the crowd,” Svanidze wrote. “Iosif was merry.”

This was an unstaged moment catalyzed by his daughter. Stalin reboarded, traveling to the end of the line, Sokolniki, where he was supposed to get into a waiting automobile, but he decided to stay on board and return to Smolensk Square, where no vehicles were waiting (the train beat them). He and his entourage went on foot toward the Arbat as rain descended and puddles formed. A car finally arrived. Svetlana and Vasily were taken to the Kremlin apartment, where Vasily “threw himself on the bed and cried hysterically.” Stalin headed to the Near Dacha. Evidently, his obsession with possible assassination was in abeyance that evening: regular passengers had been allowed to ride in the train carriage with him from Hunters’ Row.²⁷⁵ “Iosif smiled affectionately the whole time,” Svanidze wrote in her diary. “I think that, despite all his sobriety, he was touched by the people’s love and attention to their Supreme Leader. . . . He once said about the ovations offered to him that people need a tsar, that is, someone to revere and in whose name to live and labor.”²⁷⁶

•   •   •

COULD STALIN HAVE MURDERED HIS CLOSEST FRIEND? He was capable of anything.²⁷⁷ But who, precisely, would have carried out that mission for him? Medved, who was incompetent, and would himself go to his grave suspecting that Yagoda had organized the murder on Stalin’s behalf?²⁷⁸ Zaporozhets, who broke his leg, took no part in any operational matters after September 1934, and had left town on an extended holiday in the weeks leading up to the critical deed? Borisov, a near invalid who had gotten his bodyguard job only because he was of working-class origin and, for a time, had been a night watchman and was a faithful dog to Kirov? A mystery second gunman in the corridor, who eluded every single witness, as well as the lockdown imposed after the shots were heard? There is no evidence whatsoever that Stalin killed Kirov (despite the work of several commissions under Khrushchev aimed at discrediting the dictator). And there is copious evidence, recorded right before and after the assassination, that Nikolayev did it, and managed to pull it off because of his determination and shoddy NKVD security practices that were, ultimately, traceable to Kirov himself.²⁷⁹ Nikolayev had motive, and opportunity.²⁸⁰ He roiled with grievance and summoned resolve from revolutionary terrorist history and Soviet ideals of a workers’ state and social justice. He plotted out numerous attempts, all of which failed, until finally a combination of planning and luck gave him the chance to fulfill a wish to exact revenge and make history.

While Nikolayev reclaimed a sense of higher purpose from his despair, Stalin’s regime made the Kirov assassination into an epoch-defining event. Most people in Leningrad and elsewhere, living in communal apartments, barracks, and mud huts, were preoccupied with material hardship. Apparatchiks complained that the discussions they were ordered to oversee of Kirov’s murder were overtaken by the pending end of bread rationing and threatened price increases.²⁸¹ The end of rationing had generated significant anxiety and resentment.²⁸² All the while, conspiracy theories flourished: Medved had slipped Nikolayev a pass to Smolny; Chudov had ordered a hit to take Kirov’s place; foreign agents had penetrated the building; it was Stalin’s doing (a rumor that grew over time). Police informants hastened to capture or invent such gossip. In Leningrad: “I like brave men like Nikolayev who must have gone to a certain death.” “It’s clear not all the Zhelyabovs have disappeared in Rus; the struggle for freedom goes on.” “The murderer wanted good for the people, that’s why he killed Kirov.” In the miners’ region of Donetsk: “Kirov was killed; it’s not enough; Stalin should have also been killed.”²⁸³

Speculation that the affable provincial party leader constituted a threatening political rival to Stalin is without foundation.²⁸⁴ Similarly, the regime folklore that Yagoda’s NKVD had “resisted” the direction of the investigation was largely invented. Yagoda had no issues with framing Zinoviev and “Zinovievites,” a scenario that Stalin, in any case, did not come to immediately. The dictator drove an overkill response to the murder, relying not just on the hyper-ingratiating Yezhov, Agranov, and Zakovsky, but also on Yagoda. Yagoda had suggested the foreign angle—textbook Stalinist practice—calling from Stalin’s office the first night.²⁸⁵ It was Stalin who had chosen not to investigate Nikolayev’s visits and telephone calls to the German and Latvian consulates. The fabrications, moreover, exacerbated the professional degradation of the secret police, which enraged Stalin, and for which he had recently abolished the OGPU in favor of the NKVD. The fabrications also hurt the USSR’s reputation internationally, to which Stalin had become more sensitive. At the same time, it is wrong to assert that Stalin “took advantage” of the Kirov assassination. He needed no such pretext to act as he chose. He pushed for fierce revenge against “enemies” and prevention of recurrences out of anger, and loss.

One of Stalin’s prime fixations was confirmed: the NKVD was asleep on the job. In a city teeming with foreigners and presumed foreign agents, with innumerable “former people” and other presumed class enemies, with even much of the lower orders disaffected by the sacrifices of building socialism, Leningrad’s secret-operative department had only a short, pathetic list of potential terrorists—and did not even share that list with the bodyguard department.²⁸⁶ A parallel obsession of Stalin’s was also confirmed: an enemy terrorist in possession of a party card, taking advantage of ties to party members, had penetrated security with ease and assassinated a top leader.²⁸⁷ In fact, Nikolayev had been purged, for a time, but the episode had only rendered him more dangerous, just as Stalin was warning (the “class struggle” sharpened). But Stalin chose not to make this the object of the investigation and trials. Nikolayev’s individual terrorism—which had grown from his violated sense of worker empowerment and Communist justice—was altered, at Stalin’s behest, into the mythology that Zinoviev and Kamenev, both powerless, were somehow behind the assassination. Then Stalin remained bothered by their sentencing for creating a “moral atmosphere” conducive to terrorism, because it had fallen short of convictions for direct preparation in terrorist acts by his old critics or direct links to his arch-nemesis Trotsky, who remained out of reach in foreign exile.²⁸⁸

Stalin increasingly was alone. Not only had both of his wives died, but now his closest friend was gone. Henceforth he went to the steam bath alone. Relations with Orjonikidze had become strained, and Stalin’s ardor for Lakoba was cooling, partly as a result of Beria’s intrigues. Stalin’s newer associates, Andreyev, Yezhov, and Zhdanov, were minions, not social peers, and he was not socially close to the unlettered Kaganovich or the stiff Molotov. But Stalin had the Soviet state, which he had helped build into a major military power.²⁸⁹ Still, despite joining the League of Nations, the Soviet state was also to a considerable extent alone. And, more and more, the militarized state and its ruler were being stalked from afar by a nemesis the likes of which, inside the party, Stalin had never faced: Adolf Hitler.

CHAPTER 5 A GREAT POWER

They talk about it in Soviet institutions, factory smoking rooms, student dormitories, and commuter trains. The most widespread sentiment is the feeling of national pride. Russia has again become a Great Power whose friendship even such powerful states as France desire. . . . In Soviet institutions the philistine functionaries, silent for years, now speak confidently about national patriotism, about the historical mission of Russia, about the revival of the Franco-Russian alliance.

Émigré Socialist Herald, May 1935 ¹

FRANCE AND BRITAIN, to the west, and the Soviet Union, to the east, had a Hitler problem. All the powers were slowly coming to grips with the Nazi leader, whose turgid masterpiece, Mein Kampf (a crisp title suggested by his publisher), had been reissued after he became chancellor.² The prison-dictated autobiography, first published in 1925–26, had been issued in English translation only in 1933, and in abridged form, cleansed of “offensive” paragraphs; Britain’s foreign office possessed a single copy of an unexpurgated edition (which it misplaced for a time). A French translation had finally appeared only in 1934 (few French politicians read German).³ A Russian translation would be published only in 1935, and only in the Shanghai emigration.⁴ Soviet foreign affairs commissariat personnel, many of whom were Jewish, could read the original German with all the “Drang nach Osten” and “Judeo-Bolshevism” riffs.⁵ Still, people were unsure what to make of the book’s ravings in policy terms. Hitler’s calls for rearmament could be misread as standard German nationalism. His radical anti-Semitism could be misconstrued as in line with remarks by Kaiser Wilhelm II, who had blamed the Jews for the Great War.⁶ Even the Führer’s expansionist Lebensraum could be stretched to resemble a defensible, if emotional, reaction to the circumstance that so many German speakers had been left out of Bismarck’s “unified” Germany.

While Hitler exploited a national politics of salvation and an international politics of national self-determination, Stalin was conjuring up a domestic politics of siege and anticapitalist mobilization and an international politics of anti-imperialism. But he did no better than his British and French counterparts in taking the measure of the Nazi regime. Between January and March 1935, the newspaper Red Star published a series of articles about supposed tensions between Hitler and his Nazi entourage, on one side, and the German military on the other. The German army supposedly “sought to reestablish the old relations with Russia,” and German generals “foresee a military clash with France in the first instance.”⁷ Alongside this provocation—or was it a fantasy?—the Soviet war plan for the western theater still identified Poland as the main enemy, anticipating that Romania would join Poland’s side, but assuming that Germany, because it coveted Polish territory, would at least indirectly support Soviet defense by threatening Poland’s rear. Soviet intelligence, however, forwarded a report of intensified rumors of a Franco-German rapprochement, possibly leading to a larger bloc with Poland—supposedly Piłsudski’s dream—and maybe drawing in Finland, Hungary, Romania, even Italy.⁸ In fact, Poland had no intention of sacrificing its precious independence to the victor of a German-Soviet clash, continuing its neutrality toward both of its giant neighbors, along with separate alliances with France and Romania—in short, bilateralism, not multilateralism.⁹ This was a truth the British understood, the French regretted, Hitler relished, and Stalin never accepted.

Finally, during two unusually long sessions with the military men in the Little Corner (February 28, March 8), Stalin acknowledged reality.¹⁰ The regime resolved to be more forceful in standing up to Japan, and admitted that Germany might start a war against the Soviet Union not opportunistically, waiting for Japan to act, but on its own initiative.¹¹ Above all, the PR (Poland-Romania) war plan was displaced by a new GP (Germany-Poland) plan, in which Poland as well as Romania remained enemies, but only as auxiliaries: Nazi Germany eclipsed them.¹² Soviet diplomacy, predicated upon disruption of European solidarity and avoidance of commitments, was even slower to turn. Membership in the League of Nations had brought little, and negotiations for the regional security system known as the Eastern Pact were effectively dead, but time and again the politburo instructed the Soviet envoy Vladimir Potyomkin in Paris, “Do not rush ahead and thereby foster the misconception that we need the [Franco-Soviet bilateral alliance] more than the French. We are not as weak as some suggest.”¹³ By spring 1935, however, Soviet foreign policy more seriously contemplated securing the country against Nazi Germany.¹⁴ Stalin both countenanced and exerted a break on that shift, refusing to abandon pursuit of closer economic, and ultimately political, ties with Berlin. At the same time, he wanted the world to recognize that the country he led was a revived great power.

THE HITLER PROBLEM

British officials feared that an arms race would derail its fragile economic recovery, and that another war would no better solve the German problem than had the Great War. Hitler had invited foreign secretary Sir John Simon as well as Lord Privy Seal Anthony Eden to Berlin. On March 7, 1935, three days before the scheduled visit, London published a policy paper urging a sheepishly modest ₤11 million increase in military spending, citing German rearmament and bellicosity. Hitler developed a “cold,” and the visit was put off (“Those ruling England must get used to dealing with us on an equal footing”).¹⁵ On March 9, Göring assembled foreign military attachés to announce the existence of a German air force, which was prohibited by Versailles. On March 15, the French National Assembly debated a doubling of army service, from one to two years. Using this as a pretext, the next day, in a further flouting of Versailles, Hitler declared reintroduction of conscription for the Reichswehr—renamed the Wehrmacht—tripling its size to 300,000, which was to rise at some unspecified date to 550,000 (pundits predicted 3 million). Pravda prominently reported Nazi Germany’s actions.¹⁶ On March 17, representatives of France, Britain, Italy, and the Soviet Union discussed “protesting” Hitler’s actions at the League, but Britain and France demurred.¹⁷ That same day, Heroes’ Memorial Day in Germany, Hitler celebrated the rebirth of the German army in the State Opera House, and afterward staged a review of the Wehrmacht, effectively a military parade, to jubilant crowds.¹⁸ Belatedly, the Führer now deigned to receive Simon and Eden after all. The pair, rather than cancel in protest, paid the first visit by British high officials to Hitler as chancellor.

Hitler met them in the morning and the afternoon on both March 25 and 26, wearing a brown tunic with a red swastika armband, and launched with a monologue on the menace of Bolshevism and Soviet expansionism, insisting that he merely wanted to improve the welfare of the German people, who had been through a bitter fifteen years. He further declaimed that Germany’s exit from the League of Nations had been approved by 94 percent of the people, and that no one in Germany imagined annexing Austria, given the principles of state sovereignty and noninterference. He raised hopes for a bilateral naval pact by accepting that his fleet be limited to no more than 35 percent the size of Britain’s—three times the size of the Versailles restrictions—provided the Soviet Union did not expand its own military even more than it had. He also boasted that he had already achieved air parity with Britain, a falsehood that, when leaked, would set off a storm in London. “He emphasized his words with jerky, energetic gestures of the right hand, sometimes clenching his fist,” Hitler’s interpreter wrote. “He impressed me as a man who advanced his arguments intelligently and skillfully.”¹⁹

Hitler parried the Britons’ efforts to draw Germany into any multilateral agreement, such as a pact covering Austria or German readmission to the League of Nations. He noted that he “could give the British ministers the assurance that Germany would never declare war on Russia,” but added that Bolshevik doctrine, political aims, and military capabilities meant that “from Russia there was greater probability of war than from other countries. Moreover, the risks for Russia in a possible war were smaller than those for other powers. Russia could with impunity allow the occupation of great tracts of her territory as large as Germany; she could permit bombardment of great regions; she could therefore wage war without risking destruction.” It was a shrewd lament, and revealed Hitler’s deepest preoccupations.

A skeptical Eden voiced doubts that the Soviet Union would initiate a war. Hitler pronounced himself “firmly convinced that one day cooperation and solidarity would be urgently necessary to defend Europe against the Asiatic and Bolshevik menace.” The Führer thanked his guests and voiced hope that they had understood his efforts to raise his country to equal status with other nations. “The British ministers,” according to their record, avowed that they “would take away very pleasant memories of the kindness and hospitality shown them.”²⁰ In the evening, Hitler, in tails, hosted a banquet and concert at the Chancellery. Press accounts made it hard to discern what, if anything, had transpired. But the mere fact of the visit conveyed British readiness to renegotiate already imposed treaty obligations.

Stalin’s spies in London (the Irish John King, a cipher clerk at the foreign office, recruited in mid-February 1935) and in Rome (Francesco Constantini, an Italian employee at the British embassy) each delivered copies of the British foreign office record of the conversation, which ran to 23,000 words. But NKVD intelligence forwarded a severely condensed Russian translation of just 4,000 words, selecting only certain statements, which they removed from context, to form a new single stream. Their editing made it seem that the British had given Hitler carte blanche to annex Austria and schemed to instigate a Nazi-Soviet clash.²¹ “Mister Hitler,” the NKVD version of the British record had the Nazi stating, “would not sign an agreement he could not accept, but if he did take on obligations, he would never violate them.”²²

Being fed what he craved, Stalin’s suspicions were further incited by the fact that Eden, on the way to Berlin, had stopped over in Paris to sound out the French about readmitting Germany into the League and a possible arms limitation agreement. French foreign minister Pierre Laval, Stalin knew, had been noncommittal. “Laval told Eden France could renounce aid from the Little Entente and the USSR only if England signed a military alliance, a Franco-English military alliance,” according to an intelligence report about the conversation from a Soviet agent in the French foreign ministry, on which Stalin wrote, “Important. (Truthful.) My archive.”²³

Laval waved the Soviet card to break through British hesitation, but the British establishment was cool even to the “entente” it had signed with France in 1932, let alone to a real bilateral alliance.²⁴ British secret services, starved of resources, a bit old-fashioned, and uncoordinated, contributed to government ignorance, sometimes willful, of the capabilities, let alone the intentions, of Hitler’s regime.²⁵ Never mind that Hitler’s boasting that Germany would be a “world power” or nothing uncannily echoed British declarations about their own empire: many British officials believed or wanted to believe that German rearmament was, or would be, limited, gradual.²⁶ The fright over Hitler’s assertion of air parity did consolidate moves to some British rearmament.²⁷ But even those Brits who took a dark view of Nazi Germany remained eager to nip the developing arms race in the bud with some sort of accommodation.

STRANGE PEOPLE

Simon did not bother to travel to Moscow, instead returning home to report on Hitler to the cabinet; Eden was transported from the German border in a Soviet-supplied luxury rail coach equipped with a phonograph that played English jazz. From his car window he found Moscow drab, the people poorly dressed. On the day of his arrival, March 28, Litvinov and Soviet envoy to Britain Ivan Maisky received him, along with British ambassador Lord Chilston and Strang of the foreign office, who had been with Eden in Berlin. Eden conveyed that Hitler had harped on the Soviet threat and how Germany was the bulwark of “European civilization” and needed to be permitted to rearm. “We do not have the slightest doubt about German aggression,” Litvinov answered, according to the Soviet notetaker. “German foreign policy is inspired by two main ideas—revanche and domination in Europe.” Litvinov elucidated that the Soviets wanted “mutual assistance” against Germany and possibly Poland, according to the British notetaker. When the British offered congratulations on the Soviet sale of the Chinese Eastern Railway, Litvinov remarked, “In Japan, even in military circles, a tendency to maintain peaceful relations with the USSR is growing rapidly.”²⁸

That evening, Litvinov hosted a banquet in Eden’s honor at the Neo-Gothic Spiridonovka, an expropriated merchant’s mansion, and made a speech in English about the ominous state of the world.²⁹ The next day, the group returned to the German theme, with Eden again stressing that people in Britain were less convinced than those in the USSR of Nazism’s aggressiveness. Litvinov answered: “The original German plan had been to attack France and then to attack in the East. . . . The plan now apparently is to leave France alone, but to attack in the East only.”³⁰ Eden raised the perennial complaint about Comintern propaganda abroad. Litvinov, in the Soviet account, responded, “What in reality is ‘propaganda’? Is what the British press publishes about the USSR propaganda?”³¹ Eden and entourage were taken to view the collections of priceless jewels, silver sent from Queen Elizabeth to Ivan the Terrible, and the wedding dress of Catherine the Great in the Kremlin, which Eden called “Aladdin’s cave glittering with history.” They walked over to Catherine’s former Imperial Senate, where, in Molotov’s office, Eden became the first high Western official to be received by Stalin.

Eden opened with a statement about the integrity of Soviet state borders and said that the same should apply to the British empire, then asked for Stalin’s views on the current situation; Stalin replied by asking for Eden’s. He volunteered that matters were “anxious but not alarming,” and commended the League of Nations, which the world had lacked before the Great War. “I think the situation now is worse than in 1913,” Stalin answered, “because in 1913 there was only one center of military danger—Germany—and now there are two: Germany and Japan.” Contradicting the previous day’s remarks by Litvinov (present now), Stalin stated that “the situation in the Far East is extremely alarming,” and any recent “improvement temporary.”

The main topic was the Hitler problem. “We are not trying to isolate Germany,” Stalin explained. “On the contrary, we want to live with Germany in friendly relations. The Germans are a great and valiant people. We will never forget that. It was impossible to hold that people down for long in the chains of the Versailles Treaty. Sooner or later the German people had to liberate themselves from the Versailles chains.” He added that the Soviet Union would not defend Versailles but stressed that the way Germany overcame its pariah status mattered. He inquired of Eden’s impressions from his Berlin visit and, after a short, evasive answer, stated, “Strange people sit there in Berlin. For example, about a year ago the German government proposed a 200-million mark loan to us. We agreed and began negotiations, and after that the German government suddenly started spreading rumors that Tukhachevsky and Göring were secretly meeting to work out a joint plan to attack France. Is that really a state policy? That is trivial policy.”³² When Stalin asked whether, as Litvinov reported of his own conversations with Eden, Hitler had raved about a Soviet threat, Eden answered affirmatively. Stalin: “Well, you know, at the same time the German government has agreed, in connection with the loan, to sell us products about which it is awkward to talk openly—arms, chemicals, and so on.” Eden claimed to be incredulous. “Completely true,” Stalin replied. “Really, is this a state policy? Is this serious policy? No; trifling, clumsy people sit there in Berlin.”³³

Molotov invited everyone to the long table for tea. Eden, taking in the USSR map on the wall, remarked (according to the Soviet notetaker), “What a wonderful map and such a huge country.” Then Eden “looked at the place on the map occupied by Great Britain and added, ‘England is such a small island.’ Comrade Stalin looked at Great Britain and said, ‘Yes, a small island, but a lot depends on it. If this small island tells Germany, “We will not give you money, raw materials, metal,” peace in Europe would be guaranteed.’ Eden did not reply to this.”³⁴

LEVERAGE

The Red Army’s new GP war plan entailed significant advances, based on covert mobilization, surprise, and preemption. Rigorous internal debate had reaffirmed the value of the offensive and what were known as deep operations—that is, efforts that combined armor, motorized infantry, and close air support to smash through fixed enemy defenses, exploiting gaps to strike deep in the enemy’s rear and cause disarray, so as to preempt regrouping and counterattacking and to radically shorten the length of engagement.³⁵ Covert troop buildups for quick strikes and penetration, to disrupt enemy mobilization, made irrelevant traditional mobilization or declarations of war: attacking armies that had achieved tactical surprise could complete deployments of mobilized reserves on enemy territory. Preemptive seizure of Poland, to deny its use to Germany, now loomed large in the Soviet ability to disrupt the latter’s mobilization and counterattacking strength.³⁶

A shift to recognition of Germany as the enemy surfaced publicly on March 31, 1935, when Pravda published a sensational essay under Tukhachevsky’s byline: “The Military Plans of Today’s Germany.” Stalin had softened the title from the even more provocative “The Military Plans of Hitler.” Still, the article, quoting extensively from Mein Kampf, presenting figures on German rearmament, and spelling out new German war doctrines, exploded like a bomb.³⁷

Tukhachevsky believed mid-1930s Europe to be in a state similar to that on the eve of the Great War, with Poland playing the role of Austria-Hungary, but whereas Germany in that war had made the mistake of attacking France before Russia, this time around it would strike the USSR first, believing it needed to go after the stronger force, then take on a weak France. Stalin twisted this around: Germany’s first strike would be against France and Czechoslovakia, and only after an Anschluss with ethnic German regions would Hitler attack the USSR. Thus, Tukhachevsky’s article, in a new ending the dictator had inserted, stated that behind the “convenient screen” of anti-Soviet fulminations, Germany was really plotting to attack in the west (France and Belgium, for ore and ports) and in the center (the Polish Corridor, Czechoslovakia, Austria). Stalin further inserted that “in order to realize its plans of revanche and conquest, Germany by this summer will have an army of 849,000, that is, 40 percent larger than that of France, and almost as large as that of the USSR. (The USSR has 940,000, considering all types of forces.) And that will be despite the fact that the USSR has 2.5 times the population and ten times the territory.”³⁸ German diplomats indignantly protested to Moscow.³⁹

Eden’s Moscow visit came to a close. Pravda (April 1, 1935) and The Times of London (April 1) published a joint communiqué: “Mr. Eden and MM. Stalin, Molotov, and Litvinov were of the opinion that in the present international situation it was more than ever necessary to pursue the endeavor to promote the building up of a system of collective security in Europe . . . in conformity with the principle of the League of Nations.” Eden’s telegrams to London reported that Stalin showed “a remarkable knowledge and understanding of international affairs,” that Stalin’s “sympathies seemed broader than those of M. Litvinov,” and that “he displayed no emotion whatever except for an occasional chuckle or flash of wit.” The dictator had struck Eden as “a man of strong oriental traits of character with unshakeable assurance and control whose courtesy in no way hid from us an implacable ruthlessness.”⁴⁰ Later, in his memoirs, Eden amplified these impressions: “Stalin’s personality made itself felt without effort or exaggeration. He had natural good manners, perhaps a Georgian inheritance. Though I knew him to be a man without mercy, I respected the quality of his mind and even felt a sympathy which I have never been able entirely to analyze.” Eden concluded, “I have never known a man handle himself better in conference. Seldom raising his voice, a good listener, prone to doodling.”⁴¹

In Berlin on April 9, the Soviet trade representative, Kandelaki, and the Reichsbank president, Hjalmar Schacht, finally concluded the proposed loan agreement, which extended a 200-million-mark credit for five years, at 2 percent interest. Stalin had been right: the Germans, needing to supply the rearming Wehrmacht, had made the concessions. The USSR pledged to place new orders with German industrial firms, as well as to complete within eighteen months current orders for German industrial goods and contracts for German shipping. Soviet payments would take the form of 100 million marks in gold and foreign currency and 100 million marks’ worth of raw materials: naphtha, timber, furs, manganese ores.⁴² So much for Stalin’s warning to Eden not to supply Hitler. Sergei Bessonov, a counselor with a trade profile at the USSR’s Berlin embassy, who wore a Hitler mustache, reported to Moscow that “Schacht reiterated to both me and comrade Kandelaki that his course of rapprochement with the USSR was being carried out with the consent and approval of Hitler.”⁴³ Only now did the French cabinet approve going forward with a treaty with the Soviets; Laval informed Potyomkin and issued a public statement.⁴⁴

STAGING GROUNDS

On Red Square on May 1, 1935, upward of 30,000 tank drivers, artillerymen, cavalry, and infantry marched past the Mausoleum as 800 warplanes flew in a choreographed formation.⁴⁵ The next day, Voroshilov presided over the annual banquet for select participants in the Grand Kremlin Palace.⁴⁶ The palace had been built under Nicholas I and dedicated in 1849 as the residence of the tsars when they visited the old capital. Its construction had folded in parts of nine churches, including Moscow’s oldest extant structure, the Church of the Resurrection of Lazarus (1393), and the Palace of Facets (1491), which had been used by Ivan the Terrible. The 150-foot-high building had two stories, despite appearing to have a third (the upper floor contained two sets of windows). Its main entranceway opened to a stunning sixty-six-step staircase and a gigantic mural by Ilya Repin, “Alexander III Receiving Rural District Elders in the Courtyard of Petrovsky Palace” (1886), which depicted the strapping sovereign in full-dress uniform. The ground floor, facing the front façade, was taken up by the royal apartments (where Voroshilov lived). One floor up were five dazzling halls named for the High Orders of the empire: the St. George, the Vladimir, the Alexander, the Andreyev, and the Catherine. The Soviets had combined the St. Andrew and St. Alexander, creating a larger, plainer space for party congresses. A raised stage was added to the St. George’s Hall, the main venue for banquets, which boasted dazzling white marble, fifty-foot ceilings, eighteen columns bearing allegories of imperial Russian military victories, and hundreds of marble plaques with the names of military heroes.⁴⁷

Inside, no more than one in fifteen parade participants could be accommodated for an experience that would reverberate over a lifetime. Around 800 places could be set at tables in the St. George’s Hall, with spillover accommodated in the adjacent Facets (which could hold around 400) and the rose-marbled St. Vladimir Octagon, linking the two. Seats were preassigned, the most prestigious being those closest to Stalin’s table, known as the Presidium, where Molotov occupied seat number 2 and Voroshilov 3. Each table, holding twenty to thirty people, was piled with caviar, fish, game, fresh vegetables, and fruit, although the food could seem incidental to the finest-flavored vodkas, brandies, wines, and Crimean champagne. One or two NKVD officers in civilian dress sat at each table (identifiable by the glaring circumstance that they did not drink) and listened attentively to the conversations, but enough actresses and other eye candy were distributed about to counteract some of the intimidation. The well-lubricated affairs had been publicly, albeit laconically, reported in Pravda.⁴⁸ The imperial splendor—giant fireplaces and mirrors, chandeliers, antique furniture, parquet floors polished to a brilliant shine—stirred embarrassment in the worker and peasant state.⁴⁹ Stalin exhibited no such qualms.

N.B. (a thinly disguised Nikolai Bukharin) reported in Izvestiya that upon Stalin’s entrance “suddenly the applause, which grew like a snowstorm, covered everything, and became a blizzard, thunder, blustery spontaneous joy and ecstasy.” During the endless toasts, Stalin sipped red wine, a glass of mineral water nearby.⁵⁰ (Voroshilov preferred vodka; after each shot he would cut off a slice of butter from a mound and swallow it.)⁵¹ The dictator customarily delivered a speech in the form of his own toast, and now proposed that glasses be raised to the health of the Red Army rank and file (“Bolsheviks in the party and non-party”). Then, trailed by his entourage, he made the rounds, personally greeting attendees. Suddenly, a few exuberant types lifted him up and carried him about the hall, putting him down at each table for a toast. Ubiquitous NKVD guards in full-dress uniform had proved powerless in the face of the hall’s fervor and Stalin’s desire to soak it up.⁵²

At events like these, after the dictator and his retinue departed, the tables would be removed and functionaries and military officers in uniform approached the actresses and ballerinas to ask them for a dance.⁵³ Before exiting, Stalin might duck into the kitchen to congratulate the chefs, after which they—like his bodyguards, drivers, or film projectionists—would walk through fire for him.⁵⁴ But it was the artists at these events, often non-party members, whom he worked most to bend to his will. Stalin addressed them with the formal vy (“you”), paid attention to their performances amid the din, and invited some to drink at his table, inquiring whether they might have requests of him for themselves or their organizations. Relaxed, convivial, he engaged in freewheeling conversation.⁵⁵

Earlier that same day of May 2, the Soviet envoy to Paris had signed a mutual assistance pact with France—the Soviet Union’s first formal alliance. Pravda hailed it as a triumph.⁵⁶ It had taken nearly eight months of negotiations since the Soviet Union had been voted into the League of Nations. Article 2 stipulated “immediate aid and assistance” if either country became the victim of unprovoked attack and the Council of the League of Nations failed to reach a unanimous decision, but the “immediate” was diluted in an accompanying protocol that, at French insistence, left out any time limit to act while the council deliberated.⁵⁷ The treaty dumbfounded many Soviet Communist party members.⁵⁸ The Soviet press reported that Stalin approved of French imperialism’s military buildup “at the level consonant with its security.”⁵⁹ French domestic audiences were better prepared, thanks to a drawn-out public discussion. France’s ally Poland was angry, even though it shared responsibility for catalyzing the treaty.⁶⁰ In Hitler’s Chancellery, the reaction was incandescent rage. The Führer now obsessed over the “Bolshevization of France” and “Judeo-Bolshevik encirclement” of Germany the way Stalin obsessed over an “anti-Soviet imperialist bloc” and “capitalist encirclement.”

“CADRES DECIDE EVERYTHING”

On May 4, 1935, Voroshilov, with Stalin in attendance, was back presiding in the Grand Kremlin Palace amid a sea of dress uniforms, this time over the annual graduation of military academies. The defense commissar issued “an order” for everyone to fill their glasses, then toasted Stalin at length, stirring the standing hall to frenzy. The orchestra played a flourish. Molotov was next. “You already know, comrades, about our new success in the struggle for peace,” he said. “You already know from newspapers about the agreement on mutual assistance, which the Soviet Union has signed with one of the most visible powers of Europe—France. . . . The signing of the Soviet-French Agreement became possible because of the growth and strengthening of the power of our country and the force of our Red Army under the genius leadership of our party, comrade Stalin. Our enormous growth has become plain to our friends and to those whom it is impossible to call friends.” Molotov, along with Stalin, went up to Voroshilov and exchanged kisses.⁶¹ Stalin sounded his now habitual populism.

“Comrades, now, when our achievements are great in all branches of industry and governance—now it has become typical to speak a lot about leaders, bosses of the upper echelon, to credit the successes to them,” he stated. “This is incorrect.” The Soviet people had triumphed over backwardness, he continued, which had required “great sacrifices, great efforts, . . . and patience, patience.” Some had lacked stamina. “There is a saying, ‘Let bygones be bygones,’ but all the same, a person’s memory retains things.” Stalin rebuked those who, he remembered, had wanted to expend scarce resources on consumer goods and “all kinds of trifles,” instead of “tractors, automobiles, airplanes, tanks. . . . You will recall the declarations, from leaders of the Central Committee, that ‘you are embarking on adventurism’; you heard such speeches, indeed it was not only speeches. . . . Others threatened to kill some of us, they wanted to break apart the leadership. It’s plain as day we are people forged in fire, unbreakable, and did not retreat. (Stormy applause.)”

Stalin opened himself up: “It’s plain as day that, back then, we did not retreat; we are Bolsheviks, people, so to speak, of a special cut. Lenin forged us, and Lenin was a man who did not know and did not acknowledge fear; this man was our teacher, our educator, our father—this was a person who, the more enemies raged and the more opponents inside the party fell into hysterics, the more he gathered force and the more resolutely he went forward. We learned a bit from him, this person. . . . We did not retreat; we went forward to attack and smashed some people. I must admit, I also had a hand in that.”⁶²

He could not let the thought go: the fork in the road, supposedly either a more comfortable life, with small-scale, backward agriculture and no security, or large-scale mechanized farms and a socialist great power. “There were victims—it is true—some of us fell by the wayside, others from a bullet.” The country overcame its “famine of technology,” he said, using a resonant word. “But now we have a new famine: a famine of people. . . . If, earlier, technology decided everything, now people decide everything, because now we have the technology. . . . Cadres are the most valuable capital. Not everyone in our country understands this, unfortunately.” He told a story about his exile days in Turukhansk, how at the time of the spring flood, when a group went out to pilfer some of the giant pine logs being floated down the Yenisei, one man went missing, but no one bothered to look for him. “If a cow had disappeared, they would have gone searching, but a person perished, a trifle. . . . We do not value people. People can always be produced, but a mare, go try. (Stormy applause.)” ⁶³

Stalin, an avid gardener, had already been instructing officials to “cultivate people with care and attention, the way a gardener cultivates a beloved fruit tree,” a skill he had shown since his youth.⁶⁴ As the hall quieted again, he continued: “I drink to you, to the higher cadres of our Red Army, and wish you every success in the organization of the defense of our country, in the practical leadership of this defense, because you will lead it. We, here, will lead the speechifying, but you will lead the practical work. (Stormy applause.)” His toast concluded: “Only those good cadres who are not afraid and do not hide from difficulties, but overcome them. Only in the struggle with difficulties can one grow genuine cadres who are not afraid of difficulties. Then our army will be invincible. (Stormy applause of the entire hall. Everyone stands and addresses comrade Stalin with loud shouts of Hurrah and applause.)”⁶⁵

Stalin edited the above raw transcript with his stenographer on May 5, producing the version published in Pravda the next day, sharpening the key point, a shift in slogans from “Technology decides everything” to “Cadres decide everything.” ⁶⁶ The newspaper version enjoined officials to “show the greatest concern for our functionaries, ‘great’ and ‘small,’ . . . help them when they need support, encourage them when they show their first success, move them forward,” and warned, “We have a whole series of instances of soulless, bureaucratic and outright scandalous attitudes toward workers.”⁶⁷ On May 9, Stalin’s in-laws received permission to pay him a late-night visit at the Near Dacha. The dictator recalled his elder son Yakov’s attempted suicide and groused, “How could Nadya, condemning Yakov’s act, shoot herself. She did a very bad thing, she maimed me for life. Let’s drink to Nadya!” Those gathered got to reminiscing about the recent spontaneous metro ride, “the ecstasy of the crowd, the enthusiasm. Iosif again expressed his thought on the fetishism of the people’s psyche, on the striving to have a tsar,” Maria Svanidze noted. “Iosif was in a down mood; more accurately, he was preoccupied, something was occupying him to the depths, for which he had not yet found the answer.”⁶⁸

REVEALED PREFERENCES

Stalin’s tête-à-tête with Eden had yielded nothing. French foreign minister Laval, who, in signing the nominal alliance with Moscow, still hoped to goad London into a real one, belatedly traveled to Moscow, but conspicuously stopped in Warsaw, where he informed Beck that France’s new alliance was neither anti-German nor even pro-Soviet. In the Soviet capital for three days, beginning May 13, 1935, Laval met with Litvinov, Molotov, and Stalin.⁶⁹ The politburo had just decreed a Red Army expansion to 1.094 million troops by the end of 1936, and before the summer was out, Stalin would accept Voroshilov’s proposal to lower the conscription age by six months each year (dropping it from twenty-one to nineteen by 1939).⁷⁰ Laval was brought to a military airfield for a demonstration. When he appeared at the Bolshoi on May 15, he drew an ovation.⁷¹ But barely a week after the treaty with France had been signed, Litvinov informed the new German ambassador, Werner von der Schulenburg, that a bilateral nonaggression pact was urgently needed and would “lessen the significance of the Franco-Soviet alliance.”⁷²

Maisky, in London, was brought into the loop, and he recorded in his diary that Stalin had asked Laval about his recent trip to Poland and, when Laval proceeded to predict a shift in Warsaw away from pro-German attitudes, had cut him off: “You are friends of the Poles, so try to persuade them that they are playing a dangerous game that will bring disaster on themselves. The Germans will trick them and sell them short. They will involve Poland in some adventure, and when she weakens, they will either seize her or share her with another power.”⁷³

Stalin had something the tsar never had—control over a political party in France’s parliament—and he acceded to Laval’s request to stop the French Communists from opposing France’s military budget and its new two-year service law. French Communists turned on a dime.⁷⁴ Stalin, in return, told Laval that he thought it prudent to prepare for the worst and wanted to add concrete military obligations to their treaty. Reluctantly, Laval agreed to open talks after the Soviets reached an accord with France’s ally Czechoslovakia.⁷⁵ That very day in Prague, May 16, foreign minister Beneš and Soviet envoy Sergei Alexandrovsky signed a mutual assistance pact. Beneš had drafted the text. He, understandably, did not want to dilute France’s obligations and was anxious not to allow the Soviets to invoke the pact on their own and possibly draw Czechoslovakia into a Soviet-Polish conflict. The Soviets, predictably, were keen to have France retain the main burden and themselves avoid being drawn into a possible German-Czechoslovak conflict over Austria. And so, even though the Czechoslovak-Soviet treaty carried the same obligation of mutual assistance in the event of a third-party attack as did the Franco-Soviet pact, a special clause stated that the Soviets were obliged to act only if the French fulfilled their obligations first.⁷⁶

Laval, again, stopped in Poland, where Piłsudski had died of liver cancer on May 12, 1935. “Stalin,” Laval told one Polish confidant, “is wise, cold, detached, and ruthless.” To another he said, “Oh, oh! Very strong. He is a grand figure, but an Asiatic conqueror type, a species of Tamerlane.”⁷⁷ At Piłsudski’s funeral, in Kraków (May 18), Laval assured Göring, who was representing Hitler, of France’s good intentions. Göring, for his part, renewed his wooing of the Poles with tall tales of Soviet air bases about to appear in Czechoslovakia.⁷⁸ In Berlin, at St. Hedwig’s Cathedral, in a sensational gesture, Hitler attended a holy mass, with a symbolic coffin draped in a Polish flag in honor of the deceased Polish president. On May 21, in another long speech to the Reichstag, the Führer held out the prospect of nonaggression pacts with all of Germany’s neighbors except Lithuania (“What else could I wish for other than calm and peace?”). He criticized the Franco-Soviet treaty, while stating in a moderate tone that, in the matter of rearmament, Germany expected to be treated equally by Britain.⁷⁹

Soviet military intelligence, meanwhile, had suffered another self-inflicted disaster by violating tradecraft yet again, recruiting agents among Communists under police surveillance—this time in Denmark, which ran the Soviet agents in Nazi Germany. Danish police had gone looking for a suspected spy on charges of raping a chambermaid (possibly an invented pretext) and netted the current and former station chiefs for Germany, as well as cash, fake passports, and codes. In early May, over several sessions in the Little Corner with Voroshilov, among others, Stalin promoted Semyon Uritsky from deputy head of the tank armor directorate to chief of military intelligence, retaining Artuzov as deputy head. (Artuzov would be replaced on May 21 as concurrent head of NKVD espionage by his deputy, Abram Slutsky.) Stalin told the Jewish Uritsky to recruit operatives and agents among ethnic Russians, Ukrainians, Belorussians, Latvians, and Jews, but to avoid Poles, Finns, Estonians, Hungarians, and Austrians. As spies in the field risked their lives to combat fascism, Uritsky went to war to force out Artuzov, seething that he “would be the idiot with the genius deputy.”⁸⁰

CONNECTING THE DOTS

All this while, Stalin was reading interrogation protocols about elaborate terrorist “centers” of cleaning ladies and librarians plotting his assassination. By now, only nine persons hired by Yenukidze remained on the Kremlin staff.⁸¹ On May 12, 1935, Yagoda had sent Stalin proposals for punishment of the 112 people who had been arrested in the Kremlin Affair. Yagoda left blank Lev Kamenev’s sentence; Stalin wrote in ten years for him, and execution instead of ten years for Nina Rozenfeld.⁸² The next day, Yenukidze was named central executive committee plenipotentiary for the resorts group in the North Caucasus, which included elite Kislovodsk, second after Sochi.⁸³ Stalin also dispatched a secret circular to all party organizations announcing a party card verification campaign to “introduce Bolshevik order in our house.”⁸⁴ Over the years, 200,000 duplicate cards had been issued for those reported lost or stolen. Nearly 15,000 party cards in the Donbass and 13,000 in Central Asia were still unaccounted for. (Several months later, the verification campaign would miss its completion deadline, inciting Stalin to irate charges of “family-ness,” or self-protection, by colluding local elites.)⁸⁵

Yezhov had drafted the circular and was overseeing the verification. In parallel, he was demanding stronger oversight of foreigners in the USSR, calling them spies.⁸⁶ He also asked Stalin to read his ambitious theoretical manuscript, “From Factional Activity to Open Counterrevolution (On the Zinovievite Counterrevolutionary Organization).” It set out how the Zinovievites, right deviationists, and Trotskyites were working together for a coup.⁸⁷ Stalin received the draft on May 17 and underlined various passages (“The Zinovievite counterrevolutionary band definitively chooses terror as its weapon in this battle against the party and working class”). Whether he had instigated the work remains unknown; Yezhov had pretensions and had absorbed Stalin’s worldview. “There is no doubt that the Trotskyites were also informed about the terrorist side of the activity conducted by the Zinoviev organization,” Yezhov’s text asserted, concluding that “from testimony . . . we have established that [the Trotskyites] had also embarked on the path of terrorist groups.”⁸⁸

Trotsky had predicted, almost immediately after his expulsion from the territory of the Soviet Union, that “there remains only one thing for Stalin: to try to draw a line of blood between the official party and the opposition. He absolutely must connect the opposition with assassination attempts, and preparations for armed insurrections.”⁸⁹

Stalin had decided to devote a Central Committee plenum (June 5 and 7, 1935)—one of only two during the year that lasted more than a day—to the Kremlin Affair. He assigned the main report not to Yagoda but to Yezhov, who began not with Yenukidze but with Kirov, explaining that the “embittered” Zinovievite-Kamenevite-Trotskyite “group” had been driven “to the most extreme forms of struggle—namely, terror,” and charged the rightists with complicity, citing attempts to link up with the Zinovievites in 1932. Yezhov deemed Yenukidze “a corrupt and self-complacent Communist” who had unwittingly allowed White Guards to infiltrate the citadel of power. Yenukidze, given the floor on the second day, averred that all hiring in the Kremlin “was carried out with the participation of the NKVD,” prompting Yagoda to interject from the floor, “That’s not true.” Yenukidze insisted on the point, denied cohabiting with the arrested women, and seemed incredulous that helping former Menshevik families could be treason. Yagoda charged him with creating “his own parallel ‘GPU’” in the Kremlin and called for his expulsion from the party, going beyond Yezhov’s call for expulsion from the Central Committee.⁹⁰

Stalin had kept strangely silent, but he finally professed himself unable to abandon a good friend with whom he had spent many a holiday, so he suggested that Yenukidze be expelled from the Central Committee and the party but not handed over to the NKVD.⁹¹ Attendees voted unanimously for expulsion from the Central Committee and voted—with some hands raised in objection—for expulsion from the party for “political and personal dissoluteness.” The minutes for internal circulation and Pravda’s public report were falsified to conceal the objections.⁹² Yenukidze became the first Bolshevik who had joined the party before the revolution and who had never joined an opposition afterward to be expelled.⁹³

WISHFUL THINKING

Hitler was zealously driving a revision of the Versailles order; Stalin did not oppose revision, provided it did not come at Soviet expense. As the sequential visits in spring 1935 of Eden and Simon to Berlin and Eden to Moscow had shown, each dictator was central to the other’s grand strategy, but in differing ways. For Hitler, the Soviet Union was the principal evil, and Britain his principal wedge. For Stalin, Britain was the principal evil, and Germany his principal wedge. For France, the courting of the Soviet Union, a step that Britain disliked, was a way to woo a hard-to-get Britain. For Britain, the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany were both evil, but avoiding the costs of direct confrontation with Germany was paramount. Britain signed the proposed naval pact with Germany on June 18, 1935, which happened to be the anniversary of Waterloo.

Britain possessed the largest maritime force in world history, but it faced shipyard capacity limits and treasury austerity. The pact formally limited Germany’s fleet to 35 percent of Britain’s, while ostensibly locking Germany into a quality standstill. (Eden in Moscow had assured Stalin that Germany’s 35 percent demand was out of the question.) But Hitler’s special envoy, Joachim von Ribbentrop, had negotiated for Germany to have 45 percent as many submarines as the British did at that time, and to eventually reach parity, a giveaway of true intentions.⁹⁴ Hitler gave the go-ahead for two already planned super-battleships, the Bismarck and the Tirpitz, both exceeding the treaty’s quality limits.⁹⁵ Ribbentrop had been invited to lunch the day before the signing by an influential journalist at The Times and told him he was keen for prime minister Stanley Baldwin (who had just assumed that office for the third time) to meet the Führer, because he wanted “Baldwin to hear Hitler’s ideas about Western solidarity against Bolshevism.”⁹⁶

FRENCH CONNECTIONS

In reply to Nazism, a group of French intellectuals who had attended the Soviet writers’ congress—André Malraux, André Gide, Louis Aragon—decided to mount an International Congress of Writers for the Defense of Culture, which was scheduled to open at the 3,000-seat Maison de Mutualité, in the Latin Quarter, on June 21, 1935, and run for five days. Around 250 invitations went out to writers in thirty-eight countries, including many political émigrés.⁹⁷ Koltsov arrived early to assist in the organizing and deliver the secret financing (20,000 gold rubles). Thanks to Ehrenburg, Gide, and Malraux, Isaac Babel (who had once lived in Paris) and Boris Pasternak (whose poems were untranslated, but whose name was well known) got added as late as June 19. (They arrived late, in new suits specially sewn for them.) Gorky declined Stalin’s urgings to attend, citing poor health.⁹⁸ About a week before the opening, outside a Paris café, André Breton encountered Ehrenburg—who was infamous for having denounced surrealism as “onanism, pederasty, exhibitionism, and even bestiality”—and smashed him in the face. Ehrenburg cut Breton from the speaker list.⁹⁹

From the podium, Malraux declared that “the humanism we want to create . . . finds its expression in the line of thought running from Voltaire to Marx,” while Gide averred that “one can be profoundly internationalist while remaining profoundly French.” Aldous Huxley deplored the “endless Communist demagogy,” while E. M. Forster would write that he’d had “to hear the name of Karl Marx detonate again and again like a well-placed charge, and draw after it the falling masonry of applause.”¹⁰⁰

During the congress, the leftist French writer, dramatist, and musicologist Romain Rolland traveled the other way—to the USSR, at Gorky’s invitation. After rounds of theater, cinema, and banquets, on June 28, he enjoyed a long audience in the Little Corner.¹⁰¹ Wispy, compulsive, puritanical, Rolland (b. 1866) had won the Nobel Prize in Literature “as a tribute to the lofty idealism of his literary production and to the sympathy and love of truth with which he has described different types of human beings.” His masterwork, a ten-volume novel cycle, Jean-Christophe, depicts a German-French friendship. He also harbored a long-standing fascination with the Russian Revolution and once observed that “this order is all bloody and soiled like a human baby just wrested from his mother’s womb,” but, “in spite of disgust, in spite of the horror of ferocious crimes, I go up to the child, I embrace the newly-born: he is hope, the miserable hope of the human future. He is yours in spite of you!”¹⁰²

Rolland told Stalin that he saw him as the embodiment of the “new humanism.”¹⁰³ He observed that Westerners shared the idealism inside the USSR but had trouble comprehending, for example, the news in the Soviet press that, as of April 7, 1935, criminal law was being applied to children twelve and up, and that minors could be executed. After letting Rolland speak for twenty minutes, Stalin requested permission to respond. “We had to pass this repressive law threatening the death penalty for child criminals, especially their instigators,” he answered. “In fact, we will not enforce this law. I hope that it will not be enforced. Naturally, publicly, we cannot admit this; the desired effect would be lost, the effect of intimidation.”¹⁰⁴ The dictator deployed his customary flattery (“I am happy to chat with the greatest writer in the world”), but came across as genuinely enamored of the grand écrivain even while throwing dust in Rolland’s eyes.¹⁰⁵ Stalin called in the “Kremlin photographer” to record the event for propaganda purposes. But he would refuse all of Rolland’s entreaties to publish the transcript.¹⁰⁶

On June 30, Rolland, a guest on the Mausoleum at a physical culture parade involving 127,000 participants, was taken aback by the idolatry of the “emperor”—including the airplanes writing Stalin’s name in the sky—but also by the dynamism of the young people of the revolutionary epoch. His surprise reflected reading about Soviet failures before his arrival. “The economic situation, it seems, is good,” he wrote in a letter from Moscow to a literary critic friend in France. “During the last year, the conditions of life have improved significantly. This gargantuan city, which now numbers four million inhabitants, is a waterfall of life, healthy, warm, well-ordered. Among this crowd of strong, mobile, well-nourished people, you and I would look like strangers from a famine land.”¹⁰⁷

At a soirée at Gorky’s mansion, Rolland supped with the inner circle. Here, Stalin came across as “a jester, a bit rude and peasant in his jokes, relentlessly showering this or that person with pleasantries, laughing heartily.” This was a coarser side to the decorous dictator encountered in the Little Corner, yet still self-disciplined. “Stalin eats and drinks thoroughly, but he knows well when to stop,” Rolland added. “After a reasonable number of full glasses”—toasts to all and sundry—“Stalin unexpectedly stops, refusing refills and further helpings. . . . He sucks his small wooden pipe with pleasure.”¹⁰⁸

PROFLIGACY

Poland’s foreign minister Beck paid a visit to Berlin (July 3–4, 1935), where he was received one-on-one by Hitler, who complimented the genius of Piłsudski, averred that Poland should never be pushed from the Baltic, and enlarged upon the Soviet menace.¹⁰⁹ On July 5, Stalin received Kandelaki, back from Berlin, where Schacht had proposed a whopping new ten-year, 1-billion-mark loan, reasoning that Soviet counter-deliveries of raw materials could solve Germany’s shortages without overly taxing precious hard currency reserves.¹¹⁰ Internal jostling had begun among the Soviets over their own economic plan for the next year, and the total amount of investment was the key state decision.¹¹¹ For three years running, capital investment had been allowed only modest increases, and when the commissariats fought back, the hard-nosed Molotov—backed by the finance commissariat, the state bank, and Stalin—had held the line, warning against higher inflation and imbalances. On July 19, the chairman of the state planning commission, Valērijs Mežlauks, the son of a Latvian nobleman and a German mother, proposed that 1936 capital investment be slashed by 25 percent, to 17.7 billion rubles.¹¹² He explained that the reduction would facilitate a budget surplus and the goals of “increasing real wages and gradually reducing [retail] prices.”

Stalin’s involvement in the nitty-gritty of economic policy had tapered as he allowed Molotov and others to carry the burden. Molotov happened to be on holiday, and two days after Mežlauks’s opening gambit, Stalin convened a meeting in his Old Square office. By now, Mežlauks’s investment plan had already been forced up to 19 billion. He was present for just an hour and twenty minutes, and fifty minutes of that overlapped with the military men (Voroshilov, Yegorov, Tukhachevsky).¹¹³ That evening, Stalin reported to Molotov that he had decided on 22 billion. “We shall see,” Stalin observed. “There are some things which we must not cut: the defense commissariat; repair of rail track and rolling stock, plus the payment for new wagons and locomotives (railroad commissariat); the building of schools (enlightenment commissariat); re-equipment (light industry); paper and cellulose factories (timber); and certain very necessary enterprises: coal, oil, open-hearth furnaces, rolling mills, viscose factories, power stations, chemistry (heavy industry commissariat). This makes it more difficult.”¹¹⁴

Molotov replied (July 25) by trying to hold the line at 22 billion rubles (“It’s possible and necessary”). Mežlauks wrote to Stalin and Chubar (Molotov’s deputy), acknowledging the difficulties that 22 billion would present for the industrial commissariats but insisting that this had to be the ceiling “for financial reasons.” On July 28, Stalin convened a politburo meeting, summoning some seventy-five people.¹¹⁵ The group voted a 1936 investment plan of 27.3 billion, while stipulating that the commissariats reduce their construction costs (somehow) so that the actual number would turn out to be 25.1 billion. Stalin wrote to Molotov that “22 billion was not enough and, as can be seen, could not be enough.” None of the economic officials had resisted Stalin, and Molotov, too, bit the bullet (“I would have preferred a smaller amount of capital construction”).¹¹⁶ The decree was published and, as usual, the tenacious lobbying persisted. Stalin continued to indulge it. The final 1936 investment plan would be 32.635 billion, not a 25 percent decrease from 1935 but a nearly 40 percent increase.¹¹⁷ It appears that Stalin had gained confidence in the economic system, which was having its second-straight good year, and, despite the risks of inflation, yearned to have more of both guns and butter.¹¹⁸

ANTIFASCIST FRONT

Stalin, sensing his leverage, had sent Kandelaki back to Berlin, and on July 15, 1935, according to Schacht, Kandelaki told him he had just spoken with Stalin, Molotov, and foreign trade commissar Rosenholz, and that German obstruction and price gouging had prevented the USSR from fully utilizing the existing 200-million-mark credit, but Kandelaki “expressed the hope that it might also be possible to improve German-Russian political relations. I replied that we had indeed already previously agreed that a brisk exchange of goods would be a good starting point for the improvement of general relations, but that I was not able to enter into political negotiation.”¹¹⁹

The much-delayed 7th Comintern Congress, the first in seven years, opened on July 25 in the House of Trade Unions with 513 delegates (371 with the right to vote), representing sixty-five Communist parties. The last party member at liberty in Japan had just been arrested. German Communists had dwindled to a tiny group.¹²⁰ Wilhelm Pieck, a German in Soviet exile, delivered the opening report, but Dimitrov made the key speech, formally announcing a policy shift to “a broad people’s antifascist front.” Dimitrov explained that an alliance with non-Communist leftists was a temporary expedient in response to a special threat. “Fascism in power, comrades, . . . is the openly terrorist dictatorship of the more reactionary, more chauvinist, more imperialist elements of finance capital,” he observed. “The most reactionary variant of fascism is fascism of the German type.” He called Nazism impudent for claiming to be socialist when “it has nothing in common with socialism. . . . It is a government system of political banditry, a system of provocations and torture of the working class and the revolutionary elements of the peasantry, petit bourgeoisie, and intelligentsia. It is medieval barbarism and atrocity. It is unbridled aggression against other nations and countries.”

Dimitrov cautioned that “Soviet power and only Soviet power can bring salvation!” but exhorted the delegates to learn “the parliamentary game.”¹²¹ A photograph of Stalin with the Comintern delegates was published in Pravda, but he did not deign to deliver a speech.¹²² Yezhov was soliciting reports on hidden spies among resident foreign Communists and other political émigrés. (There were 4,600 Germanophone expatriates alone, thanks to Nazism.)¹²³ While the congress continued, on July 27, the USSR military collegium passed sentences in the Kremlin Affair on thirty people: two got the death penalty, and the rest between two and eight years in camps. The NKVD special board had sentenced eighty others in the case. Lev Kamenev, already serving a five-year term for the Kirov case, got another ten.¹²⁴

Beria delivered a sensation. He had sacked Toroshelidze as head of his Stalin project, in favor of Yermolai “Erik” Bedia, Georgia’s enlightenment commissar, who set to work on “The Rise and Development of Bolshevik Organizations in the South Caucasus.” Documents of the conspiratorial underground years were few, so people were invited to reminisce, sometimes writing their own texts, often allowing Beria’s apparatchiks to write or type them up. Those who participated were usually given envelopes of cash (“Comrade Stalin remembers you and asked me to convey this”). Vsevolod Merkulov, Beria’s top aide, shaped the final text, and on July 21–22, 1935, in a special meeting of the South Caucasus party active, with some 2,000 attendees, Beria read it aloud. The audience spent much of the five hours standing and applauding each mention of “the Great Stalin.” Dawn of the East published the full text, under Beria’s byline, in two issues (July 24–25).¹²⁵ Pravda reprinted it over the course of eight days, making Beria famous in the party outside the Caucasus.¹²⁶ The text was also issued as a stand-alone pamphlet in a print run that would reach 35 million.¹²⁷ The central apparatus instructed all party organizations to organize study groups on Beria’s report, which “offered the richest material on the role of Stalin as a Supreme Leader and theorist of our party.”¹²⁸

Also during the Comintern Congress, on July 30, following a five-day conference of 400 railroad industry personnel, Stalin hosted a banquet in the St. George’s Hall. He rose to speak “under the thunder of applause, and an ovation that long did not let up,” according to the account he edited for Pravda. “He said that the existence and development of our state, which exceeds in its size any other state in the world, including England and its colonies (excluding its dominions), is unthinkable without well-laid-down rail transport connecting the gigantic provinces of our country into a single state whole. . . . England, as a state, would be unthinkable without its first-class sea transport, which connects its myriad territories into a single whole. Exactly the same way the USSR, as a state, would be unthinkable without first-class rail transport, connecting its myriad provinces and territories into a single whole.”¹²⁹ Left unsaid was that precisely the underdeveloped rail network posed the gravest impediment to Soviet war planning. In the western theater, the most glaring rail vulnerability lay at one of the most strategic points, south of the Pripet Marshes, along the Kiev military district frontier, while in the Far Eastern theater, throughput deficiency was still worse: a mere twelve pairs of trains per day, a level not much improved since the Russo-Japanese War defeat in 1904–5.¹³⁰

Stalin inserted a remarkable political paragraph when editing the transcript. “In capitalist countries there are several parties—for example, England: Liberals, Conservatives, Labourites,” he wrote. “There’s not much difference between them—all of them stand for the continuation of exploitation—but one party criticizes the other. When the party in power missteps and the masses begin to get disaffected, that party is replaced by another. . . . We do not need such a lightning rod. We have a one-party system, but this system has its darker side—there’s no one to criticize us, even gently—so we have to criticize ourselves, check, not be afraid of our shortcomings, difficulties, confront them. We all should teach the masses, but also learn from the ‘little people,’ listen to them. . . . Self-criticism, that’s the key to our successes. The bourgeoisie put forward their smartest and most skillful people to govern the state: Roosevelt, Baldwin, Hitler—he’s a talented person—Mussolini, Laval, but nothing comes of it. We have victories, and these victories come not from the genius of someone; that’s stupidity. We do not have geniuses. We had one genius: Lenin. We are all people of middling capabilities, but we Bolsheviks take correct stances and implement them—that’s why we gain victories.”¹³¹

The Comintern Congress rolled on, celebrating the fortieth anniversary of Engels’s death at the session on August 5.¹³² Four days later, Ivan Tovstukha, deputy director of the Marx-Engels-Lenin Institute, died from tuberculosis, at age forty-six. His obituary provided what might have been the first public information on Stalin’s group of top aides who actually ran the country.¹³³ Internally, Tovstukha had sabotaged the efforts of Yaroslavsky to write a comprehensive Stalin biography. Now Yaroslavsky appealed directly to the dictator, but Stalin wrote across his letter: “I am against the idea of a biography about me. Maxim Gorky had a plan like yours, and he asked me, too, but I have backed away from this matter. I don’t think the time has come for a Stalin biography.”¹³⁴

That very summer, a foreign author struck again: Boris Lifshitz, who had been born in Kiev (1895), moved with his family to Paris at age two, helped found the French Communist party, went by the name Souvarine, and had been expelled from the Comintern for voicing his and his comrades’ anger at the persecution of Trotsky (with whom Souvarine eventually fell out). Souvarine exacted revenge by publishing Stalin: A Critical Study of Bolshevism in French, which portrayed Stalin as both devoted to the cause and painstaking in intrigue, a doer rather than a thinker like Lenin or Trotsky, a man who struggled long and hard for recognition amid supposed insignificance in the revolutionary movement and overcame seemingly insuperable obstacles, such as Lenin’s Testament calling for his removal. Souvarine demonstrated the moral bankruptcy of Stalin’s successful political ruthlessness.¹³⁵

The Comintern Congress ratified the new line of Communist–Social Democrat cooperation in Europe. In Asia, Stalin had long been forcing Communist-“bourgeois” cooperation against Japanese imperialists in a “united front.” But Chiang Kai-shek had launched the fifth in a series of encirclement campaigns against the Chinese Communists, most of whom had found refuge at a mountain redoubt far southwest of Shanghai, adapting the precepts of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War (“The enemy attacks, we retreat; the enemy halts, we harass; the enemy retreats, we pursue”). With Nationalist troops pressing the final annihilation, about 130,000 rank-and-file Communist troops and civilians had managed to break out, fleeing on a horrendous “Long March” into the deep interior. (Survivors of the rout-retreats would straggle first into Sichuan province, then Yan’an, in Shaanxi province, covering 3,700 miles over 370 days.) With the Long March still under way, a Chinese Communist delegation had set out for the Comintern Congress, but would arrive only after it had concluded. Meanwhile, the congress ordered the Chinese Communists to link up with “cooperative” Nationalists, whom they were to somehow cleave off from Chiang.¹³⁶

Stalin was satisfied. “The Comintern Congress turned out not so bad,” he had written to the holidaying Molotov. “The delegates made a good impression. The resolutions came out not bad.” Stalin also divulged (“I think it’s time”) that he was going to hand the organization over to Dimitrov. “I really am a bit tired. I’ve had to spend time with the Comintern-ites, the investment plan for ’36, all sorts of issues—you get tired, willy-nilly. No big deal. Fatigue passes quickly, if you relax for a day or even a few hours.”¹³⁷ On August 10, the politburo approved creation of a Comintern secretariat, with Dimitrov as general secretary.¹³⁸ That same day, Stalin departed for his southern holiday. Although he had eliminated the de facto second secretary post in favor of multiple deputies, he left Kaganovich in charge again. The inner circle had solidified over several years: Molotov at the government, Kaganovich at the party, Voroshilov at the military, Orjonikidze at heavy industry, Mikoyan at trade. Kaganovich and Molotov had inevitably become rivals for his favor, and officials below them divided between the “Lazariches” (sons of Lazar) and the “Vyacheslaviches” (sons of Vyacheslav). Both men were indispensable—Molotov as the principal confidant, Kaganovich as the ultimate troubleshooter—and both shouldered immense burdens, following the example Stalin set.¹³⁹

Before the congress adjourned (on August 21, 1935), it formally “elected” Dimitrov to the new Comintern executive committee, which in turn “elected” him as Comintern general secretary.¹⁴⁰ An American delegation led by Earl Browder had attended, even though the U.S. secretary of state had warned the Soviet ambassador that any American participation would be taken as yet another violation of their diplomatic recognition agreement.¹⁴¹ After Browder boasted at the congress of the revolutionary movement’s progress in the United States under his guidance, Bullitt recommended closing Soviet consulates in San Francisco, curtailing visas, and having President Roosevelt lay the case of Soviet violations before the American people.¹⁴² The president opted to protest in writing, and on August 25 Bullitt handed a strongly worded note to Krestinsky, who rejected it out of hand but informed Stalin, Molotov, Voroshilov, and Kaganovich that the note threatened a break in relations.¹⁴³

Soviet officials blamed domestic American politics; one surmised that Bullitt had been trying to make his career on improved relations but, failing that, had turned to anti-Soviet careerism.¹⁴⁴ Stalin did not overreact.¹⁴⁵ He had already given up on any kind of pact with the United States against Japan. Negotiations over repayment of tsarist and Provisional Government debts had failed, with no long-term credits extended to Moscow to purchase American goods.¹⁴⁶ Predictably, the Soviets denied any control over Comintern affairs (even though the congress met in Moscow in a government facility, and its official bulletins were issued by TASS). An irate Bullitt soon left for a holiday back home.¹⁴⁷

HOLIDAY COMMANDS

The dictator would be away from Moscow for nearly three months.¹⁴⁸ From Sochi, he telegrammed Kaganovich that “Svetlana, Mistress of the House, will be in Moscow August 27. She demands permission to leave for Moscow soon, in order to supervise her secretaries.”¹⁴⁹ About Vasily he said nothing. In Moscow on August 30, Henri Barbusse, who had contracted pneumonia, passed away.¹⁵⁰ Soviet officials had waffled on whether to publish a Russian translation of his Stalin, but finally would do so posthumously, in a print run of 100,000.¹⁵¹ Both the spring sowing and the fall gathering had been organized in a timelier, more efficient manner than in years past, and the 1935 harvest would be good: 79 million tons. The state would procure 23.9 million tons, up from 19.7 million the previous year.¹⁵² Stalin finally would be able to build a substantial strategic grain reserve (9.4 million tons). “What is happening with grain procurements this year is our completely unprecedented stunning victory,” Kaganovich exulted to the holidaying Orjonikidze (September 4), “a victory of Stalinism.” Of Stalin he wrote, “He’s holidaying now, it seems, none too badly. Klim [Voroshilov] is with him now. He went to settle some military matters.”¹⁵³

On September 5, 1935, Kaganovich reported to Sochi that Kandelaki had returned to Moscow and conveyed that only 25 million of the 200-million-mark credit had been spent, because of the complexity of Soviet orders. “It seems affairs in Germany are not going very badly,” Stalin wrote back. “Give Comrade Kandelaki my regards and tell him to insist on getting from the Germans everything we need with regard to the military and dyes.”¹⁵⁴

Stalin sent a ciphered telegram (September 7) directing that Yenukidze be posted elsewhere (“to Kharkov, Rostov, Novosibirsk or another place, but not Moscow or Leningrad”), after learning that he had been visiting with Orjonikidze and Orakhelashvili when they were on holiday and “talked politics with them day and night.”¹⁵⁵ The next day Stalin wrote again, to Kaganovich, that Agranov had sent him a note about “a Yenukidze group of ‘old Bolsheviks’ (‘old farts’ in Lenin’s expression). Yenukidze is a person alien to us. It is strange that Sergo and Orakhelashvili continue to be friends with him.” A politburo decree ordered Yenukidze immediately transferred to Kharkov road transportation.¹⁵⁶ Yezhov, meanwhile, wrote to boast to the dictator, regarding his investigation of terrorism plots against the leadership, that “only in the past months have I succeeded in dragging the NKVD into this work, and it is beginning to yield results.”¹⁵⁷ But Yezhov’s conspiracy to uncover conspiracies would have to wait: he was ill. “You should leave on holiday as soon as possible—for a resort in the USSR or abroad, whichever you prefer, or whatever the doctors say,” Stalin ordered (September 10). “Go on holiday as soon as possible, unless you want me to raise a big ruckus.”^{158, 159}

A medical report (September 1935) by the Kremlin’s Dr. Levin noted Stalin’s completion of a course of medicinal baths at Matsesta, and his being advised to curtail his smoking. Stalin seems to have felt vulnerable during his own medical exams. He asked one of the physicians who attended him, Miron Shneiderovich, if he read newspapers, to which the doctor replied that he read Pravda and Izvestiya. Stalin supposedly told him, “Doctor, you’re a smart man, and you should understand, there’s not a word of truth in them.” Typical Stalin mischief: the dictator laughed, but then asked, “Doctor, tell me, but the truth, do you sometimes have the desire to poison me?” Shneiderovich went silent. Stalin: “I know, doctor, that you are a timid person, weak, that you would never do that, but I have enemies who are capable of doing it.”¹⁶⁰

The same ostensible paranoiac took a drive and then a stroll in Sochi. “Why are you leaving, comrades?” he said to a group of Soviet holidaymakers shocked to encounter him, according to one’s recollections. “Why are you so proud that you shun our company? Come here. Where are you from?” They approached. “Well, let’s get acquainted,” Stalin said. “This is comrade Kalinin, this is the wife of comrade Molotov . . . and this is I, Stalin.” He shook hands. Stalin called over his bodyguard-photographers, mocking them as “mortal enemies,” and instructed them to photograph not just himself but “all the people.” He invited over a woman at a kiosk selling apples and a salesclerk from a food stand. The latter hesitated to leave her post, but finally did so. When an empty public bus happened to pull up, Stalin invited the driver and the ticket taker to have their photos taken, too.¹⁶¹

FALL MANEUVERS

Red Army maneuvers were held (September 12–15, 1935) in the Kiev military district, commanded by Iona Yakir.¹⁶² The exercises entailed a lightning counteroffensive supported by tanks, fighter aircraft, and artillery, directed both frontally and at the enemy’s rear, in a variant on “deep operations,” to employ speed and mobility to punch through enemy lines. The scale and armor were staggering: 65,000 troops, 10,000 tanks, 600 aircraft, and 300 artillery pieces, covering an area of nearly 150 by 120 miles on the western border.¹⁶³ Tanks were organized in mechanized corps for slashing attacks, while for the first time 1,188 parachutists were dropped from TB-3 bombers. Just 10 of the 4,000-plus motorized machines that saw action suffered any kind of breakage. “The French, Czechs, and Italians who attended the maneuvers felt our power, definitely, to the fullest,” Voroshilov boasted to Sochi (September 16). “Our commanders who have returned from French, Czech, and Italian maneuvers report that the difference in our favor is definitely very substantial.”¹⁶⁴

General Lucien Loizeau, deputy chief of the French general staff and head of their delegation, was quoted in Red Star (September 18) offering high praise. “I saw a mighty, serious army, of very high quality in terms of both technology and morale,” he stated. “I think it would be right to consider the Red Army first in the world in terms of tanks. The paratrooper drops of large units that I observed in Kiev I consider a fact that has no precedent in the world.”¹⁶⁵ In his secret summary for the French staff, Loizeau concluded, “This army appeared to me therefore capable of a great initial effort, which would permit it to retain on the eastern front important countervailing forces during the period so critical as the beginning of a conflict.”¹⁶⁶

Loizeau’s eyewitness assessment would be rejected at French staff headquarters by skeptics opposed to a binding military convention in the Franco-Soviet alliance. The proud Soviets would send films of the maneuvers to their embassies to be shown to foreign governments. The immediate official internal report praised the mechanized corps and three tank battalions, which had averaged a speed of 15 miles an hour and in some cases covered 400 miles. But later, in his final summary, Voroshilov would criticize the separate armored forces and praise the role of the unmotorized infantry.¹⁶⁷ This quiet reversal reflected the defense commissar’s threat perception—from his forward-looking subordinates, Uborevičius and Tukhachevsky, whose stature was rising even higher.

Nazi Germany was not invited to send a delegation to the Soviet maneuvers, but the consulate in Kiev sent Berlin a report, evidently based on informants, which highlighted the Red Army’s maneuverability.¹⁶⁸ Almost simultaneously, from September 10 through 16, 1935, the Nazis staged a party congress at Nuremberg. Hundreds of thousands celebrated the reintroduction of compulsory military service and emancipation from Versailles diktat. Leni Riefenstahl delivered her third annual documentary, Day of Freedom: Our Wehrmacht, which culminated in a montage of Nazi flags and German fighter planes flying in a swastika formation to the national anthem, with its refrain “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles.” Hitler delivered seventeen separate speeches.¹⁶⁹ On September 15, the Reichstag unanimously passed hastily composed laws forbidding marriages and extramarital intercourse between Jews and Germans, and establishing that only those of German or related blood could be citizens.¹⁷⁰ Hitler gave his first remarks expressly on the “Jewish Question” since becoming chancellor and called what became known as the Nuremberg laws defensive, congratulated himself for using legal means, and warned that if “Jewish elements” persisted in their agitation and provocations, the issue would have “to be transferred to the final solution of the National Socialist party.”¹⁷¹ Goebbels cited Bolshevism as motive and justification.¹⁷²

Also on September 15, Kaganovich and Molotov wrote to Stalin of rumors among Berlin journalists that Germany would sever diplomatic relations. “Do not allow hysterical noise in our press, and do not succumb to the hysteria of our journalists,” Stalin advised. “Nuremberg is the answer to our Comintern congress. The Hitlerites could not not curse us if one takes into account that the Comintern congress poured latrine filth over them. Let Pravda criticize them on principle and politically, without street vulgarity. Pravda could say that Nuremberg confirms the Comintern assessment of National Socialism as the most primitive form of chauvinism, that anti-Semitism is the animal form of chauvinism and hatred of humans, that anti-Semitism from the point of view of the history of culture is a return to cannibalism, that National Socialism in that light is not even original, for it slavishly repeats the Russian pogromists of the tsarist period of Tsar Nicholas II and Rasputin.”¹⁷³

STRATIFICATION

Fourteen-year-old Vasily Stalin was having a crisis. He had taken to smoking. Although he had enough wits not to touch his father’s cigarette box, his primitive efforts to hide the odor on his breath by sucking candy failed. His grades had sunk even lower. One day at school, several boys teamed up to thrash him. Stalin called the teacher and asked if Vasily had provoked his assailants; she reported that he had made them angry. “So be it,” he said. “I won’t bother you any longer.”¹⁷⁴ Vasily played soccer after school, which became an excuse for him to skip homework (too tired), according to a note from the Zubalovo dacha commandant to Vlasik (September 22, 1935). “Vasily thinks he is an adult,” the commandant wrote, “and insistently demands we fulfill his wishes, which are often stupid.”¹⁷⁵ Stalin gave his son two months to get his act together, threatening to replace him at home with other boys of exemplary behavior.¹⁷⁶

A letter from seventy-year-old Fekla Korshunova, who lived on her husband’s pension from the “Leader of the Proletariat” peat plant, was forwarded to Stalin in Sochi. She wanted to give him one of her cows as a gift but was unsure that it was a good idea (“That will be clearer to you”). She signed off by noting that she used to receive 15 rubles 64 kopecks per month in pension, but now got 24 rubles. Stalin wrote back (September 30), “Thank you, mama, for your kind letter. I do not need a cow, because I do not have any farmland—I’m just a white-collar employee, I serve the people the best that I can, and white-collar types rarely do their own farming. I advise you, mama, to keep the cow yourself and maintain it in my memory. Respecting You, I. Stalin.”¹⁷⁷

More than 10 million women were employed outside the home—in retail, local soviets, schools, traditional textiles—but they had also barged into industrial employment, a consequence, one trade union official said, of “massive desire.”¹⁷⁸ On October 1, the regime abolished rationing for meat, fish, sugar, fats, and potatoes, portending price rises, but lowered the retail price of bread. The party mobilized agitators at workplaces to impart the “correct” understanding.¹⁷⁹ One typical couple in Leningrad, he a hauler and she a teacher, lived in a room of 150 square feet, the husband and wife sleeping on the bed, the elder son on a cot, two younger daughters sharing another cot (foot to head), and the youngest girl on an ottoman. “That’s how we lived for ten years,” the son, who did homework in the magnificent prerevolutionary Saltykov-Shchedrin Library until midnight, would recall. “And we were happy in our way. The main thing: everyone was studying—even Mama at forty-five years old finished the pedagogical night school.”¹⁸⁰

Amid the endemic shortages, the regime manipulated consumer goods as reward or punishment.¹⁸¹ Elites enjoyed privileged access to staples and luxuries such as restaurant meals or fashionable winter coats.¹⁸² Purchase of desirable goods usually required a special coupon as well as money, and a leather jacket bought for 300 rubles in a subsidized state store by those awarded coupons could be resold at the market for three times that or more—which technically was a crime, but also a way of life. Midlevel NKVD operatives were paid just 150–350 rubles per month (an overcoat cost 700 rubles in 1935), and they, too, had to buy “voluntary” government bonds, usually at a cost of a month’s salary. True, operatives received subsidized meals at work, but higher-ups made at least five times as much in salary and received nearly a thousand rubles extra per month in cash “bonuses.” Bosses’ high living was a constant refrain in secret reports. “That’s enough laughing at the workers, enough starving, enough teasing them like dogs” read an anonymous letter to Zhdanov in 1935. “Our enemies are our aristocrats who harm the working people.”

FOREIGN POLICY REVEALED

Stalin exposed his grasp of world affairs to Kaganovich and Molotov in connection with a crisis developing over East Africa, where, on October 3, 1935, after prolonged tensions and border clashes, a large Italian army stationed in Eritrea invaded Abyssinia (Ethiopia) without a declaration of war. This was the Second Italo-Abyssinian War: Italy had lost the African territory in 1896 in a humiliating military defeat at Adwa. Italian forces, meeting fierce resistance, used aerial bombardment of villages and mustard gas against tribesmen.¹⁸³ On October 7, the League of Nations pronounced Italy the aggressor and began the process of imposing sanctions, but the League’s failure to punish Italy would soon be manifest. During the League debate, a Czechoslovak spectator shot himself.

Stalin was taking it in stride. “Kalinin reports that the foreign affairs commissariat doubts the possibility of grain exports and other products from the USSR to Italy in view of the dispute in Abyssinia,” he wrote from Sochi during the buildup to the invasion. “I think that these doubts of the foreign affairs commissariat derive from their non-understanding of the international situation. The conflict is not so much between Italy and Abyssinia as between Italy and France, on one side, and England on the other. The old Entente is no more. In its place, two ententes are forming: the entente of Italy and France on one side and the entente between England and Germany on the other. The worse the brawl between them, the better for the USSR. We can sell grain to one and the other, so they can fight. It is not at all advantageous for us now if one side smashes the other. For us it is advantageous for their brawl to be as long as possible, without a quick victory by one over the other.”¹⁸⁴

In reality, Britain and France were on one side, and, increasingly, Italy and Germany on the other.

When Litvinov had requested permission to walk demonstratively out of the Assembly of the League of Nations to protest its failure to elect the USSR representative (himself) as one of the six vice presidents, Stalin had agreed (“Let the Assembly eat the Abyssinian kasha”). But when Litvinov’s walkout induced the British and French to scramble to include him in the League’s presidium, Stalin erupted to Kaganovich and Molotov over the easy acceptance of the face-saving gesture. “Litvinov was frightened by his own proposal and hurried to extinguish the incident,” he fumed. “Litvinov wants to follow the British line, but we have our own line.” Stalin called the League’s leadership “thieves” who “did not treat the USSR with the proper respect,” and charged Litvinov with being guided “not so much by the interests of the USSR as by his own overwhelming pride.”¹⁸⁵

On October 26, Tukhachevsky—not seen at the German embassy since Hitler’s ascent—appeared at the farewell reception for departing counselor Fritz von Twardowski. “Tukhachevsky was unusually frank and cordial,” Twardowski reported. “His remarks were full of the greatest respect for the German army, its officer corps, and its organizational capacity, which led him to express the view that the new German Reich army would be fully prepared for war already this year, or at latest next year.” Twardowski pushed back against such an idea, but the deputy defense commissar persisted: “If it should come to war between Germany and the Soviet Union, which would be an appalling misfortune for both nations, Germany would no longer be confronted with the old Russia; the Red Army had learned a great deal and done a great deal of work.” Twardowski noted that Tukhachevsky had volunteered that “if Germany and the Soviet Union still had the same friendly political relations they used to have, they would be in a position to dictate peace to the world.”¹⁸⁶

KEKE

On holiday, Stalin again suffered from stomach pains and caught influenza.¹⁸⁷ Very unusually, he stopped in to see his septuagenarian mother.¹⁸⁸ Since he had become a widower for the second time, his letters to Keke had changed. “Greetings, Mother Dear, I got the jam, the ginger, and the churchkhela [Georgian candle-shaped candy],” he had written in 1934. “The children are very pleased and send you their thanks. I am well, so don’t worry about me. I can bear my burden. I do not know whether or not you need money. I am sending you 500 rubles just in case. . . . Keep well, dear mother, and keep your spirits up. A kiss. Your son, Soso. P.S. The children genuflect to you. After Nadya’s death, my private life has been very hard, but a strong man must always be manly.”¹⁸⁹

Stalin was in the company of Beria, who had erected a grandiose marble pavilion over the dictator’s wooden birth hovel in Gori and opened it to the public.¹⁹⁰ Beria also instigated approval for construction of a Stalin museum in Gori, next to which were supposed to be a cinema, drama theater, library, hotel, and House of the Collective Farmer. The low estimate for the total cost nearly equaled Gori’s annual budget (900,000 rubles).¹⁹¹ Keke was still living under Beria’s care, in the single room on the ground floor of the former tsarist viceroy’s palace, where Georgia’s Council of People’s Commissars had its offices. She ventured to the market dressed in black, a widow for more than a quarter century now, and shadowed by secret police. Beria’s wife, Nino, visited her regularly. In June 1935, Svetlana and Vasily had paid a visit. The children were staying with “Uncle Lavrenti” for a week and, according to Svetlana, saw their grandma for half an hour. Neither Svetlana nor Vasily understood Georgian; they communicated through their half brother, Yakov. Svetlana would recall being shocked at the sight of Keke’s spartan metal bed. Keke was ill (she received them while in bed, as demonstrated by photographs, which Stalin permitted to be published).¹⁹² Stalin’s own visit—a further indication that she was ill—took place on October 17. There is plausible hearsay from her attending physician that Stalin asked, “Mother, why did you beat me so hard?” and that she responded, “That’s why you turned out so well.”¹⁹³

Stalin’s Georgian origins had been muted over time, with his features softened in photographs (his long pointed nose was reduced, his arched left eyebrow lowered, his chin moved forward, his face made oval).¹⁹⁴ Three days after the visit, Pravda’s correspondent interviewed Keke, and on October 21 Poskryobyshev passed a draft of his article to the dictator with a request to publish it. “I won’t undertake to approve or reject,” Stalin answered. “It’s not my business.”¹⁹⁵ The article appeared in Pravda (October 23). “The 75-year-old Keke is affable, cheerful. . . . ‘He came unexpectedly, without warning. The door opens and he walks in. He kissed me a long time, and I reciprocated. How do you like our Tiflis? I asked him.’” The newspaper further quoted her as saying, “‘I worked each day and raised a son. It was hard. . . . We ate poorly. . . . An exemplary son! . . . I wish everyone such a son!’”¹⁹⁶

Pravda followed up (October 27) with additional details from Keke: “‘Our Lavrenti came and announced that Soso had arrived and that he was already here and coming in. . . . The door opened, and there he stood on the threshold: it’s him, my own. . . . I look and I can’t believe my eyes.’” She notices that he has gray hair. “‘What’s that, son, have you gone gray?’” Stalin answers: “‘It’s nothing, Mother, a little gray. It’s not important. I feel terrific, and you should not doubt it.’”¹⁹⁷ (The account omitted the part where she said, “What a shame that you didn’t become a priest,” which Stalin, according to Svetlana, liked to repeat.) Keke was quoted as revealing that Stalin’s father had removed him from school to apprentice him to a shoemaker, against her strenuous objections. On October 29, Stalin exploded. “I ask that you prohibit the vulgar rubbish that infiltrated our central and local press, publishing an ‘interview’ with my mother and sundry other promotional nonsense right up to portraits,” he wrote from Sochi to Molotov, Kaganovich, Andreyev, Zhdanov, and Boris Tal (head of publishing in the apparatus). “I ask that you spare me from the promotional hoopla of these scum.”¹⁹⁸

LIFE BECOMES MORE JOYOUS

Stalin’s first order of business back in Moscow, on November 2, 1935, was to receive Kandelaki, just returned from a meeting in Berlin with Schacht, who had revisited the proposal for a large new credit, now half a billion marks, while Kandelaki had again raised the need for political rapprochement and reemphasized Soviet interest in state-of-the-art military technology (automatic piloting of aircraft, remote control of vessels). France’s Laval, who had concurrently become prime minister, was also working all channels to secure rapprochement with Germany while delaying formal ratification of the Soviet alliance. Hitler perceived weakness.¹⁹⁹ Schulenburg, Germany’s ambassador, reported that at the dinner for the diplomatic corps on Revolution Day, Litvinov had raised his glass and loudly proclaimed, “I drink to the rebirth of our friendship!” Schulenburg added, “The British ambassador, who was sitting opposite, said: ‘Well, that’s a fine toast.’”²⁰⁰

The capital was having its usual chilly, white winter, but at the November 7, 1935, parade, for the first time, Voroshilov, Tukhachevsky, and others appeared with gold shoulder boards. Not long thereafter, Stalin allowed the reintroduction of the snapped-hand salute and formal ranks.²⁰¹ The dictator named five “marshals”: Voroshilov, Yegorov, Tukhachevsky, Blyukher, and Budyonny.²⁰² In the process of awarding ranks for thousands of others, some officers were effectively demoted because it was remembered that they happened to be the sons of priests or gentry or had once run afoul of a bigwig.²⁰³ The NKVD also got ranks. Zakovsky, conductor of the post-Kirov meat grinder in Leningrad, became commissar of state security first rank, equivalent to general in the army; Stalin had raised this from the proposal in the draft. Yagoda became general commissar of state security, the sole person in that rank.²⁰⁴ Grasping for rank, uniforms, and medals, as well as grand apartments, dachas, and cash bonuses, the new elite was becoming ever more conspicuous.²⁰⁵

On November 8, the extended family of the Alliluyevs and Svanidzes gathered for the third consecutive year in memory of Nadya. The night before Stalin had spent with the cronies until 3:00 a.m. Now, concerned about the dictator’s mood on the occasion, Molotov called to suggest watching a film together, but Stalin begged off.²⁰⁶ His elder son, Yakov, had found a new woman, Judith Meltzer (b. 1911), a ballerina from Odessa who went by Yulia. Yakov had been cohabiting with and gotten engaged to Olga Golysheva (b. 1909), a fellow student at the Moscow Aviation School from Stalingrad province, but they broke up and she went home.²⁰⁷ Meltzer had evidently come to Yakov’s attention at a Moscow restaurant, where he had an altercation with her second husband, Nikolai Bessarab, an NKVD officer who served as an aide to Redens, Stalin’s brother-in-law and now head of the Moscow province NKVD. “She is a fine woman, 30–32 years old, coquettish, speaks stupidities with aplomb, reads novels, gave herself the goal of leaving her husband and making a ‘career,’ and succeeded,” Maria Svanidze acidly wrote of Meltzer at the holiday dinner. “She already lives with Yasha, but her belongings are with her husband.”²⁰⁸

Between November 14 and 17, 1935, the regime held the First All-Union Conference of Stakhanovites in the Grand Kremlin Palace. Pressure for labor intensification had been high even before Stalin’s approval of capital investment increases—but an apparent solution fell into the regime’s lap. At the Central-Irmino mine in Kadievka (Donbass), Alexei Stakhanov (b. 1906), a jackhammer operator, hewed 102 tons of coal in a single overnight shift, more than fourteen times his quota of seven. At 6:00 a.m., the mine’s party cell voted to award Stakhanov bonus pay of 220 rubles (a month’s salary) and give him permanent passes to the workers’ club. Pravda carried a report of Stakhanov’s feat (September 2); the next day he had a new apartment. Stakhanov’s innovation was to ask that hewers like himself be freed from periodically setting down their jackhammers in order to prop the coal face. Additionally, a local party organizer had hauled in extra equipment and workers, whose names went unmentioned in the shower of publicity he arranged. Orjonikidze, in Kislovodsk, read the Pravda account and telephoned aides in Moscow and the coal trust in Kadievka. Pravda (September 11) launched a “movement” across industrial sectors and into the Gulag.²⁰⁹

Record chasing often left follow-on shifts bereft of supplies and labor to meet, let alone exceed, norms, provoked breakdowns and injuries, and exacerbated tensions among workers. But managers who tried to contain Stakhanovism’s deleterious consequences risked accusations of sabotaging worker initiative.²¹⁰ (The mine director at Central-Irmino would be arrested for “wrecking”; his place would be taken by the party organizer.)²¹¹ Stakhanovism became a truncheon against both managers and workers, forcing norms upward. At the Stakhanovite conference, Orjonikidze, as always, stressed the need to raise quality, not just quantity.²¹² On the closing day, as Voroshilov regaled the Stakhanovites with the paratrooper exploits at the recent army maneuvers, Stalin walked in, inciting delirium.

The dictator soon took the podium, attributing the “profoundly revolutionary” movement to initiative from below, in the country’s new conditions. “Life has become better, comrades,” he observed. “Life has become more joyous. And whenever life is joyful, work goes better.” (Earlier in the proceedings, the 3,000 attendees had spontaneously broken out into the catchy march from Jolly Fellows.) “If there had been a crisis in our country, if there had been unemployment—that scourge of the working class—if people in our country lived badly, drably, joylessly, there would have been nothing like the Stakhanovite movement. (Applause.) . . . If there is a shortage of bread, a shortage of butter and fats, a shortage of textiles, and if housing conditions are bad, freedom will not carry you very far. It is very difficult, comrades, to live on freedom alone. (Shouts of approval. Applause.)”²¹³

Stalin closed by asking for approval to reward the country’s best workers with the highest state honor, again inciting delirium. Stakhanov would be awarded the Order of Lenin, admitted to the party, promoted into mine management, and made the author of texts extolling Stalin for originating his movement.²¹⁴ He would take to drinking, lose his Order of Lenin and party card in a drunken brawl, smash the mirrored walls at the Metropole Hotel restaurant, and wed a fourteen-year-old. Stalin would lose interest in Stakhanovism, but he now paid still more attention to the cultivation of public heroes.

DIPLOMATIC DELUSIONS

The Soviet envoy to Bulgaria, Fyodor Ilin, the son of a priest and himself a storied Bolshevik, who adopted the surname Raskolnikov (from Dostoevsky’s character), was in Moscow in late November 1935. He and his wife decided to see Oleksandr Korniychuk’s play Platon Krechet, about the new Soviet intelligentsia’s quest for genuine humanism and social justice, at the affiliate of the Moscow Art Theater on Theological Lane. Unexpectedly, Raskolnikov encountered Stalin and Molotov. (The pair had first gone to the Moscow Art Theater, but the show they went to see had been switched out.) During intermission, Stalin engaged Raskolnikov in a discussion of Soviet policy in Bulgaria. Molotov took note of Stalin’s respect for Raskolnikov, and the next morning Zhemchuzhina, Molotov’s wife, phoned to invite Raskolnikov and his wife to their dacha. During billiards, drinking, and dancing, the men discussed the threat of fascism, and Molotov exclaimed, “Our main enemy is England!”²¹⁵

At the theater, Stalin had asked Raskolnikov to visit him in his office, but when the envoy phoned from the foreign affairs commissariat, a disbelieving Poskryobyshev gave him the runaround. Once, when Raskolnikov dialed Stalin’s number, the dictator himself picked up—and invited him over right then. It was December 9, 1935. Raskolnikov got twenty minutes one-on-one, his first (and sole) visit to the Little Corner. “Stalin’s working office in the recently refurbished Kremlin building was furnished, point for point, the same way as his office on the top floor of the immense building of the Central Committee on Old Square,” Raskolnikov noted. The dictator came out from behind the desk, placed Raskolnikov at the large felt table, took a seat, and, after pinching some tobacco, lit his pipe. Raskolnikov relayed that his superiors had declined Sofia’s request to buy Soviet weapons. “A mistake!” Stalin interjected, adding that the Bulgarians would just buy them from the Germans. Raskolnikov received authorization to report Stalin’s view at the commissariat. The conversation widened. “‘England now stands for peace!’ Stalin stated ironically, opening his palms wide, animatedly approaching me,” Raskolnikov recalled. “‘England now will be plucked. Its colonies are spread around the whole world. Defending them is unthinkable: they would need 100 navies to do that. It’s not like us, where everything is gathered in a single space. Therefore, England, of course, stands for peace.’”²¹⁶

Behind the scenes, Litvinov persisted in his anti-Nazism, writing to Stalin to confirm a TASS report that Schacht had confided to a French banker that Germany intended to partition Soviet Ukraine with Poland. Litvinov urged that the dictator issue “a directive about opening a systematic counter-campaign against German fascism and fascists,” whose attacks on Bolshevism had reached “Homeric proportions.” But other foreign affairs personnel pushed in Stalin’s preferred direction. Twardowski, back in the German foreign ministry, phoned Yakov Surits, the Soviet envoy to Berlin, to arrange a courtesy appointment—and suddenly Sergei Bessonov, the embassy counselor for trade, called asking to be received before Surits. Twardowski arranged to see them separately on December 10. Bessonov, given the first meeting, bluntly opened: “How could German-Soviet relations be improved?” Surits posed the same question in the guise of seeking advice. Bessonov wrote to the foreign affairs commissariat that his conversations confirmed “the existence of strata and groups in Germany interested, for various reasons, in normalizing relations,” singling out big business and the old-line military, and said they were looking for concrete steps from the USSR to help them in domestic policy battles.²¹⁷

Hitler had his own idées fixes. On December 13, he received UK ambassador Sir Eric Phipps at the latter’s request to discuss stalled air force limitations talks. Germany’s decision to build a fleet and the ensuing naval arms race had helped precipitate the Great War, but British officialdom feared an air arms race even more.²¹⁸ Phipps had been telling himself that the feral Führer was more reasonable than the lunatic entourage surrounding him. But Hitler launched a tirade, condemning the Franco-Soviet pact as a “military alliance unmistakably directed against Germany” (according to the German notetaker) and observing (according to the British notetaker) “that Berlin might easily in a few hours be reduced to [a] heap of ashes by a Russian air attack.” He lashed out at British diplomatic engagement with Moscow, asserting that Whitehall was cozying up to the Soviet Union only because it wanted a counterweight to Japan. Phipps denied this, and insisted that “we are living in the same house” with the Soviet Union and could not ignore it. Hitler countered that the Soviets were “a foul and unclean inhabitant of the house with whom the other dwellers should have no political truck whatsoever.”

Hitler, ever more darkly and loudly, raged on that Communist pledges in bilateral pacts not to interfere in the affairs of other countries were belied by Moscow’s “most aggressive and insolent underground interference in the affairs of all civilized states, not excluding the British empire.” He shouted that he had resisted internal demands to request a fleet half the size of the British navy, taking only one third, yet Britain still tolerated the French alliance with Bolshevism and was contemplating one of its own. “At one moment Herr Hitler referred savagely to Lithuania, declaring that neither that country nor the Baltic states in general would present any obstacle to a Russian attack on Germany,” Phipps noted in his summary, adding that “even when pretending to fear a Russian attack, he spoke of Russia with supreme contempt, and declared his conviction that Germany was vastly superior to her both militarily and technically. At times he ground the floor with his heel.”²¹⁹

SMASHED PIPE

Moscow’s Triumphal Square was renamed for Mayakovsky.²²⁰ Lily Brik, who lived in Leningrad caring for Mayakovsky’s archive, had written to Stalin in despair that the dead poet’s books were nearly impossible to obtain, a special room at the Communist Academy promised for his literary heritage had never been provided, and a request to turn his last residence in a small wooden house into a library had never been supported. “I alone cannot overcome this bureaucratic indifference and resistance—and after six years of work I am turning to you, since I see no other means to realize the enormous revolutionary bequest of Mayakovsky,” she wrote. Stalin instructed Yezhov that “Mayakovsky was and remains the best, most talented poet of our Soviet epoch. The indifference to his memory or his works is a crime. Brik’s complaints are correct.”²²¹ Suddenly, Pravda (December 5, 1935) published a laudatory essay on the poet, citing Stalin calling him “talented” (an intentional toning down, which would be corrected).²²² Pasternak wrote privately to the dictator expressing gratitude for the recognition of his fellow poet (“warmly loving you and loyal to you”).²²³

Japan was busy confirming Stalin’s prescience about its vaulting ambitions.²²⁴ In Manchukuo, it had gone on to create a vast autonomous province for ethnic Mongols and fostered preservation of traditional lifestyles, the opposite of Soviet social engineering in its Mongolian satellite.²²⁵ Chiang Kai-shek had conceded territory to the Japanese occupiers, planning to take them on decisively after he had annihilated the Communists, but the Communist escape to the interior had put off that reckoning. Surviving Communists had united in a new sanctuary in impoverished Shaanxi province, where Mao, carried on a palanquin during the Long March, emerged as the paramount leader.²²⁶ Chiang approached the Soviet envoy Dimitri Bogomolov asking for weapons, as if the Nationalists were finally going to launch a war to evict the Japanese. “From all my conversations, I am left with the impression that they would like to precipitate a possible conflict between ourselves and Japan,” Bogomolov informed Moscow (December 9, 1935).Stalin agreed to ship the arms (via Xinjiang), worried that Chiang might otherwise cut a side deal with Japan. On December 9, the Comintern’s “united front” policy was stretched to include cooperation with Chiang—unbeknownst to Mao in the remote interior, who would erupt when apprised.²²⁷

A Soviet official “close to the Kremlin” told U.S. embassy personnel that any moves by Japan against Mongolia would be regarded as a threat to Soviet territorial integrity, but a week later Japanese-Manchukuo forces burned down a Mongolian frontier post, killing or kidnapping several Mongolian border guards, and this drew only a protest.²²⁸ In the meantime, on December 12, a Mongolian delegation arrived in Moscow, again led by Prime Minister Genden, who was dragging his feet over Stalin’s orders to extirpate lama influence and enlarge the penurious country’s military budget.²²⁹ Genden was quick-tempered, and known to indulge in wine, women, and indiscreet song. Before his departure from Ulan Bator, he had supposedly boasted, “I’ll deal with that Georgian with the knife-tipped nose. . . . I’ll enjoy a quarrel with him.”²³⁰

The Mongols in Moscow had to cool their heels. On Stalin’s official fifty-sixth birthday (December 21, 1935) at the Near Dacha, the Alliluyevs and Svanidzes discovered that they were now outnumbered by politburo officials. “Zhdanov played the accordion beautifully, but it broke down on him a few times,” Maria Svanidze recorded in her diary. “They sang graceful Abkhaz and Ukrainian songs, old student songs, and some plain silly ones. Postyshev was in high spirits. He was jokingly dancing the Russian national dance with Molotov, spoke to him in Kazakh, and this pair entertained I[osif] and all the guests. After supper, everyone went through to the study (the large room). I[osif] wound up the gramophone and people danced the Russian dance, Anastas Ivanovich [Mikoyan] danced the lezginka, wildly, and sometimes lost the rhythm. As usual, we danced the foxtrot. . . . We asked I[osif] to join in, but he said that since the death of Nadya he no longer danced.”²³¹

The regime held a Central Committee plenum from December 21 to 25, and on the final day Yezhov reported on the ongoing party card verification campaign: of the 2.34 million members and candidate members, 1.915 million had gone through the process, and of those, 175,166 had been expelled. Two thirds of the expulsions were for “passivity,” that is, failing to attend meetings, pay dues, or study. Some 20 percent were dropped as White Guards or kulaks, 8.5 percent as swindlers and scoundrels, and some 1 percent as foreign spies. Around 3 percent, 5,500 party members, were expelled as “Trotskyites and Zinovievites.”²³² About 15,000 of those expelled would also be arrested. The process, still not complete, was now to be followed by a physical exchange of party cards, old for new. Yezhov congratulated himself.²³³ On the plenum’s eve, resistance to Stakhanovism had been designated as terrorism.²³⁴ At a heavy industry conference the day after the plenum, Orjonikidze conspicuously mentioned nothing of sabotage.²³⁵

Stalin had decided to allow, for the first time, the genuine number for projected Soviet military spending for the coming year to be released—a staggering, meant-to-impress 14.8 billion rubles, 16 percent of the state budget.²³⁶

Late on December 30, he and his inner circle received the delegation from Mongolia in Molotov’s office, and took an aggressive posture. Molotov: “You, Genden, when drunk, all the time speak anti-Soviet provocations. We know that before your departure to come here, you said that we would recommend a long stay in the Kremlin hospital or holiday in Crimea, ‘in connection with your health.’” Stalin reprimanded Genden for spending only 25 percent of the state budget on the military, asserting that the USSR would spend 70–80 percent when necessary, and demanding that Mongolia spend 50–60 percent. “If you, Genden, are not concerned with the defense of your country, and you think that Mongolia suffers from its ties to the USSR, which you think cheats and takes advantage of Mongolia, and you want to get friendly with Japan, then go ahead!” Stalin declared disingenuously. “We do not compel you to have relations with us if you do not want to.” He added: “You do nothing about the lamas. . . . They can undermine a good army and the rear.”²³⁷

Molotov declared a break and invited them to “tea” (often code for spirits). Demid, the defense minister, understood that his country could not manage against possible Japanese aggression without Soviet assistance, while Genden preferred to rely on the country’s own army, with more Soviet weapons, even as he feared excessive debt to, and therefore dependence on, Moscow.²³⁸ Whether at this Kremlin session or a New Year’s reception at the Mongolian embassy, Genden, in a drunken state, did something no one else ever had or would—he snatched Stalin’s pipe and smashed it.²³⁹

“INTERESTING”

Stalin welcomed the year 1936 with a larger crowd than usual at the Near Dacha: the inner circle and nearly all the people’s commissars as well as his relatives.²⁴⁰ “The country has never lived so full-blooded a life as at present,” Pravda announced in an editorial (January 1, 1936). “Vivacity, confidence, and optimism are universally dominant. The people are, as it were, taking to wing. The country is in the process of becoming not only the richest but also the most cultured in the entire world. The advance of the working class to the level of professional engineers and technicians is on the agenda.” The editorial, “The Stakhanovite Year,” was accompanied by an oversized portrait of Stalin smiling and smoking a pipe.

Molotov boasted to the central executive committee, as reported by the Soviet press, that “representatives of the German government had raised the question of a new and larger credit facility covering a ten-year period.”²⁴¹ In Berlin, Kandelaki presented a list of desiderata that included submarines, IG Farben chemical patents, and Zeiss optical technology.²⁴² The British embassy in Berlin warned the foreign office about a grand deal in the offing.²⁴³ Schacht, who had originally deflected Kandelaki’s attempts to shift their conversations to political matters, now remarked to him, “If a meeting between Stalin and Hitler could take place, it would change many things.” Stalin wrote on his copy of the secret report: “Interesting.”²⁴⁴

“Trotskyites” had also seized attention. Valentin Olberg, a provincial teacher who happened to have just returned from Germany, was arrested by the NKVD (January 5, 1936), which extracted “testimony” from him that he had come back with a special task assigned to him by none other than Trotsky: a “terrorist act” against Stalin. Olberg named other “terrorists” he had “recruited”; arrests followed.²⁴⁵ By spring the NKVD would arrest 508 “Trotskyites,” one of whom was found in possession of Trotsky’s personal archive for 1927. Stalin ordered the NKVD to furnish Yezhov with copies of all documents pertaining to Trotskyites and freed him from overseeing party organs, a task passed to Yezhov’s deputy, Georgy Malenkov (b. 1902). Yezhov now oversaw the NKVD full time.²⁴⁶

In Ulan Bator on January 20, Choibalsan, minister of livestock and agriculture, made an impassioned speech in favor of accepting Soviet “proposals.” Many of the top Mongolian party officials present were reluctant to submit to Stalin’s diktat; some perhaps even favored negotiations with Japan, but they knew someone would immediately inform Moscow. They approved a formal invitation to the USSR for two army brigades, and resolved to increase their own army to 17,000 and their national guard to 2,500.²⁴⁷

Also on January 20, King George V died near midnight, at age eighty-three, after being administered a lethal dose of morphine and cocaine to put him out of his suffering and, according to his physician, to allow his death to feature in the morning rather than the afternoon papers.²⁴⁸ Stalin named Tukhachevsky, alongside Litvinov, to the Soviet delegation for the funeral, in Windsor Castle on January 28. Tukhachevsky traveled by train via Berlin, where he stopped off for a few hours, setting off a speculative frenzy about meetings with the German general staff. The Soviet press was silent about the stopover; Germany denied the rumors.²⁴⁹ Stalin does seem to have tried to contrive a meeting.²⁵⁰

Tukhachevsky had visited Germany nine times, but despite his respect for German military achievements, he distrusted that country.²⁵¹ In Britain, where he spent not hours but thirteen days, he met French general Maurice Gamelin, also in London for the funeral, who hosted him at an embassy reception, where the Soviet commander met officers who had been interned with him in the German POW camp. Gamelin invited him to stop in Paris, where Tukhachevsky was afforded a lavish program of meetings and military inspections. In long hours with Gamelin, Tukhachevsky made plain his concern over the threat of German aggression.²⁵² Maisky and Litvinov were urging Eden, newly named foreign secretary, to use the League of Nations and other instruments to halt the German danger before it came to war. Eden wrote in an internal memo that he told them he was “unable to imagine what else could be done,” and to Litvinov’s suggestion for a Soviet-British-French bloc against Germany, he responded, “I cannot imagine how that could be done.”²⁵³

“FRIENDSHIP OF PEOPLES”

On January 27, 1936, Stalin and his entourage received a sixty-seven-person delegation of milkmaids, artists, and functionaries from Buryat-Mongolia in the Russian republic. A report sent by the region’s leaders in advance noted that the autonomous republic had 82 percent collectivization and stood first in the Union among national republics in livestock per capita, with 3.36 cows, 3.91 sheep, 0.9 goat, and 0.23 pig held collectively per household. (The numbers for Kazakhstan were 0.84, 1.47, 6.9, and 0.09.)²⁵⁴ Pravda’s coverage of the Kremlin reception included a photograph of Stalin in Buryat robes, with a dagger in his sash. These receptions for national groups in traditional dress constituted a recent invention.²⁵⁵ Pravda had hit upon the slogan, enunciated at one such reception, of the “Friendship of Peoples.”²⁵⁶

In the Buryat-Mongolia coverage, there was also a photo of Stalin with Engelsina “Gelya” Markizova, a seven-year-old Buryat girl wearing a brand-new sailor’s outfit and beaming in his arms.²⁵⁷ Named for Engels (her brother was named Vladlen, after Vladimir Lenin), she was the daughter of a Buryat-Mongolia official and lived on Stalin Street in Ulan Ude. She had presented him with two bouquets that her mother, a student at the Moscow Institute of Medicine, had thought to purchase (one was supposed to be for Voroshilov). Stalin had picked her up, and she had wrapped her arms around his shoulders, creating an indelible image.²⁵⁸ Stalin’s daughter, Svetlana, had recently appeared with him in a photograph in Pravda (he was shown looking down, cupping her head with his good arm, her bright face smiling).²⁵⁹ Stalin also permitted a photograph of Vasily and Svetlana together in Pioneer Pravda (which he instructed Svetlana to “treasure”).²⁶⁰ Thereafter, his two younger children faded from public view. But the images with children persisted, creating a sense of a paternal leader. The depictions of traditional dances and rural females—which had once conveyed the backwardness to be overcome—now signified supposed harmony in diversity, embodied by a happy father figure.²⁶¹

Russians, too, constituted a nation, but their folklore was presented as imperial culture.²⁶² Even as workers remained the vanguard class, Russians became the vanguard nation.²⁶³ “All the peoples, participants in the great socialist construction, can take pride in the results of their work,” Pravda editorialized (February 1, 1936). “But first among equals are the Russian people, the Russian workers, the Russian toilers, whose role throughout the whole Great Proletarian Socialist Revolution has been exceptionally large, from the first victories to the present day’s brilliant period of development.” Celebration of the expansion of the state from Muscovy allowed restoration of even Ivan the Terrible to a pedestal. Stalin’s leftist critics decried what they perceived as his abandonment of pure Marxism, a perception of retreat that Stalin’s rightist critics shared but welcomed.²⁶⁴ In fact, Stalin’s embrace of the imperial Russian inheritance was selective, showing little concern for churches, large numbers of which had been destroyed. (Kaganovich had dynamited Moscow’s Cathedral of Christ the Savior, the world’s largest Orthodox church, built in the nineteenth century to commemorate the victory over Napoleon.)²⁶⁵ The absence of private property, the leading role of the party, and the red flag with hammer and sickle amply reinforced the fact that this was a Communist regime. But Stalin’s willingness—and ability—to blend imperial Russian étatisme with Marxist-Leninist class approaches strengthened the socialist state.²⁶⁶

MUDDLE

Stalin revealed his theory of cultural oversight in a letter to Shcherbakov’s deputy, Vladimir Kirpichnikov, known as Stavsky. “Take a look at comrade Sobolev,” the dictator instructed. “He is, unquestionably, a major talent (judging by his book Capital Repairs). He is, as you see from his letter, capricious and uneven. . . . But these traits, in my view, could be found in any giant literary talent (perhaps with a few exceptions). It is not necessary to oblige him to write a second Capital Repairs. Such an obligation would lead to nothing. It is not necessary to oblige him to write about collective farms or Magnitostroi. It is impossible to write about such matters under obligation. Let him write what and when he wants. In a word, let him. And take care of him.”²⁶⁷ But apparatchiks capable of nurturing talent as well as loyalty were rare. Stories of poorly educated censors forbidding the music of someone named Schubert over the radio because he might be a “Trotskyite” were the least of it.²⁶⁸ The censor (glavlit) had obtained power over plays, films, ballets, broadcasts, and even circus acts, as well as literature, but it was often overwhelmed and had the NKVD and party commissions looking over its shoulder. Taking chances (saying yes) carried no upside; prohibition was the safest recourse, leading to round after round of supplication, paperwork, and foot dragging, unless someone with sufficient authority and confidence put an end to the runaround and said yes.²⁶⁹

Shcherbakov admitted to Stalin that, after fifteen months as secretary of the writers’ union, he was being criticized for not being sufficiently on top of things.²⁷⁰ But Stalin was besieged, and trying to preserve himself to oversee only the most outstanding cultural figures. Finally, on his initiative, the politburo approved the creation of an all-Union Committee for Artistic Affairs, placed not in the party apparatus but in the Council of People’s Commissars, with Platon Lebedev, known as Kerzhentsev (b. 1881), as chairman. The son of a physician–cum–tsarist Duma deputy, he had been educated at gymnasium and then Moscow University, was a prolific writer on topics ranging from the new science of time management to the Paris Commune, and an experienced functionary, whose most recent appointment had been as head of Soviet radio.²⁷¹

Kerzhentsev arrived just when a storm broke in music. During the entire previous year, only three long-playing records with Soviet music had been issued, and only one was symphonic: the score of Dmitry Shostakovich (b. 1906) for Hamlet.As for opera, Shcherbakov had written to Stalin, Andreyev, and Zhdanov (January 11, 1936) that Leningrad’s Maly Opera Theater was, “in essence, the sole theater that vigorously and systematically is working out the extremely important problem of the Soviet theater—namely, the creation of a contemporary musical spectacle.” He cited Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, by Shostakovich; Quiet Flows the Don, by Ivan Dzerzhinsky (b. 1909); and two works by Valery Zhelobinsky (b. 1913). Shcherbakov proposed that the Leningrad theater be renamed the State New Academy Opera Theater, and that its personnel receive state awards and pay raises to the level of the Kirov Ballet. Stalin redirected Shcherbakov’s letter to Kerzhentsev.²⁷² The Leningrad theater was not renamed, but its ambitious conductor, Samuil Samosud, was anointed a “people’s artist” of the RSFSR and got approval to showcase his theater at a festival in Moscow. On opening night, much of Moscow’s creative intelligentsia showed for Quiet Flows the Don, based on the novel by Sholokhov. The opera—a patriotic glorification of the Don Cossacks’ immutable spirit and readiness to defend the motherland—proved a crowd-pleaser, with its lyrical and accessible music. After the final act, Stalin edged forward in the imperial box, making himself visible, and applauded demonstratively.

Stalin summoned Samosud to his box, and the discussion ended up lasting two hours; TASS distributed an account, heralding the advent of a Soviet opera repertoire. On January 17, 1936, Stalin ordered the director of the Bolshoi to stage its own production of Quiet Flows the Don, and the director decided to stage all the Samosud works, engaging Fyodor Lopukhov as principal dancer (he had danced the operas in Leningrad). The Bolshoi opened with Lady Macbeth, which was easier to mount than the other two. On January 26, Stalin and entourage attended. Unlike Quiet Flows the Don, Shostakovich’s music was subversive of operatic convention, with discord and hyper‐naturalistic portrayals of rape and murder. Stalin exited before the final curtain. This afforded Kerzhentsev a chance to establish his authority as the head of the new committee, at the expense of the existing culture power brokers, above all Shcherbakov. An unsigned denunciation, “A Muddle Instead of Music,” appeared in Pravda (January 28). (Kerzhentsev was the likely author, not Stalin, as rumored.)²⁷³ Only a short while before, Pravda had been over the top in praising the same opera. Even though Samosud had originated the production of the Shostakovich opera, the dictator had seen the Bolshoi version. He named him artistic director of the Bolshoi effective immediately.²⁷⁴

Shumyatsky, who remained head of Soviet cinema (and became Kerzhentsev’s second deputy), learned that Stalin viewed the Pravda article as “programmatic,” a demand “not for rebuses and riddles,” but music accessible to the masses, citing the “realistic music” of great Soviet films, especially Jolly Fellows, in which “all the songs are good, simple, melodic.”²⁷⁵ The “signal” got across. (“Don’t you read the papers?” a voice from the audience shouted at a speaker during a meeting of the Moscow Artists’ Union, referring to the denunciation of Shostakovich.)²⁷⁶ Shostakovich inveigled an audience with Kerzhentsev (February 7), and accepted “the majority” of the criticisms. Kerzhentsev advised the composer to travel around villages and acquaint himself with the folk music of Russia, Ukraine, Belorussia, and Georgia, as Rimsky-Korsakov had once done. Shostakovich promised to do so, while noting that composers would appreciate a meeting with Stalin.²⁷⁷ The press launched a vicious campaign against “formalists,” which targeted not only Shostakovich but also Eisenstein and theater director Vsevolod Meyerhold, leaders of the 1920s avant-garde. Kerzhentsev soon took the initiative to purge avant-garde works in museums.²⁷⁸

Bulgakov had two plays about to run: Molière (originally titled The Cabal of Hypocrites), at the Moscow Art Theater, which was to premiere on February 15, 1936, and Ivan Vasilevich, which was in final revisions for the Theater of Satire. Molière opened to a packed hall and wild applause.²⁷⁹ Behind the scenes, Kerzhentsev pointed out to Stalin and Molotov that Bulgakov had written Molière back when most of his works were banned and that, in the travails of a writer under the Sun King (Louis XIV), he intended to evoke what it was like when a playwright’s ideas “went against the political system and plays were prohibited.” He conceded the brilliance of the play, which “skillfully, in the lush netherbloom, carries poisonous drops,” and recommended killing it with damning reviews.²⁸⁰ Pravda ran just such a damning article (“external brilliance and false content”).²⁸¹ Molière closed after seven successful performances. Ivan Vasilevich—a comedy mocking Ivan the Terrible—never opened, a blow to the writer but also, given Stalin’s views, a blessing.²⁸² On February 19, after a month in his new post, Kerzhentsev wrote to Stalin and Molotov proposing a competition for a play and screenplay on 1917, promising to “show the role of Lenin and Stalin in the preparation and implementation of the October Revolution.” Stalin took a pencil and crossed out his own name.²⁸³

AMERICAN MIRROR

Being a great power meant looking into the American mirror. Shumyatsky had launched the idea of a Soviet Hollywood. A severe lack of factory capacity meant that Soviet film prints were in short supply—usually fewer than forty copies per film for the entire country—and he wanted a film industry capable of producing its own quality film stock, cameras, projectors, sound-recording machines, and lighting, all of which were expensive to import.²⁸⁴ He had headed an eight-person commission to Paris, London, Rochester (Eastman Kodak), and Los Angeles, whence he published stories about his film viewings and meetings, returning determined to found a Soviet Cinema City in the mild, sunlit climate on the Black Sea, permitting year-round work.²⁸⁵ At a Kremlin screening, he had gotten Stalin to approve the Hollywood idea. “Opponents cannot see farther than their own noses,” the dictator had intoned. “We need not only good pictures but also more of them, in quantity and in distribution. It becomes obnoxious when the same films remain in all the theaters for months on end.”²⁸⁶ At a follow-up screening, when Stalin saw Chapayev for the thirty-eighth time, the dictator said he had heard that Mussolini would build his Cinecittà outside Rome in just two years. But despite Stalin’s verbal support, the expensive Hollywood on the Black Sea never materialized.²⁸⁷

Opposition came not just from industrial and budget officials. Yechi’el-Leyb Faynzilberg, known as Ilya Ilf, and Yevgeny Katayev, known as Petrov, wrote a letter to Stalin opposing the Soviet Hollywood idea (February 26, 1936).²⁸⁸ Already household names for their satirical novels The Twelve Chairs and The Little Golden Calf, featuring the con man Ostap Bender, Ilf and Petrov had just returned from several months in the United States and would write One-Story America, which was about not only the “girls who are half naked, three-quarters naked, and nine-tenths naked [who] dance, or act,” but the real America—that of working people, a country of democracy if not of socialism. Their book related details of traveling in a Ford through twenty-five states with set pieces about skyscrapers, well-paved roads, vending machines, Mark Twain’s hometown, hunters, cowboys, boxers, farmers, Negroes, Indians—an unimaginable world for a Soviet audience.²⁸⁹

America surfaced in Yagoda’s reports, too. Gulag camps and colonies together held around 1.2 million forced laborers, while exiled “kulaks” in “special settlements” numbered around 900,000.²⁹⁰ Camps were releasing invalids, which burnished mortality statistics, and Yagoda pressed for financial accountability and better sanitation.²⁹¹ Gold output in the Kolyma camps would jump to 36.77 tons in 1936 (from 15.94 the year before), which, an internal report stressed, beat California.²⁹² Mass arrests by the NKVD in 1936 would decline to 131,168, as compared with 505,256 in 1933 (and with 205,173 in 1934 and 193,093 in 1935). In March 1936 Yagoda bragged at the Council of People’s Commissars that, because of increased professionalism, reorganization, and new methods, criminality had been sharply reduced, and the problem of mass social unrest (such as during collectivization) resolved. He conceded that organized hooliganism, robbery, and theft of socialist property persisted, and that ordinary police did not feel safe patrolling working-class districts in mushrooming industrial cities. He also admitted that crime rates were not diminishing as noticeably in rural settlements, where police were almost absent. Still, in the previous year, he gloated, there had been fewer reported murders across the Soviet Union than in the city of Chicago.²⁹³

HITLER, AGAIN

Hitler continued his manipulative mastery. On February 21, 1936, he granted an interview to Bertrand de Jouvenel for Paris-Midi, stressing his policy of peace, the unifying threat of Bolshevism, and the folly of Franco-German enmity. “Let us be friends,” the Führer pleaded, calling his Mein Kampf outdated and promising “correction of certain pages.”²⁹⁴ (Unlike Stalin, with his useful idiots, Hitler did not get to edit the transcripts.) A few days later, the Führer sought out Arnold Toynbee, a philosopher of history who was in Berlin to address the Nazi Law Society. “I want England’s friendship, and if you English will make friends with us, you may name your conditions—including, if you like, conditions about Eastern Europe,” he told the professor, who predicted to the foreign office that “any response from the British side . . . would produce an enormous counter-response from Hitler.”²⁹⁵ Göring, hunting in Poland again (February 19–24), proclaimed at a luncheon hosted by Beck, “in the name of the Führer and chancellor, that any rumors that Germany intended to enter into closer relations with the Soviet Union were unfounded.”²⁹⁶

In Mongolia on February 26, Choibalsan was named head of a new interior ministry (the NKVD equivalent) and, along with Demid, promoted to marshal. (Soviet personnel accounted for one quarter of Mongolian interior ministry personnel.) That same day, in Tokyo, young officers of the Imperial Japanese Army staged a putsch, intending to submit demands to the emperor for the dismissal of their rivals and the appointment of a new prime minister and military-dominated cabinet. They occupied central Tokyo and assassinated two former prime ministers and other high officials, but failed to capture the sitting prime minister or the Imperial Palace. The emperor opposed the action; on February 29 the rebels surrendered.²⁹⁷

On March 1, 1936, Stalin granted an interview to Roy Howard, president of Scripps-Howard News, which, unlike his earlier exchanges with foreigners, he allowed to be published in mass-circulation newspapers. Stalin observed that the situation in Japan after the recent putsch remained unclear, but that “for the time being, the Far Eastern hotbed of danger shows the greatest activity,” and issued an unequivocal public warning: “If Japan should venture to attack the Mongolian People’s Republic and encroach upon its independence, we will have to help.” Howard suggested that the Italian fascists and the German Nazis characterized their systems as state-centric, and the Soviets had built “state socialism.” Stalin rejected the term (“inexact”) and any comparison: “Primarily, this is because the private ownership of the factories and works—of the land, the banks, transport, and so on—has remained intact, and therefore capitalism remains in full force in Germany and in Italy.” Howard pressed Stalin about world revolution. Stalin: “We never had such plans and intentions.” Howard countered with examples. Stalin: “This is all the result of a misunderstanding.” Howard: “A tragic misunderstanding?” Stalin: “No, a comic, or, perhaps, a tragicomic one.”²⁹⁸

Stalin gestured toward Rome, telling Howard that fascist Italy’s much-condemned invasion of Abyssinia was a mere “episode,” but he noted that, even as Hitler spoke about peace, the Führer could not “avoid issuing threats”—Stalin’s first unequivocal public rebuke of Nazism. He added that Germany might join with Poland or the Baltic states against the USSR, just as it had in the Great War against Russia.²⁹⁹

Hitler excelled at the bold gesture. On March 7, 1936, which happened to be two days after Pravda and Izvestiya published Stalin’s interview, the Führer sent troops into a zone on the left bank of the Rhine River that bordered France and had been demilitarized for an indefinite period by the Versailles Treaty. His wooing of Britain had partially succeeded, getting him the Anglo-German naval pact, which fell short of the total acquiescence he sought but put some distance between Britain and France. His scheming to drive a wedge between Italy and France had failed—until Mussolini moved to realize long-standing designs by invading Abyssinia, opening a rift between Rome and the Western powers. True, Hitler’s maneuvering with Poland had helped provoke the Franco-Soviet pact, but that agreement seemed only to have spurred more Soviet approaches to him. In the Rhineland occupation, Hitler had overcome his foreign ministry’s opposition and his own usual last-minute attack of nerves.³⁰⁰ “Fortune favors the brave!” Goebbels had written in his diary the day Hitler informed him of the decision for the Rhineland action. “He who dares nothing wins nothing.”³⁰¹

British officials were exasperated: they had been about to offer Germany remilitarization, but, as Eden told the cabinet (March 9), “Hitler has deprived us of the possibility of making to him a concession which might otherwise have been a useful bargaining counter in our hands in the general negotiations with Germany which we had it in contemplation to initiate.”³⁰² London appealed pro forma to the League of Nations (March 12) and strenuously worked to restrain any French response.³⁰³ French ruling circles lacked the confidence to stand up to Germany alone.³⁰⁴ Only a small contingent of the fledgling Wehrmacht had entered the demilitarized zone, ostensibly so as not to give the impression of a Western invasion. One or two French divisions would have sufficed to drive them out.³⁰⁵ Instead, German industry could now be organized for war without concern for the security of the Rhine and the Ruhr. France was humiliated. “In these three years,” Hitler exulted at a hastily summoned session of the neutered Reichstag in the Kroll Opera House, “Germany has regained its honor, found belief again, overcome its greatest economic distress, and finally ushered in a new cultural ascent.” He cited the recently ratified Franco-Soviet alliance as justification for his remilitarization. “The revolution may take place in France tomorrow,” he added. “In that case, Paris would be nothing more than a branch office of the Communist International.”³⁰⁶

France managed to get Britain to sign a diplomatic note specifying that in the event of a German attack on France, the two Western powers would enter into general staff talks, which fell short of automatic military assistance but was a step.³⁰⁷ Stalin locked down his Mongolian vassals in a Treaty of Friendship and Cooperation, signed in Ulan Bator (March 12), which formalized the already imposed military alliance for a ten-year period.³⁰⁸ Some observers also expected Hitler’s action to deepen Franco-Soviet ties, but French officials complained that Stalin was more interested in provoking war between France and Germany than in cooperating with France to fight.³⁰⁹

Stalin just did not view the French as offering anything remotely comparable to Germany economically. (Thanks to a well-placed spy, Karl Behrens, the Soviets were receiving technical blueprints from AEG, Germany’s preeminent heavy electrical engineering firm.) Also, the Rhineland’s remilitarization indicated that the USSR might not be the principal target of German aggrandizement.^{310, 311} Molotov gave an extended interview in Moscow to the editor of the influential French newspaper Le Temps (March 19, 1936) stating that Germany might start a war—in the west. He did reaffirm the Franco-Soviet pact and admit that “a certain part of the Soviet people” felt implacable hostility toward Germany’s current rulers, but he volunteered, unartfully, that the “chief tendency, determining the policy of Soviet power, thinks an improvement in Soviet-German relations possible . . . yes, even Hitler’s Germany.”³¹²

CHARISMATIC POWER

A Georgian delegation was received in the Kremlin, also on March 19, and Molotov greeted them in Georgian: “Amkhanagebo! (Stormy applause, turning into an ovation.)” When he noted that they had given the country Stalin, there was “an eruption of applause” that would not cease.³¹³ In the Grand Kremlin Palace between April 11 and 21, the Communist Youth League 10th Congress took place. “Stalin had yet to make an appearance,” the writer Konstantin Paustovsky wrote of the final day. “We want comrade Stalin, Stalin, Stalin,” the delegates shouted, stamping their feet. “And then it happened! Stalin emerged suddenly and silently out of the wall behind the Presidium table. . . . Everyone jumped. There was frenzied applause. . . . Unhurriedly, Stalin came up to the table, stopped, and, with hands linked on his stomach, gazed at the hall. . . . The first thing that struck me was that he did not resemble the thousands of portraits and official photographs, which set out to flatter him. The man who stood before me was stumpy and stocky, with a heavy face, reddish hair, low forehead, and a thick mustache. . . . The hall rocked with all the shouting. People applauded, holding their hands high over their heads. At any moment, one felt, the ceiling would come crashing down. Stalin raised a hand. Immediately there was a deathly hush. In that hush, Stalin shouted abruptly and in a rather hoarse voice, with a strong Georgian accent, ‘Long Live Soviet youth!’”³¹⁴

The children’s writer Chukovsky was close to the front (sixth or seventh row). “What took place in the hall! HE stood, a bit fatigued, engrossed in thought, titanic,” Chukovsky noted in his diary. “One sensed the immense habituation to power, the force, and at the same time something female, soft. I looked around: everyone had loving faces, kind, inspirational, and smiling faces. Just to see—simply see—was happiness for us all.” Chukovsky, too, had sensed the power. “Never,” he concluded, “did I think I was capable of such feelings.”³¹⁵

On May 1, 1936, the regime staged the massive military display on Red Square, and the next day the emotive Voroshilov once again served as a deft master of ceremonies. “Comrades, by the ancient Soviet custom, it is proposed that we fill our glasses,” he told a boisterous hall in the Grand Kremlin Palace, proceeding with toast after toast (for Stalin, Molotov, Kalinin, Orjonikidze, Kaganovich). Before each pronouncement, Voroshilov employed Soviet jargon, tongue in cheek: “Comrades, I do not doubt your vigilance in general, but in this case a check is needed. How’s the situation with glasses?” (Refills, quickly.) And on it went, until Stalin rose to toast Voroshilov, and Molotov rose to toast “the Great Stalin,” whereupon the entire room of cadets and officers stood as one.³¹⁶

The Red Army, across 1935 and 1936, acquired a staggering 7,800 tanks, 4,200 airplanes, 9,600 artillery systems, and 6.7 million rounds of ammunition, and soon reached 1.423 million men, on a par with the tsarist army in peacetime. The USSR’s spring 1936 war games again had Nazi Germany as the main enemy, but the exercises revealed that pre-positioning of massive forces on the frontier would not be enough: without a prior Soviet occupation of the independent Baltic states to seize the strategic initiative from Germany, victory could be elusive.³¹⁷ But Stalin would not countenance such aggressive preemptive moves. It was, in any case, doubtful whether the Red Army could even launch a preemptive war, even as its massive size and disposition made it seem poised to do so.³¹⁸ Such combat would have put to a severe test the Soviet rail network, known both at home and abroad to be a weak point.³¹⁹ Also, the military expansion, overly rapid and incoherent, had led to a critical dearth of well-trained junior officers.³²⁰ Stalin, who received Tukhachevsky nine times in the Little Corner in 1936, including on April 3 and May 28, with a slew of military brass and intelligence officials, had moved him from running armaments to a reorganized directorate for military training.³²¹

BLINDERS

In Berlin on May 4, the Soviet embassy hosted a banquet to celebrate a recently signed modest new bilateral trade protocol, without new credits—the existing 200-million-mark loan remained to be drawn down—but with procedures to fix short-term clearing of accounts (inhibited by currency regulations).³²² Bessonov told a German foreign ministry official of Soviet readiness to do what was necessary to create the “preconditions of (Soviet-German) détente.”³²³ Hitler had appointed Herbert Göring head of a new office for raw material and foreign exchange, crucial for the rearmament economy.³²⁴ The indefatigable Kandelaki managed to obtain an audience with him (May 13) through a cousin of the Luftwaffe head, during which an amiable Göring promised to make inquiries about Kandelaki’s request for assistance in obtaining the military technology he sought, and professed delight at the recent trade protocol. Göring also pledged that “all his efforts were directed toward making closer contacts with Russia again, politically, too, and he thought the best way would be through intensifying and expanding mutual trade relations.” He added, “If the Russian gentlemen encountered difficulties in Germany or were faced with questions with which they were making no headway, he most cordially invited them to turn to him at any time. He was always ready to receive them and assist them by word and deed.”³²⁵ Schacht, the next day, tried to downplay Göring’s remarks, but Kandelaki departed immediately to report in Moscow.³²⁶ A few days later, Göring would agree with a group of German industrialists that business with the Soviet Union was important and promised at some point to bring the issue up with Hitler, “whose attitude to it, admittedly, was not very sympathetic.”³²⁷

Göring wanted no more from the Soviets than raw materials in a strictly nonpolitical trade relationship, and he played a complex game. The day after meeting Kandelaki, he received Polish foreign minister Beck and informed him that the Soviet representative had been insisting on a meeting and, finally, had been granted one, during which Kandelaki had made “a concrete proposal for the purchase of several warships and armaments in Germany. The Soviet delegation gave us to understand that Stalin, in contrast to Litvinov, is positively inclined to Germany.” Göring claimed he had presented the Soviet enticements to “the chancellor,” who “energetically spoke against such suggestions.” That was what the Poles wanted to hear. Still, Beck had to understand that Soviet-German rapprochement was at least under discussion. Thus did Göring put pressure on Warsaw to improve Polish-German relations—on Berlin’s terms—while continuing to sabotage any possible Polish-Soviet rapprochement by dangling the possibility of German-Polish joint military action, should the Red Army attack.³²⁸

Inside the Soviet regime, the British remained the fixation. “Fascism’s strength is not in Berlin, fascism’s strength is not in Rome,” Kalinin, head of the Soviet state, said in May 1936, echoing comments by Molotov. “Fascism’s strength is in London, and not even in London per se but in five London banks.”³²⁹ Mussolini—infuriated by League of Nations sanctions over his Abyssinian invasion—had threatened to quit that body, but it hardly mattered. He publicly drew closer to Nazi Germany.³³⁰ On the battlefield, Italy had snatched victory from what briefly looked like possible defeat, and in early May 1936, Emperor Haile Selassie, although refusing to vacate the throne, fled into exile. Italy would merge Abyssinia with Eritrea and Somaliland, forming Italian East Africa; King Victor Emmanuel III would be proclaimed emperor. Mussolini was denounced as the worst of the dictators, a “mad dog act,” or, in the words of Britain’s Anthony Eden, a “gangster”—language that was not heard publicly from Whitehall about Hitler.³³¹ A smiling Hitler told British ambassador Phipps, in regard to Mussolini’s aggression in Abyssinia (May 14), “With dictators, nothing succeeds like success.”³³² Four days later, Germany’s foreign minister, Konstantin von Neurath, confidently told William Bullitt, now the U.S. ambassador in Berlin, that Germany would annex Austria at some point, and no one would stop it.³³³

CULTURAL TRIUMPHS, TROTSKYITES

Sergei Prokofyev’s Little Peter and the Wolf, commissioned by the Central Children’s Theater run by Natalya Sats, had premiered at the Moscow Philharmonic on May 2, 1936, before moving to the children’s venue.³³⁴ Although Soviet functionaries had failed to cajole the self-exiles Igor Stravinsky and Sergei Rachmaninov to return, they had succeeded in retrieving Prokofyev, who lived among the constellation of émigré luminaries in Paris with his Spanish wife, Lina Codina, and their Paris-born children. He would receive a four-room apartment in an elite neo-constructivist building (Zemlyanoy Val, 14) and immediately set to work on a plethora of commissions. He had never gravitated to vaudeville or the Hollywood musical, and he took Shostakovich’s public humiliation as promising that there would be ample space for his own diatonic melodies, determined, as he was, to become a central player in what was a serious musical culture. Prokofyev underestimated the bureaucratic deadweight (approval committees made up of third- and fourth-rate musical talent would rewrite his works), but in the meantime the orchestral storytelling of his Little Peter and the Wolf enchanted young audiences.³³⁵

Alexandrov, Eisenstein’s former assistant, had done it again: his film Circus premiered on May 23, 1936. Alexandrov, who had once been a circus performer himself, based the film on the Ilf and Petrov play Under the Big Top, from the Moscow Music Hall. Circus lacked the disorganized zaniness of Jolly Fellows: the cameraman had been to Hollywood with Shumyatsky and introduced American storyboarding and Disney’s matching of sound and image. Circus followed the winning Hollywood formula of the transformation of a spunky underdog into a smash success. The female lead, Marion Dixon (played by Lyubov Orlova), a name evocative of Marlene Dietrich, is a performer in an American circus that comes to the USSR on tour. She had given birth to a son with a black lover and suffered racism in the United States; in the USSR, she falls for a Russian performer named Ivan and defects, which spurs the circus director to threaten to expose her illegitimate black child, but the Moscow audience embraces him, and Marion remains in Moscow with her Ivan. The film climaxes with a lullaby sung, in turn, by representatives of the various Soviet nationalities. (The final kiss cliché, characteristic of American comedies, between the little black boy, Jimmy, and a little white girl was cut.) Dunayevsky supplied six catchy songs, performed by Yakov Skomorovsky’s jazz band, including the colossally popular, easily memorized “Song of the Motherland,” with lyrics by Lebedev-Kumach (“I know of no other country where a person breathes this freely!”). The film’s final production number has Orlova dancing at the pinnacle of a multilayered cake structure. One million people saw Circus during just its first two weeks in Moscow. Orlova crisscrossed the country. In Chelyabinsk, she was awarded a piston ring from the factory foundry engraved with lyrics from the Jolly Fellows march: “Song helps us build and live.”³³⁶

Party Card, directed by Ivan Pyryev, had premiered in Moscow on April 7, 1936. In the film, the year is 1932 and Pavel Kurganov, from Siberia, the son of a kulak, signs on at a Moscow factory. Becoming a shock worker there, he seduces and marries a young woman, Anna Kulikova, an outstanding assembly-line worker and loyal party member. Unbeknownst to Anna (played brilliantly by Ada Voitsik), Pavel (Andrei Abrikosov) has murdered a Communist Youth League activist, to take over his identity, while secretly working for foreign intelligence, which assigned him the task of obtaining a party member’s card to commit sabotage. Despite her initial lack of vigilance, which Anna’s party colleagues at work denounce, she teams up with her former sweetheart to expose her husband as an embittered kulak enemy. The lesson: Pavel, a peasant lad, had looked trustworthy, but no one can be trusted. The most dangerous enemy is the one with a party card.³³⁷ In the initial draft of the screenplay (by Yekaterina Vinogradskaya), titled Little Anna, Pavel had not been a spy. Stalin helped recast it.³³⁸ Party cards, long a sign of status in the Soviet Union, allowing holders to attend secret meetings, receive secret information, and shoulder extra responsibilities, now endangered those who held them.

Yagoda had written to Stalin recommending that the multitude of “Trotskyites” in custody be executed, in accordance with the Kirov assassination anti-terror law.³³⁹ Some were said to have “ties” to the Gestapo. He reported that two arrested Trotskyites had been found to have thirteen issues of the Bulletin of the Opposition in a suitcase hidden in the wall—Stalin kept his in a cupboard—as well as a copy of the defector Grigory Besedovsky’s book On the Road to Thermidor. The NKVD had also found an address book—more “Trotskyites” to arrest.³⁴⁰ On May 20, 1936, pointing to “the unceasing counterrevolutionary activity of Trotskyites in internal exile, and of those expelled from the party,” the politburo stipulated that more than 600 “Trotskyites” should be sent to remote concentration camps, while those found to have engaged in terrorism were to be executed.³⁴¹ Yagoda furnished Stalin with additional testimony about “Trotskyite-Zinovievite organizations” on June 1.³⁴²

From June 1 to 4, 1936, the Central Committee held its first plenum of the year. It was devoted to agriculture, the pending adoption of a new constitution, and the appeals/reinstatement process for party members expelled during the recent verification campaign (more than 200,000 total). With the regime under severe financial pressure, Stalin had reduced the interest paid on government bonds subscribed to by ordinary people from 8–10 percent to 4 percent, with maturity extended from 10 to 20 years, which he now felt compelled to mention. Some 50 million Soviet inhabitants were affected, most of whom had “subscribed” only under severe pressure from trade unions and party organizers. “As you are well aware, we spend an alarming amount of money on things that cannot be postponed,” he told the plenum attendees (June 3), who would have to face the people’s resentment back in their locales. “Much money has been spent, and is being spent, on such matters as building schools, teachers’ pay, urban improvement, irrigation, afforestation of a number of parts of the country, . . . and constructing canals. Money is being spent on defense and even more will be spent in the future. . . . We do not yet have a navy, and a new one must be established. . . . This is the situation, comrades.”³⁴³

These remarks were not reported in the press. Pravda, however, did castigate provincial-level party bosses for “mistakes” made in party expulsions.³⁴⁴ Yezhov in his report had admitted that far from everyone expelled was an enemy, but he ominously stated that “we ought not to think that the enemy, who yesterday was still in the party, will rest content with being expelled from the party and quietly wait for ‘better times.’” Stalin made some rambling interjections about clearer procedures for appeals, and allowed Yenukidze to be reinstated in the party. Several matters were not recorded even in the rough draft materials of the plenum, including an exchange between Yagoda and Stalin on the “Trotskyite-Zinovievite bloc.”³⁴⁵

Gorky had taken gravely ill during the plenum, four days after visiting his son Maxim’s grave in Novodevichy Cemetery. “We came to see you at 2:00 a.m.,” Stalin, Molotov, and Voroshilov wrote in a short note (June 10). “They said your pulse was excellent (82, more or less). The doctors forbade us from seeing you. We had to comply. Greetings from all of us, a big greeting.”³⁴⁶ On the morning of June 18, he died at his dacha. Levitan, on Soviet radio, called him “a great Russian writer, brilliant artist of the word, friend of workers, and fighter for the victory of Communism.” Gorky’s brain was removed and taken in a bucket, by his secretary, to Moscow’s Brain Research Institute, which housed the brains of Lenin and Mayakovsky. That day and the next, the brainless body lay in state as half a million people paid their respects. (When Stalin entered for the solemn farewell, applause broke out, which was shown on newsreels.)³⁴⁷ On June 20, at the state funeral, Gide, on the Mausoleum, delivered one of the eulogies, along with Aleksei Tolstoy and Molotov. Rolland sent a letter from Switzerland, published in Pravda (June 20): “I recall his youthful ardor, his sparkling enthusiasm when he spoke of the new world in whose building he took part. I recall his goodness and the sorrow hidden in its depth.”

Gorky’s ashes were interred in the Kremlin Wall. Stalin afforded Andreyev, his apparatchik for culture, the honor of placing the urn. The regime seized the writer’s archive (Yagoda especially was in for infuriating surprises).³⁴⁸ Rumors circulated of poisoning. One of those accused was Gorky’s former mistress Baroness Moura Budberg, who got her surname through marriage to an Estonian aristocrat, started an affair with H. G. Wells, and was thought to be a double British and Soviet agent. But the main suspect in the whisperings was Stalin.³⁴⁹ In fact, Gorky, who was sixty-eight, had been extremely sick, and was properly diagnosed and treated by a battery of top physicians.³⁵⁰ His autopsy revealed bronchitis, tuberculosis, and a damaged left lung. The writer had smoked nearly three packs of cigarettes a day, and needed an oxygen tank. Pravda gave the cause of death as “a cardiac arrest and paralysis of the lungs.” Gorky had never spiritually recovered from his son Maxim’s untimely death.³⁵¹ “What has brought you to the Bolsheviks?” Yekaterina Kuskova, Gorky’s lifelong friend, recalled asking him once, in an obituary published in the emigration (June 26). “Do you remember how I began to read Marx with you in Nizhny Novgorod, and you proposed to throw the ‘German philistine’ into the fire?”³⁵²

•   •   •

THE MARXIST-LENINIST REGIME that emerged in the blood and fever dreams of the years 1929–36 was buffeted by global structural forces, from fluctuations in commodity prices to innovations in tank designs, and by the deepening of a new historical conjuncture, the mass age. The most powerful countries achieved and maintained their great-power status by mastery of a set of modern attributes: mass production, mass consumption, mass culture, mass politics. Great Britain had not only powerful ships and airplanes, engineers and trained military officers, but also a broad-based political system, an integrated national culture, and a deep degree of societal cohesion. Every other aspiring great power had to achieve its own mass-based version of modernity, which imparted new impetus and form to their geopolitical rivalries. That competition took place not just across the liberal-illiberal divide but among the democratizing parliamentary countries Britain, France, and the United States, and among avowedly authoritarian regimes: fascist Italy, Nazi Germany, Imperial Japan, and the Soviet Union. All of them either had to match the others in some way or risk becoming, like the rest of the world, colonies. Modernity was not a sociological but a geopolitical process.³⁵³

Stalin forced into being a socialist modernity, presiding over the creation of a mass-production economy, a Soviet mass culture, an integrated society, and a mass politics without private property.^{354, 355}

This upheaval, in addition to geopolitics and ideology, reflected Russia’s long-standing sense of world-historical destiny combined with profound insecurity and relative weakness vis-à-vis the European powers. This gap had long goaded Russia into catch-up acquisition of Western technology to protect the country’s non-Western identity, borrowing not ideas and institutions of liberty but technology for industry and techniques for administration of resources and population—the social-engineering part of the Enlightenment. But even as Russia advanced, the West did not stand still and remained richer, more advanced, more powerful. Still, under Stalin the Soviets had imported and copied Western technology and skills, enforced deprivation on the populace, and created a massive land army and air force that would be the envy of other powers—just as imperial Russia had done.³⁵⁶ Stalin’s use of the state to force-modernize the country was far more radical and violent than that of his tsarist predecessors because of the Great War conjuncture, which accelerated the use of violence for political ends, and the anticapitalism, which coercion alone could achieve. Thanks to the Great Depression, Stalin was also able to secure technology transfer with greater independence from foreign desiderata.³⁵⁷

In imperial Russia, only a strong personality—a Sergei Witte, a Pyotr Stolypin—had been able to impose something of a unified will on the ministries, while toiling to implant loyalists across the entire bureaucracy, but the tsar and his agents deliberately undermined strong central government, because that threatened the prerogatives of the autocrat. Stolypin, arguably Russia’s greatest statesman, had occupied the position of prime minister, but Stalin occupied the position of supreme ruler, like the tsar, and he favored unified government.³⁵⁸ Through Molotov and others, he achieved coordination, and over a much larger apparatus. And while Stolypin had had to contend with a quasiparliament to legalize his policies, the Congress of Soviets possessed none of the powers even of the tsarist Duma. To be sure, Stalin had to obtain politburo approval. But he either manipulated the members or just acted unilaterally. He possessed instruments Stolypin could not have dreamed of: a single-party machine that enveloped the whole country, a Soviet secret police that vastly exceeded the tsarist okhranka in personnel and acceptable practice, a galvanizing ideology that morally justified any and all means, and housebroken nationalisms as well as a supranational Soviet identity that bound the peoples of the former Russian empire to the regime.³⁵⁹

Perhaps the biggest difference was that the Soviet regime mobilized the masses on its behalf. Machiavelli had suggested that princes aim to restrict or eliminate access to public spaces—amphitheaters and squares, town halls and auditoriums, streets and even parks—but Stalin flooded them. His state’s power was magnified by a host of mass organizations: the party and Youth League, the army and civil defense associations, trade unions that dispensed social welfare, a kind of mass conscription society.³⁶⁰ The dictator coerced and cajoled the artistic intelligentsia into state service as well. His regime actively engaged the new Soviet society at every level, in identities and practices of everyday life, through which people became part of the system.³⁶¹ The populace absorbed the regime’s language, ways of thinking, and modes of behavior. Aspirations, in turn, emerged from the new Soviet society, and Stalin became attentive to quality of life, consumer goods, entertainment, and pride. By the mid-1930s the revolution and Stalin’s leadership were seen as having enabled a great country to take its rightful place among the powers, with a supposedly morally and economically superior system.³⁶² “In Germany bayonets do not terrorize a people,” Hitler had boasted in spring 1936. “Here a government is supported by the confidence of the entire people. . . . I have not been imposed by anyone upon this people. From the people I have grown up, in the people I have remained, to the people I return. My pride is that I know no statesman in the world who with greater right than I can say that he is representative of his people.”³⁶³ Similarly, Stalin had boasted to Roy Howard that same spring of 1936 that the USSR was “a truly popular system, which grew up from within the people.”³⁶⁴

Stalin had improvised his way toward attainment of the modern authoritarian dream: incorporating the masses without empowering them. Europe’s democratic great powers were put on the defensive by the dynamic mass politics and stated aspirations of the authoritarian regimes. France’s dilemma was particularly stark. Fearful of revived German power, it had turned to a pact with the Communist USSR, but its willingness to do so was based precisely upon the pact’s absence of a military convention, alongside a desperately desired deepening of cooperation with Britain, as well as mollification of Italy and the marginalization of the French Communists.³⁶⁵ In the event, Britain had shown itself ready to surrender the continental guarantees that France viewed as bedrock, France’s precarious placation of a prickly Mussolini was failing, and France’s Communist party was growing significantly in strength, winning more than 15 percent of the vote and seventy-two seats in spring 1936 (versus 8 percent and ten seats four years earlier). All of this damaged Paris’s already weak commitment to alliance with Moscow.

Stalin’s dilemma was no less stark. Suspicious that the imperialists Britain and France would galvanize an anti-Soviet front and goad countries on his border into attacking, he had worked to neutralize Poland and recruit Germany, keeping them out of the feared anti-Soviet coalition. On his eastern flank, Japan had seized the Soviet sphere of influence in Manchuria and taken other parts of northern China, directly threatening Soviet territory. All of this had spurred his turn toward outright militarization, membership in the League of Nations, an antifascist front in the Comintern, and mutual assistance pacts with France and its ally Czechoslovakia. But Stalin, like the tsarist conservative and Germanophile Pyotr Durnovó, questioned the wisdom of such an orientation. He held to his quest for rapprochement with Nazi Germany, to acquire advanced technology while preventing a broad anti-Soviet coalition. Hitler, however, increasingly named the Soviet Union as his principal target. Stalin’s options were to deter or deflect the penetration in his direction of Germany and Japan, via an alliance with binding military obligations; secure some form of accommodation (nonaggression pacts); or fight Germany and Japan on his own, perhaps simultaneously, a two-front nightmare the tsars had not faced.³⁶⁶

Russia’s perennial quest to build a strong state, to match an ever-superior West, had culminated, yet again, in personal rule. That person was extraordinary, a man of deep Marxist-Leninist convictions and iron will, but dogged by Lenin’s purported Testament calling for his removal and internal opposition over the searing episode of forced collectivization-dekulakization. At least 5,000 “Trotskyites” and “Zinovievites” were arrested in the first half of 1936 (as compared with 631 in all of 1934). Before the year was out, the total would reach 23,279.³⁶⁷ And that would be the beginning. A fixation on former oppositionists, above all Trotsky, would begin to consume the country. None of that was caused by the foreign policy dilemmas, but it would exacerbate them. Could Bolshevism’s avatar Stalin solve the deep challenges of Russian history that, along with anticapitalism and the mass age, had produced him and his epigones?

———PART II——— TERROR AS STATECRAFT

Will future generations understand it all? Will they understand what is happening? It is terrifying living through it.

ALEXANDRA KOLLONTAI, Soviet envoy to Sweden, notes written at a European spa on hotel stationery, March 25, 1938¹

IN HIS HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES, Joseph Campbell would indirectly explain the archetype in world mythologies that Soviet regime propagandists much earlier had applied to Stalin: humble origins (a man of the people), a call to greatness on the people’s behalf, a demonstration of separation (slaying of dragons, i.e., of the party opposition), a crushing setback and near defeat (peasant and party resistance to collectivization), a mythic rebound of resilience and fortitude, culminating in triumph (Congress of Victors; a socialist great power).² With Soviet hagiographers competing to portray Stalin as just such a humble man of the people and their instrument of destiny, Beria, in particular, intuited the dividends from depicting him as the Lenin of the Caucasus. This portrait, for all its blatant falsehoods, captured Stalin’s obsession with menace, something Campbell’s archetype could not do, but also Stalin’s archetypal commitment to a transcendent mission for the supposed greater good. Realizing the dream of socialism had seemed improbable for decades. But after the abdication of the tsar, in 1917, the decision by Russia’s Provisional Government to continue the war—like imperial Germany’s decision to launch the U-boat campaign that provoked U.S. entry and tipped the war’s balance—had changed the course of humanity. Socialism was no longer just libraries full of pamphlets, songs, marches, meetings, and schisms, but a country.

In power, socialism swelled the state and destroyed not just the “bourgeoisie” but the small-business owner, the family farmer, the artisan.³ All of this shocked non-Leninist socialists who hoped to end exploitation and alienation and break through to social democracy while still insisting on their class approach. These Marxists repudiated the Soviet Union as not socialism but a deformation, because of Russia, or Lenin, or Stalin. After all, Marx had never advocated mass murder, but freedom. Nowhere did he say there should be collective farms formed by secret police coercion, mass deportations to frozen wastes, terrible famine.⁴ Of course, Marx had insisted that wage labor was “wage slavery,” private capital “exploitation” and “alienation,” the market “chaos,” and therefore that, to achieve lasting abundance and freedom, capitalism had to be “transcended.” The tragedy began unfolding with the very invention of “capitalism.”⁵ Once markets and private property were named and blamed as the source of evil, statization would be the consequence. A few socialists began, painfully, to recognize that there could be no freedom without markets and private property, but they were denounced as apostates. Compounding the tragedy of the left, traditional conservatives committed the gross error of inviting the fascists and Nazis to power in no small part because of the leftist threat and the hard-nosed view that differences between anticapitalist democratic socialists and Leninists were delusion. To top it all off, Social Democrats and Communists fought a bitter civil war over workers’ allegiance.

When Hegel famously referred to history as a “slaughter bench,” he had no idea what he was talking about, and yet he was right. Partly that was because of the influence of Hegel’s hazardous ideas on the Marxists: the sophistry known as the dialectic, the idolatry of the state, the supposed historical “progress” through the “necessary” actions of great men.⁶

It was no accident, as Hegelian-inspired Marxists might say (and as Trotsky had predicted already in 1904), that a single leader had emerged atop a single-party system that, on the basis of class analysis, denied legitimacy to political opposition.⁷ It was also no accident that this single leader was Stalin, at once a militant Communist and an unprincipled intriguer, an ideologue and an opportunist—the Leninist fusion—who, like his mentor, possessed extreme willpower, which was the prerequisite for attaining what only unspeakable bloodshed could: the elimination of capitalism.⁸ Stalin could not boast the effortless success of those to the manor born. He had to be, and was, a relentless striver. He also happened to carry a gargantuan chip on his shoulder, for although he had benefited immeasurably from Lenin’s patronage, he then suffered the unending humiliation of Lenin’s supposed call for his removal, which was thrown at him by his rivals and whispered across the entire party. Stalin emerged as a leader of acute political intelligence and bottomless personal resentment. The collectivization that he forced through to the end, famine notwithstanding, provoked criticism in the party—Syrtsov on the fiction of the politburo; Ryutin on his amoral dictatorship—magnifying Stalin’s righteousness and resentment. To an extent, power reveals who a person is. But the effects on Stalin of accruing and exercising power unconstrained by law or constitutional limits—the power of life and death over hundreds of millions—were immense. Alongside the nature of Bolshevism, the setting of his regime—Russia, with its fraught history and geopolitics, its sense of historic mission and grievance, which were given new impetus and form by socialism’s fixation on capitalist encirclement—also indelibly shaped who he became.

Without Stalin there would have been no socialism, and without socialism, no Stalin.⁹ That said, his demonic disposition, which the experience of this kind of rule in this place heightened, never overwhelmed his ability to function at the highest level. Physically, he continued to suffer from frequent bouts of flu and fever, stomach ailments, dental problems, and severe pain in his joints, but he proved hearty enough to be a hands-on ruler of one sixth of the earth’s surface. His capacity for work was prodigious, his zeal for detail unquenchable.¹⁰ He received 100 or even 200 documents a day, some of substantial length, and he read many of them, often to the end, scribbling comments or instructions on them.¹¹ He initiated or approved untold personnel appointments, goaded minions in relentless campaigns, attended myriad congresses and ceremonies bearing the burden of instruction, assiduously followed the public and private statements of cultural figures, edited novels and plays, and prescreened films. He pored over a voluminous flow of intelligence reports and lengthy interrogation protocols of accused spies, wreckers, counterrevolutionaries, traitors. He wrote and rewrote the texts of decrees, newspaper editorials, and his own speeches, confident in his abilities. Very occasionally he made grammatical mistakes in Russian, his second language, but he wrote accessibly, using rhetorical questions, catchphrases, enumeration.¹² The fools were the ones who took him for a fool.

Pravda taught Soviet inhabitants indebtedness to the state and to Stalin personally, depicting everything they had—food, clothing, education, joy—as gifts (“Thank you, comrade Stalin!”).¹³ In newsreels he came across as the epitome of wise leadership, photogenic in his signature tunic. “In his speeches Stalin was categorical, but simple,” recalled the loyalist writer Konstantin Simonov (b. 1915). “With people—this we sometimes saw in the newsreels—he conducted himself simply. He dressed simply, identically. There was nothing showy about him, no external pretensions to greatness or a sense of being chosen. This corresponded to our impressions of how a person standing at the head of the party should be. Altogether this was Stalin: all these feelings, all these positive traits, real and drawn by us, of the leader of the party and state.”¹⁴ Stalin’s leader cult was manufactured—acquiring the character of an arms race, as proponents strove to outdo one another—but not artificial.¹⁵ If Hitler, despite the forelock that fell into his face, the near ridiculous mustache, and the constant chewing of his fingernails, could hold his country in thrall, the reason lay at least as much in the German people as in the Führer’s gifts. Stalin, too, possessed a weird magnetism, derived from his ability to personify socialist modernity and Soviet might, to inspire and validate people’s aspirations. The cult’s power was that it was not just about Stalin; it was about them.¹⁶

•   •   •

LOOKED AT SOBERLY, Stalin’s anticapitalist experiment resembled a vast camp of deliberately deprived workers, indentured farmers, and slave laborers toiling for the benefit of an unacknowledged elite.¹⁷ But the Soviet Union was a fairy tale. Unrelenting optimism spread alongside famine, arrests, deportations, executions, camps, censorship, sealed borders.¹⁸ Newsreels that showed Stalin also featured belching smokestacks—Soviet inhabitants came to know factories by name and sight—tanks and bombers, giant icebreakers, fecund farms, the friendship of peoples, and vigorous, marching, smiling masses, a tableau of modernity, progress, socialism. Many Soviet inhabitants—especially, but not only, the young—craved a transcendent purpose, and in the swirl of ambition, fanaticism, and opportunism they willingly endured hardships, finding personal fulfillment, even liberation, in submission to the state-led struggle in the name of social justice, abundance, and peace. The relentless demands for public professions of loyalty risked eliciting playacting and sullen obedience. But the cause offered the possibility of belonging. Many embraced violence and cruelty as unavoidable in bringing about a new world, and they keenly soaked up the propaganda. To manage contradictions and conscience, they had the transcendent truth of Marxism-Leninism, and the personal example of “comrade Stalin.” People of this era who were looking for a brighter future, a chance to be part of something larger than themselves, found it.¹⁹ “The tiniest little fish,” one woman would enthuse in her diary, “can stir the depths of the ocean.”²⁰

In the USSR, an entire generation was coming of age in what seemed like the most heroic epoch in history, acquiring skills, education, apartments—building and living socialism. New or wholly reconstructed factories abounded, their production celebrated daily. The famine had been left behind, and rationing was abolished. In the economy, the years 1934–36 turned out to be relatively good, as the country consolidated its investments.²¹ Waste was colossal, of course, but most of the rest of the world was still mired in the effects of the Great Depression. The regime had also eased up on the state of emergency, the extrajudicial and judicial executions. And yet, the land of Soviets remained deeply insecure. When the Russian scientist Ivan Pavlov fed a dog, it salivated, and the scientist rang a bell. After many repetitions, Pavlov stopped the feeding but continued the ringing—and the animal salivated anyway. Pavlov had conditioned the dog to respond to the bell as if the sound were the smell and taste of food. The Soviet populace, too, had been conditioned: the “bell” sounded by the regime was “capitalist encirclement,” and the people’s reflexive response was fear of foreign invasion and war.²²

Nonetheless, the Soviet population was unprepared for what struck the country during its hour of triumph beginning in 1936. Even by Stalinist standards, the carnage would be breathtaking.²³ The peak year for Soviet executions—20,201 of them—had been 1930, during dekulakization. In the three years from 1934 to 1936, a time that included mass reprisals for the Kirov murder, the NKVD reported arresting 529,434 people, including 290,479 for counterrevolutionary crimes, and executing 4,402 of them. But for the two years 1937 and 1938, the NKVD would report 1,575,259 arrests, 87 percent of them for political offenses, and 681,692 executions. (The country’s working-age population was around 100 million.) Because an untold number of people sentenced to incarceration were actually executed, and many others died during interrogation or transit and fell outside of execution tabulations, the total who perished directly at the hands of the Soviet secret police in 1937–38 was likely closer to 830,000.²⁴

No such numbers were publicly divulged, and as a result almost no one could fathom the full scale of what was transpiring. Nor could people comprehend the reasons. In many industrial sectors, output plans were not being met, and queues for bread would appear as a result of a poor harvest in 1936, but a sense of the world-beating success of industrialization and stabilization of the collective farm system remained pervasive. (Even privately, the regime evinced no special anxiety about the economic situation.)²⁵ Substantial popular discontent persisted, as under all authoritarian regimes, but it was not increasing, and it certainly did not threaten the regime.²⁶ Soviet society had astonishingly little overt political opposition of any kind. No possibility existed of establishing any genuine organization independent of the regime, let alone of overthrowing it—that would be possible only via military defeat and occupation. The threat of such a war, and on two fronts—west (Germany) and east (Japan)—did continue to loom large in 1937–38, but it already had for several years without provoking any remotely comparable domestic bloodshed. Indeed, the years 1937 and 1938 would bring the long-feared bloodbath—but it did not come on account of war. No foreign power attacked.²⁷ There was no immediate threat—social, economic, political—to the country or to the regime’s legitimacy or stability, no crisis. But then, suddenly, there was total crisis.

•   •   •

SCHOLARS HAVE APPROACHED the enigma of the Great Terror in a variety of ways. Robert Conquest, who gave the episode its proper name (1968, 1990), remains the point of departure, having definitively shown Stalin’s central role decades before archives were declassified. Conquest, though, did not really attempt an explanation (he wrote more or less under the assumption that a Communist regime, and Stalin personally, would inevitably get around to inflicting mass terror in pursuit of ever-greater power).²⁸ Alexander Gerschenkron, in a review of Conquest’s The Great Terror, quoted his argument that “the nature of the whole purge depends in the last analysis on the personal and political drives of Stalin,” then observed that all dictators exhibit a drive to increase their power, and that any modern dictatorship “which is supported neither by an ancient tradition (or close alliance with an ancient power, such as the Church) nor by the active consent of the governed must at all times justify its continuation in power.” Stalin’s dictatorship, too, would be expected to foster “a permanent condition of stress by creating enemies at home and abroad and/or by imposing upon the population gigantic tasks that would be unlikely to be carried out in the absence of the dictatorship,” as well as “a charismatic image of the dictator,” “a utopian goal, carefully kept in a remote future,” and “proscription of any deviating values, supported by threats and acts of repression.”²⁹

Stalin instigated an epic version of the time-honored authoritarian device of trumped-up conspiracies linking internal with external “enemies,” but the Soviet case differed in more than just scale.³⁰ Roy Medvedev, author of the other monumental work on the terror (1971, 1989), endeavored to separate Stalin from the sacred Lenin and depicted him as a traditional tyrant, but he similarly asserted that Stalin was motivated by “lust for power, boundless ambition,” as if all tyrants murdered their own elites not just on such a scale but also with forced confessions to fantastical crimes they had not committed.³¹ Trotsky imagined Stalin’s motivations as jealousy and pettiness, while the biographer Robert C. Tucker saw a pursuit of fame and glory. Moshe Lewin surmised that a paranoid “Stalin actually became the system and his personality acquired therefore a ‘systemic’ dimension,” an apt description, though not an analysis.³² Hiroaki Kuromiya incisively dissected Stalin’s cold-blooded logic regarding opponents and enemies, while Erik van Ree revealed Stalin as a Marxist-Leninist true believer, and Arfon Rees showed him to be a combination revolutionary and Machiavellian.³³ These insights were not offered as explanations for the murderous episode of 1937–38. “There is in Stalin’s Terror an element of sheer preposterousness which defies explanation,” Adam Ulam conceded, after trying.³⁴

A few analysts have stressed not intentions but the chronic dysfunctionality of the political system, as if all authoritarian regimes—which are all dysfunctional to a great degree—do what Stalin’s did.³⁵ In Nazi Germany, Hitler went after the Jews (less than 1 percent of the population), Communists, and Social Democrats, but in the USSR Stalin savaged his own loyal elites across the board. To be sure, the greater number of victims were ordinary Soviet people, but what regime liquidates colossal numbers of loyal officials? Could Hitler—had he been so inclined—have compelled the imprisonment or execution of huge swaths of Nazi factory and farm bosses, as well as almost all Nazi provincial Gauleiters and their staffs, several times over? Could he have executed the personnel of Nazi central ministries, thousands of his Wehrmacht officers—including almost his entire high command—as well as the Reich’s diplomatic corps and its espionage agents, its celebrated cultural figures, and the leadership of Nazi parties throughout the world (had such parties existed)? Could Hitler also have decimated the Gestapo even while it was carrying out a mass bloodletting? And could the German people have been told, and would the German people have found plausible, that almost everyone who had come to power with the Nazi revolution turned out to be a foreign agent and saboteur?³⁶ Even among ideological dictatorships, Communism stands out.

Special features inherent in the Soviet system made a mass and participatory terror between 1936 and 1938 possible. The existence of an extensive police apparatus equipped to arrest and sentence in assembly-line fashion was necessary but not sufficient. Still more important was the existence of the shadowy Communist party, which had cells in all of the country’s institutions, making heresy hunting possible, and an ideology, a class-war practice, and a conspiratorial modus operandi that proved readily conducive to mass murder in the name of reasserting the party’s special mission and purity. All of this was buttressed by the adversarial nature of Soviet noncapitalist industrialization and collectivization, which was linked to an increase in the ranks of enemies; the regime’s censorship (strict control over information and assiduous promotion of certain ways of thinking); widespread resentment of the new elite, which under socialism was not supposed to exist; and widespread belief in a grand crusade, building socialism, in whose name the terror was conducted.³⁷ The masses became complicit as a result of party cell, factory, and farm meetings, and especially their written denunciations, informing, and extracted confessions. That said, the slaughter was neither self-generating nor self-sustaining. Soviet state power was enacted by millions of people—not just those within the formal administrative machinery—but guided by a single individual.

Did Stalin have reason to fear for his power? He had built socialism, a feat even his loyalists had thought unlikely. His personal authority was so secure that, as we shall see, in August 1936 he could once again abandon the capital for more than two months, going on holiday to Sochi. There was no repetition of the blistering Ryutin condemnation in a text circulated hand to hand. No one in his inner circle pretended to be on the same level. Nonetheless, it was clear to him that his “unbounded power” remained oddly contingent. He was the supreme leader by virtue of his position as head of the party, reinforced by his acclamation as the “Lenin of our day.”³⁸ But voting politburo members held the right to nominate someone else as the top secretary of the party, a recommendation that would be forwarded for formal ratification to the first plenum of the Central Committee newly chosen by a party congress. Stalin was thus a dictator on conditional contract. His faction had stood by him through thick and thin. But would the voting nine—Molotov, Kaganovich, Voroshilov, Orjonikidze, Kalinin, Andreyev, Kosior, Mikoyan, and Chubar—continue to do so? Even if Stalin remained certain of their obeisance, he was eager, like all dictators, to convert his dictatorship into despotism.³⁹ For the men in his own loyal faction, in which Stalin had long taken evident pride, this meant breaking their will. Herein lay a key motivation for the fantastic terror of 1936–38.

And yet, considerations of personal power alone do not explain Stalin or the terror. Certainly he pursued power with a vengeance—on behalf of the cause, which in his mind was the same thing as his personal rule—but he had taken gambles with his power, also on behalf of the cause, and was sometimes defiant when it would have been more power enhancing to be prudent. At times he could not be sure what would enhance his power. For him, the terror constituted a form of rule, a matter of statecraft.

Stalin was a liar, a chameleon, who talked out of both sides of his mouth and often said what interlocutors wanted to hear. But more than any other secretive dictator, except perhaps Hitler, he repeatedly explained himself. Everything Stalin did during the years 1936–38 he had been talking about for years. Some things he said only privately, such as his instructions to a Mongolia delegation to stage trials of lamas not merely as counterrevolutionaries but as spies for Mongolia’s foreign enemy Japan, because the lamas could become traitors in the rear in the event of war. Publicly, however, Stalin had stated that he was building socialism against all manner of implacable class enemies; that the class struggle sharpened as the country got closer to the full victory of socialism; that enemies with party cards were the most dangerous because they could secretly burrow into the heart of the system; that those who opposed collectivization wanted to restore capitalism; that all foreigners were spies; that the Zinovievites, Trotskyites, and the right deviation were interlinked and tied to the military; that the rightists wanted to remove him in a putsch, establish a puppet government, hand over Soviet territories, and make a rump USSR into a colony of Germany or Japan (or was it Poland or Romania?); that enemies had become desperate and resorted to all-out terror; that the big bosses were not as valuable as the lower levels; that legions of new people (a “Soviet intelligentsia”) needed to be promoted and nurtured in Marxism-Leninism; that a new imperialist war was inevitable; that the Soviet Union had to avoid becoming the target of an anti-Soviet bloc; that the country needed to become a great power with a military to match the imperialists; that a new imperialist war could enable socialism to expand the same way the previous imperialist war had enabled the Russian Revolution; that the British stood behind the entire imperialist order; that Hitler was an intelligent leader; and that Trotsky and his supposed followers were the most diabolical threat to socialism and the Soviet state.⁴⁰ These various enunciations fit into a grisly logical whole, and Stalin had the untrammeled power to act on them.

CHAPTER 6 ON A BLUFF

The cause of Spain is not solely the cause of the Spaniards, but the cause of all progressive and advanced humanity.

STALIN, open telegram to José Díaz, published in Pravda, October 16, 1936, republished in Mundo Obrero, October 17

Stalin conducts a struggle on a totally different plane. He seeks to strike not at the ideas of an opponent, but at his skull.

TROTSKY, journal entry en route to Mexico on a Norwegian oil tanker, December 30, 1936 ¹

STALIN DEPARTED FOR SOCHI ON AUGUST 14, 1936, and would remain down south through October 25. His absences from Moscow since 1930 (this holiday included) averaged seventy-eight days per annum. His Sochi dacha was not in the town proper, but on a zigzagging road about a mile up and in from the Black Sea. North led to Sochi, south to the sulfur baths of Matsesta (farther on were Gagra and Sukhum, in Abkhazia). The pristine setting offered the smell of pine trees and salty air, while the compound contained guest villas, tennis courts (where Nadya used to play), and a detached billiards hall, all surrounded by NKVD troops. The main dacha was an unpretentious wooden structure with an open-air veranda that Stalin prized. Matsesta’s curative sulfur waters were now being pumped in, obviating the trip. The staff and guards equipped the residence with the usual pianolas and phonographs, but holidays were not downtime. While away from the capital in 1930, Stalin had remade the Soviet government structure, and the next year he reorganized management of foreign affairs. The 1936 southern holiday would prove to be his most momentous yet as he further radicalized his pursuit of Trotskyites with his most frenzied public trial to date and upended international politics with a military intervention on the Iberian Peninsula.

Spain had been Europe’s only major country to avoid the Great War, and the Second Spanish Republic, born in April 1931, bucked the authoritarian trend engulfing the continent. That year, amid a resounding Radical Republican Party victory in municipal elections, King Alfonso XIII, who had reigned since his birth, in 1886, fled abroad (without formal abdication), inspiring hopes among the country’s peasants and workers and fears among the propertied and the Church establishment. But the Republic had managed only timid land reform, while Spain’s few pockets of industry remained gripped by the Depression. A third of the population could neither read nor write, and more than half of its children had no access to education. The Cortes, Spain’s parliament, was roiled by raw, irreconcilable emotions—for and against the Church and the army, for and against socialism. A military coup in August 1932 had been foiled by a general strike, but it confirmed the army’s lack of loyalty to the Republic. Spain experienced wild electoral swings from left (1931) to right (1933) and back on February 18, 1936, when a leftist coalition known as the Popular Front defeated the ruling coalition of rightist parties (the National Front). A quirk in the election law magnified the Popular Front’s narrow victory and gave them a solid majority of 264 representatives—162 Left Republicans and independents, 88 Socialists, 14 Communists—versus 156 for the right and 54 for the center (including many Catalans and the Basques).² The Popular Front’s majority, moreover, stemmed from working-class parties, but the Socialists, Communists, and anarchists did not take government portfolios. At the same time, the Basques in the north and the Catalans in the northeast strove for autonomy, while the central government possessed no reliable provincial officialdom and was hard pressed to live up to soaring expectations for social reform. Some electoral fraud on behalf of the Popular Front also contributed to the instability. More vivid were sensational fables of “Red massacres” of clergy and landowners, mob actions, and rural unrest. The upshot was a cauldron of antigovernment conspiracies.³

Spain would be torn apart by a civil war during which the country of 25 million people would see 1.7 million fighters conscripted by the Republic and 1.2 million by the Nationalists, and up to 200,000 battlefield deaths, over the course of nearly three years of combat over class, religion, region, and governance. Perhaps as many as 49,000 civilians would perish in the Republic’s zone, where the leftists would perpetrate or indulge mob killings of “reactionaries” and “fascists.” How many civilians died in the Nationalists’ bombing of Republic-controlled cities remains unknown (perhaps 10,000), but the Nationalists would end up summarily executing some 130,000 people in a deliberate strategy of anticivilian terror.⁴ During the same period, Stalin would execute or cause the death of up to 1 million people, from a total population of close to 170 million. But the conspiracies in the Soviet Union were invented.

Some scholars have argued that events in Spain helped precipitate or at least radicalize Stalin’s domestic terror of 1936–38, which they portray as a sincere, if wildly excessive, attempt to eradicate suspected real and potential saboteurs lying in wait to assist externally launched aggression.⁵ But Stalin had decided in 1935 to reopen the Kirov murder case and instigate a new wave of arrests of “Trotskyites” around the country. On June 29, 1936—before any hint of Spain—Yagoda had reported to Stalin, Molotov, and Yezhov on “very important” interrogation testimony obtained from arrested “Trotskyites”: Yefim Dreitser, Trotsky’s former bodyguard; Richard Pikel, former head of Zinoviev’s secretariat; and Isaac Esterman. Stalin circulated the report to the politburo.⁶ Furious preparations were under way for a showcase trial (pokazatelnyi protess) involving these and other “Trotskyites” in Moscow. Spain would turn out to be important for Stalin’s mass bloodletting less as cause than as added rationalization.⁷

In the summer and early fall of 1936, the Soviet leader made no speeches; indeed, he did not even appear in public. He sat on his Sochi veranda, reading stacks of well-ordered secret documents, then dictated some telegrams to aides with him on the Black Sea coast, which technicians coded and relayed to Kaganovich in Moscow. Kaganovich, who had never finished elementary school and could not write grammatical Russian, in turn formulated Stalin’s instructions as politburo decrees, which he had coded and dispatched to the tens of thousands of party committees that existed in every single Soviet locality and factory, and a majority of collective and state farms. Comintern secretary general Dimitrov did the same for every Communist party in the world. This produced orchestrated mass meetings all across Eurasia and beyond, at which preselected speakers issued demands for execution, even before convictions had been pronounced, while others in attendance raised their hands in agreement. The Soviet press, in ideological lockstep, delivered saturation coverage to thousands of towns and tens of thousands of villages, whipping up intense hysteria. The power of Stalin’s regime—resting upon the telegraph, a tiny handful of aides, the Communist party machine, the secret police, the military, and the dream of a better world—was breathtaking.

While atop his bluff overlooking the Black Sea, 850 miles from Moscow, Stalin would also decide after much hesitation to intervene in the Spanish civil war.⁸ He ordered no strategic analyses of the pros and cons or formal policy-making discussions.⁹ He seems to have consulted next to no one. Molotov, head of the government, was himself on holiday (July 27–September 1, 1936). Mikoyan was in the United States (August–September) to study the food industry, with more than $600,000 in hard currency to acquire model machinery.¹⁰ When the intervention details were finalized, Orjonikidze, head of heavy industry, was on holiday (September 5–November 5).¹¹ To be sure, Kaganovich was in Moscow, and in frequent contact with Sochi (referring to Stalin as “our parent”). Voroshilov was also in the capital and communicated with Stalin on the high-frequency phone and by ciphered telegram. But the decision to take action in Spain, like the earlier reopening of the Kirov case and preparations for a grand trial of Trotskyites, was Stalin’s alone. We shall puzzle it out, including limits he imposed.¹² Soviet military hardware sent to Spain would be voluminous and state of the art, but Soviet personnel would never exceed 700 or so at any time, two thirds of them in lower-level positions: pilots, tank drivers, technicians. It was not Spain but Trotsky that riveted Stalin’s attention, including much of the attention he paid to Spain.

Never an optimist about revolution abroad, Stalin had nonetheless said that the critical ingredient was war, which Spain would have, making it a test of his own theory of geopolitics. The question of revolution in Spain also intensified his rivalry with his long-standing nemesis. Not long after King Alfonso’s flight, Trotsky had written an unsolicited letter (April 27, 1931) to the Soviet politburo advising that the fate of “the revolution” in Spain depended on whether a combat-capable and authoritative Communist party was formed there. He had also warned that worker-peasant defeat “would lead almost automatically to the establishment in Spain of a genuine fascism in the style of Mussolini.” Stalin had distributed the letter to the inner circle, writing on it, “I think this impudent and Menshevik charlatan citizen Trotsky should get a blow to the head from the Comintern executive committee. Let him know his place.”¹³

COLONIAL EXPERIENCE

Britain had acceded to French ambitions in Morocco in 1904, provided that weaker Spain retained control over the Moroccan territory directly opposite British-controlled Gibraltar, which was crucial to Britain’s dominant position in the Mediterranean. Francisco Franco y Bahamonde had arrived in Spanish Morocco in 1912 and cofounded a Spanish Legion there. (His counterpart, the French commander in North Africa, was Philippe Pétain.) A provincial like Stalin and Hitler, Franco had grown up in Spanish Galicia, where he was marinated in peasant pragmatism and bullied by his father. He was short in stature at five feet five inches (1.64 meters)—two inches shorter than Stalin and three than Hitler—and very slight, earning the nickname Cerillito (“Little Matchstick”). At age fourteen, unable to enroll at the Naval Academy, Franco had entered an infantry academy, where, in 1910, he graduated 251st in a class of 312. In quick succession, however, he would become Spain’s youngest captain, major, colonel, and general (the first in his graduating class), thanks to his exploits in colonial Morocco. In 1916, Franco took a bullet to the lower abdomen—a fraction of an inch in any direction and, like most soldiers with stomach wounds in Africa, he would have died. But after ten years of ruthless counterinsurgency, he secured the Moroccan ruler’s surrender, the deed that earned him a general’s rank at thirty-three, which made him the youngest general ever in the Spanish army and at the time the youngest in Europe. “My years in Africa live within me with indescribable force,” he would later tell a newspaper editor. “There was born the possibility of rescuing a Great Spain.”¹⁴

The man who would make Spain great again was a poor public speaker, with a high-pitched voice. In Morocco, he had come to detest the leftists back in Spain who, in his mind, failed to appreciate the grand colonial enterprise.¹⁵ In 1935, Franco was promoted to chief of staff in Madrid, and in February 1936, when elections brought to power the Popular Front, the general told a confidant it was a Trojan horse to smuggle Communism into Spain and offered his assistance to the defeated rightist prime minister, should the latter want to annul the vote.¹⁶ The Republic’s civilian president smelled a rat and reassigned Franco to the Canary Islands, off the Atlantic coast. In fact, Spain’s military was engaged in a plot. But Franco’s participation was not confirmed until the very eve of their putsch, and even then he voiced uncertainty. The prime mover in the coup was the Cuban-born general Emilio Mola. (Cuba had been a province of Spain.) The forty-eight-year-old Mola had recently been reassigned to a backwater with a small garrison to counteract his suspected plotting. His main accomplice was the sixty-four-year-old general José Sanjurjo, who, along with some 15,000 Spaniards (mostly monarchists and conservatives), was living under asylum in Portugal, courtesy of António de Oliveira Salazar’s dictatorship. Salazar ignored the Spanish Republic’s pleas to prevent Sanjurjo’s return, but on July 20, the latter’s small plane crashed en route: it seems the general’s clothes trunk was too heavy.¹⁷ Sanjurjo’s unexpected death elevated the forty-three-year-old Franco as Mola’s main partner and rival. “Franco,” Sanjurjo had warned, still bitter that during his 1932 coup the younger man had stood on the sidelines, “will do nothing to commit himself; he will always be in the shadows, because he is crafty [cuco].”¹⁸

Franco had flown from the Grand Canary—on a chartered British plane—to Morocco, where he rallied Spain’s best fighting force, the ruthless Army of Africa (5,000 men of the Spanish Foreign Legion, 17,000 Moorish troops, and 17,000 Spanish conscripts).¹⁹ On July 17, they rose up in the coordinated coup. But on the mainland, the Nationalists gained the support of only about half of the Territorial Army, some 60,000 soldiers. Garrisons in key industrial cities—Madrid, Barcelona, Valencia, Bilbao—refused to join the rebellion. But the military plotters would not accept defeat. Mola became the rebel Nationalist commander in the north, Franco in the south. Colonial experience could cut in very different ways: Gandhi had gone to South Africa and returned to British India with the idea of a Congress Party and peaceful protest; Franco, from Spanish Morocco, brought back brutal counterinsurgency. He and Mola enacted the savage political cleansing (limpieza) of Franco’s Moroccan colonial war—only this time against fellow Spaniards.²⁰ To induce Republic-held territory to surrender, Nationalist troops engaged in gang rapes of women, marching with panties flying from their bayonets. Women in the tens of thousands had their hair shaved off and their mouths force-fed castor oil, a laxative, so that, when paraded through the streets, they would soil themselves. Men were just shot, especially if found in possession of a trade union card. All the while, Franco obsessed over supposed international conspiracies of Freemasons, Jews, Communists.

Spain had last experienced major armed conflict when resisting Napoleon Bonaparte. Now, Catalonia used the military’s putsch to carry out its own regional coup d’état against rule by Madrid, splitting the resistance. In Barcelona, in what was christened the Catalan Generalitat, a newly formed Unified Socialist Party of Catalonia competed with anarchists to arm workers in resistance, while the Republic government in Madrid reluctantly armed workers. These new militias radicalized domestic politics—the very outcome that the military putsch was supposed to forestall. Worker syndicates seized factories, and farmers formed collectives or redistributed land to individuals.²¹ In the greatest twist, despite the weakness of Spain’s right-wing party, inspired by fascism, the Falange (Phalanx), and its Communist party—each possessed fewer than 30,000 members in July 1936—Spain became a battleground in the international struggle between fascism and Communism.²²

GREAT POWER MACHINATIONS

Spain and the Soviet Union were remote from each other (the USSR accounted for 0.9 percent of Spain’s trade in the first half of 1936).²³ The Spanish Republic maintained normal diplomatic relations with just about every country in the world except the Soviet Union, and the putsch had looked unlikely to alter any of that.²⁴ France ought to have been Spain’s natural partner, especially after the June 1936 formation of a Popular Front government in Paris, which included Communists as well as Socialists under Prime Minister Léon Blum. Spain’s Popular Front government had already appealed to France’s Popular Front for military aid by July 18, and got a positive initial response from Blum, but pro-Franco personnel in Spain’s embassy in Paris leaked the request to France’s right-wing press, which launched a vicious campaign against Blum (a Jew as well as a Socialist). On a visit to London, moreover, Blum discovered that Britain opposed helping Spain’s elected government.²⁵ Britain had a great deal at stake: it accounted for 40 percent of total foreign investment in Spain, including the Rio Tinto mining conglomerate. But Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin sought to avoid new government commitments, given the costs of maintaining the empire, or unwittingly facilitating a Communist takeover in Spain.²⁶ His stance was shared by even most of the Labour party and the trade union bosses.²⁷ Many British Catholics, meanwhile, admired General Franco’s stated program; much of British business sided with him as well. And so, on July 25, Blum reversed himself and agreed to join Britain’s policy of “non-intervention.” The hope was that the gambit would also take in Germany and Italy.²⁸

The Spanish putschists, however, themselves had appealed to Hitler and Mussolini. Franco, bereft of an air force, was cut off from the mainland, but his appeal to the German government failed. He had recourse to a second channel: German expatriates in Spanish Morocco. A nondescript German sales director at a trading firm (kitchen equipment) who was a member of the Nazi Party Abroad wanted to demonstrate his own importance and that of the fledgling organization, and he flew Franco’s emissaries to Berlin, using Nazi party channels to reach Deputy Führer Rudolf Hess on holiday at his country estate. On July 25, Hess, one of the few people to address Hitler with the familiar du, received the emissaries and phoned Hitler, who was at the summer Wagner Festival. Hess dispatched the Spaniards and Morocco-based Nazis by car to Bayreuth, and, following the conclusion of Siegfried, the group hand-delivered Franco’s request for military aid at the Wagner family residence. Hitler had shown no interest in supporting the coup before the generals had acted, and now seemed unsure—his own rearmament had a ways to go—but he launched a monologue and worked himself into a lather. (“If Spain really goes Communist, France in her present situation will also be Bolshevized in due course, and then Germany is finished.”) That very day, support for Franco against the “international Jewish revolutionary headquarters in Moscow” was assured.²⁹ Hitler consulted only the minions in his company and made the decision against their objections.³⁰ “We’re taking part a bit in Spain,” Goebbels noted in his diary. “Not clear. Who knows what it’s good for.”³¹

Hitler appears to have been in a fine mood that evening: the aid to Spain would be dubbed Operation Magic Fire. (“Magic fire” music accompanies Siegfried’s passage through the flames to liberate Brünnhilde.) The Führer even sent twice as many Junkers Ju 52 transport planes as Franco requested. Franco would have eventually gotten his troops over the Spanish Republic’s naval blockade to the mainland, but Nazi assistance accelerated that movement, struck at the Republic’s morale, and buttressed Franco’s standing vis-à-vis Mola. Franco had also approached Italy for support, on July 22, 1936, and the new Italian foreign minister, Count Galeazzo Ciano (Mussolini’s son-in-law), was gung-ho. The duce had mocked the Spanish Republic as “not a revolution but a plagiarism,” and had been paying a small retainer to a leader of Spain’s fascist equivalents while vaguely promising support to any would-be putschists.³² Now, emboldened by reports of British acquiescence and French paralysis, he decided to provide substantial military assistance, without consulting his own military men. In parallel to his expansionism in Abyssinia, the duce dreamed of a still larger Italian Mediterranean empire at French expense, via a friendly government in Spain. He also derided Léon Blum as “one Jew who did not enjoy the gift of prophecy.”³³ Spain would push Italy still closer to Germany.

Spain would also push France and the Soviet Union further apart. The French brass feared that any military support for the Spanish Popular Front could ignite a pan-European war, which, overestimating the German military, they felt France was in no position to fight successfully.³⁴ More broadly, French ruling circles viewed reliance on the Soviets to stand up to Nazi Germany as a provocation toward Berlin and an invitation to ideological contagion. “If defeated,” the French foreign minister would note privately, France “would be Nazified. If victorious, it must, owing to the destruction of German power, submit, with the rest of Europe, to the overwhelming weight of the Slavic world, armed with the Communist flamethrower.”³⁵

FABRICATING A “UNITED” CENTER

Yagoda’s NKVD was rounding up “Trotskyites,” including in faraway Gulag camps. On June 19, 1936—again, well before the putsch in Spain—he and Vyshinsky had sent Stalin a list of eighty-two people accused of terrorism “links,” recommending that they be tried by the military collegium and executed. Zinoviev and Kamenev were included. Stalin instructed Yezhov to have the NKVD prepare a trial against a united Trotskyite-Zinovievite “center.”³⁶ On July 15, Yagoda sent a secret NKVD circular to every operative, severely criticizing the NKVD bosses in certain regions for “opportunistic kindheartedness, self-assurance, forgetfulness of old Chekist traditions, and inactivity” (i.e., failure to expose “Trotskyites”).³⁷ Stalin was insisting on a high-profile public trial, broadcast live, and Yezhov applied pressure so that people under arrest began to be re-interrogated to build a story line of a “united center.” Zinoviev, naïvely, had been writing groveling prison letters to Stalin asking for forgiveness; Kamenev had been trying to dissociate himself from Zinoviev.³⁸ In mid-July, the two were brought from prisons in the Urals to Moscow. Yezhov took part in their interrogations and appealed to their revolutionary patriotism, arguing that an international Trotskyite conspiracy in cahoots with Germany and Japan threatened the Soviet Union, and thus their confessions were necessary for the cause.

Zinoviev offered to comply if Stalin personally promised to spare him. Kamenev resisted (“You are observing Thermidor in pure form,” he said during interrogation). The two were taken to see “the politburo,” which turned out to be a meeting with Stalin and Voroshilov.³⁹ Stalin evidently flattered them, calling them comrades, followers of Lenin, whose cooperation was necessary to combat Trotsky.⁴⁰ No less germane was the fact that Kamenev had been informed that his son was under investigation. Kamenev and Zinoviev did begin to testify about their improbable plotting with Trotsky.⁴¹ On July 23, 1936, Yakov Agranov, who, together with Yezhov, had handled the original Kirov investigation case against the “Zinovievites,” personally re-interrogated the already imprisoned Dreitser (said to be the “head” of an underground “Trotskyite” organization) and Pikel, extracting the necessary “testimony” concerning a “united center.”⁴² On July 26, Stalin had the NKVD haul in Sokolnikov, who had once joined Zinoviev and Kamenev in questioning Stalin’s absolute power in the role of general secretary. On the night of July 27–28, the NKVD arrested the ex-wife of Yuri Pyatakov, Orjonikidze’s first deputy at heavy industry. Stalin’s anti-Trotsky drive had its own dynamic prior to events in Spain.

TRYING TO STEM REVOLUTION

Bereft of an ambassador in Madrid, Stalin had next to no information about what was going on, beyond reports via Comintern channels.⁴³ On July 23, 1936, at a Comintern executive committee meeting, Dimitrov emphasized the value of the Spanish conflict for rallying international forces to a global popular front, and begged Stalin for comments on draft theses.⁴⁴ Stalin wrote “correct” on Dimitrov’s instructions to the Spanish Communist party for restraint; on July 24, the secret orders went to Madrid for Spanish Communists “not to run ahead,” that is, to contain their struggle to supporting the “bourgeois democratic republic” rather than pushing for a dictatorship of the proletariat. Dimitrov did allow that “when our positions have strengthened, we can go further.”⁴⁵ By July 25 the Nazis and Italian fascists were already wielding the bogeyman of “Bolshevism” in Spain to justify supporting the putschists. That day, with Blum backing off his pledge to support Spain’s Republic, the Spanish prime minister, in a letter to the Soviet envoy in Paris, conveyed his government’s desire to purchase Soviet arms in quantity.⁴⁶ The Soviets did not reply. An Italian assessment out of Moscow on July 27 noted Soviet “embarrassment” over Spain and a likely pursuit of “prudent neutrality.”⁴⁷

Dimitrov was not received by Stalin during these days. Litvinov, who had recently celebrated his sixtieth birthday and received the Order of Lenin, was urging Stalin to maintain Soviet-French-Anglo “solidarity” by avoiding military aid to Spain’s besieged Republic. The foreign affairs commissar finally got in to see the dictator on July 28 (Molotov and Voroshilov were absent). (Not until August 7 would Stalin again summon anyone to the Kremlin office.)⁴⁸ The antifascist popular front strategy (Dimitrov) and “collective security” (Litvinov), once seen as in sync, were deeply at odds, given France’s position.

The Comintern executive committee was also discussing China—it aimed to rein in the Chinese Communists, who were not following the Comintern policy of cooperation with Chiang against the Japanese.⁴⁹ At the end of the Long March, Mao had arrived in Yan’an, in China’s northwest, where the Communists set up a ministate. Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist (Guomindang) government, based in Nanking, wanted to isolate the Reds, a task he assigned to Zhang Xueliang, whom the Japanese had chased from Manchuria. Zhang had his headquarters in Xi’an, 200 miles north of Mao, and commanded a sprawling force of perhaps 300,000.Only in late June or early July 1936, after an almost two-year hiatus, was a radio link reestablished between Moscow and the Chinese Communists in the remote interior, and the Chinese comrades asked the Comintern to provide $3 million monthly to cover military expenses, help organize contributions from the Chinese diaspora, and send Soviet aircraft, artillery, antiaircraft artillery, infantry rifles, machine guns, and pontoons, through either Xinjiang or Mongolia.⁵⁰ But at the July 23 Comintern meeting, Dimitrov insisted that “the task in China right now consists not in expanding the regions under soviets and the Chinese Red Army, but . . . unification of the vast majority of the Chinese people against the Japanese invaders.” The goal was to “complete the bourgeois-democratic revolution,” although eventually, “in the process of this struggle, the moment will come for the mass organization of the struggle for Soviet power.”⁵¹

Four days later, Dimitrov submitted draft directives for the Chinese Communists to Stalin, who would take some time to return them. In the meantime, the Comintern directives to Spain’s Communists to avoid revolution arrived just as the Spanish Republic state began to melt away. Jails were being cracked open, court records ransacked, village rents pronounced null and void, and businesses collectivized. Spain’s moderate Socialists, together with Spain’s Communists, could not contain the workers, peasants, and anarchists in the Republic’s zone, especially in Catalonia, where 70 percent of industry would be collectivized in three heady months. “The first impression: armed workers, rifles on their shoulders, but wearing their civilian clothes,” Franz Borkenau, an Austrian writer who had quit the German Communist party in protest over Stalin’s rule and traveled to Spain, would observe. “And no ‘bourgeoisie’ whatever!”⁵²

To stand by while the leftist Popular Front and popular revolution in Spain went down to “fascist” armed aggression would threaten Moscow’s prestige. Sometime between July 27 and 29, 1936, the head of the Spanish Communist party sent a cipher responding in detail to Comintern questions about “the correlation of forces,” which Dimitrov forwarded immediately to Stalin. “The adversary has the advantage that he has many spies in the government camp,” the Spanish report concluded. “Despite that, if France will deliver the requested aid in the form of airplanes and ammunition, the adversary will be destroyed.”⁵³ Would Stalin step into the breach? A genuine leftist revolution was unfolding in Spain against his instructions, and the Chinese Communists were pressing revolution against orders as well. Rendering this situation still more maddening was the circumstance that he was being visibly outflanked on the left by Trotsky.

THE TROTSKY CHALLENGE

Stalin hated Trotsky with a deep, emotional, blind, wild hate; he also feared him, in a way he feared no one else. Trotsky had long been under nearly total NKVD surveillance, first on an island in Turkey and then in France. The NKVD knew of or had inspired a plan by the anti-Soviet émigré Russian All-Military Union to assassinate him in 1934, but operational amateurism produced nothing beyond recriminations.⁵⁴ In 1935, Trotsky had accepted an offer of asylum from the new Norwegian Labor Party government, taking up residence with his wife as guests of the journalist, painter, and parliamentarian Konrad Knudsen in Oslo, where the NKVD had few resources.⁵⁵ But Trotsky’s elder son, Lev Sedov, the nerve center of international Trotskyism (such as it was), had remained in Paris, where the Soviet secret police enjoyed a robust presence. Boris Atanasov, known as Afanasyev (b. 1902), an ethnic Bulgarian assassin and kidnapper who oversaw infiltration of émigré circles in Paris, had been tasked with penetration of Trotsky’s Paris operation.

Afanasyev stumbled upon an unbelievably valuable agent: Mordka “Mark” Zborowski (b. 1908), who had been born in a Jewish family in imperial Russia and, after the revolution, resettled in Poland, where he eventually joined the Polish Communists. After an arrest and short prison sentence, Zborowski fled to Berlin, then to Grenoble, where he attended university, and was recruited into the NKVD in Paris around 1933.⁵⁶ Zborowski befriended Sedov’s wife, who recommended him for the position of her husband’s secretary. “At present the source meets with the son nearly every day,” Zborowski’s secret police handler reported to Moscow, which responded that “we caution that you do not go too far and thereby destroy all our plans in this machination.”⁵⁷ The NKVD was able to install listening devices on the telephones in the apartments of Sedov and his collaborators. Zborowski also gained access to secret lists of, and correspondence with, trusted Trotsky loyalists worldwide, on the basis of which the NKVD compiled a card catalog. Zborowski, known to Sedov as Étienne, a fluent Russian speaker in an otherwise French-only milieu, took charge of Sedov’s correspondence and helped edit Trotsky’s Russian-language Bulletin of the Opposition. Stalin, therefore, could read not only Trotsky’s mail but also drafts of his essays, sometimes before they were published.⁵⁸

Knowing what Trotsky would publish did not help counter it, however. Events in Spain afforded him a grand new platform from which to bash Stalin still more—as a counterrevolutionary who failed to support not a theoretical but an actual revolution under direct attack by “fascism.” On July 30, Trotsky, in high dudgeon, wrote that in “curbing the social revolution,” Spain’s Popular Front leaders “compel the workers and peasants to spill ten times as much of their own blood in a civil war. And to crown everything, these gentlemen expect to disarm the workers again after the victory and to force them to respect the sacred laws of private property.”⁵⁹ By that date, Nazi German planes had not only airlifted Franco’s africanistas to the Spanish mainland, but also begun strafing Madrid. Also on July 30, two of the initial Italian squadron of twelve Savoia-Marchetti medium bombers sent from Sardinia to Morocco to assist the Spanish insurgency had crash-landed in French Algeria, revealing Italian involvement.⁶⁰ The “fascists” had stolen the initiative. More than that even, with the Spanish Republic state dissolving, someone else could fill the vacuum. Stalin seemed to be facing a possibly victorious Trotskyism in Spain, where Trotsky was popular. The specter of Trotskyites capturing a physical redoubt in a real country would seize Stalin like the proverbial red cape in front of a bull.⁶¹

DICTATOR’S DILEMMA

Members of Stalin’s inner circle strove to circumscribe the expanding effects of his reopening of the Kirov murder case. Pravda, back on June 2, 1936, had published a speech by Pavel Postyshev, a candidate member of the politburo and party boss of Kiev province, upbraiding Ukrainian officials for unwarranted repressions; five days later, the newspaper editorialized (“Lessons of the Donbass”) that the coal plan fulfillment failures in Ukraine had resulted not from wrecking but from showy record-breaking labor stunts as well as the wrongful persecution of engineers.⁶² This was a prominent theme of Orjonikidze’s as well. “What kind of saboteurs?” he defiantly exclaimed at a multiday meeting of the guiding council of the heavy industry commissariat on June 25. “During the 19-year existence of Soviet power, we . . . have graduated more than 100,000 engineers and a similar number of technicians. If all of them, and the old-regime engineers as well, whom we have reeducated, turned out to be saboteurs in 1936, then congratulate yourself with such success. What kind of saboteurs! They are not saboteurs, but good people, our sons, our brothers, our comrades. . . . They will die on the front of Soviet power, if this is required. . . . It is not sabotage—this is nonsense—but incompetence.” Orjonikidze’s spirited defense elicited “rousing and prolonged applause.”⁶³

Orjonikidze worked long hours under phenomenal strain, which strained his weak heart. (One time when he suffered from heart palpitations he lost consciousness in his office, inducing his assistants to summon a doctor from the Kremlin hospital.) He also had just one kidney. Gossips said his wife, Zinaida, had a difficult personality, compounding his problems.⁶⁴ On June 29, the culmination of the heavy industry gathering, the commissar’s poor health had become visible for all to see. A foreign doctor was brought in to examine him.⁶⁵ Be that as it may, the key factor in exacerbating his health was his old friend and fellow Georgian, who was mercilessly, relentlessly driving the “saboteur” line. Kaganovich also did not see why manifestly loyal people needed to be arrested and executed. He had been defending top Ukrainian officials from Stalin’s wrath since famine days. But he knew Stalin all too well. In early July 1936, the dictator had sent Kaganovich—then vacationing in Kislovodsk—protocols of the Dreitser and Pikel “interrogations”; he took the unsubtle hint. “Although this was clear even earlier, they have now revealed the true bandit face of those murderers and provocateurs Trotsky, Zinoviev, Kamenev,” he had responded to Stalin on July 6. “The main instigator of this gang is that venal scum Trotsky. It is time to declare him an outlaw and to execute the rest of the lowlifes we have in jail. Regards as ever, Yours, L. Kaganovich.”⁶⁶

Stalin pressed for wider arrests, using the unique instruments only he commanded: he dispatched a secret circular (July 29, 1936)—drafted by Yezhov and edited by the dictator—to party organizations, which was to be read aloud to all party members and which quoted the “testimony” of the various accused “Trotskyites.” “Confronted with the completely irrefutable successes of socialist construction, they initially hoped our party could not cope with the difficulties,” the circular stated. “But seeing that the party was successfully overcoming difficulties, they wagered on the defeat of Soviet power in a forthcoming war, as a result of which they dreamed of seizing power.” Then, “not seeing any prospects, in despair, they resorted to the last means of struggle—terror.” The circular explained that the “Trotskyites” had colluded in terror with Zinoviev and Kamenev and that, after the imprisonment of the latter, “Trotsky had taken upon himself all direction of terrorist activity in the USSR.” The document exhorted that “the essential mark of every Bolshevik in the current situation should be the ability to recognize and identify enemies of the party no matter how well they are able to disguise themselves.” But who were these hidden enemies?⁶⁷ How did the circular jibe with other signals conveyed by Postyshev and Orjonikidze in the authoritative Pravda?

NKVD operatives would “unmask” enemies to win raises, medals, and promotions; informants, queried about a “Trotskyite” underground, would become eager to please. Regional party officials, in order to protect themselves and their closest people, targeted as “Trotskyites” lower-level types as well as economic managers—precisely the people Orjonikidze sought to protect.⁶⁸ But Kaganovich, responsible for rail transport—which had been suffering an inordinate number of accidents, driven by underinvestment and overexploitation—expressly rejected assertions of Trotskyites in his bailiwick. On July 30, 1936, the day after the secret party circular on hidden enemies, he presided over the country’s inaugural all-Union Day of Transport, where, before 25,000 railway employees assembled at the outdoor Green Theater, in Gorky Park, as well as a Union-wide audience listening on radio, he delivered a two-hour oration on the daily loading of 81,214 freight cars, exceeding Stalin’s directive to reach 80,000. “Here the way is not purging and repression,” Kaganovich stated, noting the multitudes of railway workers who had received state awards. “No, for 99 percent of railway employees are honest people, who are committed to their work, who love their motherland.”⁶⁹ Soviet newspapers prominently published photographs of Kaganovich and Orjonikidze together that summer of 1936.⁷⁰

Multiple incentives impel dictators to try to convert their rule into despotism. Some lack the necessary means or personal traits to crush close allies. Stalin, of course, possessed both the wherewithal and the personality. But would he break Orjonikidze, Kaganovich, and other members of his innermost circle? Kaganovich was indispensable, still running the linchpin party apparatus in his absence, while Orjonikidze, no less vital, ran the critical heavy industry portfolio. Both of them removed a great burden from the far too burdened Stalin. At the same time, Orjonikidze’s Union-wide fiefdom afforded him a political base second only to the dictator’s. Izvestiya (still edited by Bukharin) did not shy from calling Orjonikidze “the people’s favorite,” the expression in Lenin’s purported Testament for Bukharin.⁷¹ In fact, Orjonikidze was more accessible, and in many quarters more genuinely popular, than Stalin. And he enjoyed extremely warm relations with other core members of the ruling group, including defense commissar Voroshilov, as well as Kaganovich.

IMPROVISING A COURSE

Stalin maintained his nonresponse to Madrid’s request for arms, but in the meantime the pressure to do something did not abate. On August 1, 1936—the opening day of the Summer Olympics in Nazi Berlin, not to mention the anniversary of the outbreak of the Great War—Izvestiya published an essay by Radek, which Stalin had approved, characterizing the civil war in Spain as part of a “meticulously” planned global aggression by “European fascists.”⁷² That same day, Pravda published Spanish reportage under the headline “Fascism Means War; Socialism Means Peace.” August 2 in Moscow brought a temperature of 99 degrees Fahrenheit (37.2 Celsius), the highest in fifty-seven years.⁷³ That day, Boris Pasternak met André Gide at his dacha in the writers’ colony of Peredelkino (where he had just moved in) and helped open the Frenchman’s eyes to Soviet realities; Pasternak also warned his NKVD minder that Gide was preparing a critical work on the USSR.⁷⁴ The next day, which was not a Soviet holiday, a reported throng of more than 100,000 demonstrators assembled on Red Square. Adorned in summer whites in the suffocating heat, the dense crowd listened to songs and speeches calling for defense of the Spanish Republic. Six tanned sportswomen, holding hands, led chants of “Down with Franco! Down with Franco!” “Our hearts are with those who at this moment are giving up their lives in the mountains and streets of Spain, defending the liberty of their people,” a female worker from the Red Dawn factory declared from the dais. “We say, ‘Remember, you are not alone. We are with you.’”⁷⁵

Soviet newspapers and radio placed Spain center stage, depicting Republic heroism against fascist aggression, and tying the Soviet Union to this cause.⁷⁶ Pravda—“Hands off the Spanish people!” . . . “Down with the fascist rebels and their German and Italian inspirers!”—reported that workers had been massed in front of the Winter Palace in Leningrad (100,000) and in Tashkent (100,000), Gorky (60,000), Rostov-on-Don (35,000), Minsk (30,000), Sverdlovsk (20,000), and Tiflis (10,000).⁷⁷ The Comintern resolved to “immediately undertake a wide campaign of solidarity for the fighters defending the Republic in Spain,” including “collections of medicines, foodstuffs, gold,” and enlistment of medical volunteers and purchases of ambulances.⁷⁸ The regime also announced “voluntary” deductions from workers’ paychecks for humanitarian assistance to Spain.⁷⁹ “We see how quickly fascists from different states will unite when the task is the asphyxiation of the working class,” one Soviet autoworker was quoted as stating in Pravda. “Through our relief aid . . . we will show the fascists that no country will be cut off from the workers of the rest of the world. The cause of Spain is our own cause.”⁸⁰

Would Stalin risk getting embroiled in foreign war? “A number of Soviet officials charged with the conduct of Soviet foreign relations were opposed to sending funds to Spain, since they felt that such action would be used by Italy and Germany to justify the aid given by themselves,” one Soviet official told the U.S. chargé d’affaires in Moscow on August 3, 1936. “These objections were overruled, however, by the Soviet leaders who take the view that if the Soviet Union is to continue to maintain hegemony over the international revolutionary movement, it must not hesitate in periods of crisis to assume the leadership of that movement.”⁸¹ Tellingly, however, neither Stalin nor any of the members of the Soviet leadership attended the August 3 Moscow demonstration. Not even Comintern leaders were allowed to appear. The main speech was delivered by the head of the trade unions (Nikolai Shvernik), as if the process of gathering humanitarian aid were a spontaneous expression of worker solidarity.⁸²

All the while, the geopolitical maneuvering was fast and furious. In early August, France approached Germany, Italy, the Soviet Union, and other countries about a formal collective “Non-Intervention Agreement” for Spain.⁸³ Britain had treated a formal agreement guardedly, but now it decided it could drive a wedge between France and Spain. On August 3, the Italian government promised to study the matter. On August 5, the French chargé d’affaires in Moscow approached the foreign affairs commissariat, reporting that Britain had signed on and that Germany had agreed to do so if the Soviets would. Litvinov was on holiday, and one of his deputies, Krestinsky, advised Stalin, “We cannot either not give an affirmative response or give an evasive response, because then this will be used by the Germans and Italians, who will justify their further support for the insurgents by our refusal.” That evening, Krestinsky was able to reply that the USSR, too, would sign on, provided that not only Italy and Germany but Portugal’s dictatorship did so as well.⁸⁴ The next day, Italy confirmed its support in principle.

Also on August 5, Trotsky, from Norway, sent his French and American publishers a manuscript that he had completed with only a little more than half a year’s work: The Revolution Betrayed: What Is the Soviet Union and Where Is It Going? He sent a copy to his son Sedov in Paris for excerpting in the Bulletin. Thus did Soviet intelligence obtain a copy, while reporting that the text was to be translated into multiple foreign languages, which meant worldwide impact.⁸⁵ When Stalin saw the text remains uncertain, but it was likely not long after it had come into NKVD hands.⁸⁶ There is no known record of his reaction. Still, Trotsky’s spirited wielding of Marxist analysis against the purported leader of world Marxists struck at the foundations of Stalin’s legitimacy and self-identity. He portrayed Stalin’s rule as a full-blown counterrevolution, or Thermidor, a consequence of an evil social compact between the new bureaucratic elite and the old bourgeoisie, a deformation of Leninism pejoratively labeled “Stalinism.” Notwithstanding the building of socialism, therefore, the revolution had been betrayed.⁸⁷ Trotsky’s analysis appeared with impeccable timing: Spain could be taken as proof of Stalin’s betrayal of the entire world revolution. The book reinforced the convergence of the Trotsky problem and the Spanish problem.

FARCE

Preparations proceeded for a public trial in Moscow of “Trotskyites.” On August 7, 1936, USSR procurator general Vyshinsky sent Stalin a draft indictment charging twelve people with establishing a terror organization aiming to assassinate the dictator and other members of the leadership. Stalin raised the number of defendants to sixteen, five of whom were Germans—members of the German Communist party who had fled to the USSR—thereby reinforcing his beloved foreign espionage story line. He also sharpened the “testimony” he received of the fabricated plot. “It is not enough to cut down the oak,” he inserted in the testimony of one alleged would-be assassin. “You must cut down all the young that grow around the oak.”⁸⁸

The French Communist party had sent a reconnaissance delegation to Spain and, also on August 7, reported that “the situation is very critical because of non-availability of armaments,” a conclusion confirmed by Soviet military intelligence. Comintern HQ in Moscow telegrammed Maurice Thorez, head of the French Communists, to pressure the French government to rescue the Spanish Republic and thereby the French Popular Front (and, perhaps, the USSR from having to intervene in Spain).⁸⁹ That same day, Krestinsky explained in a telegram to the Soviet envoy in Rome that “we understood Italy and Germany would continue arming the putschists” in Spain, but the USSR had to remove any justification for them to do so.⁹⁰ On August 10, the expression “malevolent neutrality,” coined by Labour peer Lord Strabolgi in reference to British policy on Spain, appeared in the Daily Herald, the world’s bestselling newspaper.

Stalin had little desire to follow in Britain’s ignominious wake while being shown up by Mussolini and Hitler, cold-shouldered by the French Socialist Léon Blum, and squeezed between a whining Litvinov and a lacerating Trotsky. But if he rejected the Non-Intervention Agreement, Britain and France might unite with fascist Italy and Nazi Germany against the USSR in a four-power deal over Spain, and perhaps more broadly. (The British cabinet secretary had privately stated on July 20, 1936, “In the present state of Europe, with France and Spain menaced by Bolshevism, it is not inconceivable that before long it might pay us to throw in our lot with Germany and Italy.”)⁹¹ There was also, as ever, the commercial aspect. On August 19, Litvinov would write to the Soviet envoy Surits that Kandelaki, the Soviet trade representative in Berlin, would “inform the Germans about our demurral on the [credit] agreement so far. At the same time, he was authorized to ask if the Germans were agreed to selling us certain items that specially interest us and, if so, raise the question of a credit agreement anew.”⁹²

Nazi Germany, as Berlin’s authoritative Institute for Business Cycle Research had recently noted in a report, faced depleted stocks of raw materials, which would seem to have argued for rapprochement with both the USSR and the Western powers.⁹³ But the Führer had other ideas, finalizing a Four-Year Plan in August 1936—one of the very few documents in Hitler’s own hand—which began with a statement about history being a struggle among nations for existence. It insisted that Germany had to be ready for war within four years; otherwise, “those strata of mankind which have hitherto provided the leadership” would suffer “replacement by worldwide Jewry.” Hitler added that “a victory of Bolshevism over Germany would lead . . . to the final destruction, indeed to the annihilation of the German people. . . . In the face of the necessity of defense against this danger, all other considerations must recede into the background as being completely irrelevant.”⁹⁴ Soviet intelligence had obtained information that Germany would not be ready to launch a massive-scale war before 1939.⁹⁵ Still, as Hitler revealed in his Four-Year Plan, Germany’s destiny would be realized through conquest, not trade.⁹⁶

Soaring revolutionary sentiments, full of bluster but also raw emotion, were erupting in the press of the high-profile French Communist party and the reports out of Spain by Communists and pro-Comintern leftists. China was radicalizing as well. On August 13, Stalin finally returned Dimitrov’s request for approval of the draft instructions for the Chinese Communists (he merely wrote “in favor”). Two days later, the instructions were radioed to Yan’an, concretizing the actions required under the united front policy, and warning, “It is incorrect to place Chiang Kai-shek on the same plane as the Japanese invaders.”⁹⁷ Mao formally complied, writing to the Nationalists to request an end to their civil war and negotiations.⁹⁸ But Dimitrov would have his hands full trying to enforce Mao’s compliance.

In Spain, the Soviet regime kept to the impression of providing only humanitarian aid voluntarily contributed by workers through trade unions (some 264 million rubles would be collected overall).⁹⁹ But on August 21, 1936, the thirty-year-old Soviet filmmaker Roman Karmen and his cinematographer Boris Makaseyev, who had been hastily dispatched to Spain by the politburo, managed to film a Canadian hunter (who had volunteered to fight for the Republic) shooting down an Italian bomber that had been raining destruction on the Republic’s side. A few days later, the world saw Karmen’s documentary footage, which conclusively proved “fascist” support for the Spanish putschists working to overthrow the elected Republic.¹⁰⁰ On August 23, Italy cynically signed the Non-Intervention Agreement. The Soviets did so the same day. Germany would formally sign the next day. From this point, any violation of nonintervention by Moscow could serve as a pretext justifying Italian and German supply of arms to the insurgents.¹⁰¹

SHOWCASE TRIAL

Yezhov was furiously driving extraction of “testimony” for the trial of a “Trotskyite-Zinovievite Terrorist Center” in Moscow. On August 10, he confronted Pyatakov with documents from his opposition days that had been seized at the apartment of his arrested ex-wife. Pyatakov demanded a chance to prove his loyalty, requesting, as Yezhov wrote to Stalin, that “they allow him personally to shoot all those sentenced to be shot at the upcoming trial, including his former wife,” an assignment Pyatakov wanted broadcast. Stalin was only interested that Pyatakov smear himself and others.¹⁰² It was a few days later, late on the night of August 13, that the dictator, after holding a Kremlin banquet for Soviet aviators who had completed the first nonstop flight from Moscow to the Soviet Far East, departed for his annual southern holiday. That day, TASS issued a venomous press release about a trial for treason to commence in a few days with sixteen defendants, including Zinoviev and Kamenev and, in absentia, Trotsky (then fishing in a small Norwegian village). Stalin tasked Kaganovich with implementing the trial’s final push. Before the trial, Vasily Ulrich, chairman of the military collegium of the USSR Supreme Court, presented drafts of the sentences, which Stalin approved, and the Soviet press demanded “no leniency for enemies of the people who have tried to deprive the people of their leaders.”¹⁰³

Also on August 14, the NKVD arrested Vitali Primakov, commander of the Leningrad military district and a hero of the civil war. Six days later, the same fate befell Vitovt Putna, Soviet military attaché to Great Britain (and before that to Japan, Germany, and Finland). Primakov and Putna were charged with “Trotskyism” and participation in a military “plot.” Many Red Army officers had had interactions with them.

The five-day trial of the Trotskyite-Zinovievite center commenced on August 19, in the October Hall of white Corinthian columns in the House of Trade Unions.¹⁰⁴ The spectacle followed an extended period of behind-the-scenes torture, scripting, and rehearsing, and this time it would result not in mere exile or imprisonment. The defendants, besides the five German Communists who “confessed” to Gestapo ties, were eleven prominent Bolsheviks of the 1926–27 opposition.¹⁰⁵ Ten of the sixteen happened to be Jewish (this received no special attention). Invited audience members numbered some 150 people, including 30 handpicked foreign journalists and diplomats, as well as many plainclothes NKVD operatives, but not the relatives of the accused. Despite slipups that betrayed the fabrication, the defendants, all Communists, publicly confessed to being wreckers, spies, terrorists.¹⁰⁶ (Kaganovich made sure to add himself and Orjonikidze to the list of targets.)¹⁰⁷ “I, Kamenev, together with Zinoviev and Trotsky, organized and guided this conspiracy,” Stalin’s former close associate stated. “I had become convinced that the party’s—Stalin’s—policy was successful and victorious. We, the opposition, had banked on a split in the party, but this hope proved groundless. We could no longer count on any serious domestic difficulties to allow us to overthrow Stalin’s leadership.”

Some of the “testimony” had implicated rightists (Rykov, Bukharin, Tomsky), and Kaganovich and Yezhov (August 20) had jointly telegrammed Stalin in Sochi asking for instructions on that score. The next day, the dictator permitted mention at the trial of the rightists, as well as a yet-to-be-unveiled “parallel center” (Pyatakov, Sokolnikov, Radek). On that day, Izvestiya published an essay by Radek, who, as a former Trotsky supporter, lent his credibility to the wild charges against Trotsky, Kamenev, and Zinoviev, calling the attempts to assassinate the Soviet leader and the links to the Gestapo “a plot to restore capitalism in the USSR.”¹⁰⁸ Stalin had also been prompted to remember the out-of-favor poet Demyan Bedny, who published “No Mercy!” in Pravda (August 21): “Here are the ones who murdered Kirov! . . . They were going for Stalin!”¹⁰⁹

Testifying to these fixations, Stalin’s holiday correspondence changed. It remained laconic and often ill-humored, sometimes downright scolding, with almost no personal information—just directives and responses to initiatives by Kaganovich (or Molotov). But content-wise, of the more than 140 letters and ciphered telegrams he exchanged during this holiday, a mere half dozen concerned the industrial economy, and most of those involved the dictator approving others’ proposals, without comment.¹¹⁰ Now the mailbag also included the transcript of a Tomsky speech, interrogation “protocols” of Kamenev, draft protocols of Sokolnikov’s interrogation. (Stalin: “Did he not inform [the British journalist] of the plans for the assassination of Soviet leaders? Of course he did.”) Such documents were pointing to a vast, phantasmagoric conspiracy, from party officials to military men. Bukharin, hiking the Pamirs in Central Asia, had hurried back to Moscow to find Stalin away on holiday, and would write the dictator a letter, which also found its way into the holiday mailbag, rabidly endorsing all the fabricated charges of the trial, except those about himself (“I embrace you, for I’m clean”).¹¹¹ Trotsky, who hurriedly returned to Oslo from his fishing holiday, told the New York Times that the trial was fraudulent and “puts the Dreyfus scandal and the Reichstag fire trial in the shadow.”¹¹²

As for Tomsky, when his driver arrived at his dacha outside Moscow to pick him up for his job as head of the state publishing house—bearing a copy of that morning’s Pravda (August 22), which reported an investigation into Tomsky for counterrevolution—he shot himself. Tomsky prepared a suicide note (“Dear Comrade Stalin”), expressing his despair while protesting his innocence, and beseeching the dictator, whom he called his “old fighting comrade,” not to believe Zinoviev’s slander against him. Tomsky apologized, yet again, for his comment one evening in 1928 that someone would shoot Stalin. “Do not take seriously what I blurted out then—I have deeply regretted this always.”¹¹³ Pravda reported the suicide the next day as an admission of guilt.¹¹⁴ In an act of attempted posthumous revenge that played on Stalin’s conspiratorial bent, Tomsky cleverly implicated NKVD chief Yagoda as a rightist coconspirator, having his wife convey orally the “secret” that Yagoda was the person who had “recruited” Tomsky.¹¹⁵

Kamenev and Stalin had known each other for more than three decades. “Greetings, friend! I kiss you on the nose, Eskimo-style,” Stalin had written to him in December 1912, evoking their Siberian exile. “For hell’s sake! I miss you devilishly. I miss you—I swear by my dog. I have no one, no one to chat with, heart to heart, may the devil run you over.”¹¹⁶ On the eve of Kamenev’s execution, Stalin wrote to Kaganovich that Kamenev, through his wife, had sounded out the French ambassador about supporting a possible Trotskyite-Zinovievite government. “I believe Kamenev also sounded out the English, German, and American ambassadors,” Stalin added. “This means Kamenev was supposed to reveal to these foreigners the plans for the conspiracy and the murder of the leaders of the party. This also means Kamenev had already revealed the plans to them, for otherwise the foreigners would not have begun talking about the future Trotskyite-Zinovievite ‘government’ with him.”¹¹⁷ Did Stalin believe this? Was he straining to justify his political murders to Kaganovich? These questions remain unanswerable.

Stalin supervised the trial from afar, sternly instructing Kaganovich that the sentences had to mention Trotsky and Sedov. (“This carries enormous significance for Europe, both for the bourgeoisie and for the workers.”)¹¹⁸ A few hours after the court had adjourned on August 24, Ulrich, at 2:30 a.m., pronounced the defendants guilty and condemned all but one to death. Later that day, the regime staged a grand aviation display at Moscow’s Tushinsky Aerodrome (“Glory to Stalinist aviation and the Stalinist falcons”). Planes flew difficult maneuvers. Parachutists dropped from the sky. “The enemies’ schemes,” a teacher in the Institute of World Economy and International Relations recorded in his diary, “cannot stop our enormous successes.”¹¹⁹ Kamenev and the others wrote appeals for mercy in the predawn hours. (Only one defendant expressly refused to do so.) Perhaps, as would be rumored, Stalin had promised them their lives in exchange for public “confessions” to crimes they had not committed.¹²⁰ But well before the end of the seventy-two-hour period for appeals specified in Soviet law, Kamenev, Zinoviev, and the rest were executed in the cellars.¹²¹ Yezhov retrieved the bullet casings as souvenirs.

FORCING MASS HYSTERIA

The day after the August 13, 1936, discussion of Spain in the Little Corner, Stalin received a résumé of Soviet-Spanish diplomatic relations from Krestinsky, which accelerated a belated exchange of ambassadors. The choice fell to a twenty-year veteran of the Soviet diplomatic corps, Marcel Rosenberg, who was summoned from Karlsbad.¹²² Litvinov had written to Kaganovich urging that people appointed as ambassadors in major countries should know the local language, while lamenting that the foreign affairs commissariat had only a single fluent Spanish speaker: Leonid Gaikis, a Lithuanian who had grown up in Argentina and was serving as consul general in Istanbul. Litvinov felt constrained to inform Kaganovich, with a copy to Stalin, that in 1923 Gaikis had voted for the Trotskyite platform. Stalin did not prevent Gaikis’s appointment as an “adviser” in the embassy in Madrid, effectively Rosenberg’s deputy.¹²³ A bit later, Stalin would consent to the establishment of a consulate in Catalonia and the appointment there of Vladimir Antonov-Ovseyenko, the hero of the 1917 storming of the Winter Palace—also a repentant former Trotsky sympathizer. The consul would tell Ilya Ehrenburg, who would go to Spain as an Izvestiya correspondent, that his key task would consist of making the Spanish anarchists “see reason.”¹²⁴

Before Stalin had gone on holiday, the politburo had first approved a Pravda request to send a special correspondent to Spain, Mikhail Koltsov, the Soviet Union’s best-known journalist-propagandist.¹²⁵ During the 1920s and ’30s, he had published more than a thousand stylistically free-flowing essays, including on collectivization (“Fortress in the Steppe”), driving a taxi in Moscow, and flying in the first Soviet-made airplane. Koltsov could do what almost no one else could: toe the Stalinist line while delivering enduring portraits of Soviet life. He had a sense of humor, too, founding Crocodile, the Soviet humor magazine, and had even been to Spain, following the fall of its monarchy, and published Spanish Spring (1933).¹²⁶ By August 8, 1936, he’d arrived in Madrid, and over the next several weeks he managed to compose twenty reports for Pravda, relayed by telephone to Moscow. “A stocky little Jew with a huge head and one of the most expressive faces of any man I ever met,” Claud Cockburn, a British journalist who encountered Koltsov in Spain, would recall. “He unquestionably and positively enjoyed the sense of danger and sometimes—by his political indiscretions, for instance, or still more wildly indiscreet love affairs—deliberately created dangers which need not have existed.”¹²⁷ Koltsov’s engaging reportage for Soviet readers would render Spain’s civil war immediate and in Stalin’s preferred light: as a struggle not just against fascism per se but against Trotskyism—indeed, against a supposed linkup between Trotskyism and fascism.¹²⁸

Was there Trotskyism in Spain? Spain’s Popular Front government consisted of representatives of its Republican parties, which received support from the Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party, the Unified Socialist Party of Catalonia (only nominally united), the Syndicalist Party and various anarchist formations (at least initially), Basque separatists, the Spanish Communist party, and the Workers Party of Marxist Unification (POUM). The latter, formed in 1935, consisted of breakaway left Communists and dissident Marxist-Leninists who demanded an immediate transition to a dictatorship of the proletariat in Spain, precisely Trotsky’s position. The leading theorist of the POUM, Andreu Nin, had spent nine years in Moscow as secretary general of the Red International of Labor Unions (Profintern) and had sided with Trotsky’s left opposition. Nin broke with Moscow and had a falling-out with the exiled Trotsky as well. In spring 1936, Trotsky had set his followers the task of exposing “the full wretchedness of the leadership of the ‘Workers Party of Marxist Unification’ and especially of the former ‘Left Communists’ . . . before the eyes of all the advanced workers.”¹²⁹ On August 10, 1936, Victor Serge—an intellectual Stalin had released into foreign exile, who was now busy translating Trotsky’s The Revolution Betrayed into French—begged Trotsky to take back his harsh words about the POUM, “to deny the bureaucracy any possibility whatsoever of turning the revolution into a prison for workers in the Stalinist manner.” But Trotsky continued to lacerate the POUM for supposedly vacillating between support of the “bourgeois” democratic phase of Spain’s revolution and of Trotsky’s Fourth International (full-bore anticapitalist revolution).¹³⁰

Koltsov’s crafty reportage conveying a Trotsky-centric interpretation of events in Spain perfectly complemented the saturation coverage and orchestrated meetings all across the USSR over the Trotskyite showcase trial, together whipping up anti-Trotsky hysteria. In Stalin’s worldview, Nin’s hoary link to Trotsky alone rendered the POUM “Trotskyite.” There was also the POUM’s independence, criticizing the Stalinist line while claiming the mantle of Marxism. Some members of the POUM, moreover, openly admired Trotsky, and some of its officials discussed inviting him to take up residence in Barcelona. Sometimes fabricated nightmares have a way of coming true. The Trotsky bogey had long been one of Stalin’s prime instruments for enforcing dictatorial rule; now, all of a sudden, he had to worry about a victory of the anti-Stalinist left— Trotskyism to him—in a real country. “Trotsky, and all that Trotsky represented, was Stalin’s real fear,” American diplomat George Kennan would surmise.¹³¹ Kennan was speaking broadly, not in connection with Spain per se, but Spain had become the place.

“GREETINGS”

Public confessions by Lenin’s former comrades to monstrous state crimes and the rabid saturation propaganda about hidden enemies had revolutionized the political atmosphere. The White émigré press rejoiced at the executions: “Sixteen is not enough! Give us forty more, give us hundreds, give us thousands.” Alexander Kerensky, in exile in the United States, saw nothing surprising in accusations that Trotsky had collaborated with the Gestapo: after all, had not Lenin and Trotsky been German agents in 1917?¹³² Lev Sedov, in a detailed exposé of the trial, called Lenin the “first terrorist”: after all, his Testament had instructed, “Remove Stalin.” Stalin, for his part, fumed at Kaganovich and Molotov (September 6) that Pravda’s trial coverage had “failed to produce a single article that provided a Marxist explanation,” because “the newspaper wrapped everything in personal terms, that there are evil people who want to seize power and good people who are in power. . . . The articles should say that the struggle against Stalin, Voroshilov, Molotov, . . . and others is a struggle against the Soviets, against collectivization, against industrialization, a struggle, consequently, for the restoration of capitalism. . . . They should have said, finally, that the degradation of these scum to the level of White Guards and fascists is a logical outgrowth of their moral decline as [Communist] opposition leaders in the past.”¹³³

Pravda (September 4, 1936) had crowed that the number of “Trotskyites” was “microscopic,” and that the “opposition” had been dealt a crushing blow. But Yezhov, in a letter (September 9) to Sochi with details of Tomsky’s suicide, wrote that “without doubt the Trotskyites in the army have some unmasked cadres,” adding that Trotskyite “ties” inside the secret police had yet to be investigated properly.¹³⁴

Bukharin had written to Voroshilov, “I’m terribly glad the dogs were shot.”¹³⁵ On September 10, 1936, Pravda suddenly announced that the procuracy had cleared Bukharin, as well as Rykov, of connections to terrorism.¹³⁶ But four days later, Kaganovich reported to Sochi the results of the “interrogations” of Bukharin, Rykov, and Sokolnikov, commenting that the latter—Kaganovich’s once-close comrade back in Nizhny Novgorod and Turkestan—had been “in contact” with the “Trotskyite-Zinovievite Terrorist Center” and adding that it was good the USSR was exterminating “all these rats.”¹³⁷ Bukharin wrote to Stalin again, claiming to be “mentally ill,” under too much strain to “go on living,” because his life had “become meaningless. . . . This is surely a paradox: the more I devote myself to serving the party with all my heart, the worse my unfortunate predicament becomes, and now I no longer have the strength to fight against the attacks anymore. . . . I urgently beg of you to allow me to come and see you. . . . Only you can cure me. If my fate is of any concern to you . . . then meet with me.”¹³⁸ Stalin ignored this plea.

Orjonikidze, in early September 1936, had gone on his annual holiday to Kislovodsk. He wrote to Stalin (September 7) that he had listened to parts of the trial on the radio in Kaganovich’s office. “Shooting them was not enough,” he noted. “If it had been possible, they should have been shot at least ten times. . . . They caused tremendous harm to the party. Now, knowing what they’re made of, you don’t know who’s telling the truth and who’s lying, who’s a friend and who’s a double-dealer. This is the poison they injected into the party. . . . People don’t know whether they can trust this or that former Trotskyite or Zinovievite.” After condemning people who were already dead, he added pointedly: “I am very worried about the army. . . . A skillful enemy could deal us an irreparable blow here: they will start to spread rumors about people and instill distrust in the army. Here we need to be very careful.” Orjonikidze also tried to shield his deputy Pyatakov: “If we do not arrest him, let us send him somewhere, or leave him in the Urals, as at present.”¹³⁹ Stalin had Pyatakov expelled from the Central Committee and the party (September 9) without a meeting. In the NKVD inventory of his confiscated property were his Order of Lenin and his party card, no. 0000059—a low number, indicating very long membership (Pyatakov was one of only six figures mentioned in Lenin’s Testament).¹⁴⁰ On September 11, Stalin answered Orjonikidze from Sochi: “1) Pyatakov is already under arrest. 2) It’s possible Radek will be arrested. Toroshelidze and Budu [Mdivani] are thoroughly stained. They too could be arrested. . . . Greetings to Zina. I. Stalin.”¹⁴¹

SUDDEN DECISION

Policy on Spain took a sudden turn. On August 29, 1936, the politburo had prohibited sending arms, ammunition, or planes to Spain, in accord with the Non-Intervention Agreement, a prohibition Pravda had announced (August 30). On September 2, in a telegram to the Soviet embassy in London, Litvinov had written that “guiding our relationship to the Spanish events is a striving in every possible way to impede the delivery of weapons to the Spanish insurgents and the necessity of strictly curtailing the activities of countries such as Germany, Italy, and Portugal.”¹⁴² But Spanish events were moving rapidly. On September 4, the first Soviet-produced newsreels from Spain were shown in Moscow, and soon they were distributed to other large cities.¹⁴³ That same day, Francisco Largo Caballero, a trade unionist, head of the Socialist Workers’ Party, and Spain’s most prominent civilian politician, became prime minister. The Spanish Communist party accepted an invitation to join the new cabinet in the Popular Front coalition (the anarchists declined).¹⁴⁴ For Moscow, the stakes had been raised. Already, prior to this in early September, the politburo had begun approving, by voice vote, plans for shipments of Soviet industrial goods to Spain. But now Stalin sent a telegram to Kaganovich (September 6, 1936) about how “it would be good” to sell Mexico fifty Soviet bombers, and possibly 20,000 rifles and 20 million cartridges, which could then get to Spain.¹⁴⁵ This short cipher—sent the same day Stalin dressed down the Soviet press summaries of the recent Moscow trial of Trotskyites—effectively set in motion a Soviet military intervention.

Stalin, with Voroshilov (communicating by high-frequency phone), had decided against committing regular Soviet troops.¹⁴⁶ But the politburo had already resolved to form volunteer “international brigades,” to be organized in Paris under the leadership of André Marty, assisted by the Italian Communist party in exile, and funded by Moscow. Many of the volunteers—from the United States, the British Isles, Latin America, and the whole of the European continent, including Nazi Germany and fascist Italy—were not Communists but idealists or adventurers.¹⁴⁷ (The volunteers’ passports would be taken for “safekeeping,” a windfall for the NKVD.)¹⁴⁸ These Comintern brigades remained within the letter of the Non-Intervention Agreement. No Soviet nationals were allowed to join, although many volunteered to.

Now Stalin also approved the dispatch not just of propagandists and diplomats but military advisers.¹⁴⁹ The commander of a Soviet naval cruiser, Nikolai Kuznetsov, who was at sea, received a telegram summons to Moscow and, at the defense commissariat, discovered that he was being posted to Spain as naval attaché. (“What do you know about Spain?” he was asked.)¹⁵⁰ The top military adviser appointed to Spain was the Latvian Berzin, who had headed Soviet military intelligence until 1935. The Soviet military attaché to the Madrid front was Vladimir Gorev (b. 1900), a blond Belorussian peasant who had become a veteran undercover military intelligence operative with experience in China and the United States, spoke excellent English, and had exemplary manners.¹⁵¹ The position of commercial attaché was soon filled by Artur Stashevsky [Hirschfeld], a Jew born in tsarist Latvia, who had been a driving force in the accumulation of Soviet gold reserves and who, in Spain, would serve as the top Soviet political operative.¹⁵² Already by early fall, there would be more than 550 Soviet personnel in-country, the highest ranking of whom took up residence in Madrid’s Palace Hotel.¹⁵³

Additionally, the NKVD sent Leiba Feldbein, who used the name Alexander Orlov, to gather intelligence and organize guerrilla warfare in Spain.¹⁵⁴ Orlov had been born (1895) in Belorussia and raised in an Orthodox Jewish family, joining Trotsky’s group of leftist internationalists in 1917, fighting for the Reds in the Russian civil war, and in 1920, at age twenty-five, joining the party and the Cheka in Arkhangelsk, going on to work in the economic and transport sections of the secret police and undercover in Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Geneva, Copenhagen, and London. “He spoke English well, dressed dapperly, was good-looking and very intelligent,” Louis Fischer would write.¹⁵⁵ Abram Slutsky, head of NKVD foreign intelligence, had evidently alighted upon his friend Orlov for posting to Spain partly to protect him: a young assistant in the NKVD with whom Orlov had been having an affair shot herself in front of Lubyanka HQ after he refused to leave his wife.¹⁵⁶ Orlov, his wife, and their daughter would cross the Soviet-Polish border en route to Spain on September 10, 1936.¹⁵⁷

Ilya Ehrenburg, the Izvestiya correspondent, who arrived in Spain a few weeks after his rival Pravda correspondent Koltsov, wrote in a letter to Stalin (also on September 10), after having traveled more than 1,500 miles of Spanish territory, that “POUM (the Trotskyites) in Catalonia are weak. At the front, their column of 3,500 men is the most undisciplined. They have tense relations with the Unified Socialist Party of Catalonia (our party) and with the anarchists.”¹⁵⁸ Stalin held the opposite view on the POUM’s threat.

DIFFERENT SHOWS

In London on September 9, 1936, the Non-Intervention Committee held its first meeting, with twenty-seven European states represented. The session devolved into insults. Especially acrimonious exchanges took place between the Soviet ambassador (Ivan Maisky) and the German embassy counselor (Prince Otto von Bismarck, grandson of the chancellor).¹⁵⁹ But the deeper problem was the conveners’ cynicism. “A piece of humbug,” one senior British foreign office official observed of the committee. “Where humbug is the alternative to war, it is impossible to place too high a value upon it.”¹⁶⁰ But given that the public heard every day about how Italy and Germany were intervening forcefully, British credibility suffered a blow.

Contemporaneously with the sorry spectacle in London, military attachés and specialists from France and Czechoslovakia, as well as Britain, had been invited to Red Army maneuvers (September 7–10)—a show to impress. This was the first time a British delegation had been invited. Held in the Belorussian military district, commanded by the capable Iona Yakir, the Bessarabian-born (1896) son of a Jewish pharmacist, the exercises assumed a German-Polish aggression against the Soviet Union.¹⁶¹ All told, an astonishing 85,000 troops and auxiliaries and 1,136 tanks and armored vehicles took part. The “enemy” (blues) attacked with almost 37,000 men, 211 airplanes, and 453 combined-arms tanks, mostly T-28s but also T-27s (the Soviet variant of the Carden Loyd tankette), while the “friendly” forces (reds) possessed more than 42,000 men and 240 airplanes, as well as three mechanized brigades and several rifle and cavalry-tank units. The terrain was circumscribed in relation to the size of forces engaged and, without rivers or marshes, artificially ideal for tank warfare. After aviation created a smoke fog, the large mechanized units forged the Berezina River. One mechanized tank brigade completed a 125-mile march. The culmination entailed a parachute drop and reassembly, in battle formation, of some 1,800 men armed with machine guns and light artillery.¹⁶² The scale, complexity, and coordination of the exercises, according to Pravda (September 10), duly impressed the onlookers. In fact, Britain’s Lieutenant Colonel Giffard Martel, a well-known tank theorist at the war office, was put in mind of the tsarist army: great physical brutality with manifest “tactical clumsiness.” Privately dismissing the exercise as “more like a tattoo than maneuvers,” he deemed the training of junior officers weak, found radio communication not widely used, and saw little skill in the use of mechanized formations. Martel surmised that a well-equipped and well-commanded enemy could dodge the blow and inflict tremendous counterdamage.¹⁶³

General Victor-Henri Schweisguth, who led the French delegation, told Voroshilov that Hitler saw the Soviet Union as the source of evil and was menacingly accusing Czechoslovakia of complicity in that evil. Voroshilov retorted that Hitler’s anti-Soviet ravings masked his real intention of attacking France, and once again urged bilateral staff talks.¹⁶⁴ Schweisguth made a mental note that his Soviet counterparts claimed to want closer military cooperation with France yet seemed eager for Hitler to attack France first. In his confidential report upon return to Paris, he deemed the Red Army “insufficiently prepared for a war against a Great European Power,” adding: “The circumstances of its employment against Germany remain very problematical.” He warned that the Soviets hoped that “the storm burst first upon France,” and that, because of the absence of a common frontier with Germany, the Soviet Union could stand aside, like the United States in 1918, “to arbitrate the situation in the face of a Europe exhausted by battle.”¹⁶⁵ Schweisguth saw value in talks with the Soviets only as prevention against a Soviet-German military alliance.¹⁶⁶ The feelings were mutual: Yakir, who had just traveled to France, came back with a low regard for French military doctrine, technical level, operational-strategic thinking, and its army as a whole.¹⁶⁷

Captain František Moravec, of Czechoslovak military intelligence, had arrived in Moscow before the maneuvers to cooperate with his Soviet counterparts in connection with their alliance treaty. Quartered at the Metropole and enveloped by Soviet counterintelligence, his six-man Czechoslovak team was received by Uritsky, head of military intelligence, becoming the first group of foreigners admitted to the “Chocolate House,” the three-story mansion that served as HQ, and then by Tukhachevsky, chief of the general staff. There were banquets at Spiridonovka on gold plates with the tsar’s monogram, stay-overs at the former Yusupov Palace in Arkhangelskoe, and a visit to the Moscow–Volga Canal Gulag site. He perceived his Soviet partners as ignorant of the Wehrmacht, noting that Soviet military intelligence “had not even organized proper supporting activities, such as the study of the German news media.” Whether Moravec, who spoke Russian, was shown the breadth of Soviet capabilities remains uncertain (the Czechoslovaks were technically “White Guards”). Still, he was correct about the dearth of foreign-language expertise in a system that valued proletarian origins and sycophancy over expertise. “The unexpected inefficiency in the military intelligence service of a regime which had been nourished on clandestine undertakings,” he concluded, “was surprising.”¹⁶⁸ The men from Prague felt an urgency vis-à-vis their neighbor Nazi Germany that was not felt in Moscow.¹⁶⁹

Most damaging of all the private reports on the maneuvers was Voroshilov’s. At the banquet, in front of foreigners, he lauded the exercises. But while Tukhachevsky, acknowledging the shortcomings of tank performance in the rifle divisions, whose commanders still did not know how to use them to the fullest, deemed their efforts superior to what the Red Army had previously managed, Voroshilov internally denounced the tank formations and urged a doubling down on infantry.¹⁷⁰ Part of his motivation appears to have been long-standing envy at the superior abilities and reputations of Tukhachevsky, Yakir, and Uborevičius (commander of the Ukrainian military district), all modernizers, and more knowledgeable about Germany.¹⁷¹

OPERATION X

On September 13, 1936, the city of San Sebastián fell to Spain’s putschists. The next day, Molotov, having just returned from holiday, followed up on Stalin’s telegram to Kaganovich the week before and chaired a meeting devoted to, among other matters, Spain. Attendees included Yagoda, Slutsky (NKVD foreign intelligence), Uritsky (military intelligence), Meyer Trilisser (Comintern intelligence), and Dimitrov, who recorded an agenda item as “organization of aid to the Spanish (via a smuggling scheme).”¹⁷² Later that day at Lubyanka, Yagoda presided over a meeting with Slutsky, Uritsky, Mikhail Frinovsky (head of NKVD border guards), and others to plan foreign military deliveries, including purchases abroad, for Spain. Before September 14 was out, Slutsky and Uritsky had presented Kaganovich with corrections to an operational plan, code-named Operation X.¹⁷³

Also on September 14, the annual Nazi Nuremberg party rally concluded as Hitler announced further rearmament steps and unleashed his most rabid denunciation yet of the international Jewish conspiracy and the “infernal plague” of Bolshevism, which was “letting loose these wild beasts on the terrified and helpless world.” He mentioned German designs on Ukraine. In response to this drumbeat, the Soviet state publishing house issued a collection of translated original German documents from the period of the Great War, The Crash of the German Occupation in Ukraine, underscoring the high costs then of Germany’s attempted colonial enslavement of Ukraine and warning, “Let German fascists now try to poke their snouts onto Soviet land!”¹⁷⁴ The Führer still hoped to catalyze a broad anti-Bolshevik coalition, which would support, or at least not block, German expansionism eastward and continental domination. He portrayed the Soviet Union as intent on imminent attack, but his ravings made it seem as if Germany would march then and there.¹⁷⁵ The U.S. ambassador in Berlin thought the rally speeches might “make it difficult for the Soviet embassy to remain in Berlin.”¹⁷⁶ Hitler mused that Stalin would be moved to break off diplomatic relations.¹⁷⁷ Litvinov urged a Soviet diplomatic protest to deter further invective.¹⁷⁸ Stalin, on the contrary, was soon renewing feelers to the Nazi regime.

Voroshilov sent detailed lists of all materials to be supplied in the Spanish operation to Stalin for approval.¹⁷⁹ Because of the Non-Intervention Agreement, the Soviets had initially aimed to provide only third-party and “surplus” weapons, but, given the urgency, Operation X specified also providing Soviet weapons—just as the Spanish government had been requesting. Soviet intelligence was estimating that the Republic possessed one rifle for every three soldiers.¹⁸⁰ On September 18, the first small-arms shipment, labeled CANNED MEAT, left a Soviet port. So did humanitarian cargo (flour, sugar, butter, canned goods, clothing, medicine).¹⁸¹ Secret Soviet documents stipulated that for the weapons “the customer should pay their full price.” Back on September 13, the Spanish Republic had secretly decided to evacuate the better part of the country’s gold reserves from Madrid by train. Spain had the world’s fourth-largest reserves, amounting to more than 2.3 trillion pesetas, or $783 million at prevailing exchange rates, a cache amassed by the crown over centuries: bullion bars, gold louis d’or, British sovereigns, rare Portuguese coins, Inca and Aztec treasure from the conquistador period. The crates began arriving at the port of Cartagena in the early hours of September 17, and for the next five and a half weeks remained in a hillside cave above the harbor. Prime Minister Largo Caballero had shipped the gold to the port at which Spain had agreed to receive Soviet cargo.

NKVD COUP

In Moscow, comic relief arrived on September 19, 1936, when regional party boss Kuzma Ryndin, after whom twenty collective farms and mines had been named, petitioned the dictator to rename Chelyabinsk—which roughly connoted “a pit”—into “Kaganovichgrad.” Stalin wrote on the request: “Against.”¹⁸² The next day, the politburo formally rejected a proposal from Litvinov for an expanded Soviet-led bloc against Nazi Germany, but it reaffirmed the pursuit of “collective security.”¹⁸³ Franco was busy establishing a regime. On the battlefield he took his time, transferring operations from urgent military objectives to political ones, perplexing the other generals. On September 21, in a hut on an airfield in Salamanca, citing the need for unified command in the war effort, Franco managed to get himself elevated to generalissimo of insurgent armies, even though he was junior to Mola. A week later, Franco manipulated matters further to get himself named chief of state with “absolute powers.” Several of the colluding commanders envisioned his elevation as temporary, anticipating a return of the monarchy, but Franco remarked of the moment, “You have placed Spain in my hands.” He did not even control Madrid.

Throughout Europe, significant doubts reverberated among leftist intellectuals about the alleged treason of the executed Bolshevik revolutionaries, but in Republic Spain, the POUM’s La Batalla was almost the only newspaper to detail, let alone condemn, the Moscow showcase trial, labeling the Soviet Union a “bureaucratic regime of poisonous dictatorship.” Tit for tat, the lead editorial in the September 1936 issue of The Communist International, issued in multiple European languages, condemned the POUM as fascist agents masquerading as leftists, with ties to Trotsky, Kamenev, Zinoviev, Franco, Mussolini, Hitler.¹⁸⁴

Yezhov was bombarding Stalin with reports of secret police deficiencies and forwarded a denunciation of Yagoda by a provincial NKVD chief.¹⁸⁵ Stalin summoned Yezhov to the Black Sea.¹⁸⁶ Yagoda evidently knew, eavesdropping on Stalin’s calls to Yezhov in Moscow.¹⁸⁷ Yefim Yevdokimov, whose bailiwick included Sochi, was also likely pouring poison into Stalin’s ear about the detested Yagoda.¹⁸⁸ Suddenly, on the evening of September 25, 1936, Stalin sent a bombshell phonegram from Sochi to Kaganovich and Molotov, in Moscow, urging Yagoda’s removal. The message was cosigned by Andrei Zhdanov, the dictator’s new favorite, ten years younger than Kirov (and eighteen younger than Stalin), who was with him at the dacha. “Yagoda clearly turned out to be not up to the task of unmasking the Trotskyite-Zinovievite bloc,” the secret message read. “The OGPU was four years late in this process.”¹⁸⁹ “Four years” harked back to the meetings among a few party opposition members damning Stalin’s rule, as a result of the catastrophe of collectivization and famine. Among the potential candidates to head the NKVD were the experienced Chekists Yevdokimov and Balytsky, who at one time had risen to number three in the secret police, before Yagoda squeezed him out of Moscow and sent him back to Ukraine. Yet another option was Lavrenti Beria, the (nominally) former Chekist running the South Caucasus party machine.¹⁹⁰ But Stalin picked his party-apparatus protégé Yezhov.

On the afternoon of September 26, Stalin and Voroshilov spoke on the phone to discuss military shipments to Spain; they noted that no Soviet trademarks should be discernible on the tanks.¹⁹¹ Stalin also directed Voroshilov to read out the Sochi phonegram about Yagoda’s dismissal to Yagoda at a Council of People’s Commissars meeting. The commander of the Moscow military district and other officers accompanied Yagoda to Lubyanka to turn over his portfolio.¹⁹² That day, Stalin dictated a second note for Yagoda, which the bodyguard Vlasik read to him over the phone, informing him of his transfer to the commissariat of communications: “It is a defense-oriented commissariat. I have no doubt you will be able to put this commissariat back on its feet. I urge you to agree”—as if Yagoda could decline.¹⁹³ The symbolism was ominous: Yagoda would be replacing Rykov, the disgraced rightist with whom his own name had been linked. Yagoda evidently hurtled to Sochi, where Pauker, the NKVD bodyguard directorate head, blocked his suddenly former boss from Stalin’s compound.¹⁹⁴ Meanwhile, on September 27, Yagoda’s photograph as the new people’s commissar for communications appeared alongside Yezhov’s in all the newspapers.

Yagoda would spend the next two months on sick leave; he did not make a run for it or try to organize an “accident” to eliminate Yezhov (let alone Stalin).

This was the first removal of an NKVD chief (Dzierżyński and Mężyński had died in office). “This wonderful, wise decision of our parent was ripe,” Kaganovich wrote to Orjonikidze of the appointment of his former party underling. “Things will likely go well with Yezhov at the helm.”¹⁹⁵ The middle and lower NKVD ranks also saluted the changeover, and not only from a careerist perspective: many perceived that Yezhov would restore Chekist professionalism (which speaks to their illusions). “The majority of old Chekists were convinced that with the coming to the NKVD of Yezhov we would at last return to the traditions of Dzierżyński, overcome the unhealthy atmosphere and the careerist, degenerating, and fabricating tendencies introduced in the organs during the last years of Yagoda,” one operative recalled. “We thought that now the firm and reliable hand of the Central Committee would rein in the organs.”¹⁹⁶ Yezhov moved into his new office at Lubyanka, 2, on September 29, 1936, and that very day Stalin approved a politburo resolution, drafted by his new NKVD chief, “On the Attitude Toward Counter-Revolutionary Trotskyite-Zinovievite Elements,” which designated the latter as “foreign agents, spies, subversives, and wreckers on behalf of the foreign bourgeoisie in Europe.”¹⁹⁷

ARMING SPAIN, EYEING NAZI GERMANY

Soviet cargo traveled to Spain via the Black Sea, Bosporus, and Mediterranean, or, in a few instances, the Baltic and North seas, in disguised ships, with sailors wearing the tropical clothing of South Asia or the leisure wear of British cruise lines.¹⁹⁸ Spanish ports were blockaded, and ships were being attacked by the Nationalists; the undersized Soviet navy would be challenged.¹⁹⁹ Still, not a single ship with Soviet arms for Spain would be lost. On October 4, 1936, the first Soviet-supplied but not Soviet-manufactured war matériel secretly arrived at Cartagena: 150 light machine guns, 240 grenade throwers, 100,000 grenades, 20,000 rifles, 16.5 million bullets. Some of these arms turned out to be Great War relics. The rifles were from at least eight different countries of origin (Canada to Japan), of ten different types with six different calibers, making maintenance with spare parts difficult. Some of the best weaponry arrived in insufficient quantities (a mere six excellent Vickers light howitzers, with 6,000 shells). Still, overall the value for the weapons-starved Republic was substantial.²⁰⁰ Three days later, the Soviet Union formally demanded an end to German, Italian, and Portuguese violations of the Non-Intervention Agreement or else the USSR would consider itself not bound by it.²⁰¹

On October 11, Kaganovich sent Stalin a phonegram reminding him that “we have not communicated anything to Largo Caballero about our [weapons] shipments. We think we should have Gorev inform Largo Caballero officially, but conspiratorially, about the aid . . . that has already arrived, in detail, and when ships arrive in future.” Stalin agreed.²⁰²

The next day, 50 Soviet-made light tanks and 51 “volunteer” tank specialists arrived at Cartagena—and the Spaniards raised their fists and shouted hurrah.²⁰³ “It erupted to the point of mass hysteria from joy,” wrote Gorev, the Soviet military attaché, in a report that reached Stalin via Voroshilov. “You needed to see it to feel it. Despite the fact that we were ready and are generally calm people, this affected even my subordinates. The euphoria was just exceptional.”²⁰⁴ The T-26B1 tanks, a heavier copy of the British Vickers six-ton model, updated with a Soviet turret and 45-millimeter dual-purpose gun, as well as the Polikarpov I-15 and I-16 aircraft, were of the highest international standards.²⁰⁵ Three days later, fast Soviet Tupolev SB-2 bombers, which had only just gone into full production in early 1936 and were among the most powerful in their class in the world, arrived.²⁰⁶ In the face of such hardware, it was easy to forget that the Soviet Union was in many ways still a poor country: as of October 1936, more than 33,000 young commanders beyond their tours of duty lacked apartments.²⁰⁷

The Soviets were keen to observe German and Italian weaponry in action, and to test their own in battle conditions. Nonetheless, Voroshilov would write privately to Stalin about the “pain” of parting with up-to-date Soviet aircraft, even at world market prices.²⁰⁸

The Spanish Republic had essentially no armaments industry, and even with Soviet production assistance it would need quite some time to produce its own tanks, armored vehicles, or planes.²⁰⁹ Soviet advisers were especially aghast that anarchist-controlled factories produced not the most necessary military items but the most profitable.²¹⁰ A lack of Spanish government unity frustrated Soviets in-country. “There is no unified security service, since the [Republic] government does not consider this to be very moral,” the NKVD liaison bureau in Spain reported (October 15, 1936). “Each [political] party has therefore created its own security apparatus. In the present government, there are many former policemen with pro-fascist sentiments. Our help is accepted politely, but the vital work that is necessary for the country’s security is sabotaged.”²¹¹ Dimitrov and the Italian Communist Palmiro Togliatti were pushing for “an antifascist state” and a “new kind of democracy,” which implied a pathway for transition to socialism in the Soviet sense.²¹² But Stalin opposed even backdoor Sovietization.

In an open letter to Largo Caballero (also October 15) published in Soviet and Spanish newspapers, Stalin boasted of Soviet aid that “the workers of the USSR are doing no more than their duty in giving the help they are able to give to the Spanish revolutionary masses.”²¹³ But he paid close attention to the economic costs. The Soviets had recently been informed about the Spanish gold. The Republic’s finance minister, Juan Negrín, negotiated with Ambassador Rosenberg to hand off a large part of the gold reserves stashed in Cartagena for current and future payments. Rosenberg reported (October 15) that the matter had been agreed upon in principle.²¹⁴ In strictest secrecy, with Negrín on-site, the NKVD’s English-speaking Orlov, posing as a representative of the U.S. Federal Reserve, oversaw the transfer from the caves, evidently enlisting the Soviet tankists who had arrived a few days earlier. On October 25, the same day Stalin was back in Moscow, they loaded 510 metric tons—around 7,800 crates, each weighing 145 pounds—collectively valued at $518 million, onto four ships bound for Odessa.²¹⁵

Litvinov, for his part, lamented to Rosenberg that “the Spanish question has ruined our relations with England and France and sowed doubts in Bucharest and even Prague.”²¹⁶ But Stalin would not be cowed: on October 23, the Soviet Union—without relinquishing membership in the Non-Intervention Committee—announced that because of others’ violations, it was not bound by the Non-Intervention Agreement.²¹⁷ The French were incredulous. “Stalin has no ideals,” complained the secretary general of the French foreign ministry to the British.²¹⁸ For Stalin, of course, everything was the other way around: the inactions of France and Britain, in the face of blatant Italian fascist and Nazi German violations, had soured him on the Western powers.²¹⁹

That October of 1936, the German ambassador, Schulenburg, returned from summer leave—and encountered extraordinary warmth, from the Soviet border to the capital, “as if nothing whatsoever had happened.” He informed Berlin that Krestinsky was “extremely friendly and did not refer to events at Nuremberg at all.”²²⁰ Stalin’s shopping list for Germany included armored plating, aircraft catapults, underwater listening devices, and warships (costing 200 million reichsmarks), for which the Soviets were offering to pay largely in manganese and chromium ores on the basis of world prices, according to a German memo (October 19).²²¹ On October 20, Hitler bestowed plenipotentiary powers on Hermann Göring to implement the Four-Year Plan by prioritizing weapons production, tightening state controls on exports, and achieving self-sufficiency in essential raw materials, all to reduce imports (costing scarce hard currency) and the impact of a possible blockade. Soviet trade officials were hopeful, as Göring appeared poised to assume a direct role in bilateral trade.²²²

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SERGO

Orjonikidze’s poor health was deteriorating further, and his autumn rest away from Moscow was proving relentlessly stressful, thanks to Stalin. Whereas a mere 11 of the 823 highest officials of the heavy industry commissariat who belonged to the nomenklatura (those officials who could not be removed without Central Committtee approval) had been fired during the party card verification campaign of spring–summer 1936—with just 9 of them suffering arrest—during the last four months of 1936, 44 senior officials would be fired, 37 of whom would lose their party cards and, with three exceptions, be arrested.²²³ In October 1936, Stalin had Orjonikidze’s elder brother Papuliya arrested, a first for a relative of a sitting politburo member. Orjonikidze demanded to see his brother, but Lavrenti Beria, the policeman turned party boss in Georgia, where Papuliya worked, said he could allow that only after concluding the investigation.²²⁴ Orjonikidze understood that it was not Beria but Stalin who was behind the incarceration.²²⁵ On October 8, Stalin had Kaganovich’s deputy Yakov Livshits removed as deputy commissar of railways and, six days later, arrested.²²⁶

On October 24, the country effusively celebrated “Comrade Sergo’s” fiftieth birthday in a Union-wide extravaganza. But the industry commissar did not attend the gala, staged near his holiday dacha in Kislovodsk. (His wife went on his behalf.)²²⁷ Stalin ordered the arrests of Orjonikidze’s former Caucasus associates Stepan Vardanyan, now party boss in Taganrog and the former leader of reconquered Bolshevik Georgia, and Levan Gogoberidze, party secretary at a factory in the Azov–Black Sea territory and a former party boss of Georgia.²²⁸ Happy birthday, Sergo.

How far Stalin would go remained to be seen. On October 25—after two and a half months away—he returned to Moscow to discover an inquiry from the Associated Press in Moscow about rumors that he was ill or perhaps dead. Normally very touchy about discussions of his health, that very day he responded playfully. “As far as I know from the foreign press, I long ago left this sinful world and moved on to the next,” Stalin wrote to the correspondent. “As it is impossible not to trust the foreign press, if one does not want to be crossed out of the list of civilized people, I ask you to believe this report and not to disturb my peace in the silence of that other world.” The delighted AP man dispatched a telegram to the United States on October 26, to the effect that “Stalin refused to deny the rumors of his death.”²²⁹

The bulk of Spain’s gold, reaching Odessa by November 2, went by train to Moscow, accompanied by Orlov’s cousin, Ukraine NKVD operative Zinovy Katznelson. Another $155 million (some 2,000 crates) was shipped to Marseilles, as an advance for weapons the Spaniards hoped to purchase from France. A small remainder was taken to a cave in southern Spain. Some of the lot that arrived in the USSR was evidently deposited in the finance commissariat’s precious metal vaults on Nastasinsky Lane on November 6, 1936, in time for Revolution Day.²³⁰ Orlov, having accompanied the shipment to Soviet shores, was back in Spain already and, on November 7, celebrated the Bolshevik anniversary in the company of, among others, Koltsov and Gorev, in the latter’s suite at Madrid’s Palace Hotel.²³¹ In parallel, Trotsky had ordered his son in Paris to transfer his archives to the International Institute of Social History, on Rue Michelet in Amsterdam, headed by the Menshevik émigré Boris Nicolaevsky, but Zborowski tipped off the Soviets, and a few days later, on the night of November 6–7, the papers were stolen (cash was left untouched)—another Revolution Day gift for Stalin.

On November 6, Stalin took in the customary Revolution Day performance at the Bolshoi in the imperial box, and the next day he presided over the parade atop the Mausoleum. Bukharin, with his lover, the twenty-three-year-old Anna Larina, was living in Stalin’s old Kremlin apartment, where Nadya had killed herself. He possessed a gun—given to him by Voroshilov, with the ironic inscription TO THE LEADER OF THE GREAT PROLETARIAN REVOLUTION—but did not attempt suicide. He was still listed on the masthead of Izvestiya as editor, so he received a pass to the Revolution Day celebration, in his case for the lowest level of the reviewing stand. Stalin caught sight of him and sent a guard to invite him and Larina up to the Mausoleum, a gesture for all to see—and misread as reconciliation. Not long thereafter, another story has it, Bukharin was being served with an eviction notice for the Kremlin apartment when, suddenly, the apartment’s special Kremlin line rang: it was Stalin, just inquiring how things were going. Bukharin informed him of the eviction, and Stalin appeared to react angrily; the eviction was halted. Stalin was torturing him psychologically.²³²

Orjonikidze had returned to Moscow for Revolution Day, but on November 9 he would suffer a heart attack and lose consciousness for a time. Stalin responded by intensifying the pressure, driving a public trial of “Trotskyite” saboteurs for a mine explosion in Siberia, which would be afforded expansive press coverage and directly contravene Orjonikidze’s stance on the causes behind industrial mishaps. Treason was made to appear ubiquitous. On November 5, Malenkov had reported to Stalin that 62 former “Trotskyites” had been found to be working in the central army apparatus and military academies. Ten days later, Gamarnik, head of the army’s political administration, and deputy defense commissar, received a list of 92 “Trotskyites” in the Red Army. Altogether, 212 “Trotskyites” were arrested in the military between August and December 1936, but that included just 32 officers, very few of whom were ranked as a major or higher. Despite party pressure and the flow of denunciations, the command staff, concerned with destabilization, exhibited caution.²³³

NO PASARÁN!

Molotov and other speakers on Revolution Day had blustered about standing up to bullies and how, when confronted, the fascists would desist from further expansionism. But Hitler, after having decided, on emotional grounds, to assist Franco, had quickly imposed limits on his own. He had supplied some 100 planes (fighters, bombers) and nearly 6,500 well-equipped military personnel, the so-called Condor Legion, but he refused the massive troop commitments that Mussolini had made, instead allowing the Nazi intervention to become utterly subordinated to the German war economy. Germany found a place to sell its products and, thanks to monopoly positions with the putschists, obtained desperately needed raw materials and goods (iron ore, pyrites, copper, wolfram, foodstuffs) without having to sacrifice dwindling foreign exchange.²³⁴

On November 8, 1936, Franco’s troops began their assault on Madrid from the south. He had put off the offensive, while working to make himself caudillo, a kind of Spanish equivalent of Führer or duce. The delay had allowed the Soviet military adviser Gorev to organize defenses. That day, the first troops of the International Brigades arrived in Madrid. But German and Italian planes had been bombing Spain for a hundred days and, with the Madrid front close to breaking, the Republic government had hastily fled for safety to Valencia. The capital, however, was to be defended. Banners were hung: NO PASARÁN (“They shall not pass”), a Spanish translation of the French slogan of Pétain at Verdun in 1916. Mola’s army, meanwhile, had begun to converge on Madrid from the northwest. Back in October 1936, when asked on the radio which of his four columns would take the capital, he had replied, “The fifth column.” Mola meant that sympathizers to the Nationalists would subvert the Republic from within.²³⁵

Fear of such subversion had occurred naturally to Soviet personnel.²³⁶ Koltsov had recorded in his diary (November 4–6, 1936) worries about “8,000 fascists who are locked up in several prisons around Madrid,” although the Spanish Republic’s interior minister seemed unconcerned and evacuated himself.²³⁷ The logistics of evacuating several thousand prisoners were daunting. Inmates were tied together without their possessions and loaded onto transport—but then, down the road, forced off the buses, verbally abused, and executed by squads of Communists, anarchists, and regular-army men; villagers were press-ganged to dig mass-grave ditches. The executions, in fits and starts over several weeks, killed more than 2,000 prisoners from Madrid jails, without trial, in the worst of the many massacres in the Republic’s zone perpetrated by leading Spanish Communists and their Soviet advisers, Gorev, Orlov, and Koltsov.²³⁸ How many of these prisoners were Nationalist sympathizers prepared to take up arms if somehow given them will never be known. In the event, no fifth column materialized, but Mola’s attempted witticism became immortal.²³⁹

Madrid came under withering assault for ten days as shrapnel and incendiary shells exploded in its plazas. But Soviet planes had broken the Nationalists’ monopoly of the skies: there was no more bombing of Madrid from low altitude with impunity.²⁴⁰ The Italian Fiat CR-32 and the German Heinkel He-51 proved no match for the more maneuverable I-15 and I-16, while the Soviet SB bomber outperformed the famed Junkers Ju 52. Soviet pilots demonstrated stamina and courage (while gaining invaluable experience: they had had little flight time in training back home). No less crucially, Soviet-led mechanized units, using the T-26, rendered any attempted advance by the Nationalists costly. Soviet tank men would suffer high casualties in Spain: thirty-four killed and nineteen missing in action, casualties of one in seven.²⁴¹ On November 18, Germany and Italy formally recognized Franco’s Nationalist government, but five days later Franco called off his direct assault on Madrid.²⁴² Morale shifted. “We are finished,” a Nationalist officer told a German military observer. “We cannot stand at any point if the Reds are capable of undertaking counterattacks.”²⁴³ In fact, the Republic’s side was too depleted to mount what might have been the decisive counteroffensive.

However much he was motivated by his Trotsky fixation, the high-quality Soviet hardware Stalin sold to Spain showed a desire to strut his stuff.²⁴⁴ In preventing Franco’s seizure of Madrid, the Red Army had indeed demonstrated its mettle for all the world’s skeptics. The French took notice of Soviet aircraft performance in Madrid’s defense; the British, of the overall Soviet effort. “The Soviet government has saved the government in Madrid which everyone expected to collapse,” concluded the undersecretary of state at the foreign office. “The Soviet intervention has indeed completely changed the situation.”²⁴⁵ The Soviet mood was ebullient. “And today,” crowed Koltsov on November 25, 1936, “Franco did not enter the capital.”

SOCIALIST “DEMOCRACY”

That same day, an Eighth Extraordinary Congress of Soviets, attended by 2,016 voting delegates (409 female), opened in the Grand Kremlin Palace in Moscow. Stalin’s lengthy oration—broadcast live on Soviet radio for the first time, revealing his soft Georgian accent to millions—concerned a draft text of a new constitution, motivated, he argued, by changes in social structure.²⁴⁶ He had started thinking about a new constitution no later than summer 1934. (On holiday then, he had requested a copy of the current 1924 constitution.)²⁴⁷ He had had a commission approved, which he chaired and which studied foreign constitutions.²⁴⁸ “Behind the Kremlin walls, work is going on to replace the Soviet constitution with a new one, which, according to the declarations of Stalin, Molotov, and others, will be the ‘most democratic in the world,’” Trotsky had written in May 1936, adding that “no one is acquainted with the draft of the constitution as yet.”²⁴⁹ But in June 1936, Stalin had had the draft published for months of public commentary. Soviet propaganda delivered saturation coverage, and claimed that by fall 1936 half a million meetings had been held, encompassing 51 million people.

The new constitution ended legal discrimination against “former people” (kulaks, priests), to considerable complaint from the party rank and file.²⁵⁰ It altered the electoral system for soviets from indirect to direct, from restricted to universal suffrage (returning the vote to former kulaks), and from open to secret balloting.²⁵¹ Most remarkable, it enumerated a plethora of individual and social rights (pensions, free medical care, education).²⁵² The Menshevik émigré press acknowledged that the terroristic Communist dictatorship was not going to self-liquidate, but nonetheless speculated that the constitution might unleash new political forces.²⁵³

Soviet officials worked to orchestrate the public discussions, but some people seized the moment. Collective farmers expressed hatred of the in-kind system of remuneration according to days worked and demanded to be paid in cash, like urban workers. One proposed that instead of the slogan “He who does not work does not eat,” they substitute “He who works should eat.”²⁵⁴ A student at a medical school in Zaporozhie (Ukraine) was reported to have said, “In the USSR we have no democracy and will not have it; everything is done and will be done as Stalin dictates. We will be given neither freedom of the press nor freedom of speech.” After his arrest, some fellow students tried to pass a letter to him in prison praising his courage.²⁵⁵ The constitution’s article on freedom of religion sparked petitions from Orthodox believers to reopen churches. Wishful misunderstandings abounded: that the constitution was reintroducing private property, that kulaks would be allowed to return to their villages, that farmers would “live as before,” that Stalin might abolish the party, because he could not trust it, and institute presidential rule, which would provoke even more political terror (along the lines of Kirov’s murder).²⁵⁶

The draft text omitted the category “the proletariat” in favor of “the people,” which Trotsky disparaged as additional evidence of a retreat from socialism and consolidation of a new ruling class of functionaries (concealed in the term “intelligentsia”).²⁵⁷ “In a private conversation Stalin admitted that we did not have a dictatorship of the proletariat,” Molotov would later recall. “He told me that personally, but not firmly.” ²⁵⁸ Stalin’s Eighth Congress speech was categorical, however. “In 1917, the peoples of the USSR overthrew the bourgeoisie and established a dictatorship of the proletariat, established Soviet power,” he explained. “That is a fact, not a promise. Then the Soviet government eliminated the landlord class and transferred more than 150 million hectares of former landlord, state, and monastery lands to the peasants, and that was in addition to those lands already in peasant hands. That is a fact, not a promise. Then the Soviet government expropriated the capitalist class, took away their banks, factories, railroads, and other means of production, declared them socialist property, and put at the head of these enterprises the best members of the working class. That is a fact, not a promise.” He added that industrialization and collectivization further transformed the social structure, giving the USSR two nonantagonistic classes (workers and peasants) and one stratum (the intelligentsia). This was the first fully authoritative analysis of Soviet society in class terms.

The constitution aspired to reinforce socialist legality—rule by law—a triumph for USSR procurator general Vyshinsky. It also further centralized the state machinery (this was largely omitted in public discussions). Successive drafts had stipulated that the USSR government would exercise jurisdiction over land, water, and natural resources, while decisions of the USSR Council of People’s Commissars would be binding on the republics. The constitution replaced the periodic Congress of Soviets with a permanent USSR Supreme Soviet, to which all republic laws were to be subordinated. (Criminal codes remained the prerogative of republics.) Physically, the Russian Soviet Federated Socialist Republic was significantly shrunk as two of its autonomous ethnic republics became full-fledged Union republics—Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan—while a third (Karakalpak) was transferred to the Uzbek republic. This brought the number of Central Asian Union republics to five. Also, the South Caucasus Federation was dissolved in favor of the self-standing republics of Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan, bringing the total number of Union republics to eleven. For the first time, a Soviet constitution also enshrined the Communist party as “the vanguard of the working people in their struggle to strengthen and develop the socialist system,” and as “the leading core of all organizations of the working people, both public and state.” This appeared not in the section on the state but the one on “public organizations.”

In his speech, Stalin aimed to rebut criticisms in the “bourgeois” press, broadcasting damning views otherwise unavailable to the Soviet populace. Fascist critics, he revealed, dismissed the Soviet constitution as “an empty promise, calculated to pull off a well-known maneuver and deceive people.” Stalin further revealed that “bourgeois” critics on the left were asserting a Soviet shift to the right, away from a dictatorship of the proletariat and toward the same camp as bourgeois countries. He countered that there had been not a shift but a “transformation . . . into a more flexible, . . . more powerful system of leadership of the state by society.” Above all, Stalin said, “bourgeois” critics “talk about democracy. But what is democracy? Democracy in capitalist countries, where there are antagonistic classes, is, in the final analysis, democracy for the strong, democracy for the propertied minority. Democracy in the USSR, by contrast, is democracy for the toilers, that is, democracy for all.” Thus, he concluded, “the USSR constitution is the only thoroughly democratic constitution in the world.”²⁵⁹

EVERYTHING UNRAVELS

On the morning of the Congress’s launch, Pravda had proclaimed Stalin the “genius of the new world, the wisest man of the epoch, the great leader of Communism,” and then deemed his constitution speech a breakthrough for all humanity. While Stalin’s report to the 16th Party Congress (1930) had been published in 11 million copies (twenty-four languages) and the one to the 17th Congress (1934) in 14 million copies (fifty languages), his Congress of Soviets speech was printed in 20 million copies. “No book in the world,” Pravda added, “has ever been published in that kind of print run.”²⁶⁰

In Berlin, on the very same day Stalin delivered his spirited constitution speech, Joachim von Ribbentrop, German ambassador to the UK but also minister plenipotentiary, formally signed an Anti-Comintern Pact with Japanese ambassador Kintomo Mushanokōji. The signing took place not in the foreign ministry but in the Büro Ribbentrop, to stress the pact’s ideological salience.²⁶¹ Ribbentrop read a statement to the press (the eyewitness William Shirer called it a “harangue”) declaring Germany and Japan “unwilling to tolerate any longer the machinations of the Communist agitators,” and their pact “a turning point in the struggle of all law-abiding and civilized nations against the forces of disintegration.”²⁶²

For Japan, keen to contain the Soviet Union while obtaining a free hand in China, this was its first major accord with a European power since abrogation of the Anglo-Japanese alliance, in 1920. Indeed, given the infighting, poor communications, deception, and jurisdictional ambiguity inside the Japanese government, the agreement constituted a mini miracle. Japanese newspapers conveyed a lack of enthusiasism (“making lukewarm friends at the expense of red-hot enemies,” wrote Nichi Nichi).²⁶³ Above all, Japan’s army had zealously sought firm military commitments against the USSR, but had gotten only “consultations.” Still, it did forge an intelligence liaison with the German staff, focused on the Red Army.²⁶⁴

Hitler relished the propaganda breakthrough, and hoped it would bring along Britain. According to Count Ciano, who had gone on his first official visit to Germany in October 1936, Hitler told him, “If England sees the gradual formation of a group of Powers which are willing to make common front with Germany and Italy under the banner of anti-Bolshevism, if England has the feeling that we have a common organized force in the Far East . . . , not only will she refrain from fighting against us, but she will seek means of agreement and common ground with this new political system.”²⁶⁵ For Stalin, the irony of such a pact was extreme, given how he had bridled the Comintern in both Spain and China.²⁶⁶

Stalin knew beforehand. Colonel Eugen Ott, the German military attaché in Tokyo, had learned in spring 1936, from his Japanese army contacts, of the secret negotiations under way in Berlin. Ott confided in Richard Sorge, the Soviet military intelligence spy in the German embassy in Tokyo, who had informed Moscow. The published text consisted of two short articles.²⁶⁷ But Sorge had been reporting that it contained a secret article. Wrongly, he initially thought this pertained to a military alliance. But he would manage to photograph the full text and get it to Shanghai, whence it was picked up by a Soviet courier.²⁶⁸ The secret section specified that, should either Germany or Japan “become the object of an unprovoked attack by the USSR,” each “obliges itself to take no measures that would tend to ease the situation in the USSR.” Most significantly, the secret clause also enjoined the two powers “to conclude no political treaties with the USSR contrary to the spirit of this agreement without mutual consent.”²⁶⁹

Soviet-German relations sank to a nadir. Stalin had ordered arrest sweeps of German nationals in the USSR in November and seems to have contemplated a separate Moscow trial of some of them. Molotov, on November 29, told the delegates to the Congress of Soviets, “We have no feelings for the great German people other than friendship and genuine respect, but the gentlemen fascists would best be included in that nation, or ‘nation,’ or ‘higher order,’ which is called the ‘nation’ of modern cannibals.”²⁷⁰

Goebbels, the day before Molotov’s address, had crowed to a secret gathering of the Nazi press that Nazism and Bolshevism could never coexist: one must perish.²⁷¹ “There is no going back,” he confided in his diary (December 1), apropos of Hitler’s thinking. “He outlines the tactics of the Reds. Spain is elevated to a global question. France the next victim. Blum a convinced agent of the Soviets. Zionist and world destroyer. Whoever is victorious in Spain secures the prestige for himself. . . . The authoritarian states (Poland, Austria, Yugoslavia, Hungary) are not secure. The only committed anti-Bolshevik states are Germany, Italy, Japan. Therefore, agreements with them. England will come over when the crisis breaks out in France. Not a love match with Poland but a reasonable relationship.”²⁷²

The British foreign office produced an internal memorandum in late November on the expropriation and collectivization of British firms in the Spanish Republic, concluding that it “shows quite clearly that the alternative to Franco is Communism tempered by anarchy; and . . . [it is] further believed that if this last regime is triumphant in Spain it will spread to other countries, notably France.”²⁷³ Blum’s Popular Front government, for its part, was engaged in heated internal debate about the future of the Franco-Soviet alliance, and Potyomkin, the Soviet envoy, cautioned patience to the foreign affairs commissariat. But Stalin’s spies had supplied him with General Schweisguth’s memorandum denigrating the Red Army. “On the basis of very reliable information in our possession, I have to inform you for your guidance that the French military authorities are vehemently opposed to a Franco-Soviet [military] pact and speak openly about it,” Litvinov had written to Potyomkin. “We in no way want to speed up negotiations, nor do we wish them to suspect that we are backing away.”²⁷⁴ An unsigned editorial—written by Molotov—in Izvestiya condemned the Anti-Comintern Pact and defiantly noted, “We must believe exclusively in our own strength.”²⁷⁵

ENIGMATIC PLENUM

In the face of the German-Japanese Anti-Comintern Pact, as well as the British and French efforts at accommodating Hitler, Mussolini, and now possibly Franco, on December 4, Stalin convoked a Central Committee plenum. It was, however, devoted not to the deepening challenges of foreign policy—something he almost never allowed to be discussed by the country’s nominal policy-making body—but to virulent charges of treason. The day before, Yezhov had delivered a lengthy address to a conference of NKVD operatives in the capital, itself a telling assembly, and noted ominously, “I think we have not investigated the military Trotskyite line to the fullest. . . . You well know the efforts of imperialist intelligence HQ to create agent networks in our army. . . . We are uncovering diversionary-wrecking organizations in industry. What grounds are there to believe that it is impossible to carry out diversionary acts in the army? There are more opportunities, not fewer, here than in industry.”²⁷⁶

Stalin assigned the main plenum report (“On Trotskyite and Rightist Anti-Soviet Organizations”) to Yezhov, and during his excoriation of the Zinovievites and Trotskyites, someone interjected, “What about Bukharin?” Yezhov took up the prompt, which in turn almost immediately provoked Stalin to interrupt, “We need to talk about them [the rightists].” Beria interjected, “There’s a scoundrel for you!” Stalin, in the July 29, 1936, secret circular, had denied any positive political program to the Trotskyites, but now he asserted that the leftist Trotskyites shared the rightists’ “program” of capitalist restoration.²⁷⁷ Bukharin plaintively asked how he could defend himself against such slanderers. “Do you really believe I could have anything in common with these subversives, with these saboteurs, with these scum, after thirty years in the party?” he exclaimed at Stalin. “This is nothing but madness.” When Bukharin pointed out that he physically could not have been at the alleged meetings with the Zinovievites and Trotskyites, Molotov countered, “You are acting like a lawyer.”²⁷⁸

When Yezhov referred to a transport official as “an enemy,” Stalin interrupted to specify that the accused was “a German spy—he in fact got money for information from German intelligence—he was a spy.” Addressing Bukharin, Stalin ridiculed suicide as opposition blackmail. “Here is one of the easiest means by which, right before death, leaving this world, one can spit in the face of the party, deceive the people, one last time,” Stalin stated, mentioning Tomsky.²⁷⁹ Another was the thirty-two-year-old apparatchik Veniamin Furer, who had committed suicide at a dacha in Osinki, outside Moscow, in fall 1936 after his friend Yakov Livshits—Kaganovich’s top deputy at the railroad commissariat—had been arrested as a “Trotskyite.” Furer, the rising star who had delivered a stirring ode to the Stalinist leadership style at the 17th Party Congress, left behind a long letter praising the Soviet leader while defending Livshits, who, like Furer, had briefly sided with Trotsky in 1923. Because Stalin was on holiday in Sochi, the letter had been brought to Kaganovich. “He walked up and down and then began to sob” out loud, Nikita Khrushchev, another Kaganovich protégé, would recall. “He was unable to collect himself for a long time after he read it.” Kaganovich ordered the letter circulated to all politburo members. Now, at the plenum, Stalin cruelly mocked Kaganovich. “What a letter he left behind,” he noted of Furer. “You read it and tears well up in your eyes.”²⁸⁰

Also on December 4, 1936, in a memo circulated to all politburo members, Stalin dressed down Orjonikidze for having hidden long-ago correspondence with Beso Lominadze, who had been pronounced a posthumous enemy after committing suicide, while party boss, in Magnitogorsk the year before. The accusation of having concealed information from “the Central Committee” was one of Stalin’s most threatening. What also rankled was that Lominadze’s suicide note had been read over the telephone to Orjonikidze by Lominadze’s deputy in Magnitogorsk, and that Orjonikidze was providing a pension to Lominadze’s widow and money to their son (named Sergo, in Orjonikidze’s honor). Stalin had reports that Orjonikidze was bad-mouthing him behind his back to his cronies Mamiya Orakhelashvili and Shalva Eliava.²⁸¹ At the plenum, Orjonikidze joined in the vicious attacks against Bukharin.

On the evening of December 5, the Congress of Soviets concluded by adopting the new constitution unanimously. The next day was devoted to a mass celebration of the adoption on Red Square. On December 7, the plenum resumed. Despite the venom, it ended without expulsions, let alone arrests. Stalin proposed “considering the matter of Bukharin and Rykov unfinished” and postponing a decision until the next plenum.²⁸² Adding to the mystery, this plenum, uniquely for the 1930s, went unmentioned in the press. That same press took to slandering Bukharin and Rykov still more ferociously. Especially noteworthy was that much of the bile flowed in Izvestiya, where Bukharin remained listed as editor. “My morale,” Bukharin wrote in a letter (December 15), “is in such a state that I am half-alive.”²⁸³

KIDNAP

Stalin judged that a Communist takeover in China would never produce a regime strong enough to hold off the Japanese military. After the Chinese comrades formed revolutionary soviets, against Moscow’s advice, he had Dimitrov insist on “soviets—only in the cities, but not as organs of power, rather of organization of the masses. Without confiscations.”²⁸⁴ But the “united front” resembled a sandcastle on the beach. The Nationalists were not interested, either.²⁸⁵ A Japanese envoy arrived on a warship at Nanking, the Nationalist capital, and demanded that China grant Japan the right to place troops anywhere in China to fight Communists. Chiang Kai-shek refused to conduct negotiations himself over the request, and the envoy’s talks with Chiang’s foreign minister went nowhere. (Chiang insisted that Japan respect China’s administrative integrity in northern China, which Japan continued to violate.) But rumors of a possible Chinese entry into the Anti-Comintern Pact had alarmed Stalin. Chiang was also pressing his campaign to eradicate the Chinese Communist base in Shaanxi, while demanding, in negotiations with them in Shanghai, that they bring their Red Army strictly under his Nanking government.²⁸⁶

Events on the ground, however, had their own dynamic—and their import potentially exceeded that of Spain, for Stalin and for the world.

The warlord Zhang Xueliang, known as the Young Marshal, had traveled to Italy, then Germany, courting Mussolini, then Hitler and Göring, for help against Japan. In France he had met Litvinov, asking to be received by Stalin in Moscow; Stalin declined, concerned about not complicating his relations with Japan.²⁸⁷ Zhang had returned to China and eventually entered into negotiations with the Chinese Communists; one of his interlocutors was Zhou Enlai, who got the Young Marshal not only to cease operations against the Chinese Communists but to supply them with weapons. The Communists contemplated trying to secretly admit Zhang to the party.²⁸⁸ In November 1936, Zhang wrote to Chiang Kai-shek, imploring him to pursue a united front with the Communists against Japan in earnest. In December, Zhang traveled to Nanking in person to report about the mutinous moods of his troops in Shaanxi, who were supposed to pursue the Communists, and renewed his pleading. Chiang told him, according to Zhang, that if the government pulled back from fighting the Chinese Communists to take on Japan, the Communists would eventually win hold of the nation.²⁸⁹

Chiang ordered Zhang to intensify the “bandit suppression” campaign to finish off the Communists.²⁹⁰ But Zhang urged Chiang to go to Xi’an and talk to the Shaanxi and Manchurian soldiers. Chiang’s entourage warned against such a trip, but exposure to danger had typically enhanced Chiang’s stature, and he agreed to go. Back in Xi’an, Zhang reported on the conversation, in general terms, by radiogram to Mao, whose “party center” was holed up in dank caves (one bodyguard was stung by a scorpion).²⁹¹ Chiang flew off to Xi’an with an extra guard detail and contingent of officers, moving into a hot-springs resort, a small walled enclave ten miles outside the district town of Lintong. In an ancient one-story pavilion once used by the Tang emperor Xuanzong, Chiang received delegations of the Shaanxi and Northeast (Manchurian) armies.²⁹² At dawn on December 12, his scheduled day of departure, a 200-man contingent of Zhang’s personal guard stormed the walled compound. A gun battle killed many of Chiang’s bodyguards. He heard the shots, was told the attackers wore fur caps (the headgear of the Manchurian troops), crawled out a window, scaled the compound’s high wall, and ran along a dry moat up a barren hill, accompanied by one bodyguard and one aide. He slipped and fell, losing his false teeth and injuring his back, and sought refuge in a cave on the snow-covered mountain. The next morning, the leader of China—shivering, toothless, barefoot, a robe over his nightshirt—was captured.

Whether Zhang acted on his own or in a conspiracy with the Communists remains uncertain. He was an opium-addled playboy—one mistress was Mussolini’s daughter—but also an anti-Japanese patriot. Perhaps in his earnestness for a united front he had gotten caught up in the intrigues of Zhou and Mao. The wily Chiang, for his part, had been negotiating in bad faith with Zhou Enlai (Chiang’s former political commissar at the Soviet-financed 1920s Whampoa Military Academy).²⁹³ News of Chiang’s pending arrest—or admonishment—in Xi’an had reached Mao’s makeshift headquarters via the dilapidated village of Bao’an in the early-morning hours of December 12. His secretary passed him the radiogram. “After reading it, [he] joyfully exclaimed, ‘How about that! Time for bed. Tomorrow there will be good news!’”²⁹⁴

Chiang, upon being taken into custody, was speechless. (He has himself telling his captors, “I am the Generalissimo. Kill me, but do not subject me to indignities.”)²⁹⁵ Zhang’s head bodyguard carried Chiang to a car and set off for a government office in Xi’an. Zhang, standing at attention, addressed him as commander in chief. “I wish to lay my views before your excellency, the generalissimo,” Zhang said to his captive, pleading with him to work with the Communists in a patriotic coalition. Zhang had aides draft formal proposals for a united “National Salvation” government, an immediate end to the civil war, and a release and pardon of all political prisoners. He also requested that the Chinese Communists receive an invitation to send a delegation to Xi’an.²⁹⁶ Chiang repeatedly denounced him as a rebel. “Your bad temper,” Zhang replied, “is always the cause of trouble.”²⁹⁷

Chiang’s surprise capture would seem to have offered Moscow a chance to discredit him as incompetent in the anti-Japanese crusade and to exact revenge. After all, this was the same Chiang who had humiliated Stalin with a massacre of Chinese Communists in 1927 and, subsequently, had nearly destroyed the Chinese Red Army in a series of ruthless encirclement campaigns. Word reached Moscow that same day of December 13. “Optimistic, favorable assessment regarding Zhang Xueliang,” crowed the normally restrained Dimitrov, in his diary.²⁹⁸ Dimitrov’s Chinese assistant in the Comintern recalled that “you could not find anyone” who did not feel “Chiang must be finished off.” Manuilsky, he added, “rubbed his hands, embraced me, and exclaimed, ‘Our dear friend has been caught, aha!’”²⁹⁹ That same day, Mao was even more gleeful. “Chiang has owed us a blood debt as high as a mountain,” he was quoted as exclaiming at a meeting in his cave. “Now it is time to liquidate the blood debt. Chiang must be brought to Bao’an for a public trial.”³⁰⁰ Mao sent congratulations to Zhang, whom he called China’s “national leader in resisting Japan.”³⁰¹

Stalin, to a considerable extent, held the fate of China and, indeed, Asia in his hands.

CHINA IN THE BALANCE

Dimitrov, on December 14, 1936, held a meeting of Comintern hierarchs, after which he wrote to Stalin that the Chinese Communists had become close to Zhang, despite Comintern warnings about his unreliability, and that “it was hard to imagine Zhang Xueliang would have undertaken his adventurist action without coordination with them.”³⁰² Around midnight, Stalin phoned him: “Are these events in China occurring with your authorization? This is the greatest service to Japan anyone could possibly render. Who is this Wang Ming of yours? A provocateur? He wanted to file a telegram to have Chiang Kai-shek killed.” (Wang Ming, born Chen Shaoyu in 1904, headed the Chinese Comintern delegation in Moscow.) When Dimitrov claimed innocence, Stalin stated, “I’ll find you that telegram.”³⁰³ (There was likely no such telegram: Stalin was misinformed or trying to scare Dimitrov into pulling back.) Later still, Molotov phoned the Comintern head: “Come to Comrade Stalin’s office tomorrow at 3:30; we’ll discuss Ch[inese] affairs. Only you and Man[uilsky], nobody else!”³⁰⁴ Pravda (December 14) and Izvestiya (December 15) condemned Chiang’s kidnapping as playing into Japanese hands.

The Comintern officials were received on December 16, at 7:20 p.m., for fifty minutes.³⁰⁵ Dimitrov and Manuilsky, along with Molotov, Kaganovich, Voroshilov, Orjonikidze, and Stalin, hammered out a telegram for the Chinese Communists that condemned Zhang’s move, “whatever his intentions,” as inciting Japanese aggression and a united imperialist bloc against China, and ordered the Chinese Communists to stand “decisively for a peaceful resolution of the conflict,” while enjoining the Nationalists to cease their attempted destruction of the Chinese Red Army and to unite for the struggle against Japanese imperialism. This was precisely Zhang’s position (which went unmentioned).³⁰⁶ In Xi’an on December 16, Zhang addressed the public in the central square, explaining that he had served, and would continue to serve, under Chiang, but that the generalissimo must engage the struggle against the Japanese. “Chiang thinks that he is the government,” Zhang stated. “Since he refuses to turn the guns against the enemy, and turns them against us, I had no alternative but to . . . arrest him.”³⁰⁷ The Nationalist executive committee and political council in Nanking, meanwhile, directed its Central Army toward Xi’an.³⁰⁸

Had Stalin been driven predominantly by vengeance, he would have ordered Chiang killed (or just let it happen). But Stalin acted from his sense of strategy. The same applied to his domestic terror.

Before being dismissed from Stalin’s office, Dimitrov was privy to a denunciation of Blum (“a charlatan. He’s no Largo Caballero”) and a discussion of the NKVD’s interrogation of Sokolnikov: “The investigation concludes that Trotsky abroad and the center of the bloc within the USSR entered into negotiations with the Hitlerite and Japanese governments . . . first, to provoke a war by Germany and Japan against the USSR; second, to promote the defeat of the USSR in that war and to take advantage of that defeat to achieve the transfer of power in the USSR to their government bloc; third, on behalf of the future bloc government, to guarantee territorial and economic concessions to the Hitlerite and Japanese governments.” Sokolnikov had joined the party in 1905, at age seventeen, been with Lenin on the sealed train in April 1917, signed the Brest-Litovsk Treaty, which had ended up saving the fledgling regime in 1918, led the civil war reconquest of Turkestan in 1920, masterminded the NEP stabilization as finance commissar, and served as an effective ambassador to Britain. But it turned out he had all along been working to overthrow Soviet power. Sokolnikov was said to have confessed.³⁰⁹

Two days later, Dimitrov received the prominent German Jewish antifascist novelist Jacob Arje (b. 1884), known as Lion Feuchtwanger, and his common-law wife, Maria Osten (Gresshöner). “It is incomprehensible why the accused are admitting everything, knowing it will cost them their lives,” Feuchtwanger pointed out, regarding the trial of Zinoviev, Kamenev, and others. “It is incomprehensible why, apart from the confessions of the accused, no sort of evidence has been produced.” Feuchtwanger, a Soviet sympathizer, added that “the records of the trial” were “full of contradictions, unconvincing. The trial is conducted monstrously.”³¹⁰

Dimitrov’s radiogram for the Chinese comrades arrived in Bao’an village on December 17 or 18. (Part of it had failed to transmit; Mao would read the full text only on December 20.) “Mao Zedong flew into a rage when the order came from Moscow to release Chiang” rather than to stage a trial and execution, wrote the youthful Communist sympathizer Edgar Snow, claiming to have heard from an eyewitness (the widow of Sun Yat-sen). “Mao swore and stamped his feet.”³¹¹ Mao, on December 19, said to an assembly of the Chinese politburo, “The Japanese say that the arrest [of Chiang] was arranged by the Soviet Union, while the Soviet Union says that it was contrived by the Japanese.”³¹² That day, the Chinese Communists issued a statement that Zhang and his men “had acted on the basis of patriotic motives, honestly and with sincere zealotry for the fate of the nation.”³¹³ Mao detested Chiang and any appearance of buckling under to Moscow, but Zhou, after trekking by donkey to see Mao, flew to Xi’an on a Zhang-supplied plane and ordered him not to harm Chiang, citing Stalin’s direct orders. Zhang was to release him after somehow extracting a promise of a renewed united front.³¹⁴ Of course, this had been Zhang’s plan all along.

“KAUTSKY”

Stalin and Britain effectively shared the same goal in the Far East—prevention of a Japanese conquest of China—but British-Soviet negotiations between May and December 1936, on London’s initiative, for a bilateral pact on naval limitations failed. Britain continued to want to get other runners in the naval arms race to run more slowly, for a time, so that it could cross the finish line first. But the Soviets, like Nazi Germany, did not really want limitations. Even more, Moscow sought the most advanced British naval technology and technical assistance as part of its program to build an oceangoing fleet.³¹⁵ Cooperation, not just on the sea, proved elusive, even though Stalin, the world leader of Communism, paradoxically was serving as Britain’s main bulwark against the spread of Communism: he was trying to force the Chinese Communists to help free Chiang and resume the coalition with the Nationalists against Japan, and having the Comintern direct the Spanish Communists to remain under the wing of the Popular Front government against Franco.

At the same time, Stalin ordered the Comintern to have the Spanish Communists intensify the “complete and final annihilation” of the Spanish “Trotskyites” as “agents of fascism.”³¹⁶ Spain’s Communists, with the collusion of the anarchists, forced the POUM leader, Andreu Nin, out of the Catalan regional government.³¹⁷ (The next month, Spain’s Communists would set upon the anarchists, too, arresting or assassinating their leaders.) Koltsov’s reportage in Pravda continued to fixate not on Franco but on the POUM, noting (December 17, 1936) that “the purge of the Trotskyite and anarcho-syndicalist elements” in Spain “will be carried out with the same energy as in the USSR.”³¹⁸ Koltsov soon infiltrated the POUM to write a hatchet piece; in an especially piquant passage, he would assert that the POUM newspaper (La Batalla) had “found its sole object of hatred and daily attack . . . not General Franco, not General Mola, not Italian and German fascism, but the Soviet Union.” Koltsov also wrote how Trotsky was supposedly giving directives to the POUM and how the POUM “had restructured in the usual Trotskyite fashion” in order to engage in “terrorism” (“provocations, raids, and murders”). He accused the POUM “Trotskyites” of attracting only riffraff and scum.³¹⁹

Tens of thousands of workers and people’s militias who were sacrificing their lives to save the Republic were cowards and fascist hirelings.

That December of 1936, Stalin again suffered from a high temperature, as well as tonsillitis. It had been a while since he had countenanced medical observation. His staff summoned Dr. Ivan Valedinsky to the Near Dacha. Valedinsky, who had not seen Stalin since 1931, brought a heart specialist, Vladimir Vinogradov, and a throat infection specialist, Boris Preobrazhensky. They diagnosed a reemergence of follicular angina from arteriosclerosis. The elevated temperature lasted five days.³²⁰ But Stalin hosted a Kremlin reception for top NKVD operatives on December 20, 1936, the nineteenth anniversary of the founding of the Cheka, and that same day attended a congress of wives of Red Army commanders in the Grand Kremlin Palace. On December 21, he celebrated his official fifty-seventh birthday with his inner circle, the military brass, and relatives, but without his children. “A mass of guests,” Maria Svanidze wrote in her diary, “all dressed up, noisy, lively, dancing to the radio, went home toward 7:00 a.m.”³²¹

The dictator had managed some official business that day. In a letter to Prime Minister Largo Caballero, dated December 21, Stalin, Molotov, and Voroshilov reiterated that they wanted to “prevent the enemies of Spain from regarding it as a Communist Republic” and offered political advice, as if to a pupil (“Pay attention to the peasants” and “Draw the petite and middle urban bourgeoisie onto the side of the government”). “It is quite possible,” the message noted, “that in Spain, the parliamentary road will prove more appropriate toward revolutionary development than was the case in Russia.”³²² The message dripped with Marxist revisionism. Consider that an evolutionary path somehow bringing about socialism was precisely what the Italian Comintern official Palmiro Togliatti believed in—and he was referred to in Soviet ciphered telegrams as “Kautsky,” the German Social Democrat whom Lenin had denounced.³²³

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

Hermann Göring had invited Surits to his home on Leipziger Platz, according to the Soviet envoy, and on December 14, 1936, he delivered a monologue about Germany’s Four-Year Plan and how bilateral economic relations “should be built without regard to the state of our political relations,” that is, “apoliticized.” Göring allowed that some items on the list submitted by Kandelaki could be purchased, but most could have been expected only to elicit a negative response: no state could sell such top-secret objects to another. Surits protested. Göring mollified him, citing Bismarck regarding the need for strong ties between Germany and Russia.³²⁴ Ten days later, Kandelaki and a colleague met fruitlessly with Schacht (whose star had waned with Göring’s rise over the economy). To the now perpetual Soviet inquiries about a political rapprochement, Schacht retorted that it would be possible if the Soviets ended their “encirclement” of Germany by quitting Spain, France (in the guise of the Popular Front), and Czechoslovakia (the mutual assistance pact). Kandelaki returned to Moscow for consultations. The Soviet hopes incited by Göring’s elevation to plenipotentiary looked illusory.

Mongolia served as Stalin’s other linchpin in Soviet eastern defense, alongside China, and on December 23, 1936, he received yet another delegation from the livestock-herding nation, led by the new prime minister, Anandyn Amar, in Molotov’s office. “In olden times the Mongols beat the Chinese,” Stalin said. “Defending themselves against you, they built the Great Chinese Wall.” Amar: “All the territory up to the Great Chinese Wall belonged to us, Mongols.” Voroshilov (smiling): “You have imperialist aims.”³²⁵ The Soviets would have to spend still more money to shore up its feeble satellite.

In China, Zhou Enlai, aware of the Communists’ utter dependence on the Soviet Union for weapons and supplies, was shrewd enough to follow Stalin’s orders, not Mao’s. Zhou also enjoyed unusual sway with Zhang, who listened to few others. Chiang, however, refused to negotiate his release by agreeing to a renewed united front. British and U.S. military attachés who went to Xi’an encouraged Chiang to draw out the standoff, and he gave hints that he might order resumption of his encirclement campaign. But the generalissimo finally relented. One source of pressure was his wayward son, Chiang Ching-kuo, who had denounced his father as an enemy and, with his Russian wife, was studying in the Soviet Union—that is, he was in Stalin’s hands. A telegram was sent to the Chinese Communists stressing that in talks with Chiang the possible return of his son should be mentioned. On December 25 morning, Chiang belatedly received Zhou, who saluted his former commander, a sign of Communist obedience, and, on verbal promises of a renewed united front, agreed to his release.³²⁶ As Chiang prepared to depart Xi’an, at 2:00 p.m. on December 26, a coolie appeared, carrying a suitcase, followed by a guilt-ridden Zhang, who announced that he was surrendering and wanted to accompany Chiang and his entourage back to Nanking. Chiang appears to have pardoned him.³²⁷ They took off in Zhang’s Boeing, Chiang sitting in the copilot’s seat.

Chiang had been right about the upside of his risky visit to Xi’an: throngs cheered his return to the Nanking capital that December 26. (Two months later, Chiang would compare his ordeal at Xi’an with the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.)³²⁸ His inner circle now urged him to go on the offensive and wipe out the Communists once and for all.³²⁹ The three Communist armies in the northern Shaanxi region totaled perhaps 50,000 troops, of whom fewer than 30,000 possessed weapons, and they had no air force. Chiang’s armies numbered more than 2 million, of whom 300,000 had been trained by the Germans (many carried German-made weapons), with 314 fighter planes and 600 pilots. His political authority was also colossal. But the generalissimo’s proven ability for treachery yielded before his recognition of China’s need for foreign assistance, and he honored the promise he made to Zhou and Zhang to carry out Stalin’s united front policy. Chiang assigned specific territory to the Communists and funded their separate administration and army, controlled by Mao. Stalin held Chiang’s son to ensure the promises were kept.³³⁰

Had Chiang been killed, Chinese accommodation with Japan, at Soviet expense, was a likely outcome. With Chiang’s death, the top Nationalist officials Wang Jingwei, who strenuously opposed cooperation with the USSR, and He Yingqin, China’s war minister, a graduate of the Japanese Military Academy and one of the key architects of the civil war against the Communists, could have established a new government to cooperate with Japan. (Zhang Qun, the foreign minister in Chiang’s government, had also been educated in Japan.) This could have resulted in a Japanese thrust northward, into Soviet territory, instead of southward in Asia—and therefore no Pearl Harbor or war with the United States.³³¹

Conversely, had Chiang not gone to Xi’an and been kidnapped and ultimately released, he would likely have crushed the Chinese Communists and killed or chased Mao out to Mongolia or Siberia, without forfeiting Stalin’s military aid. In the event, not only Chiang but also the Chinese Communists survived, even thrived, becoming more associated publicly with the national anti-Japanese struggle. These would prove to be momentous developments.

“POPPYCOCK”

On December 30, 1936, Stalin sent Bukharin a New Year’s “gift”: a packet of others’ “testimony” incriminating him in foul deeds.³³² Stalin also held a banquet for his physicians and, amid toasts to Soviet medicine, suddenly announced that there were enemies among the doctors. Molotov stood and thanked the physician-professors for helping to make Stalin better while attributing his recovery to the dictator’s robust constitution. After dinner, Stalin brought in a Radiola for dancing.³³³ Meanwhile, the January 1937 editorial of The Communist International, written in Stalin’s signature style of questions and answers, pointedly noted that “the Spanish Trotskyites conduct themselves like the advanced guard of the notorious ‘fifth column’ of Franco insurgents. Is it possible to support the heroic struggle of the Spanish popular masses without fighting against the traitorous Trotskyite band? No, it is impossible.”³³⁴ La Batalla, the POUM’s organ, responded that “Stalin is destroying, without looking back, everything that opposes him. . . . Stalin maintains his incontestable power with terror.”³³⁵

Stalin also managed to flush Trotsky out of Norway. As a condition of his asylum, Trotsky was under a gag order. But while he had been away from Oslo for that fishing holiday, the house where he lived had been set upon by fascist thugs led by Major Vidkun Quisling, and in Moscow Trotsky was being convicted in absentia of political terror. He now acceded to the insistent requests for interviews. “Trotsky declares that the Moscow charges are invented and fabricated,” the headlines screamed in the Norwegian press. Litvinov demanded that Norway rescind Trotsky’s asylum; the Soviets hinted that they would cease importing Norwegian herring. The Norwegian Labor government caved, placing Trotsky under house arrest. The government in Mexico offered him asylum, and he arrived there by ship on January 9, 1937. Trotsky was given use of a villa known as the Blue House, designed by the painter Diego Rivera as an inspirational refuge amid wildflowers and squawking parrots.³³⁶ The quasimodernist, quasirustic compound, tended by servants, was located on Avenida Londres in the Mexico City suburb of Coyoacán.³³⁷ Here, the NKVD’s efforts to assassinate Trotsky resumed.

On January 8, Stalin had received Lion Feuchtwanger in the Little Corner. The dictator used these conversations with foreign sympathizers as mental calisthenics.³³⁸ The German writer opened with a question about the glaring absence of criticism of the regime by Soviet intellectuals. Stalin did not deny it. “Up to 1933, few writers believed the peasant question could be solved on the basis of collective farms,” he said. “There is no more of that criticism. Facts persuade. The wager of Soviet power on collectivization was won. . . . The problem of the mutual relations between the working class and the peasantry was the most important and has furnished the most worries to revolutionaries in all countries. The problem looked insoluble: the peasantry, reactionary, linked with private property, dragged backwards; the working class went forward. This contradiction undermined revolutions more than once. That’s how the revolution in France [Paris Commune] perished in 1871.”³³⁹

Feuchtwanger, telling Stalin he came across as modest, inquired of the adulation, “Is this not an extra burden on you?” Stalin: “I am in complete agreement with you. It’s unpleasant when they exaggerate to hyperbolic scale.” Attributing great strides to one individual, he explained, “is, of course, wrong—what can one person do?—[but] they see in me a unifying concept, and create foolish raptures around me.” Beyond the masses, Stalin explained in this unscripted moment that Soviet functionaries “are afraid if they do not have a bust of Stalin, then either the newspaper or their superior will curse them, or a visitor will take notice. This is careerism, a form of bureaucrat ‘self-defense’: in order not to be touched, they must install a bust of Stalin. Every party that is victorious attracts alien elements, careerists. They try to defend themselves by mimicry: they install busts, they write slogans in which they do not believe.”³⁴⁰

The conversation turned to the public trial of “Trotskyites,” and Stalin tried to convey that domestic oppositionists and foreign imperialist powers had to be working together: after all, they wanted the same outcome. “They are for the USSR’s defeat in war against Hitler and the Japanese,” he said, promising that a pending new trial would reveal how oppositionists were connected to the Gestapo and negotiating with Hess, the deputy Führer. “For the power they would obtain in the downfall of the USSR in a war,” he averred, the opposition had planned to “make concessions to capitalism: concede territory to Germany (Ukraine or a part thereof), to Japan (the Soviet Far East or a part thereof); open a wide path for German capital in the European part of the USSR, for Japanese capital in the Asian part . . . disband the greater part of the collective farms and allow ‘private initiative,’ as they express it, [and] reduce the state control over industry.”

Feuchtwanger inquired whether the Soviet Union would publish the additional trial materials besides the confessions. Stalin: “What materials?” Feuchtwanger: “The results of the preliminary investigation. Everything that proves their guilt aside from confessions.” Stalin: “Kirov was killed; this is a fact. Zinoviev, Kamenev, Trotsky were not there. But people implicated them for the crime, as inspirers of it. All of them are experienced conspirators—Trotsky, Zinoviev, Kamenev, and others. They do not leave behind such documents. When people caught them out in the confrontations [with witnesses], they had to admit their guilt.” Stalin continued: “They say that people testify because they are promised their freedom. This is nonsense. These are all experienced people; they fully understand what it means to testify against oneself.” At the same time, Stalin circumscribed the danger, noting that of the approximately 17,000 party members who had voted for the opposition platform in 1927, “there were 8,000 to 10,000 of them left.”³⁴¹

Stalin, under questioning, justified the new constitution’s emphasis on democracy. “We do not just have democracy carried over from bourgeois countries,” he told Feuchtwanger. “We have an unusual democracy, we have an addition: the word ‘socialist’ democracy.” Stalin allowed that capitalism’s lesser form of democracy was more progressive than fascism, and that the global popular front against fascism “is a struggle for democracy.”³⁴² Still, he went on to note that in October 1917, many people in Russia had been afraid of the pending seizure of power, in 1918 of the Brest-Litovsk peace, in 1928–32 of collectivization, and now they were scared of fascism. “Fascism,” Stalin stated, “is poppycock. It is a temporary phenomenon.”³⁴³

NOISY NEW TRIAL

Determinations of who was an “enemy” were being made locally. Officials strained to protect their own people, while still demonstrating zeal. But Stalin began to go after provincial party bosses who had never been in any opposition. On January 2, 1937, Sheboldayev, party boss of the Azov–Black Sea region, was dismissed amid accusations of “Trotskyite wreckers in the party organization.” On January 13, the Kiev provincial party committee was deemed “littered with an exceedingly great number of Trotskyites,” and three days later Postyshev was replaced as Kiev province secretary by Sergei Kudryavtsev, while the Kharkov provincial party boss was replaced by Nikolai Gikalo. Both would press the destruction of sitting party officials.³⁴⁴ Meanwhile, Stalin had Bukharin summoned to a confrontation with Radek and Pyatakov, who were delivered from prison. Bukharin told his wife that Radek had denounced him as a spy and terrorist with whom he had plotted Stalin’s murder, and that Pyatakov resembled a “skeleton with its teeth knocked out.”³⁴⁵

Also on January 13, Mao moved from his hideout in the caves near Bao’an back to the town of Yan’an (pop. 3,000), the now legally acknowledged Red capital, where, in a mountain valley surrounded by fortress walls and towers, the Communists occupied the former residences of landowners and merchants. In the Little Corner on January 19, two directives were finalized. One criticized the Chinese Communists for working to split the Nationalists. The second ordered them to reorganize governance in the areas under their control from “soviets” to a “national revolutionary” front of all “democratic” forces, renounce land confiscations, and “direct serious attention to the machinations of Trotskyite elements, who in Xi’an, as in all of China, try to undermine the cause of the united anti-Japanese front with their provocational activities and are servants of the Japanese aggressors.”³⁴⁶ Mao would slow-walk any second united front. The Comintern gave the Chinese Communists more than $800,000 and promised a similar sum to come.³⁴⁷

On January 23, 1937, a second trial in Moscow of a parallel “Anti-Soviet Trotskyite Center” opened, like the first, in the October Hall, after Stalin had hand-edited the charges.³⁴⁸ Ten of the seventeen defendants worked in Orjonikidze’s heavy industry commissariat.³⁴⁹ “And here I stand before you in filth, crushed by my own crimes,” Pyatakov publicly confessed, “bereft of everything through my own fault, a man who has lost his party, who has no friends, who has lost his family, who has lost his very self.” Yezhov had personally forced his erstwhile drinking buddy, in thirty-three days of torture, to capitulate to accusations of Trotskyism and plotting with Germany.³⁵⁰ (Yezhov was finally named to the highest rank, “general commissar of state security.”)³⁵¹ Radek, in court, delivered a tour de force fabricated history of Trotskyism. His “features,” an American correspondent observed, “seemed curiously out of focus, his teeth charred and uneven, his eyes very much alive behind thick glasses.”³⁵² Soviet newspapers and radio afforded wire-to-wire coverage, accompanied by orchestrated meetings at factories and farms. “Why such a great fuss over the trial?” Feuchtwanger would ask Dimitrov. “Incomprehensible. An atmosphere has been created of extreme unrest among the population, mutual suspicion, denunciations, and so forth. Trotskyism has been killed—why such a campaign?”³⁵³

Feuchtwanger found the allegations preposterous. And yet the oppositionists had organized a conspiratorial meeting, in summer 1932, at Zinoviev’s dacha, where expelled party members of the Leningrad opposition had discussed reviving their old links to Trotsky. A message from Trotsky to join forces had been carried into the Soviet Union. Stalin was also correct that the NKVD (then the OGPU) had missed these contacts, which was evidently part of the basis for his statement, in the September 1936 dismissal of Yagoda, that the NKVD was four years behind.³⁵⁴ Of course, this was a pathetic “bloc” incapable of consequential action (Smirnov, a supposed organizer of the conspiracy to murder Kirov in 1934, had been in prison since 1933).³⁵⁵ But the meeting was not an invention. The “terror” charges, too, contained the minutest kernel of truth. After a decree had rescinded Trotsky’s Soviet citizenship, he had written a spirited open letter to the central executive committee of the Soviet (which had nominal jurisdiction over citizenship) asserting that “Stalin has led us to a cul-de-sac. . . . It is necessary, at last, to carry out Lenin’s last insistent advice: remove Stalin.”³⁵⁶ Trotsky had not written “remove by assassination,” but how else could it be done?³⁵⁷

In the middle of the trial, on January 26, Shumyatsky showed Stalin and the inner circle a special newsreel of the dictator’s speech on the new constitution at the recent Eighth all-Union Extraordinary Congress of Soviets. The film depicted the Spassky Tower with its clock, the Grand Kremlin Palace interior, the congress delegates, Stalin’s appearance and the resulting ovation with shouts of hurrah, and then his entire speech, accompanied by documentary footage of Soviet achievements—factories, collective farms, the military, culture. This was the first time Stalin had been filmed in sound. “After it ended they applauded for a long time,” Shumyatsky noted. “I[osif] V[issarionovich] said: ‘It turned out to be good stuff, and you know, I had wanted to burn the negative when you previewed the fragments.’”³⁵⁸

Stalin was also reading the screenplay for A Great Citizen, by Friedrich Ermler (in collaboration with Manuel Bolshintsov and Mikhail Bleiman), based on the life and assassination of Kirov, who in the film was known as Pyotr Shakhov, the party secretary of an unspecified region. Stalin (January 27, 1937) praised the screenplay to Shumyatsky—“it is politically literate, no question. The literary achievements are also indisputable”—but wanted changes, complaining that the party opposition seemed to have a longer party membership than the members of the Central Committee (“reality gives the opposite picture”). Stalin also wrote that “references to Stalin must be eliminated” in favor of “the Central Committee.” The film’s assassin (Bryantsev) was depicted as a former Trotskyite who, after the defeat of the opposition, wormed his way into the position of director of the Museum of the Revolution. Stalin proposed that the suspense be shifted from Shakhov’s assassination to the larger forces behind it, instructing that “the struggle between the Trotskyites and the Soviet government should not resemble a struggle between two coteries for power, one of which ‘got lucky’ in the fight, the other ‘did not,’” but a struggle between two programs: the socialist program, supported by the people, versus a Trotskyite program “for the restoration of capitalism in the USSR,” at the behest of fascism that was “repudiated by the people.”³⁵⁹ He further demanded that the murder scene itself be excised (Ermler would instead shoot a dark corridor, with the sound of the gun going off).³⁶⁰

On January 28, 1937, Dimitrov had sent yet another telegram to Mao, reporting on the new trial in Moscow and concluding, “We await information on your concrete measures in the struggle against Trotskyites.”³⁶¹ On the evening of the 29th, Orjonikidze visited his former first deputy Pyatakov in prison for the last time and observed his utterly smashed face. Several hours later, at 3:00 a.m. on the 30th, Vasily Ulrich read out the prearranged verdict at the trial: thirteen death sentences, including Pyatakov; four others convicted but not to be executed, including Radek (ten years of penal labor).³⁶² The party machine turned out a crowd on Red Square, reported at 200,000, in temperatures of 16 degrees below zero (27 below Celsius), for speeches by Khrushchev and Shvernik. The masses carried banners demanding immediate executions, which had already been implemented.³⁶³

In Berlin on the 29th, Kandelaki had passed to Schacht a proposal in Litvinov’s name for political negotiations between diplomatic representatives, agreeing to treat them “as confidential and not to divulge anything, . . . if this is what the German government demands.”³⁶⁴ But Hitler’s speeches more and more resembled declarations of war. “Any further treaty connections with the present Bolshevist Russia would be completely worthless for us,” he told the Reichstag on the fourth anniversary of his chancellorship, on January 30. “It is out of the question that National Socialist Germany could ever be bound to protect Bolshevism or that we, on our side, could ever agree to accept the assistance of a Bolshevist state. For I fear that the moment any nation agreed to accept such assistance, it would thereby seal its own doom.”

•   •   •

SOME ANALYSTS HAVE SPECULATED that Stalin used Spain in a war of wills with Hitler and Mussolini, a dramatic idea not supported by any evidence.³⁶⁵ Others have asserted that, despite the long distance and difficult logistics, Stalin aimed to create a Communist regime on the Iberian Peninsula, precisely the opposite of what abundant evidence proves.³⁶⁶ Still others have concluded that he pursued a Republic victory—which, for a time, he did.³⁶⁷ His predicament was bizarre. He was the one who had saved the “bourgeois” democrat Chiang Kai-shek from execution by Chinese Communists and was defending “bourgeois” democracy in Spain against fascist aggression and Communist subversion. Working to prevent a Franco triumph put Stalin at loggerheads not only with Nazi Germany and fascist Italy, but also France and Britain. The Soviet dictator appears not to have been the least anxious about keeping in good standing with the latter, to maintain the declared policy of “collective security.” But there are indications he suspected that the momentum of aggressive right-wing regimes in Europe would tempt Britain and France, under the influence of their own right-wing circles, into a self-protective international coalition with “fascism,” at Soviet expense.³⁶⁸

The British had signed a declaration with Italy pledging to “respect the status quo on the Mediterranean” (which further complicated already difficult Soviet shipments to Republic Spain).³⁶⁹ “He who sups with the devil,” Izvestiya had huffed at Britain’s accommodation of the Italian fascists, “should have a long spoon” (January 5, 1937).³⁷⁰ What is more, Stalin learned—from intercepted and decoded U.S. State Department communications—that Britain was preparing to demand from the Soviet Union the creation of a classical liberal-conservative, rather than Republican-socialist, government in Spain, and, “if Moscow refuses, then cut a deal with Germany and Italy.” That ultimatum never came, but Britain was seeking accommodation with Germany over Spain.³⁷¹ France also stepped up its efforts to overcome mutual hostility with Germany. The fear that the bourgeois-democratic capitalists (Britain, France) were keen to align with the fascist-capitalists (Germany, Italy, and a Francoist Spain) haunted Stalin.

His determination to counter the perceived danger of a Trotskyite beachhead on Spanish Republic territory, as well as Trotsky’s relentless barrage of writings about the betrayal of the revolution, cannot be separated from these geopolitical concerns. Indeed, Trotskyism for Stalin was a geopolitical concern.³⁷² Trotskyites in Spain were few, insignificant, and under venomous attack even from Trotsky. But Stalin had a darkly expansive view of threats.³⁷³ Moreover, Trotsky, though a single person, reached a worldwide audience. At the same time, Stalin would not have been Stalin had he not also perceived a threat as a grand opportunity. He had no more instigated the kidnapping of Chiang in China than he had the putsch by Sanjurjo, Mola, and Franco in Spain, but he had turned both actions to his advantage. The apparent necessity of preventing Trotskyism in Spain would conveniently provide Stalin with vivid justification for his annihilation of “enemies” at home as well. He transformed his Spanish challenge into a domestic cudgel. The place of Trotsky inside Stalin’s head was immense, and Trotsky was occupying a similar enormity in the consciousness of the entire country and, to some extent, Spain—both nemesis and ever-handy instrument. But it also began with Stalin’s determination to smash his inner circle, his instinct to bully and humiliate turning ever more vicious.

CHAPTER 7 ENEMIES HUNTING ENEMIES

“I think, I think, and I can’t understand anything. What is happening?” Koltsov used to repeat, walking up and down in his office. . . . “These are people we have known for years, with whom we lived next door! . . . I feel I’m going crazy. I’m a member of the editorial board of Pravda, a well-known journalist . . . it would seem I should be able to explain to others the sense of what is happening, the reasons for so many unmaskings and arrests. But in fact, I, like the last terrified philistine, know nothing, understand nothing, I’m bewildered, wander in the dark.”

BORIS YEFIMOV, Soviet caricaturist, talking about his brother Mikhail Koltsov ¹

INTO 1937, the Soviet colossus would seem to have been at the height of its power, helping to stave off Franco’s seizure of Madrid with its military hardware and know-how, but the USSR itself had fallen under grim siege. The NKVD was suffering a massacre—and not after it had arrested at least 1.6 million people but all the while it was doing so. Between late 1936 and late 1938, arrests of NKVD personnel exceeded 20,000. The NKVD’s Main Directorate of State Security (GUGB), which directly perpetrated the wholesale bloodletting, was decimated: around 2,300 of the 22,000 state security operatives were arrested—269 in the center and 2,064 in locales—of whom the great bulk (1,862) were charged with “counterrevolution.”² All eighteen “commissars of state security” (the top ranks) who served under Yagoda would be shot, with a single exception (who would be poisoned). Stalin also decimated his top military commanders, while constantly reminding the public that an attack on the Soviet Union was imminent, indeed that a new imperialist war had already started over Spain.

Even following the executions of Kamenev, Zinoviev, Pyatakov, and others in the two public trials of August 1936 and late January 1937, massacres of NKVD state security and Red Army officers would come as a shock. One high official, though, did sense what was about to unfold. On January 11, Artur Artuzov, a onetime Stalin favorite, was sacked as deputy head of military intelligence, having been the target of relentless intrigue by military men as a person from the civilian side. Artuzov was transferred back to the NKVD, to a low-level position in the archives department, where he did all he could to return himself to favor, writing an overview of Soviet counterintelligence, which he had founded, and begging for an audience with Yezhov. Failing that, he wrote to Yezhov on January 25 that NKVD foreign intelligence possessed information from foreign sources, dating back many years but never forwarded to higher-ups, revealing a “Trotskyite organization” in the Red Army. Sensationally, the documents linked Marshal Tukhachevsky to foreign powers.³ Artuzov knew full well how such compromising materials had been planted in Europe in order to make their way back to Moscow: in the 1920s he had helped lead just such an operation (“The Trust”).⁴ Now, to these fabricated documents he appended a list of thirty-four “Trotskyites” in military intelligence. His cynical efforts at ingratiation and revenge would not save his own life, but Artuzov had guessed right about Stalin’s intentions.⁵

Explanations for Stalin’s rampage through his own officer corps have ranged from his unquenchable thirst for power to the existence of an actual conspiracy.⁶ Nearly every dictator lusts for power, and in this case there was no military conspiracy. Nor were the massacres a response to a pressing new international crisis in 1937–38. Even the potential fall of the Republic forces in Spain posed no direct threat to the Soviet Union or Stalin’s regime. Another interpretation asserts that he “misperceived” a threat of foreign infiltration into the Soviet officer corps, owing to the barrage of intelligence reports he received, and decided to root out what he wrongly concluded were foreign agents throughout the officer corps, and then, as denunciations arrived in a flood, the process “escaped” his control. But Stalin demanded those very intelligence reports that allegedly led to his “misperceptions,” issuing specific instructions and questions to intelligence officials, who came to understand what he wanted.⁷ A spiral of denunciations certainly took place; this again was something Stalin could have tamped down, but instead fomented at every turn.

A few scholars have argued that Stalin was “tricked” into executing his military men.⁸ Reinhard Heydrich, of the Nazi Sicherheitsdienst (SD), would later boast of his clever work to decapitate the Red Army by manufacturing compromising materials, but such machinations, if they took place, were of no consequence.⁹ Soviet secret agents were tasked with spreading rumors in Europe of a pending military coup in Moscow, which other Soviet representatives abroad picked up and reported back to Moscow.¹⁰ Uritsky, chief of military intelligence (who had squeezed out Artuzov), informed Stalin and Voroshilov about chatter in German military circles in Berlin concerning political opposition among Red Army generals (which Uritsky discounted).¹¹ Paris may have been the liveliest echo chamber: Beria (for whom the city was a long-standing field of operations) sent a relative of his wife there to spread rumors among Georgian Menshevik émigré circles of a pending military coup in Moscow. This, or another channel, prompted French minister of war Édouard Daladier to convey official word to the Soviet ambassador, who in turn sent a coded telegram to Moscow about a plot “by German circles to promote a coup d’état in the Soviet Union with the assistance of persons from the command staff of the Red Army.”¹² Stalin—as the wily but doomed Artuzov surmised—was engaged in the very activity of which he accused the top army commanders: collaborating with foreign enemies.¹³ A “Tukhachevsky plot” did exist: Stalin’s, to smear and execute him.

Top military officers of any regime, in a war, could fall into enemy captivity or even choose to collaborate with foreign occupiers, and while it seems doubtful that Tukhachevsky or Iona Yakir or Jeronimas Uborevičius, the three most authoritative commanders in the Red Army, would have agreed to serve as puppets installed by foreign powers to control conquered Soviet territory, in theory they were among the very few who could have. Preemption of a replacement government could have been part of Stalin’s motivation in liquidating these men, but he went far, far beyond that aim: out of approximately 144,000 officers, some 33,000 were removed in 1937–38, and Stalin ordered or incited the irreversible arrest of around 9,500 and the execution of perhaps 7,000 of them.¹⁴ Of the 767 most high-ranking commanders, at least 503—and by some accounts more than 600—were executed or imprisoned. And among the highest rungs of 186 commanders of divisions, the carnage took 154, as well as 8 of the 9 admirals, 13 of the army’s 15 full generals, and 3 of its 5 marshals. What great power has ever executed 90 percent of its top military officers? What regime, in doing so, could expect to survive? An assault on such scale, and without regime collapse, could only happen within the structures of a one-party Leninist regime and, ultimately, the conspiratorial worldview and logic of Communism, a Manichean universe of two camps and pervasive enemies. The combination of Communist ways of thinking and political practice with Stalin’s demonic mind and political skill allowed for astonishing bloodletting.

BEDFELLOWS AND STRANGERS

Stalin’s attack on military and NKVD bigwigs consumed enormous time and energy but otherwise presented few difficulties for him. He could even make light of it all, as if peacocking his power, repeating such stories as the one about the professor who embarrassed an ignoramus Chekist for not knowing the author of Yevgeny Onegin (Alexander Pushkin, Russia’s national poet). The Chekist arrested the professor, then bragged, “I got the professor to confess! He wrote it!”¹⁵ During the week of February 10, 1937, the entire country commemorated the hundredth anniversary of the death of Pushkin. The poet underwent a metamorphosis from aristocratic serf owner who fathered a child by one serf and sold others to the army to a radical-democrat bard of the people. Pravda (February 10) declared that Pushkin was “entirely ours, entirely Soviet, insofar as it is Soviet power that has inherited all the best in our people.” Altogether, 13.4 million copies of Pushkin’s works were published in some form—said to be one of every five books in Soviet libraries.¹⁶ Before the year was out, the bitter joke would make the rounds that if Pushkin had been born in the twentieth century rather than the nineteenth, he still would have died in the year ’37.

That same month of February 1937, China’s Nationalist ruling group balked at approving the united front to which Chiang had agreed, proposing accommodation with the Japanese and suppression of the Communists, but Chiang overrode them, reconfirming the significance of Stalin’s refusal to allow him to be executed after he had been taken hostage. Chinese Communists, flush with foreign currency from both Nanking and Moscow, had purchased a fleet of American-made trucks, making them much more mobile, and did not take well to a renewed alliance with the generalissimo.¹⁷ The party leadership tried to quell the sentiment with a confidential communiqué to the ranks promising that the united front against the Japanese would allow the Communists to expand their influence a thousand times. Chiang was shown a copy.¹⁸ Here was an act of treason not invented by the NKVD.

China had been afforded none of the centrality in the Soviet public sphere that Spain had. Stalin’s bold projection of Soviet military power onto the Iberian Peninsula, in the name of international worker solidarity, had struck a chord. “The only thing that existed for us that year was Spain, the fight with the fascists,” Alexei Adzhubei, a schoolboy in 1937 (and the future son-in-law of Khrushchev), would recall. “Spanish caps—blue with red edging on the visor—then came into fashion, and also big berets, which we tilted at a rakish angle.”¹⁹ NKVD informants reported some bitter remarks (“One’s children don’t see chocolate and butter, and we are sending them to Spanish workers”) but found real solidarity.²⁰ Inside Spain, however, Soviet advisers appear not to have understood, or to have been willing to admit, that the Francoists had support among broad swaths of the Spanish population who were Catholic and conservative. Instead, the deputy chief of Soviet military intelligence in Spain contrasted the “overwhelming majority of the Spanish people” (“the working masses”) with the “German and Italian interventionists and the military-fascist clique of Franco.”

Soviet class suspicions extended to Spanish military men fighting for the Republic. The same intelligence summary noted that, “up to now, officers and generals who are politically unreliable have had great influence in the bureaucracy of the war ministry and on the general staff and the staffs of the fronts. They are hindering and sabotaging measures for the organization and a more rational use of the Republic’s armed forces.”²¹ Complementing these class-politics suspicions was the Soviets’ low opinion of the Spaniards’ know-how.²² “In the Spanish army, the situation was so bad that our advisers were required to perform both organizational and operational combat tasks,” recalled Kirill Meretskov, a top Soviet military official in-country.²³ Of course, Soviet advisers knew little of Spanish history, mentalities, or language. Nikolai Kuznetsov, the chief naval adviser, had spent his first week wandering Madrid on his own, attempting to pick up a few words of the language, while evaluating the Republic’s military situation. Often, no interpreter was available, or only a terrible one. Officials in Moscow initially refused to accept “White Guard” émigré Russians who volunteered for the Republic. Even after Moscow relented, no more than one interpreter per ten Soviets was ever found.²⁴

Ignorance was only part of the challenge. Antonov-Ovseyenko nearly provoked the resignation of the Spanish finance minister, Negrín, who accused the Soviet representative in Barcelona of being “more Catalan than the Catalans.”²⁵ Many Soviet advisers were said to emulate feudal lords, keeping villas, Spanish wine caches, and concubines.²⁶ Ambassador Rosenberg projected imperiousness, being escorted everywhere by half a dozen bodyguards. “If he stepped into a pissoir on the Cuatro Caminos,” observed Louis Fischer, the fellow-traveling American journalist, “they surrounded its tin walls and waited.”²⁷ Rosenberg would visit Largo Caballero, with his sprawling entourage, and, like a proconsul, issue explicit instructions (“It would be expedient to dismiss X”).²⁸ The politburo, by telephone poll, had approved a directive that Rosenberg not force this or that decision on the Spanish government (“An ambassador is not a commissar, but at most an adviser”), but it was too late.²⁹ “Out you go! Go out!” Largo Caballero finally had shouted at Rosenberg, during a meeting in January 1937, loud enough for all those outside to hear. “You must learn, Señor Ambassador, that the Spaniards may be poor and need aid from abroad, but we are sufficiently proud not to accept that a foreign ambassador should try and impose his will on the head of the Spanish government.”³⁰

While Soviet condescension collided with local pride in Spain, in Moscow the Spanish Republic failed to finance its embassy during its first year or to keep its representative informed, even though Stalin afforded the ambassador, Dr. Marcelino Pascua—a medical statistician who spoke Russian—unusual access (as well as a two-story mansion, featuring eight bedrooms, four baths, two kitchens, and two salons). By protocol, Stalin did not receive foreign envoys, but in the Little Corner on February 3, 1937, he, along with Molotov and Voroshilov, received Pascua, who was carrying a personal letter from Largo Caballero (dated January 12).³¹ The Soviet trio warned the envoy that Spanish Republic codes were easy to break and urged him to use couriers instead of telegrams. (Eight months later, Voroshilov was still issuing the warning.) Pascua, for his part, indicated that Spain would like to sign a treaty of friendship. Stalin rebuffed him, disingenuously stating that “if Spain distanced itself somewhat from the USSR,” the Republic could “obtain aid from Britain.”³² The conversation lasted nearly five hours. Stalin asked Pascua to convey to the Spanish people his wishes “for a complete victory over the internal and external enemies of the Spanish Republic.”³³

The next day, Stalin convened an expansive internal gathering on the course of the war in Spain, summoning tankists, aviators, engineers, and others who had firsthand combat experience there. The conclusions reached remain unknown.³⁴ But later in the month of February, he had the politburo approve additional large sales of weapons to Spain, based upon lists submitted by Voroshilov and Uritsky. Stalin, at his tête-à-tête with Pascua, had spoken ill of his own diplomatic representatives in Spain. On February 9, the politburo voted by telephone poll to replace Rosenberg with his deputy Gaikis, who had been recalled for consultations and was on his way to Moscow; Gaikis, too, would vanish.³⁵ Just nine months after the appearance of a Soviet ambassador in Spain, Moscow would again be left without one. Spain, for its part, would withdraw and not replace its ambassador (the next year), leaving its Moscow embassy with more canines than Spanish nationals.³⁶ Republic Spain’s old-line Socialists deeply distrusted Communists and looked on the Soviet Union as never more than a means to an end.

Soviet advisers themselves were often at daggers drawn. Koltsov freelanced as an adviser and Soviet agent with the Soviet military’s connivance, thereby angering Comintern officials who denounced him to Moscow. Berzin complained to Voroshilov and Yezhov of the Spanish government’s dissatisfaction with the decorated NKVD operative Alexander Orlov and recommended his recall. Orlov, who had been promoted to NKVD station chief in Spain, wrote to Moscow, in late February 1937, that Soviet military attaché “Gorev has no military experience. In war affairs he is a child. [Berzin] is a good party member, but he is not an expert—and this is the pinnacle of our command.”³⁷ Gorev complained that “they all blame each other for thousands of mortal sins, gather facts, even the smallest ones, about each other, and accuse one another of interference.” Here was the pot calling the kettle black, for Gorev had written to Voroshilov complaining of the chief Soviet tank commander, General Semyon Krivoshein, that he “has still not learned what can be discussed over the telephone and what is not permitted.”³⁸ Soviet advisers, though, were often caught between a rock and a hard place. “Before my departure, comrade Voroshilov gave me a short directive on the work of our people,” Grigory Stern, promoted to the senior Soviet military official in-country, would report. “Do not in any circumstance issue an order, but . . . do everything necessary for victory.”³⁹

Predictably, Voroshilov violated his own strictures, issuing specific orders, down to the movement of tanks, as he tried to direct entire military operations from Moscow.⁴⁰

Whether because they came to understand what Stalin wanted to hear or themselves shared the conspiratorial worldview, Soviet military advisers increasingly wrote of treachery. “The fascist intervention in Spain and the Trotskyite-Bukharinite bands arming in our country are the link in a single chain,” one adviser reported to Moscow. Similarly, Stashevsky, the top Soviet political operative in Spain, wrote to Moscow, “I am sure there are provocations everywhere, and it is not excluded that a fascist organization exists among the [Republic’s] higher officers.” Some actual or would-be agents of Italian intelligence and the Gestapo were being uncovered and arrested behind Republic lines, but it was hard to know if this was what Stashevsky meant.⁴¹ Stalin demanded investigations, but he meant of treacherous Soviet advisers: “Check every cipher clerk, radio operator, and generally every employee in communications, and fill the headquarters with new people, loyal and fight-capable. . . . Without this radical measure the Republicans will certainly lose the war. This is our firm conviction.”⁴²

WAR OF ATTRITION

Stalin had scheduled the next Central Committee plenum for February 20. The agenda approved by the politburo on February 5 included a report on the Bukharin-Rykov case (Yezhov); three reports on wrecking and espionage in industry (Orjonikidze, Kaganovich, Yezhov); and a report on “the political education of party cadres and measures of the struggle against Trotskyism and other double-dealers in party organizations” (Stalin).⁴³ There would also be a report on elections to party organizations and to the new Supreme Soviet (Zhdanov), in line with the new constitution. Unbeknownst to the Central Committee members, in preparation for the gathering, Georgy Malenkov, a thirty-five-year-old apparatchik overseeing personnel, had secretly compiled inventories of “anti-Soviet elements.” These consisted of all “formers”: tsarist officials, military officers, police, merchants, and nobles; White officers and officials; SRs, Mensheviks, and kulaks—eighteen categories of people, all told, who were viewed as targets for recruitment by foreign adversaries. “It should be noted in particular,” Malenkov underscored in a cover note to Stalin (February 15), “that there are currently more than 1.5 million former members and candidates of the party who have been expelled or lost their membership card over the course of events at various times dating to 1922.” He designated more than 100,000 as “alien” or “socially harmful.” Stalin underlined Malenkov’s figures.⁴⁴

Suddenly the number of putative enemies was colossal, and they were everywhere. At the Moscow Ball-Bearing Factory, for example, there were 1,084 expellees and only 452 current party members, an alarming picture that could be found at strategic enterprises all across the Union.⁴⁵ And it was in the big factories that the party was strongest. Of course, these were people who had been expelled by Stalin’s purges and party card exchanges, so if any had become disloyal, the dictator had a big hand in making them so. As per usual practice, Central Committee members received a package of preparatory documents, and in them Stalin included “testimonies” being extracted in Lubyanka cellars implicating sitting Central Committee members. But Malenkov’s inventories remained secret as the NKVD field couriers delivered the plenum packages to the Central Committee, the party Control Commission, and around fifty invited guests, including, unusually, some twenty operatives from the NKVD.⁴⁶

Stalin edited Orjonikidze’s draft report for the plenum, advising, “State with facts which branches are affected by sabotage and exactly how they are affected.”⁴⁷ That same evening, arriving considerably late, Orjonikidze addressed the central directorate of his heavy industry commissariat. He admonished officials that worker deaths on the job used to elicit reactions even under the “Black Hundred” Duma of tsarist days, while in the USSR, twenty workers could be killed and buried and officials would report the working class in good spirits. He lashed out at them for failing to see wrecking (“Do you tell me how you’ll end the wrecking and which measures you’ll adopt?”) while also employing Stalin’s language to condemn his recently executed deputy Pyatakov. Orjonikidze was as familiar as anyone with Stalin’s emotional bullying. During the first forty-seven days of 1937, he met Stalin in the Little Corner twenty-two times, for a total of almost seventy-two hours.⁴⁸ There were also phone calls, meals together, walks on the Kremlin grounds. The heavy industry commissar, careful to demonstrate his loyalty, was trying to soften the dictator’s rule. Orjonikidze indicated to his staff that alleged incidents of sabotage should be investigated objectively, and decided to send his own commissions to look into the NKVD’s three most sensational “wrecking cases,” evidently hoping to present fresh reports to the Central Committee plenum and disprove the blanket allegations.⁴⁹

On February 17, 1937, Orjonikidze arrived at his commissariat, across the way from Old Square, at 12:10 p.m., two hours later than usual; he seems to have gone over to talk to Stalin, being one of the few people who could enter the dictator’s Kremlin apartment.⁵⁰ Upon returning to his own Kremlin apartment, in the same Amusement Palace, Orjonikidze evidently had a shouting match over the telephone with Stalin, with profanities in Russian and Georgian.⁵¹ The NKVD had been searching Orjonikidze’s apartment, an obvious provocation.⁵² The remainder of Orjonikidze’s day was occupied with meetings, including a politburo meeting at 3:00 p.m. to go over the plenum reports. Stalin hand-corrected Orjonikidze’s draft resolution on sabotage, inserting passages about “Trotskyite wreckers.” In the early evening, Orjonikidze made his way back to the commissariat for more meetings, leaving for home at 12:20 a.m. (February 18). Later that morning, he did not emerge from his bedroom to take breakfast. When one of his subordinates came by in the afternoon, he refused to receive him. At around dusk, his wife, Zinaida, heard a gunshot in the bedroom. Orjonikidze was dead.⁵³

Informed on the apartment’s Kremlin line by Zinaida, Stalin summoned the cronies to the Little Corner, whence they walked to Orjonikidze’s apartment. Then, at 8:55 p.m., Stalin, Molotov, Voroshilov, Kaganovich, Zhdanov, Mikoyan, Postyshev (recently sacked as Kiev party boss), and Yezhov—in essence, the inner regime at this point—assembled again in the Little Corner. Doctor Levin was summoned at 9:40, for five minutes. The group remained until 12:25 a.m. (February 19).⁵⁴ Stalin chose not to use the death to further his allegations of ubiquitous enemy agents. Instead, public accounts gave the cause as “heart failure,” said to have occurred at 5:30 p.m. on February 18, during Orjonikidze’s daily nap.

The opening of the plenum was delayed for three days. Out-of-town members had begun to arrive at the Metropole, Moskva, and National hotels only to discover Orjonikidze’s untimely death, reported in Soviet newspapers (February 19). The country went into grief-stricken shock. Orjonikidze had been a mere fifty years old. “The Hall of Columns [in the House of Trade Unions], wreaths, music, the scent of flowers, tears, honor guards, thousands and thousands of people passing by the open casket,” recalled one eyewitness.⁵⁵ Stalin stood in the honor guard. On February 21, following an extravagant state funeral, the urn with Orjonikidze’s ashes was interred in the Kremlin Wall (adjacent to his friend Kirov). “Comrades, we have lost one of the best leaders of the Bolshevik party and the Soviet state,” Molotov stated in the main eulogy, blaming “the Trotskyite degenerates,” the “Pyatakovs,” for hastening Orjonikidze’s death.⁵⁶ But rumors spread in Moscow, picked up by the Menshevik Socialist Herald in Paris, that Stalin had either killed him or driven him to suicide.⁵⁷

Probably the best chance to stop Stalin was gone. Orjonikidze had been beholden to the principle of party unity, and he had no independent access to the press or radio, and no levers over the NKVD or the army.⁵⁸ Still, he possessed colossal authority, having worked closely with Lenin, beginning before the revolution, with service as a courier between the European emigration and Russia, and for years supervising heavy industry, the regime’s crowning achievement.⁵⁹ He could have tried to use this standing to force a showdown at the plenum over fabricated wrecking charges.⁶⁰ But even had he done so, only collective action could have succeeded, requiring Orjonikidze to possess resolve and cunning to organize all or most of the other top Stalinists—not only Voroshilov, Kaganovich, and Mikoyan, who had been close to Orjonikidze, but also Molotov, who was not—in unified action against Stalin. For any of them individually, broaching the subject of moving against Stalin would have been tantamount to political, and perhaps physical, death. Moreover, even if troubled by Stalin’s gathering homicidal behavior, they all, including Orjonikidze, still recognized him as the leader. It was Stalin who shouldered such complex matters as Spain, China, Nazi Germany, Britain and France, the party machine, ideology.

Orjonikidze had confided thoughts of suicide to Kaganovich and Mikoyan.⁶¹ In published photographs taken near the body, Kaganovich was seen expressing visibly strong emotions: grief, anger. He had lost his soul mate, and he knew Stalin had been sadistically pressuring the infirm Orjonikidze. Kaganovich—tough as nails, explosive—was spiritually broken. Stalin went on to break Mikoyan, summoning him in 1937 to discuss the arrest of his subordinate in the food industry commissariat, Mark Belenky, then, after Mikoyan supposedly protested and Stalin called him blind in matters of personnel, summoning him again to show him protocols of Belenky’s “confession.” “Have a look: he confessed to wrecking,” Stalin said. “You vouched for him. Go and read it!” Mikoyan called it “a blow against me.”⁶² Members of the inner circle were no longer comrades of the ruler. Stalin was no longer first among peers, but a despot.⁶³

EXTIRPATION

Molotov opened the delayed Central Committee plenum on February 23 in the Sverdlov rotunda of Catherine the Great’s Imperial Senate, and in the shadow of Orjonikidze’s death. The sessions would last an unusual eleven days, longer than any other plenum.⁶⁴ NKVD officials from all around the country, most of them not members of the Central Committee, were conspicuous. Stalin set a tone of menace in his opening remarks, calling top officials who had been arrested “empty chatterboxes, lacking technical training,” whose only claim to fame was “possession of a party card.” He added that “current wreckers have no technical advantages over our people. On the contrary, in technical terms our people are better prepared.” Sounding a cherished theme, he boasted that “we have tens of thousands of capable people, talented people. We need only to know them and promote them, so that they do not get stuck in the old place and begin to rot.”⁶⁵

The first order of business at the choreographed gathering, though, was Bukharin and Rykov. On the opening evening, Yezhov reported on the accusations of treason. Mikoyan reliably reinforced his points. Bukharin had written a long rebuttal of the press slander against him to the politburo and announced a hunger strike. Now, in a debilitated state, unshaven, wearing a rumpled suit, he was given the floor. He denied the charges but was mercilessly heckled. “Trotsky and his disciples Zinoviev and Kamenev once worked with Lenin, and now these people have reached an agreement with Hitler,” Stalin interrupted. “After all that has happened with these men, these former comrades who have reached an agreement with Hitler in order to sell out the USSR, there are no more surprises in human life. You must prove everything. . . .”⁶⁶ Three days before the plenum, Bukharin had again abased himself in a letter to Stalin. “I really love you now dearly and with belated love,” he wrote, praising Stalin’s mistrust as a sign of “wisdom.” Bukharin predicted that a still greater age would dawn, with Stalin as the very “world spirit” Hegel had imagined.⁶⁷

Turar Ryskulov, an ethnic Kazakh candidate member of the Central Committee and the long-standing deputy chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars for the Russian republic, quietly tried to persuade some plenum attendees to come to the defense of Rykov and Bukharin, but he could not manage to do so.⁶⁸

At the plenum (February 24), Rykov denied the scurrilous accusations and called the mockery of him “a savage thing,” given that he was already effectively condemned to death (he pointed out that others had confessed and been shot anyway). During Rykov’s and Bukharin’s speeches, nearly 1,000 interruptions were recorded. Not one was supportive. Stalin made the greatest number (100), followed by Molotov (82) and Postyshev (88).⁶⁹ More than half of those present never interjected, but for two more days (February 25–26), speakers took the dais to rip into the rightists. “Bukharin writes in his statement to the Central Committee that Ilich [Lenin] died in his arms,” Yezhov shouted. “Rubbish! You’re lying! Utterly false!” Bukharin responded that “those present when Ilich died were Maria Ilinichna [Ulyanova], Nadezhda Konstantinovna [Krupskaya], and myself”—and turned toward them for confirmation. Neither Lenin’s wife nor his sister said anything. Bukharin continued: “Did I take Ilich’s dead body in my arms, and kiss his feet?” Both women stayed silent.

Stalin intervened at the plenum (February 27) to recommend a seeming middle ground whereby Bukharin and Rykov would not be immediately put on trial, but turned over to the NKVD for further “investigation.” Secret police operatives took Bukharin and Rykov away, the first time anyone had been arrested at a party plenum.⁷⁰ The pair spent the remainder of the proceedings at the Lubyanka inner prison while Stalin formed a special commission of the plenum to adjudicate their fate.⁷¹ Bukharin’s expulsion from the Central Committee and his disposition to the NKVD were duly upheld by the commission, whose members included Mikoyan (chairman), Maria Ulyanova, and Krupskaya.⁷²

Perhaps Stalin might now be satiated? “It must be hoped,” the Stalinist propagandist Yaroslavsky told the plenum, “that we are discussing in the Central Committee of our party the question of betrayal by members and candidate members of the Central Committee for the last time.”⁷³ Such was the naïveté.

With Stalin’s primary aim accomplished, the plenum switched gears. Zhdanov had reported (February 26) on the upcoming elections by secret ballot to party posts (for May), a way to mobilize pressure from below against sitting officials, as well as elections to soviets. “We lack the habits of direct elections and secret ballots,” he admitted. One plenum attendee, trying to convey the immensity of the organizational undertaking, reminded the plenum of the 1917 vote for the Constituent Assembly. Stalin pointed out that the class enemy could be elected, especially given that some collective farms had no Communist party members. “Keep in mind that our country has two million Communists and a ‘bit more’ non-party people,” Zhdanov noted of the scores of millions of non-party adults.⁷⁴ He even alluded to the days when Bolshevism had had to survive in the underground.⁷⁵ It was a surreal discussion: no one was forcing the monopoly regime to stage competitive elections by secret ballot.

On the morning of February 28, Molotov, in place of Orjonikidze, delivered the report on sabotage in industry, and ridiculed Orjonikidze’s counterinvestigations that minimized wrecking. Kaganovich, falling in line, presented similar tales of sabotage, though he continued to try to push back ever so gently. “As you can see,” he summarized, “we have had a rather serious cleansing of the ranks of politically dangerous people.”⁷⁶

February 28 also happened to be Svetlana Stalin’s eleventh birthday. The relatives gathered in the Kremlin apartment without the despot. In her diary, Maria Svanidze, the sister-in-law of Stalin’s first wife, Kato, bad-mouthed the “half-wit” and “idiot” relatives of Stalin’s second wife, Nadya, and the couple’s “lazy” son Vasily, concluding that “the only normal people present” were her, her husband (Alyosha Svanidze), Nadya’s sister-in-law Zhenya, and “Little Svetlana, who makes up for all the rest.” Maria also recorded that Stalin’s elder son, Yakov, from his marriage to Kato, had arrived with his new wife, Judith “Yulia” Meltzer (b. 1911). “She is pretty, older than Yasha—he’s her fifth husband, not counting other relationships—none too bright, little cultured. She trapped him, of course. . . . Too bad for I[osif].”⁷⁷ (In fact, Stalin’s elder son was her third husband.⁷⁸) Yakov was now studying at Moscow’s Artillery Academy, but he could never manage to please his father. Be that as it may, two sons whom Stalin deemed disappointing and two dead wives were not the main factors keeping him away from the family scene, despite his fondness for Svetlana. His dislike for busybodies like Svanidze had grown. In any case, he was busy, forcing extirpation of “enemies and spies who had a party card in their pocket.”⁷⁹

“TRULY A HISTORIC PLENUM!”

Back at the interminable plenum, after a further flogging of industrial wrecking, Yezhov was at the dais again (March 2). He would speak a total of five times. (Molotov spoke thrice.) Now, Yezhov suddenly laced into Yagoda for sheltering spies and traitors at the NKVD, prompting Yagoda to shout denials (“Not true!”). But in the discussion that day and the next, numerous NKVD officials rose to condemn Yagoda, including his old nemesis Yevdokimov. The latter had three turns at the rostrum, and helpfully linked Yagoda to the rightists Bukharin and Rykov. That was precisely the testimony being beaten out of Georgy Molchanov, who until recently had headed the NKVD’s secret-political department and who had been arrested in Minsk (following a demotion to the Belorussian NKVD). “I think,” Yevdokimov thundered, “that matters are not limited to Molchanov alone.” Yagoda: “What, have you gone out of your mind?” Yevdokimov: “We must put Yagoda on trial.”⁸⁰ One participant asked why Yagoda had not already been arrested. “(Noise in the hall.)”⁸¹ This is what a slaughterhouse would sound like if the pigs, cows, and sheep could talk.

Stalin, after innumerable interjections, finally delivered his own full address on March 3. “The more we advance, the more successes we have, the more embittered the remnants of the defeated and exploiting classes will become, the more rapidly they will go over to sharper forms of struggle, the more they will inflict damage on the Soviet state, the more they will seize on the most desperate means of struggle as the last resort of the doomed,” he asserted, repeating his long-standing theory.⁸² He chastised party and state officials—like the ones sitting there in the Sverdlov Hall—for “political blindness” on this score. “Some of our leading cadres, both in the center and locally, not only failed to discern the real countenance of these wreckers, diversionists, spies, and murderers,” he stated, “but proved so unconcerned, complacent, and naïve that at times they themselves assisted in promoting the agents of foreign states to one or another responsible post.” To anyone who might object, Stalin mockingly added, “Capitalist encirclement? Rubbish! What significance can some kind of capitalist encirclement have if we fulfill and surpass our economic plans? New forms of wrecking, the struggle with Trotskyism? Trifle! What significance can these trifles have if we fulfill and overfulfill our plan? . . . Our party’s not shabby, the party’s Central Committee is also not bad—what the hell more do we need? Strange people sit there in Moscow, in the Central Committee of the party: they think up all sorts of questions, instigate about some kind of wrecking. They themselves don’t sleep and don’t allow others to.”⁸³

Inside the sarcasm, Stalin had blurted out confirmation of the real driver behind the mass arrests and executions: it was him.

Mekhlis, in Pravda the next day, obediently ripped into the heretofore de rigueur toadying, ridiculing the rituals as “boot-licking therapy” and condemning the “supreme leaderism” of specific local party bosses.⁸⁴ The far-flung operations of Stalin’s regime were riddled with cross-purposes, self-dealing, underfulfillment of economic targets, poor record keeping, reports of faked successes, pervasive misappropriation of state funds, and victimization of the weakest officials as scapegoats. The “system” was an unwieldy amalgam of competing clans and impossible rules, vast webs of relationships and red-tape procedures overlaid with a tableau of powerful myths (including the myth of the system itself). Stalin returned to the dais for a menacing summation (March 5). “People are sometimes selected based not on a political or business principle but on personal acquaintance, personal allegiance, friendships,” he warned, citing the example of Levon Mirzoyan, who was said to have brought thirty people to Kazakhstan from postings in Azerbaijan and the Urals. “What does it mean to drag a whole group of cronies with you? . . . It means you have acquired a certain independence from local organizations and, if you will, a certain independence from the Central Committee.”

Stalin would know: forming a political clan was precisely how he had built his personal dictatorship inside the Bolshevik dictatorship, and gained his own independence. Never mind. “Some comrades among us think that if they are a people’s commissar, then they know everything,” he added. “They believe that rank, in and of itself, affords very great, almost inexhaustible knowledge. Or they think: If I am a Central Committee member, then I am not one by accident, then I must know everything. This is not the case.” He maligned even Orjonikidze, praising the fallen industry commissar as “one of the first and best politburo members among us,” but accusing him of “wasting time and effort” defending enemies.⁸⁵ “Truly a historic plenum!” the Comintern’s Dimitrov noted in his diary.⁸⁶

SELF-SLAUGHTERHOUSE

The decisive question—what, precisely, would be the scope of the high-level arrests—remained unclear. Stalin, in his plenum summation, estimated the number of Trotskyites and Zinovievites, as well as rightists, at 30,000, of whom he said 12,000 had already been arrested. But of course, some officials were being arrested not for an opposition past but for insufficient vigilance against the opposition. And “testimony” never failed to produce more names. Already, large numbers of “rightists” were being subjected to torture at Lubyanka’s internal prison (many declared hunger strikes, and not a few attempted suicide).⁸⁷ Most ominously, Stalin had alluded at the plenum to the inventories compiled by Malenkov: the 1.5 million former party members, expellees whom Stalin now called “grist for the mill of our enemies.”⁸⁸

Those who had sat in the Sverdlov Hall through the jaw-dropping plenum did not yet know, but “testimony” being compiled in NKVD cellars painted a scenario of a Red Army/NKVD plot to seize power in the Soviet Union, Franco style.⁸⁹ The NKVD, in a March 1937 draft document in connection with the plenum, asserted that foreign intelligence services had established a gigantic number of spy centers in the USSR, while conceding, “We do not know where they are or who belongs to the counterrevolutionary organizations created by foreign intelligence agencies, and as a result we cannot liquidate them at the necessary moment.”⁹⁰ They could have been inside the NKVD itself.

Stalin’s weapon against his own NKVD leadership was, as in all other institutions, the party. Following the despot’s call to ramp up enemy hunting at the plenum, Yezhov, as per usual practice, convened a meeting of the NKVD “party active” at Lubyanka (March 19–21) to discuss the lessons. All top NKVD operatives were party members. Yezhov set the tone by lacerating Yagoda, then invited those present to speak up, a devastatingly simple way to elicit denunciations.⁹¹ Gleeful revenge against Yagoda and others poured forth, but it was mixed with terrified self-preservation: how could the operatives denounce Yagoda, under whom they had all worked, without somehow implicating themselves? On March 29, Mikhail Frinovsky—who had a lot to prove, having been a top operative under Yagoda—led a team that arrested his former boss, and beat Yagoda demonstratively in the process.⁹²

Yagoda’s arrest was stunning.^{93, 94} He knew that “Stalin treated [him] coolly and met with him just for official business” (as one of Stalin’s top bodyguards would later put it).^{95, 96} Still, Yagoda could be forgiven if he imagined himself to be indispensable, given his services to Stalin: millions of kulaks deported, countless priority construction objects completed, comprehensive surveillance imposed on the army, the party-state, cultural elites. Yagoda held the rank of “general commissar of state security” (equivalent to marshal), which he had retained even after being shunted over to the communications commissariat. Some NKVD operatives had taken to referring to the party apparatchik as Yezhov’s “temporary posting” to the NKVD, as Kaganovich had informed Stalin.⁹⁷ But Yezhov finally had been named to that rank, which Yagoda lost. After seventeen years at the very top of the secret police, he was reduced to waiting for the despot to return him to favor.

Yagoda’s passivity was not a given. He had controlled assassination squads, a poison laboratory, a plethora of safe houses (at home and abroad), even an ability to eavesdrop on Stalin. Because of the length of his service in the organs (from 1919), he had a network whose mutual loyalties predated Stalin’s full power.⁹⁸ But Yagoda turned out to be a mere minion, while Stalin studied, fostered, and used the NKVD’s natural rivalries and animosities to control him even before appointing Yezhov to supervise NKVD business on behalf of the unchallengeable party. Now Stalin used these internal antagonisms, as well as Yezhov, to annihilate Yagoda. Once the invitation came down from on high, score settling proved irresistible and self-preservation instincts kicked in.⁹⁹ In denunciations, Yagoda’s subordinates revealed that they viewed him not as a Dzierżyński-like sword and shield of the revolution but as unprincipled, a cruel boss, a shady wheeler and dealer (commerçant).¹⁰⁰

When Frinovsky’s squad raked over Yagoda’s Kremlin apartment (Miliutinsky Lane, 9) and his sumptuous dacha (Ozerki), they found 1,229 bottles of wine (the majority of foreign origin and dating to as early as 1897), 11,075 cigarettes of foreign make (Turkish and Egyptian), along with 8 boxes of foreign tobacco, 3,904 pornographic photos and 11 pornographic films, 21 men’s overcoats, mostly foreign made, plus 4 fur coats and 4 leather overcoats, 11 foreign-made leather jackets, 22 men’s suits, 31 pairs of imported women’s shoes, and 22,997 rubles. The list went on (and on): 399 foreign music records, 101 imported children’s games, 37 pairs of imported gloves, 17 large carpets, 7 medium-size carpets, 5 animal skin carpets (bear, leopard, wolf), a collection of 165 pipes (including some made of elephant tusks), 95 bottles of imported perfume, 542 examples of Trotskyite and fascist literature.¹⁰¹ Only the infamous foreign jewelry Yagoda and his minion Alexander Lurye used to entrap foreigners and enrich themselves had failed to turn up. Word of the eye-popping inventory advanced through the rumor mill, further discrediting Yagoda and his closest associates.¹⁰²

Yagoda was charged with embezzlement and leading a conspiracy on behalf of Nazi Germany to assassinate Stalin. Had Yagoda been a long-standing foreign agent, he let pass countless opportunities to have Stalin and entourage killed (such as the night of the Kirov assassination, when, as Yagoda knew, Stalin and his clique were all together on a train to Leningrad).

No one in Stalin’s inner circle would defend Yagoda, who had relentlessly intruded into their commissariats and persecuted their personnel. “I repeat: I knew Voroshilov hated me,” Yagoda would soon be quoted as testifying, when asked why he supposedly felt compelled to eavesdrop on Stalin’s telephone conversations. “Molotov and Kaganovich held me in the same hostile regard.”¹⁰³ The cronies were not so naïve as to imagine Yagoda had launched these proctology exams on their institutions of his own accord, but they could imagine that he had lobbied Stalin for his own initiatives to make their lives miserable. Kaganovich compared Yagoda with Joseph Fouché, the French Revolution’s unscrupulous secret policeman who managed to survive four regimes (Jacobins, Directory, Napoleon, the Restoration) and became associated with counterrevolution.¹⁰⁴ Yagoda lacked a prerevolutionary Bolshevik underground past. “My whole life I went about with a mask,” Yagoda was recorded as confessing, in interrogation protocols, “making myself out to be a staunch Bolshevik. In fact, in its real understanding, I was never a Bolshevik.” Stalin underlined this passage, among others.¹⁰⁵ (An interrogation transcript of Avel Yenukidze arrived the same day as Yagoda’s.) It is almost as if the endless hours of interrogations, and the lengthy written and signed protocols, were for him.

Other stunning arrests followed: the head of the NKVD special department for security in the military, Mark Gai, and the head of Stalin’s bodyguards, Pauker.¹⁰⁶ They and many more were “unmasked” as fascist spies plotting to assassinate the leadership. Pauker could have withdrawn the Kremlin guard, leaving Stalin exposed. But he did not have to go to that trouble: Pauker shaved Stalin and could have slit his throat. Back when Yagoda had been sacked from the NKVD, Pauker had been the one to block his access to Stalin’s dacha in Sochi, and now, just a few months later, he was supposed to have been been in a conspiracy with Yagoda against Stalin all along? Yezhov went further still, asserting to the NKVD bosses that “[Zakhar] Volovich, Pauker’s deputy, specially planted an engineer, a German spy, as the head of the secret government telephone station. In such a way did the enemy learn of the telephone conversations between Stalin and Molotov.”¹⁰⁷

The fabrications and the beating of people to unconsciousness to extract pre-scripted testimony of assassination “plots” did, for some Chekists, violate professional pride. But the problem for them was not that, or not that alone; rather, they had all worked with Yagoda. Why had they not spoken earlier? Were they secretly in league with him? Operatives who initially survived Yagoda’s sacking now became still more “vigilant”: that is, they attempted to ward off their own arrests, magnifying the slaughterhouse. Back in February 1937, Yakov Agranov—the first deputy NKVD chief, who had taken over state security (GB) from the arrested Molchanov—had asked regional NKVD branches for lists of operatives and other staff who had been Trotskyites, Zinovievites, and rightists.¹⁰⁸ But in spring 1937, Agranov would be demoted to Saratov province. There, he proceeded to extract “confessions” left and right, including from his immediate local predecessor, Roman Pilar von Pilhau, who confessed to trying to organize Yezhov’s assassination, the ultimate extracted accusation for someone like Agranov, seeking to ingratiate himself with the new boss. But with so many “Yagodaites” giving “testimony” under torture, denunciations against Agranov flowed like lava, and soon he, too, would be arrested.¹⁰⁹

Through it all, the NKVD never broke down, let alone rebelled. The ease with which Yagoda was destroyed proved that there was no threat whatsoever to Stalin’s rule. The secret police, even under assault, remained an utterly reliable instrument of his will, a testament to both the limits of the feared yet despised Yagoda’s authority and the strength of Stalin’s as supreme leader.

DEFT MANEUVERS

During the plenum of February 23–March 5, 1937, Voroshilov was given the floor at the March 2 morning session. Yezhov and Molotov had already delivered their reports on ubiquitous enemies. Stalin had considered assigning a separate report on the army but demurred. (“We had in mind the importance of the matter,” according to Molotov, meaning the possible consequences.) Instead, Voroshilov spoke during discussion of Kaganovich’s report, which covered sabotage on the railroads.¹¹⁰ The defense commissar was one of Stalin’s two most important minions.¹¹¹ He stood far closer to Stalin than any other military man or security official, having first met him in 1906 and having fought together with him during the civil war. But his position atop the massive Soviet military had hardly been foreordained. Back in November 1921, following bitter internal battles during the civil war over the shape of the military, he had begged Stalin to be released. “In Moscow I already told you of my intention to alter my field of play, and now I have firmly decided: I have grown tired of work in the military institution, and the center of gravity is not there now either,” a then thirty-year-old Voroshilov had written. “I submit that I would be more useful in the civilian sphere. I await approval and friendly support from you at the Central Committee for my transfer. I’d like to work in the Donbass, where I ask the Central Committee to send me. I’ll take any kind of work and I hope to buck up again, otherwise I’ll start to decay (spiritually) here. You should pity me. A strong embrace, your Voroshilov.”¹¹² Instead, within four years Stalin had named Voroshilov defense commissar.

As of June 21, 1935, the arrest of any officer from platoon level up required the approval of the defense commissar, which put Voroshilov front and center in Stalin’s terror.

Stalin prized Voroshilov’s canine fealty and avuncular sociability. A connoisseur of the opera, Voroshilov discovered a fondness for posing for oil portraits, too, sitting for long periods in the studio of Alexander Gerasimov. Gossip made the rounds that Voroshilov had acquired yet another villa (his third), at state expense, expressly for a ballerina, even as he reprimanded those below for doing the same.¹¹³ The erstwhile metalworker and his wife, Golda Gorbman, a convert from Judaism who went by the name Yekaterina Voroshilova, had turned their apartment in the Grand Kremlin Palace into the regime’s social epicenter.¹¹⁴ Voroshilov was stormy and sentimental, given to tears even more readily than Franco, but, like the Spanish general, he had never acquired genuine military training. He had not served in the tsarist army, despite being the right age. Unlike the standouts Tukhachevsky, Yakir, and Uborevičius, Voroshilov had not been sent to study in Germany (although he had visited and met with top German officers). He usually chastised commanders as if their mistakes surprised him, and doled out praise, while marking milestones and awards with personal letters. Still, Voroshilov could not stanch the chitchat about his military incompetence.

Ivan Kutyakov, a party member since 1917 and the person who had taken command of the famous Chapayev’s unit when the latter fell in 1919, recorded in his diary in 1937 that, “as long as ‘the iron one’ is in charge, we will have misconception, bootlicking, and everything stupid will be valued, everything smart will be devalued.”¹¹⁵ Kutyakov was too far from the center of power to understand that Voroshilov was a shrewd political operator who had developed a certain bureaucratic-procedural mastery, with which he had often kept the wolves of the NKVD’s special department at bay, dismissing requests for arrest authorization with phrases like “It’s not obligatory to arrest every fool; one can simply toss them from the Red Army.”¹¹⁶ But Kutyakov did understand that the fate not just of the top officers who looked down on Voroshilov but of the entire Red Army lay in the commissar’s hands.

At the plenum, Voroshilov once more demonstrated his skillfulness as a crowd-pleasing orator. “Lazar Moiseyevich [Kaganovich], before I took the podium, said, ‘Let’s see how you will criticize yourself—that’ll be interesting.’ (General laughter.),” Voroshilov noted, before proceeding to sharply distinguish his area of responsibility from transport. “In the Worker-Peasant Red Army at the current moment, fortunately or unfortunately, and, I think, to grand fortune, we have not so far uncovered especially many enemies of the people,” he asserted. He did not deny their presence but spent a great deal of time on the past, especially how Trotsky in the early 1920s had supposedly tried but failed to rally the army against the party and how, “without noise, and that was not necessary, we threw out a large number of unfit elements, including the Trotskyite-Zinovievite tail, including all manner of dubious riffraff.” Specifically, he noted, “we cleaned out some 47,000 over the course of 12 to 13 years,” almost half of them (22,000) just in the years 1934–36, including 5,000 “oppositionists.” Around 10,000 of the discharges had been arrested, but few had been higher-ups. And tens of thousands of new officers, graduates of twelve military academies, as well as engineers, doctors, and political workers, were newly promoted. “The country gives it its best sons,” Voroshilov concluded, and it “constitutes an armed force ready to fight and loyal to the party and state.” He also reminded everyone of the army’s singular importance (“the whole world is against us”).¹¹⁷

Voroshilov’s was a command performance. His assertion that there were few foreign agents or saboteurs in his bailiwick was precisely what his close friend Orjonikidze had been saying about heavy industry before his suicide. Like Orjonikidze (and others), Voroshilov fully shared Stalin’s worldview but lacked the paranoiac bent or iron willingness to murder loyalists for some purported larger political end. And, despite Orjonikidze’s manifest failure to protect industry, Voroshilov had not relinquished his delusion that he might deflect the guillotine from the Red Army. But he was subjected to intense pressure. Molotov had interjected, “If you think that situation in your area is fine and dandy, you’re profoundly misguided.”¹¹⁸ Also, a contingent of military men was in attendance (Tukhachevsky, oddly, was absent, rumored to be on holiday in Sochi), and several railed against enemies, looking to save their own skins.¹¹⁹ Nor could Voroshilov avoid having to convoke a follow-up meeting of the commanders to discuss the “lessons” of the plenum. He dared to tell them that “our main enemy is there, in the West, . . . the capitalists, the imperialists”—not in the hall where he was speaking. But as Voroshilov hesitated to denounce his own officer corps, others rushed in.¹²⁰

Grigory Kulik, a peasant-born cavalry officer resentful of the noble-born Tukhachevsky and his ilk, had just returned from Spain and wrote to Voroshilov (April 29, 1937) demanding that enemies in the military be rooted out because “as a Bolshevik I do not wish that the precious blood of our people is spilled in a future war in excess because of careerists, hidden traitors, and talentless commanders.” This was a self-characterization, albeit unintentionally so. But Kulik’s vicious ambition ratcheted up the pressure on Voroshilov. (Kulik very soon attained his first audience in the Little Corner; Stalin promoted him to chief of artillery administration.)¹²¹ Another immense point of pressure was that the Red Army personnel department required autobiographies, on which had been introduced a new question (in 1936): “With whom have you worked?” Trotsky had headed the army until January 1925—and who had not “worked” with him? Almost none of these men had been personally close to him, but they had the fatal association. Even those lucky enough to have joined after Trotsky’s dismissal could still be brought low by the required autobiography in their own hand: all of a sudden, some person they knew would be arrested, and they would be liable for their association with an “enemy” and for having failed to report such an enemy, which was a capital crime.¹²²

Above all, Voroshilov had no control over Yezhov, who hungered for Stalin’s approval. In the Little Corner, the despot tutored Yezhov on portraying a conspiracy with a shadow government, ready to take over: Yagoda as head of the Council of People’s Commissars, Tukhachevsky as defense commissar, Bukharin as general secretary of the party. (One wonders what went through the minds of those present at official discussions of such a prospect.) Their palace coup, on behalf of foreign powers, was said to involve Pauker, assisted by former Kremlin commandant Rudolf Peterson (sacked back in the Yenukidze affair), who were collectively going to help cut the Kremlin lights and toss grenades into the special cinema during a politburo viewing. (Another variant had them smushing poison onto Kremlin telephone receivers.)¹²³ Voroshilov was not going to defend the manifestly more talented Tukhachevsky, whom he despised, against Stalin’s machinations, but what the defense commissar might not have fully understood was how indulging Tukhachevsky’s annihilation could break open the bloodgates on the beloved army he was trying to protect.¹²⁴

POPULAR FRONT ON THE RIGHT, CIVIL WAR ON THE LEFT

No general war had broken out over Spain because none of the major powers wanted one. Spain might have been the world’s great cause, on one side or the other, but it was no outside country’s principal concern. The global morality play, in fact, was deceiving. “I know that there are some people who believe that as the outcome of this civil war Spain inevitably must have a government either fascist or Communist,” Anthony Eden, then Britain’s foreign secretary, had told a Foreign Press Association dinner in early 1937. “That is not our belief. On the contrary, we believe that neither of these forms of government being indigenous to Spain, neither is likely to endure. Spain will in time evolve her own Spanish form of government.” These self-serving remarks had a certain prescience.¹²⁵

Nor were the often lurid rumors accurate. Nationalist agents had learned and leaked word of the Spanish Republic gold transfer to the “Reds” in Moscow, provoking an international scandal, as well as a steep drop in the peseta’s value, which raised the costs of imports, but the holdings in Moscow were being used to pay down the Republic’s imports of expensive weaponry.¹²⁶ Moscow gouged the Spaniards on the prices charged for some weapons (and charged for shipment). Even as the ruble held steady against the dollar, at 5.3 to $1, in transactions with Spain the Soviets converted the ruble at anywhere from 2.0 to 3.95 to $1, after which they then made the conversion of the ruble prices into pesetas; the Spaniards never saw the original ruble conversion rate. This chicanery probably added at least 25 percent to the prices Spain paid for Soviet weaponry. Still, the value of the Soviet weapons delivered did reach a substantial approximation of the value of gold the Soviets took in.¹²⁷

Hitler, following Franco’s failure to capture Madrid, had decided neither to increase nor to decrease his circumscribed commitment, but Mussolini had expanded the already expansive Italian contribution, thereby perhaps helping to prevent a Nationalist collapse. In February 1937, when Italy had nearly 50,000 troops on the ground in Spain, Mussolini had also dispatched Roberto Farinacci as a personal envoy. Farinacci tried to talk Franco into creating a fascist-style monopoly party and perhaps name a House of Savoy prince as king of Spain. But the more Farinacci saw, the more he was put off by the infighting and corruption. He judged Franco to be “timid,” and characterized his massacres of political prisoners as “politically senseless.” The Nationalists’ secret police overheard Farinacci concluding that Mussolini would have to take over Spain and appoint him as proconsul.¹²⁸ Franco did adopt the slogan “Una Patria, Un Estado, Un Caudillo” (evoking “Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer”), but there would be no Spanish fascist regime. When King Vittorio Emanuele had made Mussolini prime minister, back in 1922, the Italian fascist party counted 320,000 members, ten times the number of Spanish Falangists in 1936. Spain’s homegrown fascists would lose 60 percent of this not very robust membership in civil war combat.¹²⁹

Farinacci complained further to Rome that Franco “has no idea of what the Spain of tomorrow should be like,” an utterly mistaken assessment. Farinacci also wrote that Franco “is only interested in winning the war, and then for a long period after, in how to impose an authoritarian, or, better, dictatorial government to purge the nation of all those who have had any contact, direct or indirect, with the Reds,” an observation that was spot-on. Franco understood the civil war not solely as a military endeavor but as a political project. During his counterinsurgency in Morocco, he had learned how to massacre a populace into submission and how to manipulate tribal leaders, pitting them against one another or finding their price, making them dependent on him. Now, in a similar battlefield gradualism in the homeland—refusing all entreaties for a mediated peace, killing or chasing out implacable elements in the Spanish population en masse, training a keen eye on rival rebel officers—the caudillo baffled and infuriated his foreign fascist supporters. Yet the cuco Franco had a ready answer. “I will occupy Spain town by town, village by village, railway by railway,” he snapped at an impatient Italian ambassador. “Nothing will make me abandon this gradual program. It will bring me less glory but internal peace. . . . I can assure you that I am not interested in territory but in inhabitants. . . . I must have the certainty of being able to found a regime.”¹³⁰

Such a statement could be taken as excuse making for Franco’s mediocrity in the new conditions of modern combat, which required combined use of air, armor, and infantry (in German-style warfare, which Soviet advisers also knew). But a quick military conquest of Spain would not have been easy.¹³¹ Among the Soviet-sponsored International Brigades, casualty rates would be high, up to 75 percent in some units, while home leave was denied and desertion would become prevalent. But Spain’s regular Republic’s People’s Army had become formidable, the majority of its field commands held by regular officers, many of them accomplished. Franco, however, would win the grinding civil war not only because he attained a unified military command. On the political battlefield, as it were, he forged a loose but effective coalition, an integrative strategy of no enemies to the right, co-opting Spanish fascists, who were more housebroken than their Italian counterparts.¹³² Thus, whereas in Italy and then Germany the traditional right, fearing the left, had invited the radical right to power, in Spain Franco built a successful popular front—on the right.

Franco re-created the ancien régime court, with processions to church under a canopy surrounded by bishops.¹³³ Beneath this powerful symbolism, he also forced into being a single legal political organization, relying on his young brother-in-law, Ramón Serrano Súñer, who had escaped from a Republic prison, to oversee the political amalgam.¹³⁴ This was no simple feat: the monarchists alone were split, with more than one presumptive heir waiting in the wings.¹³⁵ But the Francoist political party managed to bring into coalition seemingly incompatible groupings of Alfonso monarchists and the Carlist monarchists, along with Catholics, upper officer corps, and the Falange Blueshirts. Fissures remained, but they were not enough to split the coalition, while being just enough to facilitate Franco’s staying power.

This contrasted starkly with the Republic. Many Spaniards suspected both indigenous Communists and Moscow of the worst, but with Communists working against broad nationalization of private industry, many of Spain’s shopkeepers, farmers, and lesser civil servants cooperated with them in defense of the Republic. Yet the Republic could not take full advantage. It lacked not only a vigorous parliamentary life during the civil war but unified leadership, comprising as it did three governments in three capitals: Valencia (after evacuation from Madrid), Bilbao (Basques), and Barcelona (the Catalan Generalitat). Anarchists, who were concentrated in Barcelona, pursued a strategy of winning the war via grassroots revolution, but in areas where revolution had been effected, the Nationalist rebel forces sliced through the lines with ease.¹³⁶ Even if the Nationalists had disintegrated, it is hard to see how the leftist victors could have avoided a civil war, which simmered and occasionally boiled on the left nearly the entire time they were battling Franco.¹³⁷

The Spanish left was irreparably divided against itself. Beyond the usual tableau of anarchist leaders and many anarchist rank and file splintering over issues, or the factions within the Communist movement treating one another as enemies, the Communists and the POUM wanted to eliminate each other, as did the Communists and the anarchists. No less an unbridgeable gulf existed between the Communists and the Socialists, who stood ready to kill each other (and not just in Spain). That and the other divisions help explain why Spain’s Republic would not win, despite holding the strategic interior, coasts, and many ports. Stalin did not initiate these profound mutual enmities. He contributed to them, but he also struggled to overcome them, refusing to indulge the calls for a Communist coup and insisting on upholding the Popular Front under the Socialist party prime minister.¹³⁸ But Communism was ultimately an either-or proposition. Put another way, Socialists could give up anticapitalism and become “meliorists” (or redistributionists) within a parliamentary market system; Communists could never do so and remain Communists. Thus, despite the soaring passion of the antifascist crusade, the leftist Popular Front was doomed.

As for Franco’s techniques of war (insurgency-cum-counterinsurgency) and his vicious yet relatively adroit authoritarian rule, Stalin paid no special mind. The despot understood himself not as just another caudillo, but as an ideas-based leader. In practical terms, Spain’s strong interest groups, and the need for Franco to not just manipulate but accommodate them, provided a stark contrast with the political terrain under the Soviet despot, who had crushed even the quasi-independence of his inner circle.¹³⁹ Franco, therefore, had nothing to teach him, except that a military-led putsch, assisted externally by fascists, could try to seize a whole country, a scenario that Stalin was manipulating to justify his own savage domestic counterinsurgency against an imaginary insurgency.

ELUSIVE GERMANY

In Moscow, the German Communist Wilhelm Pieck, at a meeting of the German commission of the Comintern secretariat on February 11, 1937, had contradicted Stalin’s adviser Jenő Varga, a Hungarian Communist. Pieck argued that “the German bourgeoisie will not decide to go to war, and has grave doubts about Hitler’s provocations, which he needs to raise his prestige.” Varga interjected: “You think the German bourgeoisie does not want war?” Pieck: “No, not now. . . . We have information that the German army generals are against the provocational policy conducted by Hitler.” Varga: “That means that the current fascist regime in Germany is not a regime of the haute bourgeoisie, the finance oligarchy, but Hitler’s regime?” Pieck answered that “finance capital had understood that it could not dominate the masses with the help of Weimar democracy, but that did not mean fascism was merely an instrument. It is a force unto itself; we need to evaluate it as an independent force.” Pieck claimed that he was not denying “finance capital’s” power, but arguing that it had everything to lose from war, and thus that the Hitler regime was not reducible to finance capital. Varga was incredulous.¹⁴⁰

In Berlin, Kandelaki’s efforts to jump-start talks for bilateral political rapprochement had gone nowhere, and Stalin, through Litvinov, had tried to shift channels to the German foreign ministry. The Germans had raised questions about the Soviet request for absolute confidentiality; Litvinov, who loathed the idea of talks with Nazi Germany, smelled a rat, suspecting that, because of its economic straits, Germany was trying to simulate talks with Moscow to interest London and Paris in economic negotiations. But German foreign minister Neurath informed Schacht of similar suspicions: “Yesterday, during a personal report to the Führer, I spoke to him about your discussions with Mr. Kandelaki and especially about the declaration he made to you in the name of Stalin and Molotov. . . . I am in agreement with the Führer that at present these [talks] could lead to no result at all, and rather would be used by them to reach their desired goal of a military alliance with France and, if possible, a further rapprochement with England.” He added that any Soviet declaration about reining in Comintern propaganda would be worth nothing, as had been shown by earlier Soviet promises to Britain. The only thing that would move the Führer would be a regime change away from Bolshevism toward military dictatorship in Moscow. “Heil Hitler! Your Neurath.”¹⁴¹

Kandelaki, on his own initiative, approached Herbert Göring, an industrial adviser, SS officer, and cousin of the famous Luftwaffe head, and Herbert expressed delight at Moscow’s willingness to enter direct talks and promised to inform his cousin, as if the same information conveyed by official channels weeks earlier would not have reached Hermann Göring. These talks also went nowhere. “Schacht managed only to whisper to me (literally whisper) that he does not see any possibility right now for altering our relations,” Surits wrote Litvinov. “The young Göring also hinted not a word about our matters.”¹⁴² Stalin sent a ciphered telegram to Berlin (March 19, 1937) asking Kandelaki if he would agree to take over as ambassador to Germany in place of Surits—deemed by the American ambassador to Berlin “the brightest head among the diplomats here”—who was being transferred to Paris.¹⁴³ But on April 2, the Soviets announced that Kandelaki was being recalled from Berlin and promoted to deputy trade commissar.¹⁴⁴

On April 1, 1937, the second Five-Year Plan had been pronounced complete—in just four years and three months, just like the first. (Ten days later, the third Five-Year Plan would be officially approved.) On April 5, Surits left Berlin for consultations in Moscow; on April 7, he was officially transferred to Paris, but he returned to Germany to await his successor. On April 16, he wrote to Litvinov from Berlin: “Without exception, all the members of the diplomatic corps are fixed on the question of possible changes in Soviet-German relations. The rumors about the possibility of a rapprochement between Germany and the USSR have become widespread in Berlin’s diplomatic circles, despite being refuted. Some even suggested that the relevant negotiations have already begun, which the Soviet side is keeping in strict confidence.”¹⁴⁵ Litvinov’s suspicions had been correct. Germany leaked the “negotiations,” trying to drive a wedge between the USSR and France. On April 17, Litvinov telegrammed the Soviet chargé in Paris (Yevgeny Hirschfeld) and the envoy in Czechoslovakia (Alexandrovsky): “Inform the foreign ministry that the rumors circulating abroad about our rapprochement with Germany are without foundation. We did not conduct and are not conducting negotiations with the Germans, which should be clear if only from the simultaneous recall of our ambassador and trade representative.”¹⁴⁶

Hitler had unilaterally terminated the back-channel contacts with Soviet personnel. Stalin had the German nationals in the Soviet Union who had been arrested deported.¹⁴⁷ Also in April, on his initiative, the politburo formed two parallel quintets, which were dubbed permanent commissions: one for foreign policy and other top-secret matters (Stalin, Molotov, Voroshilov, Kaganovich, Yezhov) and one for urgent economic affairs (Molotov, Stalin, Chubar, Mikoyan, Kaganovich).¹⁴⁸ This institutionalized the narrower decision making in the name of the politburo that was already prevalent.

A DESPOT’S REALM

Terror had seized the privileged precincts of society—the postmidnight knock, the search and confiscations in the presence of summoned neighbors (“witnesses” were required by law), the wailing of spouses and children, the disappearances without trace, the fruitless pleading for information at NKVD reception windows, the desperate queues outside transit prisons and unheard screams inside, the bribes to guards for scraps of information on whereabouts.¹⁴⁹ But ordinary Soviet inhabitants mostly did not feel an immediate threat of arrest.¹⁵⁰ As the morbid joke had it, when uniformed men arrived and said “NKVD,” people answered, “You’ve got the wrong apartment—the Communists live upstairs.”¹⁵¹ Newspaper editorials complained that collective farmers were illegally enlarging household plots, reducing compulsory deliveries, and avoiding tax payments after the arrests of all their supervisors.¹⁵² Pravda criticized workers, too, for supposedly taking advantage of the destruction of enemies by failing to show up on the job.¹⁵³ One provincial factory worker, the landlord to the exiled poet Osip Mandelstam and his wife, told the poet that the trials were an elite affair, “a fight for power among themselves.”¹⁵⁴

Soviet life proceeded on its course. Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov published their entertaining One-Story America, about their travels to that far-off land, and the Bolshoi premiered Mikhail Glinka’s Ruslan and Lyudmila (April 14, 1937). A week later the Moscow Art Theater premiered Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, in a staging by Nemirovich-Danchenko. Stalin attended, along with Molotov, Voroshilov, and Zhdanov. It depicted how the passionate love of Anna (played by Alla Tarasova) for Vronsky led to her suicide. The show concluded with a life-size train bearing down on the audience as Anna lay on the tracks.¹⁵⁵ Earlier that same day, Stalin had Yezhov invent the “discovery,” via intelligence sources, of a foreign plot against Tukhachevsky’s life, which prevented the marshal from accepting an invitation to the upcoming coronation in London of George VI. The Soviets announced that Tukhachevsky had a cold.¹⁵⁶

On April 22, Stalin paid his third visit to a part of the eighty-mile canal linking the Moscow and Volga rivers; newsreels and newspapers showered the visit with publicity (several of the people captured on film would soon be arrested and erased).¹⁵⁷ For the canal’s official opening, in summer, a flotilla of forty-four ships would deliver the supposed builder-Stakhanovites to the embankment at Moscow’s Gorky Park, where a celebration took place.¹⁵⁸ The canal was built by Gulag laborers, more than 20,000 of whom likely perished. Agitators celebrated the achievement that Moscow was now linked to five seas: White, Black, Baltic, Caspian, and Azov.

Food hardships returned. Around 100 million rural folk, 97 percent of all rural households, were confined to 237,000 collective farms and compelled to supply the fruits of their labor—grain, meat, milk, eggs—to the state at prices that were more than ten times below those at “peasant” markets. At the same time, more than 38 percent of the country’s vegetables and potatoes and 68 percent of its meat and dairy products in 1937 were produced on their small household plots for sale at those markets.¹⁵⁹ The state store network had grown considerably, but it still had fewer outlets and was more poorly managed than NEP-era retail.¹⁶⁰ Urban per capita consumption in 1937 was higher than it had been in 1928.¹⁶¹ But the priority on heavy industry and the military depressed living standards.¹⁶² Decent housing was especially scarce.¹⁶³ The effects of the poor 1936 harvest were being felt. Local newspapers referred to the queues for bread, indirectly acknowledging the shortages. Secret NKVD reports in 1937 noted “food difficulties”—collective farmers fleeing the most affected areas for the cities to try to get the food they had grown that had been confiscated from them, and spreading typhus.¹⁶⁴ Vyshinsky, the USSR procurator general, reported to Stalin in spring 1937 about peasants stealing the corpses of collapsed livestock, eating offal, potato roots, and fellow humans.¹⁶⁵

The first Soviet rockets using liquid fuel were launched, traveling eight miles.¹⁶⁶ At the same time, in heavy industry and the defense industry, 585 people had been arrested. There were also arrests in the enlightenment commissariat (288), light industry (141), transport (137), agricultural commissariat (102), food commissariat (100), and the Academy of Sciences (77).¹⁶⁷ The forestry commissariat had, instead of the budgeted 2,480 personnel, just 1,024.¹⁶⁸ Meanwhile, provincial and republic NKVD “party actives” were being forced to follow the suicidal ritual of mutual denunciation. Stalin read an anonymous letter sent to him that claimed that many operatives in the NKVD feared arrest and could not comprehend how the entire NKVD leadership had consisted of thieves and traitors, imploring Stalin to check into the situation and stop the extermination of people.¹⁶⁹

HINTS

Semyon Krivoshein, the tank commander in Spain, had written to Voroshilov urging that the Spanish Communists be allowed to seize power, in order to prosecute the war effectively. “Revolutionary Spain needs a strong government that is able to organize and guarantee the victory of the revolution,” he stressed. “The Communist party ought to come to power even by force, if necessary.” Voroshilov had passed Krivoshein’s report to Stalin on March 10, 1937.¹⁷⁰ But on March 14, in the Little Corner, Stalin met with Molotov, Voroshilov, Kaganovich, Dimitrov, André Marty, and Togliatti and again expressed support for the Socialist trade unionist Largo Caballero as prime minister. The despot did agree it was best to have Largo Caballero relinquish the war minister portfolio.¹⁷¹ Voroshilov wrote to Berzin and Gaikis on March 15, that, to overcome the tensions between the Spanish Socialists and Communists, Moscow would not object to a merger of the two in a united Socialist Workers’ Party. The next day, Voroshilov instructed Berzin and Stern that the Pravda journalist Koltsov was to refrain from mocking Mussolini, so as not to provoke expanded Italian involvement in the war.¹⁷² Dimitrov, for his part, had been imploring Stalin for another meeting before Marty left Moscow for Spain on March 16, and, that day, the Comintern chief, Togliatti, and Marty were received, along with the cronies, at the Near Dacha, “until 2:30 in the morning.” Stalin cracked wise at Dimitrov’s expense, unnerving him. The despot would not budge on the matter of Communist revolution in Spain.¹⁷³

A Communist takeover had become entirely realistic. By spring 1937, Spain’s Communist party—long one of Europe’s smallest—reached 250,000 members, on its way to perhaps 400,000.¹⁷⁴ (French Communist party membership peaked at 330,000 in 1937; the British Communist party numbered fewer than 20,000.) Spain’s Communists, moreover, were a fighting force: perhaps 130,000 of the 360,000 troops in the Republic’s People’s Army were Communists.¹⁷⁵ The entire POUM may have been 60,000 members, the anarchist groups 100,000, and the Socialist party 160,000. Civil war had made the Communists Republic Spain’s dominant force. Indeed, Largo Caballero, a courageous if vain man, regretted this ever-growing influence of the Spanish Communists and of Moscow, and during the early-winter months of 1937 and into the spring, he floated versions of a war settlement through the Spanish ambassador in Paris. France would obtain the part of Morocco it did not control, Germany would be offered mines and other economic concessions, and Italy a naval base on Menorca, while the Soviets would be forced out.¹⁷⁶ Stalin would likely have known of such a proposal. He told Dimitrov that “if there is a decision for foreign forces to leave Spain, the International Brigades are to be disbanded.”¹⁷⁷

Stalin was reading his briefs closely, writing to Voroshilov (April 13, 1937) that Berzin, in Spain, “is mistaken in his assessment of the failed offensive of the blues [Republic forces] in the area of Casa de Campo [west of Madrid]. The cause of the failure above all consists in the circumstance that when the blues attacked Casa de Campo, the blue troops at Jarama [east of Madrid] remained silent, not even undertaking demonstration acts and giving the whites [Nationalists] the opportunity to throw in their reserves from Jarama against the blues in Casa de Campo. The blue troops are making analogous tactical mistakes constantly.”¹⁷⁸ Right or wrong, it was a battlefield analysis not reliant on invocations of treason and conspiracy.

Franco had felt constrained to abandon, for now, the attempt to capture Madrid, but forces under Mola were being massed to conquer Spain’s Basque country. On April 26, 1937, the German Condor Legion, assisted by Italian aircraft, attacked Guernica, the ancient capital of the Basques, at the behest of the Nationalists, aiming to sow terror in the Republic’s rear. The attack came on a Monday, market day. Not only was the civilian population of some 5,000 to 7,000 (including refugees) carpet-bombed, but as they tried to escape, they were strafed with machine guns mounted on Heinkel He-51s. Hundreds were killed. George Steer, a British journalist in the vicinity, stirred worldwide anger over the atrocities and German culpability with firsthand reportage (Times, April 28, 1937), which was reprinted in France. Nationalists muddied the waters, introducing the lie, propagated by British friends of Franco, that the Basques had blown up their own symbolic capital to discredit Nationalist forces.¹⁷⁹

Also in April 1937, the NKVD intercepted and photographed a communication from the Japanese military attaché in Warsaw to the general staff in Tokyo. NKVD foreign intelligence could not read the Japanese and had to go to Lefortovo prison for assistance from R. N. Kim, a Soviet counterintelligence agent on Japan who had been arrested as a foreign spy. The document was composed in the hand of the Japanese attaché’s aide—handwriting well known to Kim—and conveyed that “contact had been established with an emissary of Marshal Tukhachevsky.” This secret message for Tokyo had been sent not by ciphered telegram but by diplomatic pouch, which traveled from Poland to Japan through the Soviet Union. Japanese intelligence appears to have intended the “secret” document to be “intercepted.”¹⁸⁰

MAY DAYS

A convoluted action also took place on May Day 1937, a holiday marked by a military parade through the seat of power. “Infantry, cavalry, tanks would sweep past while fighters and bombers roared overhead,” one foreign observer noted. “Every now and then he [Stalin] would raise his hand, palm outstretched, with a little gesture that was at once a friendly wave, a benediction, and a salute.”¹⁸¹ Still, the regime undertook unprecedented precautions, even by Stalinist standards, enveloping Red Square in NKVD troops and plainclothes officers—as if a putsch were imminent. It was: Stalin’s putsch. Right after the parade, in the normally convivial setting of the Voroshilovs’ apartment, the despot warned the many military men present that unexposed enemies were in their midst.¹⁸²

In Catalonia by this time, tensions were boiling over, because food prices had nearly doubled since the onset of civil war, many factories were operating far below capacity, and tit-for-tat political murders were taking place. The governing Socialists, not to mention the Communists, had long been eager to crush the anarchists, as well as the POUM and, along with them, Catalan regional autonomy. On May 2, when the civilian president of the Republic’s government called the civilian president of the Catalan Generalitat, an operator at the anarchist-controlled main telephone station said the line needed to be kept open for more important business. The next day, government police seized the station. Workers in Barcelona laid down their tools, barricades went up, and, within hours, all political forces had mustered their militias. Later, Franco would boast that his agents had provoked the Barcelona anarchist uprising so as to disorganize the Republic’s rear. No doubt his agents did try. The NKVD, too, had infiltrated the POUM to instigate an attempted “seizure of power”—as a pretext to crush it.¹⁸³ In fact, no one needed to instigate the events. The crackdown was brutal. On May 7, a special assault guard arrived from Valencia, some 6,000 men. The street combat left around 500 dead and 1,000 wounded.¹⁸⁴ On May 15, amid calls for harsh reprisals against “anarchist” violence, Largo Caballero resigned as prime minister.

During Barcelona’s violent May Days, Koltsov was on a six-week trip back home. He had dug in with soldiers in trenches, witnessing the heroism and death of a real war. “There was something new in him, he became older, more severe, appeared pensive,” one acquaintance recalled. “He had gotten thinner, his skin was tanned, the flame of war had literally burned him, charred him.”¹⁸⁵ Koltsov’s longtime coworkers at Pravda were being accused of monstrous crimes and being arrested. Around his luxury apartment at Government House (the House on the Embankment), the doors to his neighbors’ apartments were sealed with wax, indicating that the residents had been hauled off by the NKVD.¹⁸⁶

Stalin, joined by Molotov, Voroshilov, Kaganovich, and Yezhov, had granted Koltsov an audience in the Little Corner, his second. “He sincerely, profoundly, . . . fanatically believed in the wisdom of Stalin,” Koltsov’s brother Boris Yefimov would recall. “How many times, after meeting the Master, my brother would regale me in minute detail about his way of conversing, about his specific observations, phrases, jokes. He liked everything about Stalin.”¹⁸⁷ Now the despot mocked Koltsov. “Stalin stood near me, put his hand on his heart, and bowed: ‘What should one call you in Spanish, Mig-u-el?’” Koltsov told his brother after the audience. “Mig-el, Comrade Stalin.” Stalin: “Right, then, Don Mig-el. We, noble Spaniards, heartily thank you for your interesting report. Goodbye for now, Don Mig-el.” As Koltsov reached the door, Stalin called after him: “Have you a revolver, Comrade Koltsov?” “Yes, Comrade Stalin.” “But you aren’t planning to shoot yourself with it?” “Of course not.” “Well, excellent! Excellent! Thank you again, Comrade Koltsov, goodbye, Don Mig-el.”¹⁸⁸

After Moscow’s May Day, the Pravda correspondent made his way back to Spain. A new NKVD courier for the diplomatic pouch arrived from Moscow and casually told fellow operatives in Spain that Koltsov “had sold himself to the English.”¹⁸⁹

ASSASSINATIONS

Voroshilov approved a long list of medals for service in Spain, but the grind there was taking its toll on Soviet personnel.¹⁹⁰ Meanwhile, attempts to use death squads to assassinate Franco came to naught.¹⁹¹ Still, Soviet intelligence officials in Moscow did not relinquish the fantasy. Theodore Maly, the Soviet spy chief in London, operating without diplomatic cover, had been instructed to send Kim Philby, the British-born Soviet agent, as a freelance war correspondent to Spain to infiltrate Franco’s entourage so as to assassinate him. Philby (code-named “Söhnchen,” “Little Sonny” in German) was to observe all details of Franco’s bodyguard retinue. He expressed enthusiasm, but after some three months in Spain he was recalled to London. “The fact is that Little Sonny has come back in low spirits,” Maly, who had doubted Moscow’s scheme from the start, reported on May 24, 1937. “He has not even managed to get near to the ‘interesting’ objective.” Maly added that even if Philby had somehow gotten near Franco, “he would not have been able to do what was required of him. Though devoted and ready to sacrifice himself, he does not possess the physical courage and other qualities necessary for this attempt.”¹⁹²

In the Barcelona cauldron, the assignments were more serious. The NKVD assassin Josifas “Juzik” Grigulevičius, known as Grigulevich, born in Wilno (Vilnius) in 1913 to a Russian mother and a Lithuanian-Jewish father and raised a Karaite, had assassinated police informers in his youth, been imprisoned in Poland in 1932–33 for Communist subversion, and then joined his émigré father in Argentina and picked up Spanish, to go with his native Polish, Lithuanian, and Russian, as well as French. “Max,” as he would be known in Spain, had flown into Barcelona from Toulouse back in the fall, then made his way to Madrid, where he trained saboteurs and arsonists for work behind Franco’s lines. He also liquidated “Trotskyites.”¹⁹³ Grigulevich had arrived in Barcelona with his death squad on May 3, 1937.¹⁹⁴ His primary target was Andreu Nin. The Soviet NKVD station chief Orlov forged a letter from a Nazi agent to Franco detailing Nin’s supposed “infiltration” of the POUM for the Nationalists. An agent for the Soviets persuaded a bookshop known to support the POUM to take custody of a suitcase for a few days; government police promptly arrived and found the suitcase, which contained the supposed secret documents—the Orlov forgery of a POUM conspiracy with the “fascists.” On May 23, Orlov pressed the case against the POUM, adducing the captured “document” he had fabricated, which was written in invisible ink and in code but was said to have been “deciphered” thanks to the capture of some of Franco’s codebooks. Koltsov played up the “evidence” of the POUM treachery in Pravda.¹⁹⁵ The POUM was soon outlawed, its headquarters at Barcelona’s Hotel Falcon converted into a house of detention.

After Nin was arrested, Orlov’s thugs kidnapped him from Spanish prison and took him to a secret place of confinement maintained by the NKVD at Alcalá de Henares, the birthplace of Cervantes. There, they tortured him to get him to confess he was a “fascist agent.” With much of the POUM leadership awaiting trial, such testimony was thought necessary to persuade the public to support death sentences. Nin refused to confess to treason, Trotskyism, or other crimes. He was executed in secret by Grigulevich’s death squad on the Alcalá de Henares highway and buried there.¹⁹⁶ When people continued to inquire about his whereabouts, the Soviets replied that he must have gone off with his fascist hirelings. Orlov wrote a pamphlet, attributed to Nin, denouncing Trotskyism.¹⁹⁷ The NKVD operative had worked extra hard to prove his bona fides to Stalin. In carrying out Stalin’s no-holds campaign against “Trotskyites” and “enemies” in Spain, the NKVD contingent there—which numbered no more than forty, and sometimes half that—gave the impression, wrongly, of attempted Sovietization.¹⁹⁸

Soviet annihilation of the POUM also sowed deep disillusionment among those who identified with the antifascist cause of Spain’s Republic. Eric Blair, better known as George Orwell, who, before discovering the Lancashire miners in 1936, had been only intermittently interested in politics, had gone to Spain in early 1937 and joined a militia associated with the POUM. “It was the first time that I had ever been in a town where the working class was in the saddle,” he would write in Homage to Catalonia. “Practically every building of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with the red and black flag of the Anarchists; every wall was scrawled with the hammer and sickle and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost every church had been gutted and its images burnt. . . . Every shop and cafe had an inscription saying that it had been collectivised; even the bootblacks had been collectivised and their boxes painted red and black. Waiters and shop-walkers looked you in the face and treated you as an equal. . . . In outward appearance it was a town in which the wealthy classes had practically ceased to exist.” But Orwell was shocked to discover that the Communists were fighting tooth and nail against this grassroots revolution. On May 20, 1937, he was shot in the throat by a sniper. With the banning of the POUM, he would flee across the border to France.¹⁹⁹

In Paris, an International Exhibition opened on May 25 that would run for six months. In front of the Eiffel Tower, a neoclassical columned Nazi pavilion designed by Albert Speer and topped by an eagle faced a Soviet pavilion designed by Boris Yofan and topped by a statue designed by Vera Mukhina, of a male worker and a female peasant together thrusting a hammer and sickle. Nearby stood the Spanish pavilion, which, from summer 1937, would showcase Pablo Picasso’s Guernica.²⁰⁰ The besieged Basque country had surrendered.

STALIN’S TUKHACHEVSKY PLOT

Thanks to the endless purges and verifications, the Soviet armed forces counted just 150,000 party members among its 1.4 million men—half the number it had four years earlier. This spurred a move, in May 1937, to reintroduce political commissars and create three-person military soviets in units, to which local nonmilitary party secretaries were added.²⁰¹ But if Stalin was worried about a decline of party influence in the army, he himself was the cause.

Corps commander Primakov, nine months in Lefortovo, had refused to admit his “guilt,” but finally on May 8, 1937, he “confessed” and implicated others.²⁰² On May 10, a politburo decree demoted Tukhachevsky from first deputy defense commissar to commander of the Volga military district. It also named Marshal Alexander Yegorov—Stalin’s crony from the civil war—as the new first deputy commissar, returned Shaposhnikov as chief of the general staff, and shifted Yakir from Kiev to the Leningrad military district.²⁰³ Stalin received Tukhachevsky in the Little Corner on May 13, in the presence of Voroshilov, Molotov, Yezhov, and Kaganovich, and reassured the marshal that everything would be sorted out, mentioning a problem with Tukhachevsky’s lover, Yulia Kuzmina, who supposedly was a foreign agent.²⁰⁴ Around this time, August Kork, head of the Frunze Military Academy, was arrested and beaten into testifying. On May 15, Boris Feldman, head of the Red Army cadres department, was arrested, and, under severe torture, he incriminated Tukhachevsky (who the next day departed for his new posting in the rear, the city of Kuibyshev).²⁰⁵ Yezhov was putting together the pieces in Stalin’s scenario.

Tukhachevsky did himself few favors, stirring resentment (like Yagoda in the NKVD).²⁰⁶ The marshal was the army’s most brilliant military mind, and the first to let you know. Already in 1920, he had provoked the interest of the political police for willfulness as well as abuse of subordinates and funds.²⁰⁷ In his grand apartment in Moscow’s House on the Embankment, he hosted musicial evenings with the likes of Shostakovich and had the state military orchestra perform private parties at his state dacha, immodesties heightened by his aristocrat pedigree.²⁰⁸ A serial womanizer, he lived with Kuzmina without having divorced his third wife, while also carrying on an affair with Natalya Sats, director of the Central Children’s Theater. (He preferred intellectual beauties, not the youngish, buxom peasant girls who had once caught Stalin’s eye.) Stalin exploited these appetites: Tukhachevsky shared at least two lovers with Yagoda, who helped keep tabs on the marshal—Shura Skoblina, the niece of the émigré White Guard general, and Nadezhda “Timosha” Peshkova, the widow of Gorky’s son.²⁰⁹ Most Soviet officials were afraid of even limited intercourse with foreigners, but Tukhachevsky enjoyed high-level contact with the German and French militaries (he spoke both languages), which of course had been authorized but nonetheless endangered him.²¹⁰ Yezhov would relate a tale of how, during a visit to France, Tukhachevsky had supposedly cut off a piece of fabric at Napoleon’s grave and made himself an amulet. To all of this was added Voroshilov’s long-standing ill will.²¹¹

Stalin was also fixated on the authority of the commanders of the country’s two most strategic military districts on the western border: Yakir, who had headed the Kiev (Ukrainian) military district since 1926, and Uborevičius (b. 1896), the son of a Lithuanian peasant, who had commanded the western (Belorussian) since 1931 and had an extraordinary following among the officer corps.²¹² Together, these two commands accounted for 25 of the Soviet Union’s 90 infantry divisions and 12 of its 26 cavalry divisions. Only Blyukher, atop the Soviet Far Eastern Army, commanded comparable forces. Stalin had promoted the proletarian Blyukher to marshal while overlooking Yakir and Uborevičius, who were whispered to be jealous. Voroshilov, for his part, disliked Blyukher, perceiving a dangerous rival. (Amid rumors of Blyukher’s pending promotion to deputy defense commissar, Voroshilov preemptively promoted a Blyukher deputy to the post.)²¹³ Such jockeying by outsize egos could be found in any large institution, but in Stalin’s hands everyday tensions or indiscretions could become lethal. Through chauffeurs, bodyguards, cooks, maids, adjutants, secretarial staff, mistresses, and the NKVD special departments, the top military men were under a level of surveillance exceeding even that conducted on the foreign military attachés of Britain, Germany, Poland, Romania, or Japan.²¹⁴

Also in Stalin’s sights was Soviet military intelligence. Uritsky was out of his depth and bereft of talented people—such as Artuzov and Otto Steinbrück—whom he had forced out.²¹⁵ On May 20, Artuzov was arrested in his office (no. 201) on the second floor of Lubyanka and accused of being a rightist alongside Yagoda, as well as concealing material implicating Tukhachevsky (the very material he had forwarded to Yezhov). His interrogation protocols, which he signed with his own blood, would also assert that Yagoda had told him of widespread NKVD dissatisfaction with the Soviet leadership, “whose despotism stands in crying contradiction to declarations of Soviet democracy.”²¹⁶ On May 21, Stalin received the interrogation protocols of Semyon Firin-Pupko, a longtime military intelligence operative with experience in Poland, France, and Germany and, most recently, a deputy chief of the Gulag, responsible for forced labor construction sites. Accused of being a German spy, Firin painted in his “testimony” an incredible portrait of the complete capture of Soviet military attachés abroad by Polish intelligence, which he said was also directing Soviet counterintelligence in Moscow.²¹⁷

That same day, Stalin summoned Molotov, Voroshilov, Kaganovich, Yezhov, Frinovsky, Slutsky (head of NKVD foreign intelligence), Yakov Serebryansky (head of NKVD agents abroad without diplomatic cover), Uritsky, Mikhail Alexandrovsky (deputy chief of military intelligence, who had replaced Artuzov), and Alexander Nikonov (another Uritsky deputy) to the Little Corner for a two-and-a-half-hour session.²¹⁸ In an internal memorandum that day, addressed to Yezhov and Voroshilov, the despot ordered that all Soviet agents abroad and their handlers be rechecked, because “military intelligence and its apparatus have fallen into German hands.” Stalin’s memo noted that “from the point of view of intelligence, we cannot have friends; there are immediate enemies and potential enemies,” and deemed the Czechoslovaks—with whom the Soviet Union had a mutual assistance pact—“the enemies of our enemies, nothing more.” He ordered Soviet personnel not to share intelligence secrets with Czechoslovakia or any other country, and “to fully assimilate the lesson of the cooperation with the Germans,” whereby “Rapallo, close ties, created the illusion of friendship. The Germans have remained our enemies, and they penetrated us and implanted their network.” He added, “We have had enormous victories, we are stronger than all politically, we are stronger economically, but in intelligence we have been smashed. Understand, they smashed us in intelligence.”²¹⁹

Civil defense followed. Its head, the ethnic Latvian Roberts Eidemanis (shortened to Eideman), was arrested on May 22 and, under torture, “incriminated” twenty others. Yezhov had the interrogation protocols on Stalin’s desk quickly. The despot wrote on them, “All those people named by Eideman in civil defense (center and periphery) immediately arrest”²²⁰—no verification of their specific spying activities and any damage caused.

Also on May 22, as if a putsch were imminent, troops of the Dzierżyński Regiment, guardians of the Kremlin, were brought to full alert and all Kremlin passes were invalidated. Out in Kuibyshev, Tukhachevsky was arrested and forced to remove his marshal’s uniform.²²¹ Stalin, as promised, had him returned to Moscow, but by convoy guard. On the post-facto Central Committee resolution proposing Tukhachevsky’s arrest, Marshal Budyonny wrote, “Unequivocally in favor. The scum should be executed.”²²² In the cellars on May 26, a mere four days after his arrest, Tukhachevsky began to sign whatever interrogators put in front of him. Zinovy Ushakov, who prided himself on obtaining confessions no other investigator could extract, mercilessly beat Tukhachevsky, whose blood dripped onto the pages of a confession to crimes he did not commit. By some accounts, Tukhachevsky’s teenage daughter, Svetlana, was brought to the prison, where the interrogators told him they would rape her.²²³

Even as he had the Soviet military brass tortured for being agents of fascism, on May 27, 1937, in the Little Corner, Stalin received Kandelaki, his erstwhile Berlin trade representative, who was trying to cut a deal with the German fascists.²²⁴ Germany’s military attaché in Moscow, General Ernst Köstring, was sending constant updates to Berlin, as Stalin knew. In Berlin’s diplomatic circles, German officials “confidentially” whispered how not all of their spies in the Soviet armed forces had yet been caught, egging Stalin on.²²⁵ He needed no such inducement, of course. On May 28–29, Yakir and Uborevičius were arrested. On May 30, eight days after Gamarnik had inscribed “in favor” on the post-facto arrest order for Tukhachevsky, he himself was dismissed. The next day he killed himself in his apartment on Bolshoi Rzhevsky Street.²²⁶ (Kulik, who lived in the same building, would soon join a second apartment to his own: eight rooms for a three-person family. Shaposhnikov would get Gamarnik’s dacha in Zubalovo.) Real and imagined associates, acquaintances, and relatives of the arrested men fell into the NKVD cellars. Stalin dictated, edited, and pored over the interrogation protocols, then circulated and referred to them as if they were factual.²²⁷

TERRORIZING THE NKVD

Plenty of NKVD personnel came forward to enact the carnage on coworkers. A key cooperative group centered on Yevdokimov, party boss of the North Caucasus territory. He had first met Yezhov at the Communist Academy in the 1920s. Stalin, around the time he issued the Sochi telegram replacing Yagoda with Yezhov, had consulted with Yevdokimov.²²⁸ Yevdokimov had been among those who ripped into Yagoda at the February–March 1937 plenum.²²⁹ He aspired to be Yezhov’s new first deputy at the NKVD and head of the state security department (GB). Instead, Mikhail Frinovsky, whom Yezhov was consulting regularly over wet lunches, got the position.²³⁰ Frinovsky had worked under Yevdokimov in his early career in Ukraine and the North Caucasus, but was his own man. He became one of the few Chekists closely tied to Yagoda (as chief of the USSR border guards) who would flourish under Yezhov. Yezhov did promote a slew of Yevdokimov people in the NKVD, including Israel Dagin, Yakov Deich, Sergei Mironov, Nikolai Nikolayev-Zhurid, and Vladimir Kursky, who replaced Pauker as head of bodyguards. (Kursky would shoot himself six days after receiving the Order of Lenin; Dagin would replace him.) All in all, fourteen of the sixty-odd regional NKVD bosses in 1937 were linked by service in the North Caucasus under Yevdokimov.²³¹ Thus did the enemies of Yezhov’s enemy (Yagoda) become Yezhov’s new friends—and the zealous implementers of the slaughter in the NKVD itself.

Despite the upheaval, Yezhov’s NKVD, like Yagoda’s, was made up of people of roughly the same generation, with Cheka service dating to Dzierżyński, overwhelmingly white-collar rather than working-class or peasant backgrounds, and heavily Jewish or non-Russian.²³² Yezhov’s NKVD, similarly, was riven with distrust. When informing Frinovsky that he wanted to appoint him first deputy commissar, Yezhov asked him to recite his accumulated sins. “You have so many sins, you ought to be arrested right now,” Yezhov told him, adding, “Well, so what, you’ll work, and you’ll be my person 100 percent.”²³³ Frinovsky further testified that “Yezhov demanded that I find investigators who were utterly dependent on us or had sins on their records, and they knew they had sins, which could be held over them.”²³⁴

Stalin had more faith in his young protégé than he’d had in Yagoda, but Yezhov still had to clear NKVD personnel appointments with the despot. Yezhov wielded nearly unimaginable power and terrified a vast country, but he never felt at ease. “Coming to the NKVD organs, at first I found myself alone,” he would later explain. “I did not even have an aide.” This was a lie: Yezhov had imported loyalists from the party apparatus, including Mikhail Litvin, who got the critical post of head of NKVD personnel, and Isaak Shapiro, who became head of the NKVD secretariat. Still, Stalin would often compel him to destroy his own associates. And the chain-reaction arrests, including of many people Yezhov had newly promoted, did foster paranoia. “I tasked this or that NKVD department head with interrogating someone who had been arrested,” Yezhov noted, “while thinking to myself: ‘Today you interrogate him, tomorrow I’ll arrest you.’ All around were enemies of the people, my enemies.”²³⁵

WEST ON THE WANE

Stalin had invested considerable time wooing Western intellectual sympathizers. But just as Pasternak had told the secret police, André Gide, in his Return from the U.S.S.R. (December 1936), published something critical, which noted, among other things, that “one fully literate worker asked if we also had schools in France.”²³⁶ Gide had also written a private “Report for My Friends on My Trip to the USSR,” and, on a mimeographed copy of a Russian translation Zhdanov had written for Stalin, “Defender of homosexuals!”²³⁷ The politburo wanted Koltsov to publish a rebuttal of Gide’s book, but he was occupied in Spain, so the apparatchiks engaged Feuchtwanger, who answered with Moscow, 1937.²³⁸ It was rushed into print in Russian in a print run of 200,000, and contained excerpts of Feuchtwanger’s early 1937 conversation with Stalin. “In official portraits Stalin gives the impression of being a tall, wide-shouldered, imposing person,” Feuchtwanger wrote. “In real life he is not very tall, thinnish, and, in the expanse of his Kremlin room where I met him, he was not very noticeable.” He added: “Stalin speaks slowly, softly, in a bit of voiceless voice. During a conversation he paces back and forth in the room, then he suddenly comes upon his interlocutor and, directing the index finger of his handsome hand toward him, he clarifies, or expounds, while formulating thought-out phrases, draws patterns on a sheet of paper with a colored pencil.”²³⁹

Simplicity—Stalin’s beloved self-characterization—was the leitmotif. “Stalin speaks unpretentiously and is able to express complicated thoughts simply,” Feuchtwanger continued. “Sometimes he speaks too simply, like a person who is used to formulating his thoughts so that they are understood from Moscow to Vladivostok. . . . He feels himself quite free in many areas [of knowledge] and cites by memory without preparation names, dates, facts always exactly.” Feuchtwanger wrote that “of all the men I know who have power, Stalin is the most unpretentious.” This was the cue to discuss the cult: “I spoke frankly to him about the vulgar and excessive cult made of him, and he replied with equal candor. . . . He thinks it is possible even that ‘wreckers’ may be behind it in an attempt to discredit him.” The German sympathizer was bothered by the showcase trials and put into print the heresy that “it seemed the bullets which tore into Zinoviev and Kamenev killed not only them, but the new world.” And yet, in the end, he ended up justifying the trials he knew to be falsified, on the basis of cultural snobbery (Russia was backward) and the political imperative to close ranks against fascism.²⁴⁰

Vsevolod Vishnevsky, the Soviet writer, found “a lot of European arrogance” in Feuchtwanger’s text. “Neither Malraux nor all these Western ‘public figures’ are of any use to us,” Vishnevsky wrote to Sergei Eisenstein (May 24, 1937). “Their historical value is much smaller than ours. . . . Let everything be ours. Let the law begin with us.”²⁴¹

STALIN’S ATTEMPT AT EXPLANATION

Stalin directed Voroshilov to summon an extraordinary session of the USSR’s Main Military Council, which customarily met once annually, in November or December, but now convened June 1 to 4, 1937. Its 85 members were top army and fleet commanders and heads of military academies, many of whom had been arrested or discharged, leaving 53 to attend, but 116 nonmembers were invited, along with Yezhov, Frinovsky, and others of the NKVD.²⁴² Some invitees arrived from as far away as Vladivostok (a week’s journey by train), while Kirill Meretskov had only just returned from Spain and, a naïf, expected to be asked to report on its key military lessons.²⁴³ Instead, attendees were compelled to spend the first day reading interrogation protocols about a fantastic homegrown fascist military plot. “The testimonies were typed carbon copies on normal paper, some contained numeration, some not,” one participant recalled. “The print on them was not always sharp, and reading them was difficult.” Readings were hurried, and new pages kept coming, with insufficient copies to go around, forcing people to wait as sections were freed up (and to read them out of order). Some of the protocols implicated attendees in the hall. Finally, the formal session opened, not in the House of the Red Army, as previously stipulated, but in the Sverdlov Hall of the Kremlin’s Imperial Senate building.²⁴⁴ The mood was cemeterylike.

Stalin attended all four days. (He would not become a member of the Military Council until the next year, so the sessions were officially designated a joint meeting of the council and “the politburo.”) Voroshilov had to deliver a report in the same room used for the February–March 1937 Central Committee plenum, but since then his deputy defense commissars (Tukhachevsky, Gamarnik) had turned out to be foreign agents: where had he been looking? In the presidium, Stalin “looked over the hall with interest, seeking familiar faces, and fixing his gaze on some,” while Voroshilov “seemed to have shrunk in height,” the participant recalled. “His hair had turned even grayer, wrinkles had appeared, and his voice, normally muffled, became completely hoarse.”²⁴⁵ Voroshilov complained that, back during the 1936 May Day celebrations, in a discussion in his apartment that devolved into recriminations over the 1920 Soviet-Polish War debacle, “Tukhachevsky said in the presence of comrades Stalin, Molotov, and many others that I and Budyonny had supposedly created a small clique of people around myself that controls policy. Two days later, Tukhachevsky took his words back.” Voroshilov then tried to downplay his grudge-drenched remarks as merely “the usual squabbles,” and to put distance between himself and the accused: “I, as you know, did not especially like, did not love Tukhachevsky. I had strained relations with him.”²⁴⁶

Voroshilov’s comments were almost beside the point. Stalin, on the second day (June 2), to a prolonged standing ovation, would deliver his most revealing remarks during his terror.

“Comrades, I hope no one doubts now that a military-political plot against Soviet power existed,” he began. “Such an abundance of testimony by the criminals themselves and observations by comrades who work there, such a mass of them, that, indubitably, here we have a military-political plot against Soviet power, stimulated and financed by German fascists.” The mere fact that he had to address possible doubts spoke volumes. Moreover, the usually systematic Stalin meandered, losing his train of thought. He denied that Tukhachevsky had been arrested because of noble lineage, reminding the audience that Engels was the son of a factory owner and asking if they knew that Lenin was from the nobility. Also disingenuously, Stalin asserted that no one was being arrested for having long ago voted with Trotsky. But then the despot contradicted himself. “Dzierżyński voted for Trotsky, and not only voted, but openly supported Trotsky, during Lenin’s time, against Lenin,” he told the military men. “This was a very active Trotskyite, and he wanted to bring the whole GPU to the defense of Trotsky. In this he did not succeed.”²⁴⁷ Dzierżyński a Trotskyite? Well, in fall 1925, Dzierżyński had very briefly flirted with joining Kamenev in opposition, before quickly repudiating Kamenev’s initiative to recruit him. Almost no one knew besides Stalin.

With this outburst, Stalin was trying to underscore not social origins (Dzierżyński, too, had been gentry), but deeds. “Did you read his testimony?” he asked of Tukhachevsky. “He passed on our operational plans—our operational plans, the holy of holies—to the German army. He had dealings with representatives of the German Reichswehr. A spy? A spy.” Stalin put out the idea that Tukhachevsky, as well as Yakir and others, had been entrapped by a seductress and blackmailed with threats of exposure. “There is an experienced agent in Germany, in Berlin . . . Josephine Heinze; maybe one of you knows her,” Stalin said threateningly. “She is a beautiful woman. An old agent. She recruited Karakhan. She recruited him with the ways of a woman. She recruited Yenukidze. She helped recruit Tukhachevsky. She also had Rudzutaks in her hands. This Josephine Heinze is a very experienced agent. She is probably Danish and works for the German Reichswehr. A beautiful woman, who likes to cater to all men’s desires.”

A lot of work for one chanteuse. Stalin further explained to the closed-door gathering that foreign powers sought to conquer the Soviet Union because its successes had increased its value, while those same successes had induced Soviet officials to let down their guard.²⁴⁸ As a result, he said, the top ranks of Soviet military intelligence actually worked for German, Japanese, and Polish intelligence.

“Collective farms,” Stalin suddenly exclaimed. “What in the world do they [the arrested military brass] have to do with collective farms?” Indeed. In his rambling answer, he again contradicted himself. He told a story of aristocratic types (Yenukidze, Tukhachevsky) who supposedly preferred a gentry economy and opposed socialism in the village.²⁴⁹ Here he revealed the centrality in his terror scenario of the right deviation, which in some ways was more important even than perfidious Trotskyism, because the right signified the possible class degeneration of the revolution: the political attitudes of the former tsarist officers, bourgeois specialists in industry, and the peasant mass—real social groups, for whom capitalism was not anathema but preferred. The right, therefore, was a structural threat, a false (or petit bourgeois) class consciousness.

Straining to persuade the attendees of the improbable charges, Stalin also appealed to current events, asserting that the Wehrmacht “wanted to make the USSR into a second Spain.” This supposedly explained the vast scale of the Kremlin’s response. All the same, the scale of arrests was unnerving. “People are saying that a mass of the military command structure is being taken out of commission,” Stalin admitted. “I see some are perplexed about how we will replace them. . . . Our army has a wealth of talent. In our country, in our party, in our army there is a wealth of talent.” After these assurances, he enjoined them to have the courage to promote these young people “more boldly; don’t be afraid. (Prolonged applause.)”²⁵⁰

DIGESTING THE UNDIGESTIBLE

Stalin had displayed less than a full command of key military terms and issues, and he misstated people’s names.²⁵¹ What the attendees, their lives on the line, made of his rambling remains unclear. Following a break, discussion ensued. Marshal Blyukher stated that in the units, “they are not speaking the way they should be. In a word, we’ll have to explain to the troops what this is about.” Stalin jumped on him: “You mean reconsider who has been arrested?” Blyukher tried to recover: “Not exactly that.” Some back-and-forth ensued over a list that had been compiled, of 150 people to be promoted, and Voroshilov stated, “The list is somewhere.” (The Red Army personnel chief who had compiled the list had been arrested.) Stalin interjected: “There’s no need to look at the list, since half of those on it had been arrested.”²⁵²

Throughout the four days of the Main Military Council gathering in the Kremlin, forty-two military men would take the floor; thirty-four of them would be arrested. All told, just ten of the eighty-five members as of 1937 would survive, the rest falling to “friendly fire.”²⁵³ (Sergei Kamenev, the civil-war-era commander in chief, had managed to cheat Stalin, dying of natural causes at age fifty-five, but he would be made a foreign agent posthumously.) Not a single speaker defended his arrested colleagues. On the contrary, they called them fascists and scum. Budyonny interrupted often, brutishly remarking that the civil war heroes Yakir and Uborevičius had been cowards back then. Shaposhnikov—wearing old-fashioned spectacles, his hair parted down the middle, unfailingly correct in manner—spoke only of his own shortcomings, an elegant stance, which did not spread and did nothing to halt the pandemonium.²⁵⁴ None of the military officers, most of whom had battlefield experience, would try to stop Stalin’s insanity. They were locked in Bolshevik ways of looking at the world, their own fear, and the grip of his person.

The day after Stalin’s speech and the initial discussion, on June 3, 1937, General Emilio Mola—of “fifth column” fame—died when his plane hit a hillside in fog. Mola’s crash (three months after Sanjurjo’s) induced Franco to stop traveling by air. (He would tour the front by car.)²⁵⁵ Franco attended Mola’s funeral, where, in front of onlookers, the caudillo’s uniform split at the armpit, a sign of his weight gain. But Franco, whose ambitions and pitilessness were evident, had not even murdered Mola, a genuine rival, let alone the bulk of Spain’s upper officer corps.

On June 4, the final day, a diminished Voroshilov offered concluding remarks. Stalin interrupted, demanding to know why the Communist party members he had personally sent to the Red Army were not leading tank units. “They cannot be commanders right away,” Voroshilov responded defensively. “We need to teach them.” Stalin: “What, are you not teaching them?” Voroshilov: “We’re teaching them, but in order to grow into a brigade commander, you must put in a rather significant amount of time.”²⁵⁶

Late on the concluding evening, a telegram arrived reporting that Keke Geladze, Stalin’s mother, had died in the Georgian capital. The cause was heart failure, according to the medical report; she was probably in her seventy-seventh year. (The morbid joke, whispered in Tiflis, that the guard outside her apartment was there to ensure she did not give birth to another Stalin, lost its topicality.)²⁵⁷ Stalin did not interrupt his terror against his own army to attend the funeral, a terrible breach of custom for a Georgian; Beria represented him at the ceremony. Pravda reported that a wreath had been sent with the inscription, in Russian and Georgian, TO A DEAR AND BELOVED MOTHER, FROM YOUR SON IOSIF JUGHASHVILI (STALIN).²⁵⁸ Keke’s few personal effects went to one of her two female peasant companions who had known her in Gori; a tag on her iron bed bore the notation PROPERTY OF THE NKVD.²⁵⁹ The funeral procession gave off the sound of stomping jackboots as nearly the entire Georgian secret police marched with her coffin.²⁶⁰ A washerwoman and seamstress, she would be buried in Georgia’s Mtatsminda (Holy Mountain) Pantheon of Writers and Public Figures.

IN CAMERA

Soviet borders were effectively closed (visas were required to exit). A privileged few were afforded occasional access to foreign newsreels. Juri Jelagin, a musician, recalled how members of his elite Vakhtangov Theater troupe were whisked to Mosfilm. “We watched American and German chronicles,” he wrote. “We saw horse jumping in Paris, President Roosevelt’s press conferences, Hitler’s nighttime torchlight processions, Davis Cup tennis matches, Mussolini speaking from the balcony of the palace in Rome, and sittings of the English Parliament.”²⁶¹ A few organizations had authorized access to foreign publications. Some Soviet inhabitants had relatives abroad, and though their correspondence passed through censorship, the latter struggled to keep up.²⁶² Information from foreign radio broadcasts such as the BBC was accessible, but only to the minority with dial radios in certain regions (even listening to foreign musical programs could get one denounced). The overwhelming majority of USSR inhabitants were cut off from the outside world, except for what the regime decided could be shown or heard.²⁶³ Even in the foreign affairs commissariat, department heads for various regions of the world were frequently in the dark about specific world events.²⁶⁴

On top of the enforced isolation, a swirl of dark forces and shadowy machinations suffused the mentality of the time. The opaque regime had originated as a conspiracy and had never ceased being one, while fighting against what one scholar has aptly called the “omnipresent conspiracy.”²⁶⁵ The plots could be so convoluted that many of those involved did not even know about them. (As Macduff says in Shakespeare’s Macbeth, “Cruel are the times when we are traitors / And do not know ourselves.”) Some Soviet inhabitants saw through the smoke and mirrors. “Even the simplest fool knew that all those thousands were not ‘traitors,’ ‘enemies of the people,’ or ‘spies,’” insisted Ismail Akhmedov, then a junior military intelligence officer (who would later defect).²⁶⁶ But, in fact, the vast majority did not know.

On June 11, 1937, Soviet newspapers and radio stunned the country, announcing a trial, later that day, for Marshal Tukhachevsky and seven other high-ranking Red Army officers, for complicity in a “Trotskyite Anti-Soviet Military Organization” on behalf of foreign powers: Yakir, Uborevičius, Eideman, Kork, Putna, Feldman, and Primakov. A ninth, the suicide Gamarnik, was posthumously named a Nazi spy and Gestapo agent as well. (Three of the nine “Gestapo agents” were Jews.)²⁶⁷ Right before and after announcement of the “trial,” Pravda serialized a Russian translation of Charles Russell’s short Espionage and Counter-Espionage, M.I-4 (1926), for study by party cadres.²⁶⁸ Still, the Soviet populace had not been prepared by way of a long campaign culminating in a public trial.

Everything had taken place behind the scenes. On June 8, prison wardens had presented the eight defendants with their formal indictments, and the next day Yakir had addressed a petition for mercy to “Our Own Close Comrade Stalin,” who wrote on it, “He is a scoundrel and a whore.” Other politburo members had to read it as well. (“A perfectly precise definition. K. Voroshilov.” “A scumbag and a whore, deserves only one kind of punishment, death. L. Kaganovich.” Molotov affixed his name without elaborating.) After collecting the signatures, Stalin wrote on the document, “My archive.”²⁶⁹ Also on June 8, 1937, he sacked Uritsky as military intelligence chief after the latter wrote confessing that he had visited Yakir, Uborevičius, and other arrested enemies in their homes but desperately insisting, “I was not friends with them.”²⁷⁰ He was replaced by his predecessor, the disgraced Berzin, who had returned from Spain and, after Stalin had sung his praises, been decorated with the Order of Lenin. The forty-seven-year-old triumphantly returned to his old office in the Chocolate House, following a tryst the same morning with his Spanish mistress, Aurora Sánchez, who would very soon celebrate her twentieth birthday.²⁷¹

Among the charges leveled against Tukhachevsky were that he desired to force into being more tank and mechanized divisions at the expense of cavalry (which was true) and that he and others wished to replace Voroshilov as defense commissar with a professional military man, a point the men did not deny.²⁷² NKVD interrogator-torturers had compelled Tukhachevsky to compose a post-facto war “plan of defeat,” which amounted to a version of the sophisticated doctrines he had been advancing for years and the Soviets had been successfully practicing at maneuvers.²⁷³ Not that anyone noticed, but the “Trotskyite” charge brimmed with irony: Tukhachevsky had repeatedly contradicted Trotsky, arguing that revolution had changed war fundamentally.²⁷⁴

The single-day trial of the military men took place in camera, near the Kremlin, on the second floor of the three-story military collegium building (October 25 Street).²⁷⁵ In the chamber, collegium members could avail themselves of sausages, black caviar, pastries, chocolates, fruit. Chief military judge Vasily Ulrich was known to enjoy a brandy.²⁷⁶ Seven high-ranking officers, including Marshals Blyukher and Budyonny (newly named commander of the Moscow military district), Pavel Dybenko (newly named commander of the Leningrad military district), Shaposhnikov, and others were added to the collegium for the trial.²⁷⁷ Except for Voroshilov, the entire top brass, some fifty people in all, was either in the dock or on the court.²⁷⁸ As specified under the December 1, 1934, anti-terrorist law, there were no witnesses and no defense counsel, and no right of appeal. At the “trial,” Yakir acknowledged the existence of the “center” but shifted blame onto Tukhachevsky. Feldman did the same. When Kork tried to absolve himself and attack the others, they incriminated him, calling him a liar and provocateur. Primakov had volunteered an additional handwritten denunciation of commanders not yet arrested. Dybenko pressed Tukhachevsky for details about his planned palace coup, and Blyukher pressed Yakir to elaborate on Gamarnik’s counterrevolutionary Trotskyite plotting.²⁷⁹

Budyonny reported that day to Voroshilov (“only personally”), in a nineteen-page memorandum, that “from the testimony of Tukhachevsky, Kork, Yakir, and Uborevičius it is evident that they decided to work out first on their own initiative the plan for the defeat of the Red Army during the war and only after that to clear it with the German general staff . . . [but] because of their arrest they did not finish.” Still, Budyonny concluded, “I consider that nonetheless they passed it on to German intelligence” (parroting Stalin’s closed-door speech of June 2).²⁸⁰

Ulrich, in the middle of the proceedings, pronounced a recess and rushed to the Little Corner, appearing at 4:00 p.m. and staying twenty minutes. At 4:50 p.m., Stalin sent a ciphered telegram to every Soviet locality to organize mass meetings of workers and peasants and Red Army garrisons to affirm the necessity of executions, informing them that the sentences would be published the next day.²⁸¹ Just before midnight, Ulrich sentenced all eight to death; the men were led down to the cellar, where the NKVD’s head executioner, Vasily Blokhin, used German Walther pistols to execute the fascist hirelings.²⁸² Yuri Levitan, now twenty-three and a familiar voice, read the Pravda trial report over Soviet radio. Vehement approvals of the death sentences appeared under the names of famous Soviet scientists, such as the world-renowned plant specialist Nikolai Vavilov, and cultural figures, such as actress Alla Tarasova, a USSR People’s Artist. Izvestiya on June 12 printed a collective letter from Soviet writers, led by Alexander Fadeyev, naming the eight Soviet commanders as fascist agents who “wore a mask for years” and decrying how “fascists destroy culture, they bring degeneration to humanity, rude, idiotic militarization. The fascists kill the world’s best people.”²⁸³

That same day, Maria Ulyanova, Lenin’s sister, died of a cerebral hemorrhage at age fifty-nine. Stalin had her ashes interred in the Kremlin Wall, adjacent to Gorky’s. This left Krupskaya, aged sixty-eight, alone in the Kremlin apartment they had shared with Lenin.²⁸⁴ Alexander G. Solovyov, by now head of educational institutions in the commissariat of military industry, found Krupskaya sitting by Ulyanova’s casket in the Council of People’s Commissars club. “I asked what lay behind such an early death,” Solovyov noted in his diary. “Krupskaya breathed heavily and said [Maria] could not survive the difficult conditions created around us. Look around more closely, she said: it is possible you do not notice our utterly abnormal situation, the poisoned life.”²⁸⁵

It was on June 15, 1937, that Republic Spain’s new prime minister had ordered the mass arrests of the POUM leadership in Barcelona. The final destruction of the Spanish “Trotskyites,” including the NKVD’s secret assassination of Andreu Nin, had become small potatoes, however satisfying to Stalin.

Pravda reported on a spectacular sixty-three-hour flight (June 18–20, 1937) by Valery Chkalov, copilot Georgy Baidukov, and navigator Alexander Belyakov, from Moscow to the Pacific coast of the United States. The trio landed in Vancouver, Washington, after a daring nonstop flight that covered a distance of more than 5,500 miles and pioneered the polar air route.²⁸⁶ “He is our father,” Chkalov said of Stalin after landing. “The aviators of the Soviet Union call Soviet aviation Stalinist aviation. He teaches us, nurtures us, warns us about risks like children who are close to his heart; he sets us on the right path, takes joy in our success.”²⁸⁷ The exploit showcased the airmen and the airplane: the wide wingspan on the Soviet-designed ANT-25, the work of A. N. Tupolev, had enabled great range and fuel efficiency. The risk of failure had been immense, but so was the reward: domestic and international acclaim. Tupolev was soon imprisoned on trumped-up charges.²⁸⁸

BREAKING KLIM

Pravda, unrelenting, urged ever more naming of names; Stalin was forwarding to the newspaper selections from the investigatory materials Yezhov was providing. The editor, forty-eight-year-old Lev Mekhlis, a former Menshevik, high strung, with a yellowish face, never took his cigarette from his mouth and was known behind his back as the Gloomy Demon.²⁸⁹ “I never met someone with a more complex and contradictory character,” one Soviet official wrote. “I also never heard any kind words about him or praise for his work”—except from the despot: “In Stalin’s eyes Mekhlis was daring, insistent, diligent, and true.”²⁹⁰ Stalin soon named him head of the Red Army’s political administration, which carried promotion to deputy defense commissar. Mekhlis would travel the many military districts, demanding arrests and executions. “The defense commissariat became like a kennel of mad dogs,” Khrushchev would recall. “Mekhlis was one of the worst.”²⁹¹

To try to halt the savagery and save themselves, the top brass would have needed to be in a real conspiracy, but to them the idea of a military coup, such as in Spain, was anathema: they were Communists, and conscious of party discipline. Anyway, organizing a coup was an utterly remote proposition in the webs of surveillance and mutual denunciation.²⁹² Stalin wielded monopoly control over communications, the party cells and political administration in army units, the NKVD special departments for the army, and the public story in all newspapers and on the radio, which received ostensible confirmation of his narrative in real-life events in Spain. He also had a plethora of “vigilant” types in pursuit of reward or survival: the Kuliks and Budyonnys, the Little Blackberry Yezhov, the Gloomy Demon Mekhlis, and, in the end, Voroshilov, too.

On June 14, 1937, Voroshilov had sent a telegram to Novosibirsk reminding the locals that “only I personally sanction arrests of Trotskyites, double-dealers, and such.”²⁹³ He did not accede in every instance, especially when he was bucking Yezhov or Mekhlis rather than Stalin. Twice Yezhov sought Voroshilov’s permission to arrest one of the latter’s deputies, Andrei Khrulyov, head of military construction, but Voroshilov refused; the third time, Yezhov asked Stalin, who also refused.²⁹⁴ But Soviet military archives contain nearly thirty volumes of lists with the names of military men charged with crimes that the special department sent to the defense commissar for approval. Voroshilov affixed his signature to each name or to the whole list: “I do not object” . . . “I agree” . . . “Arrest him.” Sometimes he added vicious remarks: “Take all the scoundrels out” . . . “Round up the vermin.”²⁹⁵ Military officials dutifully conveyed to him the indignation that was supposedly emanating from the ranks over the revelations of treason (“These bastards should be chopped up alive, like pigs”). But their reports noted that “a few individuals have expressed panicked views that the fascist band that gave away many secrets to the Germans struck a blow against the fortress of the Red Army which will lead to defeat.”²⁹⁶ In fact, confusion broke out. One air brigade deputy commander destroyed all the portraits of top marshals and generals, and wanted to do the same for the portraits of the country’s political leaders, because no one could now be trusted.²⁹⁷

Incarcerated Red Army men inundated the defense commissar with desperate letters about their torture, begging—begging—for his help. “Kliment Yefremovich! You must check how the cases against the commanders of the Red Army are being handled,” a group of civil war comrades wrote to him. “You will find that materials are extracted from the arrested by means of force, threats, and turning men into limp rags.”²⁹⁸ Whether Voroshilov read these painful letters, which came in the many thousands, is unknown.²⁹⁹ In a pathetic note to himself, he wrote, “It is possible to fall into an unpleasant situation: you defend someone and he turns out to be a true enemy, a fascist.”³⁰⁰ But Voroshilov told Kuznetsov, the naval commander, that he did not believe in the guilt of the commander of the Black Sea Fleet, who had been arrested. Kuznetsov wondered, “How is it possible to sleep, when hundreds and thousands of your subordinates are arrested, and you know this is wrong?” He added, “The longer things went on, the more he [Voroshilov] lost face.”³⁰¹ In fact, evidence indicates that Voroshilov knew full well the charges were a lie.³⁰² He also comprehended the incalculable damage and dishonor wrought upon so many dedicated, patriotic military men as uniforms, chevrons, and medals were torn off and bullets fired into the backs of necks. “The authority of the army in the country is shaken,” Voroshilov wrote, again in notes to himself. “The authority of the commanding group has been shaken. . . . This means that the methods of our work, the whole system of governing the army, my work as commissar, has suffered a shattering crash.”³⁰³

Sixteen years after Voroshilov had implored Stalin, in vain, to move him to a civilian post, the former metalworker had come to cherish the Red Army, but his forced complicity in the massacre of loyal officers on the basis of fabricated charges and torture-extracted testimony psychologically pulverized him.³⁰⁴ When Alexandra Kollontai returned from her ambassadorial post to Moscow in 1937, accompanying the Swedish foreign minister, she found the normally buoyant Voroshilov “sweating from suffering; he was unaccustomedly hunched over.” She commiserated, telling him of the “terrible sorrow” that resulted from “losing faith” in the moral fiber of close friends. “You understand this?” he responded. “Terrible grief, yes, yes.”³⁰⁵

People were at a loss. “Could Voroshilov really have been indifferent to the fate of these cadres, colleagues from the civil war?” wondered Colonel Ilya Dubinsky, a Soviet tank commander demoted to deputy head of a school in Kazan. “With whom did he intend to smash the arrogant Hitler?”³⁰⁶ Trotsky, from afar, called Voroshilov “hopelessly compromised among all the thoughtful elements of the army.”³⁰⁷ Voroshilov carried a pistol and was an expert marksman. He lacked Orjonikidze’s courage, however—if suicide can be called courage. Whether the defense commissar contemplated shooting Stalin, we shall never know. Voroshilov had to know he was no substitute leader.

FIFTH COLUMN STORY LINE

Stalin had one of the most exhilarating periods in his life in May–June 1937. He had plotted and carried out a conspiracy to invent a conspiracy, ridding himself of the few plausible alternate leaders, compelled the rest of the upper officer corps to take part, and broken Voroshilov like a dog, while having his handiwork relentlessly acclaimed in newspapers and on radio. But did Stalin understand the price? Unlike Voroshilov, he appreciated Tukhachevsky’s exceptional talent. Stalin did not need Machiavelli to understand that a celebrated military man posed the gravest threat to a prince. (The Florentine had advised that such a commander should either be killed or discredited in the eyes of the army and the people.)³⁰⁸ Molotov said late in life, apropos of Tukhachevsky, “We were not sure whether he would stay firmly on our side at a difficult moment, because he was a rightist” and, unlike Trotskyites, rightists concealed their views. Molotov added, “Had he [Tukhachevsky] not been caught, he would have been very dangerous. He was the most authoritative.”³⁰⁹ True enough, but Stalin could have just had the commander quietly exiled or shot. But the despot had deliberately cut a very wide swath. And he had insisted that the men’s bodies be lacerated until they confessed to being foreign agents.

Mola’s “fifth column” bon mot emerged as the main public justification for the terror offered by representatives of the Soviet regime: a prophylactic action, with inevitable excesses, against potential enemies lying in wait for a foreign aggression. “Is it not clear that as long as capitalist encirclement exists, there will continue to exist among us wreckers, spies, saboteurs, and murderers, sent into our hinterland by the agents of foreign states?” Stalin had asked rhetorically at the February–March 1937 plenum.³¹⁰ He had underlined a similar passage in the draft notes of Molotov’s speech for the plenum, and interrupted Yezhov’s speech with the instruction, about one accused enemy, “And he will save up his strength until the moment of war, when he will really do us a lot of harm.”³¹¹ Mikoyan, a quick learner, mentioned a “fifth column” explicitly in his second speech at the same plenum. Molotov, fifty years later, would explain that Stalin “took no chances. He pitied no one. . . . It was hard to determine the limit where to stop.”³¹²

This way of thinking went beyond Stalin and his henchmen. “I am happy that all this has been uncovered and that our agencies are in a position to expose so much rottenness before the outbreak of war so that we can emerge victorious,” Bukharin, under vicious attack, had stated back at the December 1936 Central Committee plenum, in relation to terror against others, “because had we missed it at the outset and caught it only in the midst of war, that could have led to an extraordinary and terrible defeat for the entire socialist cause.”³¹³ Foreign observers of the Soviet terror also picked up the fifth column rationale.³¹⁴ Many victims, too, linked their annihilation to a pending war (as well as to the “democratic” elections announced with the new constitution).³¹⁵ But Stalin’s butchery was not triggered by the July 1936 military coup and the ensuing civil war in Spain.³¹⁶ Stalin himself almost never used Mola’s piquant “fifth column” phrase. (Bukharin in December 1936 had not actually used the term, either.)

Insiders’ treachery and the “foreign hand” had been core parts of Stalin’s worldview and governing style since his warlord days in Tsaritsyn, his first real exercise of state power, when, in August 1918, he had twenty-one “class enemies” executed for allegedly plotting to assist, from within, the Whites’ capture of the city from without, a bald attempt to galvanize the workers to fight to defend the city. He had explained this technique to the delegation from Mongolia in 1934 and again in 1935. Events in Spain in 1936 provided a dramatic story line, manipulated by him, for the ever greater scale of a domestic offensive against Zinovievites, Trotskyites, and rightists that predated Spain. Stalin acquired an additional way to justify arresting any official in heavy industry and completely unhinging weapons production: actually, he was improving Soviet security, because they wanted to turn the Soviet Union into a second Spain. He could eviscerate Soviet intelligence and diplomacy, but he was making the country more secure. Soviet borders were being penetrated, so he could shoot the border guards to make the country safer.³¹⁷ Stalin could murder anyone on the flimsiest of pretexts, or even without a pretext, and in doing so he could assert that he was fighting tooth and nail to defend socialism and the Soviet state against the kind of rightist military putsch he had been warning about for years, and that Spain concretized.

Spain was convenient but unnecessary for Stalin’s terror. The ideas of capitalist encirclement and the enemy within had been born with the Bolshevik coup itself and become the basis of all Bolshevik propaganda in the 1920s. Stalin had been contemplating the destruction of Bukharin and Tukhachevsky in the precise scenario deployed in 1937 for years. “Is it possible?” he had written to Orjonikidze about interrogation protocols implicating Tukhachevsky in a coup plot with Bukharin, Rykov, and Tomsky. “Of course it is possible.” Stalin had answered his own question: “It seems the rightists are prepared to take the path of military dictatorship if only to escape from the Central Committee, collective and state farms, Bolshevik tempos of industrialization.” Here was the nub of 1937—but the letter had been sent September 24, 1930.³¹⁸

•   •   •

PERCEIVED SECURITY IMPERATIVES and a need for absolute unity once again turned the quest in Russia to build a strong state into personal rule. The Soviet regime presented multiple paradoxes: gigantic administrative structures and their frequent abolition, re-creation, and reorganization; ponderous proceduralism and pervasive violation of those procedures. Some of this was by design: overlapping jurisdictions was one way Stalin tried to keep minions in check and himself abreast of information. But much of it was unintentional—dictatorship hamstringing itself. Bureaucracies came alive, or failed to do so, on the basis of their boss’s personal dynamism and ability to build and galvanize a personal following. This was true at every level, and especially at the pinnacle.

Tyranny has a circular logic: once a dictator has achieved supreme power, he becomes keener still to hold it, driving him to weed his own ranks of even potential challengers. At the same time, plots linking domestic and foreign foes—who are supposedly caught in the nick of time—constitute one of the oldest devices in the authoritarian handbook. The content of the trumped-up plots is always specific to the culture in question, but the result is always some form of emergency rule, whereby political rivals and opponents are summarily eliminated. Under the interwar Romanian dictatorship, it was the ethnic Hungarian minority and their purported paymasters in Budapest, as well as the Gypsies; in the interwar Polish dictatorsip, it was the Ukrainians and their paymasters in Moscow and Kiev; and everywhere it was the Jews, the ultimate international conspiracy, especially for Hitler, who saw them as ready to engage in internal subversion, in league with Germany’s foreign enemies. The ratcheting up of tensions to fever pitch over subversion scenarios helps galvanize and recruit supporters, burnish regime legitimacy, and tighten central control. Scapegoats promote solidarity. A sacrificial lamb can be a kind of gift from a ruler to followers. But the breathtaking scope, as well as the participation of the targeted, set Stalin’s actions apart.

The Red Army was immense, and the self-inflicted losses—90 percent of the top ranks—represented just 0.5 percent of the whole. But a dearth of good officers to discipline, train, and lead conscripts was precisely its chief vulnerability. Conscripts, for their part, could not be sure who among their commanders would soon be unmasked as a foreign agent. Moreover, all of the Soviet Union’s foreign enemies were watching. On June 24, 1937, the organ of the Wehrmacht (Deutsche Wehr) wrote that in “shooting these well-known military brass of the Soviet Union, they self-consciously sacrificed fighting ability and leadership of the Red Army to politics. Tukhachevsky, unquestionably, was the most outstanding of all Red commanders and cannot be replaced. . . . Supposed espionage, of course, is just made up. If the Bolsheviks maintain that the ‘accused’ have confessed, that is, of course, a lie.” The Nazi party organ, Völkischer Beobachter, wrote of the USSR that “a country with such a system of murder is still included in the group of ‘civilized states.’” The Polish press gleefully pointed out that in light of the espionage charges in Moscow, the French general staff could expect that any secret military plans it might develop with the Soviets would be passed to the Germans.³¹⁹

The Soviet general staff documented the foreign reactions. The damage was severe, but Stalin, far from being deterred, was just beginning.³²⁰ By contrast, his involvement in Spain had effectively peaked as of May–June 1937. Despite the accusatory exaggerations against both the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany, Stalin, even more than Hitler, had deliberately kept his intervention on the Iberian Peninsula within limits. Altogether, between 1,150 and 1,500 Soviet combat personnel would see duty, including 772 pilots and 351 tank operators, a paltry number compared with the 19,000 Germans, let alone the 80,000 Italians who would fight.³²¹ Another 500 or so Soviet military advisers would also serve, but only 9 Soviet political workers were sent to Spain during the entire war.³²² Soviet deaths would be recorded at 125, plus another 43 missing in action.³²³ German dead would be estimated at 300. Italy would suffer 16,650 dead, wounded, and missing in action and would expend at least 6.1 billion lira supporting Franco.³²⁴ (The economic advantages anticipated for Italian support fell largely to Germany.)³²⁵ Stalin’s expenses would be significant (in the form of loans that would not be repaid) but contained.³²⁶ Especially with the “Trotskyite” POUM crushed by spring–summer 1937, Stalin appears to have lost much of his interest.³²⁷ After summer 1937, little new Soviet equipment would be sent or upgrades made, while Soviet pilots and tank crews would be withdrawn, diplomatic ties downgraded, and the heady cultural exchanges terminated.³²⁸

Propaganda on Spain did not disappear, but in Soviet newsreels, China gained ascendancy.³²⁹ On this front as well, Stalin was annihilating his officers. NKVD bigwig Vsevolod Balytsky had been transferred from Ukraine to fabricate a Trotskyite-fascist conspiracy in the Soviet Far Eastern Army, the country’s critical line of defense against Japan; within a few weeks, on July 7, 1937, Balytsky himself was arrested as a Polish agent. He had been in Stalin’s Little Corner more than twenty times in the 1930s. En route eastward, at a Siberian train station, he had unburdened himself of complaints about the terror to a fellow Chekist, who promptly denounced him to Yezhov. The assignment of eviscerating the Soviet Far Eastern Army fell to another butcher.³³⁰ On the country’s southern border, Georgia’s Beria reported to Stalin (July 9) that he had uncovered his own “military conspiracy” in the South Caucasus military district. The next day, Joseph Goebbels recorded in his diary that Hitler judged Stalin “likely diseased in the brain. Otherwise one cannot explain his bloody rule.”³³¹

CHAPTER 8 “WHAT WENT ON IN NO. 1’S BRAIN?”

We cannot say that these were the deeds of a giddy despot. He considered that this should be done in the interest of the party, of the working masses, in the name of the defense of the revolution’s gains. In this lies the whole tragedy!

NIKITA KHRUSHCHEV¹

Stalin thought very highly of Bukharin. Yes, he did. Bukharin was very educated and cultivated. But what should one do?

VYACHESLAV MOLOTOV²

HAD STALIN AIMED ONLY TO BREAK HIS INNER CIRCLE, utterly cow the wider elite, and make himself a despot, he might have ended the terror with the in-camera trial and executions of the military men and the arrests of Yagoda, Pauker, and other NKVD higher-ups. Mission accomplished. But he had much larger aims, with plans for more high-profile trials. In summer 1937, he vastly expanded the arrests and executions to nonelites. There was no “dynamic” forcing him to do so, no “factional” fighting, no heightened threat abroad. The terror was not spiraling out of his control. He just decided, himself, to approve quota-driven eradication of entire categories of people in a planned indiscriminate terror known as mass operations.³ This momentous decision was complemented by a widening of the annihilation of sitting elites, which was unveiled at yet another manic Central Committee plenum, this one from June 23 to 29, 1937. On the opening day, Yezhov (according to his notes) enlarged on what he had said at the inconclusive plenum of December 1936 and written up at length in his unpublished magnum opus, “From Factionalism to Open Counterrevolution,” submitted to his teacher Stalin in May 1935: namely, that the USSR was mortally threatened by an immense überconspiracy made up of innumerable intertwined conspiracies.

Yezhov, at the plenum, spelled out a military-fascist conspiracy, a rightist-fascist plot in the NKVD, a Kremlin rightist-fascist group of plotters, an espionage organization of the Polish military, Polish National Democrats in Belorussia, an anti-Soviet rightist-Trotskyite group in the Azov–Black Sea territory and another in Eastern Siberia, a rightist anti-Soviet group in the Urals, an anti-Soviet rightist-fascist group in Western Siberia, a rightist-Trotskyite espionage group in the Soviet Far East, an organization of rightists in Western Siberia united in a partisan-guerrilla uprising, an anti-Soviet Cossack organization in Orenburg, and a wrecking rightist-Trotskyite anti-Soviet group in the agriculture commissariat. “I enumerated only the most important,” he allowed, adding that each was “linked in the closest possible way” and together constituted a “Center of Centers,” which was colluding with “fascist government circles in Germany, Japan, and Poland, on the one hand, and, on the other, with representatives abroad of anti-Soviet parties of Trotskyites, Mensheviks, and SRs.” The shared aim of all these leftist revolutionaries was said to be restoring capitalism in the USSR by way of “a palace coup, an armed uprising supported by foreign interventionists, the preparation of a Soviet defeat in the event of a war with fascist countries, and the coming to power of themselves as a result of political and territorial concessions to the fascists.” Yezhov warned that the scale of the conspiracy emanating from “testimony” indicated that the USSR stood on the verge of civil war.⁴

What attendees said in response remains unknown—Yezhov’s report and the follow-up discussion were not transcribed—but we do know that Trotsky interceded from afar. He sent a telegram from Mexico to the central executive committee of the Soviet, formally the highest organ of the state, declaring that “Stalin’s policies are leading to a crushing defeat, both internally and externally. The only salvation is a turn in the direction of Soviet democracy, beginning with a public review of the last trials. I offer my full support in this endeavor.” This document went to the NKVD, which forwarded it to Stalin. “Mug of a spy!” he wrote on Trotsky’s text. “Brazen spy for Hitler!”⁵

Stalin’s expansion of long-standing party purge practices required a surprisingly small degree of manipulation, and yet his terror was a spectacular feat in its own way. He would manage to annihilate not only nearly the entire upper ranks of the Soviet military and the secret police—in a police-military dictatorship—but much of the industrial managerial class, the regional party machines, and the cultural beau monde.⁶ He also visited ruin upon Soviet military and civilian intelligence, military attachés and diplomats abroad, and foreign Communist parties, prime instruments that any dictatorship would cherish. What was he doing?

The only way into Stalin’s serpentine mind—or, as Arthur Koestler put it in Darkness at Noon, “what went on in No. 1’s brain?”—begins with public and private comments made by him and those he instructed.⁷ Hitler turned out to be a brilliant actor, and the same has been said of Stalin, who dissembled shamelessly and playacted skillfully. But also like Hitler, who incessantly talked of his intentions (most people just did not believe him), Stalin proved extraordinarily voluble as well.⁸ We can never know in the end what Stalin believed. We can, however, come to understand how his mind worked.

Sometimes his terror ruminations were extensive, such as at the June 2, 1937, closed session of the Main Military Council; other times they were brief. They emerged from his long-standing self-conception that those who opposed him were broadcasting disunity and weakness, thereby inviting foreign powers to attack—in other words, objectively supporting the USSR’s enemies—while he, a selfless servant of the cause, under siege from uncomprehending critics, had been placed on this earth to defend the socialist revolution and the Soviet state. Therefore, he was not merely justified, but dutybound, to eradicate oppositionists and anyone taken in by them. The incarceration or physical liquidation of more than a million and a half human beings apparently posed no moral dilemmas for him. On the contrary, to pity class enemies would be to indulge sentiment over the laws of objective historical development. Ignorance of history could be fatal, Stalin argued, and he spent a great deal of time during the terror midwifing an accessible history of the Russian state, from its origins to the present, as a tool of mass civic training.⁹ Stalin was a massacring pedagogue.

A TEACHER AND A PUPIL

In Boris Yefimov’s celebrated cartoons, Yezhov was depicted with an oversized gloved fist crushing shrunken enemies. In person, he stood a mere five feet tall (1.51 meters), had a prominent scar on his right cheek (a civil war injury) and yellowish teeth (something he shared with Stalin), and walked with a pronounced limp, a gait even worse than the despot’s. He was beset by a hacking cough from tuberculosis, myasthenia and neurasthenia, anemia, angina, sciatica, psoriasis, and even malnutrition, ailments of long standing. One old revolutionary said Yezhov reminded him of slum children whose favorite occupation was to tie paraffin-soaked paper to a cat’s tail and set fire to it.¹⁰ Around 1930, Yezhov had begun to indulge in drinking benders, to the point of losing consciousness. One of his drinking companions had been Fyodor Konar (Polashchuk), who used to bring along prostitutes. (Konar had been arrested in January 1933 as a Polish spy and executed two months later for “sabotage in agriculture.”) Another drinking buddy, Lev Maryasin, a former coworker in the personnel department of the central apparatus who had become head of the state bank and deputy finance commissar, used to compete with Yezhov in farting competitions. (Maryasin, too, was arrested, by Yezhov’s NKVD.)¹¹ Stalin allowed Yezhov various leaves, spending hard currency on treatments abroad, but the illnesses, along with Yezhov’s propensity for daytime drinking, took a toll. “Yezhov not only drank,” recalled Zinaida Glikina, a friend of Yezhov’s wife, Yevgeniya. “In addition, he deteriorated and lost the visage not only of a Communist but of a human being.”

As Yezhov fanatically prosecuted the terror, in early 1937 his teeth began to fall out. He suffered from appetite loss, dizziness, and insomnia. Doctors diagnosed overwork and ordered a long holiday, which Yezhov deemed out of the question.¹² In April 1937, one of his subordinates had suggested the cause might be meals at the NKVD canteen, where undiscovered enemies could be lurking. The Red Army’s chemical warfare academy was called in and “found” trace elements of mercury in Yezhov’s office. An NKVD employee was tortured and confessed, implicating Yagoda in an assassination attempt. Traces of mercury were suddenly found in Yezhov’s former apartment (on Bolshoi Kiselny), in his new one (in the Kremlin), and at his dacha (in Meshcherino); all were ventilated, and the mercury vanished. No one explained how the inaccessible residences had become contaminated. But Yezhov now had his urine checked regularly, and switched offices inside NKVD headquarters.¹³ He was reported to have created a circuitous, one-way route to his Lubyanka suite—up to the fifth floor, down to the first, then up to the third, as if he were under threat from the agency he commanded.¹⁴

Could this alcoholic, increasingly infirm, frightened Lilliputian creature have been responsible for Soviet state security? Yezhov, of course, was an instrument. It was not he—and not a rebellious military command, as in Spain—who originated the mass violence in the USSR.¹⁵ But Stalin goaded him relentlessly: “Comrade Yezhov. Very important. It is necessary to go through the Udmurt, Mari-El, Chuvash, and Mordovian republics, to go through with a whip.”¹⁶

Back in tsarist Russia, General Alexander Gerasimov, the head of the okhranka in St. Petersburg, met with Nicholas II just once during his entire career; political policing was viewed as necessary, but not necessarily honorable, work. That had changed: in 1935 and 1936, Yagoda had been in Stalin’s office every month, sometimes more than once. From January 1937 through August 1938, an interval during which Stalin received visitors on 333 days, Yezhov would make 288 appearances, second only to Molotov. How often they additionally met at the Near Dacha or spoke on the telephone remains unknown. Stalin sometimes played chess with him.¹⁷ The Bloody Dwarf, as Yezhov was known in whispers, cleansed enemies out of conviction, but also to please his master, just as Yezhov’s subordinates showed fanaticism in terror to please him. His three concurrent positions—NKVD chief, Central Committee secretary, chairman of the party Control Commission—rendered him as knowledgeable about Stalin’s thinking as anyone.¹⁸ “A teacher with a pupil, an eagle with an eaglet,” the Stalinist writer-enforcer Alexander Fadeyev wrote of the despot and his protégé. “Stalin tends to him lovingly, like a gardener tends to a beloved tree.”¹⁹ Yezhov returned Stalin’s favor with nonpareil zeal and brutality.²⁰

As the ringleaders of the phantasmagorical “Center of Centers,” Yezhov named Bukharin (who was writing desperate, groveling letters to Stalin), Rykov (who had failed to act decisively when he had his chance back in 1928–29), Tomsky (who shot himself rather than his tormentors), Zinoviev (who had been writing his own groveling letters to Stalin), Kamenev (who could have smothered the Bolshevik monopoly in its cradle in 1917 but shrank from doing so), émigré SR, Menshevik, and White Guard organizations (which were infiltrated and in some cases established by the NKVD), and Pyatakov (who begged to be the executioner of all the others, an offer Stalin declined, reasoning out loud at the Central Committee that “no one would believe that you voluntarily decided to do this, without being coerced, and besides, we have never announced the names of the people who carry out sentences”).²¹ This was a pathetic register of coup leaders. As for the supposedly threatening anti-Soviet émigré organizations, Yezhov’s NKVD had thoroughly penetrated them. Some, such as the Helsinki branch of the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN), were actually led by Soviet agents, while the leaders of others, such as General Evgeny Miller of the Russian All-Military Union, had been kidnapped.²² “They present no value whatsoever,” Sergey Spigelglas, deputy director of NKVD foreign espionage, reported, “since they have neither money, nor international connections, nor organization, nor people.”²³

Ultimately, however, Yezhov was right in one crucial way: a conspiratorial “Center of Centers” threatening the Soviet Union did exist: the Little Corner itself.

COMMUNISM’S EASE OF MASS MURDER

Throughout 1937 and 1938, there were on average nearly 2,200 arrests and more than 1,000 executions per day.²⁴ The NKVD extracted testimony under torture even from people who would not be tried publicly, because that was one way they met quotas—gathering ever more names of accomplices—but also, more fundamentally, because Stalin craved this. Even when “confessions” had been edited by him, he treated them as if they were real, underlining passages, circulating them to the politburo, and referring to “testimony.” During the two frenzied, gruesome years of 1937 and 1938, Yezhov forwarded to him more than 15,000 written “special communications,” an average of 20 per day, many of which Stalin marked up and returned with further instructions.²⁵

The terror’s scale would become crushing. More than 1 million prisoners were convoyed by overloaded rail transport in 1938 alone.²⁶ The Lubyanka’s feared inner prison contained a mere 110 cells. (The building had been a hotel for visiting insurance executives and retained its parquet in the corridors. Most of the floors were aboveground, but the windows were bricked up; the cellars were reserved for priority prisoners and executions.)²⁷ But Butyrka, tsarist Russia’s former central transit prison—whence the Cheka founder Felix Dzierżyński had once escaped—filled with 20,000 inmates, six times capacity. And Butyrka was considered a resort compared with Lefortovo, while the most feared of all, Sukhanovka, located at a former monastery just outside Moscow and known as the dacha, was still more jammed.²⁸ Some arrest sweeps had to be delayed or put off because of overcrowding.²⁹ Urgent requests to Moscow for instructions began to sit without response (by summer 1938, more than 100,000 unattended cases would languish).³⁰ Stalin, for two years running, felt constrained to skip his much-beloved annual southern holiday—even he struggled to keep the pace, despite his inhuman capacity for work.

Given the numbers involved, the state’s violence against its own population inevitably was chaotic.³¹ Stalin lost track of people, writing next to names in interrogation protocols, “Arrest,” when they were already in custody, a point he came to recognize. (“Comrade Yezhov: The names identified by me in the text with the letters ‘ar’ are to be arrested, if they have not yet been arrested.”)³² Stalin would suddenly remember someone and inquire about his fate (some were dead, some not). People whose names sounded similar to someone else’s would suffer misdirected arrests. Not everyone on the hundreds of lengthy execution lists was shot.³³ But for all this messiness, the process was systematic, driven by continuous orders and codified in updated antiterrorist laws and procedures. Mass murder does not somehow “break out,” but must be set in motion, and then driven onward, as Stalin did, and be sustained by powerful drivers.

A number of factors made such a terror possible. The Communist party underwent periodic “purges” to root out those deemed unworthy—because of background, beliefs, or inability to carry out responsibilities—and these long-standing practices that normally led to expulsion and possible arrest were ramped up to certain arrest and likely execution. Moreover, the very fact of the long history of party expulsions, even without arrest, had created a multitude of individuals who could be seen as potentially dangerous. The terror was also propelled by the bureaucratic imperatives and careerism of a formidable repressive apparatus that had been built up over many years, especially as a result of collectivization-dekulakization, as well as a pervasive fear in the ranks of the NKVD for their own lives. Additionally, the highly organized monopoly public sphere could be—and now was—ordered to disseminate charges of mass sabotage and spying. Even in the largest cities, tiny numbers of correspondents and editors—local Mekhlis equivalents—could fan mass hysteria. Public receptiveness to the charges, in turn, was facilitated by the widely shared tenet that building socialism constituted an adversarial crusade against myriad “enemies” at home and abroad, and by the circumstance that the system was not supposed to have a new elite, but did. The new elite’s apartments, cars, servants, concubines, and imported luxuries were often visible, while workers and farmers lived in hovels and went hungry. This did not mean that every ordinary Soviet inhabitant was eager for the blood of bigwigs, but few tears were shed.

The terror, like every aspect of Soviet reality, also depended upon isolation. Foreigners were kept from Soviet inhabitants, and the number permitted to go abroad, even on official business, shrank to the point that Stalin could examine delegation lists for approval (or not).³⁴ But the key to it all lay in the nature of Communism as a conspiracy to seize and hold power. Everywhere the mechanism for the terror was the same: a secret party circular from Stalin ordering a still more vigilant hunt for “enemies,” a local party meeting, a summons to Bolshevik “criticism,” further denunciations, pandemonium. Just a handful of “activists,” who understood the vocabulary of invective or insinuation to tear down rivals and protect themselves, could precipitate chain reactions of annihilation in which millions became complicit in additional meetings in factories, farms, schools. This was intentional, to achieve scale. The frenzy never escaped Stalin’s ability to shape and ultimately stop it. Still, often the denouncers were denounced right back by those they had aimed at, in a circular firing squad. And if a person defended someone accused of being an enemy of the people, well, then, that was proof that he or she, too, was an enemy.³⁵ Even if one merely inquired about a coworker who had suddenly stopped showing up, one could be accused of harboring “ties” or “sympathies.”³⁶ Party and state officials, in other words, became trapped in the twisted logic of the system they had helped create. They accepted that foreign capitalist powers would never accept the success of the Soviet Union, that “dying classes” could not be expected to go quietly, that socialism had myriad enemies, but now these loyal Soviet officials were themselves the enemy.

STALIN AND THE STATE

The party’s monopoly went hand in hand with administrative dysfunction. This was a state with awesome power, one that had the capacity to build competitive tanks and artillery in big batches, confiscate much of a harvest, deliver a coordinated propaganda message at every factory and farm, and internally deport whole nations but was largely unable to execute subtle tasks (except when functionaries knowingly behaved illegally).³⁷ The Soviet party-state was clumsy and pervasive, at its strongest in mobilization, suppression, and surveillance. The system gathered incredible quantities of information yet was often poorly informed.³⁸ Stalin expressed frustration at local officials’ supposed narrow horizons and imagined that he alone upheld the interests of the revolution and state tout court, as against specific institutional or sectoral interests. He was cognizant of some limits on his freedom of action—great distances, primitive communication, low levels of education, the bureaucratism and self-dealing—but he nonetheless tried to force his way past them and often did so. He presumed the efficacy of administration and administrative methods and spent considerable time and energy in reorganizations of agencies and work flow.³⁹ But he frequently obviated those same agencies by calling in a plenipotentiary, delivering a pep talk, and having that person go out and bang heads to get things done, then report solely to him. He had come to understand that the ever-growing system of monitoring decision making was achieving less and less.⁴⁰ Still, he did not understand that organizations, particularly overly large ones, develop an often perverse dynamic beyond functionaries’ self-interest.

Far from everything began with Stalin. The politburo adjudicated some 3,000 items per year in the 1930s.⁴¹ Stalin did not really delegate, but the work flow exceeded his capacity to oversee every issue.⁴² Some decisions under his signature (affixed by his staff) he never read. Molotov recalled that Stalin would approach the pile and ask which were the important ones.⁴³ Stalin could ask for guidance: “What to do?” he would sometimes write on documents. (Who knew if it was genuine or a test?) Others in the leadership and throughout the labyrinthine apparatus had no choice but to try to address issues that confronted them day in and day out. But he concentrated information and decision making at the top, which overwhelmed him and his top aides, drowned the central agencies in paperwork, and created massive logjams. The system was in constant pressure against itself—in information gathering and reporting, in coordination or refusal thereof, in pushing responsibility off and back on.⁴⁴ Stalin’s interventions were perforce episodic, sometimes preceded by careful study, sometimes not. He unwittingly created bottlenecks, and narrowed the exchange of information even at the top of the regime. Coordination did take place across agencies in the Little Corner. But when he assigned spheres to individual plenipotentiaries, he sometimes did not inform them of one another’s work. Everything rested upon the people Stalin chose to summon, or not, the reports he solicited and decided to read, or not, the decisions he rendered and how he did or even did not communicate them, and, ultimately, his ability to understand the country and the world.

Very early on in his rule, proper leadership had emerged as one of Stalin’s most recurrent themes. For him it meant not declarations of decrees, but their implementation.⁴⁵ Stalin derived his sense of the country and the world predominantly from documents, as well as intuition.⁴⁶ But without irony he castigated “paper leadership” and “office leadership,” functionaries who sat in their big suites and issued orders without familiarizing themselves with the situation in the factory shops or fields, who failed to inquire about people’s experiences and difficulties in order to lend practical help in the tasks at hand. He had complained early and often of needing to “break through the wall of bureaucratism and improve the slipshod performance of our bureaucracies.”⁴⁷ He had stressed the work of “checking up by punching people in the face” (September 2, 1930).⁴⁸ His view of power was deceptively simple: indicate the correct line, assign individuals to implement it, and goad and watch them. Less than 100 percent fulfillment meant rotten liberals showing leniency, playing into the hands of enemies, becoming enemies themselves. But even as his regime demanded unwavering implementation of central directives, it often provided little guidance in the rationales for policies as recorded in the minimalist politburo minutes that were circulated. This left officials poring over Pravda, especially the speeches of Stalin. He appears to have assumed that he was being crystal clear, leaving no room for ambiguity, so that misinterpretations had to be deliberate. He also does not appear to have appreciated the negative consequences of coercion.

Policy to Stalin was reduced to an exercise in obedience and resolve. But by constantly pushing to tighten the system and render it more hierarchical, Stalin had empowered the gatekeeping officials not only in his secretariat but also in the regions, whom he instinctively did not trust. Even allowing for secret police exaggeration, the provincial nomenklatura certainly dragged their feet over directives, failed to cope with the (impossible) demands placed upon them (as would their successors), covered their failures with deception, and brazenly feathered their own nests. Stalin closely followed the reports of self-dealing and local collusion (“family-ness”), flouting of central directives, scapegoating of rivals or underlings who had dared to heed the exhortations in the party press to criticize bosses.⁴⁹ He detested officials making excuses or covering up their failures and pretending they were succeeding, behavior he denounced as double-dealing. Stalin likely understood but would not admit that his own relentless pressure and exorbitant demands made the evasions and coping mechanisms pervasive. He wanted officials to perform well but to be constantly looking over their shoulders. He worked to identify or assign agents inside locales and institutions to report directly to him, bypassing administrative hierarchies, and empowered the secret police to stand above other institutions, yet he feared that the police might conspire against him, so he worked to trip them up, too.

Evasive, self-serving behavior by officialdom is endemic to every authoritarian state.⁵⁰ What was atypical—to put it mildly—was their mass extermination by their own regime. Stalin faced no imperative to murder them. He could sack or transfer any local satrap at will.⁵¹ Instead, he not only put Soviet officials to death or had them deported to slave labor camps en masse, but, in a huge expenditure of state resources, had them tortured to confess and, incredibly, had these Communists confess not to being corrupt or incompetent, but to plotting to assassinate him and restore capitalism on behalf of foreign powers. And that was not all. In the Marxist worldview, entire classes—feudal lords, the bourgeoisie—had outlived their usefulness and become “fetters” on humanity’s further development. (“Everyone is against us who has outlived the epoch allotted to him by history,” Maxim Gorky had written in Pravda in November 1930.)⁵² But Stalin took to applying notions of epochal obsolescence, not just presumptive disloyalty, to the body of experienced Soviet functionaries, as if they, too, were people of a bygone epoch and needed to make way. He would promote the young, to fix the pathologies of the state.

WE ARE THE ENEMY

As each phase of the seemingly endless party cleanings had unfolded, the focus of attack had moved ever closer to the centers of power. Whereas the 1933–34 party purge (expulsions largely without arrest) had targeted the rank and file, and the 1935 verification and exchange of party cards had affected to a great degree lower-level apparatchiks sacrificed by their superiors, the 1936–38 terror, which involved arrest as well as expulsion, consumed the big fish, those who had earlier implemented the expulsions of others, and decimated the Stalinist Central Committee.⁵³ Central Committee membership had always been a mark of the highest prestige and privilege. True, its members had long ago ceased to demonstrate any capacity for, let alone inclination toward, collective action.⁵⁴ They met only when summoned, and even then were ultracareful to avoid the appearance of gathering in subgroups. After they received the June 1937 plenum materials in advance (as per normal procedure), which included interrogation protocols of already arrested high officials, Central Committee members wrote to Stalin swearing their fealty, even if their own names were not (yet) mentioned in “testimonies.” None wrote or spoke up to question the frame-ups.⁵⁵

Upon the opening of the June plenum, of the seventy-one members and sixty-eight candidates for membership formally elected to the Central Committee at the previous party congress (1934), thirteen had been arrested (including Pyatakov, Bukharin, and Rykov), three had committed suicide (Tomsky, Orjonikidze, and Gamarnik), four had died of natural causes (Mężyński, Kuibyshev, Tovstukha, and Alexander Steinhart), and one had been assassinated (Kirov). During the plenum, Stalin sanctioned the destruction of at least another thirty-one, so that more than fifty of the 139 did not take part in or finish the sessions; several more would be arrested right after.⁵⁶ Altogether, around 100 of the 139 Central Committee members would not survive to the next party congress. The vast majority of them had not been Stalin’s opponents in the oppositions of the 1920s. Nor had they run afoul of him subsequently. To be sure, a few, such as Sergei Syrtsov, party boss of Siberia during Stalin’s 1928 visit, had been expelled from the Central Committee in 1930 for private criticism of him.⁵⁷ But most of those arrested now were stalwarts who had been loyal right through the fire of dekulakization-collectivization and beyond.⁵⁸ Their subordinates and associates were also destroyed—followed, in many cases, by their replacements.

Most astonishingly, sitting provincial party bosses were forced to organize their own annihilation by summoning party meetings and encouraging denunciations.⁵⁹ When, predictably, they tried to protect themselves and their associates by sacrificing other, often rival, officials, Stalin accused them of suppressing criticism. He had sent a ciphered telegram around the Union expressly warning that “some party secretaries of provinces, apparently wishing to escape blame, very eagerly give authorization to the NKVD organs to arrest certain leaders, directors, technical directors, engineers and technicians, mid-managers of factories and transport, and other sectors. The Central Committee reminds you that neither secretaries of a province or territory, nor secretaries of national parties, nor party-soviet leaders in locales have the right to authorize such arrests.”⁶⁰ Such decisions were Stalin’s alone and, to ensure compliance, he dispatched “Central Committee” plenipotentiaries: Kaganovich to Chelyabinsk, Yaroslavl, Ivanovo, and Ukraine; Zhdanov to Bashkiria, Tataria, and Orenburg; Malenkov to Belorussia, Armenia, Kazan, Tula, Omsk, and Tambov; Andreyev to Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Saratov, and the North Caucasus; Shkiryatov to the Soviet Far East. In Kiev, chairing an assembly of the “party active,” Kaganovich began, “Well, come on up and report whatever anyone knows about enemies of the people.”⁶¹

There was no way to ensure one’s survival, but people felt they could not just sit there and wait for the others to denounce them. Chain reactions spread—once triggered via these party meetings, rabid newspaper articles that vilified people by name, and Stalin’s plenipotentiaries (who had to please him). Kaganovich had arrived in Ivanovo like the head of a foreign occupation, with a bodyguard detail of thirty, and been greeted by local NKVD bosses; the party machine had not even been apprised in advance. He phoned Stalin repeatedly to detail his impressive results: the arrest of nearly every leader in the local party (he had brought an entire replacement leadership with him). But Stalin demanded still more pressure “to stop liberalizing.”⁶² (At the train station, as Kaganovich was seen off, he made a point to thank all service personnel and handed out tips of 50 to 100 rubles each, identifying with the proletarians.)⁶³ In Kazakhstan, the entire party bureau—the republic equivalent of the politburo—was arrested. In Turkmenistan, no bureau existed for months.⁶⁴ Many party machines would be wiped out two and even three times. This could hardly render the provincial apparatus more responsive.⁶⁵ Rather than make examples of some disobedient regional functionaries in order to frighten the rest, the terror effectively paralyzed the entire, sprawling regional apparatus. “During the purges hundreds of thousands of bureaucrats shook in their boots,” wrote the American eyewitness John Scott, who worked in provincial Magnitogorsk. “Many people reacted by shunning responsibility. . . . Still other people became exasperated and bitter.”⁶⁶

A good number of upper-level functionaries had been working sixteen- to eighteen-hour shifts, often through the night, under tremendous strain. The commissar for domestic trade, Israel Veitser, was suffering from impaired health, according to the Kremlin medical team, partly because he usually arrived at the office around noon and departed between 3:00 and 5:00 a.m., taking papers home with him. (The Council of People’s Commissars decreed that he should finish work by midnight.)⁶⁷ Veitser’s deputies, advisers, and secretaries all worked similar hours. Veitser, who happened to be married to the theater director Natalya Sats (the onetime mistress of Tukhachevsky), was sacked and arrested. Twenty of twenty-eight members of the Council of People’s Commissars would be arrested.⁶⁸ Soviet industrial production, the supposed lifeblood of the regime, took a hit. In the strategic coal industry, output in 1936 had stagnated; in the first quarter of 1937, the plan went unfulfilled. Almost the entire provincial Donbass party that was appointed in May 1937, seventy-six people, would be slaughtered.⁶⁹

Sarkis Sarkisov (Danielyan), an ethnic Armenian who served as party boss in the Donetsk coal basin, had worked in Leningrad under Zinoviev. When attacked by the NKVD, he went on the offensive, becoming complicit in the sweeping arrests of his colleagues in the provincial machine, until he, too, was arrested and executed.⁷⁰ Eduards Prāmnieks, an ethnic Latvian stonemason who had succeeded Zhdanov as party boss in Nizhny Novgorod/Gorky, succeeded Sarkisov. “Many people cannot understand why the Donbass, which was always a fortress of Bolshevism, has become infiltrated by enemies and scum,” Prāmnieks pontificated. “One must remember that, as an extremely important center, the Donbass will always be a target for enemies and spies.”⁷¹ His work was paralyzed. “With whom to work?” he confided to the writer Avdeyenko. “All the first and second secretaries of the city have turned out to be enemies of the people. . . . The directors of factories have turned out to be wreckers or spies. The chief engineers, chief technicians, even the chief doctors of some hospitals, are also from the ranks of scum.”⁷² Then, another wholesale liquidation struck the Donbass—at least 140 factory and mine directors, chief engineers, and party officials—and Prāmnieks, too, turned out to be “scum.”⁷³ Kaganovich, at a Kremlin reception for the coal and metallurgy sectors, would state that as a result of the “wrecking by Trotskyite-Bukharinite hirelings,” the coal industry had fallen into difficult straits. Stalin softened this dire verdict in the coal industry report that was published.⁷⁴ Still, he evidently deemed the production losses a price worth paying.

NESTS OF SPIES

There were some 10,000 foreign Communists in residence in the Soviet Union.⁷⁵ They and their counterparts abroad were feared the world over as subversives of bourgeois order, but in Stalin’s mind they were a mortal danger to the Soviet Union. Back during the centennial celebration of Pushkin’s death at the Bolshoi, he had blurted out to Dimitrov, “All of you there in the Comintern are playing into the enemy’s hands.” He called the Comintern a “nest of spies.”⁷⁶ Foreign Communists talked. They could not fail to observe the abject subordination of all Communist parties to Moscow, the embourgeoisement of Soviet upper echelons, the opacity of decision making, the lack of commitment to world revolution (as opposed to Soviet state interests). But the overwhelming majority of foreign Communists had little to nothing of value to divulge to foreign governments. Formal structure in the Comintern had been abandoned: it was just the Little Corner, and just when Stalin got around to summoning or corresponding with Dimitrov. Dimitrov, who had stood up to Göring and Goebbels in a Leipzig courtroom, received foreign Communists’ interrogation protocols containing ever new names and had to issue telegrams summoning some of these people from abroad to Moscow, where, he knew, they would be executed.⁷⁷

The 400 rooms of the isolating Comintern residence, the perversely named Hotel Lux, were cleared out multiple times during the terror. None of it appears to have been policy driven. Pyatnitsky, Lozovsky, Knorin, and Kun had all supported the “social fascism” thesis close to Stalin’s heart and they all perished; Dimitrov, Manuilsky, and Kuusinen had supported the broad leftist front, and they survived.

British, American, French, and Czechoslovak Communists largely escaped death or the Gulag; they belonged to legal parties and did not require refuge in the Soviet Union. Chinese Communists, in the deep interior of their country, also mostly escaped Stalin’s cellars. But of the sixty-eight German Communists who managed to obtain refuge in the USSR after Hitler had come to power, Stalin had forty-one put to death. More members of the pre-1933 German Communist politburo were killed in the Stalinist terror (seven) than under Hitler (five).⁷⁸ Polish Communists in Soviet exile suffered the worst: an estimated 5,000 arrests just in spring–summer 1937. Stalin had the Polish Communist party formally dissolved, “owing to its saturation with spies and provocateurs.” He wrote across Dimitrov’s draft resolution, “The dissolution is about two years late.”⁷⁹ (Many Polish Communists would hear of the dissolution of their party by Moscow while wallowing in prisons in Poland.)⁸⁰ To be sure, Stalin was hardly alone in his suspicion of political émigrés: verification campaigns directed at foreigners living in the Soviet Union were long-standing and accepted as necessary, given the tense international situation and the shadowy nature of politics under Communism.⁸¹ But the verifications did not establish facts. They began with presumed guilt and snowballed via all manner of slander and innuendo.

Planning went forward for a public trial of “Trotskyite-fascists” in the Comintern, and the tentative list of “Trotskyites” seems to have included Mao.⁸² The trial never materialized. It was supposed to center on Pyatnitsky, an original member of the Russian Social Democratic Workers’ Party (1898) who had never joined any opposition but was expelled from the Central Committee and placed “under investigation” during the June 1937 plenum. Despite being beaten to a pulp over the course of a full year, Pyatnitsky refused to slander himself.⁸³

Stalin had Soviet diplomacy put up against the wall, too. On July 1, 1937, Vasily Korzhenko, deputy chief of the Stalingrad NKVD, was named business manager of the foreign affairs commissariat, which ushered him into a world of secret privilege. The commissariat building at Blacksmith Bridge comprised two wings. One was for amenities, such as a nursery for diplomats’ children, a clinic for staff and foreign embassy officials, a library, hairdressing salon, tailor’s shop, gastronome, and recreational facility. The other wing contained the office suites and private apartments of the higher officials. Korzhenko’s office had four comfortable chairs, a divan, a Persian rug, and an ample mahogany working desk. Five telephones sat atop the desk, once a sign of status but now points of life-and-death pressure. The one with a red button was a direct line to Stalin’s office. Pushing that with the receiver lifted elicited an immediate response from the Little Corner—and vice versa. Another, with a white button, was connected to the NKVD. Korzhenko, as he spoke, could see the secret police building across the way at Lubyanka Square through his office’s three expansive French windows. Goaded by Yezhov and Frinovsky, Korzhenko acted much like a Gestapo officer who had been infiltrated into the Soviet foreign affairs commissariat. His daughter explained that her father “was not concerned with diplomacy but had absolute power over foreign [commissariat] employees from cipher clerks to ambassadors . . . not only in Moscow but throughout the world.”⁸⁴

Among the first to have been targeted were Nikolai Krestinsky and Lev Karakhan.⁸⁵ Because nearly everyone in foreign affairs had worked with these “enemies of the people,” no one was safe from guilt by association. Vulnerability to arrest depended less on what people had done than on the sometimes random flow of denunciations, the caprice of Korzhenko and NKVD officials, and, ultimately, the authorization (or not) of Stalin. Personnel files with mandatory autobiographies were fatal: if you wrote out all of your associations, you were a goner; if you concealed even a single piece of information, you were a goner. When the NKVD station chief in Lithuania complained to Yezhov about the ambassador, Yezhov forwarded to Stalin material on the expenses of the embassy, two thirds of which went to refurbishing the ambassador’s office. Yezhov further noted that the ambassador had left abruptly for a three-month “holiday,” attempting to escape the arrest wave.⁸⁶ Litvinov at times tried to blunt the murderous rampage, but he, too, feared for his life.⁸⁷ Soviet embassies were emptied of personnel, and to the extent that dispatches were still being sent to Moscow, the paperwork often went unanswered from lack of personnel. Surviving officials, meanwhile, were “so patently in abject terror, that one must pity them,” one American diplomat wrote to Washington. “They fear to talk on any subject and apparently dread meeting foreign visitors.”⁸⁸

“ANTI-SOVIET ELEMENTS”

Violence against the population was a hallmark of the Soviet state nearly from its inception, of course, and had reached its apogee in the collectivization-dekulakization. In that sense, the 1937–38 campaign against “anti-Soviet elements” afforded grisly continuity. But these new “mass operations” entailed not just large-scale deportations with some executions, but a preponderance of extrajudicial killing. They would account for 1.1 million of the 1.58 million arrests in 1937–38, and 634,000 of the 682,000 executions.⁸⁹ Unlike the state murders in the military, secret police, state agencies, and party, these sweeps captured almost none of Stalin’s attention. Still, he relentlessly drove the astronomical numbers with memoranda, telephone directives, and quotas.⁹⁰ Local NKVD bosses, predictably, would petition to have their quotas raised, which the “Central Committee” invariably granted. Yezhov was now constantly in the Little Corner, sometimes remaining even after Molotov had departed, and often with his first deputy, Frinovsky. The quota method afforded wide scope to the pair as well as to local NKVD bosses in determining life or death.⁹¹

Miron Korol, who went by the name Sergei Mironov, had been born in Kiev (1894) to Jewish parents (his grandmother had owned a dairy shop on fashionable Khreshchatyk Street). The young man graduated from a high school for commerce, fought in the tsarist army in the Great War, and, in the civil war, headed a unit of Budyonny’s famous 1st Calvary Army before joining the Cheka (age twenty-seven) and, four years later, the party. Mironov cut his teeth in the North Caucasus, yet another Yevdokimovite, especially in Chechnya, where “banditism” was no mere slogan of abuse, and counterinsurgency was for real. By 1930, Mironov had climbed to deputy secret police head in Kazakhstan, where he managed influxes of “special resettlers” (deported “kulaks”) and denomadization, which resulted in mass death and starvation. From September 1933 through 1936, he headed the OGPU-NKVD in industrial Dnepropetrovsk, living in a villa with a billiards room, cinema, and modernized bathhouse, emulating his superior, Ukraine NKVD chief Balytsky, who had an even more impressive villa on the Dnieper River, where in 1936 Mironov and his second wife, Agnessa, had their wedding, at state expense.⁹² Vodka, champagne, and nighttime card playing for large sums mixed with surveillance over the party elite, under the guise of providing security. Yezhov, spurred by Frinovsky, promoted Mironov to NKVD chief of Western Siberia, where he took over the villa of the former tsarist governor general and continued the grand style of sumptuous banquets and a household of servants.

Mironov lived in the Chekist world. Once upon a time, that had meant defending Soviet power against armed enemies; now it entailed a deceitful game of unmasking “Trotskyites” and “spies” on railroads and at factories. In private conversations with Agnessa, Mironov called the high-profile November 1936 Kemerovo wrecking case (which predated his arrival) “fabrication” (lipa). Torture was known as physical methods or sanctions, with a “scribe” writing up interrogation protocols, often in the absence of the person interrogated and with cynical instructions. (“In this interrogation protocol, it’d be good to add a few little bombs, a touch of terrorism, a rebellion, throw in some diversionary action, then it would be full fledged.”) A mass execution was known as a wedding. Chekists would joke that one of them had shot the wrong people but promised to “correct the mistake.”⁹³ A profound brittleness underlay the dark humor: Mironov could not shake the thought that he, too, would end up in Novosibirsk’s “bird house” (prison). In March 1937, he was promoted to commissar of state security (third rank), putting him in the elite of the elite. Once, playing billiards, he could see uniformed men approaching outside—and turned white. They proved to be just a rotation of the exterior guard. Mironov had served under the “enemy” Yagoda, and Mironov’s deputy, Alexander Uspensky, was closer to Yezhov and could earn a promotion by taking down his new boss. According to Agnessa, “Seryozha said that he [Uspensky] was not a person but mucus.”⁹⁴

Such animal fear prompted varied reactions. Some NKVD personnel became inert, some threw themselves out the window, some strove to reconfirm their worth with rabid arrests. Mironov felt impelled to do the latter. He was the one who had telegrammed Yezhov with a denunciation of Balytsky while the latter had been traveling toward his new assignment in the Soviet Far East. Back on June 17, 1937, on the eve of the Central Committee plenum at which Yezhov would unveil the “Center of Centers,” Mironov had “requested permission” to form a Western Siberian “troika,” comprising the regional NKVD chief, the procurator, and the party boss, to expedite death sentences. He wrote that thousands of exiles were lying in wait to form a counterrevolutionary army. Troikas had been widely used for dekulakization and, before that, in the 1920s antibanditry operations of the North Caucasus, so they were familiar to Mironov. Deich (of the NKVD secretariat) or Frinovsky, knowing how much Stalin prized requests “from below,” likely had suggested a troika revival to Mironov. Be that as it may, on June 22, Yezhov forwarded Mironov’s “request” to Stalin.

As a respite from the Central Committee plenum, on June 25, 1937, Stalin, with the retinue in tow, went to the Moscow aerodrome to greet the returning crew of the first-ever airborne polar expedition to set up a scientific station on drift ice. In the summer heat, an improvised banquet took place in the Kremlin. “The tables were set in a way I had never before seen, since I had never been in a restaurant,” observed a then twenty-five-year-old Sigurd Shmidt, whose father, Otto, was the head of the Arctic Institute.⁹⁵ Sergei Obraztsov, the Moscow Art Theater actor and puppeteer, debuted inventive verse about the explorers, which pleased Stalin no end. He invited Obraztsov to share some wine.⁹⁶

Mironov, during the June 1937 “Center of Centers” plenum, privately complained to Frinovsky that all the fabrication was making it impossible to pursue real cases. “What are you doing philosophizing?” Frinovsky snapped. “Now the tempo is such that you need to show results not within months or years, but in days.”⁹⁷ On June 28, even before the plenum had concluded, a sentencing troika was approved for Western Siberia. On July 2, Stalin authorized a resolution, “On Anti-Soviet Elements,” directing all regions to reintroduce troikas to pass sentences without courts.⁹⁸ (The resolution was issued in the politburo’s name, but formal meetings had ceased.)⁹⁹ It would become the most murderous single document of his regime. On July 3, a coded telegram in Yezhov’s name went to all sixty-five NKVD republic and regional offices, demanding a fast inventory of previously deported kulaks, ordinary criminals, and former convicts.¹⁰⁰ As the calculations were being tabulated, on July 5, a decree was issued to incarcerate wives of enemies in camps for five to eight years—for being their wives.¹⁰¹ The Uzbekistan leadership asked to be able to include “nationalist terrorists” (i.e., non-Uzbeks, especially Tajiks); Mironov’s Western Siberia asked to include former SRs, former Mensheviks, former Whites, former priests—indeed, all “formers.”¹⁰² Permission was granted.¹⁰³ For those who required extra motivation, the NKVD bosses in Chelyabinsk and Tataria were arrested, which would prompt a sleepless night for Mironov; he had once worked under the Tatar head.¹⁰⁴

There were carrots for the NKVD, too: in a single month, 179 operatives received state awards, including no fewer than forty-six Orders of Lenin (Mironov got one). On July 17, 1937, Yezhov was awarded the Order of Lenin, “for outstanding successes in leading the organs of the NKVD in the fulfillment of government tasks.” That same day, the politburo formally approved substantial NKVD pay increases for state security personnel (GB) in Moscow, Leningrad, and Ukraine.¹⁰⁵ Rank-and-file operatives now got paid 500 to 800 rubles per month, while republic NKVD heads got 3,500 rubles per month, a jump of 300 percent. (By comparison, a provincial party boss got a salary of 2,000 rubles per month, not including the extra cash envelopes, and the head of the USSR Supreme Court got 1,200 rubles.) Additionally, while NKVD bosses had long enjoyed the use of villas with servants, like gentry, while their subordinates often lived in communal housing or dormitory beds, during the terror, many rank-and-file operatives acquired coveted apartments, as well as state dachas from arrested “enemies.”¹⁰⁶ Possessions confiscated from enemies of the people, including cash, were considered fair game (some Chekists were known to complain when arrestees turned out to be “poor peasants”). Some of the loot would be legally resold through what were called special trading centers, which had been set up to bring in revenue from confiscations, but much was pocketed. Bosses not on the scene expected a cut.¹⁰⁷

Once home from the Moscow gathering, Mironov instructed his subordinates (July 25) that the requirement of procuracy authorization for an arrest (Article 127 of the 1936 Constitution) had been “suspended,” and that they should go out and secretly “find a place where the sentences can be carried out and the bodies buried.”¹⁰⁸

On July 26, 1937, Stalin hosted a Kremlin reception for the aviators Chkalov, Baidukov, and Belyakov, who had returned from North America and a White House reception. They had ridden to the Kremlin in open-top cars garlanded with flowers. Stalin embraced and kissed them. The heroes requested that the evening’s concert program include jazz by Leonid Utyosov, whose band approached the stage singing “Heart,” from the smash film Jolly Fellows. Despite the absence of microphones, the acoustics proved splendid in the intimate Palace of Facets. The jazzmen also played the American melody “Reflection in Water,” with the verses in Russian, about a woman waiting for the return of her lover, which is said to have brought tears to Stalin’s eyes. The despot rose to applaud, leading a long ovation. Utyosov played the number again, and once again visible tears ran down Stalin’s cheeks; then a third encore. The supreme leader was moved to issue his own request, a manifesto of the criminal world called “From the Odessa Jail,” replete with argot that had been officially banned.¹⁰⁹

Frinovsky handled the dirty work, writing up NKVD Operational Order No. 00447 (dated July 31), which Stalin approved. (The 00 indicated supersecrecy.) “The organs of state security are faced with the task of mercilessly crushing this entire gang of anti-Soviet elements,” the order noted, demanding “an end once and for all to the foul subversion of the Soviet state’s foundations.”¹¹⁰ Every potential enemy—as determined by administrative fiat—was to be either executed (category 1) or sent to distant points of the Gulag (category 2). Regional and republic NKVD archivists updated their card catalogs of “anti-Soviet elements,” former “kulaks,” and “recidivist” criminals. Yezhov and Frinovsky used the submitted numbers to assign local arrest quotas totaling, Union-wide, 269,000 (76,000 to be shot, 193,000 to get eight to ten years in the Gulag).¹¹¹ Predictably, regional NKVD officials requested still higher quotas. Western Siberia had it easy, with among the densest concentration of exiled kulaks (more than 200,000), labor camps teeming with ordinary criminals, and large contingents of released inmates.¹¹² In Turkmenistan, the NKVD sent paddy wagons out to the bazaar to haul in people; in Sverdlovsk, in the office of an official arrested as a “counterrevolutionary,” the NKVD found a list of Stakhanovites, a handy group to help meet the quota.¹¹³ During just the first two weeks of August 1937, 100,000 people were arrested, far more than the number in the entire year since the Moscow public trial of August 1936.¹¹⁴

The NKVD sliced through the populace like a reaper through the wheat fields. Nothing fundamental had changed in “kulak sabotage,” crime rates, or Gulag labor needs. Locally, the kulak operation sometimes had little to do with former kulaks. In the Perm region of the Urals province (where former KGB archives have been accessible), the majority of the targets were workers and white-collar functionaries. Here, supersecret order 00447 extended carte blanche to local operatives for eradicating “conspiracies” they were already “unmasking,” as reflected in their mounting NKVD reports dating to fall 1936 and especially spring 1937 (following central plenums and directives). The local pattern resembled the spread of a virus—after one person got arrested, his or her associates got infected with their “guilt,” a reaction that was then repeated, in an ever-widening way.¹¹⁵

At the same time regional secret police officials could no more start massmurdering the populace without central directives than they could continue to do so after central directives instructed them to halt.¹¹⁶ What happened was that Stalin decided on mass murder, and he could count on Frinovsky at the center and the Mironovs in the locales to implement it.¹¹⁷

Parallel “national” operations did not use quotas, but a nationality itself was a kind of quota.¹¹⁸ Every person among Soviet nationalities with a corresponding nation-state outside the USSR became a potential NKVD target. To be sure, sweeping ethnic deportations had begun earlier.¹¹⁹ But such actions expanded exponentially: the entire population of ethnic Koreans in the Soviet Far East were deported to Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, where they would dig holes for “housing.” The sheer scale of the action against Soviet Koreans—135,000 deported by late October 1937 and as many as 185,000 eventually—gave rise to complications, which provoked Stalin’s ire. “People who sabotage the action, no matter who they might be, arrest forthwith and punish,” he wrote to the top officials in the Soviet Far East.¹²⁰ Regional NKVD offices also now put together “albums” of foreigners and ethnics in their localities, rating the personages by degree of suspicion. Soviet ethnic Poles were the main targets: 144,000 were arrested and 111,000 executed, nearly half of all the non-Russian nationals killed.^{121, 122} (There were around 636,000 ethnic Poles in the Soviet Union.) “Very good!” the ethnic Georgian Stalin wrote on a report by Yezhov, a closet part ethnic Lithuanian. “Dig down and cleanse this Polish-espionage filth. Destroy it in the interests of the USSR!”¹²³

Next were Soviet ethnic Germans: 55,000 arrested and nearly 42,000 executed.¹²⁴ Citizens of Germany were rounded up, too.¹²⁵ Frinovsky, on July 20, forwarded to Stalin a report from NKVD counterintelligence: “A crow was killed near Lake Ladoga. It had a ring with the number D-72291 and an inscription, ‘Germany.’ Simultaneously, a kite [a bird of prey] killed a crow near the village of Rusynya in the Batetsky area of the Leningrad region. This crow also had a ring with the number D-70398 with the same inscription, ‘Germany.’ Evidently, the Germans are studying wind directions by using crows, with the aim of using the winds for diversionary activity and bacteriological purposes (torching settlements, haystacks, and so on).”¹²⁶ What the NKVD had discovered was a research project of German ornithologists to study crow migration.

After Yezhov had posted Alexei Nasedkin to Smolensk as NKVD chief and advised him to “make arrests more boldly” of Soviet ethnic Poles and Germans, Nasedkin discovered, on-site, accumulated “testimony” on a “counterrevolutionary” Latvian cultural society. He rushed back to Moscow. “Yezhov livened up,” Nasedkin recalled, and he asked, “Are there a lot of Latvians in Smolensk?” Nasedkin answered: 5,000, of whom he estimated 450 to 500 could be arrested. “Drivel,” Yezhov said. “I’ll discuss it with the Central Committee and we’ll have to spill the blood of Latvians—arrest not fewer than 1,500–2,000. They are all nationalists.” Nasedkin himself was received in the Little Corner to report on the “Latvian conspiracy.” His “vigilance” helped spark the arrest of nearly every prominent Soviet Latvian: the talented head of the Red Air Force, Yakov Alksnis (Jēkabs Alksnis); the vexed chief of military intelligence, Jan Berzin (Pēteris Ķuzis); the celebrated Chekists Yakov Peters (Jēkabs Peterss) and Martin Latsis (Jānis Sudrabs); the first-ever Red Army supreme commander, Ioakim Vatsetis (Jukums Vācietis), who had saved the Bolshevik regime from the left SRs in 1918; Western Siberian party boss Roberts Eihe; politburo candidate member Jānis Rudzutaks.¹²⁷ All across the USSR, countless people suddenly became “Latvian,” in the interests of meeting quotas. Nasedkin, back in Smolensk, inquired whether he could arrest Latvians in the absence of compromising material on them. “Material,” answered Yezhov, “will arise in the course of interrogation.”¹²⁸

Yezhov would effectively take Rudzutaks’s slot on the politburo; Zhdanov would get Rudzutaks’s dacha.¹²⁹ “He did not admit anything!” Molotov recalled of his long-serving, loyal deputy Rudzutaks. “I think that he was not a conscious participant, but he liberalized with this fraternity, and believed that all this was nonsense, trifles. And that could not be forgiven. He did not understand the dangers. . . . A rather intelligent man, no question. He had a kind of non-Latvian flexibility. Latvians were not so much slow thinkers, but they simplified a bit. First-class thinkers in our party were not found among Latvians.”¹³⁰

ANNIHILATING MILITARY INTELLIGENCE

Yezhov received a translation of an intercepted report from a Western European military attaché in Moscow, stating that nearly all foreign representatives in Moscow viewed the charges against Tukhachevsky and other military men as preposterous, an artifact of Stalin’s hypersuspiciousness, and concluded that the executions had damaged Soviet military might. Whether Yezhov had the courage to forward the document to Stalin remains unclear.¹³¹ But another case demonstrates Stalin’s disregard of consequences. In early 1937, Yezhov had sent him a detailed sketch of the German army’s troop positioning for 1935–36, reporting that the valuable material had been photographed from the safe of the German military attaché, Ernst Köstring, without the latter’s knowledge. Yezhov attributed the feat to the Soviet intelligence officer and ethnic Hungarian lieutenant Béla Bíró (b. 1891), whom he praised for “showing initiative, boldness, agility, and sangfroid.” Stalin had approved Yezhov’s recommendation that Bíró be awarded the Order of the Red Star “for special services.” But then, on July 2, 1937, Yezhov’s NKVD, with Stalin’s approval, arrested Bíró, and on September 2 it would have him executed at its state farm killing field, “Kommunarka,” for espionage.¹³² Bíró’s loss was repeated many times.^{133, 134}

Mikhail Alexandrovsky, the just-named deputy of military intelligence, was arrested in July 1937. On August 1, Berzin—less than two months after Stalin had returned him as military intelligence chief—was replaced by his other deputy, Alexander Nikonov. Nikonov lasted a few days before his arrest. Under torture, each confessed and named more names. Stalin could have had their interrogations conducted to find out who (if anyone) had actually recruited them, what damage (if any) they had inflicted. Alternately, he could have kept them in place and had them shadowed to see what (if any) foreign contacts they had. None of that was done.¹³⁵ Military intelligence was handed to an NKVD counterintelligence operative beholden to Yezhov, as if the main task at hand were a police operation against the country’s own intelligence.¹³⁶ Altogether, at least 300 military intelligence officers would be arrested in Moscow alone.¹³⁷ The head of personnel in military intelligence reported that half the allotted positions had become vacant. Maria Polyakova, an undercover operative in Switzerland who returned to Moscow in fall 1937, found no one to report to. “I could not understand what was going on, and I did not know whom to ask about it,” she recalled. “I met the department staff, who were primarily [recent] graduates of the military academy and did not know languages or the work of our agency.”¹³⁸

Stalin explicitly rejected the notion that the arrests were cynical. In August 1937, at a gathering he attended of political functionaries in the military, the head of the Far Eastern Army’s political department complained. “We cannot tell the party mass, the commanding staff, or the Red Army men what [specific] wrecking activities these wreckers committed,” the man stated. “And by the way, the interest in this matter is enormous,” having been incited by the NKVD’s reading of excerpts of the interrogation protocols at Red Army party meetings. One official at the meeting interjected: “Would it not be sufficient just to say that they worked to restore capitalism?” Stalin: “All the same, the testimonies have significance.”¹³⁹

FAR EASTERN “IMPERIALIST WAR”

Japanese ground and air forces in the Manchukuo puppet state had violated the Soviet border more than 150 times in 1935 and again in 1936.¹⁴⁰ In 1937, a major incident took place over strategic islets in the Amur River.¹⁴¹ Islands along a river boundary were normally adjudicated by their positioning relative to the channel of the main current. But since the Russo-Chinese border treaties of 1858 and 1860, storms and other natural causes had caused a shift in the Amur’s main channel, so that a pair of small islets some sixty and fifty miles downstream from Blagoveshchensk, respectively, had moved to the Manchukuo side of the Amur’s main current. The Soviets argued that the border marker should now be the river’s deepest channel, which would put the islets back in Soviet territory. On June 19, 1937, the Japanese had reported that some twenty Soviet soldiers had landed at one of the two islets—known as Kanchazu in Manchu—on motorboats, removed buoys, and evicted Manchukuo gold panners, actions repeated at other Amur islets. Manchukuo government protests brought no resolution. The Japanese Kwantung Army was inclined to clear the Soviet troops by force, but Tokyo military brass decided, on June 28, 1937, that “the problem of these islands located so remotely did not warrant risking a major commitment of the national strength.” That very day, however, a high Japanese military intelligence officer recently returned from Moscow published a report in an Osaka newspaper suggesting that the Soviet Union’s executions of its own top military commanders threatened the Red Army with disintegration, meaning Japan had nothing to fear.¹⁴²

Stalin’s terror—proclaimed as vital in the face of a coming “inevitable war”—was potentially inviting that very war. With Tukhachevsky and the others dead a mere few weeks and the Red Army in turmoil, on June 29, Soviet diplomats informed the Japanese that Moscow would remove the troops from the Amur islets.

By now, though, three small Soviet gunboats had arrived on the scene, and on June 30 Japanese Kwantung Army forces opened fire, sinking one boat and damaging another; thirty-seven Soviet sailors died. Disgust at Tokyo’s “timidity” and an urge to respond to the Soviet “buildup” were strong. Stalin had a diplomatic protest lodged, but he refrained from military retaliation. Japanese intelligence intercepted Blyukher’s order from Khabarovsk to the Amur flotilla commander to withdraw. On July 3—the same day Yezhov’s NKVD order went out to branches to prepare for “mass operations” against the USSR’s own population—Soviet troops began to evacuate the islets. Manchukuo filled the vacuum on July 6, occupying the now evacuated (and until recently unoccupied) islets and converting Kanchazu into de facto Manchukuo territory, which still drew no Soviet response. Japanese intelligence could scarcely believe the near hysteria in intercepted Soviet military communications: a few artillery rounds seemed to have frightened the Red Army away, despite its three-to-one troop advantage in theater. “I think it was a really good ‘reconnaissance’ in force,” a Japanese intelligence officer concluded of the unplanned skirmish. Thus, while the Amur incident had persuaded much of the Kwantung Army of Tokyo’s timidity, the general staff in Tokyo had begun to discuss the hollowness of the Red Army.¹⁴³

Japanese troops (numbering between 5,000 and 7,000) also controlled all the areas of China immediately north, east, and west of Peking—areas that faced the USSR and the Soviet satellite of Mongolia. On July 7, 1937, about 135 of those troops were engaged in night maneuvers ten miles west of Peking at the Marco Polo Bridge, an 800-year-old ancient granite structure once restored by the great Qing emperor Kangxi. The bridge, near a railway choke point, had long been coveted by Japan, because it served as the sole link between Peking and the rest of Nationalist-controlled China. Unusually, these Japanese night maneuvers took place without prior courtesy notice, and around 10:30 p.m., Chinese troops, perhaps fearing that an actual attack had commenced, fired some rifle shots. The Japanese returned fire. After mutual apologies for the minor firefight by the two sides’ liaison officers on duty, as well as some bellicose statements, the Japanese brigade commander refused to back down and ordered an artillery barrage. The Chinese shelled the Japanese in return. Then, on July 9, the Japanese and Chinese commanders in the Marco Polo Bridge area agreed to a cease-fire and mutual pullback.

Chiang Kai-shek was at Lushan for a military conference and, on the basis of radio reports, could not judge whether the gunfire and shelling had been unplanned or constituted a Japanese provocation, on the order of the Mukden incident that had preceded the seizure of Manchuria. He felt constrained to deploy some of his best divisions, institute martial law, and order a general mobilization. Japan’s government, now headed by prime minister Prince Fumimaro Konoe, deemed the incident a Chinese “provocation” and dispatched three divisions. When the Japanese troops arrived at Tientsin, on July 12, Chiang telegrammed his military in the field: “I am now determined to declare war on Japan.”¹⁴⁴ On July 22, the Japanese commander at the Marco Polo Bridge announced a deadline for Chinese troop withdrawal; Chiang ordered his men to attack. Few in the Konoe cabinet were for all-out war, but few were against it. Tokyo announced, to popular acclamation, that it had been “forced to resort to resolute action.”¹⁴⁵ With Emperor Hirohito’s approval, the Japanese bombarded and seized Peking (July 28) and nearby Tientsin (July 30).¹⁴⁶

Stalin was saved. His insistence on a “united front,” instead of an attempted Communist takeover, now looked prescient, but he had to weigh continuing support for the anti-Japanese resistance in China against possibly provoking Japan into war against the Soviet Union. The Soviet department in Japanese military intelligence had correctly surmised that Moscow would not intervene in the event of a Japanese expedition to Peking.¹⁴⁷

Japan’s occupation of northern China was swift. Whether the war would spread beyond northern China remained uncertain. But Zhang Zhizhong, commander of the Shanghai-Nanking garrison and a former teacher at the Soviet-funded Whampoa Military Academy, who had been urging Chiang Kai-shek to attack vulnerable Japanese positions in Shanghai, staged his own incident: on August 9, 1937, a Chinese army unit shot and killed a Japanese lieutenant and private just outside the Shanghai airport. To make it seem as if the Japanese had fired first, a Chinese prisoner on death row was dressed in military uniform and executed at the airport gate. Zhang renewed his pressure on Chiang to engage in an all-out war with Japan, not just protect the north; Chiang demurred. Zhang staged bombing runs on Japanese ships, grounding aircraft and troops. Japanese reinforcements began to make their way to Shanghai. Chiang approached Moscow for a mutual assistance treaty. Stalin, wanting to prevent a Japanese conquest of China but not to entangle the Soviets in a direct war with Japan, agreed only to a nonaggression pact, which was signed in Nanking on August 21.¹⁴⁸ (This was the same day a joint decree of the Council of People’s Commissars and the politburo ordered the deportation of all ethnic Koreans from the Soviet Far East.)¹⁴⁹ On August 22, Japanese forces arrived in Shanghai.

America’s ambassador in Moscow reported to Washington that Litvinov had told Léon Blum that “he and the Soviet Union were perfectly delighted that Japan had attacked China,” and that “the Soviet Union hoped that war between China and Japan would continue just as long as possible.”¹⁵⁰ Some suggested that Zhang Zhizhong was a Soviet agent who had provoked war on Moscow’s orders.¹⁵¹ (Chiang would force Zhang to resign in September 1937, but would not accuse him of being a foreign agent.) On September 14, the Soviets and Chiang signed an additional accord for the supply of Soviet weapons on $50 million in credits, with the proviso that one quarter to one fifth would go to the Chinese Red Army.¹⁵²

After his release from the hostage-taking incident, Chiang had conceded the legality of the Chinese Communist forces, but now they would not be subordinated to his orders. The Communist army in the north, centered on Yan’an and numbering 46,000, was renamed the Eighth Route Army. On September 23, Chiang acknowledged a public declaration of the Chinese Communists, published in the Nationalist press the day before—a form of legalization. Mao, while paying lip service to the united front, planned a guerrilla war in the north independently of the Nationalists, effectively keeping his army out of the main brunt of the fighting.

Stalin, too, took advantage. He had already sent 5,000 Soviet troops, dressed in Chinese uniforms, to Xinjiang, provoking a rebellion against the pro-Soviet local puppet but also increasing the Soviet foothold.¹⁵³ Chiang feared a Soviet pact with Japan to divide China—after all, the Soviets had already broken off Outer Mongolia from China—but he was more obliged than ever to tolerate Soviet encroachment.¹⁵⁴ That’s because Stalin now agreed to sell desperately needed combat aircraft and to help with training, as in Spain, although in China’s case he did so on credit (altogether extending three separate loans to the Chinese government, totaling $250 million, to cover the costs).¹⁵⁵ In the wake of Stalin’s military pullback from the ongoing civil war in Spain (Operation X), at least 450 Soviet pilots would be in China before the year was out (Operation Z).¹⁵⁶ During the last few months of 1937, the USSR flew 297 fighter planes and bombers into Chinese airfields, while trucks and ships (via Canton) delivered nearly 300 cannons, 82 tanks, 400 vehicles, and a mass supply of arms and ammunition. Stalin also lent support to Chinese partisan units, to further tie down the Japanese, and ordered Comintern head Dimitrov, again, to rein in the revolutionary impulses of the Chinese Communist party.

Some 400 Uighur students, future Soviet agents for Chinese Xinjiang, were being schooled in Tashkent, but then the Uighurs were all executed in a single night. After murdering his own Xinjiang fifth column, Stalin blinded himself, recalling and executing his diplomats from half a dozen consulates across China’s western interior, including Ürümqi and Kashgar. Still, his position in Xinjiang strengthened as the Soviets oversaw construction of a nearly 2,000-mile road, completed in just months with Chinese coolie labor, from Sary-Ozek, Kazakhstan, through Ürümqi to Lanzhou, to transport war supplies to China’s anti-Japanese resistance.¹⁵⁷

THE OTHER FRONT

Spain was still on fire. “The front stretches very far,” Pravda’s Koltsov had lyricized in his Spanish diary (July 7, 1937). “It goes from Madrid’s trenches, across Europe, across the entire world. It crosses countries, villages, cities, it crosses boisterous meeting halls, it courses quietly through the shelves of bookstores.”¹⁵⁸ And apartments: Malenkov informed Stalin (August 16) of a denunciation from a Soviet official in Spain, who had written, “I do not know if it is known in Moscow that in Madrid Koltsov lives with his two wives with completely equal status (at least by outward appearance). There are very many conversations and troubling questions about this, including in Madrid. The matter does not just concern giving an answer to our Spanish friends whether polygamy is legal for Soviet writers, but also, for example, the apartment of Koltsov’s [common-law] wife, Maria Osten, has been turned into a salon where high-profile comrades of various nationalities gather and where they discuss delicate questions in the presence of not fully verified comrades.”¹⁵⁹

Soviet advisers were trying to stave off defeat, reorganizing the International Brigades. In September 1937, Victorio Codovilla (b. 1894), an Italian-Argentine Comintern representative in Spain, was recalled to Moscow. Dimitrov forwarded to Stalin (September 8) a letter from Codovilla asking “what tactics should we advise the Comintern” for victory in Spain. Stalin wrote in the margin: “Together with the Socialists, without looking away from them, expose and smash the enemies of the united front.” Where Codovilla noted that the parliament was not meeting, Stalin wrote, “Restore the parliament, the municipal governments.” Where Codovilla re-proposed a merger of the Spanish Socialist and Communist parties, suggesting both names be used, Stalin wrote in the margin, “United Worker Party.”¹⁶⁰

FRONTLINE DEFENSE

Chiang Kai-shek did not capitulate to Japan. Still, Stalin might have been chastened at the prospect that China would fall, which would allow Japan to pivot toward the Soviet Union. A Japanese advance beyond Peking toward Kalgan in August 1937, on the old caravan route to Mongolia, threatened the Soviet satellite, a potential springboard for invading Eastern Siberia and cutting off the Soviet Far East. But Stalin pressed ahead with his destabilizing decapitation of the Red Army on trumped-up charges, including in the Soviet Far East. He also allowed his murderous “mass operations” to continue, which consumed vast industrial and transport resources. Most strikingly, he unleashed a rampage in Mongolia.¹⁶¹

On August 13, Stalin met in the Little Corner for four hours with Molotov, Voroshilov, Yezhov, Frinovsky, and Pyotr Smirnov, a newly minted deputy defense commissar; chief of staff Shaposhnikov joined the meeting late.¹⁶² Yezhov reported on a pending “Japanese-sponsored” coup d’état in the Mongolian capital. (Genden, Mongolia’s prime minister, who was suspected of being pro-Japanese, had already been arrested in Sochi.) Stalin decided to send a clandestine delegation headed by Frinovsky. He also named Mironov, the Western Siberian NKVD boss, plenipotentiary for Mongolia, in place of the Soviet ambassador (who was a Soviet intelligence operative but was arrested by the NKVD for being a Japanese spy). “As soon as his promotion occurred,” Mironov’s wife, Agnessa, noted, “Mirosha became manifestly cheerful, and his former self-confidence returned immediately.” And yet, as Frinovsky and his armed gang traveled by train to pick him up on the way at Novosibirsk, Mironov started to fear that his promotion might be a ruse to effect his arrest.¹⁶³ Not this time. In Irkutsk, Eastern Siberia, Frinovsky beat a local official in the greeting party to a pulp in front of the rest of the local leadership, demonstrating how “enemies” were dealt with.¹⁶⁴ He and Mironov disembarked in Ulan Ude (Soviet Buryatia) and went the final 350 miles by car to Ulan Bator, which they reached on August 24, unannounced. It was not the Japanese but the Soviets who launched a coup d’état.

Marshal Demid, Mongolia’s popular defense minister, untouchable inside his country, had been summoned for talks in Moscow and, en route, had stopped briefly in Irkutsk on August 20, around the same time that Frinovsky had arrived in the city. On August 22, near Taiga Station (close to Novosibirsk), Demid died of “food poisoning” from Soviet-supplied canned goods. His corpse continued all the way to Moscow, where it was met at Kazan Station by an honor guard, then dispatched to a crematorium.¹⁶⁵ Demid had played a key role in Genden’s removal, at Moscow’s bidding.¹⁶⁶ Stalin evidently did not expect Demid to acquiesce in the wholesale slaughter of the Mongolian officer corps he had appointed for being “Japanese agents.” Demid’s rival, the other Mongolian marshal, Interior Minister Khorloogiin Choibalsan, had staged five public trials between April 1936 and May 1937, of lamas as “Japanese and Chinese spies.” “We fulfilled the advice of comrade Stalin,” he had reported to Yezhov. But now, Frinovsky told Choibalsan of more spies and plots, and insisted that he invite in more Soviet troops. A formal invitation was issued on August 25; two days later, Molotov and Voroshilov telegrammed an affirmative response.¹⁶⁷ A Soviet army commanded by Ivan Konev, from the Transbaikal military district, had already crossed the frontier—nearly 30,000 well-equipped troops. Their mission was to deter Japan and prepare Mongolia as a supply hub for the Nationalists in China. (The Gobi Desert dunes, belatedly studied, would be revealed to be untraversable.)

Following Demid’s funeral, Choibalsan became defense minister and supreme commander (September 2, 1937). With him, Frinovsky compiled a list of 115 “spies,” reporting every detail to Yezhov. Demid, who held a Soviet Order of the Red Banner and numerous Mongolian military medals, became a Japanese spy posthumously. On September 10, sixty-five people on the list were rounded up. The next day, Mongolia’s top brass were summoned to appear at Choibalsan’s office in full regalia and, one by one, were arrested, transported to prison, and tortured to confess.¹⁶⁸ Frinovsky set up an “extraordinary commission,” like a troika, to expedite sentencing-shootings, then departed for home.¹⁶⁹ The “diplomat” Mironov remained.

A public trial (October 4–7, 1937) of “reactionary lamas” charged with spying for Japan was staged in Ulan Bator’s State Central Theater (which also functioned as the national parliament’s building).¹⁷⁰ The theater overflowed with 1,323 people (against a capacity of 1,200), while public loudspeakers broadcast the proceedings and expansive coverage was given in the party newspaper Ünen (Truth). All twenty-three defendants, who had been burned with hot iron rods and promised their lives if they confessed, did so; four were sentenced to the Gulag, nineteen to death. They were shot in front of the theater. On October 18, in the same venue, a second public trial was staged, of fourteen high officials said to belong to a Genden-Demid “organization.” Two days later, all fourteen were pronounced guilty; one was sent to a camp, and thirteen were taken to a valley outside the capital, where, with truck and car headlights illuminating the darkness, they were executed. Those Mongolian leaders who were not executed were forced to observe. Choibalsan, drunk, waved his pistol and shouted revolutionary slogans.¹⁷¹

LEADERS COME AND GO

Reveries of finding vast numbers of capable “new people” had periodically gripped Stalin, and now many young people, capable or otherwise, were vaulted into high places. Of the 12,500 graduates of higher-education institutions in the fourth quarter of 1937, 2,127 went directly to senior positions, including 278 promoted to directors or deputy directors of factories; another 22 became directors, deputy directors, heads, or deputy heads of departments in trusts; 294 became heads or deputy heads of departments or sectors in the Council of People’s Commissars.Many were promoted again, quickly. In September 1937, M. S. Lazarev went from chief of a shop at the Gorky Automobile Plant to director of the Yaroslavl Electric Machine-Building Factory. “I literally had to go onto the site unprepared, because the management had been arrested and the apparatus was completely new,” he would tell a Central Committee conference for the recently promoted. But then, on October 1, he was promoted again, becoming head of the tractor and motor industry in the machine building commissariat.¹⁷² Not all of these newly promoted people could cope. “I want to say, honestly, that, despite nine months of work, I have failed to get into the rhythm of things and to develop appropriate economic skills,” admitted S. M. Dobrokhotov, the deputy head and chief engineer of the strategic rubber industry, also in the machine building commissariat.

Even with such promotions, the Soviet system was not producing nearly enough young people to fill all the vacated positions, in the center or the locales, because right through the terror and beyond, the apparatus was ballooning.¹⁷³ In fall 1937, a floodlike 130,000 students were admitted to higher-education institutions.¹⁷⁴ On October 23, 1937, the politburo established a commission for assigning graduates of higher education directly via the Central Committee.¹⁷⁵

On the evening of October 29, Stalin hosted a reception in the Kremlin’s Palace of Facets, culminating a four-day conference of some 400 representatives of the metals-and-coal industry. He had already explicitly identified his rule with the expansive ranks of middling “cadres” in his resounding slogan “Cadres decide everything” (1935), but by 1937 he was singling out the up-and-coming generation more and more, receiving them in the magical inner sanctum, the Little Corner, or, as now, in the lustrous reception halls of the Kremlin.¹⁷⁶ “Leaders come and go, but the people remain,” he told the coal-and-metals gathering. “Only the people are immortal. All the rest is transient. Therefore, it is necessary to be able to value the confidence of the people.” He could not help divulging, “I am not sure, I apologize again, that there are not people among you who, although they work for the Soviet government, are not also taking care of themselves in the West by also working for some foreign intelligence services: Japanese, German, or Polish.” (These lines were edited out of his remarks published in Pravda.) But he went on to accentuate the positive. “Comrades! My toast will be original and unusual,” he continued. “We are accustomed to pronounce toasts for the health of leaders, bosses, vozhdi, people’s commissars. This, of course, is not bad. But besides the big leaders, there are middling and lesser leaders. We have tens of thousands of these leaders, the middling and lesser ones. They are modest people, they do not push themselves out front, they are almost unnoticeable. But one would be blind not to notice them. Because the fate of production in our entire economy depends on them. . . . To the health of our middle and smaller economic leaders! (Ovation, shouts of Hurrah.)”¹⁷⁷

Stalin’s populism was addressed not to the workers but to the middle and lower-level functionaries, people he christened the “Soviet intelligentsia.” He showed an uncanny knack for winning over people who, like himself, had risen from humble backgrounds, thanks to education. He identified with these up-and-comers, claiming them as his own, sentiments they keenly reciprocated. To be sure, Stalin bullied and dominated others, demanded unquestioning obedience, whose manifestation (or not) he alone judged. And yet, cruel and capricious though he was, Stalin could also be highly personable. “All his life he was very good at finding people and promoting them,” recalled Svetlana, “and that is why so many remained devoted to him, often young people whom he would pull out and promote over the heads of the old guard. That was quite a part of him: his sociability and being with people.”¹⁷⁸

Galvanizing and molding young strivers fit Stalin’s personality as much as pathological suspicion and wholesale murder. Ryutin, in his 1932 “Stalin and the Crisis of the Proletarian Dictatorship,” had called for “new forces” from within the party and the working class to “destroy Stalin’s dictatorship,” but Stalin himself was conjuring these new forces to replace destroyed functionaries of his dictatorship.¹⁷⁹ Of course, if he felt he needed to clear space to promote a hard-charging younger generation, he could have forced sitting functionaries into retirement.¹⁸⁰ By having the new people take the place of the wantonly tortured and executed, he compromised them all.

PETER AND SOVIET PATRIOTISM

Not a single member of Stalin’s politburo, going back to 1930, had completed university, the despot included, but he adhered ferociously to the transformative power of education, and for him Russian history was among the greatest pedagogical instruments. But his commission to produce a new history textbook for elementary schools had yielded only vague instructions, finalized and signed by him, Zhdanov, and Kirov at his Sochi dacha back in summer 1934; they were published only after significant delay in Pravda (January 27, 1936), which was followed by an open competition. On August 22, 1937, a second-place winner was announced (there was no first-place winner). It was a humble collective at the Moscow State Pedagogical Institute, led by Andrei Shestakov.¹⁸¹ Shestakov (b. 1877) had grown up one of nine children, the son of a peasant and a fisherman on the White Sea littoral, and finished only the local five-year school before being hired on at the woodcutting factory, but he studied at night.¹⁸² He had relocated to Moscow in 1921, by then a skilled mechanic, and took up the study of agrarian history, at age forty-four, at the Institute of Red Professors. By the 1930s, he had become deputy director and then director of the Museum of the Revolution.¹⁸³ His team worked on their manuscript, A Short Course on the History of the USSR: A Textbook for the Third and Fourth Grades, from March 1936 through July 1937, and, after political vetting, had it published in September 1937 for the start of the new school year and the run-up to the twentieth anniversary of the revolution.

While maintaining the Marxist core of class struggle, the book offered a nationalist narrative of Russia’s “gathering of the lands”—from Kievan Rus, in the tenth century, through the Stalin Constitution of 1936—in the spirit of nineteenth-century historiography. “We love our country and we must know its wonderful history,” the book noted. “Those who know history understand present-day life better, are better able to fight the enemies of our country, and make Socialism stronger.”¹⁸⁴ In the last quarter of 1937, 6.5 million Russian-language copies were printed; it was simultaneously translated into the languages of the Soviet peoples.¹⁸⁵ Still, parents struggled to obtain copies.¹⁸⁶ The USSR counted some 30 million schoolchildren, and the Shestakov text was recommended beyond schools.¹⁸⁷ “Not only millions of children and young people will learn according to it,” enthused the party journal Bolshevik, “but so will millions of workers and peasants and hundreds of thousands of party activists, propagandists, and agitators.”¹⁸⁸ There were critics. “It has not turned out to be a history of the USSR at all,” Volodymyr Zatonsky, Ukraine’s commissar of enlightenment, wrote of the draft manuscript. “Basically, it is a history of the Russian state.”¹⁸⁹ In celebrating a great power, not its nationalities, the text gave a prominent place to personalities, a rebuke to abstract schema such as “feudal epoch.”¹⁹⁰ Shestakov portrayed Peter the Great not as an oppressor who built a baroque capital on the bones of the lower orders, but as a dynamic leader who had transformed Russia almost single-handedly by advancing technical training and military skills.¹⁹¹

Stalin had edited Shestakov’s text closely, inserting in the section on ancient Rus that “Christianity in its time was a step forward in the development of Russia in comparison to paganism.” Leafing through the page proofs of the manuscript, Stalin had struck out a reproduction of Ilya Repin’s painting Ivan the Terrible Killing His Son and inserted a laudatory passage on the dreaded oprichnina for strengthening “the autocratic power in the Russian state by destroying the privileges of the boyars.” This marked the Soviet despot’s rethinking of how to fit Ivan, too, into the grand statist narrative.¹⁹² Stalin deemed the centralizing Russian state as having been progressive in its time, allowing the Russian people to push forward on the road of capitalist development, while introducing enlightenment to backward regions, but the Soviets had rightly altered the state’s class basis, enabling Soviet propaganda to glorify both the imperial Russian state and the revolutionary movement against it.

In parallel, Vladimir Petrov’s film Peter the First, adapted from the popular novel by Aleksei Tolstoy, had premiered on September 1, 1937, the opening day of school.¹⁹³ It showed the tsar forging his new capital and cadres ruthlessly, decisively. “The epoch of Peter I was one of the greatest pages in the history of the Russian people,” Tolstoy told workers at the Skorokhod factory (September 11). “The boyars’ dark, uncultured Rus, with their backward technology and patriarchal beards, would have fallen to foreign invaders in no time. A revolution was necessary within the very life of the country, in order to lift Russia up to the level of the cultured European countries. Peter was able to accomplish this, and the Russian people were able to defend their independence.”¹⁹⁴ One Soviet inhabitant proudly recorded in her diary, “The content and superb execution of our films arouse admiration even abroad. If you take such films as Chapayev [and] Peter the First . . . you simply forget that you’re sitting in a movie theater, and not actually participating in what you are seeing.”¹⁹⁵

Stalin, like Peter (albeit without the extensive travels), had come to understand Europe as both a treasure trove of know-how and technology to be copied and a political and geopolitical threat to be kept at bay to protect Russia’s non-Western identity and nondemocratic system. His recorded comments on Peter had been intermittent (1926, 1928, 1931), but all had emphasized the class nature of the tsar’s rule. Now, too, incorporation of Peter in the Soviet pantheon did not vitiate the Marxist stance or class critique.¹⁹⁶ More broadly, Stalin did not reintroduce ritualized processionals accompanied by clergy. Instead of landed gentry and bureaucrats, the USSR had only functionaries; instead of peasant households and self-organized communes, it had statist collectives; instead of the Orthodox Church, Marxism-Leninism. Stalin did not elevate his children to be tsareviches. When he caught his son Vasily attempting to trade on his lineage, he exploded, “You’re not Stalin and I’m not Stalin. Stalin is Soviet power. Stalin is what he is in the newspapers and the portraits, not you, no, not even me!”¹⁹⁷ In sum, notwithstanding superficial resemblances—a one-man autocracy, an overweening state, a functionary ethos, an obsession with security, a forced modernization drive—anyone who had lived under both systems, not only peasants and the pious, knew the differences.¹⁹⁸

The Soviet Union even lacked a requirement to study Russian, and most non-Russian schoolchildren were illiterate in the language. When the enlightenment commissar of the Russian republic suggested a far-reaching Russification of schooling, Stalin objected, insisting that Russian become only a subject, not the medium of all instruction, to the detriment of vernacular languages.¹⁹⁹ Still, a state imperative was felt. “There is one language in which all citizens of the USSR can more or less express themselves—that is Russian,” Stalin remarked at a Central Committee plenum (October 12, 1937). “So we concluded that it should be obligatory. It would be good if all citizens drafted into the army could express themselves in Russian just a little, so that if some division or other was transferred, say an Uzbek one to Samara, it could converse with the populace.”²⁰⁰

LOOSE-TONGUED SELF-PORTRAIT

On November 6, 1937, the eve of the revolution’s twentieth anniversary, at the Bolshoi, which was resplendent in red velvet and gold trim and sported an expensive new curtain, Mikhail Romm’s Lenin in October premiered. This was the first feature film with Stalin as a lead character, played by Semyon Goldstab, a Jewish actor from Ukraine. The film depicted a likable, grandfatherly Lenin (played by Boris Shchukin) who relied on Stalin, while Kamenev and Zinoviev, Trotsky, the Mensheviks, and SRs were shown to be objects of Lenin’s hatred and treasonous opponents of the seizure of power. After the showing, Stalin would have Romm reshoot the scenes involving the storming of the Winter Palace and the arrest of the Provisional Government by Antonov-Ovseyenko (who had recently returned from Spain and himself been arrested).²⁰¹ The film’s message, like the press accounts of the anniversary, was that Stalin was Lenin’s equal.

On November 7, as elite units of the Red Army massed near Red Square, dignitaries assembled on the reviewing stand. To the right of the Mausoleum stood the foreign diplomatic corps, in fur hats and fur-lined coats; to the left, Soviet high officialdom; on the Mausoleum itself, at the last minute, Stalin emerged, accompanied by the retinue. When the Savior’s Tower chimes struck 10:00 a.m., Voroshilov, on a white horse, rode to the assembled troops and administered the oath of allegiance to each unit in turn. The formations, as they passed, turned sharply rightward toward the Mausoleum in unison. “It was extremely moving, regardless of where one stood politically,” remarked an American observer. “I had heard the most cynical diplomats admit that this was ‘stark drama.’”²⁰²

That night, in the privacy of Voroshilov’s Kremlin apartment, two dozen or so regime intimates gathered, as per custom. Some thirty-odd toasts had already been pronounced by the time Stalin rose, and he rambled at length. “The Russian tsars did a great deal that was bad,” he began his toast. “They robbed and enslaved the people. They waged wars and seized territories in the interests of landowners. But they did one thing that was good: they amassed an enormous state, all the way to Kamchatka. We have inherited that state.” Here was an awesome responsibility—and an evidently inebriated Stalin added a warning. “Whoever attempts to destroy that unity of the socialist state, whoever seeks the separation of any of its parts or nationalities—that man is an enemy. . . . And we will destroy each and every such enemy; even if he was an old Bolshevik, we shall destroy all his kin, his family.”²⁰³

Interrupted by shouts “To the great Stalin,” he continued impatiently (“I have not finished my toast”) and turned once more to the decisiveness of the middle cadres, over the objections of those present—try to stay silent—that his leadership was decisive: “A great deal is said about great leaders. But a cause is never won unless the right conditions exist. And the main thing here is the middle cadres—party, economic, military. They’re the ones who choose the leader, explain our positions to the masses, and ensure the success of our cause. They don’t try to climb above their station; you don’t even notice them.” Dimitrov again tried to object that Stalin was nonetheless more important, prompting him to insist yet again, “The fundamental thing is the middle cadres. That must be noted, and it must never be forgotten that, other conditions being equal, the middle cadres decide the outcome of our cause.”²⁰⁴

Stalin then broached the most taboo of subjects. “Why did we prevail over Trotsky and the rest?” he asked. “Trotsky, as we know, was the most popular man in our country after Lenin.” Trotsky—the number two! “Bukharin, Zinoviev, Rykov, Tomsky were all popular. We were little known—yours truly, Molotov, Voroshilov, and Kalinin—then.”²⁰⁵ Stalin went on to explain, however, that Trotsky had committed the fatal mistake of ignoring the middle cadres. “The party itself had wanted” the triumph of the lesser-knowns.

In yet another revealing gesture that tipsy night, Stalin indulged his man-of-the-borderlands persona, stating, “Comrade Dimitrov, I apologize for interrupting you; I am not a European, but a Russified Georgian-Asiatic.”²⁰⁶ We can only guess how émigré press portrayals of him rankled: a kinto (Georgian thug), a snitch for the tsarist okhranka, a nonentity, a usurper, an Asiatic.

Stalin in his toast referred to himself as just a “practical type” (praktik), unlike those famous personages. “Whom did we have?” he asked, answering, “Well, I led the organizational work in the Central Committee,” as if it were the most humdrum, shoulder-to-the-wheel post. “But what was I in comparison with Ilich [Lenin]? A feeble specimen.” He named his faction: “There were Molotov, Kalinin, Kaganovich, Voroshilov—all of whom were unknown. . . .” But, Stalin continued, “the people advance those who lead them to victory, personalities in history come and go, but the people remain, and the people do not make mistakes.” The unerring folk: that was how the hardworking faction of “feeble specimens” had triumphed over the famous personages like Trotsky. “I remind you of the following,” Stalin added, with evident pride. “In 1927, 700,000 party members voted for the Central Committee’s line; such was the core who voted for us feeble specimens. Some 4,000 to 6,000 voted for Trotsky, and 20,000 abstained.”²⁰⁷ In closing, he recalled Kirov’s death, a wake-up call: “Kirov, with his blood, opened the eyes of us idiots (excuse the blunt expression).”²⁰⁸ After the toasts ran their course, they repaired to the Kremlin cinema for another viewing of Romm’s Lenin in October.

POSTSCRIPT

On November 11, 1937, Stalin received Dimitrov and Wang Ming, a young rival to Mao, and told them, “Trotskyites [in China] must be hunted down, shot, destroyed. They are international provocateurs, fascism’s most vicious agents!” Stalin also instructed them that “the main thing now is the war, not an agrarian revolution, not confiscation of land,” and concluded, “neither England nor America wants China to win. They fear a Chinese victory because of their own imperialist ambitions.” (Wang would immediately leave Moscow, where he had lived for six years, and, in China, insist on mounting a party congress, where he would deliver the political report.)²⁰⁹ With the Comintern types, Stalin underscored how waverers in the party had faltered at every difficult moment: in 1905, in October 1917, Brest-Litovsk in 1918, the civil war, “and especially collectivization, a completely novel, historically unprecedented event. Various weak elements fell away from the party . . . they went underground. Powerless themselves, they linked up with external enemies, promised Ukraine to the Germans, Belorussia to the Poles, the Far East to the Japanese. They hoped for war and were especially insistent that the German fascists launch a war against the USSR as soon as possible.” He continued: “They were planning an action for the beginning of this year. They lost their nerve. They were preparing in July [1937] to attack the politburo at the Kremlin. But they lost their nerve.”²¹⁰

Preposterous: longtime Communists had no such opportunity to “link up” with foreign enemies or attempt a coup. And yet, time and again, when volunteering thoughts on the mass arrests and executions, Stalin returned to the party opposition to collectivization in 1932, and the plots against him. Time magazine (November 15, 1937), of all places, mentioned alleged assassinaton attempts. “Our Sun!” the magazine wrote semifacetiously of the celebrations of Stalin not only in Moscow but also in Madrid and, in a lesser way, at Carnegie Hall in New York, in connection with the twentieth anniversary of the Russian Revolution, comparing Stalin to Louis XIV. Time highlighted Romm’s new film, in which “it is not Lenin and Trotsky who make the revolution of 1917 but Lenin and Stalin,” adding, “With Sun Stalin eclipsing Trotsky in Spain as well as in Russia, the Dictator felt strong enough to permit the bringing to light in court last week of two attempts to assassinate him years ago.” This was a reference to two incidents, in 1933 and 1935, both in the Caucasus, neither (as we have seen) an attempt on Stalin’s life, but both recently detailed as such in Dawn of the East, the Georgian party newspaper under Beria’s control.²¹¹

STICKING WITH CHIANG

Stalin and his intermediaries continued to rebuff China’s entreaties for the Soviets to declare war on Japan, but Moscow was shipping arms a great distance and at great difficulty, mostly through Xinjiang, to keep the fighting going.²¹² Japan had forced Chiang into all-out war, which won him strong domestic support, perhaps the most for a Chinese ruler since the mid–Qing dynasty, but Chiang took considerable time to find a workable strategy of resistance. His frontal military battles led to catastrophe. In November 1937, the Japanese captured Shanghai, followed, on December 13, by Nanking, the Chinese Nationalist capital, where the Imperial troops proceeded to massacre up to 300,000 civilians. The Nationalist government fled to Wuhan, in the interior. Only now, after the devastation of even his crack troops, did Chiang turn from frontal engagements to a long war of attrition.²¹³

Stalin stuck to his strategy of a Nationalist-led united front against Japan, reasoning that Japan could fight either China or the Soviet Union but not both, and using Dimitrov and Wang Ming to tamp down the Communists to the extent possible. Wang Ming went to Wuhan as the Chinese Communist liaison to the Nationalists; Mao stayed at Yan’an, where the Communist base would expand significantly, from perhaps 40,000 members in 1937 to 200,000 by the next year.²¹⁴ The desperate Long March to desolate Yan’an to escape Nationalist encirclement was proving to be a boon for survivors, now buffering the Communists from the brunt of the Imperial Japanese Army. Japan’s war in China was unintentionally reordering the balance of power between Chiang’s Nationalists and Mao’s Communists to the latter’s favor. In December 1937, Chiang—in yet another attempt to drag the Soviets directly into the war—publicly revealed that China was getting substantial Soviet military aid. “Chiang Kai-shek behaved not fully cautiously,” Stalin wrote to Molotov and Voroshilov. “Well, the devil take him.”²¹⁵ But Stalin held to him.

CELEBRATION AMID DEATH

In December 1937, the USSR held elections for the new bicameral Supreme Soviet, a permanent body to replace the Congress of Soviets. There were 569 seats in the soviet of the Union and 574 in the soviet of nationalities, both elected on the basis of universal suffrage.²¹⁶ The provision for multiple candidates had been unceremoniously dropped.²¹⁷ Stalin, too, ran for election, choosing to represent Moscow city’s “Stalin ward,” and delivered candidate remarks from the imperial box at the Bolshoi on December 11, 1937. (“Comrades, to tell you the truth, I had no intention of making a speech. But our respected Nikita Sergeyevich [Khrushchev] dragged me, so to speak, to this meeting. ‘Make a good speech,’ he said.”) The next day, the uncontested balloting took place as the regime laid on food, drink, music, and dancing.²¹⁸ The process reached into every village, and no-show voters were monitored. The press reported that more than 91 million votes were cast—96.8 percent of those eligible—and that every candidate running was duly “elected.”²¹⁹

On December 20, the NKVD celebrated its twentieth anniversary. Sergei Mironov traveled from blood-soaked Mongolia, finding portraits of Dzierżyński and Yezhov adorning all Soviet newspapers and Young Pioneers competing for the honor of having their scout groups bear these names.²²⁰ At the Bolshoi, Voroshilov, Zhdanov, Dimitrov, and others sat in the presidium. Kaganovich arrived late and was greeted by an ovation. So did Molotov (for him the hall stood while applauding). Mikoyan chaired the festivities and praised NKVD head Yezhov as “a talented and faithful pupil of Stalin . . . beloved by the Soviet people.”²²¹ In Pravda that morning, Frinovsky had denounced the swine and fascist bandits inside the NKVD who had been arrested; Mikoyan’s speech closed with praise for their replacements. “The NKVD has worked gloriously during this time,” he noted. “Let us wish that the workers of the NKVD in future will work as gloriously as they have this year.”²²² Another ten Orders of Lenin were awarded to NKVD operatives, to go with the forty-six from the summer.²²³ Stalin joined for the post-speech concert.²²⁴

The next night, Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony premiered in Leningrad, in the white auditorium of the former Chamber Music Association. “Writers, poets, musicians, scientists, and army officers filled every seat,” Jelagin recalled. “The younger people stood in the aisles along the walls. . . . The audience refused to leave, and the applause continued unabated. Shostakovich came out and took dozens of bows.” He was no longer the “formalist.”²²⁵ This was also Stalin’s official fifty-ninth birthday. He received Molotov, Yezhov, Voroshilov, Kaganovich, and Mikoyan for three hours, until 1:00 a.m. In media res, he summoned Pyotr Pumpur, head of aviation training in the Red Air Force, and Yakov Smushkevich, a thirty-five-year-old fighter pilot, both of them decorated Spanish civil war veterans who now oversaw the dispatch of Soviet pilots to China.²²⁶ The NKVD was reporting devastating shortcomings in the air forces of the Red Army: not just egregious rations, loss of valuable equipment, alcoholism, and hazing, but a colossal number of aviation crashes. Stalin received interrogation protocols indicating that in the Soviet Far East, new aerodromes, poorly built, flooded in the rain and became unusable, forcing planes to be kept under an open sky. “Very important,” Stalin wrote back to Yezhov.²²⁷ The response, for now, would be more arrests, more executions.^{228, 229, 230}

Stalin’s last office visitors on the evening of December 23, members of the inner circle, departed at 10:05 p.m. Whether they accompanied him for supper at the Near Dacha remains unknown. At 5:00 a.m., he awoke with a temperature of 102 degrees Fahrenheit (38.9 Celsius), which had not fallen as of 12:20 p.m., ten minutes before he received Yezhov. An entry made that day in his medical record by Professor Valedinsky and Kremlin hospital chief Pyotr Mandryka noted “general weakness, slightly hyperemic nostrils, and conjunctiva. Not severe exterior pallor, some puffiness of the face. A heavy head. . . . A slight pain on the right when swallowing, serious congestion in the back on the right. Posterior wall of the pharynx is covered with mucus, slightly hyperemic.” Their diagnosis was “follicular angina” (inflammation of the lymphoid ring in the throat) and “myasthenia” (chronic autoimmune neuromuscular disease). The illness proved to be prolonged. Stalin slept poorly. On December 30, for example, he awoke at 12:40 a.m., after four hours’ rest. A urine sample was taken at 1:45 a.m. (these were frequent). He requested warm milk at 2:25 a.m. At 3:45 a.m. he requested a glass of hot water to shave. He brushed his teeth, went to the toilet. At 5:40 a.m. he fell back asleep, rising three hours later and asking for tea and breakfast. At 4:00 p.m. he fell back asleep until 8:20 p.m., drank some tea, and fell back asleep at 11:15 p.m. for twenty-five minutes, then had supper. He was further diagnosed with streptococcus. No visits were recorded in his office logbook from December 24 through January 6.

RED ARMY VERSUS WEHRMACHT

At the annual year-end gathering of the Main Military Council—which happened before Stalin took ill, but which he did not attend—the recently named commander of the South Caucasus military district (a strategic border area), Nikolai Kuibyshev, had pointed out that new commanders of divisions had never before led even a battalion. Voroshilov, who had to formally approve such appointments, feigned shock. “I assure you, Comrade People’s Commissar, that we could not find anyone better,” Kuibyshev stated, adding that everyone else was in the hands of the NKVD. It was a searing moment of truth. But it passed. Voroshilov, in his closing speech, noted that “the gangrene” had not been fully cut out. Kuibyshev soon fell among the victims.²³¹ To be sure, some Soviet military officers who were framed and shot had been more skilled at embezzling state funds than at commanding troops.²³² Still, their replacements—to the extent that vacant officer positions could even be filled—were not always more honest or competent.²³³ The Red Army had problems before the terror; the massacres created more.

Hitler presented a stark contrast. German army officers swore their service oath to him personally, an innovation instituted by the war minister, Field Marshal Werner von Blomberg, but even so, Hitler, unlike Stalin, experienced significant loyalty issues with the brass. Behind the Führer’s back, Wehrmacht officers did not shrink from discussing how his approach to matters of war was irresponsible and dilettantist. On November 5, 1937, Hitler convened a meeting in the Chancellery to discuss the jockeying over steel supplies between the Luftwaffe (Göring) and the navy (Erich Raeder); army chief Colonel General Werner von Fritsch and Foreign Minister Neurath were also invited. Instead of adjudicating the dispute, Hitler used the occasion to hold forth on Germany’s position in the world, its need for raw materials, and Lebensraum. “The aim of German policy was to make secure and to preserve the racial community and to enlarge it,” he said. “It was therefore a question of space.” But this need for more space ran up against “two hate-inspired antagonists, Britain and France, to whom a German colossus in the center of Europe was a thorn in the flesh.” The Führer outlined scenarios of when—not if—Germany would have to fight a general European war: not later than 1943–45, and possibly before. In the meantime, Hitler said he had “to settle the Czech and Austrian questions” through small wars of plunder, which, he predicted, Britain and France would not oppose militarily.

Two exceedingly noteworthy things happened during the four-hour harangue. First, Hitler mentioned the Soviet Union merely in passing, and he made no reference to “Judeo-Bolshevism.” Second, Blomberg and Fritsch had the temerity to object to the Führer. They “repeatedly emphasized the necessity that Britain and France must not appear in the role of our enemies” (as Blomberg’s adjutant recorded in his notes).²³⁴ Within three months, both Blomberg and Fritsch would be removed, and the army, navy, and air force chiefs would be reporting directly to Hitler.²³⁵ This turnabout was long in coming, but oddly triggered.

The sixty-year-old Blomberg, a widower with five children, got remarried on January 12, 1938; Göring served as best man and Hitler as witness. Shortly thereafter, the police revealed that the twenty-five-year-old bride had been under longtime “morals” surveillance, posed for pornographic photographs, and had a criminal record for prostitution; she was out on parole. Blomberg was afforded a chance to save his situation by annulling the marriage, but he refused, and on January 27 he was relieved of his post. “Worst crisis for the regime since the Röhm Affair,” Goebbels recorded in his diary. “The Führer looks like a corpse.”²³⁶ Fritsch appeared to be next in line to succeed Blomberg, but Hitler became concerned about further scandal: there was a file from summer 1936, collected by SD chief Heydrich, on the bachelor Fritsch’s alleged homosexuality. Hitler’s military adjutant, who smelled a rat, disobeyed the Führer and showed the file to Fritsch. Hitler took his adjutant’s disobedience in stride and summoned Fritsch’s dubious accuser from an internment camp to the Chancellery’s private library, where Fritsch (in cilivian clothes) confronted him. The Gestapo judged the accusations inconsistent. Still, Fritsch was forced to resign on February 3. (At trial, he would be exonerated on the basis of mistaken identity: Frisch instead of Fritsch.) Some figured that Heydrich had set Fritsch up, but if so, the SD had gained nothing; others surmised that Göring had been intriguing to subordinate the army to himself, but again, if that were true, he failed.

On February 4, 1938, a moody Hitler, heeding the advice of Goebbels, abolished the German war ministry and made himself de facto war minister, while appointing the “true as a dog” Wilhelm Keitel as chief of staff. Twelve German generals were removed, but, far from having them arrested and forced under torture to confess to treason on behalf of foreign enemies, Hitler gave them pensions. He sent Blomberg into exile for a year in Italy, with a golden handshake of 50,000 reichsmarks. The Führer was supreme in the military sphere, and the SS was now allowed to create its own armed force of up to 600,000 men—but without mass hysteria, let alone mass murder. Hitler had been concerned throughout about not just commander loyalties but also public perceptions and the standing of the German armed forces.²³⁷

INDISTINGUISHABLE ENEMIES

Stalin was being inundated by petitions about the NKVD’s “illegal” arrests of party members. On January 7, 1938, he announced a Central Committee plenum, to begin four days hence, which would piggyback on the previously scheduled first-ever session of the USSR Supreme Soviet. (All Central Committee members had been “elected” to the pseudo-parliament.) The agenda for the plenum, which met January 11, 14, 18, and 20, was “mistakes committed by party organizations during the expulsion of Communists.”²³⁸ Party officials, given the chance, proved eager to claw back against the NKVD, a matter of (their) life and death. Malenkov divulged that 65,000 of the 100,000 members expelled in the last six months of 1937 had appealed.²³⁹ Stalin allowed the wildness to be reined in: during the first six months of 1938, there would be “only” 37,000 expulsions of party members. In addition, in 1938, 77,000 Communists would be reinstated and 148,000 new members allowed to join (as compared with 32,000 the year before).²⁴⁰ That said, there was no real reprieve. “The SR line (both left and right) has not been fully uncovered,” Stalin wrote to Yezhov (January 17). “Can the NKVD account for the SRs (‘formers’) in the army? I would like to see a report promptly. Can the NKVD account for the ‘former’ SRs outside the army (in civil institutions)? I would also like a report in two-three weeks. . . . What has been done to expose and arrest all Iranians in Baku and Azerbaijan? . . . We must act more swiftly and intelligently.”²⁴¹

The new Supreme Soviet had opened to incredible fanfare on January 12, and three days later it announced an enlarged naval program and a measure authorizing its presidium, formally chaired by Kalinin, to declare a state of war (martial law) if necessary. Yezhov related a “request by the toilers” that Moscow be renamed Stalinodar; Stalin rejected it.²⁴² On January 17, Zhdanov gave a speech condemning spying by foreign consulates in Leningrad, approving the arrests of ethnic groups with compatriots abroad (Poles, Finns, Estonians, Latvians, Germans), hammering at the water transport commissariat under Rykov, and going after Kerzhentsev, head of the committee on artistic affairs, for permitting “alien” culture (such as Meyerhold’s theater).²⁴³ On January 20, at the Kremlin wrap-up reception for delegates, Stalin, during the course of five toasts, called Bukharin and Rykov “foreign agents” and members of a “rightist-Trotskyite anti-Soviet bloc.”²⁴⁴ The next night at the Bolshoi, on the fourteenth anniversary of Lenin’s death, Moscow’s Vakhtangov Theater performed the last act of The Man with a Gun, a play by Nikolai Pogodin about the October Revolution. The accomplished actor Ruben Simonov, an ethnic Armenian, played Stalin in his youthful days. Conscious of the occasion and audience, he had not been able to eat for days and lost control of his nerves. Nonetheless, Jelagin, playing in the orchestra pit, observed Stalin in the imperial box enthusiastically applauding Simonov as himself.²⁴⁵

A Great Citizen, based on the assassination of Kirov, premiered on February 13, 1938, after Stalin’s edits. The Communist character (Katz) was given the last word at the hero’s grave: “The party of Bolsheviks is building a new life, realizing the centuries’ dream of humanity! And those who stand in the way, who try to prohibit this work, the people will destroy!” Pravda’s critic enthused that “A Great Citizen teaches vigilance and the ability to differentiate enemy from friend and friend from enemy.” Besides Katz, nearly every party member who appeared in the film came across as a likely foreign agent.²⁴⁶

Also in mid-February, Trotsky’s son Lev Sedov suffered an acute appendicitis attack and died after treatment in a private Paris clinic run by White Russian émigrés who had NKVD connections. Whether Sedov (b. 1906) could have died of natural causes remains unclear. Trotsky lost his most important follower and the main coordinator of his work, and the NKVD lost its nearly effortless total surveillance over Trotsky’s operations.²⁴⁷

In late February 1938, after all the Spanish gold removed to the Soviet Union had been spent ($550 million) on weapons, an emissary from the Republic arrived to plead for Soviet credits to buy more. Stalin had already withdrawn his military advisers and tankists. Dimitrov, with Stalin’s authorization, had had Spanish Communists nondemonstratively quit the Popular Front government, partly to blunt Franco’s propaganda line.²⁴⁸ But Stalin extended the credits (which would never be repaid) to continue forestalling a Franco victory, even as he showed impatience. “You neither take seriously nor have a deep interest in your own production,” he admonished the Spanish envoy, underscoring the economic benefits of military industry. “You could be doing much more. We’ll give you the motorized equipment, since that is the most difficult. But you must develop your military industry.”²⁴⁹ Soviet military industry, despite investment 2.8 times as high as in 1933, was in disarray from Stalin’s annihilations.

THIRD (AND FINAL) PUBLIC TRIAL

Stalin constantly urged more public trials. Dozens had been staged in fall 1937 throughout the provinces, following an express order by the despot, who complained that “liquidation of wreckers is being undertaken in secret by the NKVD, and collective farmers are not being mobilized in the struggle.” He had dictated sentences by telegram (“shoot”), though a few local judges refused to impose the death penalty on their former party colleagues; prosecutors appealed the judges’ displays of mercy (i.e., ten-year Gulag sentences).²⁵⁰ Some Communists, despite brutalization in the NKVD cellars and threats to family members, refused to incriminate themselves. That included Martemyan Ryutin, author of the devastating internal condemnation of forced collectivization and Stalin’s dictatorship. Back in October 1936, while serving a ten-year sentence, he had been rearrested in solitary confinement and transferred to Lubyanka to furnish “testimony” for a planned trial of right deviationists. (His condemnation of collectivization made him a “rightist” in Stalin’s mind.) But Ryutin steadfastly denied the new charges of “terrorism,” and his “retrial” had taken place in camera in the military collegium (January 10, 1937). It had lasted forty minutes, after which he was executed in the basement.²⁵¹ Ryutin had written to the central executive committee of the Soviet—not to the degenerated party—that “I do not intend to and will not confess things about myself that are untrue, whatever it will cost me.”²⁵²

The Ryutin Platform had come up at the second Moscow trial in late January 1937, but it had not been a central aspect.²⁵³ Bukharin, who was being blackmailed with threats against his wife and daughter, cooperated and was afforded the highest possible profile in Stalin’s terror scenario. He had been in prison for almost a year, and at the prime of life (fifty years of age). During that period (February 1937–March 1938), he wrote an autobiographical novel (How It All Began), a philosophical treatise, a collection of poems, and several rambling “Dear Koba” letters pleading for his life and asking why Stalin needed him to die. It was an excellent question, but one with a ready answer. Whereas Ryutin had been the actual implacable opponent and Bukharin had never joined a party opposition, Bukharin was the preeminent symbol.²⁵⁴ Stalin’s invention of the “right deviation”—a tacit admission that it was not an opponent per se—and his attacks that twisted their policy positions involved a structural threat, a false or petit bourgeois class consciousness. Ultimately, this made Bukharin and the rightists central to Stalin’s terror scenario.

On March 2, 1938, the third Moscow trial finally commenced, like the first two, in the October Hall of the House of Trade Unions, in front of nearly 200 spectators, including the usual handpicked foreign journalists and diplomats. It lasted eighteen sittings. A total of twenty-one defendants, nine of whom had sat in the Central Committee, were in the dock. Three were doctors of the Kremlin medical staff. Stalin had edited chief procurator Vyshinsky’s script. (Vyshinsky would also edit the transcript, removing remarks exculpating the accused and discussions of the law by the defense lawyers.) The accused had spent long hours memorizing their testimony. Bukharin, Krestinsky, Rykov, Cristian Rakovski—staunch Bolsheviks—confessed that they had plotted to assassinate Lenin and Stalin since 1918; had murdered Kirov, Mężyński, Kuibyshev, Gorky, Gorky’s son Maxim; had conspired with Nazi Germany, Japan, and Great Britain to partition the Soviet Union, hand over territory (Ukraine, Belorussia), and abolish collective farms.²⁵⁵ Yezhov had falsely promised at least some defendants their lives in exchange for self-incrimination.²⁵⁶ NKVD interrogators sat in the first row, a reminder that “re-interrogation” could take place between sessions.²⁵⁷ Krestinsky had been “beaten horribly,” according to the head of the Lefortovo prison’s hygiene department. “His entire back was a wound.”²⁵⁸ Still, on the first day, Krestinsky repudiated his confession and pleaded not guilty, causing a sensation. That night he was re-interrogated—he had a wife and children—and on the second day he nodded his assent when asked if he was guilty.²⁵⁹ “It is now clear why there are interruptions of supplies here and there, why, with our riches and abundance of products, there is a shortage first of one thing, then of another,” Vyshinsky thundered. “It is these traitors who are responsible for it.”²⁶⁰

Stalin received from Yezhov daily summaries of reactions to the trial, assembled from NKVD branches around the Union, and some local secret police officials dared to convey comments about how unpersuasive the proceedings were.²⁶¹ In Pravda, and in equally vicious commentary on Soviet radio, Mikhail Koltsov, who had been recalled from Spain, fluently conveyed the party line on the trial, cursing the treasonous snakes, praising Yezhov to the skies. Privately, though, Koltsov was said to have told a fellow writer who had wanted to witness the spectacle live, “Don’t go! . . . What is being done there the mind cannot conceive. . . . Very strange trial. Very strange.”²⁶² The New York Times captured some of the insanity. “It is as if twenty years after Yorktown somebody in power at Washington found it necessary for the safety of the State to send to the scaffold Thomas Jefferson, Madison, John Adams, Hamilton, Jay and most of their associates,” the paper wrote. “The charge against them would be that they conspired to hand over the United States to George III.”²⁶³

Under the klieg lights in the wee hours on March 13, Vasily Ulrich read out the sentences individually. Three were for long Gulag terms. The other sentences—“to be shot”—echoed in the hall eighteen times. “I experienced profound shame, especially here in court, when I learned and understood the full counterrevolutionary infamy of the crimes of the Right-Trotskyite Bloc, in which I served as an assassin,” Pyotr Kryuchkov, Gorky’s former secretary (assigned to him by Yagoda), stated in his last word. He added, “I ask you, citizen judges, for a reduced sentence.” On March 15, the condemned were executed one by one, with Yagoda and Bukharin rumored to have been last so as to have to witness the others’ deaths.²⁶⁴

Yagoda had never risen higher than nonvoting candidate member of the Central Committee, and had never been much of a public face for the regime, absent from prominent public photographs (an exception was the White Sea–Baltic Canal book, which, however, was withdrawn). But his corpse was said to have been displayed on the grounds of his legendary dacha, located outside Moscow on the Kaluga highway, the site of a prerevolutionary estate that he had occupied in 1927. The complex had become part of the Kommunarka state farm and had served as a well-stocked country club for Yagoda’s use, but then it became a killing field. Kommunarka shared that function with nearby Butovo, also just outside Moscow, a former stud farm that the NKVD had seized from its owner. Mass burials of ashes also took place at the former Donskoi Monastery (1591), whose crematorium (completed in October 1927) was the first in Russia or the Soviet Union. Tukhachevsky’s ashes had been dumped here in a mass grave. Initially, victims’ ashes were buried in the common graves using a shovel, but soon the NKVD brought in an excavator and a bulldozer. At Kommunarka, up to 14,000 executions would take place, primarily of political, military, scientific, and cultural figures, whose bones were sometimes seen in the jaws of prowling dogs.²⁶⁵

FAILURES OF CONTEMPORARY KREMLINOLOGY

Contemporaries could not fathom what was going on. “Something incomprehensible is happening,” the secretary of the party organization in the Novosibirsk NKVD, Sergei Plestsov, told an NKVD department chief in Ukraine who had returned briefly to Novosibirsk, his former place of employment, in fall 1937.²⁶⁶ Orlov, NKVD station chief in Spain, also deemed the mass arrests unfathamoble.²⁶⁷ “What for?” the deputy railways commissar, Livshits, had exclaimed when taken away, according to rumors in upper party circles.²⁶⁸ This unanswered question was etched all across the Soviet space, into the walls of teeming prisons and labor camps, stamped on the souls of the children carted off to orphanages, heard echoing through the execution cellars, and repeated throughout society as people wondered if they would be next.²⁶⁹ Victims who had had frequent contact with Stalin did no better. Stalin had included Rosenholz, the long-serving commissar of foreign trade (1930–37), in the March 1938 trial of the Trotskyite-rightist bloc. Rosenholz had told his interrogator-torturer that years earlier, when he had brought Stalin documents, the latter had asked just two or three questions before affixing his signature, trusting Rosenholz, but more recently Stalin’s “suspiciousness had reached lunacy.” He could only surmise that Stalin “was in a fit, a crazy fit of rage against treason, against baseness.”²⁷⁰ “Explaining the present regime in terms of Stalin’s personal lust for power is too superficial,” Trotsky wrote in May 1938. True enough, but he could not explain why such a terror annihilated the very apparatus in whose “class interest” it had supposedly been launched.²⁷¹

Kremlinologists of all stripes absorbed every rumor and strained every nerve to decipher the puzzle. “Every bit of testimony at the [March 1938] Bukharin-Rykov trial was the subject of endless discussion in the Embassy,” recalled Charles Bohlen, who attended as an interpreter for the new American ambassador, Joseph Davies. “There was speculation over the reason the purges were started, what they were trying to accomplish, whether Stalin was mad, whether he had some other sinister plan, how much truth there was in the accusations.”²⁷² Few were as naïve as Davies, who accepted the trials at face value (and believed that the Soviet Union was wending its way in the right direction and eager for cooperation with the capitalists). Bohlen, along with George Kennan, thought Marxism-Leninism had exacerbated whatever obscure power politics lay behind the trials. Most other foreign ambassadors—Werner von der Schulenburg (Germany), Robert Coulondre (France), and Viscount Chilston (Britain)—attributed the bizarre episode to power politics alone.²⁷³ Davies’s approach—to accept the accusations and confessions—was found in Soviet society. “Who would have benefited from sentencing and executing such people . . . if they were not guilty?” recalled the Soviet writer Konstantin Simonov of Tukhachevsky and other top officers. “Either they were guilty or what was happening was incomprehensible.”²⁷⁴

Lifelong revolutionaries, who had been beaten by tsarist police for working on behalf of the revolution, were now being beaten with whips, blackjacks, and poles to confess to lifelong conspiracies against the revolution. Inside the party and among party widows, hearsay circulated about Stalin’s special thirst for revenge and his vendetta against the “old Bolsheviks” (those who had joined the party before 1917), because they knew the real story of his past and Lenin’s call for his removal.²⁷⁵ Old Bolsheviks numbered 182,000 in 1934 and would number 125,000 in 1939, a decline of one third, which was roughly the annihilation ratio for all officials.²⁷⁶ Another conjecture involved apparatchik fears of a supposed “transition to democracy,” since the draft constitution had restored the right to vote to former kulaks and called for multicandidate elections.²⁷⁷ Stalin had contemptuously dismissed any concerns, then threw out the multicandidate idea anyway.Probably the most widespread contemporary supposition about the terror involved a belief—or a desire to believe—that Stalin remained unaware. “We thought that Stalin did not know about the insane retribution against Communists, and the Soviet intelligentsia,” the writer Ehrenburg recalled. Meyerhold said, “They hide it from Stalin.” Pasternak said, “If only someone told all this to Stalin!”²⁷⁸

Functionaries inside the police harbored similar delusions. Israel Shreider, who went by Mikhail, a top official in the militia (the regular police), which was subordinated to the NKVD, observed that “at that time, I saw Stalin as a god and blindly believed that he did not know what was going on in the organs of the NKVD.” Arrested himself, he was taken to Moscow’s Butyrka prison, whose cells were crammed with big shots. They were beaten senseless during “interrogations.” None wanted to speak to the others, suspecting that their cell mates were stool pigeons, and each demanded paper so they could write petitions to Stalin to profess their innocence. “Everyone wrote to Stalin,” Shreider explained. “Naturally, in perpetually thinking of Stalin, we frequently saw him in our dreams, spoke with him, proved to him our innocence, complained about the torturer-interrogators.” The next day, Shreider added, they noticed that those who had dreamed of Stalin were summoned to “interrogation” and beaten. “When someone began to report that he had seen Stalin in his dream,” he noted, “the whole cell expressed sympathy.” They noticed that their interrogators would place their petitions to Stalin on the desk during interrogations. “Does Stalin know?” they asked themselves again. “The petitions and complaints are not reaching him!”²⁷⁹

A corollary to the Stalin-did-not-know delusion was the legend of infiltration of the NKVD by enemies aiming to destroy good people. “Everyone more and more talks about the sickness or wrecking by the NKVD leaders,” professor Vladimir Vernadsky (b. 1863), a renowned geochemist and member of the Soviet Academy of Sciences, wrote in his diary (January 25, 1938). “More and more heard about Yezhov’s wrecking. Again unnecessary, infuriating severity all around. Again discussion of deliberate wrecking” (February 20).²⁸⁰ A political commissar in the army in Vyazma, near Smolensk, told a military associate, “It looks like party cadres are being destroyed deliberately.”²⁸¹

These and other conjectures—which would echo in the subsequent scholarly literature—offer insight into Soviet mentalities of the time, but no explanation for the terror.²⁸² In Mongolia, there was no old Bolshevism or faux transition to democracy. Mironov had gone back to Ulan Bator, where he would personally help force the arrest of at least 10,000 Mongols in the sparsely populated country, including 300 ministerial officials and 180 military leaders, by the time he returned to Moscow for good in April 1938.²⁸³ A onetime lowly ensign of the tsarist army and then a Soviet border guard, Mironov was promoted to deputy foreign affairs commissar responsible for the strategic Far East, moved into the House on the Embankment, obtaining a high-floor six-room apartment with a view to the Kremlin’s onion domes, and fantasized about becoming foreign affairs commissar. His days were numbered.²⁸⁴

Altogether, at least 20,000 Mongols would be executed over the course of 1937–38. Much of its officialdom—Choibalsan excepted—was obliterated.²⁸⁵ (In Spain, the Soviet terror was infinitesimal in comparison.) More than half of Mongolia’s state budget was now being spent on the military, but the Soviets were forcing annihilation of the small number of Mongolian officers. And even after the massive destruction and replacement, Soviet personnel did not trust the Mongolian army—then again, the executions and lies aroused strong anti-Russian feelings.²⁸⁶ The rampage seemed utterly senseless, insanity.

THE LOGIC OF A WARPED MIND

Back at the February–March 1937 plenum, Stalin had referred to “about 12,000 party members who sympathized with Trotsky to some extent or other [in 1927]. Here you see the total forces of the Trotskyite gentlemen.”²⁸⁷ Accurate or not, he presented this number in a way that was dismissive, not alarmist. Similarly, in his November 1936 opening of the 8th Congress of Soviets, apropos of allowing former kulaks to vote in the elections to the new Supreme Soviet, he had said, “Some say this is dangerous, because elements hostile to Soviet power could sneak into the highest offices, some of the former White Guardists, kulaks, priests, and so on. But really, what is there to fear? . . . For one thing, not all former kulaks, White Guardists, and priests are hostile to Soviet power.”²⁸⁸ Half a year later, he approved orders for mass executions of former kulaks because of the mortal danger they posed. “We have become convinced,” Malenkov had revealingly explained on a trip to annihilate the leadership of the autonomous republic of Tatarstan, inside the Russian republic, “that where the tasks of the party and government are not being fulfilled, we must seek enemies.”²⁸⁹

It sounded like complete cynicism: “seek” (or fabricate) enemies. But in Stalin’s world, which his minions came to share, every allegation derived from a kernel of truth, no matter how minuscule. Tukhachevsky did have meetings with the German military brass (which were fully authorized). Republic and provincial party bosses did fail to implement central directives (which bordered on the impossible). Poland, Germany, and Japan did try to recruit spies on Soviet territory among non-Russian nationalities (standard international practice). Dekulakized peasants did have grievances against Soviet power (they had been dispossessed and deported to frozen wastes). Hostile powers did funnel disinformation into Soviet military intelligence (Stalin was proactively doing the same). Pro-Japanese sentiment did emerge in Mongolia (thanks to inhuman Soviet overlordship). “Bukharin met with Kamenev, they talked, they discussed the policies of the Central Committee and other things,” Kaganovich, late in life, parroting Stalin, reasoned of their ill-advised July 1928 meeting. “Trotsky, who was a good organizer, could have headed a rebellion. . . . Who after all could believe that old, experienced conspirators, using all the experience of Bolshevik conspiratorial methods and Bolshevik organization, that these people would not establish ties among themselves and would not create an organization?”²⁹⁰

Above all, opposition to collectivization had taken place. Stalin seems to have been haunted not by the millions of peasants and nomads who had starved but by the Communist officials who had dared to criticize his rule because of it.²⁹¹ He repeatedly voiced his venom against them, charging that they had lacked the stomach to see through what was necessary. Opposition to collectivization became the leitmotif of the interrogation protocols he demanded and underlined, and of his private and public utterances. Stalin, interrupting Yezhov, had blurted out at the December 1936 plenum about the rightists, “They denied that they had any platform. They had a platform. What did it call for? For the restoration of private enterprise in industry, for the opening of our gates to foreign capital, especially to English capital. . . . For the restoration of private enterprise in agriculture, for the curtailment of the collective farms, for the restoration of the kulaks, for moving the Comintern out of the USSR.”²⁹² It remained only to add a sense of the means for an internal putsch—the Red Army command (around Tukhachevsky), the NKVD leadership (around Yagoda), the Kremlin commandant and bodyguard directorate—to complete the narrative arc from criticism of collectivization to espionage, sabotage, coup.

Stalin presumed that the socialist system’s survival depended on him and that his former comrades desperately wanted to get rid of him. If, additionally, one assumed—as he did—that a foreign military attack was inevitable, and that in the event of war his former comrades could become eager collaborators with the fascists and other foreign enemies—not just out of spite, revenge, or ambition but because only his removal could undo collectivization—then all these people, and anyone who sympathized with or thought like them, had to be eliminated before war broke out. Did critics not understand that all opposition was objectively serving foreign enemies? Who could deny that the Soviet Union faced enemies? Who could deny that the capitalists had intervened against the USSR in the civil war and would do so again? Who could deny that imperialism was aggressive and would stop at nothing? In Spain, “fascists” had risen up in a putsch, and they were being assisted by the foreign fascist powers, and not opposed by the “democratic” ones. What more did anyone need to know? If counterrevolution supported by aggressive foreign intervention could take place in Spain, was it not still more likely to be attempted against the Soviet Union, a strategic country with a fully socialist system? His critics either failed elementary logic or had “lost their minds.”²⁹³

“SPIES”

Pravda had underscored, accurately, that both Japan and Germany were “anti-status-quo powers” and could attain their aims solely through a new world war, a flanking threat Stalin did not invent.²⁹⁴ Soviet intelligence reported that Japan and Germany shared intelligence information about Soviet military capabilities with each other as well as with Poland, which was true. Finland was sharing intelligence with the Japanese about Soviet military capabilities, too. Japan had sent military observer missions to countries encircling the USSR—Romania, Latvia, Estonia, Finland, Poland, Latvia—and Stalin regularly received reports, culled from decoded Japanese military attaché communications, of a possible Japanese attack on the USSR. Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, of the Abwehr (German military intelligence), had met the Japanese military attaché to Berlin (Hiroshi Ōshima) in 1936, and the next year he met an intelligence official of the Finnish general staff (Antero Svensson). The Abwehr also extended financial assistance to Estonian intelligence.²⁹⁵ Of course, all the powers in the interwar period were targeted by foreign espionage. The international situation in the 1930s posed a threat to every great power, but only one embarked on a wholesale domestic slaughter. Nazi Germany was crawling with spies, especially spies working on behalf of the Soviet Union, but again, Hitler did not put to death his own officials and intelligence officers.²⁹⁶ Stalin had even his policy critics charged as “spies.”

Stalin did not invent the hoary trope of the “foreign hand” (externally assisted conspiracy to undermine the state). Allegations of a foreign hand at court had contributed mightily to the erosion of Nicholas II’s legitimacy during the Great War; Kerensky, nearly successfully, had leveled the foreign hand charge against Lenin and the Bolsheviks. It was a device straight out of the authoritarian handbook, playing to patriotic stirrings and insecurities—in Russia’s case, of a complex geography—and it was powerfully reinforced by the Bolshevik division of the world into two hostile camps, socialism and capitalism. For years, Stalin had been driving Soviet propagandists and the NKVD to find the foreign hand behind everything: in the 1928 Shakhty trial (French and German agents), in Ukrainian resistance to collectivization (Polish agents, relying on the British and the French), in the 1932 rebellion in the satellite Mongolia (Japanese agents), in the Kirov murder (German agents, even as he had discouraged investigation of the actual leads to the Latvian and German consulates). But 1937–38 was different.

Nothing had prepared the Soviet populace for the explosion of spy mania that now engulfed the country.²⁹⁷ Although Stalin’s November 1934 instructions to the Mongols had stated that critics needed to be charged as spies, and his politburo resolution of September 29, 1936, had insisted that the Zinoviev-Trotskyite conspirators be seen as “intelligence agents, spies, subversives, and wreckers of the fascist bourgeoisie,” in the second half of 1936—during the outbreak of the Spanish civil war and Stalin’s decision to intervene there militarily—there had been no full-throated public campaign of mass charges of spying. Then, under Stalin’s tutelage, Pravda carried a sensational article (May 4, 1937) across three pages, “On Certain Cunning Techniques of Recruitment by Foreign Intelligence,” which Stalin had edited and which was widely reprinted and assigned for discussion at meetings throughout the country. It asserted that inside the USSR, Nazi Germany possessed “a reserve that could be called upon for espionage work.”²⁹⁸ Stalin had inserted a page of material into the draft about an alleged incident concerning a Soviet employee in Japan who had met a female “aristocrat” in a restaurant. Once, during their rendezvous, a Japanese in military uniform arrived to announce he was the woman’s husband. Another Japanese man appeared and proposed that he could quiet the scandal by having the Soviet man sign a document promising to inform the Japanese about internal Soviet affairs. The truce maker, Stalin explained, was a Japanese intelligence operative. The Soviet man had unwittingly been recruited to spy for Japan. It could happen.²⁹⁹

But the number of accused spies was just too large for such a person-by-person recruitment. In 1935–36, the NKVD had arrested 9,965 foreign “spies.” (By comparison, in France, 300 foreign passport holders and 48 French nationals were noted as suspected enemy agents in 1936.) Then, in 1937–38, the NKVD arrested 265,039 spies.³⁰⁰ This included nearly 19,000 just for Latvia and 7,800 just for Romania. Who exactly could be running more than a quarter million spies among the Soviet populace? Who gave them their directives? To whom did they report? Stalin did not publicly address this issue of spy handlers, and it is easy to see why.

The small number of ordinary citizen foreign passport holders who remained resident in the USSR were registered and monitored.³⁰¹ As for accredited representatives of foreign governments, they numbered 1,129 at embassies in Moscow and some 400 at twenty-four consulates.³⁰² This foreign diplomatic community—as Stalin knew better than anyone—was under the most intense surveillance. The sixty-two employees of the German embassy in Moscow (as of 1938) were kept under unrelenting watch and nearly total isolation from the Soviet public.³⁰³ Even leaving aside the fact that every Soviet inhabitant knew the inevitable consequences of any contact with foreigners, let alone with foreign diplomatic personnel, the idea that these few German employees could have recruited and handled 39,000 accused German spies among the Soviet populace in 1937–38 beggars belief. True, Germany also had a few foreign consulates, but Stalin, in a tit for tat, had forced one German mission after another to close: Leningrad, Kiev, Kharkov, Odessa, Novosibirsk.³⁰⁴ By spring 1938, not just Germany, but Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Italy, Britain, and Afghanistan had all lost their consulates in the Soviet Union.

Not surprisingly, internal German foreign ministry records indicate that of the approximately 1,100 German nationals who would be arrested for intelligence operations in the USSR from 1936 to 1941, just two had any such involvement, and one vanished without trace.³⁰⁵ The head of the security agency for the Wehrmacht admitted internally in 1938 that he lacked a firm idea of how Soviet military intelligence worked.³⁰⁶

The number of accused Polish spies was even greater than the number of German ones. In fact, Polish sabotage activities on Soviet territory had not suddenly increased; they had been going on, closely watched and interdicted, for a long time. Until 1937, Poland maintained consulates in Moscow, Leningrad, Kharkov, Kiev, Minsk, and Tiflis, but Poland managed to hold on to just two (Kiev, Minsk), in exchange for which the Soviet Union kept one in Poland (Lwów) and one in the Free City of Danzig (Gdańsk).³⁰⁷ Stalin’s counterintelligence measures apparently induced the Polish embassy and consulates on Soviet territory to desist from recruiting agents among Soviet ethnic Poles (who mostly did not live in Moscow, Kiev, or Minsk in any case).³⁰⁸ But the arrest of Polish “spies” among Soviet inhabitants continued, exceeding 101,000 by the end of 1938, a spectacularly improbable workload for one embassy and two consulates.

Despite the mass arrests, Stalin had no idea whether he was catching any real foreign spies or, if he was, what harm they might have caused—and what is more, he made virtually no effort to find out. Japanese army intelligence did send small numbers of White Russian émigrés and Koreans across the barely marked frontiers to recruit or bribe the disaffected among the Soviet population.³⁰⁹ But the NKVD arrested nearly 53,000 Soviet inhabitants as agents of Japan in 1937–38. All “testimony” about their espionage and sabotage was either suggested or outright written by their interrogators, in the pursuit of arrest quotas. “Spies” and “terrorists” captured at or near border crossings were lumped together with contrabandists (ordinary people engaged in petty trade).³¹⁰ Dubiously, the country for which an arrested Soviet inhabitant was allegedly engaged in acts of espionage and sabotage was often altered at the very last minute. If a person had an ethnic Polish wife or relative, he or she would usually be charged as a Polish spy, unless all of a sudden the accused was needed for a “case” involving German spies (or Japanese, or Romanian, and so on).³¹¹ To be sure, an excuse for such sloppiness was at the ready: better to chop off some innocent heads than to let even one spy go free. War was coming. But then, as we shall see, in 1939 and 1940—after a new world war had commenced—the NKVD would arrest a measly 7,620 spies, a quarter million fewer than in 1937–38.³¹²

The NKVD’s egregious violation of elementary rules of counterintelligence craft in the treatment of alleged spies in 1937–38 mattered only if Stalin was primarily pursuing foreign agents in the conventional sense, meaning people who committed specific acts. But he had called every foreigner in the Soviet Union ipso facto a spy, beginning with humanitarian relief workers during the first Soviet famine of 1921–23.³¹³ For him, “spying” seems to have encompassed an extraordinarily wide variety of activities, including clipping newspapers.³¹⁴ At closed party meetings and sessions in the Little Corner, he mostly insisted that those arrested were actual spies engaged in specific acts.³¹⁵ He would tell minions that penetration by foreign spies was increasing, such information would then duly appear in intelligence reports sent to him, and he would cite the reports. At meetings, he scribbled notes about saboteurs, spies, and the like.³¹⁶ Did Stalin, at some level, convince himself that the USSR was crawling with spies and would-be spies ready to act when the opportunity presented itself? Perhaps he did, but his charges of espionage were based not on facts but on a political equation. Kaganovich absorbed Stalin’s way of thinking, remarking at the February–March 1937 plenum that “if they stand for defeat [of the Soviet Union], it’s clear they are spies.”³¹⁷

SYNOPSIS

World history had never before seen such carnage by a regime against itself, as well as its own people—not in the French Revolution, not under Italian fascism or Nazism. Although it was clear to no one at the time, the future bloodbath was latent in Stalin’s policy battles with what he called the right deviation in 1928 and especially 1929, when he took evident pleasure in humiliating Bukharin. It was also manifest in Stalin’s toying with the arrest of Tukhachevsky in 1930, and propelled by the opposition in the party during collectivization and the famine in 1932. It was facilitated by Stalin’s promotion of Yezhov inside the party apparatus, to oversee the NKVD and the reopening of the Kirov assassination case in 1935, followed by arrest waves of Trotskyites in late 1935 and early 1936.³¹⁸ Unsatisfied with the convictions of Zinoviev and Kamenev for creating a “moral atmosphere” conducive to Kirov’s murder, Stalin had insisted that they be directly implicated in the actual deed, and that Trotsky, in foreign exile, be directly implicated, too. From here it was a short step to the incited public hysteria of the first Moscow showcase trial, staged in August 1936, of Zinovievites and Trotskyites, which fixated on a meeting in 1932 when the two tiny, pathetic groupings had attempted to coordinate, and resulted in the executions of Zinoviev and Kamenev.

Stalin drove the process with his desire to break psychologically the loyalists in his inner circle, above all Orjonikidze but also Kaganovich and Voroshilov, and he further intensified it with his desire to counter Trotsky’s condemnatory writings about his betrayal of the revolution and interdict the possibility of a Trotskyite beachhead in Spain under a dissident (non-Stalinist) Marxist party, the POUM, some of whose members had once been associated with Trotsky or continued to admire him. A second trial of “Trotskyites,” in January 1937, was followed by Orjonikidze’s suicide and an unprecedented eleven-day February–March 1937 Central Committee plenum, which included fatal smearing of Bukharin and Yagoda and Stalin’s threat to replace sitting elites wholesale; an early June 1937 special session of the Main Military Council and a mid-June in-camera trial resulting in executions of Tukhachevsky and the military brass; a late June 1937 party plenum outlining a phantasmagorical “Center of Centers”; the launching, in July–August 1937, of “mass operations” with ever-expanding quotas; the annihilation of republic and provincial party machines, of the Comintern, foreign affairs commissariat, foreign intelligence, and military intelligence; the disruption of the industrial economy, including military industry; the August 1937 coup-rampage in Mongolia; some forty provincial showcase trials, mostly in fall 1937, ordered up by central directive; a January 1938 plenum’s concessions to party wailings about NKVD savagery, accompanied by extensions of the mass operations. The third Moscow trial, in March 1938, seemed to mark a public culmination of sorts, but the carnage was far from over.

Mass terror by the regime against its own elites and masses, like collectivization, was both an inherent possibility within the Bolshevik revolutionary project and a choice Stalin alone made—and saw through. Collectivization (a violent conscription of the peasantry to serve the state) and its attendant horrors were necessary to consolidate the Bolshevik project of a political monopoly hell-bent on a noncapitalist modernity (collectivization would not be repudiated after Stalin’s death). The mass terror constituted a gratuitous infliction of phenomenal violence, although for Stalin, in many ways, the party’s recoil at the costs of collectivization precipitated his terror. The best indication that the terror inhered in Bolshevism was the relative ease with which Stalin could foist the bloodbath upon the political police, army, party-state, cultural elites, and indeed the entire country. The best indication of his singular role in doing so was the fact that it blindsided even his intimates. Molotov, no softie, did not see the mass arrests and executions coming (he was still vouching for some former repentant Trotskyites in fall 1936).³¹⁹ “Gradually,” Molotov would explain later in life, “things came to light in a sharp struggle in various areas.”³²⁰ Stalin would have Molotov’s top aides arrested in 1937–38. Orjonikidze, Kaganovich, and Voroshilov—Stalinists all—not only failed to foresee but resisted the wholesale expansion into their spheres of the wrecking-espionage mania, publicly stating that wreckers and spies were few.

There could have been no such terror without the Communist party and its ideology, but there would have been no such terror without Stalin, and his profoundly dark personality, immense strength of will, and political skill.³²¹ At least 383 execution lists signed by him have survived, containing the names of more than 43,000 “enemies of the people,” mostly the highest-level officials and officers. The terror was centrally implemented by Nikolai Yezhov and Mikhail Frinovsky of the NKVD.³²² Molotov, Voroshilov, Kaganovich, Mikoyan, Zhdanov, Andreyev, and Malenkov cosigned the mass sentencing lists prepared for the “politburo,” and traveled as emissaries to multiple locales to pour oil on the flames. Pravda, under the frenzied editorship of Lev Mekhlis—whose deeply tortured soul even Stalin remarked upon—served as an indispensable fulcrum of public direction of the terror. Of those who implemented the terror regionally, among the most rabid proved to be such NKVD operatives as Sergei Mironov (Western Siberia and Mongolia) and Leonid Zakovsky (Leningrad and Moscow). But Stalin relentlessly drove them.³²³ Had he wanted only to break the will of his own inner circle, he could have accomplished that without mass graves. Had he, despite his dictatorial grip, felt a need to subjugate even more the secret police and the military brass, he could have done that with a surgical strike. Had he wanted to force supposedly noncompliant elites to become more obedient, he did not need to have so many sitting officials killed—and then, often, their replacements as well.

Stalin showed no sign that he was in the least tormented by the slaughter—he received an outpouring of furious or grief-stricken letters from wives, mothers, daughters, sons, brothers of the arrested, begging for his intercession to stop the madness, and he ignored them—but he did show awareness of the security consequences of what he was doing.³²⁴ In August 1937, at a large gathering of political workers in the Red Army, he had asked the rapporteur “how Red Army soldiers were reacting to the fact that there were commanders who were trusted, and suddenly criticized, and arrested?” The rapporteur was put on the spot—was the question a provocation? In response, he gently admitted the obvious: doubts were being expressed about the guilt of accused Red Army commanders. Stalin shot back: “Are there facts here of a loss of authority of the party, the authority of the military leadership?” Was it a rhetorical question, even a kind of confession? The despot continued: “Like this: One tries to parse this out, today one turns in so and so, and then they arrest him. God parse it out, whom to believe?” The rapporteur responded: “Comrade Stalin here put the question about whether the authority of the party, the authority of the army, has been undermined. I must say, no.” Stalin interjected: “A little undermined.”³²⁵ He knew.

NONCAUSES

Very few people had come to know Stalin well, and those who did, he confounded. “Speaking about myself, I can say that I knew two Stalins,” Mikoyan would write. “The first, whom I valued a great deal and respected as an old comrade, for the first ten years, and then a completely different person in the later period. . . . I was able to grasp the full measure of Stalin’s dictatorial tendencies and actions only when it was already too late to struggle against him. Orjonikidze and Kirov, with whom I was very close and whose attitudes I understood, ended up in the same position of being deceived by the ‘first’ guise of Stalin.” However self-exculpatory, Mikoyan’s assessment rings true. Kaganovich, late in life, said much the same. “The postwar was a different Stalin,” he remarked. “The prewar, different. Between ’32 and the ’40s, different. Until ’32, completely different. He changed. I saw no fewer than five-six different Stalins.” Khrushchev, too, differentiated an earlier from a later ruler. “In the early 1930s, Stalin was very simple and accessible,” he recalled, but then Stalin changed, for reasons that Khrushchev, who continued to worship him, never figured out.³²⁶

Stalin’s darkening mental disposition has often been attributed to the 1932 protest-suicide of his second wife, Nadya. Some have also pointed to the December 1934 assassination and loss of his rare close friend Sergei Kirov in Leningrad (for which Stalin was blamed). That these events had an outsized emotional impact on him is plausible. One of his bodyguards recalled late in life that Stalin would sit for long periods at Nadya’s grave, in Moscow’s Novodevichy Cemetery. Svetlana, who was six at the time of her mother’s death and kept away from the funeral, asserted that her father never visited the grave, but she, too, insisted that her father never got over Nadya’s death.³²⁷ That said, direct evidence regarding the evolution of Stalin’s psychology remains extremely thin. Moreover, much of the core terror scenario in Stalin’s mind predated 1932, while the mass murders did not follow closely after the 1932 or 1934 events. So, although the assertion that he snapped in 1932 (or 1934) might well be true, it does not solve the riddle of why he launched and saw through such a mass killing several years later.

By far the simplest of all explanations would be to attribute the terror to paranoia, a kind of hallucinatory aria.³²⁸ Stalin suspected the worst of people, and he received an endless stream of reports confirming his suspicions.³²⁹ Never mind that he was the arch-plotter: They were out to get him. Never mind that he was an inveterate liar: They were lying to him, sabotaging his directives, covering up their mistakes. He suspected that the effusive affirmations of his leadership were two-faced, and that officials were privately thinking critical thoughts. Yezhov, like Yagoda before him, dutifully assembled overheard remarks (real or invented), and the despot read them.³³⁰ The prisons, too, were eavesdropped on, and the transcripts delivered to Stalin.³³¹ Stalin was compulsively eager for denunciations (and therefore susceptible to people’s efforts to annihilate rivals), and once he had read a denunciation about someone, he found it difficult to put it out of mind: suspicions had been raised. When informed that someone had bad-mouthed him behind his back, Stalin would undergo a “psychological metamorphosis,” according to Svetlana. “At this point—and this was where his cruel, implacable nature showed itself—the past ceased to exist for him. Years of friendship and fighting side by side in a common cause might as well never have been. . . . ‘So you’ve betrayed me,’ some inner demon would whisper. ‘I don’t even know you anymore.’”³³²

Distrust is the disease of the tyrant. Stalin’s “maniacal suspiciousness” was extreme even by those standards, something he himself would occasionally acknowledge.³³³ And yet, even beyond the fact that none of the psychological diagnoses of him have been based upon direct medical evidence, the emphasis on his paranoia can be overdone. He showed tremendous self-control, rarely raised his voice, rarely displayed anger (and if so, usually with his eyes).³³⁴ At the parades on Red Square, he did not wear a bulletproof vest under his overcoat.³³⁵ He did not employ a double. His chief bodyguard would recall not only that “Stalin did not like it when he was accompanied by security,” but that he would walk the streets of Sochi and greet the crowds, shaking hands. (We have already noted similar behavior in his one joyride on the metro.) Stalin’s obsession over poison and assassination ran deep. But if he was paranoiac, he was also lucidly strategic. The evidence for an extremely high degree of calculation behind the terror is overwhelming.³³⁶

A THEORY AND PRACTICE OF RULE

The terror was not about some imagined Georgian national proclivity to violence, Stalin’s supposed criminal energy, an outgrowth of beatings by his father, a result of the authoritarian snitch culture of the Tiflis seminary, feelings of inadequacy and shame before genuine Bolsheviks, the suicide of his wife, the death of Kirov, or Stalin’s paranoiac streak. It was an outgrowth of his rule.

Stalin’s great conundrum was the state. He studied the art of rule via books rather than contemporary examples, and was conversant with German philosophy (Fichte, Hegel), Russia’s revolutionary tradition (nihilism, the People’s Will, Plekhanov), and the French Revolution (Jacobinism, Robespierre, Thermidor).³³⁷ Machiavelli was known to him via the socialist revolutionary tradition in a way that the Florentine was not for the Nazis. Stalin underlined a variety of passages in his 1869 Russian translation of The Prince (“It is unnatural that the armed should submit to the unarmed”; “Princes may, without dread, be severe in wartime”).³³⁸ He also underlined a passage noting that “Chinggis Khan killed many people, saying, ‘The deaths of the vanquished are necessary for the conquerors’ peace of mind.’”³³⁹ But Stalin never extolled the Mongolian khan, except privately to Mongols, and he had discovered his saying in Vasily Klyuchevsky’s Course of Russian History (1916). Stalin systematically studied works on autocratic rule, such as Vatslav Vorovsky’s On the Nature of Absolutism, in volume 1 of his Works (1933) and Mikhail Olminsky’s The State, Bureaucracy, and Absolutism in the History of Russia, third edition (1925).³⁴⁰ He had become passionately devoted to the study of ancient Egypt, Persia, Greece, and Rome, marking up Robert Vipper’s Essays on the History of the Roman Empire (originally Berlin, 1923), especially passages on Augustus.³⁴¹ Stalin had taken to studying up on how to be a despot.

Even as his reading had widened, it remained anchored in Marx and Lenin.³⁴² But of the many gaping holes in Marx’s oeuvre, by far the greatest was the relative inattention to the state, and not just in the transition period from capitalism to socialism (and on to communism), but in general—a gap Lenin did not fill.³⁴³ To the extent that Stalin allowed himself rare criticisms of Lenin, it was on the question of the state.³⁴⁴ In his copy of a 1935 reissue of Lenin’s State and Revolution, for example, Stalin had marked the passage about the survival (rather than withering) of the state in the initial stage of a classless society—so on that, Lenin was correct—but when Lenin quoted Engels about the class-oppressive nature of all states, including socialist ones, Stalin wrote in the margin, “No!”³⁴⁵ In his copy of a 1937 reissue of Marx’s The Civil War in France, next to the passage about how all states had a “class character,” Stalin would write, “Not only.”³⁴⁶ But what else, exactly? And what to say about the issue of his personal dictatorship, which was not anticipated in Marxist theory, to put it mildly? In the ideologized Communist context, these questions demanded an answer. Marxism-Leninism did not explain the operation of “bureaucracy,” except as an inherent degeneration that should not have existed in the first place.

Not coincidentally, the Soviet state and its functionaries happened to be the grand theme of Trotsky’s anti-Stalin Marxist writings. Stalin was made to wonder: should he proactively prevent the consolidation of a bureaucratic “class” by deliberately upending it? If so, how would that help the Soviet state manage the economy or the country’s defense? Should he ensure that the revolutionary regime not “degenerate,” as revolutionaries turned into bureaucrats, and instead remove them so that new, younger leaders could come to the fore to regenerate the revolution?³⁴⁷ In the event, Stalin decided to force a radical reinvention of the Soviet elite, in the mold of the young striver he had once been, executing or incarcerating those he deemed to be of a bygone epoch while promoting and nurturing hundreds of thousands of new people.³⁴⁸

Stalin’s carnage made him more preoccupied than ever with identifying and promoting people, to fill the vacant positions in the mammoth and still growing apparatus.³⁴⁹ He blended incited pandemonium and mass murder with an ambitious, people-centric exercise in statecraft. Statecraft may seem a bizarrely incongruous framework for understanding the mass murder of one’s own people. To be clear, the challenges of running and conceptualizing the state under socialism did not cause the terror. His obsessions with criticism of collectivization, Trotsky, and the independence of his own inner circle were the key drivers. Still, the challenges of the state’s operation and personnel were the context in which Stalin acted. He apparently hoped that younger, more energetic, and—ultimately—better-educated functionaries would better spur economic development, because of dynamism and superior political consciousness. Those who had been through the trials of revolution, collectivization, and industrialization were exhausted, morally and politically, susceptible to temptation, whether through blandishments proffered by foreign agents or the indulgence of the high life. Their replacements, no less significantly, would all be beholden to Stalin utterly.³⁵⁰

This went far beyond patronage. Instinctively didactic, Stalin was at heart a pedagogue. A critical core of his inner being consisted of an ethos and practice of self-improvement, a result of his initial leap at the Gori school, studies at the seminary, discovery of Marxism, path into punditry, and triumph over the intellectuals and pseudo-intellectuals atop the party. Stalin “worked very hard to improve himself,” Molotov, the longest close observer, would later recall.³⁵¹ In turn, the advancement of new people to high positions, and their personal growth while in those positions, became defining elements in his self-conception as the leader who opened opportunity to them. Young cadres, he argued, could lead by mastering Marxist-Leninist orthodoxy and the ins and outs of technology. He latched on to younger people, those who represented the future, products of the soil and the shop floor, as well as of the evening technical and party courses, bootstrapping just as he had and in need of mentoring. The terror enabled him to play the role of teacher to a populous new generation of functionaries, a fundamental trait of his persona and of his conception of rule. He directed showcase trials, the content of confessions extracted even in the absence of trials, and newspaper reportage to tell stories and teach lessons.

All the while, Stalin purposefully ratcheted up fear to strengthen political control and mobilize the entire country to a state of high tension, a technique of rule undergirded by his connect-the-dots theory of party opposition to forced collectivization leading inexorably to a putsch on behalf of foreign powers—it was at once ludicrous and logical, and he repeated it over and over again, in public and in private. “In the face of the danger of military attack,” he was quoted as saying in a 1938 book on “defense dramaturgy,” by the theater critic Zinaida Chalaya, “our entire people must be kept in the condition of mobilization readiness, so that no ‘accident’ or tricks by our external enemies could catch us off guard.”³⁵² Stalin worked tirelessly to put the country in the grip of fear, supposedly for its own benefit.

•   •   •

NO ONE HAD TALKED more about the coming war than Stalin, as he drove the country’s military buildup, but then he attacked all the institutions critical for a war effort, and not just the armed forces. In the foreign affairs commissariat, at least one third of all staff would be either executed or imprisoned, including nearly two thirds of the upper echelons.³⁵³ Soviet trade representatives abroad were also destroyed en masse, absurdly accused of embezzling and funneling hundreds of thousands of rubles to Trotsky and Sedov, even as NKVD foreign intelligence’s agent in Paris lent Trotsky’s son in Paris sums of 10 to 15 francs that he had trouble paying back.³⁵⁴ In NKVD foreign intelligence, there would be nearly 100 arrests in 1937–38, including at least a dozen station chiefs abroad; in Berlin, Stalin cleaned house, arresting nearly every NKVD operative there. Military intelligence fared still worse, losing 182 operational staff to arrests in 1937–38. “You are aware that, in essence, there is no intelligence gathering,” the head of the political administration in Soviet military intelligence reported to Mekhlis in 1938. “We have no military attaché in America, Japan, England, France, Italy, Czechoslovakia, Germany, Finland, Iran, Turkey, that is, in almost every major country.”^{355, 356} For 127 consecutive days in 1938, Stalin did not receive any information whatsoever from NKVD foreign intelligence.

Stalin’s terror, not born of any fundamental crisis, caused multiple crises. Many officials who remained at large yearned for an end to the mass arrests, because they feared not just for themselves but for the country.³⁵⁷ People at home and abroad who had not questioned Stalin’s rule before now did so.³⁵⁸ Would he come to see the scope of his damage? Would the “Center of Centers” operating out of the Little Corner just keep framing and murdering people indefinitely?

CHAPTER 9 MISSING PIECE

Beria sat in the presidium. Some of the speakers praised him highly, and then everyone stood up and clapped. Beria clapped, too. . . . I was prepared for the applause at every mention of Stalin’s name and knew that if it came at the end of a speech, everyone rose to their feet. But now I was taken by surprise—who was this Beria?

ILYA EHRENBURG, Tbilisi, December 1937, 750th anniversary of Shota Rustaveli’s Georgian epic poem, The Knight in the Panther’s Skin¹

I exalted him for being unafraid to purge the party and thereby to unify it.

NIKITA KHRUSHCHEV on Stalin²

DICTATORIAL POWER IS NEVER EFFICIENT, all-knowing, and all-controlling; it shows its strength by violently suppressing any hint of alternatives but is otherwise brutally inefficient. Stalin’s conveyor-belt arrests and executions targeting enemies, however, generated not discipline and security, but disorder and insecurity. In the Kolyma gold-mining camps, productivity per prisoner, near the best in the Gulag, was dropping precipitously. Escapees from the bulging Karaganda camp complex were taking up residence in Alma-Ata, the Kazakhstan capital. Right in central Moscow, in April 1938, a mass protest broke out at the overflowing Taganka prison when thousands of inmates repudiated their torture-extracted testimony en masse; Yezhov and Frinovsky hurtled over to Moscow province NKVD offices to demand resolute countermeasures, deathly afraid that any bit of negative information might reach the Little Corner. (Rumors of the prison unrest were already sweeping Moscow.)³ Then there was the matter of the NKVD’s sheer sprawl. By spring 1938, despite mass arrests of police personnel, the ranks had swelled to a gargantuan 1 million. This included 54,000 in state security (GUGB) proper, both central and regional, which was more than double the number before the terror had started; 259,000 border guards and internal troops; 195,000 militia or ordinary police; 125,000 railroad and road police; and 132,000 who manned the far-flung points of the Gulag archipelago, with its 2 million inmates (even after all the executions).⁴ Simply directing this huge state within the state was an urgent imperative. An overwhelmed Yezhov, getting drunk in the daytime with top staffers in his Lubyanka office, would drive out to Lefortovo to beat up prisoners during “interrogations,” as Stalin knew.⁵ Everyone who came into contact with the secret police chief could see his physical deterioration. Yezhov’s sickly pallor, publicly attributed to an attempted poisoning, had been divulged at the March 1938 Bukharin-Rykov-Yagoda trial, which prompted naïve or careerist rank-and-file party loyalists to write to him “to take care.”

A flow of petitions warned Stalin that the NKVD was engaged in a vast liquidation of loyal Soviet people. His initial response to the NKVD’s faltering operations and legitimacy was to concurrently appoint Yezhov commissar of water transport, on April 8, 1938. The appointment made a certain sense, in that water transport, which stood second after railways in carrying freight, supplied a large number of the NKVD’s Gulag camps and was poorly performing and needed help.⁶ But Yezhov had never worked in water transport, and he was still supposed to be shouldering the responsibilities of a Central Committee secretary, on top of the NKVD. Stalin’s pressure on him to maintain the domestic terror at fever pitch did not abate.⁷ Such a workload would have crushed any official, let alone a neurasthenic and alcoholic. Stalin, therefore, could scarcely have expected Yezhov to set an additional commissariat right. Rather, the water appointment appears to have constituted a typically twisted maneuver in the despot’s final destruction of Yezhov, just as Yagoda’s final destruction had been preceded by his transfer to another commissariat—communications—where Yagoda had served another half a year before his arrest. The menacing moves against Yezhov were similarly ponderous, indirect.

On April 30, 1938, a top Yezhov deputy at the NKVD, Zakovsky, was arrested. He had been a Stalin favorite, the operative who had helped oversee Stalin’s rare trip to the interior of the country (Siberia, in 1928), and had been appointed to exact retribution in Leningrad in the aftermath of Kirov’s assassination. At the January 24, 1938, Moscow meeting of all top NKVD officials, Zakovsky’s maniacal work had been praised to the skies, especially his high percentage of extracted confessions, which had brought a promotion to the central NKVD in Moscow.⁸ (Zakovsky was said to have boasted that he could make Karl Marx confess to being Bismarck’s agent.)⁹ Yezhov, forced to explain Zakovsky’s arrest to other NKVD operatives, averred that his award-winning underling had manufactured “pumped-up cases” and set outrageously high arrest quotas in Leningrad. Of course, these were the very reasons Zakovsky had been named a deputy chief of the USSR NKVD. Yezhov, moreover, told the assembled operatives that the rabid arrests would continue, further reinforcing the impression that Zakovsky had been destroyed against Yezhov’s wishes.¹⁰ A sense of doom began to close in on the secret police. On the eve of Zakovsky’s removal, at Frinovsky’s dacha, Vasily Karutsky, an operative recently promoted to the central NKVD, had “called Zakovsky a traitor and spy and said that he would soon be arrested” to Zakovsky’s face, according to an eyewitness, who added that “Zakovsky, for his part, had called Karutsky a traitor and said that if he himself were arrested, it would only be after Karutsky.”¹¹ Karutsky proved correct: he succeeded Zakovsky at the Moscow NKVD. On the second day on the job, he shot himself.¹²

Clouds darkened over the core Yezhovite group in the NKVD, the “clan” of Yevdokimov, whose collective promotions had facilitated the annihilation of the Yagodaites. Already, back on October 19, 1937, the Yevdokimov loyalist Alexander Kaul had been arrested in the North Caucasus, and although Frinovsky managed to get him transferred to Moscow and placed in the internal prison (to sit quietly without being interrogated), in fall 1937, Pravda reported on the connections of Yevdokimov, then head of the Rostov provincial party machine, to “enemies of the people.” In November 1937, Stalin sent a valued top aide in his personal secretariat, Boris Dvinsky, to Rostov to serve as second secretary. Yezhov and Frinovsky had managed to get their person, Yakov Deich, appointed as NKVD chief in Rostov, but Deich shocked them, forwarding materials on Yevdokimov to Moscow. “Yezhov and Frinovsky . . . were so infuriated at Deich,” Alexander Uspensky, another close Yezhov associate, would testify, that “Frinovsky told me personally he would shoot Deich.”¹³ Yezhov ordered Deich recalled, but the latter’s replacement in the Rostov NKVD also chose to follow Dvinsky’s instructions, not Yezhov’s, and began to arrest more of Yevdokimov’s associates. (Deich was arrested March 29, 1938.) On May 3, Stalin had Yevdokimov transferred to Moscow as the new first deputy at water transport, belatedly fulfilling Yevdokimov’s dream of becoming Yezhov’s deputy, only not at the NKVD. Yevdokimov exhorted Yezhov to rehabilitate him in Stalin’s eyes, and Yezhov sent a “commission” to Rostov (headed by the trusted Litvin) that got the many Yevdokimov associates in prison to repudiate their fabricated testimony against their patron, for what that was worth.¹⁴

Yevdokimov’s removal to Moscow and the accompanying onslaught against his cadres back in Rostov—which betrayed Stalin’s hand—manifestly threatened Yezhov. Reasoning that even higher numbers of “enemies” could win back Stalin’s favor, Yezhov urged Frinovsky to notch up the terror, but even Frinovsky began to drag his feet in implementing Yezhov’s orders.¹⁵ From March through May 1938, Kaganovich, who had previously felt compelled to collude in the execution of most of his own subordinates, now did not even respond to NKVD materials sent to him about the need for further arrests in rail transport; when those arrests were force ordered, Kaganovich sabotaged the NKVD’s dirty work.¹⁶ Yezhov threatened Molotov with arrest, telling him, “In your shoes, Vyacheslav Ivanovich, I would not be posing such questions to the competent organs. Do not forget that a chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars, A. I. Rykov, was already in my institution.” But Molotov went to Stalin, who advised him to demand an apology from Yezhov, which Molotov obtained.¹⁷ Yezhov appeared to be a wounded animal, and the other animals were acting accordingly. But a secret police boss without fangs is destabilizing for a regime.

Even a despot has to have someone at the end of the phone or telegraph line to implement directives. Stalin’s glaring need for elementary administrative capacity went well beyond the post of NKVD chief. At the top of the state’s now nineteen commissariats, alongside Molotov (the chairman), only five others had survived: Voroshilov (defense), Kaganovich (rail transport plus heavy industry), Mikoyan (trade), Yezhov (NKVD plus water transport), and Litvinov (foreign affairs). Among the five secretaries of the Central Committee—who were supposed to oversee the vast state—two (Kaganovich and Yezhov) concurrently held two government portfolios each, which left, besides Stalin, just Andrei Zhdanov and Andrei Andreyev to oversee the day-to-day work of personnel and propaganda. And Zhdanov ran the huge Leningrad party organization. A glaring indication of the need for capacity at the top was provided by the fact that at the January 1938 Central Committee plenum, Malenkov had been tasked with the main report, and he was not even a member of the Central Committee. As head of the party department overseeing republic and provincial party machines, he was besieged with requests for cadres to fill the gaping vacancies produced by the arrests. And yet, he himself had to be concerned for his life—after all, Malenkov was Yezhov’s former deputy in that same party department.

Given that Yezhov’s days appeared numbered, that Kaganovich was overcommitted and slightly out of favor (owing partly to his closeness to Orjonikidze), and that Voroshilov was both out of his depth and spiritually smashed, Stalin was in urgent need of another top lieutenant alongside the redoubtable Molotov. The choice would fall upon the despot’s Caucasus compatriot.

Lavrenti Beria had never served in Moscow. Still, he had a supreme achievement in the eyes of Stalin: Beria had crushed not just the Georgian Mensheviks but also the Georgian Bolsheviks. Moreover, he possessed none of the Union-wide standing of that other high-placed Georgian whom he displaced, Orjonikidze. Beria was quick to take offense and blame others, obsessive about perceived slights, and a keeper and settler of scores—just like Stalin. That similarity (or emulation) did not stem primarily from shared cultural proclivities, for although Stalin and Beria were both Georgians (in Beria’s case, a Mingrelian assimilated to Georgia), and both were Russified, countless other Russified Georgians, even among the Bolsheviks, behaved nothing like these two. Rather, both men were products and consummate practitioners of a particular dictatorial system. Each had cultivated patrons in the highest places—Lenin for Stalin; Stalin for Beria—and each had shown an audacity against rivals, evidence of a thirst for power and a profound sense of their own destiny. Beria, unlike almost every other provincial party boss, not only survived the terror in his domain, but ran the terror locally, dictating lines of interrogation, summoning NKVD bosses to party headquarters. No other Soviet region was so dominated by a single figure. “Beria was the absolute-power master of Georgia, and all organizations and agencies, including the NKVD, implemented his demands unquestioningly,” his closest minion, Bogdan “Bakhcho” Kobulov, would testify.¹⁸ Beria ran the Caucasus the way Stalin ran the entire Soviet Union.

Beria would turn out to be the missing piece. The now thirty-nine-year-old was not the only discovery who would fill a void in Stalin’s entourage and the inner regime; there was also a forty-four-year-old up-and-comer named Nikita Khrushchev, who became a core member of the inner circle and, as it turned out, best buddies with Beria. Still, no one encapsulated the evolution of Stalin’s order better than the man he would transfer from Georgia to the Soviet capital in August 1938. And the move would come not a moment too soon. Just before Beria’s transfer, on top of everything else, Stalin would experience his worst crisis since 1932: a very high-level defection from the Soviet Far East to Japan, which was armed to the teeth. In going back to trace Beria’s path upward from Georgia to Moscow during the terror, it will be necessary to visit Ukraine and the Soviet Far East, too. Beria’s move to the capital would reflect the profound changes to Stalin’s regime, and bring its own.

“TURN THE ENEMIES OF SOCIALISM TO ASHES!”

Beria ruled the three-republic South Caucasus Federation—Stalin’s homeland—like a Persian shah.¹⁹ At his well-appointed and beautifully maintained two-story villa in Krtsanisi, on a hilltop outside the Georgian capital, he served grand Sunday luncheons, in large company, of spicy Mingrelian and Georgian specialties for his favored police and party functionaries and their families, whom he invited over from their more modest cottages in the same dacha settlement. Another showcase for Beria’s gifts as host and patron, and a jumping-off point for his ingratiating visits to the southern villas of the shah of shahs (Stalin), was the dacha Beria had built for himself on a raised point above the Black Sea at Gagra. There, Beria was observed to practice photography, excel at volleyball, swim the farthest, and behave especially affably toward children. “Beria attracted everyone back then by his inner power, his ineffable magnetism, the charisma of his personality,” recalled a future daughter-in-law of Anastas Mikoyan, then a little girl, who observed a relaxed Beria at his dachas and his city apartment in 1935–36. “He was not handsome; he wore a pince-nez, which then was a rarity. His look was piercing, hawkish. His leadership, boldness, self-confidence, and pronounced Mingrelian accent stood out.”²⁰

Beria’s takeover of the Caucasus would have been impossible without Stalin’s patronage, but he was no mere satrap. He responded especially energetically to the summons to root out “Trotskyism.” In Georgia, 30 percent of arrested Communists during the 1935–36 party verifications and card exchanges were designated as Trotskyites; by contrast, in Tatarstan, it was 7 percent.²¹ He would make sure to satisfy Stalin, while clearing his own path.

Beria had removed Armenak Abulyan as Armenia’s NKVD chief by promoting him to second deputy commissar of the South Caucasus secret police; Abulyan was then said to have died in a car accident (early 1935).²² Mircafar Bagirov, party boss of Azerbaijan (since December 1933), was Beria’s man, but Aghasi Khanjyan, party boss in Armenia (since 1930), was not. Beria appointed Georgi Tsaturov deputy NKVD chief in Armenia and, at supper in his apartment, tasked him with gathering compromising materials. “It is necessary to remove Khanjyan, but whoever I’ve sent has failed; it’s necessary to do this skillfully,” Beria instructed. As Tsaturov and those he recruited in Yerevan collected and manufactured the slander, Beria duplicitously distanced himself from the efforts: once, when Khanjyan was in Beria’s office and Tsaturov came by, Beria made a show of cursing his minion for giving Khanjyan trouble. “He’s a big-time figure and he must be safeguarded,” Beria said, as if Tsaturov were a rogue.²³ At South Caucasus party meetings, too, Beria simulated magnanimity, pointing out that he preferred that Khanjyan correct his own mistakes (thereby reminding everyone that there were mistakes). These were ruses well known from Stalin’s repertoire, and indeed the repertoire of any practicing authoritarian, though Beria excelled at them.

Nerses (Nersik) Stepanyan (b. 1898), the director of Armenia’s Institute of Marxism-Leninism, and therefore Khanjyan’s subordinate, secretly wrote a memoir aimed at correcting the falsehoods of Beria’s claim to fame (his On the History of the Bolshevik Organization in the South Caucasus).²⁴ The NKVD arrested Stepanyan (May 21, 1936) as a “counterrevolutionary nationalist-Trotskyite,” and Beria summoned a meeting of the South Caucasus party bureau on July 9 in Tiflis, now officially called by its Georgian name, Tbilisi. Goglidze, followed by Bagirov and Beria, assailed the “Armenian Central Committee” (meaning Khanjyan) for shielding the enemy Stepanyan and his “group.”²⁵ When the session concluded, around 5:30 p.m., Khanjyan went to the offices maintained by the Armenian republic in Tbilisi. His two bodyguards testified that they found him in his room between 7:00 and 8:00 p.m. with a bullet wound to the head. The Tbilisi ambulance service registered a call at 9:25 p.m. Khanjyan was delivered to the emergency room at 10:25. He underwent “an operation” around 1:30 a.m. (July 10) but was pronounced dead, with a death date of July 9.²⁶

Yet another official inconvenient to Beria was dead. Some Caucasus officials, as well as Armenian émigrés, many of whom viewed Khanjyan as a patriot, suspected that Beria, in his own office, had shot him in cold blood. But a visiting Moscow party Control Commission sat in the very next room and would have been able to hear and then observe such an incident. In fact, Khanjyan left suicide notes, at least one of which his wife accepted as her husband’s handwriting. Beria was unscrupulous, but more calculating than impulsive. Khanjyan’s removal as party boss of Armenia, in any case, was imminent. The relentless hounding and arrest preparations by Beria’s henchmen were enough to drive someone to shoot himself.²⁷

Beria informed Stalin on the high-frequency phone. The South Caucasus party bureau reassembled on July 10, for six hours, and resolved to telegram Stalin requesting a plenipotentiary to investigate. “The Central Committee,” Stalin replied, “considers it unnecessary to send its own representative to ascertain the circumstances of Khanjyan’s suicide, since in this matter everything is clear and no investigation is required.”²⁸ Beria went on the offensive. On July 11, 1936, Dawn of the East announced that Khanjyan had taken his own life and labeled the act “a manifestation of cowardice especially unworthy of a leader of a party organization,” while further noting that Khanjyan had “committed errors, demonstrating insufficient vigilance in the case of the discovery of nationalist, counterrevolutionary, and Trotskyite groups,” and suffered from “a severe form of tuberculosis.”²⁹ Khanjyan was buried without public ceremony under a cement grave in Yerevan; Armenian officials were swept up in arrests, some while allegedly trying to escape into Iran.³⁰ On July 20, Dawn of the East, under Beria’s byline, carried a vicious attack on Stepanyan that announced the unmasking of “Trotskyite-Zinovievite terrorist groups” in Tbilisi, Baku, and Yerevan. “A Communist who shows conciliation and rotten liberalism in the face of double-dealing,” Beria wrote, “commits the greatest crime before the party, Soviet power, and our motherland.”³¹

On August 19, 1936, the opening day of the first public trial in Moscow of Trotskyites, Pravda reprinted Beria’s article—“Turn the Enemies of Socialism to Ashes!” This was a lightning-bolt Kremlinological signal of his standing. Between 1935 and 1938, Beria would have eight articles printed in Pravda, unheard of for a provincial party secretary.³²

Stalin’s anti-Trotskyite campaign arrived like a gift for Beria. In Armenia in September 1936, a Beria tool (Amatouni Amatouni) was duly advanced from second secretary to party boss. It was the next month that Beria, on Stalin’s orders, arrested Orjonikidze’s brother Papuliya in Tbilisi—sweet revenge: no more “Dear Sergo” groveling.³³ The Mingrelian could further consolidate his grip over the Caucasus. Of course, just about every local party boss interpreted the eruption of the enemy campaign self-servingly: scores to be settled, kudos to be won, apartments and dachas to be freed up and doled out as patronage. But across the Union, of the sixty-five top bosses, few would survive: Zhdanov (Leningrad), Khrushchev (Moscow, Ukraine), Beria (Georgia), and his patron turned client, Bagirov (Azerbaijan). Both of the latter were career secret police officials running party machines.

A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

Stalin liked to needle Beria—who prided himself on being a sportsman—about how the diminutive “Deaf One,” Nestor Lakoba, was a superior rifle shot and billiards player. Stalin would take Lakoba in his car, for all to see, and make Beria ride separately. At a speech in 1936 in Sukhum, Lakoba could say, rightfully, “The Supreme Leader of our party, the Supreme Leader of the working masses of the whole world, this supreme person, this extraordinary comrade, the friend of all toilers, Comrade Stalin, visits us almost every year.”³⁴ Beria constantly connived to trip Lakoba up.³⁵ On a Sunday afternoon in spring 1936, Beria showed up unannounced at the Lakoba compound in Sukhum, 180 miles from Tbilisi, with his wife, Nino, as if it were a social visit, and started asking questions based on a denunciation from the father of a woman (Adile) who said she had been kidnapped, mountain style, as a teenage bride (she married one of the five brothers of Lakoba’s wife, Sarie).³⁶ Another time, when Stalin and Beria were guests in Lakoba’s native village and Sarie prepared the food, Beria switched his plate with Stalin’s at the last minute, as if she might try to poison the leader.³⁷

Lakoba had chased Alexei Agrba, secret police plenipotentiary, from Abkhazia, but Beria, using his power as head of the South Caucasus party committee, appointed Agrba first secretary of the Abkhazia provincial party committee, which gave Lakoba endless grief. During the summer of the anti-Trotskyite campaign and Spanish intervention in 1936, Stalin, on holiday in Sochi, visited his new dacha at Myussera, in Abkhazia, specially built by Lakoba, but the latter was nowhere to be seen. Stalin had his staff inquire, and Lakoba answered that Agrba had not granted him permission to exit the Abkhaz capital and that Stalin had instructed him (Lakoba) to submit to party discipline. Stalin granted permission, and directed Beria to recall Agrba to Tbilisi.³⁸ But on August 17, 1936, Beria managed to get Stalin to have the USSR central executive committee “Georgify” toponyms in Abkhazia: Sukhum officially became Sukhumi, a blow for Lakoba, who had refused even to distribute vehicle license plates in Abkhazia because they said “Georgia.”

Lakoba and Sarie attended the 8th Congress of Soviets in Moscow (November 25–December 5, 1936). Hearsay indicates that Stalin, as per usual, sent a car to the Metropole Hotel to fetch them for dinner and that, in connection with the new Soviet constitution, Lakoba lobbied Stalin to transfer Abkhazia to the Krasnodar region of the RSFSR, out of Georgia, while bitterly complaining, as ever, about Beria.³⁹ Be that as it may, Beria summoned Lakoba to stand before the Georgian “party active,” scheduled for December 28, 1936, and Lakoba set out from Sukhumi on December 26 and checked into Tbilisi’s Hotel Orient, on Rustaveli Prospect.⁴⁰ The next day, he shared a meal (either lunch or supper; the sources conflict) with Beria and Nino at Beria’s home or, according to Lakoba’s driver and bodyguard Davlet Kandalia, at the home of the founder of a Georgian dance ensemble (Sukhishvili). After the meal, Lakoba attended a December 27 performance of the first Georgian ballet, Mzechabuki (“Sun-Like Youth”), composed by Andria Balanchivadze (brother of George Balanchine), at the Tbilisi’s National Opera and Ballet Theater. Lakoba suddenly fell ill and, after the first act, returned just down the street to the Orient. There he died, at 4:20 a.m. (December 28).⁴¹

After Beria and his goons arrived on the scene, a doctor diagnosed a heart attack.⁴² Lakoba had blood problems and was thought to be taking anticoagulants. A year-old confidential medical report from the Kremlin hospital, in Moscow (Vozdvizhenka, 6), had diagnosed him with flu and inflamed erysipelas in the area of the left auricle, which had spread to the nearby parts of the ear and the upper part of the neck, with chronic festering leading to his severe hearing reduction. It also found arteriosclerosis and cardiosclerosis (induration of the heart).⁴³ Still, whispers about a poisoning emerged immediately. Lakoba was forty-three years old.

Beria buried Lakoba with full honors, doubtless after consultation with the Little Corner. The body was brought to Abkhazia on December 29, 1936, and lay in state in Sukhumi’s State Drama Theater. The Abkhaz provincial party committee bureau resolved to name the Sukhumi hydroelectric station, then under construction, after him and to establish ten student stipends in his name at the Sukhumi Pedagogical Institute, publishing word in the press, and to give his Lincoln automobile and a dacha under construction to his family.⁴⁴ Two days later, 13,000 people attended a state funeral; Beria served as a pallbearer. Lakoba was placed in a special crypt in the city’s botanical garden.⁴⁵ Stalin did not send condolences. An NKVD squad from Tbilisi was rifling the Abkhaz archives. Already in January 1937, Lakoba’s portraits began to be removed. His grave was moved outside the city proper, to the Mikhailov Cemetery; the prominent crypt was destroyed. Some whispered that Lakoba’s entire innards—stomach, kidneys, brains, and even larynx—had been removed, and his body burned.⁴⁶ Lakoba’s widow went to Moscow (staying with another recent widow, Zinaida Orjonikidze), but failed to gain an audience with Stalin.

Lakoba’s suspicious death, after Khanjyan’s suicide, enhanced Beria’s mystique and power. Lakoba had been Stalin’s close friend (and midwifed Beria’s introduction to him), but Stalin appears not to have investigated Beria’s plausible role in Lakoba’s death, instead colluding in Beria’s conversion of the genuinely popular Lakoba into a posthumous enemy of the people. He was accused of national deviation, having allowed Trotsky “to escape” into exile in Turkey in 1929, and of having plotted to kill Stalin and Beria. (A man who showed off his marksmanship in Stalin’s presence during target practice with his Brauning scarcely needed to “plot” an assassination.) Beria would now systematically annihilate Lakoba’s kin and associates.⁴⁷ Agrba, the Beria creature, was reinstalled as Abkhazia’s party boss.⁴⁸

POWERS OF EXTRADITION

Beria had to request Central Committee authorization not just for appointments of province, county, and city party officials, but also factory directors and candidates for local soviet elections.⁴⁹ Orgburo directives (of October 15 and December 26, 1936) now required regional party machines to submit six reports a year on their activities, an effort to enforce compliance with central directives, a Stalin obsession. Beria made sure that the Georgian party complied, submitting its full summary report for 1936 after making lower-level organizations do the same, but he used the occasion to point out to Stalin (February 17, 1937) that the new paper mandates had not released locals from submitting other required detailed reports or statistical summaries to the orgburo and various Central Committee departments. “The Central Committee of the Communist party of Georgia is not certain that such reporting requirements could bring any kind of benefit,” Beria wrote. “Instead of the utterly necessary permanent living link between lower and upper party organizations, a written paper link is established, which takes up a lot of party organizations’ time.” The businesslike critique and accompanying illustrations were spot-on, yet astonishing. Stalin chose not to discipline the impudence.⁵⁰

Beria incarnated the terror-facilitated ascendancy of the NKVD vis-à-vis the party, but he had achieved that status years before. During stays in Moscow, he had gotten his own apartment in the NKVD residences on Troitsk Alley (near Samotyochnaya Square), where raucous drinking, singing, dancing, and women were observed in abundance, and which he retained after switching to the party apparatus.⁵¹ Yagoda had continued to send a car from the central NKVD garage to pick up the Caucasus party boss. When Yagoda was arrested, Beria easily maneuvered the changeover to Yezhov.⁵² He had not worked for Yagoda over the course of many years, and when Yezhov had taken a holiday at Georgia’s Abastumani sanatorium, Beria had played the consummate host; Yezhov reciprocated on Beria’s visits to Moscow.⁵³ Yezhov knew that Beria received invitations to the Near Dacha. At the February–March 1937 plenum in Moscow, Beria had to wait until one of the last speaking slots (morning session on March 4). He followed his winning approach of stating, multiple times, how comrade Stalin was correct.⁵⁴

After the plenum, on March 20, Mekhlis, at Pravda, nipped at Beria’s heels with a front-page article, “A Serious Warning to the Southern Regions,” which mentioned Beria, among others, by name. In April 1937, the South Caucasus party committee was disbanded, which nominally sliced Beria’s bailiwick down to just Georgia. In fact, he would extend his reach even beyond the Caucasus.

Beria had long detested how old Caucasus party comrades who despised him would gather at Orjonikidze’s Kremlin apartment or dacha near Moscow (first in Volynskoe, then at Sosnovka) to badmouth him—another circumstance Beria shared with Stalin. But seizing the opportunity afforded by the terror, Beria had his Caucasus operative Vsevolod Merkulov go after the former Caucasus higher-ups now outside the region.⁵⁵ Levan Gogoberidze was arrested in the Azov region and extradited to Beria’s custody. Bogdan Kobulov, the Beria protégé who headed the Georgian NKVD, reported in November 1936 that Gogoberidze had confessed to disseminating “counterrevolutionary and slanderous fabrications about the past of Comrade Beria . . . on the basis of what he had heard from Comrade Orjonikidze.”⁵⁶ Mamiya Orakhelashvili, whom Beria had replaced as South Caucasus party boss and who had received sanctuary in Moscow as deputy director of the Marx-Engels-Lenin Institute, thanks to Orjonikidze, was exiled to Astrakhan in April 1937, several weeks after Orjonikidze’s suicide; then he was arrested (June 26, 1937) and extradited to Beria. “I learned,” Orakhelashvili was said to have testified, “that Sergo Orjonikidze had been joined by Levan Gogoberidze, Pyotr Anishvili, and Nestor Lakoba in waging the most active struggle against the secretary of the Communist party of Georgia, Lavrenti Beria, deliberately spreading slanderous and disturbing fabrications about him.”⁵⁷

Everywhere else, associates who had scattered to other provinces were rounded up and tortured to incriminate sitting provincial party bosses. Beria alone enjoyed powers of extradition, partly because of his own audacity, partly owing to the circumstance that his enemies were also Stalin’s enemies. Orjonikidze stood at the center of the Stalin-Beria bond. Orakhelashvili further testified that “I made slanderous remarks about Stalin as the party’s dictator and I considered his politics to be excessively harsh. In this regard, Sergo Orjonikidze exerted great influence on me; in 1936, when he was talking with me about Stalin’s attitude toward the leaders of the Leningrad opposition at that time (Zinoviev, Kamenev, . . .), he said that, with his extreme cruelty, Stalin was leading the party to a split and in the end would drive the country into a blind alley.”⁵⁸

Beria had even been able to win a tug-of-war with Yezhov. Beria had arrested Polikarp “Budu” Mdivani, an old Stalin nemesis, but “testimony” in Moscow had implicated Mdivani, so Yezhov had forced his extradition to the capital, where he was reinterrogated at Lubyanka and “confessed.”⁵⁹ But Beria evidently lobbied Stalin, for Mdivani was returned to Georgia. On April 12, 1937, Beria sent Stalin protocols of thirteen different interrogation sessions with Mdivani, extracted in Tbilisi’s Metekhi fortress prison (where Stalin had done time under the tsarist regime). The dossier totaled more than 200 pages, and Stalin underlined several passages, then sent copies to Molotov, Kaganovich, and Voroshilov.⁶⁰ At Georgia’s 10th Party Congress (May 15–21, 1937), Beria, under a portrait of himself, accused Mdivani and associates of having “chattered about a supposedly ‘unbearable regime,’ . . . about the use of some kind of ‘Chekist’ methods, about how the condition of the toilers in Georgia is worsening.”⁶¹

Beria attempted to draw boundaries around some of his people. “We should fight all forms of counterrevolution; we must at the same time act wisely, in order to avoid falling from one extreme into another,” he told Georgia’s 10th Congress. “A blanket approach to all former nationalists and Trotskyists, some of whom happened by chance to be in their ranks but abandoned Trotskyism a long time ago, can only damage the cause of fighting with real Trotskyites, wreckers and spies.” But pressure came from the redoubtable Mekhlis in the form of an article by Pravda’s Tbilisi correspondent following the last day of the Georgian congress (May 22, 1937), which reported “insufficient criticism and self-criticism” and “not a few Hallelujah speeches.” Again, Beria differentiated himself: on May 27, he telegrammed Stalin about the “incorrect and tendentious” article, insisting that self-criticism had been extensive not only at the Georgian congress but at the lead-up district and city party conferences, whose intent, he wrote, had been “to profoundly and correctly explain to the party masses the decisions of the March [1937] plenum of the Central Committee and the speech of comrade Stalin.”⁶²

Beria even informed Stalin how he had eavesdropped on the communication with editors in Moscow of the said Pravda correspondent, Mikhail Mezenin, as if he were a foreign agent on Georgian soil.⁶³ Branding Pravda’s reportage a concerted effort to “discredit the work of the congress of the Communist party (Bolsheviks) of Georgia,” Beria requested that the Central Committee direct the newspaper to familiarize itself with the materials of the Georgian congress and publish a correct report, enclosing transcripts for Stalin. It is hard to imagine another regional party boss engaging in, let alone getting away with, such pushback. Beria was permitted to publish his own article in Pravda (June 5, 1937) lauding the Georgian congress for its strict adherence to the party line against Trotskyists and other enemies. In the meantime, on May 31, the first of many enemy lists signed by Stalin and Molotov had arrived in Tbilisi, with 139 names under “first category” (execution) and 39 under “second category” (ten years).⁶⁴ This direct order Beria could not resist.

A DESPOT’S PREFERENCES

Beria’s checkered civil-war-era biography continued to incite whispers. Grigory Gofman (known as Kaminsky), the USSR commissar for health, who, in that capacity, had signed the false heart-attack death certificate for Orjonikidze, blurted out at the June 1937 Central Committee plenum, in Moscow, that Beria had served in the bourgeois nationalist Musavat counterintelligence during the occupation of Baku by the British, making Beria an English spy.⁶⁵ Kaminsky, alone among the attendees, had actually been at the Baku party meeting in 1920 at which Beria’s Musavat involvement had been formally discussed—Kaminsky was then the party secretary of Azerbaijan—so he also knew Beria had been exonerated. Some Central Committee members had not even known of the original accusations. The Sverdlov Hall was thunderstruck. “No one spoke up in refutation,” recalled Khrushchev, an eyewitness. “Even Beria did not speak to offer some kind of clarification. Silence.”⁶⁶ Stalin declared a break.

Kaminsky cut an extraordinary figure. Back in Tula, the original center of ancient Russia’s armaments industry, Kaminsky (b. 1895), then a young, gifted Jewish firebrand, had edited the Bolshevik newspaper Kommunar between 1918 and 1920—roughly the same period when Beria served in Musavat bourgeois counterintelligence. The Tula newspaper had begun life with a print run of 300, but Kaminsky raised it above 10,000 by addressing himself to workers and peasants.⁶⁷ “Kommunar with one hand will help toilers organize life, fix the economy, summon to discipline, labor, and public order,” he wrote in the very first issue (July 4, 1918), “and with the other hand it will mercilessly strangle the head of counterrevolution.” Nineteen years later at the plenum, he became the “counterrevolution.” Instead of allowing discussion of Beria’s past, Stalin had Kaminsky arrested and expelled that very day.⁶⁸ The NKVD ransacked his apartment in the grand House on the Embankment and his state dacha in elite Barvikha, carting away the gypsum busts of him made by the renowned sculptor Vera Mukhina, as well as every photograph and piece of paper, including his eleven-year-old daughter’s drawing of their dacha garden.⁶⁹ His two brothers were also arrested. His mother took to standing in the Alexander Garden, outside the Kremlin walls near closed-off Red Square, anticipating that “any minute Iosif Vissarionovich would come out and then she’d tell him her three sons had been arrested and he would take pity on her and release them.”⁷⁰ Kaminsky got “ten years without the right of correspondence,” which meant he was executed.⁷¹

Stalin was accepting “testimony” of fabricated events as real, but he chose to overlook actual deeds in Beria’s life that, in the case of others, were made retroactively fatal. Kaminsky’s outburst at the plenum appears to have precipitated a letter that same day (June 25) to Stalin from the former South Caucasus secret police chief, Ivan Pavlunovsky, whom Beria had pushed aside way back when. A candidate member of the Central Committee, Pavlunovsky (b. 1888) had served in the vital war mobilization department of the heavy industry commissariat (under Orjonikidze). His private letter to Stalin stated that when he had been named head of the South Caucasus GPU, back in 1926, Dzierżyński had called him in and told him that one of his new subordinates, Beria, had worked in Musavat counterintelligence, but that this should not be held against him, because he had done so on a party assignment. Pavlunovsky added that Orjonikidze had told him, “Comrade Stalin is aware of” Beria’s past and that “he [Orjonikidze] had discussed it with Comrade Stalin.”⁷² Pavlunovsky’s private defense of a Stalin favorite was an effort to save his own skin. It failed. He was arrested on June 28, part of Orjonikidze’s “clan” that Stalin was extirpating.⁷³

A MINI SUPREME LEADER

Yet another way Beria imitated Stalin was by setting himself up as sole “patron” of the arts in his domain. He was known to strut into rehearsals and summon actors and actresses for private audiences, and he made the intelligentsia understand that they existed for service to the state and panegyrics to the leadership.⁷⁴ This went fist in glove with a certain artistic preference. Whereas many Georgian Bolsheviks had argued that Shota Rustaveli was a “feudal,” and Ilya Chavchavadze a “bourgeois idealist,” Beria deemed them great national artists and had them published in new editions in huge print runs. He also made sure to assert his control over the Rustaveli Theater, his Bolshoi equivalent. (The Rustaveli’s rococo facility in the city’s heart had been completed in 1901, with money from the Armenian oil magnate Aleksandr Mantashov, at whose concern a young Jughashvili had stirred political trouble.) First, Beria chased the Meyerhold of Georgia, the Rustaveli’s high-handed, turbulent Sandro Akhmeteli (Akhmetelashvili), to Moscow (November 1935); then, when the anti-Trotskyite campaign afforded the opportunity, Beria had Akhmeteli arrested and extradited back to Georgia, charged with creating a terrorist organization in the Rustaveli. When Georgian culture took the spotlight for a ten-day festival, staged in both Leningrad and Moscow (January 4–13, 1937), Beria led the delegation and, at the Kremlin banquet (January 14), sat at the presidium table with Stalin.⁷⁵ Akhmeteli was tortured until paralyzed, and soon executed.⁷⁶

Intimidated intellectuals can be still further cowed. In Beria’s report to Georgia’s 10th Party Congress in May 1937, he had called the arrested Akhmeteli “a fascist wrecker” and warned others still at liberty. “It would not be superfluous for [Paolo] Yashvili, [Konstantin] Gamsakhurdia, [Mikheil] Javakhishvili, and [Nikolo] Mitsishvili and several others to think seriously about their activity,” Beria stated, adding that “Paolo is not being noble. . . . He is over forty now and it is time he came to his senses.”⁷⁷ (The journal Literary Georgia printed the text of Beria’s speech as if it were literature.) Beginning in late May, the Writers’ Union of Georgia held a series of presidium meetings to enforce Beria’s strictures upon itself. Long-standing animosities, jealousies, and infighting born of the intimacy of elite life in the shared courtyards off Tbilisi’s Lermontov and Griboyedov streets, and of fear, fed a mutual denunciation frenzy.⁷⁸ Davit Demetradze, a mediocre critic, excoriated the time before Beria’s reign when the Georgian classic authors Rustaveli and Chavchavadze had been banned, condemning the “leftist” extremism of the Russian and Georgian associations of proletarian writers, but also the European “bourgeois” decadence and carousing of the rightist Blue Horn symbolist poets (Yashvili and Titsian Tabidze) and the Academic Group of the novelist Gamsakhurdia. The latter, in response, noted, “I’ve committed every sin under the sun, but never with hooligans, thieves, and enemies of the people,” which induced laughter.

Stalin had sent Alexander Fadeyev, the writer-functionary, to bring back a personal report from Georgia’s 10th Party Congress. “We wrote what bothered us,” recalled Fadeyev (who had taken along an assistant). “What bothered us was that a bust of Beria already stood on the square, and the Congress members stood every time Lavrenti Pavlovich walked in.” Later, over supper at the Near Dacha, Stalin would broach with Beria the matter of the latter’s cult in Georgia. “Who’s raising the steam in my bath?” the experienced Beria was said to have asked. Stalin evidently hinted that he had gotten his information from writers. By Fadeyev’s account, Stalin let Beria read his personal letter.⁷⁹ If true, that action helped reinforce a permanent enmity between Beria and the head of the Union of Soviet Writers.

In Tbilisi on July 22, 1937, during yet another round called to deliberate Paolo Yashvili’s expulsion, Yashvili smuggled a hunting gun into the building, climbed to the top floor, and shot himself dead, emptying both barrels. Outside, it was raining, and the poet Javakhishvili, in deep shock, was said to have paced the foyer muttering about needing a car to take him home so that his white suit would not be ruined.⁸⁰ Javakhishvili perished, too, as did Tabidze, the translator of Pasternak into Georgian (whom the Russian writer deemed “brilliant, polished, cultured, an amusing talker, European, and good-looking”).⁸¹ The faithful hatchet man Demetradze went down, too, but Gamsakhurdia, the intellectual with perhaps the longest list of transgressions, would survive. University educated in St. Petersburg and Berlin, where he had obtained a doctorate—a distinction Beria craved—Gamsakhurdia was a fellow Mingrelian and shared Beria’s loathing of Orjonikidze and the cultural philistine Pilipe Makharadze. But Gamsakhurdia had been among those deported to Solovki in connection with the 1924 uprising, and after his release and return, Beria had had him rearrested for an affair with a young publishing executive arrested for Trotskyism. But then Beria pardoned him, observing that sexual intercourse with enemies of the people was permitted.⁸²

SUPPLICANT

Beria’s letters to Stalin in 1937 were often preoccupied with economic troubles, thus putting him in the position of supplicant. He was working with Mikoyan to reorganize light industry locally to increase consumer goods, but this required bending the USSR finance commissariat and the state planning commission, as well as the formidable Molotov.⁸³ Beria had written to Stalin and Molotov complaining that only 22,346 of 61,705 allocated automotive tires had been supplied to Georgia, and more than a tenth of what arrived was either unusable or inappropriate for Georgian conditions. That same month, he requested flour and grain beyond his central allocation quotas, citing a failed corn harvest he attributed to unfavorable weather in western Georgia, Abkhazia, and Ajaria, which caused prices to jump. (Beria informed Stalin he had already appealed to Molotov.) Beria wrote to Stalin and Molotov anticipating failures to meet milk supply quotas (revealing that most households in western Georgia had a single cow) and asked that Abkhazia, Ajaria, and western Georgia be exempted from milk supply quotas in 1937–38. He repeated his request for food aid and soon reported long queues for bread in Kutaisi, Sukhumi, Batum, Samtredia, Zestafoni, Chiatura, and Poti.⁸⁴

Beria wrote to Stalin and Molotov about the Tkvib coal mines, which supplied industrial enterprises all across the South Caucasus and were supposed to produce 350,000 tons in 1937, but industrial growth was expected to raise local demand, while problems with the two main seams foreshadowed a decline in 1938 (and an end to all coal extraction by 1942). Back in 1935, the heavy industry commissariat had drawn up plans for exploiting new seams, which by 1939 were supposed to yield 800,000 tons, but neither blueprints nor financing existed even now. Beria asked for a commission to be sent immediately.⁸⁵ Similarly, the USSR Council of People’s Commissars had approved construction of a 12,000-kilowatt hydroelectric station in Tbilisi in 1936, to be up and running before the end of that year, but turbines and boilers had not been delivered. Planned capacity was reduced to 8,000 kilowatts. Leningrad’s Nevsky Factory was to deliver two turbines, but not until December 1937 and March 1938; boilers and other equipment had not been delivered, Beria reported, naming the negligent factory suppliers and predicting that if this continued, electricity shortages in 1937, as in 1936, would require occasional shutdowns of local factories. The completion of several new factories in 1937, moreover, would only exacerbate the energy problems.⁸⁶

Beria lobbied tirelessly over supply challenges. “The Georgian SSR and in particular Tbilisi city are experiencing a severe shortage of industrial goods in the planned assortment, especially cotton and wool fabrics and leather shoes,” he wrote to Stalin and Molotov on July 2, 1937, requesting that Tbilisi be raised to the supply category of Moscow, Leningrad, Kiev, and Minsk and that the USSR light industry commissariat open specialized fabric and leather shops in his republic. On August 15, 1937, he requested extra seed stocks, reporting to Stalin and Molotov that, because of hail covering more than 10,000 hectares, the harvest had failed in west-central Georgia and that collective farmers lacked seeds for the next planting. In late August, floods devastated parts of Georgia, especially South Ossetia, damaging bridges and roads, including the Georgian Military Highway, inducing Beria to request extra emergency funding.⁸⁷

CARNAGE AND TRIUMPH

At some point during that summer of 1937, Beria traveled by car to Sukhumi, accompanied by his driver, a party functionary, and his bodyguard Boris Sokolov, as he did often, but this time they were accosted by three bandits with pistols. Sokolov was said to have covered Beria; the driver and functionary got out of the car. The bandits fled. Sokolov was taken to the hospital with bullet wounds in his hand. Beria’s star rose higher still.⁸⁸

Beria’s winning ways entailed indefatigably seeking, implementing, and reporting on Stalin’s directives (written, oral, or intuited). On July 20, 1937, he wrote to Stalin (“Dear Koba”), enumerating a long list of names of arrested officials, detailing supposed spying and wrecking and when they had established “ties” to the rightists Rykov and Bukharin. The litany encompassed just about every major figure since the mid-1920s in Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan—except Beria. He quoted the victims testifying against each other: “G. Mgaloblishvili and Sh. Eliava gave expansive testimony about the espionage work of David Kandelaki.” Stalin underlined that and other passages (“The scum and traitor Mamiya Orakhelashvili so far keeps silent. We are afraid to take him firmly in hand, since at every interrogation he faints”). Beria conveyed that 200 people had already been shot and that requests were pending with Yezhov to authorize 250 more arrests. “I think it will be necessary to execute not fewer than 1,000 people, including counterrevolutionary rightists, Trotskyites, spies, diversionaries, wreckers, and so on,” Beria added (Stalin underlined this, too). Nor did Beria forget about the need to arrest Lakoba’s wife and mother (“I ask for your directives”).⁸⁹

Mdivani had refused to incriminate himself publicly and had to be convicted and executed at a one-day “trial” in camera (July 9, 1937).⁹⁰ But Beria vigorously fulfilled Stalin’s Union-wide instructions in summer–fall 1937 to stage public trials and engage “the toilers” with broadcasts on radio and agitators facilitating collective listening. One trial centered on Zekeri Lordkipanidze, an official in Georgia’s Ajarian autonomous republic, who was said to be “linked” to émigré mullahs and the Turkish consulate in Batum and plotting to break off Muslim Ajarisa on Turkey’s behalf.⁹¹ Another trial in Abkhazia’s State Drama Theater, which Beria himself attended, centered on relatives and associates of the deceased Lakoba, a “Trotskyite pygmy.”⁹² The prearranged death sentences were affirmed at collective farm assemblies, precisely in accordance with Stalin’s circular. Concerning another public trial of “rightists” accused of attempting to restore capitalism in eastern Georgia, Beria boasted to Stalin (August 29, 1937) that “the trial played an exceptionally important role in raising the awareness of the broad masses of workers about counterrevolution, sabotage, and subversion by enemies of the people.”⁹³

Stalin nonetheless saw fit to impart a lesson to Beria. On September 8, 1937, the despot sent a cipher to Armenia asserting that affairs were in an egregious state and Trotskyites were finding protection. Armenian party boss Amatouni Amatouni, the Beria creature, and Stepan Akopov, head of the Yerevan city party, had recently been reconfirmed in their posts, but there had been accusations against them of leniency toward enemies, which also raised questions about Armenia’s NKVD chief, Khachik Moughdousi (Astvatsaturov), another Beria creature.⁹⁴ On September 15, Mikoyan and Malenkov arrived in Yerevan with a brigade of Chekists who arrested and tortured Moughdousi and his deputies. That day, at a plenum of the Armenian Central Committee, Malenkov read out Stalin’s recent cipher to Armenia, spurring three days of circular-firing-squad “discussion.” On September 18, seven of the nine members of the Armenian politburo were removed. That same day, Beria issued an order for the arrest of his protégé in Abkhazia, Alexei Agrba, now made into a counterrevolutionary bourgeois nationalist, and arrived in Yerevan.⁹⁵ “To my complete surprise, Beria suddenly appeared,” Mikoyan recalled. “He entered the room as I was speaking at the podium. . . . I assumed Stalin had ordered him to come and arrest me there at the plenum. But I hope I was able to conceal my anxiety and he [Beria] did not notice.”⁹⁶

None of the sweeping expulsions at the Armenian party plenum, which continued to September 23, had been cleared with Beria. With the dissolution of the South Caucasus Federation, Armenia no longer fell under his jurisdiction. Still, he showed up to ensure that another protégé, the former head of the Tbilisi city party organization, Grigory Arutyunov, got named as the new party boss of Armenia. (He de-Russified his name back to Harutyunyan.)⁹⁷ In Sukhumi, too, where he sacrificed his Abkhaz plant, Agrba, Beria installed new clients.⁹⁸

On December 10, 1937, in the Georgian National Theater of Opera and Ballet, Beria delivered a Yezhov “Center of Centers” speech, detailing a vast plot in the Caucasus, linking poets, theater directors, engineers, and functionaries who aimed to spread typhoid in Kakhetia (eastern Georgia), sell off Ajarisa to Turkey, and assassinate him. Georgia’s intelligentsia responded with “prolonged applause.”⁹⁹ Ten days later, Beria celebrated the twentieth anniversary of the founding of the Soviet Cheka, also in the Rustaveli, with his devoted gang (Merkulov, Goglidze, Kobulov, Vladimir Dekanozov, Solomon Milstein). The year culminated in celebrations of what Beria designated, with Stalin’s approval, the 750th anniversary of Shota Rustaveli and his twelfth-century Georgian epic The Knight in the Panther’s Skin, which brought a host of Moscow literati to Tbilisi, including Ilya Ehrenburg, who observed the Stalin-like ovations that Beria received.¹⁰⁰

THE RECKONING

Georgia’s population in 1937 was about 3.4 million, or 2 percent of the Soviet total, but of the approximately 40,000 names on the extant execution lists submitted by Yezhov and signed by Stalin, 3,485 names (9 percent) were from Georgia.¹⁰¹ But the extent to which those names reflected Beria’s input, versus Yezhov’s or Stalin’s, remains unclear. About 21,000 were sentenced by troika in the “mass operations” (three quarters were illiterate or barely literate), while another 3,165 were sentenced by the military collegium, numbers in line with the pattern of Soviet quotas.¹⁰² But Ukraine, with nine times the population of Georgia, had almost forty-five times more people arrested than Georgia did in the national operations (89,700 to 2,100).¹⁰³ Of the 644 Communist party delegates to Georgia’s 10th Party Congress, 425 would be arrested and sentenced either to death or the Gulag—66 percent, a figure in line with the destruction of the delegates to the USSR 17th Party Congress.¹⁰⁴ Scholars assert that one quarter of the Writers’ Union of Georgia was exterminated, a very rough estimate.¹⁰⁵ In a report (October 28, 1937) about the unmasking of a counterrevolutionary espionage group of writers centered around Javakhishvili, Beria noted that sixty-one local NKVD operatives had been arrested.¹⁰⁶ And there was still a year of the bloodbath to go.¹⁰⁷

This horrific picture was less sanguinary than in Armenia, which had one third the population of Georgia but suffered 4,530 executions in 1937–38, out of 8,837 arrests for counterrevolution. (Just one person had been executed in Soviet Armenia in 1936.)¹⁰⁸ Matters were bloodier still in Western Siberia, where at least 300,000 people were executed in 1937–38, about 4 percent of the adult male population there.¹⁰⁹ Proportionally, the slaughterhouse in the Soviet Far East was perhaps greater still.¹¹⁰ Overall, Georgia had neither the softest nor the hardest terror.¹¹¹

Abkhazia, the autonomous republic in Georgia where the ethnic Mingrelian Beria had been born, continued to be his special target.¹¹² Under him, the share of ethnic Abkhaz in the party declined from more than 21 percent to 15 percent. Ethnic Russians declined as well, from 29 to 16 percent, while ethnic Georgians in the Abkhaz party rose from 26 to 48 percent.¹¹³ In the autonomous republic’s overall population, ethnic Abkhaz would shrink from around 28 percent (in 1926) to 18 percent (by 1939), thanks to a state-sponsored mass influx of Georgians, especially Mingrelian settlers. In 1938, when the rest of the USSR’s minority nations were switching from Latin letters to Cyrillic, Beria forced the Abkhaz to switch to the Georgian alphabet.¹¹⁴ Beria had also written to Stalin complaining that the Muslim Ajarians had been designated a separate nation for the 1937 census, arguing that they “shared the same language, territory, economic life, and culture with Georgians” (omitting their Muslim religion) and requested a correcting directive.¹¹⁵ Such nationalization efforts by party bosses in other national republics could have provoked punishment for “national deviation.”

Besides Beria, one of the very few other regional party satraps to survive was his former patron, now protégé, in Azerbaijan, Bagirov, who also wrote to Stalin boasting of his arrests: Trotskyites and ethnic Iranians living in the frontier zones, not to mention anyone who had personally crossed him. More than 10,000 officials would be removed in Azerbaijan in 1937–38.¹¹⁶ Stalin evinced special interest in the arrests in Nakhichevan, an autonomous republic inside Azerbaijan, bordering both Iran and Turkey, calling it “the most dangerous point in the whole South Caucasus.” Bagirov obligingly bloodied it.¹¹⁷ Of course, alongside the party boss, the head of the NKVD in Azerbaijan, Yuvelyan Sumbatov-Topuridze, also a Beria protégé (and a Georgian), ordered his subordinates to overfulfill arrest quotas. At the same time, Bagirov himself looked to be in danger, as Azerbaijan figured in Malenkov’s report to the January 1938 party plenum on mistakes in the expulsions and arrests of Communists. An NKVD commission from Moscow, chaired by a high figure (Mikhail Litvin), came to Baku. But somehow, Bagirov managed to pin the blame on the local NKVD; Sumbatov-Topuridze was the one removed, on January 10, though not arrested (Beria managed to transfer him to the NKVD’s economic administration in Moscow).¹¹⁸ Bagirov, too, survived, likely thanks to Beria.

A FAVORITE FOR UKRAINE

Beria was not the only phenomenon to emerge. Just before Stalin switched Beria to the party from the secret police, Nikita Khrushchev in January 1932 became Kaganovich’s deputy, number two in the huge Moscow party organization, with Kaganovich’s guiding example of a superhuman work ethic to emulate. Khrushchev developed a reputation for bootlicking.¹¹⁹ In January 1934, he became Moscow city party boss, and, in early 1935, concurrently, Moscow provincial party boss, a region equivalent in physical size to England and Wales. One official who knew him explained that, like Kaganovich, Khrushchev “compensated (not always successfully) for gaps in education and cultural development with intuition, improvisation, boldness, and great natural gifts.”¹²⁰

During the terror, in fall 1937, the Moscow party active assembled in the city’s conservatory for a meeting presided over by Kaganovich (by then both heavy industry commissar and railroad commissar) and Khrushchev. Khrushchev spoke passionately, lost his place, mispronounced words, and made people laugh, epitomizing the lower-middle strata who had risen with the revolution and Stalin’s rule. “A large head, a high forehead, light-colored hair, a wide-open smile—all this conveyed the impression of simplicity and goodwill,” recalled one observer, seeing the golden boy for the first time. “And I, and my neighbors, glancing at Khrushchev, experienced not only satisfaction, but a kind of tender emotion: what a fellow, a regular miner, and he had become secretary of the Moscow party committee.”¹²¹

But Iona Yakir, the arrested military officer, had visited Khrushchev at his Moscow dacha, part of the manor house on the estate of the former Moscow governor general, in Novo-Ogaryovo; Yakir had been there on the very eve of his arrest. Yakir’s sister was married to Semyon Korytny, a close Khrushchev colleague in Moscow, who was also arrested in the hospital—the day after Khrushchev had visited him there. “I worried,” Khrushchev recalled. “First, I pitied him. Second, they could come after me, too.” Stalin ordered or allowed Yezhov to arrest two of Khrushchev’s top aides in Moscow, both of whom Khrushchev viewed as exceptionally trustworthy. Stalin divulged to Khrushchev that each had testified against him, claiming that “Khrushchev” was not his real name but a mask, and hinted that such arrests might be the work of enemies who had infiltrated the NKVD, hardly comforting for Khrushchev’s prospects.¹²²

And then there was the biggest black spot: Khrushchev divulged to Kaganovich that, during his student days back in 1923, he had sympathized with Trotsky, information likely to come forward in an anonymous denunciation. Kaganovich “blanched.” “Trotskyism” by his protégé threatened him, too, especially because Kaganovich himself had hints of Trotsky association: he had served in the civil war on the eastern front, among Trotsky supporters, not on the southern front, among Stalin supporters. He advised Khrushchev to inform Stalin immediately. Stalin, in response, told Khrushchev not to worry. The despot’s absolution, Khrushchev would recall, “further strengthened my confidence in Stalin, and gave rise to a feeling of certainty that those who were being arrested really were enemies of the people.”¹²³

Khrushchev was more of a “Trotskyite” than myriad officials who were destroyed for it. If Stalin had suddenly changed his mind, nothing Khrushchev did, or did not do, could have saved his life. Of the thirty-eight highest officials in the Moscow provincial party organization, three survived, two of whom were Kaganovich and Khrushchev. As party boss of Moscow, Khrushchev had to “authorize” arrests, and, in connection with the onset of “mass operations,” he’d had to submit a list of “criminal and kulak elements,” which in his case carried an expansive 41,305 names; he marked 8,500 of them “first category” (execution).¹²⁴

Stalin entrusted his star pupil with a big new assignment. In late January 1938, the Ukraine-born ethnic Russian Khrushchev replaced the ethnic Pole Stanisław Kosior as party boss of Ukraine.¹²⁵ He arrived in Kiev atop a mountain of corpses and took part in new arrest waves. By this time, the Communist party in Ukraine had been reduced by half, to 284,152 members (just 1 percent of the population), and the Ukrainian politburo and Central Committee had essentially ceased to function. Many provinces in Ukraine had no first or second secretaries, and none had a third secretary (with a single exception). Newspapers lacked editors. All eleven Ukrainian politburo members would perish without a trace. No one from the Ukrainian orgburo or the Ukrainian party Control Commission would survive, either. Just two of the sixty-two members and forty candidate members of the Ukrainian Central Committee would manage to escape execution or incarceration.¹²⁶ This state of affairs was not unique to Ukraine, but this was a strategic and industrial region roughly equal in size to France.

At least 160,000 victims, in Moscow and Ukraine, would be arrested under Khrushchev during the terror. Such rough figures should put to rest the notion that Beria was a singular monster, instead of an exceedingly ambitious figure, like Khrushchev, who developed ways to thrive in a monstrous system. It bears further remarking that Khrushchev, while working in Moscow, got along well with the party boss of the Caucasus. “I met Beria, it seems, in 1932,” Khrushchev would recall. “We met to discuss personnel issues. . . . He came with Bagirov” (whom Khrushchev already knew). They talked about an Armenian (Ruben Mkrtichyan, known as Rubenov) who was party boss of a Moscow ward but being recommended for a higher position. “After the first encounter with Beria, I got closer to him,” Khrushchev continued. “I liked Beria—a simple and sharp-witted person. Therefore, at Central Committee plenums, we often sat next to each other, exchanging opinions, scoffing at the orators. I liked Beria so much that in 1934, when I was on holiday in Sochi for the first time, I went to see him in Tiflis.”¹²⁷

Khrushchev, no less than Beria, albeit with a sunnier and more idealistic disposition, earnestly took to the role of pupil under the great teacher. Another Khrushchev subordinate, P. V. Lukashov, was arrested in Ukraine only a few weeks after Khrushchev had received Stalin’s approval to promote him. “For me it was a moral blow,” he recalled. “How could this be? I had seen this man, trusted him, respected him. But what could I do?” Lukashov, miraculously, was released, after which he described for Khrushchev the ways he had been tortured—to testify against Khrushchev. When Khrushchev mentioned Lukashov’s arrest to Stalin, the latter said, “Yes, there are perversions. On me, as well, they’re collecting material.”¹²⁸

During the terror of 1937–38, Khrushchev would turn out to be one of only two people promoted to candidate membership in the politburo, the other being Yezhov. And Khrushchev became the first person elevated to the politburo without prerevolutionary membership in the party.¹²⁹

NKVD DEGRADATION

Ukraine also got a new NKVD boss, Alexander Uspensky, whose overkill in Orenburg province had recommended him.¹³⁰ “In January 1938, I went to a session of the USSR Supreme Soviet in Moscow,” Uspensky testified. “Yezhov unexpectedly summoned me. . . . Yezhov was completely drunk. On the table next to him was a bottle of brandy. Yezhov said to me: Well, are you going to Ukraine?” The appointment took effect on January 25.¹³¹ Uspensky replaced Israel Leplyovsky, who had run the NKVD special department and been the main organizer of the case materials in the annihilation of Tukhachevsky and the Red Army high command, then was demoted to Kiev, where he had exceeded the already sky-high arrest quotas for the republic, but Yezhov complained anyway.¹³² Uspensky, for his part, also had a great deal to make up for: he had been deputy Kremlin commandant under Yagoda, back in fall 1937, when Stalin summoned him to the Little Corner, along with Yezhov, Molotov, and Zhdanov, for thirty minutes and asked point-blank, “Was he honest and not recruited by Yagoda?” Yezhov intervened and said that Uspensky had regularly reported to him at the party apparatus on irregularities in Kremlin security.¹³³ All the same, Yezhov, unsure how that visit to the Little Corner would turn, had instructed his secretariat to prepare a warrant for Uspensky’s arrest. After Stalin relented, Yezhov used Uspensky’s anxious ferocity in Orenburg to try to buttress his own standing.

In the first half of 1938, the NKVD “mass operations” were specially prolonged for the USSR’s two most strategic territories. The Soviet Far East, facing Japan, received the highest new quota; Ukraine, facing Nazi Germany, the second highest.¹³⁴ Uspensky would send Moscow reams of reports about unmasked “plots,” besting the totals of all other regional NKVD chieftains.¹³⁵ First, though, Yezhov went in person to Khrushchev’s and Uspensky’s new bailiwick to ratchet up the carnage. Just before departing for Kiev, on February 12, 1938, he had summoned several operatives. “Yezhov asked us, ‘Who here speaks Ukrainian?’” one participant, Grigory Kobyzev, testified. “It turned out that those present knew almost no Ukrainian. Yezhov asked, ‘How are we going to converse there in Ukraine?’ Frinovsky laughed and loudly said, ‘Over there, there is not a single Ukrainian, just Jew after Jew.’” Yezhov laughed as well. Kobyzev was named head of NKVD personnel in Ukraine and tasked with purging it of Jews. The spectacular ascent, as a result of the Bolshevik revolution, of people from the former Pale of Settlement was entering eclipse. “Oh, cadres, cadres, this is not Ukraine but a whole Birobijan,” Yezhov further remarked, once he and Kobyzev were on-site, alluding to the special Soviet Jewish enclave in the Far East.

Yezhov went down the list of all Ukraine NKVD personnel, marking those for arrest or demotion (to tasks such as Gulag duty).¹³⁶ He also gave a speech lacerating the assembled NKVD men in Ukraine for allegedly having left large numbers of anti-Soviet elements at large. A cigarette dangled from his mouth the entire time he lectured; the scar on his face was starkly visible. “It was my first time at such a high-level gathering, and naturally I marveled at everything,” testified Mikhail Zhabokritsky, the Jewish NKVD chief of the Moldavian autonomous republic, in Ukraine, who would be arrested a few days later. “But what astonished me the most was Yezhov himself—not tall, even dwarfish, thin, frail. When he sat in the chair, from the table one could only see his head.” Although Yezhov was a general commissar of state security, equivalent to the rank of marshal, he dressed indifferently. “His self-confident pose, the independent tone of his speech, did not harmonize with his exterior and came across as ridiculous,” observed Zhabokritsky. At the farewell banquet in Kiev, Yezhov got so drunk that his bodyguards had to carry him out in front of everyone.¹³⁷ “This year was a special one for the Soviet country,” Khrushchev would summarize to the Ukrainian Communists at their next party congress, praising the mass arrests while adding that “after the trip to Ukraine by Nikolai Ivanovich Yezhov, and the arrival of comrade Uspensky in the Ukrainian SSR NKVD, a real rout of enemy nests began.”¹³⁸

While the wretched USSR NKVD chief was laying waste to Ukraine, morale, and his own reputation, on February 17, 1938, Frinovsky, in Moscow, summoned Abram Slutsky, head of NKVD foreign intelligence. The son of a Jewish railway worker from a Ukrainian village, Slutsky was the sole remaining central NKVD department head from Yagoda’s time. He’d had an illustrious career in industrial espionage, pilfering the designs for ball bearings from Sweden in the late 1920s, then spent the 1930s purloining Trotsky’s archives in Paris, infiltrating émigré groups, and overseeing assassinations on foreign soil.¹³⁹ But a torrent of denunciations had ramped up the pressure to take down the last Yagodaite. Yezhov and Frinovsky evidently worried that an arrest would induce NKVD operatives abroad to defect—before they could be recalled and executed—and so they had concocted an act worthy of a spy novel. As Slutsky and Frinovsky were talking in the latter’s office, another operative entered and, pretending to be awaiting his turn to report, snuck up from behind and put a chloroform mask over Slutsky’s face. Once he fell unconscious, a third operative emerged and injected Slutsky’s right arm with poison. Pravda, giving the cause of death as a heart attack, published a laudatory obituary on February 18: “Farewell, trusted friend and comrade!” That night, the intelligence chief’s body lay in state with an honor guard in the central NKVD club at Bolshaya Lubyanka, 14, the two-story eighteenth-century baroque palace that had been described in Tolstoy’s War and Peace.

A MAN ALONE

On February 19, a grandchild was born to Stalin: Galina, the daughter of Yakov Jughashvili and his wife, Yulia Meltzer. A previous granddaughter, Yelena, the offspring of Yakov’s first wife, had died not long after birth in 1929. A grandson, Yevgeny, had been born on January 10, 1936, in Uryupinsk, Stalingrad province, to Olga Golysheva, his former fiancée, and Yakov had not appeared for Yevgeny’s birth; the mother had given the boy her own surname. When Yakov found out, evidently in 1938, he had interceded with the authorities to get the boy officially registered as Jughashvili. Stalin never recognized Yevgeny as his grandson.¹⁴⁰ Slutsky, meanwhile, was cremated and interred at the prestigious Novodevichy Cemetery. Gossip reached Orlov, the NKVD station chief in Spain, to the effect that during the lying in state, colleagues noticed stains on Slutsky’s face from hydrocyanic acid.¹⁴¹ Whether this was true or not, they all understood that he had been killed. In any case, in April 1938, after the elaborate ruse concerning Slutsky’s death to avoid provoking defections abroad, Stalin threw caution to the wind and allowed Slutsky to be declared “an enemy of the people” anyway.¹⁴² He was playing with fire.

Stalin held no government position, did not attend diplomatic functions, and rarely met with foreigners.¹⁴³ He was largely inaccessible to most Soviet elites as well. He continued to reside at the Near Dacha, where he had helped plant an orchard of apple, cherry, linden, birch, pine, and maple trees, as well as grapevines, jasmine, viburnum, rose hips, petunias, lilies of the valley, lilacs, wallflowers, violets. But the hastily built structure, in its prefabricated original form, had not lasted even four years. It was replaced in spring 1938 by a building of bricks, which were stuccoed and painted the same dark green, evidently Stalin’s preferred color, although this could have been for camouflage purposes, to blend into the forest. (Many dachas in Moscow’s outskirts and down south were now painted green.) The rebuilt main building followed the same design: a single story with seven rooms and a solarium on the roof. A new, large auxiliary building, where the kitchen and staff operated, was connected to the main dacha by a long corridor. The grounds got a new canteen for the guards and staff, an office for the head bodyguard, rooms for medical personnel, and a cinema. The familiar small, cozy dining room—some 800 square feet, amply lit with tall windows, a fireplace in the corner, and seating for eight to ten—was where Stalin worked and took meals when alone or in small groups.

At his preferred seat, on the far left side of the table, there would be a generous collection of colored pencils and notebooks and a special deep ashtray of marble, where he could stand up his pipe. Stalin had an electric teapot that he operated himself. A round table, located between two of the four windows, held his multiple black telephones (made by Siemens) and a button to summon the staff. A high-frequency phone, the color of elephant tusk, allowed secure long-distance calls, especially for military and police purposes. Calls into the dacha were answered by a duty officer, who used an internal line to inform Stalin of the incoming call. The despot, if he so desired, would pick up, press the lever, and answer, “Stalin.” One of the phones was an ordinary city line, which Stalin might have installed so callers could bypass the staff to reach him (people from telephone booths sometimes got the dacha accidentally, and eventually the city line would be removed).¹⁴⁴ The small dining room, like all the others, had a couch, where he did his reading, as well as a small writing desk. A door led from this room to the glass-enclosed northern veranda, which also had a work/dining table. It was neither luxurious nor ostentatious.

Benito Mussolini, on a typical day in 1938, spent an hour or two every afternoon in the downstairs private apartment in the Palazzo Venezia of Claretta Petacci, whom he called little Walewska, after Napoleon’s mistress. The duce would have sex, nap, listen to music on the radio, eat some fruit, reminisce about his wild youth, complain about all the women vying for his attention (including his wife), and have Walewska dress him. Before and after the daily trysts—Mussolini had recently told his son-in-law that “genius lies in the genitals”—the duce would call Claretta a dozen times, to report on his travails and his ulcer. Claretta recorded his “thoughts” in her diary: Jews were “pigs . . . a people destined to be completely slaughtered”; the English were “a disgusting people . . . they think only with their asses”; the Spanish were “lazy, lethargic . . . eight centuries of Muslim domination, that’s why.” She also recorded their lovemaking and his reveries about her “delicious little body.” Mussolini was not just head of state but head of five different ministries, yet Italy had only very small tanks, a navy whose ships could not leave port for want of air cover, and just ten total army divisions. In August 1938, he was shocked to learn that the finance minister knew of major shortages of artillery while he, the war minister, did not. At such moments, when Mussolini’s inattention, inaccessibility, and incompetence were exposed, it was never his fault. Anyway, what was mere technology compared with spirit, character, will?¹⁴⁵

Stalin’s world was nothing like the virile Italian’s. Women in his life remained very few. (There were almost none in positions of power, either.) He still did not keep a harem, despite ample opportunities.¹⁴⁶ Inevitably, rumors circulated of affairs: the wife of a deceased politburo member, code-named “Z” (i.e., Zinaida Orjonikidze); the sister of Kaganovich, Roza, who did not exist; a Bolshoi ballerina or singer.¹⁴⁷ If Stalin had a mistress, she may have been a Georgian aviator, Rusudan Pachkoriya, a beauty some twenty years his junior, whom he observed at an exhibition at Tushino airfield. She lived in Tbilisi and, while in Moscow, stayed at a sports dormitory (later, she obtained a prominent Gorky Street apartment). Stalin might have met her occasionally in private quarters, under the pretext of conducting aviation “consultations,” according to one of his surviving bodyguards (the sole source on the matter).¹⁴⁸ But whatever pleasures Stalin occasionally took, he was married to Soviet state power. A widower twice over, he spent his time seeking succor not in the female body but in military technology and in cadres.

Karolina Til, the longtime Stalin family housekeeper, an ethnic German from Riga who had been the one to find Nadya’s dead body, went on pension in 1938. In the fall, Vasily (age seventeen) would leave home to attend the Kachinsk Higher Military Aviation School, in Kucha, Crimea, near Sevastopol. Artyom, Stalin’s informally adopted son, was in artillery school; Yakov Jughashvili was enrolled in the advanced Artillery Academy. Svetlana (age twelve) was still attending Moscow’s Lepeshinsky Experimental School-Commune, on Ostozhenka; she lived in the Kremlin apartment. Stalin adored but rarely saw his lonely daughter. Following the arrests of the heads of the bodyguard directorates—Pauker and then Kursky and Dagin—in quick succession, a new person would enter the Stalin household: Nikolai Vlasik (b. 1896), the son of Belorussian peasants who himself had completed just a few years of school before becoming an unskilled laborer.¹⁴⁹ His modest education, short stature, and doglike loyalty seem to have made him unthreatening to Stalin. Vlasik’s purview, like Pauker’s, included Stalin’s security, food, personal life, and children. Poskryobyshev continued to handle all regime matters and, inevitably, became close with Vlasik (who stood guard in the outer reception office). The promotion also put Vlasik in charge of the Bolshoi, as well as other top Moscow theaters (the Maly, the Arts, Vakhtangov), and he came to know many of the artists personally, especially the females.¹⁵⁰ Stalin saw more of Poskryobyshev and Vlasik than anyone else. Vlasik became Beria’s venomous rival.

Stalin was profoundly alone in the sulfuric aquifers of his being. But he hated to be alone. His awkward character exacerbated the isolation that inevitably befalls a tyrant upon whom everyone’s life depends. Not only had he driven his second wife to suicide, but most of his closest friends were gone: Kirov, Lakoba, Orjonikidze. Stalin was complicit in the death of the third, and perhaps of the second, while being blamed, in whispers, for the first. He had deliberately murdered almost all his comrades in arms, including those he had been genuinely fond of, such as Bukharin. The few who survived—Molotov, Voroshilov, Kaganovich, Mikoyan—had largely been reduced to minions. Beria would come into this group as a minion, too, but he would be more enterprising.

STALIN MANUFACTURES A TOP FOREIGN AGENT

Japan’s ambassador to Moscow complained to Tokyo that Soviet counterintelligence officials “steal suitcases from military attachés.”¹⁵¹ But Japanese reconnaissance aircraft were flying over Vladivostok, Khabarovsk, and Komsomolsk on cloudy days, then shutting down their engines and gliding noiselessly, photographing Soviet military installations with their Fairchild cameras. With the assistance of Finnish cryptographers, the Japanese had broken the codes used in the Soviet Far East. They also had dug underground cables into Soviet territory from Manchukuo to eavesdrop on Soviet telephone conversations. Japanese intelligence rightly regarded Polish intelligence as the world’s top anti-Soviet service and held joint military intelligence conferences with the Poles, in Harbin and Warsaw.¹⁵² Stalin had the Japanese consulates in Odessa, Novosibirsk, Khabarovsk, and Blagoveshchensk shuttered.¹⁵³ But four Japanese consulates remained in the Soviet Far East (Vladivostok, Petropavlovsk, Okha, and Aleksandrovsk), while Manchukuo, Japan’s puppet state, maintained consulates in Chita and Blagoveshchensk. Nonetheless, when Pravda characterized the Soviet Far East as riddled with spies (April 23 and 28, 1937), it meant Soviet military commanders.

Gamarnik, who had committed suicide just prior to his likely inclusion in the Tukhachevsky “trial,” had been a commander in the Soviet Far East, and his former subordinates were being arrested. Insinuations of spying on behalf of the Japanese also implicated the current commander of the Soviet Far Eastern Army, Blyukher, whose subordinates were being arrested.¹⁵⁴ But it was not Gamarnik, Blyukher, other Soviet officials, or former kulaks who served the Japanese cause, but Stalin himself. His orders for sweeping arrests of Japanese “spies” ended up delivering windfall details of Soviet military capabilities, dislocation, and war plans to Tokyo.

Genrikh Lyushkov—described as “stout, black-haired, black-eyed, with a Charlie Chaplin mustache and a strongly Jewish cast of countenance”—was among the small number of NKVD bigwigs to enjoy an audience in the Little Corner during the terror.¹⁵⁵ Born in Odessa in 1900, the son of a Jewish tailor, he had joined the Cheka in 1920, learned good German, and conducted industrial espionage in Germany. He was also one of the few top Chekists with a higher degree in jurisprudence. He was, however, not a star (one colleague in Moscow recalled “a modest person and decent functionary”) and had no major awards.¹⁵⁶ But in December 1934, in the wake of the Kirov assassination, Lyushkov, as deputy chief of the NKVD’s secret-political department in Moscow, had arrived with Stalin’s entourage in Leningrad and participated in the “interrogations,” catching the eye of Yezhov (then still in the party apparatus). In August 1936, Yagoda had appointed Lyushkov NKVD boss of the Azov–Black Sea territory to produce compromising material on the party boss (and Yagoda nemesis) there, Yevdokimov. In September, Yagoda was cashiered. All the same, Lyushkov went on a murderous rampage of trumped-up charges against the Yevdokimov clan, gaining a reputation with underlings as an arrogant bully. Frinovsky and Yezhov tried to rein him in, but Lyushkov had instructions directly from Stalin.¹⁵⁷

During the flurry of prizes for those prosecuting the terror, on July 3, 1937, Lyushkov received the Order of Lenin.¹⁵⁸ He was transferred out of Rostov to take up the big terror assignment in the Soviet Far East that had been given (a few weeks earlier) to Balytsky.¹⁵⁹ On July 28, Lyushkov had a fifteen-minute audience in the Little Corner, and three days later he set out by train for Khabarovsk with a heavy entourage, arriving August 9.¹⁶⁰ He boasted in telegrams to Moscow about one unmasked “plot” after another; Stalin devoured the interrogation protocols, especially after Terenty Deribas (Balytsky’s long-serving predecessor) was denounced for embezzling gold in a machination during which an NKVD officer fell under a train. (Stalin: “To Yezhov. Important. It’s possible that Deribas, beyond everything already, was a serious ordinary criminal. This must be investigated.”)¹⁶¹ It was Lyushkov, in late summer–fall 1937, who conducted the deportation of some 170,000 Soviet Koreans; Pravda announced his award for implementing an important assignment “in the field of transport.”¹⁶² In December 1937, Stalin let him become one of the “elected” to the new USSR Supreme Soviet. “I’m fortunate,” Lyushkov told the toilers who formally nominated him, “that I belong to the caste of functionaries of the punitive organs.”¹⁶³

Lyushkov was just beginning. Between December 1937 and May 1938, he imprisoned or deported 19,000 of the 25,000 ethnic Chinese in the Soviet Far East, including every last one in Vladivostok.¹⁶⁴ As a result of his “vigilance,” he had to beg for translators in Asian languages, requesting the transfer to the NKVD of eight students by name from Far Eastern University.¹⁶⁵ He also begged Moscow for new operatives: thirty-seven NKVD officers were locked up in the local prison as foreign “spies.” But Lyushkov had problems far bigger than lack of personnel: he had served in the organs under Yagoda. Of the forty-one NKVD officers under Yagoda who had held the title of commissar of state security (first, second, or third rank)—equivalent to general—only ten, including Lyushkov, remained alive and at liberty. One (Slutsky) had been poisoned, three had committed suicide, and the rest had been arrested and for the most part executed.¹⁶⁶ Lyushkov, in the capital for the January 1938 Supreme Soviet convocation, complained to Frinovsky that he was being tailed upon exiting his Moscow hotel. Frinovsky replied that Yezhov was just trying to safeguard him, which was true. The arrested Georgian Lordkipanidze had incriminated Lyushkov.

Instead of passing the Lordkipanidze interrogation protocols to Stalin, Yezhov had had Frinovsky reinterrogate Yagoda. The latter complied: Lyushkov had not been part of the “plot.” Testimony against Lyushkov kept coming, however, and Frinovsky pressured Yezhov, asking why they were protecting this “Yagodaite,” especially since, on the inside, people already knew of the “testimony” accumulated against him. Yezhov was in a bind. If Lyushkov were belatedly arrested, Yezhov would have to explain to Stalin why he had failed to forward the interrogation protocols earlier. Nonetheless, the pressure against Lyushkov built, and on April 16, 1938, Frinovsky ordered Lyushkov to send his deputy, Moisei Kagan, to Moscow, ostensibly to be assigned to another post. Lyushkov had secretly agreed with Kagan that the latter, upon arrival, would let him know everything was okay. Lyushkov heard nothing. (Kagan was arrested.)¹⁶⁷

Another of Lyushkov’s outsized problems was a man against whom he was supposed to be gathering compromising materials: Marshal Blyukher. Despite the German-sounding name (Blücher), evidently a nickname for his grandfather, Blyukher was an ethnic Russian, born to a peasant family, who had commanded the Soviet Far Eastern Army since its inception (1930), held the rank of marshal since its introduction (1935), and earned no fewer than five Orders of the Red Banner and two Orders of Lenin.¹⁶⁸ Following his complicity on the panel of judges in the 1937 in-camera trial and execution of Tukhachevsky and the other commanders, Blyukher had taken to drink, starting that very night in his room at the Hotel Moskva. Back in the Soviet Far East, his own top people were being arrested.¹⁶⁹ “Vasily Konstantinovich became more and more closed,” Blyukher’s young second wife, Glafira, would recall, “but he still believed Stalin would defend him, although, thinking out loud at home, he not infrequently said that the Master was too severe, idiosyncratic, at times wacky, and yet he believed in his party conscience.”¹⁷⁰ In January 1938, Blyukher had led the Far Eastern delegation to the USSR Supreme Soviet in Moscow and, furthermore, was among the select few elected to the body’s presidium. Lyushkov, for his part, knew that Stalin had lost confidence in Blyukher. “Blyukher is very ambitious for power,” Lyushkov would later observe. “His role in the Far East does not satisfy him; he wants more. He considers himself above Voroshilov. Politically, it is doubtful whether he is satisfied with the general situation, although he is very careful. In the army he is more popular than Voroshilov.”¹⁷¹

Blyukher, of course, knew that Lyushkov was gunning for him, and he went on the offensive, spreading rumors that Moscow had lost “political confidence” in Lyushkov.¹⁷² Thus did each man’s vulnerability contribute to the other’s.

Stalin had gotten lucky in the Far East: Japan had become bogged down. “The situation in China splendid,” Soviet deputy foreign affairs commissar Potyomkin remarked, as the French ambassador to Moscow Coulondre reported to Paris. Potyomkin “is counting on the resistance by this country for several years, after which Japan will be too enfeebled to be capable of attacking the USSR. This opinion appears to be shared by the Soviet leadership.”¹⁷³ Stalin himself told a Chinese special envoy (the son of Sun Yat-sen) that “China was fighting Russia’s battle as well as her own” and “that China would continue to receive all possible help from Russia in the form of munitions, airplanes, and other supplies.”¹⁷⁴ But he avoided direct confrontation with Japan, sternly warning (April 7, 1938) the party boss in Soviet Northern Sakhalin to quit harassing Japanese economic operations there, since any trouble over the foreign concessions could serve as a casus belli. Similarly, in connection with the Japanese ambassador in London, Stalin instructed his envoy Maisky “not to avoid a meeting with [Shigeru] Yoshida, and if you get such a meeting listen to him attentively. Ask him to outline concrete measures for improving relations between Japan and the Soviet Union. State that the USSR strives for improved relations. On these points, report to me.”¹⁷⁵

Predictably, though, Stalin was pursuing his own intrigues. On April 12, 1938, Moscow notified Blyukher of an imminent Japanese attack against Soviet positions, based on information from Chiang Kai-shek.¹⁷⁶ Stalin could not help but understand that such “intelligence” reflected Chiang’s indefatigable efforts to precipitate direct Soviet involvement in the war, but the despot could not resist using this Chinese provocation. Even as the Soviet Far Eastern Army was adding more than 100,000 troops from the Volga and Siberian military districts in 1938, as well as large numbers of planes and tanks, Stalin dispatched newly named deputy defense commissar Lev Mekhlis to Khabarovsk, with armed escorts and replacement military officers—referred to locally as the “Black Hundred” (like the vigilantes under tsarism).¹⁷⁷ It was the end of the line for the thirty-eight-year Soviet Far East NKVD boss, Lyushkov.

Lyushkov, however, failed to show up to greet Mekhlis. Yezhov had already formally relieved the loyal Lyushkov of his post (May 26, 1938), under the pretext of a future unspecified assignment in the central NKVD, but Lyushkov knew this constituted a death warrant and, taking advantage of his close relationship with Yezhov, managed to stall his return to Moscow. (Yezhov apparently sent an emissary to arrest him out in the Far East.) On June 9, Lyushkov told his deputy he had to travel to the frontier zone for a meeting with a very important agent. He went by train from Khabarovsk to Vladivostok, then by car to Posyet, inspected the local border guard detachments, and on June 12 went out to the purported agent-rendezvous spot. Leaving his one companion at a distance, and wearing “a disguise”—mufti and hunting cap, under which he wore his full dress NKVD uniform—Lyushkov got lost in the rain and darkness. Near the Hunchun River, however, he found two Manchukuo border guards and willingly gave himself up, revealing his officer’s garments underneath. Imagine the lowly guards’ frame of mind: in the middle of nowhere, out of the predawn morning mists, appeared not some wayward small-fry contraband trader, but a man wearing an NKVD uniform and carrying a party card, Supreme Soviet elected representative ID, and papers signed by Yezhov identifying him as commissar of state security, third rank, equivalent to a major general in the Imperial Japanese Army.

Moscow officialdom was shaken. Was there an explanatory note? Did the Japanese kidnap Lyushkov? Yezhov cried and cried, blurting out, “Now I’m lost.”¹⁷⁸ He informed Stalin, but omitted mention of the interrogation “testimonies” against Lyushkov and of how he had long shielded him from arrest.¹⁷⁹ On June 15, 1938, Lyushkov’s wife, Nina, was arrested in their Moscow apartment, and accused of having known about but failed to report her husband’s planned defection.¹⁸⁰ That evening, Blyukher showed up in Yezhov’s office to inquire about the Lyushkov situation and, no doubt, his own standing. Right at that moment, Yezhov was summoned to the Little Corner. Stalin decided to send the Lyushkov nemesis Frinovsky to Khabarovsk, more than 5,000 miles by train, to ascertain what had happened; he departed on June 17. Mekhlis, meanwhile, flew back from the Soviet Far East and, on June 20, gave a report in the Little Corner, after which Stalin immediately sent him eastward again, to further annihilate the cadres in the Siberian and Transbaikal military districts, on the way to renewed massacres of the Soviet Far Eastern Army.¹⁸¹

Whether by happenstance or calculation, the border point with Manchukuo that Lyushkov had crossed, some eighty miles southwest of Vladivostok, fell under the jurisdiction of the Japanese Korean Army, rather than the more rabid Kwantung Army, which might have refused to yield such a prize catch once they had determined his bona fides. The Korean Army’s Russian-language linguist on-site concluded that Lyushkov constituted “the escape of the century” and radioed headquarters in Seoul; despite suspicions that he was a plant, Lyushkov was whisked to Tokyo. A Japanese Kwantung Army intelligence officer, chafing at his lack of opportunity to interrogate Lyushkov, leaked word of the defection to the Chinese-language press in Manchukuo on June 24; Polish military intelligence picked up the obscure newspaper sensation immediately, even before Frinovsky had a chance to clarify in person what had happened. Nazi newspapers reported the defection on July 1, thereby alerting Japanese diplomats in Moscow.

Japanese military intelligence released a statement by Lyushkov, which the Yomiuri Shimbun published on July 3, 1938. “Until recently, I committed great crimes against the people as I actively collaborated with Stalin in the conduct of his policy of deception and terror,” the statement read. “I am genuinely a traitor. But I am a traitor only to Stalin.” Lyushkov, from direct experience, called the Kirov murder investigation “fatal for the country, just as for the party,” and divulged that the interrogation protocols for Kamenev and Zinoviev were lies. (Lyushkov would tell his Japanese interrogators that the fabrications in connection with the Kirov murder had launched his doubts about the Soviet system.) “Nikolayev did not belong to Zinoviev’s group,” Lyushkov’s published statement read. “He was an abnormal person who suffered from megalomania. He decided to perish in order to become an historical hero. This is evident from his diary.” Lyushkov labeled all the trials of 1936 through 1938 “utterly fabricated,” a result of Stalin’s “hypersuspiciousness” and “his firm determination to rid himself of all Trotskyites and rightists who . . . could present political danger in the future.” And, Lyushkov added, hundreds of thousands of innocent people were being arrested. He further noted that Stalin had sought to provoke the war between China and Japan in order that each would weaken the other, with the ultimate aim of Bolshevizing China.¹⁸² Lyushkov asserted that the arrests of so many alleged saboteurs had provoked actual, if silent, sabotage: people were working indifferently or giving in to carelessness on the railways and in factories because of anger at the arrest of innocents.¹⁸³

WINDFALL FOR JAPANESE INTELLIGENCE

Stalin’s terror, allegedly aimed at eliminating foreign agents inside the USSR, had manufactured one in Genrikh Lyushkov, now an invaluable spy/informant for the Japanese. Nothing had ever happened before to Stalin that reached this level—not the case of his former aide Boris Bazhanov, who had escaped abroad in 1928, not even Trotsky’s foreign deportation in 1929. Lyushkov had carried with him a dramatic, damning letter addressed to the Central Committee from General Albert Lapin, a Far Eastern Air Force commander, who had committed suicide on September 21, 1937, in his cell at Khabarovsk prison. “I served the Soviet Government faithfully for 17 years,” Lapin wrote. “Do I deserve to be treated like this? I don’t have the strength to endure anymore.” Lapin’s note was written in blood.¹⁸⁴

Out of the public eye, Lyushkov gave the Japanese a detailed overview of the Soviet Far East, from the number of trucks and how many were out of commission to the condition of all railroads and airports, the training and use of Chinese and Korean agents, Soviet signals intelligence, and the exact numbers and locations of Red Army and NKVD troops east of Lake Baikal (400,000), along with the airplanes (nearly 2,000) and submarines (90). Lyushkov assessed the Soviet Far Eastern Army negatively, pointing to a lack of reserves and infrastructure, out-of-commission artillery and aviation, insufficient training, and dismal organization. He especially singled out an absence of senior command personnel, thanks to the rampages of Mekhlis. Lyushkov conceded that Blyukher believed these shortcomings could be remedied, but he attributed that to Blyukher’s fears of allowing Moscow to learn the real situation. In any case, Lyushkov told the Japanese that Stalin had already lost confidence in Blyukher. Provocatively, he also told his Japanese handlers that Blyukher and even Voroshilov had concluded that the Soviets should launch a preemptive strike, because war with Japan was inevitable and Japan was vulnerable, owing to its invasion of China. Hence, the Soviet buildup was far from defensive. Lyushkov even outlined what he said were contingency plans for a Soviet attack. He evidently aimed to precipitate a Japanese-Soviet war to dislodge the murderous despot.

Lyushkov had rare firsthand information about the man in the Kremlin and his “abnormal suspicion,” an assessment he said was widely shared among those who interacted with Stalin.¹⁸⁵ “In Stalin’s [mind], there was fear of the lack of preparedness for war and chiefly an acute fear of plotters, especially in the army,” Lyushkov surmised, adding that the despot feared that “a war might be utilized for revolution” against him. He stated that Stalin harbored little confidence in the stability of Chiang Kai-shek, and was worried about a possible attack in the west by Germany. Finally, Lyushkov said the Soviet leader suspected Japan was using second- and third-line divisions in China, saving its best for a fight against the USSR.¹⁸⁶

Richard Sorge, the Soviet military intelligence asset in Nazi Germany’s Tokyo embassy, confirmed the damage from the defection. Berlin had sent an intelligence officer to Tokyo to take part in debriefing Lyushkov, and Sorge obtained the German embassy’s copy of the classified report, which showed that Lyushkov had told the Japanese of deep internal dissatisfaction with Stalin, and asserted that the Red Army “might collapse in a day” if Japan attacked.¹⁸⁷ Sorge reported that Lyushkov was laying bare for the USSR’s mortal enemy how the Soviet system actually functioned, as well as what Soviet officials and ordinary folk actually thought—even what Stalin thought. Sorge concluded that “Lyushkov was an inexhaustible treasure trove of information about the Red Army, the NKVD, the party, and the dynamics of the Soviet people at large.”¹⁸⁸

And then it happened again: on July 9, 1938, the NKVD’s Orlov, in Catalonia, received a coded telegram from Yezhov ordering him to a Soviet ship docked at Antwerp for a rendezvous with an unnamed person who would be known to him. Orlov removed $60,000 from the safe, a colossal sum in those days, and fled. According to one NKVD insider, Orlov had guessed wrong: he was being recalled not to be executed but to be named the latest head of NKVD foreign intelligence. Be that as it may, he stole away, with wife and daughter, to Canada and then the United States. Yezhov hesitated to inform Stalin of this second major terror-induced defection. Orlov knew a great deal, from the details of Soviet involvement in Spain, such as the murder of POUM leader Andreu Nin, to the identities of Soviet undercover agents in Europe.¹⁸⁹ But apparently he sent a personal letter to Yezhov about his desire merely to escape execution by his own side.¹⁹⁰ Orlov, a Jew and a dedicated leftist, defected not to Nazi Germany but to oblivion.¹⁹¹ This was a stroke of luck Stalin did not deserve.

Even the most damaging defection Stalin had ever suffered, an act caused by his terror, did not induce him to relent. On the contrary, back in the Soviet Far East, Frinovsky and Mekhlis went on a post-Lyushkov rampage. If in 1937, 2,969 military officers in the Soviet Far East had been dismissed, of whom 383 had been arrested, in 1938 another 2,272 would be dismissed, of whom 865 would be arrested.¹⁹² Frinovsky now also had the task of “reinforcing” Soviet borders in the east. The NKVD began evacuating every single inhabitant within two miles of the border and established a shoot-on-sight zone, rendering infiltration of would-be Japanese agents suicidal, which became equally true of further attempts at defection from the Soviet side.¹⁹³ But the Japanese already had the crown jewels. Sorge, in his reports with photographed documents to Moscow, underscored that, like German defectors from Nazism, Lyushkov exaggerated the extent to which the regime he deserted was ready to fall, but Sorge speculated that Japan and Germany, seizing upon the weaknesses that Lyushkov was spelling out, might take combined military action against the USSR.¹⁹⁴ That, of course, constituted the single most frightening scenario for Stalin, a possible outcome of his own wanton terror.

“THE INEVITABLE WAR” (NEARLY)

On July 6, 1938, Japanese Kwantung Army signal operators intercepted and were able to decode a message to Soviet Far Eastern Army headquarters in Khabarovsk from a frontier commander who recommended that Soviet border troops secure unoccupied high ground on the western edge of Lake Khasan. The Japanese government, already incensed at Soviet military aid to China, had its eye on the strategic heights.¹⁹⁵ The spot—near the confluence of the Soviet Union, Korea (a Japanese colony), and Manchukuo (a Japanese puppet state)—was known in Russian as Zaozernaya, meaning “Beyond the Lake” (in Chinese it was called Changkufeng, or “Tight Drum Peaks,” and in Japanese, Chōkohō). This ill-defined waste, ten miles inland from the Sea of Japan and perilously close to Vladivostok, comprised marsh and sandy hills and suffered daytime temperatures up to 120 degrees Fahrenheit, with chilly nights. It was effectively uninhabited, but it overlooked the Korean port city of Rajin-Sonbong, as well as the strategic railways across northern Korea and into Manchukuo.¹⁹⁶ On July 9, in the name of “preventing the Japanese from taking the hilltop, given its advantageousness for surveillance over our territory,” about thirty NKVD border troops seized Beyond the Lake, dug trenches, and strung barbed wire.¹⁹⁷

Four days after the Soviet border action, Lyushkov gave an international press conference at the Sanno Hotel, in Tokyo, to refute the doubters of his bona fides, and further hammered at Stalin’s prestige. “What caused you to betray your country?” an English correspondent asked. Lyushkov replied, “We need to kill Stalin.”¹⁹⁸

On July 15, Japan’s military attaché and chargé d’affaires in Moscow demanded the removal of the new pillboxes on Beyond the Lake, claiming that they stood on Manchukuo territory (based on the Japanese interpretation of the 1860 Convention of Peking, between imperial Russia and the Qing empire). Blyukher sent his own army commission to the heights and, based on its findings, accused the NKVD’s Frinovsky of having violated the Manchukuo frontier, dissension that the Japanese picked up.¹⁹⁹ Blyukher suspected a provocation by Frinovsky and Mekhlis to trap and bring him down by precipitating a war. His suspicions were far from crazy. The Soviet Far Eastern Army had not been involved in the action: Frinovsky had avoided coordinating anything with a soon-to-be enemy of the people. Blyukher angrily telegraphed Frinovsky, with a copy to Yezhov, warning that “some bastard might create a military conflict” and demanding that “all suspicious people who might intentionally aggravate the situation” be removed. Frinovsky, in turn, sent damning reports on Blyukher to Moscow.²⁰⁰ On July 27, unbeknownst to Frinovsky or Mekhlis, Blyukher secretly telegrammed Voroshilov that the border violators were the NKVD, not the Japanese. But on July 28, Voroshilov strongly rebuffed Blyukher, insisting that the Japanese were the culprits, while pointedly addressing himself also to Frinovsky and Mekhlis, thereby revealing Blyukher’s private communication. Voroshilov, behind both Frinovsky’s and Blyukher’s backs, directed Mekhlis to “investigate this case” and report on Blyukher.²⁰¹ This was how a great power conducted itself in the face of a potent military foe.²⁰²

By spring 1938, Japanese forces in Manchukuo numbered 300,000, which meant that, with a mobilization of reservists, the Japanese could now match the Soviet Far Eastern Army in numbers, if not in tanks and aircraft.²⁰³ Moreover, Stalin knew that Japanese troops were massing near Lake Khasan. How they would respond to the Soviet border “strengthening” remained unclear.²⁰⁴ Many officials in Tokyo viewed as inadvisable the launching of a second-front war against the Soviet Union before completing China’s conquest. But because Stalin had backed down over the Amur River border incident in June 1937 and had murdered so many Red Army officers as “foreign agents,” and because Lyushkov had just defected with a bonanza of information, others in Tokyo contemplated the benefits of testing Soviet resolve and reflexes.²⁰⁵ Lake Khasan fell within the jurisdiction of the Japanese Korean Army, but hawks in the Japanese Kwantung Army indicated that they would step in should their counterparts shrink from taking action. “We still were not particularly enthusiastic,” one Korean Army officer recalled, “but now the Kwantung Army came along and booted us in the ass.” This could have been it: the war Stalin feared, precipitated by minions following his orders to arrest and murder his own loyal military men.

Emperor Hirohito appeared to come to Stalin’s rescue: after a series of audiences in Tokyo on July 20, the emperor, finding himself unimpressed with the contradictory reports and wary of his military’s adventurism, withheld authorization for a full-scale war.²⁰⁶ Japanese soldiers were ordered to withdraw. Nonetheless, events spiraled: Soviet border guards occupied a second high point, referred to as “Nameless,” and on July 29 a local Japanese border unit commander—without formal approval from Japanese Korean Army headquarters (in Seoul) or supreme headquarters (in Tokyo), but with the connivance of his local division commander—used the pretext of these additional Soviet patrols to cross the Tumen River with three battalions. In a firefight, the Japanese units were repulsed.²⁰⁷ But citing this Soviet “provocation” and “buildup,” the local Japanese garrison launched a second frontal assault, called by them a “counterattack,” on the night of July 30–31, and this time they succeeded in driving off the NKVD border troops and capturing both Beyond the Lake and Nameless, with heavy losses on each side. Japanese headquarters accepted the fait accompli. Stalin perceived that Tokyo was deliberately testing his resolve and had Voroshilov issue an order, on July 31, to annihilate the enemy.²⁰⁸

Sorge apologized for having failed to forewarn Moscow that a Japanese action on the frontier was imminent (in fact, it had been an unforeseeable local initiative). In the same coded radio communication, on August 1, 1938, he conveyed that the German ambassador and military attaché had learned that the Japanese wanted to settle the dispute by diplomatic means, but only after seizing the heights.²⁰⁹ When Sorge’s communication reached Stalin, if at all, and what heed the despot might have paid to it remain unclear.²¹⁰ Stalin’s hypersuspiciousness and categorical judgments were a long-standing problem for Soviet intelligence. He had previously dismissed vouchsafed information supplied by Sorge as “disorientation emanating from German circles.”²¹¹ In any case, Stalin was determined to make up for his climbdown in summer 1937—when he had just launched the murders of Red Army commanders—and to erase doubts about the “purged” Red Army.

To unleash a concentrated assault, Blyukher had to import more troops to the remote frontier zone, which took time. He also had to contend with potentially deadly intrigues from the unprincipled Mekhlis, as well as Frinovsky, who exercised command over the NKVD border guard troops yet adamantly refused to coordinate; both were denouncing Blyukher behind his back to Stalin. On August 1, 1938, an accusatory Stalin called Blyukher on the high-frequency phone:

STALIN: Tell me, Blyukher, why is the order of the defense commissar for aerial bombardment of all our territory occupied by the Japanese including the Zaozernaya Heights not being implemented?

BLYUKHER: Reporting. The air force is ready to take off. The takeoff was delayed by adverse meteorological circumstances. This very minute [air force commander Pavel] Rychagov has ordered planes into the air to attack, not taking weather into account. . . . The aviation is taking off right now, but I fear that we will hit our own units and Korean settlements with this bombing.

STALIN: Tell me honestly, comrade Blyukher, do you wish to fight with the Japanese for real? If you do not have such a wish, tell me directly, as becomes a Communist; if you have such a desire, I would think you ought to go out to the site straightaway. I do not understand your fear that the bombing will hit the Korean population, and your fear that the air force cannot carry out its mission because of fog. . . . What do the Koreans matter to you, if the Japanese are hitting batches of our people? What does a little cloudiness mean for Bolshevik aviation if it is really going to defend the honor of its Motherland? I await an answer.

BLYUKHER: The air force has been ordered into the air. . . . Your directives are being implemented and will be implemented with Bolshevik precision.²¹²

Not a hint of humanity: pitiless raison d’état.

Blyukher, without waiting for the full contingent of reinforcements, responded to Stalin’s prompt: he assigned Grigory Stern, his new chief of staff and a veteran of the Spanish civil war whom Stalin esteemed, to evict the Japanese. But on August 2–3, 1938, the Japanese troops, holding the heights, forced the Soviets to advance through heavily exposed corridors, which, in addition, were inhospitable to tanks, and repelled Stern’s assault. Stalin’s insistence on immediate engagement had produced a Soviet bloodbath.

The Soviets rebuffed a Japanese proffer on August 4 of a cease-fire.²¹³ On August 7, Blyukher was ordered out of the combat zone. That same day and the next, Stern led a renewed air and land assault, this time massive. A total of more than 30,000 troops were deployed, counting both sides. But because of the Japanese emperor’s refusal to countenance a possible wider war, even as the Soviet air force conducted large-scale bombing of Japanese rear positions in Korea, the Japanese did not employ air power or artillery even on the front lines. Still, on August 8, Sorge radioed from his sources out of Tokyo that “advocates of strong military action against the USSR are increasing.”²¹⁴ The emperor was coming around to urgent pleas to allow stronger engagement, if only in self-defense. After the Japanese advanced more Kwantung Army units to the frontier—forces that could attack from the rear and trap Soviet forces on the heights “like a rat in a sack”—Stalin finally agreed to a cease-fire on August 11. Litvinov boasted to Soviet representatives abroad that “Japan has received a lesson, assured of our firmness and will to resist, and of the illusory nature of aid from Germany.”²¹⁵ In fact, matters had gotten very close to full escalation. And what Nazi Germany might have done in those circumstances remains an open question.²¹⁶

Be that as it may, Stalin and the Red Army were ultimately spared not by Soviet resolve or Japanese circumspection but by China. Soviet-Japanese hostilities took place concurrently with the titanic Battle of Wuhan (June–October 1938), where the Chinese government had shifted its military industries and where more than 1 million Chinese troops, commanded by Chiang himself, massed against Japanese forces who aimed for a decisive showdown. In the event, the Imperial Japanese Army would manage to seize Wuhan, China’s second-largest city, but at a staggering cost of 100,000 Japanese casualties.²¹⁷ Tokyo, which militarily was now both mired in China and engaged with the Soviet Union, continued to beseech Berlin for conversion of the Anti-Comintern Pact into a formal military alliance directed against Moscow. Hitler was interested insofar as such an alliance would apply to Britain and France as well, thereby bringing them to heel in Europe by threatening their colonial empires in Asia. Stalin was privy to these talks from Sorge, in detail, including the many sticking points.²¹⁸

Stalin’s wager on Chiang had returned dividends. The Chinese leader had managed to stalemate Japan’s land army. Chiang had also firmly rebuffed the Chinese Communists’ demands to arm the workers for “revolutionary war” against the Japanese.²¹⁹ It is easy to see why. “The seizure of power by armed force, the settlement of the issue of war, is the central task and the highest form of revolution,” Mao averred to a China Communist party plenum in the second half of 1938, adding that Chiang, whom the Communist leader deemed a counterrevolutionary, “has held firmly to the vital point that whoever has an army has power, that war decides everything. In this respect we ought to learn from him.”²²⁰ Stalin had no desire to see Chiang’s Nationalists fall to the Japanese because of Chinese Communist treason behind the lines. Nor did he want to provoke Tokyo and Berlin into overcoming their differences. Still, he proved unyielding with Japan over the disputed border at Lake Khasan, insisting on the status quo antebellum, and, for now, got his way. The Japanese political leadership took a step back. At the same time, Japanese military hawks of a self-fashioned “north strike” school became more emboldened in their zeal to test the Red Army.²²¹ They would be back.

As Stalin well knew, it had taken the Red Army nearly ten days of ferocious combat to dislodge a limited number of Japanese troops, who, additionally, were fighting with their hands partly tied by their emperor. The Soviets lost 792 killed, 3,279 wounded; Japanese casualties amounted to 526 killed and 913 wounded—2,600 fewer.²²² “We were not sufficiently quick in our tactics, and particularly in combined operations, in dealing the enemy a concentrated blow,” Voroshilov would observe, taking no responsibility himself. He added, again with no personal liability, “It was discovered that the Far Eastern theater was poorly prepared for war (roads, bridges, communications).”²²³ Voroshilov could have noted further that the Soviet officer corps, including almost every one of Blyukher’s deputies and aides, had been massacred and terrorized, and that Blyukher himself had been sandbagged and sidelined by his own side. Still, whether Blyukher, any more than those sitting in judgment of him, really was up to the challenges of modern warfare remained unclear.²²⁴ On August 16, 1938, Voroshilov summoned the marshal to Moscow for an accounting. Six days later, Lavrenti Beria was named to a new post in the capital. Beria’s and Blyukher’s paths would soon cross.

FIRST DEPUTY NKVD USSR

Why Stalin let Yezhov remain at the helm for so long remains mysterious. By summer 1938, the insanity in the NKVD had gotten to the point that at least one newly appointed provincial NKVD chief released large numbers of prisoners and wrote to Lubyanka about the outrageous falsifications.²²⁵ Vlas Chubar, the government deputy head, in a memo to Stalin, Molotov, and Voroshilov dated June 16, 1938, pointed out the glaring discrepancies between Soviet mobilization plans for war and the resources at hand.²²⁶ That same day, Chubar was expelled from the politburo (the resolution cited “testimony” of arrested politburo candidate members).²²⁷ The next day, he was demoted to the directorship of a pulp-and-paper factory construction site in Solikamsk, a Gulag camp. On June 25, Malenkov informed Stalin that Chubar, through the Central Committee book-ordering service, had requested copies of Trotsky’s Permanent Revolution, as well as his Stalin School of Falsification and My Life, and several issues of the Menshevik émigré Socialist Herald.²²⁸

Yezhov had retreated to his dacha in Meshcherino and fallen into a near-perpetual bender. “I literally went out of my mind,” he would write of Lyushkov’s defection in a letter to Stalin. “I summoned Frinovsky and proposed that we together report to you. Alone I could not do it. At that time Frinovsky said, ‘Now they will punish us big-time.’”²²⁹ Frinovsky had been sent away from Moscow, leaving the NKVD without either a functioning commissar or a resident first deputy. Yezhov—resentful, even irate, at Stalin—schemed to name his own new first deputy, settling on Litvin, who by summer 1938 was running the Leningrad NKVD. Litvin had even come to Moscow a few times, expecting Yezhov to have the appointment finalized, but it never happened. Instead, Stalin had Malenkov, in the party apparatus’s personnel department, compile a list of candidates. Malenkov and his aides came up with Fyodor Kuznetsov (b. 1904), deputy head for political propaganda in the Red Army; Nikolai Gusarov (b. 1905), party secretary of Sverdlovsk city, in the Urals; Nikolai Pegov (b. 1905), a green apparatchik in Malenkov’s department; and Sergei Kruglov (b. 1907), an even greener functionary in Malenkov’s department.²³⁰ These names, many of whom were creatures of Malenkov, constituted a ridiculous attempt to assert control over the NKVD. But Malenkov’s otherwise self-serving list did include the one actual candidate.

Beria by now had seventeen years’ experience in the highest executive ranks of the secret police and the party, in a major region. Frinovsky had served as secret police head in Azerbaijan in the early 1930s, so he knew Beria’s abilities and character, and Frinovsky, with Yezhov, in their pathetic way, had been trying to assemble compromising materials on him, including a report (dated March 26, 1938) on abuses by Beria and his henchman Dekanozov in the Georgian party organization.²³¹ In May 1938, Yezhov and Frinovsky had sought to use former Azerbaijan NKVD chief Sumbatov-Topuridze to prepare a case against Beria. On July 1, one of Yezhov’s department heads requested the files on the Menshevik government in Georgia, hoping to find evidence of Beria’s activities for the wrong side. Frinovsky urged Yezhov to pass these materials to Stalin; Yezhov evidently did so.²³² Stalin could only have been grateful for additional compromising materials to hold over Beria’s head.

Matters came to a head in connection with another USSR Supreme Soviet session, which was to open on August 10. Yezhov learned from Israel Dagin, chief of bodyguards, that Beria, who was in town for the Supreme Soviet, had been summoned to the Near Dacha. “That very day,” Dagin would testify, “Yezhov phoned me incessantly and one time he started to ask, ‘Do you know what they’re talking about?’ I answered: ‘Nikolai Ivanovich, please!’ Yezhov stopped speaking on that issue.”²³³ Eavesdropping on Stalin was a suicidal temptation, but Yezhov was close to that point. The Yezhov favorite Uspensky, NKVD boss of Ukraine, who was also in Moscow for the Supreme Soviet, said he had heard from Isaak Shapiro that “Yezhov has big troubles, since the Central Committee does not trust him. Then Shapiro told me that there are rumors Yezhov was about to get a deputy (he did not name him) whom he needed to beware of.”²³⁴

On a recent occasion at the Near Dacha, according to Khrushchev, Stalin had already told those gathered, “It’s necessary to strengthen the NKVD, assist comrade Yezhov, select a deputy for him,” and he asked Yezhov for his preference. Yezhov requested Malenkov. “Stalin had the ability to pause in a conversation as if he were thinking over the answer, although he had long ago thought through each question,” Khrushchev would observe. “Sure,” Stalin finally replied, “Of course, Malenkov would be good, but we cannot give you Malenkov. Malenkov is at the Central Committee in charge of cadres, and then a new question would arise: who would we appoint there?” When Stalin asked for another recommendation, Yezhov said nothing. “So Stalin said, ‘What would you think if we gave you Beria for a deputy?’ Yezhov was severely startled, but he caught himself and said, ‘That’s a good candidate. Of course, comrade Beria can do the job, and not only as a deputy. He could be the commissar.’”²³⁵

On August 21, 1938, the “politburo” officially appointed Beria as first deputy chief of the NKVD under Yezhov. Malenkov, for his part, had a lot to fear, having once been Yezhov’s deputy in the party apparatus and been close to him, visiting him at his apartment and dacha, and now Malenkov delivered a long, detailed denunciation of Yezhov to Poskryobyshev, marked FOR STALIN, PERSONALLY.²³⁶ Molotov, meanwhile, had been after Khrushchev to return from Ukraine, where he had just been posted, to serve as Molotov’s deputy chairman at the Council of People’s Commissars; Stalin had agreed, but Khrushchev had pleaded to remain in Ukraine, and Stalin had yielded to him. At the Near Dacha, Beria had brushed off Khrushchev: “What are you congratulating me for? You yourself did not want to be Molotov’s deputy. . . . I also did not want to transfer to Moscow. I’d be better off in Georgia.”²³⁷ One of Beria’s closest minions, Merkulov, would also testify (in a letter to Khrushchev) that Beria was distraught at being named Yezhov’s deputy.²³⁸

Neither Pravda nor Izvestiya reported the appointment. That same day, Stalin and Molotov signed the latest execution list (3,176 names). Yezhov received his new “deputy” in his Lubyanka office on the evening of August 22.²³⁹ It must have been stupendously awkward. Yezhov would write to Stalin that “Beria has a power-mongering character. He does not abide subordination. He will never forgive that Budu Mdivani was ‘broken’ in Moscow and not in Tbilisi. He will never forgive the destruction in Armenia [in September 1937], because it was not his initiative.” Yezhov also expressed regret for having allowed “many liberties for Georgia. It was suspicious that Beria wants to eliminate every Chekist who ever worked in Georgia.”

Beria immediately departed Moscow for Tbilisi to wind up affairs, while Yezhov again vanished to his dacha in Meshcherino, complaining of headaches and insomnia, heart pain, and lack of appetite and summoning a doctor, who wrote out a prescription for rest. When the prescribed rest elapsed, Yezhov repeated the summons for a doctor and remained at the dacha, not reporting to work, through the end of August. On August 25, 1938, the Supreme Soviet presidium met to discuss a proposal to continue allowing early release from the Gulag for exemplary labor performance, but Stalin asked them to consider using awards instead. “Would it not be possible to keep people in a camp?” he objected. “If we free them, they will return to their old ways. In the camp the atmosphere is different; there it is hard to be spoiled.” In time a decree would follow: “Convicts in USSR NKVD camps should serve their sentences in their entirety.”²⁴⁰

Also on August 25, Frinovsky returned from the Far East to Moscow. At a train station outside the capital, the head of NKVD transport, Boris Berman, entered Frinovsky’s carriage and told him he had been appointed naval commissar. Frinovsky responded that he already knew and that he would turn over the NKVD first deputy portfolio to Litvin. “I answered not to Litvin, but to Beria,” Berman recalled telling him. “Beria, what?” Frinovsky responded. Right from the Moscow train terminal, he made for Yezhov’s dacha. Yezhov greeted him with kisses on the cheek, something that had not happened before. “I had never seen Yezhov in such a depressed state,” Frinovsky would testify.²⁴¹ Yezhov fantasized about “reorganizing” the NKVD, so as to reduce the power of a first deputy. More prosaically, Yevdokimov, seeking to rehabilitate himself by working like a demon as Yezhov’s deputy at the water transport commissariat, warned Frinovsky that the NKVD operatives in prison who had not yet been shot could be reinterrogated, and their cases turned against the Yezhovites. A slew of hurried executions took place before Beria got back to Moscow.²⁴²

DILEMMAS

Peasants had rebelled en masse against the violence of forced collectivization and dekulakization, and even some party officials had protested. But the terror? A group of Kremlin bodyguards had been carrying loaded pistols on Red Square during the 1937 May Day festivities, within shooting distance of Stalin and the entire leadership; within a few months, they went meekly to their deaths, liquidated as an alleged “assassin corps” working for foreign agents.²⁴³ This seeming passivity confounds to this day.²⁴⁴ “Isn’t it time we started thinking about what is happening in our country?” Pyotr Smorodin, the second secretary of the Leningrad provincial party committee, stated in company during a group lunch at a day resort for party activists. “We have to act before they take us all one at a time, like chickens from their roost!” Everyone present was stupefied. They began to get up and leave, except for a single old friend and the latter’s stepdaughter.²⁴⁵ Many tried to keep a low profile, hoping it would pass. “We all took the easy way out,” Nadezhda Mandelstam, wife of the poet and a Gulag survivor, would observe, “by keeping silent in the hope that not we but our neighbors would be killed.”²⁴⁶

In fact, many people took an active part, cynically or earnestly.²⁴⁷ A Soviet worker needed to labor for sixty-two hours to purchase a loaf of bread, versus about seventeen minutes for an American—data that Soviet workers did not have, of course, but they all knew their bosses helped themselves to the best supplies and apartments and escaped prosecution for embezzlement or tyrannical comportment. Until now. “You’re a wrecker yourself,” workers jeered at higher-ups during the terror. “Tomorrow they’ll come and arrest you. All you engineers and technicians are wreckers.”²⁴⁸ To be sure, many ordinary people were disgusted by the arrests and executions, and some felt the victims were targeted precisely because they wanted to help workers and peasants. But not a few reasoned that officials, whether or not they were foreign agents, deserved their comeuppance.²⁴⁹ In 1938, the regime decreed a limit on the size of dacha that an official could have, “in light of the fact that . . . a number of arrested conspirators (Rudzutaks, Rosenholz, Antipov, Mezhlauk, Karakhan, Yagoda, and others) built themselves grandiose dacha-palaces with fifteen–twenty rooms or more, where they lived in luxury and spent the people’s money.”²⁵⁰ Fatalism, too, abounded. Iosif Ostrovsky, who, as head of the NKVD administration-organization directorate, supervised construction (hospitals, the Hotel Moskva, the Council of People’s Commissars building), was arrested. “You know I never would have thought that I would be incarcerated in the prison whose construction I directed,” Ostrovsky was said to have mused in Lefortovo (originally erected in 1881 but expanded). “But the prison is very well constructed; you can’t complain.”²⁵¹ He was shot.

Part of what looks like passivity was ideological. The writer Alexander Afinogenov, expelled from the party and awaiting arrest at his dacha in the privileged Peredelkino writers’ colony in Moscow’s outskirts, his plays now banned, had recorded in his diary (December 25, 1937) that he “turned to the radio, for the latest news, and a strange thing happened: ordinary news about life in our country, our people, their words and aspirations, lifted me up immediately; it was as if I had washed in cold water after a day of exhausting reflections.” He claimed that his sense of profound isolation was broken when he “engaged with the life of the whole country, again felt the grandeur of this life and understood the insignificance of my own minor difficulties.”²⁵² As of 1938, the USSR had 1,838 sanatoriums, 1,270 recreational facilities, and 12,000 pioneer camps for children, and they were all in heavy usage. That year, Afinogenov was reinstated in the party.

People’s fates were often random, and not because Stalin intentionally sought to sow still greater dread by arbitrariness, but with little apparent rhyme or reason.²⁵³ Jenő Varga courageously wrote to the despot (March 28, 1938), with copies to Dimitrov and Yezhov, about the “dangerous atmosphere of panic” among foreigners whose children were cursed at school as fascists. “This demoralization is enveloping the majority of Comintern workers and is spreading even to individual members of the Executive Committee Secretariat,” Varga wrote of the Hotel Lux. “Many foreigners gather up their belongings every evening in expectation of arrest. Many are half mad and incapable of working because of constant fear.” Varga had served under Béla Kun in the Hungarian Soviet Republic. Kun was arrested and executed (August 29, 1938); Varga survived.²⁵⁴ Similarly, while one Red Army commander extremely close to Stalin, the civil war crony Marshal Yegorov, was executed, another, Marshal Budyonny, was spared, even though both had been subjects of a torrent of denunciations (the Red Army men not shot had essentially identical files to those who were shot, often from the same “testimony”).²⁵⁵ Among regime literati, Mikhail Koltsov was arrested and executed (“Remember,” he had instructed Louis Aragon, the leftist French writer, in Paris, “Stalin is always right”).²⁵⁶ But Ilya Ehrenburg, who, like Koltsov, had been in Spain and was secretly denounced by all and sundry, survived. “May I ask you something?” a young writer (who had been five years old in 1938) would later inquire of Ehrenburg. “How was it that you survived?” Ehrenburg answered, “I shall never know.”²⁵⁷

Yet another person inexplicably not arrested was Demyan Bedny. The NKVD had produced a devastating overview of his “anti-Sovietism” on September 9, 1938, a few months after the poet was expelled from the party and the Union of Soviet Writers. “D. Bedny systematically expressed his resentment against comrades Stalin, Molotov, and other leaders. . . . ‘I adhered to the party, 99.9 percent of which comprised spies and provocateurs. Stalin is a horrible person and often guided by personal accounts. All great leaders have always surrounded themselves with a galaxy of brilliant companions; who has Stalin created? He has annihilated everyone, there is no one, all destroyed. Such a situation occurred only under Ivan the Terrible.’” Bedny was said to have called the mass accusations baseless. “The army has been utterly destroyed; trust and command have been undermined; it is impossible to fight with such an army. Myself, under these conditions, I would concede half of Ukraine just to keep from being attacked. Such a talented strategist as Tukhachevsky has been destroyed.” Bedny called the new constitution a “fiction,” and the elections to the Supreme Soviet a sham. He even criticized Stalin’s holy of holies, the collective farms, for their absence of incentives. The NKVD concluded that “several times he expressed his intention to commit suicide.” That Bedny said all these things was plausible, although the NKVD material did not need to be actually true in order for Stalin to act on it. For whatever reason, he refrained from ordering or authorizing an arrest.²⁵⁸

Of course, some people survived for abundantly clear reasons: Stalin deliberately spared the tarnished Khrushchev and Beria, among others, because he liked them. Stalin had allowed the writer Aleksei Tolstoy to be elected as a Supreme Soviet delegate from Leningrad.²⁵⁹ Hundreds of Soviet inhabitants poured their hearts out to Tolstoy in his capacity as a deputy, and, for whatever reason, he held on to their acts of bravery. “Can it really be that there is no defense from careerists, toadies, and cowards who earn their bread on each slogan, yesterday for collectivization, today for vigilance?” wrote an architect whose brother had been arrested. “Can it really be that you, deputies, are created only in order to shout hurrah for Stalin and to applaud Yezhov?” The letter writer asked Tolstoy to pass his signed letter to Stalin. “I am not mad,” he added. “I have a family, a son, work that I love. . . . But right now the feeling of truth is stronger than the fear of ten years in the camps.” A woman wrote to pillory Tolstoy’s story “Grain” for its mendacities and glorification of Stalin. “The best people, who are devoted to Lenin’s ideas, honest and unbought, are sitting behind bars, arrested by the thousands, being executed,” she told him, withholding her name. “They cannot bear the grandiose Baseness triumphing throughout the land. . . . And you, an engineer of the human soul, are cowardly turned inside out, and we saw the unseemly inside of a purchasable hack. . . . Fear: that’s the dominant feeling that has seized citizens of the USSR. And you do not see that? . . . Where is the majestic pathos that in October [1917] moved millions to fight to the death? Overcome by the fetid breath of Stalin and of yes-men like you.”²⁶⁰

Some targets of the terror had come to understand how the epoch stamped them. Theodore Maly, the Soviet spy, had been born in Temesvár (Timişoara), in the Austro-Hungarian empire, in 1894, studied to become a Catholic priest, got conscripted during the Great War, was imprisoned in a series of tsarist POW camps, and ended up in Siberia, where he joined the Cheka. The tall, urbane ethnic Hungarian was able to pose as an Austrian, German, Swiss, or Brit. In July 1937, when he received a summons to return to Moscow, he knew its import—execution—but he went back. Before doing so, he attempted to explain this decision to Elisabeth Poretsky, whose husband, Ignace Reiss (Ignace Poretsky), also worked in Soviet intelligence and would defect. “I saw all the horrors, young men with frozen limbs dying in the trenches” during the Great War, Maly told her. “We were all covered with vermin and many were dying of typhus. I lost my faith in God and when the revolution broke out I joined the Bolsheviks.” During the civil war, Maly continued, “we would pass burning villages which had changed hands several times in a day. . . . Our Red detachments would ‘clean up’ villages exactly the way the Whites did. What was left of the inhabitants, old men, women, children, were machine-gunned for having given assistance to the enemy. I could not stand the wailing of women. I simply could not.” Then came collectivization: “I knew what we were doing to the peasants, how many were deported, how many were shot.”²⁶¹ Maly also had to know that the NKVD could easily kill him abroad (as would happen to Reiss, in Lausanne, Switzerland). After Maly returned to Moscow, he was duly arrested, “convicted” of spying for Germany, and executed (September 20, 1938).²⁶² Maly was among legions of functionaries who carried baggage.²⁶³

BERIA MEETS BLYUKHER

In Georgia, Beria tried to implant his protégé Valerian Bakradze as his successor, but Stalin blocked him. Instead, on August 31, 1938, he was replaced by Candide Charkviani, the third secretary, who was thirty-one years old and would try to erect his own local machine.²⁶⁴ On August 31 in Moscow, Blyukher appeared before the Main Military Council, chaired by Voroshilov, with Budyonny, Kulik, and two other high military officers, as well as Molotov and Stalin. Frinovsky attended, too. The group roundly castigated the marshal for Lake Khasan’s high casualties and disorganization, and for false reporting. Voroshilov and Frinovsky accused him of gross incompetence “bordering on conscious defeatism.” Stalin removed Blyukher from the Far Eastern command.²⁶⁵ Voroshilov recommended Blyukher take a holiday and await his next assignment and gave him his own dacha at Bocharov Ruchei, near Lake Ritsa.²⁶⁶ On September 4, 1938, the semi-autonomous Far Eastern Army was divided into three separate armies, each subordinated directly to Voroshilov.²⁶⁷ On September 8, Stalin officially named Frinovsky naval commissar. On September 13, Beria spent nearly two hours in the Little Corner with Molotov, Zhdanov, and Yezhov, beginning past midnight.²⁶⁸ He got an office in Lubyanka on the third floor, next to Yezhov’s. On September 29, Beria would officially be named head of the NKVD Main Directorate of State Security (GUGB), the secret police within the secret police.

Pravda (October 3, 1938) published a photo of Mikheil Gelovani playing Stalin in The Man with the Gun, a film adaptation of the play about soldiers in the October Revolution. (Maxim Strauch played Lenin.) Gelovani (b. 1893), who worked at the Rustaveli, in Tbilisi, was descended from an ancient Georgian princely house. He had first played Stalin in They Wanted Peace, which also premiered in 1938 and was set in 1917, and displaced Semyon Goldstab, whom Stalin had not especially liked.²⁶⁹ With makeup and fake mustache, Gelovani resembled Stalin closely, except for his height and his thin neck (which had to be hidden), and managed to mimic Stalin’s Georgian accent to perfection. He brought the despot to life. Mikheil Chiaureli, the Georgian director and screenwriter, who had cast Gelovani, kept him from Stalin, trying to monopolize his own access. Chiaureli recalled the film’s screening in the Kremlin cinema. Stalin sat in the front row; behind him were Molotov and Voroshilov, film boss Semyon Dukelsky, and the director. After the lights came on, a long, awkward silence ensued. Stalin, silently, got up to exit. At the door, he suddenly turned and said, “I didn’t know—it turns out that I’m so charming. Well done!”²⁷⁰

Beria’s appointment to Moscow invited conversations about Stalin’s own Georgian origins. Whispers had long ago spread of a “Caucasus group” atop the regime: Stalin, Orjonikidze, Yenukidze, Mikoyan. In effect, Beria was taking Orjonikidze’s place in the inner circle. “At that time I thought that Stalin wanted a Georgian in the NKVD,” Khrushchev would recall. “We thought at the time that the whole matter was that he was from the Caucasus, a Georgian, closer to Stalin not only as a party member but as a person of the same ethnicity.”²⁷¹ In fact, Stalin detested reminders of his Georgianness, and yet he was willing to incur this risk, demonstrating just how much he prized Gelovani—and valued and needed Beria.

Inside the Soviet police, first-class sadists were fewer than one might think. Boris Rodos, in that context, stood out, a “chopper” (kolun) who could reliably smash those under “interrogation” to near death. He would snap a whip across a prisoner’s legs, continuing after he collapsed to the floor, pour freezing water over him, then force him to scoop his diarrhea with his tin cup and swallow, then shout, “Sign! Sign!”²⁷² (“An insignificant man with the mental horizon of a chicken,” Khrushchev would later say.) Rodos’s children, who knew nothing of their father’s work, observed phone calls at all hours, prompting him to awake, shave, put on his uniform, and go downstairs for a waiting car; when he got home, sometimes only after several days, he would wash and wash his hands and arms up to his elbows, like a surgeon.²⁷³ Rodos was assigned to people like the arch-Stalinist Roberts Eihe, an early winner of the Order of Lenin (1935) and a politburo candidate member who, in Western Siberia, had signed execution lists with tens of thousands of names, before his own turn came. From prison Eihe wrote to Stalin how, “throughout the entire time of my work in Siberia, I decisively and mercilessly implemented the party line”—a statement of pristine truth.²⁷⁴ At the Sukhanovka prison, where Beria kept an office, Rodos beat Eihe senseless, not desisting even after Eihe crumbled into an unconscious heap. When Eihe was raised and again refused to admit to Beria, standing nearby, that he was a spy for Latvia, Rodos went after him again. One of Eihe’s eyes popped out.²⁷⁵

Many targets like Eihe were beaten not only in Beria’s presence but by Beria himself, something Stalin never did. “An intriguer, a careerist, a bloodthirsty, amoral debauchee,” observed one high-level NKVD operative in Georgia who was arrested and sent to the Gulag. “If he [Beria] had to eliminate someone from his path, he removed him. If he had to occupy someone’s place, he intrigued and compromised that person, achieving his removal.”²⁷⁶ Of course, such an unsavory reputation was a source of power: Who wanted to be on the wrong side of Beria? Minions gravitated toward a winner. They found Beria a severe, demanding boss, assigning tough tasks on strict deadlines and brooking no excuses. But for those who met the challenges, Beria afforded strong support and even some freedom of action, eliciting fierce loyalty. They feared but also admired him as a professional in police work and a patron. Beria got them apartments, the best provisions, and higher salaries and cash bonuses. He had no qualms about acting like a cold-blooded murderer, but, equally Stalin-like, he took care of his people.²⁷⁷ He was a hangman, but far more. “Beria was an industrious person, not a loafer [shaliai-valiai]; he was a big-time functionary,” recalled a member of the Egnatashvili clan—the clan of Stalin’s surrogate father—who hated and feared Beria. “It’s necessary to look truth in the eye: he was really capable of getting things done. It was another question at what price? But whatever was delegated to him, he carried it out.”²⁷⁸

On October 22, 1938, NKVD operatives appeared at Voroshilov’s dacha, where the thirty-nine-year-old Blyukher and his twenty-three-year-old wife were staying. They arrested the couple and took them to Moscow.²⁷⁹ Yezhov had signed the order, but Beria oversaw the interrogation in Lefortovo. Back in summer 1937, Stalin had said that Tukhachevsky and Gamarnik, on orders from the Japanese, had tried to remove Blyukher from command of the Soviet Far Eastern Army; now, in fall 1938, Stalin had Blyukher accused of being a spy for the Japanese since 1922. Under “interrogation,” Beria’s men reduced Blyukher’s face to a bloody pulp—he lost an eye—yet the marshal refused to confess. Blyukher would die under torture. Beria telephoned Stalin with the news, after which the marshal was cremated.²⁸⁰ His death was never announced.²⁸¹

Beria’s value, as well as Khrushchev’s, got magnified many times over by Stalin’s hectic quest for leading personnel caused by his annihilations. Stalin had assigned Alexander Shcherbakov, Zhdanov’s deputy in Leningrad, as party boss in Irkutsk, but in spring 1938 he received him again and appointed him party boss to the Donbass.²⁸² In fall 1938, Stalin would hand him the Moscow party organization, summoning Khrushchev from Ukraine to preside over the meeting to denounce the sitting Moscow party head as an enemy of the people and support Shcherbakov (who had once worked under Khrushchev in Ukraine). “There is also testimony against him,” Khrushchev recalled telling Stalin of Shcherbakov, whom he deemed “poisonous, snakelike.” Stalin resolved the matter by appointing a second secretary from Malenkov’s circle to watch over Shcherbakov.²⁸³

Stalin’s most important minion, Molotov, showed little ambition to cultivate his own power base.²⁸⁴ Orjonikidze, by contrast, had built an immense semi-autonomous fiefdom in heavy industry, which Stalin had broken up into numerous economic commissariats. But now Stalin found himself constrained to facilitate the establishment of another fiefdom: Beria at the NKVD. A rivalry between Molotov and Beria for Stalin’s favor assisted the despot in keeping an eye on both.²⁸⁵ Still, Beria challenged him to stay on his toes, and Stalin would strive to institute all manner of checks on Beria, a process that had begun before his transfer to Moscow.²⁸⁶ Unlike in the case of Voroshilov at the Red Army, Stalin had appointed not merely a loyalist, but a man exceptionally suited for his post. Beria would come to exercise immense power by dint of the organization he now headed de facto and his undeniable operational skill.

•   •   •

“TYRANTS DESTROYED,” a short story published in Russian in 1936 by the émigré Vladimir Nabokov (the son of a Provisional Government scribe), imagined an egomaniac with the power to drive his subjects mad, in a kind of infectious psychosis.²⁸⁷ Stalin knew the state of the country and the consequences of his actions. Compared with anyone else inside the USSR, he was exceptionally well informed, served by an information-gathering system that stretched across the vast country and, to an extent, the entire globe.²⁸⁸ Still, it took intense effort on his part to ferret out information that officials did not want him to know. He sought accurate information, but for him that meant Marxist-Leninist ways of thinking refracted through a jaundiced view of people. Stalin exhibited a proclivity to depict the world as he wanted to see it, indeed, as he could and did shape it. He elicited intelligence about enemies, treason, vulnerabilities. It would be going too far to call him, or the Soviet system, a victim of its own trap.²⁸⁹ An echo chamber effect shapes surveillance and reporting mechanisms in any authoritarian regime. Still, in the Soviet case the revolution was encircled, and Stalin’s worldview reinforced that structural paranoia.

The USSR faced genuine foreign threats, and the terror was conducted in the name of state security, but mass arrests in the Red Army further emboldened foreign enemies, including Hitler and proponents of war in the Nazi regime, while rendering the USSR’s already wary potential allies more wary. The vastly expanded hunt to root out enemies in 1936–38 helped unify the country around threats but spread deep fear and made many otherwise loyal Soviet people anti-Soviet. The mass annihilation of party and state functionaries, and the heightened dread among survivors, did nothing to alter the political system’s inbuilt malperformance. Stalin smashed nearly every provincial party machine in 1937–38, but they would reappear.²⁹⁰ He killed off heads of state bodies, too, and the state fiefdoms reappeared. Industry had been suffering genuine problems, but the mass arrests that were attributed to wrecking only lowered output further. Complicity in the mass murder of Red Army officers and loyal officials compromised all those who took part or benefited, including large numbers of new young people.

During the enemy mania of 1937 and 1938, no military graduation banquets took place (eleven of the fourteen military academy directors suffered arrest).²⁹¹ Still, the graduations themselves did take place. So did at least fifteen Kremlin banquets for other occasions, which eclipsed party gatherings in ceremony and—alongside the parades on Red Square for May Day, Revolution Day, and Physical Culture Day—became the principal staging ground of Stalin’s rule.²⁹² He held banquets (large and small) for managers, engineers, and high-profile workers in various industrial branches; women; athletes; aviators; representatives of the Union republics. Marina Raskova, the aviator, was bundled along with the rest of the Motherland airplane crew to the Kremlin’s Palace of Facets immediately upon their return to Moscow (October 27, 1938). When she encountered Stalin, she erupted in tears, unable to control herself; he comforted her, taking her by the shoulders, patting her head, seating her next to him. When Stalin rose to speak, the hall hushed, straining to hear his soft voice. He talked about the need to take special care of aviators, and about matriarchy back in the mists of time.²⁹³ That same evening, he managed an appearance at the fortieth anniversary of the Moscow Art Theater, arriving with nearly his entire suite: Molotov, Voroshilov, Kaganovich, Andreyev, Mikoyan, Zhdanov, Yezhov, and Khrushchev, all of whom were photographed in the company of the leading actresses and actors. Medals were handed out liberally.²⁹⁴ The ineffaceable evil was mixed with a grandeur that was celebrated with pride in the Grand Kremlin Palace and in localities alike.

Genius and madness may be two sides of the same coin (as Aristotle wrote), but Stalin was neither. He showed himself capable of immense foresight but also blindness. He was astonishingly hardworking yet often self-defeating, uncannily shrewd yet often narrow-minded and mulish. He possessed an inordinately strong will that brooked little or no challenge to his views.²⁹⁵ This ferocious willpower emanated from a transcendent sense of personal destiny and of historical necessity. Stalin, too, intrigued ceaselessly, but he was utterly absorbed in the matter of Soviet statehood and statecraft. Moreover, he had authority, not just power. He inhabited the Kremlin—he filled the offices and the parade halls built by Catherine the Great and Alexander I. Combining the majesty of imperial Russian power with the seeming sureties of Marxism-Leninism, a great state with socialism, proved to be his masterwork.²⁹⁶ Its expression was the new people, his people, not those of a bygone epoch destined to be crushed like whole classes under the wheels of history. It was a vision in which terror could make sense. And yet, what transpired in 1936–38 cannot be made wholly rational any more than absolute evil can.²⁹⁷

Stalin murdered from the Little Corner. He was a distant murderer. He took no part in the bloody rituals. He was not an assassin, nor a witness to assassinations, although he did sometimes witness the results of torture when the accused were brought before him and others of the politburo in so-called confrontations with their accusers. He wrote the execution directives and signed the lists of names. He did not allow the public to know of his signatures but made sure his inner circle, too, were implicated. He spoke to them all the time about the accusations in the same way as the propaganda related them in public—in terms of legions of hidden spies everywhere, traitors, and confessions to these crimes that he referred to literally—and instructed his police minions to employ torture, frequently using euphemisms, though sometimes being explicit (“Beat Ryabinin all over for not implicating Vareikis”).²⁹⁸

Letters detailing torture, abuses, and injustices continued to reach Stalin.²⁹⁹ Few grasped the depth of his malice.³⁰⁰ Molotov came to see it and, further, to understand that it was not solely personal but rooted in a sense of raison d’état and core political convictions. Was showing pity to enemies and double-dealers Marxist? Did alleged Marxists not understand capitalist encirclement? Did they not understand class struggle? Who would be responsible if pity were shown and Soviet power were defeated in war and overthrown? Stalin would be responsible. A light tenor, he continued to sing romantic songs such as the Georgian “Suliko” (“I sought my sweetheart’s grave, but could not find it”), but running the Soviet state did not afford him much scope for sentimentality. His ruthlessness was dictated, in his own mind, by the laws of history and social development. Nonetheless, Stalin’s terror went beyond reckless. And soon, he himself would indirectly recognize as much.

———PART III——— THREE-CARD MONTE

How horrible, fantastic, incredible it is, that we should be digging trenches and trying on gas masks here because of a quarrel in a faraway country between people of whom we know nothing.

PRIME MINISTER NEVILLE CHAMBERLAIN, radio broadcast, September 27, 1938, speaking of the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia¹

COLONEL JEAN DELMAS, French military attaché in Romania: “Do you not think it is time and possible to arrest Germany’s expansion?”

LIEUTENANT GENERAL GHEORGHE ŞTEFAN IONESCU, Romanian chief of staff: “In my view, it is the last opportunity. If we let it pass, we can no longer contain Germany and, in that case, enormous sacrifices would be required, while today the victory appears certain.” (September 28, 1938)²

HITLER WAS A FORCE OF NATURE because potential counterforces allowed him to be. For years he had been seeking an audience with one of his idols, Benito Mussolini, who had been handed power after a colossal bluff, the March on Rome, in 1922. Finally, in 1934, after the Führer, too, had been handed power—also by traditional conservatives wary of leftist revolution and desperate for an authoritarian mass base—the duce condescended to a meeting. Afterward, Mussolini reassured an Italian Jewish leader, “I know Mr. Hitler. He is an imbecile and a scoundrel; an endless talker.” The duce added, “In the future there will be no remaining trace of Hitler while the Jews will still be a great people. . . . Mr. Hitler is a joke that will last only a few years.”³ On July 25, 1934, advantageously misconstruing a question that had been posed by Mussolini (who had conducted the conversation in his atrocious German), Hitler and his overzealous minions had colluded with Austrian Nazis in a putsch against Mussolini’s friend the Austrian authoritarian leader Engelbert Dollfuss.⁴ Even as his wife and family were guests of Mussolini’s at his seaside villa in Riccione, Italy, the Austrian chancellor—known as the Jockey for his five-foot-two height—was slowly, agonizingly bleeding to death on his office couch in Vienna. An enraged duce mobilized 100,000 troops on the Brenner Pass to support the Austrian armed forces—and Hitler backed down. “If this group of criminals and pederasts should take over Europe,” the duce fumed, “it would mean the end of our civilization.”⁵

Mussolini had demonstrated that Hitler could be deterred. In the meantime, the Italian fascist had switched sides, because of his expansionism in Africa in 1935 and the next year’s outbreak of the Spanish civil war, when the duce and the Führer found common cause supporting Franco.⁶ On November 1, 1936, during a bombastic outburst in Milan, Mussolini had mused that a Rome-Berlin “Axis” had formed, around which all of Europe would be “reorganized.” The British cartoonist David Low called Mussolini “the man who took the lid off.”⁷ Hitler and Mussolini became a corrosive duo, but hardly genuinely committed allies. Following a duce state visit to Berlin in September 1937, according to Albert Speer, Hitler pantomimed him. “His chin thrust forward, his legs spread, and his right hand jammed on his hip, Hitler, who spoke no foreign languages, bellowed Italian or Italian-sounding words like giovinezza, patria, victoria, macaroni, belleza, bel canto, and basta. Everyone around him made sure to laugh, and it was indeed very funny.”⁸ The histrionic duce would be derided as a cardboard Caesar presiding over a regime of gestures, from the Roman salute that replaced the handshake to the leader cult.⁹ But his playacting about an Axis with Germany put a heavier onus on France and Britain. Even in the face of Hitler’s illegal rearmament and public statements about expansionism, however, the Western powers strove to avoid a repeat of the horrors of the Great War.¹⁰

Most contemporary statesmen assumed that great powers acted out of self-interest, that international discord was the norm, that peace was provided for by balance of power, and that the overturning of the balance (or equilibrium) would bring consequences that even anti-status-quo (or revisionist) powers failed to foresee.¹¹ Here was the rub, however: the Versailles order had not been a genuine equilibrium. The treaty had been possible solely because of an anomaly in 1919: the simultaneous collapse of both German and Russian power. One or the other of these big countries was certain to come back strongly. In the event, both rose to be major military powers, and within a single generation. As if that were not enough, the old Habsburg buffer was gone. The revived Polish state and expanded Greater Romania exacerbated the instability with their barbed rivalries with, respectively, Czechoslovakia and Hungary. Lack of resolve on the part of the Western powers was in many ways a symptom, not a cause, of the death rattle of Versailles. Stalin, for his part, hardly objected to Versailles revisionism—the Bolsheviks had not even been invited to the peace conference—provided, of course, that any “new order” did not come at Soviet expense.¹² Versailles’s obsolescence offered extraordinarily fertile ground for Hitler’s appetites and, in his wake, for Stalin’s opportunism.

The Führer could mesmerize people. Winston Churchill, the Tory politician, had written in September 1937 that “one may dislike Hitler’s system and yet admire his patriotic achievement. If our country were defeated I hope we should find a champion as indomitable to restore our courage and lead us back to our place among nations.”¹³ Churchill would soon experience a drastic change of heart, coming around to the view that Hitler was serious about his martial and racialist aspirations.¹⁴ But many observers, perhaps most, would continue to assume that, like all politicians, the Nazi, too, would eventually “come to see reason.”

Hitler posed a profound danger to Stalin’s personal dictatorship as the Führer not only rearmed his country but raged ever more rabidly against “Judeo-Bolshevism,” transforming Germany from partner of convenience with the USSR during the Weimar years to menace. Stalin was bafflingly slow to come to grips with the centrality of ideology in the Nazi program. On the Soviet despot’s Asian flank, meanwhile, the long-standing threat of an expansionist Japan had only strengthened. The symbolic November 1936 Anti-Comintern Pact between Germany and Japan, which Italy joined the next year, and the relentless Soviet border clashes with Japan, including the summer 1938 limited war at Lake Khasan, meant that the Soviet Union faced the prospect of a two-front war—and without allies.¹⁵ Mongolia, the world’s only other socialist state, had a total population far smaller than the Red Army. Stalin had signed a nonaggression pact with Chiang Kai-shek’s China, but a decade of bitterness and distrust was not easily overcome, and China’s ability to continue holding off a Japanese military onslaught, while battling internal Communist subversion, remained uncertain. Could Stalin somehow achieve a military alliance with the Western capitalist democracies, even as he was conducting grisly mass executions at home and engaged in forms of Communist subversion of his potential partners abroad? Czechoslovakia provided the key test.

•   •   •

CZECHOSLOVAKIA CALLED TO MIND the old Habsburg empire in miniature—Mussolini dubbed it Czecho-Germano-Polono-Magyaro-Rutheno-Romano-Slovakia. Of the new country’s approximately 15 million people, Czechs formed a bare majority, and the main minorities—3.25 million Germans, 3 million Slovaks, 750,000 Hungarians, 100,000 Ruthenians [Ukrainians], 100,000 Poles—chafed at real and perceived discrimination. Politically, the country remained a parliamentary democracy, but in some ways it was too divided, too nationalist, and even too small to sustain the limited stability that old Austria-Hungary had fitfully managed.¹⁶ Hitler preyed upon these vulnerabilities, taking advantage of Czechoslovakia’s democracy to subvert it: spreading lies to discredit its democratic institutions while claiming the protections of laws to defend freedom of expression; covertly funding pro-Nazi political groups while irately denouncing the evidence of its complicity fake, even inciting armed revolt by Czechoslovakia’s German speakers, who were concentrated mostly in the horseshoe-shaped Sudetenland, contiguous with Germany. With regional tensions high, on February 24, 1938, the twentieth anniversary of the founding of the Red Army, the Soviet embassy in Prague threw a glittering reception for 350 guests. (The German, Italian, and Polish ambassadors stayed away.) General Ludvík Krejčí, chief of the Czechoslovak general staff, stated in the presence of journalists that if Germany were to attack, “We will fight and we will never fall to our knees.” He added that the Czechoslovak general staff wanted relations with the Soviet general staff to be on a par with those it had with the French. Still, doubts existed in Prague about whether the USSR was really prepared to defend Czechoslovakia.¹⁷

Events moved very rapidly. On March 12, a different Habsburg successor state vanished when the Wehrmacht, unopposed, seized Austria, a country of 7 million predominantly German speakers. It was the first time since the Great War that a German army had crossed a state frontier for purposes of conquest, and, in and of itself, it constituted an event of perhaps greater import than the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, which had helped spark the Great War mobilizations in 1914.¹⁸ The Versailles and Saint-Germain treaties of 1919 expressly forbade a forcible annexation of Austria by Germany, but Berlin deemed what it called Anschluss a “reunification” with the German speakers whom Bismarck had left out of his unified Germany. Even Germans not enamored of National Socialism rejoiced. Hitler overcame the stain of his failed 1934 putsch, and this time Mussolini, estranged from Britain and France and judging a deal with Hitler more prudent than paying the cost of opposing him, allied Italy to Germany’s expansionism even as the latter threatened Italy’s own territorial interests.

France, for its part, lacked a government on the day Hitler invaded Austria; the coalition cabinet had just resigned—again. (France would have sixteen governments over the eight years beginning in 1932.) British prime minister Neville Chamberlain’s special envoy to Hitler, Edward Wood, First Earl of Halifax, leader of the House of Lords, had conveyed (back on November 19, 1937) that London would not stand in his way over Austria—or the ethnic-German-majority provinces of Czechoslovakia and Danzig—provided such revisions to the Versailles Treaty came through “peaceful evolution.” In the conversation it had been Halifax, not Hitler, who first mentioned these other territories coveted by Nazi Germany.¹⁹ Chamberlain (b. 1869) did publicly warn Germany not to attack Czechoslovakia, but he privately informed Paris that London would not join a military counteraction should Hitler repeat his aggression.²⁰ France wanted it both ways as well: it publicly affirmed its resolve to defend Czechoslovakia while privately wanting British pusillanimity as an excuse not to have to live up to its own treaty obligations.²¹

Rationalizations were to hand. The Versailles peace had been pummeled by pundits as unjust and self-defeating, while state borders in Eastern Europe were widely viewed as arbitrary, including by the East Europeans themselves. What would the powers be shedding blood to defend? All true, but Austria’s disappearance should have and could have been stopped. Germany’s mobilization was so sudden, ordered by the Führer at 7:00 p.m. on March 10, 1938, that it nearly collapsed. “Nothing had been done, nothing at all,” chief of staff General Ludwig Beck fumed of the planning.²² Only the long lists of Austrian Jews had been meticulously prepared. Once across the frontier, the German army had to purchase gasoline at private Austrian petrol stations; lucky for them, it was for sale. The Austrian leader, Kurt von Schuschnigg, had decided not to resist militarily, and yet, even without resistance, and in perfect weather, nearly one in six German tanks broke down before reaching Vienna. Many of the Wehrmacht’s horses, meanwhile, lacked shoes: German farmers, forced to remit horses by quota, had turned over their most decrepit.²³ Fatefully, however, the improvised chaos of the German invasion was not immediately recognized as such. The French did not even have a military attaché on the ground to observe the near disaster.²⁴

What outsiders did see was that much of the Austrian population greeted Hitler’s show of force with euphoria: Nazi banners, Hitler salutes, flowers. By March 13, Austria was already officially a province of Germany, and the Austrian army had sworn an oath to Hitler personally. The Führer issued a decree banning all parties save the National Socialists on what had been Austrian territory. Many Jews were rounded up in Vienna, whose 176,000 citizens of that extraction (10 percent of the urban population) made it the largest Jewish city in the German-speaking world. The Gestapo arrived at Berggasse 19, the offices of Sigmund Freud, who possessed the wherewithal to get himself and some of his possessions out, to London, but others were not so lucky (his four sisters would all be murdered farther east). Much of the Austrian political class was deported to Dachau or an Austrian camp soon opened at the quarries in Mauthausen. Austrian gold and foreign currency reserves, including private holdings, were looted—780 million reichsmarks’ worth, more than Germany’s own.²⁵ On March 14, Hitler entered Vienna as conqueror, staying at the Imperial Hotel, near whose entrance he had shoveled snow many years earlier to earn a few Habsburg crowns.

For two days, Soviet newspapers did not even comment on the Nazi seizure of Austria: Pravda and Izvestiya were consumed with blaring the death sentences for Bukharin and other accused “war provocateurs.”²⁶ When Hitler delivered a rousing speech before a quarter million people on Vienna’s Heroes’ Square on March 15, 1938, in Moscow Bukharin was made to watch as the other defendants from his “trial” were shot, and then he, too, was executed. Stalin took his colored pencils to the transcript of Bukharin’s last statement in court, before it was published in the Soviet press, and crossed out several passages, including: “I accept responsibility even for those crimes about which I did not know or about which I did not have the slightest idea”; “I deny most of all the prosecutor’s charge that I belonged to the group sitting on the court bench with me, because such a group never existed!”²⁷

Czechoslovakia was now surrounded on three sides by German troops, and its western border defenses were gone. Back when Stalin had agreed to mutual assistance pacts with France and Czechoslovakia, he had pledged to come to the latter’s aid if France did so first.²⁸ On the same day Hitler spoke in Vienna and Bukharin was executed, deputy foreign affairs commissar Potyomkin, who had taken over for the arrested Krestinsky, told the Czechoslovak ambassador that requests for reassurance should be addressed to Paris.²⁹ On March 21, 1938, Sergei Alexandrovsky, the Soviet envoy in Prague, warned his interlocutors that the defense of Czechoslovakia was not in the first instance the Red Army’s responsibility.³⁰ On March 26, Litvinov wrote to Alexandrovsky that “the Hitlerization of Austria has predetermined the fate of Czechoslovakia.” That day he had been in Stalin’s Little Corner, along with Molotov, Voroshilov, and others, for two hours.³¹ By March 27, the despot was compelled to close the Soviet embassy in Vienna “in connection with the elimination of the Austrian state.” Austria’s legation in Moscow was signed over to Hitler. On March 28, Stalin sent Marshal Kulik to Prague. Krejčí was again ingratiating, joining denunciations of Trotsky and asking Kulik point-blank, “Will you help us if the Germans attack?” According to the Soviet notetaker, “Comrade Kulik answered ‘that help will be forthcoming.’”³² But on March 29, Pravda warned that “German aggression against Czechoslovakia will occur only if Germany is sure that the other powers will not intervene on the Czech side. Thus, everything depends on the attitude adopted by France and Britain.”³³

Over in Spain, Franco’s forces reached the Mediterranean, slicing the Republic’s zone in two. At the same time, French intelligence, citing a “top-secret and completely reliable” source, reported on Germany’s war plans against Czechoslovakia.³⁴ On April 21, Stalin met in the Little Corner with Molotov, other minions, Litvinov, and Alexandrovsky, who was instructed to reaffirm that the Soviet Union stood with France and Czechoslovakia—a reminder of France’s obligations.³⁵ Hitler traveled to Italy, his second visit since becoming chancellor, seeking Mussolini’s assent to a Nazi plan to “take out” Czechoslovakia. Despite seven days of pomp, sightseeing, and spectacle recalling the visit of Holy Roman emperor Charles V in 1536, the Führer came away without a binding military pact.³⁶

Czechoslovak president Edvard Beneš, who had studied for a law degree in France and had represented the new Czechoslovakia at Versailles, showed resolve, telling the Soviet envoy (May 18, 1938) that he would defend his state’s frontiers and sovereignty “with all the means at his disposal” and urging that this message be conveyed personally to Stalin.³⁷ Between May 19 and 22, under the impression that a German strike was imminent, in a repeat of the Austrian scenario, Beneš called up reservists, 199,000 men, which doubled the force structure, and he repositioned troops to the front lines in the Sudetenland. The British issued a formal protest of Hitler’s presumed war plans and evacuated nonessential staff from their Berlin embassy.³⁸ Whether a German offensive had been imminent remains uncertain; it appears that the Czechoslovaks had been fed disinformation.³⁹ The emergency Czechoslovak mobilization, in eliciting the warning from Britain to Germany, had made it seem as if Hitler had had to abandon his putsch at the last minute under pressure, which provoked his fury. In fact, Hitler had already decided on an attack, and the planning was well under way for a short war against Czechoslovakia, but now those secret plans were given stronger impetus and refined (with a target completion date of October 1).⁴⁰ Even more consequentially, hyper-war-averse Britain had accidentally emerged as the ostensible roadblock to Hitler’s continental Lebensraum and racial aspirations. French hostility—which Hitler took for granted—would be far more threatening if Britain stood shoulder to shoulder with France. The Führer began to contemplate the necessity of a war in the west as prelude to his eventual expansionism in the east.⁴¹

Germany’s heightened spring–summer preparations against Czechoslovakia became known to Stalin, who ordered the Kiev and Belorussian military districts reorganized into a special military command (with a completion deadline of September 1), but to unspecified purpose. The Soviet high command internally noted that the Czechoslovak army and populace were in a fighting mood, and that President Beneš, who had been born to a peasant family, seemed inclined to stand up for his country.⁴² But in Prague, the severe doubts about Moscow, which General Krejčí had expressed back in March, persisted. Would Stalin help defend them?

•   •   •

ALTHOUGH STALIN HAD SUCCESSFULLY stood up to the Japanese at Lake Khasan in summer 1938, that border war had exposed Soviet military weaknesses, which were aired at a meeting of the Main Military Council on August 31. Stalin had reduced Soviet involvement in the Spanish civil war, but he had ramped up military involvement on behalf of China and remained deeply preoccupied with shoring up defenses in the Soviet Far East while, paradoxically, continuing to massacre his own military personnel there.⁴³ He was also preoccupied with Polish-German collusion. Poland’s leadership had been among the first to recognize the March 1938 German takeover of Austria. A few days after that, Poland itself took advantage, compelling independent Lithuania, in an ultimatum, to recognize Poland’s annexation of Wilno (which the Poles had occupied militarily back in 1920–22). Lithuania had no defenders, west or east, but whereas Poland’s power play did not turn Western opinion definitively against Warsaw, it reconfirmed Stalin’s ingrained suspicions of likely German-Polish revisionist collaboration.⁴⁴ Potyomkin, under a pseudonym, had publicly mocked Polish fantasies of annexing all of Lithuania and predicted a coming German-inspired Polish invasion of the USSR. “Hitler wants to let Poland loose against the Soviet Union,” he wrote, adding that the Führer “only wants [the Poles] to clear the road for Germany. . . . He is preparing Poland’s fourth partition.”⁴⁵

Moscow’s assistance to Prague faced formidable logistical challenges: Soviet territory was not contiguous with Czechoslovakia. Four of the five partially mobilized Soviet army groups were on the border with Poland, the best transit route, but Poland adamantly refused to permit a military crossing. Some contemporaries speculated that the Soviets could still have gone through Poland on a contrived League of Nations authorization.⁴⁶ Romania, also a Soviet enemy, provided a less advantageous but still valuable land route, along with overflight options, but discussions with Bucharest were inconclusive, partly because of Soviet claims to Romania-controlled Bessarabia and partly because of King Carol II’s objections.⁴⁷ Even though Romania did not shut the door entirely to passage, the rail gauge differed, so the Red Army would have needed to change the undermount wheels at the border or obtain substantial European rolling stock from someone.⁴⁸

London, Paris, and Berlin all judged the Red Army incapable of decisive intervention abroad—after all, Stalin had decapitated his own officer corps.⁴⁹ A Soviet spy secretly transmitted to Stalin the brutal internal intelligence assessment of his French ally to the effect that Soviet armed forces “were not capable of conducting an offensive war” and that the USSR had been “weakened by an internal crisis.”⁵⁰ Officials in France and Britain began spreading self-exculpatory rumors that the Soviets would do nothing in defense of Czechoslovakia.⁵¹ Stalin again had Kalinin publicly reaffirm that Moscow would honor its treaty obligations “to the last letter”—that is, take action provided France did so, a position that was announced on public radio loudspeakers throughout the Soviet Union. France had secretly warned the Czechoslovak government in July 1938 that it would not take up arms over the Sudeten issue under any circumstances.⁵² In trying to back off their treaty obligations, the French grasped a convenient pretext: they knew that Germany had broken some British codes and that, therefore, thanks to telegrams out of Prague by the British special envoy Viscount Walter Runciman, Hitler could see how far—very far, indeed—the British would go to avert war.⁵³

The Führer, ratcheting up the pressure, had ordered that the harvest be gathered as quickly as possible (to free up horses for the Wehrmacht), private trucks be requisitioned, border defenses with France be fully manned, and reserves be called up for fall “maneuvers” in East Prussia. But no peacetime market economy had ever managed Germany’s level of military expenditures, and Germany was already the highest-taxed major economy, and approaching insolvency. The German stock market had dropped 13 percent between April and August 1938.⁵⁴ German military circles had begun plotting to remove the reckless Führer in a palace coup before he could embroil Germany in a new world war for which the country and the army were not ready.⁵⁵ Troops of the elite 23rd Infantry Division, stationed in Potsdam, were to occupy Berlin’s ministries, its radio station, and the facilities of the regular police, the Gestapo, and the SS. Hitler’s bodyguard division, the SS-Leibstandarte, who were stationed in Saxony near the border with Czechoslovakia, would be blocked on-site. A final action involved seizure of the Chancellery and of Hitler himself. The plotters were not fully coordinated, but some sort of putsch seemed to be coming to a head right after Hitler’s Nuremberg rally closing speech on September 12, when many expected him to declare war on Czechoslovakia. He did not. Still, one conspirator told his brother on September 14 that “Hitler will be arrested tomorrow.”⁵⁶

Then the news broke: on September 15, Neville Chamberlain boarded an airplane for the second time in his sixty-nine years and, for the first time, would meet with Hitler. The British PM touched down only one day after the Nazi party had concluded its annual weeklong rally in Nuremberg, a ferocious, torchlit spectacle whose images were seen worldwide.

•   •   •

A MAJORITY OF THE BRITISH establishment believed, or wanted to believe, that an agreement with Germany over Czechoslovakia was possible.⁵⁷ But what kind? The PM proposed awarding Germany the Czechoslovak border territories with majority ethnic German populations in exchange for Hitler’s not resorting to force and a great-power “guarantee” of rump Czechoslovakia’s territorial integrity.⁵⁸ A diplomatic deal, even such a stunningly advantageous gift, was precisely what the war-thirsty Hitler feared. He had been startled by Chamberlain’s offer to come to Berlin.⁵⁹ During a fortnight, as the Führer got ever more expansive in his demands, the elderly, unwell Chamberlain would fly to him three times. (“If at first you can’t concede,” went a nasty ditty that made the rounds, “fly, fly again.”)⁶⁰ On the eve of the first encounter, Chamberlain had written to his sister Ida, “Is it not positively horrible to think that the fate of hundreds of millions depends on one man and he is half mad?”⁶¹ Eight days later (September 19), he wrote to her again: “Here was a man who could be relied upon when he had given his word.”⁶²

Of course, Stalin had been straining to elicit his own deal with Hitler, who would have none of it. Sorge, the agent of Soviet military intelligence at the German embassy in Japan, was reporting on secret German-Japanese negotiations for a binding military alliance.⁶³ In Moscow, three meetings of the Main Military Council took place on September 19, with Stalin in attendance, and much of the discussion was taken up with shortcomings and planned construction in Soviet Far Eastern military districts.⁶⁴ That same day, Beneš, in receipt of Anglo-French proposals that day for territorial concessions to Germany—which he was inclined to reject—asked Alexandrovsky specifically if the Soviets would support Czechoslovakia should Germany attack and France fulfill its treaty obligations. Potyomkin telegrammed Alexandrovsky that the answer was yes, and that Moscow was transmitting the same answer immediately to Paris, all of which was conveyed to Beneš by telephone on September 20 while he was meeting with the Czechoslovak government.⁶⁵ Beneš, the next day, was aggressively pressured by Britain and France into accepting the “deal.” From September 21 to 23, Stalin undertook a redeployment and partial mobilization in his western borderlands—which held 76 divisions—and had the Red Army troops informed that they would be defending Czechoslovakia.⁶⁶ On September 23, the Führer flat out rejected the British-French “compromise”—the prize of the Sudetenland without having to fight for it. France and Czechoslovakia partially mobilized.⁶⁷ The Soviet envoy in Paris briefed the French on intensified Soviet troop movements.⁶⁸

Chamberlain again took the lead to defuse the bellicosity. “However much we may sympathize with a small nation confronted by a big and powerful neighbor, we cannot in all circumstances undertake to involve the whole British Empire in war simply on her account,” the PM stated on the radio on September 27. “If we have to fight, it must be on larger issues than that.”⁶⁹ That same day, the German general staff moved its troops to forward positions on the frontier with Czechoslovakia. The French and British governments reluctantly felt that they would be compelled to fight if the Wehrmacht forcibly seized Czechoslovakia. The Royal Navy was on full alert. Britain’s populace was digging trenches and air-raid shelters and filling sandbags; the authorities were distributing gas masks. The mood was grim.⁷⁰ Hitler, in fact, was hours from ordering an invasion. But on September 28, Mussolini accepted a British entreaty to coordinate a disorganized four-power summit with Chamberlain (Britain), Édouard Daladier (France), and Hitler (Germany), with the duce (Italy) acting as dishonest broker.⁷¹

Hitler chose the site of the Führer Building in the Nazi movement’s capital, Munich. The British and French governments consented to consigning the Czechoslovaks to an adjacent room, apart from the negotiations. The Soviet Union, despite its treaties with France and Czechoslovakia, was not even invited. Chamberlain, along with Daladier, agreed not only that Czechoslovakia would cede the Sudetenland but also that all fortifications and weapons there would be left intact. Hitler acceded to this granting of his original demands rather than unleash the war he had been promising, and the infamous Munich Pact was signed in the small hours on September 30 (it was dated the day before).⁷² Wehrmacht troops marched into western Czechoslovakia with international authorization. Nazi Germany absorbed, gratis, industrial plants, coal and other natural resources, and 11,000 square miles of territory, on which lived 3 million Sudeten Germans and 800,000 Czechs. Non-German Sudeten inhabitants were given fewer than ten days to evacuate, and forced to relinquish everything—homes, household possessions, livestock. The German government was absolved from paying compensation.

Chamberlain allowed himself to imagine that he was “fixing” the Versailles Treaty by removing the supposed cause of German aggression: too many ethnic Germans living outside German borders. Hitler, recounting what he had told Chamberlain, had remarked in a public speech on September 26, 1938, at the Sports Palace in Berlin, that the Sudetenland was “the last territorial claim which I have to make in Europe, but it is a claim from which I will not swerve, and which I will satisfy, God willing. . . . And this I guarantee. We don’t want any Czechs at all.” That had been the straw that Chamberlain grasped. To win over Britain’s head of state, George VI, to the deal with the distasteful Hitler, the PM had played up “the prospect of Germany and England as the two pillars of European peace and buttresses against Communism.”⁷³ In fact, Chamberlain prioritized the higher purpose of preserving the British empire. (The self-governing dominions would, in any case, not join a war over Czechoslovakia.)⁷⁴ What Chamberlain and his ilk missed was that Germany was not militarily strong, but, if unopposed now, it would never be so weak again.

Daladier had heard from an adamant French general staff, which wanted more time to build up the military, that the Luftwaffe was too strong for France.⁷⁵ But if he understood how the French brass tended to exaggerate German capabilities, Daladier, a veteran of the Great War, also recognized the antiwar sentiment in French society, which, along with Germany, had borne the heaviest devastation in that conflict. Still, the former history teacher from Provence also understood that France had failed to honor its commitments. “No, I am not proud,” Daladier told colleagues concerning Munich. “I do not know what you think, you others, but I, I will say it again, I am not proud.”⁷⁶

Whatever the worries in Paris and London over their own military unpreparedness, in fall 1938 the Wehrmacht was woefully unready for a major military clash against the combined forces of Czechoslovakia (36 already mobilized divisions), France, and possibly the Soviet Union. True, in Czechoslovakia, half the Sudeten German conscripts had deserted to Germany, and many ethnic Poles had failed to report to the colors, but more than 1 million troops, including reservists, were called to the colors.⁷⁷ Nazi Germany possessed around 70 divisions, but that included a great many rated second class, while some would have to remain home to protect Germany against an attack from the west. If Germany were forced to employ nearly the full weight of its army (and air force) in a war in Czechoslovakia, France might be left with as much as a seven-to-one advantage in Germany’s west, at a time when Germany’s Siegfried Line (or Westwall) was perhaps 5 percent complete (recently poured concrete had not yet set).⁷⁸ Chief of staff Ludwig Beck had been trying to rally the military brass to oppose Hitler’s plans, curb the SS, and “reestablish orderly conditions in the Reich,” because he feared that the French general could take advantage of adventurism in Czechoslovakia and strike a decisive blow from the other side.⁷⁹ To be sure, by August 1938, Beck had resigned, but his replacement, Lieutenant General Franz Halder, was perhaps even more anxious over the Wehrmacht’s inadequacies and the German public’s antiwar mood, and on September 28 he pleaded with military commander in chief General Walther von Brauchitsch to restart the coup against Hitler, to prevent war.⁸⁰ Brauchitsch, however, worried that such an act would divide the army, and in any case he and others were undercut by the announcement of the diplomatic gathering in Munich.

Stalin had a copy of the French intelligence assessment, via a Soviet spy, which indicated both German weaknesses and lack of French resolve stemming from worries about its own weakness.⁸¹ The despot seemed off the hook. Nonetheless, he had had the Red Army augment its military preparedness: on September 28, Voroshilov reported that 246 high-speed bombers and 302 fighter planes were ready to take off within two days; some 330,000 Soviet reservists in the interior were called up. On September 29, chief of staff Shaposhnikov issued an order not to discharge Red Army soldiers and commanders who had completed service.⁸² In the event, none of the mobilized troops or planes would see action. The cynical Germans had long anticipated that the absence of a common frontier with Czechoslovakia would serve as a convenient pretext for Stalin to demur on living up to his commitments and coming to Prague’s rescue.⁸³ Beneš had had his own doubts on that score.⁸⁴ Still, we shall never know whether Stalin would have fulfilled his obligations, because France failed to fulfill its own treaty obligations, the precondition for Soviet action.

•   •   •

NOTHING IN THE TREATIES of mutual assistance with France and Czechoslovakia precluded unilateral Soviet action. We have no reliable record of Stalin’s deliberations, if any occurred, over this question.⁸⁵ But indirect evidence is available. Back on September 19, 1938, after the French and British indicated that they would not go to war to defend Czechoslovakia, Beneš hoped to reverse Western policy by obtaining a unilateral Soviet commitment: he received the Soviet envoy Alexandrovsky, who encouraged the Czechoslovaks to fight the Germans come what may; in response, Beneš privately said to his secretary, “They naturally play their own game. We cannot trust them completely either. If they get us into it, they will leave us twisting in the air.”⁸⁶ On September 25, Beneš had grilled the Soviet envoy point-blank about the specifics of possible Soviet military action under any circumstances—and Alexandrovsky had sat in stone silence. They met again the next day and the day after, and the Soviet envoy again offered nothing; on the contrary, he reported to Moscow that Beneš appeared to be trying to drag the Soviet Union into a war.⁸⁷ On September 28, the Czechoslovak legation in Moscow inquired directly; Beneš received no commitments. No Soviet official ever initiated or responded to Czechoslovak requests for elementary military coordination.

Stalin made no moves whatsoever toward unilateral military action to defend Czechoslovakia.⁸⁸ He never even issued an explicit warning to Germany. That did not mean, however, that Soviet troop movements constituted a ruse. They were directed, along with multiple diplomatic and public warnings, at Poland. Back on September 23, Potyomkin had roused the Polish chargé d’affaires at the undiplomatic hour of 4:00 a.m. to warn him that the Soviet Union would renounce their bilateral nonaggression pact if Poland attacked Czechoslovakia; that evening, the Polish diplomat responded in the name of his government that the Soviets ought not to get involved in matters that did not concern them.⁸⁹ Izvestiya (September 26) published the Soviet note to Poland, and the next day Polish diplomats stationed in Minsk reported to Warsaw on Soviet military preparations. Poland officially protested Soviet overflights of their common frontier.⁹⁰ The Soviets also asked the French for their views on a Soviet military response to a Polish armed attack on Czechoslovakia.⁹¹

Polish foreign minister Józef Beck wrote to the Polish ambassador in Berlin (September 28), about the Soviet military actions, that “the character of these demonstrations was distinctly political, and the forms at times outright comical. From the military point of view, this so far has no great significance.”⁹² When the Polish ambassador inquired of Nazi foreign minister Ribbentrop how Germany would view a Polish military action against Czechoslovakia, Ribbentrop, according to the German account, responded supportively but also noted that “if the Soviet Union undertakes an offensive against Poland, which I, however, consider excluded, then a completely new situation in the Czechoslovak question would arise for Germany.”⁹³

Did Stalin fantasize about delivering a blow to Poland, in revenge for 1920, and achieving a new partition of that country—seizing Galicia, with its large Ukrainian and Belorussian populations—if the Czechoslovaks decided to fight alone and became embroiled in war against Germany?⁹⁴ The despot certainly inclined toward opportunism, and he had kept his options open. Conversely, he might have just wanted to deter any Polish or combined Polish-German military action against Ukraine. Or perhaps in mobilizing he was angling to ensure that France, not the Soviet Union, would be blamed for any debacle with Czechoslovakia. What we know for certain is that during the biggest foreign policy moment of his regime to date, Stalin went more than 100 hours—from very early on September 28 through late on October 2—without receiving visitors in the Little Corner.⁹⁵ “Have you received any advice, instructions, or comments on the part of comrade Stalin or the comrades in the politburo regarding our work in the current situation?” Dimitrov wrote, in a plaintive request to his Comintern deputies on September 29.⁹⁶ Where was Stalin? He was spending every day at a five-day gathering (September 27–October 1) of propagandists from Leningrad and Moscow to discuss a book, The History of the all-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks): Short Course.⁹⁷

•   •   •

NONE OF THE PRIOR EFFORTS to publish a new textbook for Marxist-Leninist ideological training had met Stalin’s expectations. A revised draft of the Short Course party history (not to be confused with the Short Course USSR history) had been presented to him around the time of the Bukharin trial, and he had spent much of summer 1938 in Moscow rewriting it, forgoing his beloved annual Caucasus holiday.⁹⁸ Some pages he rewrote several times. Numerous passages betrayed his preoccupations. A reference to the Greek hero Antaeus, the half giant who had been invincible in battle until he lost physical contact with the earth, indicated his reading of ancient Greek history. (Stalin did not mention that Antaeus had been killing his enemies so as to amass their skulls for a temple dedicated to his father, Poseidon.)⁹⁹ Collectivization received a central place. “The originality of this revolution,” the Short Course stated, “consisted in the circumstance that it was brought about from above, at the initiative of state power, with the direct support from below by the mass of millions of peasants.”¹⁰⁰ Stalin cut much of the material about himself, but he left in Lenin’s return from exile and April 1917 theses as “decisive moments in the history of the party.”¹⁰¹ Yaroslavsky, an author of the draft, lauded Stalin’s deletions as demonstrating the “exceptionally great modesty that adorns a Bolshevik.”¹⁰² Stalin also cut details of the opposition’s deeds—wrecking in industry, treachery in Spain—but highlighted how class enemies with a party card were the most dangerous of all and how “double-dealers” constituted “an unprincipled gang of political careerists who, having long ago lost the confidence of the people, strive to insinuate themselves once more into the people’s confidence by deception, by chameleon-like changes of color, by fraud, by any means, only that they retain the title of political figures.”¹⁰³ He inserted dense philosophical passages about dialectical materialism (“The essence is not in individuals but in ideas, in the theoretical tendency”).¹⁰⁴

Stalin circulated the revised text to his inner circle (only some dared make written suggestions) and then convoked a kind of book club in the Little Corner between September 8 and 18, 1938, to finalize the text, one chapter per day.¹⁰⁵ “I am interested now in the new intelligentsia from the workers, from the peasants,” Stalin said, according to notes Zhdanov took. “Without our own intelligentsia we shall perish. We have to run the country. . . . The state has to be managed through white collar employees.”¹⁰⁶ Pravda began serialization, using centerfolds, publishing the first chapter on September 9, 1938, and another chapter each day thereafter. The stand-alone book then went to press in a first print run of 6 million.¹⁰⁷

At the opening of the propagandists’ gathering, on September 27, Zhdanov delivered the greeting, but Stalin could not refrain from intervening at length already that first day. “If we speak about wrecking, about Trotskyites, then you should know that not all these wrecker Trotskyite-Bukharinites were spies,” Stalin told the agitators, seeming to reverse everything he had previously said. “I would not say that they were spies; they were our people, but then they went astray. Why? They turned out not to be genuine Marxists; they were weak theoretically.” Never mind that the NKVD had fabricated their crimes, tortured them to confess, and executed them whether they confessed or not: if only these middle and lower functionaries had been able to study the Short Course, they would still be alive.¹⁰⁸

Stalin showed impatience, explaining that “religion had a positive significance during the time of Saint Vladimir; there was paganism then, and Christianity was a step forward. Now our geniuses speaking from the vantage point of the twentieth century claim that Vladimir was a scoundrel and the pagans were scoundrels, that religion is vile; that is, they do not want to evaluate events dialectically, such that everything in its time had its place.”¹⁰⁹ He also denounced anti-intellectualism: “What is this savageness? This is not Marxism, not Leninism. This is old-bourgeoisism.” During twenty years, “with God’s help and with your help, we have created our intelligentsia,” but, he complained, “there are people who, if someone left the ranks of the workers and no longer works at the factory, or left the ranks of the peasantry and no longer works in the fields, would consider him an alien. I repeat, this is savagery, this is dangerous savagery. . . . Not a single state without white collar [functionaries], a commanding corps in the economy, in politics, in culture; not a single state could govern the country that way. . . . Our state took over all of industry—almost all—our state took over the significant channels of agriculture. . . . How could we manage without an intelligentsia?”¹¹⁰

He evinced no fondness for workers—unless they had been promoted to white-collar functionaries.¹¹¹ “We have about 8 million officials,” he continued. “Just imagine this. This is the apparatus, with whose assistance the workers govern the country. . . . How could we not cultivate this apparatus in the spirit of Marxism?” He insisted that theory was their weak point. “What is theory?” he asked, in his cathechismic style. “It is knowledge of the laws of society, knowledge that enables one to get oriented in a situation, but in this orientation process they turned out to be bad Marxists, bad because we raised them badly.” The consequences, he repeated, were dire: “If a fascist should show up, our cadres need to know how to struggle against him, and not be scared of him, and not to withdraw from and not to kowtow to him, as happened with a significant part of the Trotskyites and Bukharinites, formerly our people, who then went over to the other side.” Stalin had been compelled again and again to battle against deviations: Communists kept losing their way. These were not petty squabbles among personalities, but battles over correct theory. People who misunderstood theory made mistakes, such as opposing collectivization. He told the propagandists not to fear if some comrades did not enter the kingdom of socialism.

“And so, to whom is this book addressed?” Stalin summarized. “To cadres, and to rank-and-file workers at factories—not to rank-and-file white-collar employees in agencies, but to those cadres about whom Lenin said they are professional revolutionaries. The book is addressed to leading cadres.”¹¹² But in the discussion of Stalin’s remarks, some attendees dared to note the difficulties of assimilating the text. A. B. Shlyonsky, for example, called the Short Course “an encyclopedia of everything known about matters of Marxism-Leninism,” but he wondered where the heroes were. He suggested a need for materials to supplement the text with stories of individuals.¹¹³ Stalin, mentioning Shlyonsky by name, retorted that “we were presented with this sort of draft text [with heroes] and we revised it fundamentally. The draft text was based for the most part on exemplary individuals—those who were the most heroic, those who escaped from exile and how many times they escaped, those who suffered in the name of the cause.” But, Stalin continued, “can we really use such a thing to train and educate our cadres? We ought to base our cadres’ training on ideas, on theory . . . knowledge of the laws of historical development. If we possess such knowledge, then we’ll have real cadres, but if people do not possess this knowledge, they will not be cadres—they will be just empty spaces. . . . It is ideas that really matter, not individuals—ideas, in a theoretical context.”¹¹⁴

•   •   •

ON SEPTEMBER 30, 1938, around 9:30 a.m. local time (11:30 a.m. in Moscow), eight hours after the signing of the Munich Pact but well before German troops had entered Czechoslovakia, Beneš phoned the Soviet ambassador and inquired whether the Czechoslovaks should take arms and, by implication, whether the USSR would back them in a war even without the French. He asked for an answer between 6:00 and 7:00 p.m. local time. Given the repeated negative signals over the previous two weeks, this action is not easy to comprehend. The Soviet ambassador drove to Prague Castle to seek further information, but Beneš was meeting with the cabinet and leaders of political parties. Around 11:45 a.m. local time, the Soviet legation cabled the Czechoslovak president’s query to Moscow.¹¹⁵ Before Moscow replied, Alexandrovsky cabled the foreign affairs commissariat again, at 1:40 p.m. Prague time, to report that Beneš had already accepted the Munich diktat (he had done so at 12:30 p.m. local time).¹¹⁶ The foreign affairs commissariat suspected that Beneš had wanted to claim that his hand had been forced because of the absence of a Soviet reply.¹¹⁷ He in fact made no such claim, though he had to have been tempted. More likely, Beneš did not want to give up. The Czechoslovak high command had told him that the army stood ready to fight, with or without allies. Had Beneš ordered the formidable Czechoslovak divisions into action against Germany, he might have forced Stalin’s hand, and that of the French government, too. The Czechoslovak president chose not to take the gamble.¹¹⁸

Stalin remained at the gathering of propagandists, where his frustrations had been building daily, and on October 1, the concluding day, he vented in a lengthy soliloquy. “Comrades, I thought that the assembled comrades would help the Central Committee and furnish some serious criticism,” he remarked. “Unfortunately, I must say that the criticism turned out to be not serious, not deep, and straight-out unsatisfactory in places.” He condemned the complaints that this or that fact was missing from the text, when the point was to capture the general tendency. “He who would study Leninism and Lenin should study Marx and Engels,” he reiterated. “Lenin arrived at new thoughts because he stood on the shoulders of Marx and Engels.” Stalin narrated the entire history of the party, in detail, from origins, like an agitator of the first rank. He could also turn playful. “It’s often asked: What’s the deal? Marx and Engels said that as soon as proletarian power is established and nationalizes the means of production, the state should wither. What the hell? It does not wither? Its death is overdue. We’ve lived twenty years, the means of production have been nationalized, and you don’t want to wither. (Laughter.)” In fact, he explained, no one had foreseen that the revolution would give birth to a new form of power. “Of course, the Petersburg proletariat, when they created soviets [of people’s deputies], did not think that they were conducting a turnabout in Marxist theory about the specific forms of the dictatorship of the proletariat. They just wanted to defend themselves against tsarism.” In The Communist Manifesto, which Stalin deemed “one of the best if not the best writing of Marx and Engels,” the founders had based their view of the state on the two months of the Paris Commune. “An experience of two months!” What would they have said, he asked, if they could study the twenty years of Soviet power?

Stalin had been wrestling with the problem of the state under socialism throughout the terror. Now he enumerated the state’s functions: maximizing production and military defense by mobilizing the country’s resources. Only a professional army, he pointed out, could stand up to the armies of the capitalists.¹¹⁹ He made clear that success could not be guaranteed by his leadership alone, or by the 3,000 or so officials who composed what he called the “general staff” of the party-state. “Do not think that governing a country means just writing directives,” he reiterated. “Bollocks. To govern means to do things for real, to be able to carry out the resolutions in practice, and even sometimes to improve the resolutions if they are bad.” In other words, reading the Short Course was going to facilitate handling the confounding challenges of planning and running an entire industrial economy, the complicated operations and logistics of preparing a gigantic army for battle, ensuring that every school building and schoolchild was ready for the school year or graduation. “We need to direct this book to that intelligentsia, in order to give party members and non-party members, who are not worse than party members, the opportunity to acquire knowledge and raise their horizon, their political level. . . . That’s everything. (Rousing applause. Shouts: Hurrah to the Wise Stalin.)”¹²⁰

Pravda (October 1, 1938) had directed its wrath over Czechoslovakia at Poland, predicting a new Polish partition (it was “well known that the German fascists have long been keen on some parts of Poland”). In fact, that very day, the government in Warsaw delivered an ultimatum, with a twenty-four-hour deadline, to Czechoslovakia to hand over two thirds of that country’s partially ethnic Polish territory in coal-rich Silesia known as Těšín (Cieszyn) and Fryštát (Freistadt); Prague capitulated, rendering a Polish attack unnecessary.¹²¹ “An exceptionally bold action carried out in brilliant fashion,” Göring enthused to the Polish ambassador. The Polish envoy in Germany imagined “that our step was deemed here such an expression of great strength and independent action that it is a true guarantee of our good relations with the government of the Reich.”¹²² Stalin knew that Poland’s 1938 war games had been defensive in character, but the collusion in Czechoslovakia’s dismemberment, in his thinking, put Poland on a plane with Nazi Germany.¹²³ Poland had ignored Soviet warnings, although the Polish ambassador to Moscow reassured the Soviets that “the guiding line of Polish foreign policy is the status quo: nothing with Germany against the USSR and nothing with the USSR against Germany.”¹²⁴ Still, the Soviets let it be known that the Poles were engaged in a dangerous game: there were more than 6 million Ukrainians and 2 million Belorussians in Poland.

•   •   •

CZECHOSLOVAKIA, AFTER AUSTRIA, became the second great collective missed opportunity of 1938. Very late on the night of October 2, 1938, after Germany and now Poland had carved up Czechoslovakia, the Soviet Union—diplomatically silent for more than thirty-six hours—delivered an affirmative response to the Czechoslovak president’s request for unilateral Soviet military support. Moscow’s absurdly tardy response, the pinnacle of cynicism, even rebuked Beneš for having failed to fight Germany.¹²⁵ Japan’s military brass were crestfallen that Munich had defused a European war, which they had hoped would diminish European backing for Chiang Kai-shek and compel his capitulation.¹²⁶ As for Hitler, despite the windfall of territory, population, and industry, he had been denied a battlefield triumph, settling for his ostensible aim (the Sudetenland), as opposed to his real one (all of Czechoslovakia).¹²⁷ France’s perceptive military attaché in Berlin rightly reported to Paris that the Führer viewed Munich as a defeat, and that the Nazis wanted to ramp up propaganda to combat “the profound lassitude which the German people demonstrated when faced with the prospect of another war.”¹²⁸

Back in London, Chamberlain, appearing in front of exuberant crowds on the balcony of Buckingham Palace with the king and queen, and again outside his official residence at 10 Downing Street, hailed the Munich Pact as “peace for our time.”¹²⁹ Izvestiya (October 4, 1938) acidly wrote, “It is the first time we know of that the seizure of someone else’s territory, the shift of borders guaranteed by international treaties to foreign armies, is nothing less than a ‘triumph’ or ‘victory’ for peace.” How often did the Soviet press carry the truth? But for Stalin, too, Munich was a defeat. The German ambassador to the Soviet Union had correctly reported to Berlin the sour mood in Moscow.¹³⁰ Soviet inaction—however the Kremlin justified it—damaged the country’s international standing. Munich also starkly demonstrated Soviet international friendlessness while militarily opening a clear path eastward for Hitler. “History tells us,” Stalin himself had observed in an interview with Roy Howard back in 1936, “that when a state wishes to attack a state with which it does not share a border, it begins to create new borders until it neighbors the state it wishes to attack.”¹³¹

Hitler had aggressively shifted his borders farther eastward, in Stalin’s direction, and the Western powers had acquiesced. “The second imperialist war has already started,” reemphasized the twelfth and final chapter of the Short Course. “The characteristic aspect of the second imperialist war is that it is carried on and widened by the aggressive powers, while the other powers, the ‘democratic’ ones, against whom the war is being waged, pretend that the war does not concern them.”¹³² Shrewdly, the Polish ambassador to London, Count Edward Raczyński, likened the 1938 Munich Pact to a football match wherein Chamberlain had defended the British goal and shifted “play” to Stalin’s side of the pitch. Litvinov was said to have exclaimed, according to the NKVD, that the deal handing Czechoslovakia’s Sudetenland to the Nazis portended “an attack on us. . . . War is coming. The one small hope is that Germany somehow rethinks. Perhaps someone will persuade Hitler.”¹³³

Stalin’s murderous rampage, however, had put out of action his nonpareil spy network in Germany. Zelman Passov (b. 1905), the recently appointed head of the NKVD intelligence, who had completed three grades of primary schooling, wrote that “during such sharpening of the international situation, such as the [German] preparations for the seizure of Austria [and] Czechoslovakia, the foreign department [espionage] did not have one agent communication, not a single piece of information, out of Germany.”¹³⁴

•   •   •

STALIN WAS NOT FINISHED with the Short Course. On October 11–12, 1938, he convened a two-day expanded session of the politburo (an ersatz Central Committee plenum), tasking Zhdanov with delivering the main report. For the first time since 1935, a stenographic record was kept of a politburo session, indicating an intention to circulate the discussion to party members not present. In attendance was the new crop of regional bosses, most of whose predecessors had been put to death. “Did everyone read it, we need to ask, and what are the remarks?” Stalin inquired of the textbook. Molotov chimed in: “Are there comrades who did not read the draft?” Voices: “No, everyone read it.” Troshin, from the Gorky (Nizhny Novgorod) province party committee, spoke up: “Many propagandists and district secretaries at the courses say that they understand chapter 4 [“dialectical materialism”] . . . only with the greatest difficulty.” Stalin angrily interjected: “That means they have read nothing—not Marx, not Engels.” Molotov chided the Gorky comrades for not being able to find a few agitators capable of delivering explanatory lectures. But Oleksandr Khomenko, the head of the propaganda department in the Kiev province party, also said the text was not easy, citing a colleague. Molotov: “If the comrade had earlier read and really knew the history of the party, why are insurmountable difficulties arising for him now?” Khomenko: “He knew the history of the party, comrade Molotov, in terms of those textbooks which we had, and those textbooks were manifestly unsatisfactory.” Stalin erupted again: “So it happens like this: some study the history of the party but do not consider themselves obliged to study Marx; others study dialectical materialism and do not consider themselves obliged to study the history of the party.”

The party officials whom Stalin had promoted to replace those he had murdered were telling him the truth: they could not manage the Short Course intended especially for them.

Stalin asked for the floor. He stressed how, back before 1929, small individual household farms had become predominant, how the establishment of large-scale collectivized farms had been a matter of national survival, and how only Marxism-Leninism allowed one to understand all this. “If cadres determine everything, and that means cadres who work with their intellect, cadres who administer the country, and if these cadres turn out to be politically weakly grounded, that means the state is threatened with danger,” he warned, giving as an example the Bukharinites, calling “their top layer” irredeemable foreign agents. “But besides the heads, Bukharin and others, there were masses of them, and not all of them were spies and foreign intelligence operatives.” Stalin continued: “One may assume that 10,000, 15,000, 20,000, and more were people of Bukharin. One may assume that just as many, and maybe more, were people of Trotskyism. What do you think, were all of them spies? Of course not.”

Here was a startling admission two years into a mass terror that had seen some 1.6 million arrests. “What had happened to them?” Stalin continued. “These were cadres who could not swallow the big changeover to the collective farm system, could not comprehend this big changeover, because they were not politically well grounded; they did not know the laws of development of society, the laws of economic development, the laws of political development.” He allowed that “we lost many, but we acquired new cadres who won over the people to collectivization and won over the peasant. Only this explains why we were able so easily to replace yesterday’s party elite.”¹³⁵

He returned, in conclusion, to collectivization: “The key is the chapter about why we went for collective farms. What was this? Was it the caprice of the leaders, the [ideological] itch of the leaders, who (so we are told) read through Marx, drew conclusions, and then, if you please, restructured the whole country according to those conclusions? Was collectivization just something invented—or was it necessity? Those who didn’t understand a damn thing about economics—all those rightists, who didn’t have the slightest understanding of our society either theoretically or economically, nor the slightest understanding of the laws of historical development, nor the essence of Marxism—they could say such things as suggesting that we turn away from the collective farms and take the capitalist path of development in agriculture.”¹³⁶ The Short Course reconfirmed that the terror emanated from Stalin’s mind, not as a response to crisis but as a theory of Soviet history and his rule: party opposition to collectivization, a new generation of functionaries, pedagogy.

•   •   •

THE SOVIET POLITICAL landscape resembled a huge forest full of charred stumps as a wildfire raged on ahead, but Stalin, who had set that fire, was still heaping oil on it long after its catastrophic consequences had become manifest. Finally, however, with the September–October 1938 rollout of the Short Course, the training manual for those who had been chosen to go forward (or just got lucky), the mass terror was, in an important sense, complete—and not a moment too soon. Stalin had been barefacedly manipulating the threat of war and foreign intervention to impose and justify this terror, but his murders had shaken the Red Army to its core.¹³⁷ And now Munich: not the threat of some abstract war at some point, but right here, right now.¹³⁸ The danger to the USSR evidently was grave enough that on October 8, 1938, not long after having demonstrably mobilized the Red Army for possible use against Poland, Stalin had Potyomkin tell the ambassador from Poland—which had just seized a piece of Czechoslovakia in the teeth of Moscow’s warnings not to do so—that “no hand extended to the Soviets would be left hanging in the air.”¹³⁹ So much for Stalin’s threat to invalidate the Soviet-Polish nonaggression pact.¹⁴⁰ Poland, too, had been excluded from the deliberations at Munich, but Berlin and Warsaw were in talks.

Supplication of Poland was not Stalin’s only conspicuous immediate post-Munich action: a mere eight days after the pact had slapped him across the face, he had also quietly formed a “commission” to investigate arrests by the NKVD. It was made up of the party functionaries Andreyev and Malenkov, as well as Beria and Vyshinsky, and nominally chaired by Yezhov.¹⁴¹ This heralded the beginning of the end of the mass terror.

Yezhov’s men understood that Stalin was moving to bring the Yezhov era at the NKVD to a close. On November 12, 1938, the same week as Marshal Blyukher’s death at Beria’s hands in Lefortovo prison, Mikhail Litvin, Yezhov’s right hand, shot himself. Two days later, the Ukraine NKVD chief, Uspensky—who was also close to Yezhov—composed a suicide note, had his wife purchase him a train ticket eastward to Voronezh, deposited some clothes on the banks of the Dnieper, and fled to Moscow, bringing wads of rubles, to hide at his mistress’s apartment. When the money ran out, she kicked him out, and Uspensky headed north to Arkhangelsk, hoping to sign up for logging work, anonymously. Stalin told Khrushchev in Kiev, over the phone, that Yezhov, taking advantage of the NKVD’s responsibility for the security of the government communication system, must have listened in on the despot’s previous call to Khrushchev about arresting Uspensky and then tipped him off.¹⁴² The day after Uspensky’s flight, Stalin, receiving his minions in the Little Corner, had a decree approved disbanding the assembly-line death sentence troikas.¹⁴³ On November 17, he summoned Vyshinsky for a “report,” after which the despot issued another decree in the politburo’s name, justifying the terror but blaming the NKVD for “a host of major deficiencies and distortions.”¹⁴⁴

Just like that, without public acknowledgment, with a few pieces of paper in the Little Corner, the mass terror was halted. Coincidence? The terror supposedly was aimed at rooting out enemies lying in wait for a war, but then, at what would appear to be maximum international war danger for the USSR, Stalin suddenly moved to end the mass arrests. Had he become less paranoid? Was it just that he had been waiting for completion of a Short Course? Or was he jolted by events portending actual danger?¹⁴⁵ We cannot definitively establish his motivations. But in the wake of Munich, the despot, in his sixty-first year, had reached a crossroads.

•   •   •

HENRY KISSINGER, IN his magisterial Diplomacy (1988), deemed Stalin “the supreme realist—patient, shrewd, and implacable.”¹⁴⁶ That is not the Stalin readers have encountered in this book. He often showed himself to be a shrewd operator forced to make difficult choices to defend the interests of his country, but he was never that alone. Just as often, the hard choices that confronted him had been created by his own blunders and gratuitous mayhem. Stalin cannot plausibly be portrayed as a clear-eyed realpolitiker abroad and unhinged mass murderer at home; he was the same calculating, distrustful mind in both cases. Throughout the massacres, he remained thoroughly, passionately engaged in foreign policy, devoted in his way to the cause of the Soviet state and the cause of socialism. He was an ideologue and would-be statesman who forced socialism into being through massive violence—the only way complete anticapitalism could have been achieved—and this building of socialism, in turn, made him the full sociopath he became. Now collectivization was behind him, and the mass terror against his own elites and others mostly behind him, but Hitler was in front of him. Stalin was defiant toward the Western powers and solicitous toward Germany, but fearful of an all-imperialist anti-Soviet coalition incorporating Nazi Germany, too. The resulting pas de trois—Chamberlain, Hitler, Stalin—became, in effect, a Chamberlain-versus-Stalin contest to win over Hitler. Stalin would be put to the supreme test. The stakes were the survival not just of his regime but of the country.

CHAPTER 10 HAMMER

They arrested my first secretary, then they arrested the second. . . . They arrested my first aide. A Ukrainian, also from the workers. He was not especially literate, but I could rely on him as an honest person. They arrested him, it seems they put a lot of pressure on him, but he did not want to say a thing and threw himself down the elevator shaft at the NKVD. That’s the way it was with all my staff.

VYACHESLAV MOLOTOV (“Hammer”) ¹

THE FORMER AVIATOR NIKOLAI SHPANOV, in his novella The First Blow: A Story About the Future War, published in early 1939 in the thick journal Banner, then as a book in the Library of a Commander series, named Nazi Germany as the country’s principal foe.² The action revolved around Soviet Air Force Day (August 18) in an unspecified future year. People are observing a Soviet pilot’s exploits at an air show when suddenly, over loudspeakers, at precisely 5:00 p.m., they hear that Luftwaffe warplanes have violated the Soviet frontier. Within one minute, Soviet fighters are challenging the Germans in the skies. Only twenty-nine minutes later, the last surviving German plane has fled Soviet airspace. The Red Air Force then mounts a lightning counterattack with 700 state-of-the-art planes into Germany’s industrial rear. As bombers reach an aircraft factory at Nuremberg, German workers break out into “L’Internationale” in solidarity. Already the next morning, Soviet ground troops have smashed across the frontier. Quick victory comes with little loss of Soviet life. Vsevolod Vishnevsky, in a review, deemed the book “valuable, interesting, profoundly germane,” and explained that “it entertainingly speaks about how the Soviet people will fight a just war against aggressors, a war that will be fatal for the enemies of socialism.”³

Outside this dream palace, Stalin faced a harsher, ideology-inflected version of the security dilemma that had bedeviled his tsarist predecessors: a now even more aggressive German power on the European continent and a now even more aggressive, militarist Japan moving onto the Asian mainland—two flanking powers that were now formally allied. In Europe, he could keep trying to secure a deal with anti-Communist France and Britain, in order to try to deter Germany, or keep pursuing a deal somehow with Nazi Germany to try to redirect German ambitions westward. In the Far East, no such deal with the United States or Britain seemed even theoretically possible. Stalin had kept Litvinov in place, despite Yezhov’s predations against the foreign affairs commissariat (which Beria would continue).⁴ “We sometimes prefer to be isolated rather than to go along with the bad actions of others,” Litvinov had written to Maisky in London, “and that is why isolation does not frighten us.”⁵ But such a retreat into “fortress Russia”—a temptation also indulged by the party’s chief ideologue, Zhdanov—afforded Stalin little comfort: the British and the Nazis could join in a deal against the Soviet Union, turning Soviet “isolation” deadly. Had that not been the significance of Munich?⁶

German and Italian planes, following General Franco’s directives, had sunk 10 British-registered merchant ships and seriously damaged 37 more that were en route to Spanish Republic ports, but even after outrage had erupted in the House of Commons, Neville Chamberlain had merely told his Tory cabinet that if Franco “must bomb the Spanish [Republic] government ports he must use discretion and that otherwise he might arouse a feeling in this country which would force the government to take action.”⁷ Franco had sent a letter to Chamberlain thanking him for his “friendship” and underscoring how both leaders stood for “world peace.” In Stalin’s mind, Spain had starkly illuminated not only the limits of Soviet relations with the West, but also the expansiveness of British-French accommodation with “fascism” (Germany, Italy, and a Francoist Spain). Conversely, the limited but bloody purges inside the Spanish Republic further reinforced doubts among the Western powers about security cooperation with Stalin.

Unlike Litvinov—no less a dyed-in-the-wool Marxist—Stalin refused to distinguish between the imperialists, as either “pacific” (democratic) or “aggressor” (fascist). He divided the world into just two camps, and for him, as for Lenin, all diplomacy amounted to two-faced intercourse with enemies.⁸ This stance facilitated a flexible readiness to contemplate either of two diametric opposites: the expedient of “collective security” with the “democratic” capitalists, in Litvinov’s parlance, or détente with the “fascists.” Post-Munich, Stalin would renew the Soviet efforts at negotiations with Britain and France against Germany. Simultaneously, he would ramp up his so far failed stratagems to reach rapprochement with Hitler’s Germany, despite the venom about “Judeo-Bolshevism” out of Berlin.⁹ But the image of a wily Stalin brilliantly keeping his options open, to extract maximum advantage, is belied by the fact that neither Hitler nor Chamberlain proved at all forthcoming. Europe’s collective security dilemma, drawing in Japan, had deep structural foundations.

PERSONALITIES, REGIMES

In London, far too many British officials labored under the delusion that “moderates,” such as Göring, existed in the Nazi hierarchy and could act as restraining influences on Hitler.¹⁰ Some British officials held the view, largely originating with Nevile Henderson, the ambassador to Berlin, that Hitler was like Jekyll and Hyde: normally cautious and reasonable, but given to flying off the handle if provoked or humiliated. Others speculated that, like all dictators, he engaged in “foreign adventurism” to quiet domestic dissatisfaction.¹¹ Still others subscribed to the view that his seemingly impetuous actions were driven by economic crisis, a view picked up from disaffected Germans.¹² In Moscow, too, next to nothing of Hitler’s personality or the operation of his regime was well understood, beyond his uncanny success and Western indulgence of it.¹³ Walter Krivitsky, a Soviet intelligence officer (born Samuel “Shmelka” Ginsberg in Austro-Hungarian Galicia), had defected to the West and, in 1938, in the most authoritative Russian émigré newspaper and then in The Saturday Evening Post, predicted an imminent deal between Stalin and Hitler. Krivitsky had divulged secret Soviet flirtations, aiming “to convince German leaders of the genuineness of Stalin’s own intentions, of his readiness to commit himself quite far in bringing about a rapprochement.”¹⁴ But Krivitsky failed to acknowledge how all of Stalin’s backdoor and front-door intermediaries with Nazi Germany had made no headway.

Hitler’s early circumstances had been nowhere near as humble as Stalin’s. (Hitler’s father, a senior customs official in the Habsburg empire, earned roughly the same salary as a school principal, and then enjoyed a handsome pension.)¹⁵ But Hitler, too, had not completed his basic education, let alone attended university. No less a striver than Stalin, he had assembled an extensive private library, but he delighted in melodramas, the occult, German translations of Shakespeare, Carlyle’s biography of Frederick the Great, Henry Ford’s four-volume The International Jew: The World’s Foremost Problem.¹⁶ (Albert Speer would dub Hitler a “genius of dilettantism.”) The Führer showed little interest in foreign languages or travel beyond Germany. His passions were architecture, painting, cinema, classical music, boxing, roadside picnics, and high-speed motoring in his Mercedes-Benz, sitting up front next to his chauffeur. (Hitler could not drive.) He railed against those who put on what he perceived as intellectual airs, feared committing a faux pas among more refined people, basked in the least signs of others’ approval, and did not hide his megalomania. “I believe,” he had written, echoing Napoleon, “my life is the greatest novel in world history.”

Some contemporaries attributed Hitler’s interminably long monologues, with quivering lips, to an effort to conceal his inadequacies, rather than a proclivity to get carried away, for he could also restrain himself and come across as an amiable conversationalist. He felt most at ease at reunions of the Munich “street brawlers” from the years of Nazism’s rise, but he saw them only once a year. He confided fully in no one. (“Just as I never got close to him, I never observed anyone else doing so, either,” Joachim von Ribbentrop would recall.) Hitler enjoyed unguarded relations only with the Wagner clan in Bayreuth and the family of his photographer, Heinrich Hoffmann, through whom Hitler had met Eva Braun (when she was then seventeen, he forty). She eventually became his de facto wife and, although blond and blue-eyed, was secretly checked for Jewish ancestry on Hitler’s orders. (She proved to be “Aryan.”)¹⁷ Hitler ate no meat, smoked no cigarettes, and rarely consumed alcohol, but he enjoyed cakes and lumping sugar into his tea (he suffered from dental problems). He exercised in order to hold his right arm upward for long stretches and, despising perspiration, took multiple baths each day. He had insomnia, eczema on his legs and feet (making it uncomfortable to wear boots), and gastric pains. A bout of stomach cramps would set him ranting about death from cancer. His mother had died at age forty-seven, and he told confidants he was fated to die young as well. (In May 1938, following the Anschluss, he dictated a private will.)¹⁸ He ingested pills, prescribed by his quack doctor, but suspected that kitchen staff aimed to assassinate him (the pots were guarded). He carried a pistol, even as he was surrounded by commandos. He was given to uncontrolled farting.

Hitler can look like a crude and banal figure who inexplicably took over a highly industrialized, culturally advanced, politically sophisticated country, but he had proved to be an astute student of German mass sentiment. He attracted followers partly with his consummate acting skills. He cultivated an image of simplicity and humility, did not carry a wallet, and favored military uniforms, while forgoing any medals other than his Iron Cross First Class and Golden Party Emblem. He possessed a phenomenal memory. He also evinced a talent for mimicking people and situations. “In order to depict the barrage of the first day at the Battle of the Somme more vividly,” Ernst “Putzi” Hanfstaengl would recall, “he used a large repertoire of the firing, descent, and impact noises made by French, English, and German howitzers and mortars, the general impression of which he would vividly augment by imitating the hammering tack-tack of the machine guns.”¹⁹

The Führer had commissioned an imposing new chancellor’s complex in Berlin, dismissing the existing one as “fit for a soap company.” The monumental edifice, with 400 rooms, readied in less than a year, was fronted by square columns and seventeen-foot-high double doors, which were flanked by gilded bronze and stone eagles clutching swastikas in their talons. The building’s 480-foot-long upper-floor Marble Gallery, which led to a grand hall for receptions, was twice the length of the Versailles Hall of Mirrors. “On the long walk from the entrance to the reception hall,” Hitler boasted to his architect, Albert Speer, “they’ll get a taste of the power and grandeur of the German Reich!” Hitler, meanwhile, lived in the old “soap” building, using its modest study as his main working office. But off the new Chancellery’s Marble Gallery stood the Führer’s vast “study,” for the audiences he granted, with portraits of Prudence, Fortitude, Justice, and Wisdom above the four doors. Hitler’s lengthy afternoon meals at the Chancellery (beginning at 2:00 or 3:00) involved up to fifty people; they merely had to telephone the adjutant to say they’d be coming—without being summoned. These were not Germany’s military brass or industrialists, but the inner court of Reichsleiters and Gauleiters and old party comrades, often from Munich. Evening suppers were more intimate still, comprising six to eight persons—Hitler’s doctor, photographer, pilot, radioman, private secretary (Martin Bormann)—where, according to Speer, “usually Hitler would tell stories about his life.”²⁰

Frequently, though, Hitler was absent from Berlin, seeking refuge at his Bavarian alpine retreat, the Berghof, where he relished holding forth on race and global conquest in table talks. Like Stalin, Hitler fretted about being alone. (“Hitler needs to have people around him,” Goebbels had observed early on. “Otherwise he broods too much.”)²¹ But unlike Stalin, the Führer was unwilling or incapable of submitting to routine. Nazi Germany was a scrum of divergent interests—party, army, bureaucratic fiefdoms, private industry—with a proliferation of ad hoc agencies and plenipotentiaries.²² Hitler refused to chair committees or agencies, and often went lengthy periods without summoning officials.²³ After February 5, 1938, the infrequent cabinet meetings had ceased altogether. Hitler’s diligence went into preparing the texts for his speeches, which he rewrote with fountain pen after dictating a first draft, and into military affairs. But he awoke late and appeared at work well after noon, glancing through clippings assembled by the Reich press chief, then repairing to “breakfast” and avoiding his own officials. (“I asked myself often: when did he really work?” recalled Speer.)²⁴ His desk was empty, and he almost never worked at it. (“For him, desks were mere pieces of decoration,” the head of the Hitler Youth recalled.) Reports went unread. “He disliked reading files,” recalled Fritz Wiedemann, who in the 1930s served as Hitler’s adjutant. “I got decisions out of him, even on very important matters, without his ever asking me for the relevant papers. He took the view that many things sorted themselves out if they were left alone.”²⁵

Stalin’s regime, too, was beset by improvisation, but the despot devoured documents and, even when away from Moscow down south, used the telephone, telegraph, and field couriers assiduously.²⁶ One comes away flabbergasted not by learning what went on without Stalin’s involvement, but by the quantity of information he managed to command and the number of spheres in which he intervened. He had terminated the increasingly infrequent formal meetings of the politburo, but he was as obsessively hands-on as Hitler was sometimes disengaged. Stalin read and affixed written directives; Hitler conducted state affairs mostly by talking, and his interlocutors—sometimes an oddly assembled bunch—would piece together decisions from the ramblings or try to get him to confirm them later. For all that, no small degree of coordination took place through the Chancellery and the Führer conferences. He hesitated to intervene in bureaucratic struggles to avoid being caught up in unpopular decisions and festering resentments.²⁷ On the issues of greatest importance to Hitler, from foreign affairs to the Jewish question, he encouraged the involvement of multiple agencies. He would sometimes set the players against one another, in “a carefully balanced system of mutual enmity,” as Speer would note. Oscillating between freneticism and lethargy, Hitler tended to postpone the most difficult decisions, biting his fingernails while others waited and waited. “Sometimes,” one secretary recalled, “he would stop and stare silently at Lenbach’s portrait of Bismarck, lost in thought and collecting himself before he started to wander around again.”²⁸

Stalin sometimes took the wives of his top officials hostage and arrested and executed their aides; Hitler allowed pre-1933 comrades—Göring, Goebbels, Himmler, a few others—to build power centers within the state.²⁹ Hitler showed awareness of the need to indulge the preferences of elites and powerful bodies. Supposedly, his style of rule incited minions to forge ahead with initiatives in the hope of anticipating his wishes and earning favor, in what has been called “working toward the Führer,” but that was possible only in certain spheres, and when Hitler became cognizant of underlings’ efforts to take such initiatives, he often intervened to stop them.³⁰ Stalin’s micromanagement and flashes of anger largely precluded proactive risk taking in the first place. Local officials almost always awaited explicit instructions, which, however, often turned out to be impossible to fulfill, so they began a process not of “working toward the vozhd,” but cat and mouse (circumventions, prevarications, concealment), which drove Stalin’s desire to clamp down further. The Soviet political machine often suffered paralysis not from Hitler-style ostensible aloofness but from extreme centralization and dependency on a single person who just could not do everything. In the end, whether at the Little Corner or the Near or Sochi dacha, the Chancellery or the Berghof mountain hideaway, everything revolved around the Person. Every functionary’s dream was to serve as Hitler’s or Stalin’s personal representative—the authority for a designated sphere of activity.

BERIA’S TAKEOVER

Yezhov could have schemed to flee abroad, dealing a blow to the Soviet state and paying Stalin back for mistreatment, but instead he retreated to his dacha. On November 19, 1938, the “politburo” summoned the NKVD commissar to the Little Corner, where, from 11:10 p.m. until 4:20 a.m., they discussed a denunciation of him that Beria had orchestrated from a provincial NKVD boss (Viktor Zhuravlyov).³¹ Yezhov wrote a letter to Stalin, which he likely ended up not sending, saying that “the past two years of tense, highly strung work have acutely strained my whole nervous system.”³² He was accused of having permitted foreign spies to capture Soviet espionage. On November 23, Yezhov was again in Stalin’s office, where he had logged nearly 900 hours over the previous two years, but these three and a half would be his last: Stalin edited Yezhov’s resignation.³³ On November 25, the despot sent a telegram to all regional party secretaries referring to Zhuravlyov’s denunciation of NKVD errors and noting that “the Central Committee had granted Yezhov’s request to resign.”³⁴ Pravda printed a delayed announcement, on its back page (December 8). Executing the NKVD chief could throw into doubt the mass arrests and executions. For now, Stalin retained Yezhov as a Central Committee secretary, chairman of the party Control Commission, and water transport commissar.

Beria, even as deputy NKVD chief, had arrested 332 NKVD leadership personnel between September and December 1938, including 140 in the central apparatus and 18 of the NKVD commissars in Union and autonomous republics. NKVD operatives still on the job became disoriented.³⁵ So did military men. “Now, if you notice or unmask an enemy, there’s no one to inform about it, because the higher the boss, the more likely he’s an enemy of the people,” one Red Army political worker complained. “You have to ask: Who can you believe, and to whom do you report?” Another asked who the enemy was: the person who got arrested or the person who did the arresting?³⁶ At the same time, hopeful letters poured in as people logically assumed that their cases—which had been falsified—would be overturned. At the defense commissariat alone, nearly 2,000 such letters were being received every day.

As NKVD chief, Beria insinuated himself deeply into the regime. Initially, he had brought just a handful of his gang to Moscow, including Vsevolod Merkulov, a graduate of St. Petersburg University and the son of an aristocrat tsarist officer, and son-in-law of a tsarist general (who had served as war minister in the Provisional Government). Merkulov was the only ethnic Russian among Beria’s Caucasus subordinates, and Beria named him first deputy in Moscow. Another was Bogdan Kobulov (b. 1904), a Tbilisi Armenian who had been expelled from the Communist Youth League and arrested for rape in 1921, but became an informant for, and then an operative in, the secret police; Kobulov became deputy chief of the investigation department. But when annihilation of Yezhovites opened up expansive vistas for Beria’s people, he summoned many others from the Caucasus: Lavrenti Janjava, known as Tsanava (b. 1900), who had been expelled from the party in 1922 for abducting a bride (he was reinstated the next year) and became NKVD chief in Belorussia; Goglidze (b. 1901), who would be given the Leningrad NKVD; Solomon Milstein (b. 1898), descended from a wealthy trading family of Vilnius Jews (most of whom had fled abroad after the revolution), who began as deputy head of investigation but would get the new NKVD rail transport department; and Vladimir Dekanozov (b. 1898), who would get a series of high posts.³⁷

Georgians in the NKVD in Moscow would jump from 3.13 percent (January 1938)—already nearly double their weight in the overall population—to 7.84 percent (July 1939).³⁸ Georgians aside, Beria’s NKVD saw a dramatic reduction in minorities, especially Jews, and promotion of ethnic Russians.³⁹ Regime officials who had once looked to Yezhov as someone who would clean up the antiparty actions and mistakes of his predecessor viewed Beria as someone who would do the same. Releases of some people arrested under Yezhov reinforced such illusions. Stalin got credit for correcting his mistaken trust in Yezhov, and for a new, vigorous, loyal top official.⁴⁰ Beria’s power came to exist on a completely different plane from Yezhov’s or Yagoda’s. Stalin, however, made sure to have non-Beriaites inserted into key positions (Sergei Kruglov, who had been on Malenkov’s list of possible NKVD first deputy chiefs, got the critical post of head of NKVD personnel).⁴¹ Stalin also directed Beria to turn in the documents regarding his role in the Musavat; Beria had Merkulov collect and deliver them.⁴²

BUCK-PASSING

Stalin had shattered his own remarkable spy network: of the 450 secret police officials stationed abroad, at least 275 had been arrested by his regime.⁴³ In January 1939, the despot was informed that “the USSR NKVD does not have a single spy coordinator [rezident] abroad and not one proven agent. The work of the NKVD foreign department practically is destroyed and in essence needs to be organized from scratch.”⁴⁴ Similarly, the acting chief of the key western department of the separate agency for military intelligence reported that “the Red Army is essentially without an intelligence arm. The agent networks, which are the basis of intelligence, have almost all been liquidated.”⁴⁵ In truth, recruited foreign agents and underground informants were still out there, but, with a few key exceptions, such as the German embassies in Warsaw and Tokyo, they lacked handlers to receive information. Beria would work to reconstitute espionage.

Even with good espionage, Hitler remained difficult to gauge: how far would he actually go? How far could he really go? He had started from tremendous relative weakness. Germany had lost a war, it lacked an army, navy, air force, or financial prowess, and Hitler’s actions were necessarily full of zigs and zags, opportunistic, hard to read. He decried unfair treatment of his country, made “concessions,” talked ceaselessly of nonaggression pacts and peace. His vision was vague enough to allow people to see it as just an overheated version of long-standing German nationalism.⁴⁶ Indeed, the Nazis’ ultimate goals—eradicating a supposed global Jewish conspiracy; complete German racial dominance of Europe—seemed so improbable that even some minions in the know could scarcely believe Hitler actually meant them in full.⁴⁷ The Munich-born Konrad Heiden had published, in exile, the first serous biography of Hitler, in two volumes in 1936–37, arguing that Germany’s raw materials and food base would be insufficient for taking on the European continent, especially because any new conflict, like the previous one, would be long. Heiden also predicted that Hitler’s rearmament would provoke counter-rearmament and alliances against Germany.⁴⁸ But by early 1939, no such blocking coalition had formed.

For Stalin, rapprochement with the Western imperialists had always been a dangerous game full of illusions: the capitalists could never be trusted because they could never permanently accept the existence of Soviet power. Like Lenin, he held in contempt any promises the imperialists might make. Just as Poland’s Piłsudski had once used the Soviet Union’s courtship to obtain a nonaggression declaration with the supposedly anti-Polish Nazi regime, the British would play the same game, using negotiations with Stalin to obtain a deal with Hitler. If Britain and Germany had joined forces before 1914, they could have destroyed Russia as a world power.⁴⁹ Preventing just such a mésalliance between London and Berlin had become Stalin’s fixation. He had received a continuous flow of intelligence about the relentless British efforts to cozy up to Germany and divert it in the direction of the USSR almost from the moment of Hitler’s accession to power.⁵⁰ British officials harbored the exact suspicion in reverse, perceiving Stalin’s interest in negotiations with them as a ploy to win his own deal with Hitler while “stealthily and cunningly pulling all the strings behind the scenes to get us involved in war with Germany,” as Chamberlain had privately remarked to one of his sisters), when the real quarrel, to British thinking, was between Nazism and Communism.⁵¹

Many members of the British establishment detested the Bolsheviks as incubators of colonial revolutionaries who threatened the British empire, and they viewed Russia as semibarbarous, run by people of the wrong sort. In the early 1930s, Reader Bullard, British consul general in the Soviet Union, described Litvinov—who had been born Meir Henoch Mojszewicz Wallach-Finkelstein, in 1876, to a well-off banking family in Białystok—as a “Warsaw Jew” and “shameless liar.”⁵² Beyond well-grounded suspicions of Russia and ingrained anti-Communism flavored by anti-Semitism, an alliance with the Soviet Union effectively constituted an admission that war could not be avoided.⁵³ Most ordinary Brits, in what was a democracy, were of a mind that the Great War slaughterhouse had claimed nearly 1 million subjects for naught. The war had increased the national debt tenfold in four years.⁵⁴ Most British conservatives—not just those in the Tory government—to a degree shared Chamberlain’s preferred policy of negotiation with Hitler as a way of exerting influence over him.⁵⁵ A majority of the opposition Labour party remained pacifist throughout Nazi aggrandizement, opposing rearmament.⁵⁶ “Lose or win,” one influential British journalist had observed, catching the general view, “a world war would be for England the end of everything.”⁵⁷

Britain felt overextended already, defending a global empire. The Scramble for Africa had never fully subsided, while in India, Palestine, Northern Ireland, and elsewhere, insurgencies drained resources and men. The Depression and misguided fiscal and monetary tightening had undercut confidence as well: real output in 1938 was no better than it had been in 1918 (annual GDP growth averaged 0.5 percent). Various worst-case scenarios in British intelligence reports—which for a long time had been underplaying Nazi Germany’s capabilities but now grossly overestimated them—enhanced the appeal of negotiation. So did underestimation of the Red Army. On top of everything, Eastern Europe and even the continent as a whole were just not a British priority, notwithstanding the Versailles Treaty.⁵⁸ Chamberlain was, by conviction, fiscally conservative. He abjured investing in a continental expeditionary force, which to his mind would only embolden France to take risks against Germany and bankrupt the British treasury.⁵⁹ Still, he was investing in the Royal Air Force and the Royal Navy. If all else failed and Hitler tried to overrun Western Europe—which seemed unlikely, given the existence of the French land army—the British home isles, Chamberlain reasoned, could be defended.⁶⁰

Chamberlain not only convinced himself that he could accede to grievances of Nazi Germany without infringing core British interests, but also the grievances of fascist Italy and Imperial Japan, and, via bilateral agreements, diminish these powers’ incentives for trilateral cooperation as well.⁶¹ His combination of diplomacy (engagement, conciliation) and a measure of deterrence (the threat of a massive bombing campaign)—what was known as appeasement (essentially to make peace)—occupied a venerable place in British policy, dating back to the nineteenth century. It offered a way of settling international quarrels by appealing to the other side’s reasonableness and forging compromises, rather than opting for costly war.⁶² Why stumble down the path of turning the latest equivalent of a Balkan squabble into a world war? A repeat threatened equally bloody futility, at a minimum, and potentially far worse: Communist subversion of the continent in the ruins.⁶³

Germany’s other great-power antagonist, France, was also the only other large democracy left in Europe. Its geopolitical position was unenviable. France had triumphed in the Great War, but the conflict had been fought to immense devastation on its soil, and, in the aftermath, it lacked the wherewithal to hold down a rising Germany. The United States had tipped the balance in the war and could have provided the security guarantees that would have allowed France, in the 1920s, to make the kinds of concessions to Germany that Britain advocated and stability required, but the Americans had had no desire to do so.⁶⁴ Instead, French postwar security had come to rest on three shakier pillars: a military occupation of Germany’s Rhineland, military superiority over a disarmed Germany, and alliances with the newly independent small states on the eastern side of Germany. The first two had vanished. As for the third, Eastern Europe roiled with homegrown animosities and irredentism that undermined reliable security partnerships. France’s alliance system with Poland and Czechoslovakia had hollowed out even before Hitler had put it to the test.⁶⁵ And so, behind the defenses of the Maginot Line (named for a defense minister who had launched its construction), France was thrown back onto its familiar options: alliance with the British or alliance with the Russians. Before the Munich Pact, the Tory government had exhibited ruthless caution toward entanglement with France, and after Munich it took only baby steps, initiating staff talks with France.⁶⁶

Munich had almost pushed Stalin in the opposite direction: he contemplated denouncing the Franco-Soviet pact before reaffirming it.⁶⁷ But Stalin’s on-and-off efforts to convert the 1935 Franco-Soviet mutual assistance treaty into a real military alliance against German power—following in the footsteps of Nicholas II—had produced only desultory military talks.⁶⁸ Britain staunchly opposed a Franco-Soviet military convention, and Paris would not break from London, even after the Munich debacle, and even after the French ambassador’s warnings out of Moscow that the Soviet Union was not a colossus with feet of clay and could cozy up to Berlin.⁶⁹ The French general staff continued to dismiss the Red Army’s value in a European war and to underscore the USSR’s lack of common borders with Germany and the fact that Poland and Romania remained disinclined to grant transit routes.⁷⁰ Stalin’s executions of three of his five marshals amid public accusations that they and others had given away battle plans and other secrets to the Nazis cast new doubt on the Red Army as a possible partner.⁷¹ But even before the full denouement of the grisly executions, the French had backed away from the military talks.⁷² For Prime Minister Daladier—the man who had granted Trotsky asylum in France back in 1933—another pan-European war would mean the “utter destruction of European civilization,” opening a vacuum for “Cossack and Mongol hordes.”⁷³

So that was it: Germany foaming at the mouth with anti-Communism and anti-Slav racism, and now armed to the teeth; Britain cautious and aloof in the face of another continental war; and France even more exposed than Britain, yet deferring to London, and wary of its nominal ally, the USSR. Stalin was devastating his own country with mass murders and bald-faced mendacities, but the despot faced a genuine security impasse: German aggression and buck-passing by great powers—himself included.

MUSIC AND TORTURE

Secret police, in their smartest dress uniforms, lined the walls of the cavernous main hall and all the entrances of the Grand Kremlin Palace for the 1939 New Year’s banquet. Soviet officials did not bring their wives unless the latter, too, held official positions, such as Molotov’s Zhemchuzhina (fishing industry commissar). But much of the beau monde was intermarried: the actor Ivan Moskvin attended with his wife, Alla Tarasova, a star of the same theater; the filmmaker Alexandrov with his wife, the singer-starlet Lyubov Orlova; the dancer Igor Moiseyev with his common-law wife, the Bolshoi prima ballerina Nina Podgoretskaya. But Stalin himself could come off as the movie star: the mischievous grin, the lifted head, the pauses, nods, glances. During the toasts, when he called out Soviet triumphs and heroes, people clinked glasses, tapped knives and forks, and shouted his name. By the time the USSR State Jazz Band entered the anteroom of the Andreyev Hall, it was after 2:00 a.m. A Chekist, as the police liked to be called, summoned them to the stage following the Alexandrov Red Army Ensemble—240 singers and dancers—and Moiseyev’s State Folk Dance Ensemble.

“We walked into the dimly lit, deserted Andreyev Hall, which is used by the Supreme Soviet for its meetings,” recalled Juri Jelagin. “The hall was lined with rows of armchairs like a theater auditorium, or perhaps more like a university auditorium, because each chair was equipped with a small writing desk and a radio headset.” They reached a door, behind which was a stage. “The bright lights blinded us. We were in the ornate, white [St. George’s] Hall of the Kremlin. . . . The large tables were crowded with people, and a regular feast was in progress.” In front of the stage, at a distance from the other tables, was the Presidium table, the seats facing the hall, backs to the performers. When the jazz musicians appeared on the stage, Stalin and his entourage turned and applauded. “Stalin was wearing a khaki tunic without any ribbons or decorations. He smiled at us and nodded encouragement. In front of him stood a half-empty glass of brandy.” The jazzmen, with their female vocalist, Nina Donskaya, performed “Jewish Rhapsody,” by Svyatoslav Knushevitsky, perhaps Moscow’s top cellist. (He was married to Natalya Spiller, the Bolshoi soprano much admired by Stalin.) For whatever reason, according to Jelagin, Stalin paid no attention to Donskaya. “He turned away and began to eat.”

The mass murderer was able to differentiate, within his conventional tastes, a sublime performance from a merely good one. He loved opera, and selections were invariably included from the prerevolutionary repertoire (Rimsky-Korsakov, Glinka, Mussorgsky, Borodin, Tchaikovsky) and the better-known Western classics (Carmen, Faust, and Aida). But his greatest passion was for Russian, Ukrainian, and Georgian folk songs.⁷⁴ After the jazz band had concluded its six approved numbers—among them Tchaikovsky’s “Sentimental Waltz” and Stalin’s sentimental favorite, “Suliko”—the Presidium table, according to Jelagin, “applauded long and vigorously.” Only now, after exiting and storing their instruments, were the musicians invited to dine—in a separate hall for performers, one floor below, loaded with “caviar, hams, salads, fish, fresh vegetables [in winter], decanters of vodka, red and white wine, and fine Armenian brandy. There were about four hundred of us, but the tables could seat at least a thousand.” Here, the Chekist servers wore their police uniforms. The musicians were addressed by the latest chairman of the committee on artistic affairs, Alexei Nazarov (b. 1905), who toasted Stalin as well as some of the most famous performers, such as the singer Ivan Kozlovsky.⁷⁵

Kozlovsky (b. 1900), the virtuoso soloist at the Bolshoi (since 1926), would receive the Order of Lenin in 1939. (The next year, Stalin would make him a USSR People’s Artist.) He possessed a transparent, even voice, with a beautiful and gentle timbre in the upper register, which was not particularly powerful yet filled the largest spaces. He hailed from a Ukrainian village and had a brother who had emigrated at the end of the civil war and ended up in the United States, which alone would have been enough to doom the tenor. Zealous Chekists went to Kozlovsky’s native village to dig up dirt, but when Poskryobyshev handed Stalin thick files of compromising material, the despot was said to have observed, “Fine, we’ll imprison comrade Kozlovsky—and who’ll sing, you?”⁷⁶ Apocryphal or not, the despot was known to keep track of the schedule for the Bolshoi and to terminate meetings in the Little Corner to catch an aria sung by Kozlovsky, Maxim Mikhailov (a bass), or Mark Reizen (also a bass), the lyrical tenor Sergei Lemeshev, the lyrical sopranos Spiller and Yelena Kruglikova, or the mezzo-soprano Vera Davydova.⁷⁷ At the New Year’s gala, Kozlovsky, who acquired the reputation of being an unbearable person, sang “La Donna è Mobile,” from Rigoletto, at Stalin’s request.⁷⁸

Two days later, Stalin informed USSR procurator general Vyshinsky that he wanted a public trial of those arrested in the NKVD.⁷⁹ “The enemies of the people who penetrated the organs of the NKVD,” the commission on the secret police internally reported to Stalin—as if the secret police rampage had somehow occurred without his directives—“consciously distorted the punitive policy of Soviet power, conducting a mass of baseless arrests of people guilty of nothing, and at the same time protecting the activities of enemies of the people. . . . They urged that prisoners offer testimony about their supposed espionage activity for foreign intelligence, explaining that such invented testimony was necessary for the party and the government in order to discredit foreign states.” The despot circulated the report to the inner circle: they needed to know how to interpret the terror, as the result of the infiltration of “spies in literally every [NKVD] department.”⁸⁰ But for whatever reason, a public trial of the NKVD never took place. “I am very busy with work,” Stalin wrote (January 6, 1939) to Afinogenov, the reprieved writer, who had sent a copy of his latest play to read. “I beg forgiveness.”⁸¹

Beria issued a secret directive calling for NKVD branches to cease recruiting informants for surveillance of party and factory bosses, and to destroy, in their presence, the files compiled against them.⁸² Provincial party bosses were even invited to scrutinize the dossiers of all NKVD personnel in their domains.⁸³ But Stalin had some second thoughts. “The Central Committee has learned,” he wrote in a telegram to all locales (January 10, 1939), “that the secretaries of provinces and territories, checking on the work of the local NKVD, have charged them with using physical means of interrogation against those arrested as if it were a crime.” He informed them that the “physical methods” had been approved by “the Central Committee” and agreed to by “the Communist parties of all the republics” (whose leaders had almost all been shot as foreign agents and wreckers). “It is known that all bourgeois intelligence services apply physical coercion with regard to representatives of the socialist proletariat, and in the ugliest forms,” he stressed. “One might ask why the socialist intelligence service must be more humane with regard to inveterate agents of the bourgeoisie.”⁸⁴

COMPLICATING FACTORS

Stalin exacerbated but did not invent the hostility of his Eastern European neighbors. Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, and Finland preferred neutrality but, if forced to choose, would opt for Berlin over Moscow.⁸⁵ Romania was openly pro-German. Poland, a nasty regime sandwiched directly between two nastier ones, sought a middle way. Some members of Polish ruling circles latched on to the idea of throwing in their lot with Hitler to deflect him farther eastward, even at the high cost of territorial concessions, and a few high-placed Poles fantasized about a joint Polish-Nazi attack on the USSR, an aggression in which they imagined Poland could wrest Ukraine from the Soviets, a delusion that Nazi officials cynically encouraged.⁸⁶ But Polish foreign minister Beck, who spoke good German, had met several times with Hitler, trying to reach an accommodation without sacrificing Poland’s independence. In early 1939, Hitler summoned him to Berlin for one last effort to bully Poland into joining the Anti-Comintern Pact, which would have required that Poland allow the Wehrmacht to march across its territory and “return” to Germany the Free City of Danzig and the surrounding Polish Corridor (a chunk of territory that had belonged to Frederick the Great’s East Prussia but, thanks to the Versailles Treaty, now belonged to Poland and lay between German East Prussia and the rest of Germany). Poland would have become economically dependent on (nonexistent) Nazi goodwill.⁸⁷

Soviet intelligence, thanks to its penetration of the German embassy in Poland, reported (February 10, 1939) that Hitler had allegedly told Beck there was no need to seize Ukraine, for “the Soviet Union in two to three years would perish of its own internal contradictions and clear the path for Germany and Poland to reach a friendly resolution of the Ukrainian question.” The Soviet report further observed that Hitler had bent over backward to ingratiate himself, which German diplomatic personnel in Poland interpreted as merely tactical, and that “Beck, it seems, had been left unsatisfied by the conversation and as before thinks the fundamental aim of German expansion remains the East, and in this connection Hitler does not plan on making any concessions to Poland.”⁸⁸

Nonetheless, Soviet military intelligence reported to Moscow that the German ambassador in Warsaw, Hans-Adolf von Moltke, had boasted to a German journalist on February 13 that “the situation is utterly clear. We know that in the event of a German-Soviet conflict, Poland would take our side.”⁸⁹ The Western powers, too, suspected illiberal Poland of being pro-German and territorially revisionist. But Beck had refused to make any firm commitments regarding Hitler’s entreaties. He knew Western support for Poland was fragile—as did everyone, after Munich—and he feared a Western diktat over Danzig and the Corridor. But he nonetheless pinned Poland’s security hopes on Britain and France. The alternative, a security alliance with the Soviet Union, was anathema. The Soviets returned the enmity, and had lacked even an ambassador in Warsaw since November 1937 (through June 1939).

Poland’s best security guarantee was probably a full-scale war by Japan against the Soviet Union, and Polish military intelligence worked extremely closely with its Japanese counterpart, essentially conducting an extended tutorial on their common adversary. Japanese Manchukuo forces continued to engage Soviet and Mongolian troops in border clashes. The Soviet spy Sorge (codenamed “Ramsay”) relayed to Moscow (January 23, 1939) an analysis of infighting among three factions in Japan. One demanded a ramping up of the all-out war with China; a second, the Kwantung Army, demanded a peace settlement with China to shift to all-out war with the Soviet Union; a third, in a variant on the second, urged winding down operations in central and south China and holding on to only northern China and Manchuria, to use as a base of operations for attacking the USSR. Sorge included the prime and war ministers in the third group and added that the only way for Japan to corral domestic radicalism was to turn the radicals’ attention toward the USSR.⁹⁰

Adding to the pressure on Moscow, anti-Soviet émigrés in Harbin, China, were using radio to debunk Soviet propaganda in broadcasts into eastern Soviet territories. Radio stations from German territory were also transmitting in Russian to the westernmost parts of the Soviet Union, whose equipment was not powerful enough to jam these foreign signals.⁹¹

Through it all, Hitler remained Stalin’s most complicating factor. “One thing I should like to say on this day which may be memorable for others as well as for us Germans: In the course of my life I have very often been a prophet, and have usually been ridiculed for it,” Hitler raved, deep into a speech on January 30, 1939, the sixth anniversary of his becoming chancellor. “Above all the Jewish people only laughed at my prophecies. I believe that such gales of laughter now stick in the throats of Jewry in Germany. ” He continued: “Today I will once more be a prophet: if the international finance Jewry inside and outside Europe should succeed in plunging the nations once more into a world war, then the result will not be the Bolshevization of the earth, and thus the victory of Jewry, but the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe.”⁹² This revealing resentment-cum-threat was partly a belated response to Roosevelt and U.S. criticisms of the anti-Jewish pogrom Kristallnacht, as well as to bogged-down negotiations over restrictions for Jewish immigrants from Germany and Austria, and an equation of the United States with “the headquarters of world Jewry.”⁹³ The Reichstag erupted in acclamation.

Hitler had achieved more than anyone—perhaps even he himself—had imagined, and he wielded his increasing power and confidence to raise the stakes. On February 13, 1939, he placed a laurel on the grave of Otto von Bismarck, and the next day he presided over the launching of the Bismarck, Germany’s grandest new battleship. “As Führer of the German people and Chancellor of the Reich,” he told the assembled crowd, “I can give this ship no finer name.”⁹⁴ Of course, Bismarck, unifier of Germany, had proceeded from a sense of limits and a need for balance, not unlimited expansion, and had refrained from swallowing the Habsburg empire, while Hitler had already annexed Austria and Czechoslovakia’s Sudetenland. At the same time, the prohibitive costs of Hitler’s ongoing rearmament and military actions, as well as anxiety over raw material supply, were mounting. The national debt had tripled since his takeover.⁹⁵ Hitler ordered a reduction in the Wehrmacht budget for the first quarter of 1939. But the army, knowing the Führer, ignored the limit. Hitler did not make strategic decisions on the basis of economic considerations.⁹⁶ Still, more affordable supplies of raw materials for the war machine had to be found.⁹⁷ Germany had submitted to Moscow a request for formal trade talks, and Mikoyan handed the German ambassador two new shopping lists for industrial goods in February 1939.⁹⁸ The USSR and the Capitalist Encirclement, a book published that same month, asserted that the “ruling class” in Britain and France desired not an alliance with the USSR against “fascism,” but a war between the Soviet Union and Germany.⁹⁹

PURSUING REWARDS

Soviet prisons now held an estimated 350,000 inmates, while Gulag labor camps and colonies held 1.665 million. But the recorded proportion of prisoners who did not work in the period 1937–39 ranged from 16.6 percent to 27.1 percent. The camp complexes had accumulated ill, invalid, and idle “laborers.”¹⁰⁰ The slave labor productivity exception had always been the gold-mining trust in the Kolyma River region of the far northeast. Stalin sent a telegram (January 24, 1939) praising Karp Pavlov, Dalstroi’s head: “Let us reward all, starting with Pavlov, without embarrassment or false modesty.” A two-decade veteran of the secret police, with service from Crimea to Krasnoyarsk, Pavlov had arrived two years before to replace the long-serving head of Dalstroi, who was executed as the head of a counterrevolutionary spy-diversionist Trotskyist organization.¹⁰¹ On February 2, 1939, Pavlov received the Order of Lenin. That winter, thousands of gold diggers would again perish.

New influxes would double the Dalstroi population to 160,000 by the end of the year. (Soon Pavlov would be promoted to chief of mining and metallurgy for the entire Gulag.)¹⁰² Dalstroi had acquired enough performers to form a local symphony and a musical comedy troupe, both of which entertained the bosses in the local “capital” of Magadan, a jumble of log cabins and transit prisons known as the Athens of Okhotsk.¹⁰³ Magadan could claim a higher concentration not just of musicians and actors, but of doctors, scholars, poets, novelists, photographers, and painters, than any urban center east of the Urals, and many to the west, but the terror had killed off the trust’s technical specialists and lowered productivity.¹⁰⁴ Magadan officials begged to see Union-wide arrest lists so they could scour them for geologists, hydrologists, and other desperately needed “wreckers” and “Trotskyites.”

Beria’s NKVD discovered a self-styled “fascist organization” in Moscow, whose handful of members had evidently fashioned a flag, put up seventy posters on the eve of Red Army Day (February 23), drew some graffiti, and wrote poems. They seem to have discussed Nazism, anti-Semitism, and Russian nationalism. At least one turned informant, leading to four arrests. Three of the members turned out to have been nineteen when they joined the group; the organizer was seventeen. The NKVD produced five volumes on the case.¹⁰⁵

ABSENT FATHER

Stalin received a troubling report in February 1939 from his son Vasily’s military aviation school. Now almost eighteen, he had become a candidate member of the party, but not long before, Stalin had written to one of Vasily’s teachers at his previous school that he was “a spoiled youth of middling capabilities, a wild beast (like the Scythians), not always truthful, loves to blackmail weak ‘bosses,’ not infrequently impudent, with a weak—more accurately—unorganized will. . . . He was spoiled by sundry ‘godfathers’ and ‘godmothers,’ who reinforced the circumstance that he is ‘Stalin’s son.’”¹⁰⁶ With Vasily’s transfer to the military school in Crimea, Beria had reported to Stalin that the school’s bosses had met him with pomp at the train station. Stalin had ordered that Vasily be moved to a regular barracks.¹⁰⁷ The latest report, cleverly worded, was framed in praise: “Politically literate. Dedicated to the cause of the party of Lenin-Stalin and our motherland. Actively interested and well versed in questions of the international and domestic situation.” But it also noted that Vasily was given to cramming, occasionally reported unshaven for duty, and “reacts badly to snafus in flight.”¹⁰⁸ His friends found him generous—and a target. “Despite a nondescript appearance (small stature, scrawny, redheaded, chalky),” one acquaintance recalled of him that “all kinds of sycophants and especially girls clung to him like flies to honey.”¹⁰⁹

Stalin continued to shower tenderness on his daughter, Svetlana—when he saw her. Now thirteen and without her brother or longtime housekeeper, Karolina Til, she continued to live in the Kremlin apartment, where her father appeared only for late-evening “lunches.” The dining room “had a large, carved sideboard with my mother’s cups on it and a table with the latest newspapers and magazines,” she recalled. “Above it was a large portrait of my mother, a blown-up print of one of the photographs taken at our house.” After the meal, Stalin would go back upstairs to the office or head out to the Near Dacha for the night. Svetlana spent summers partly at the old Zubalovo dacha, partly either in Sochi or Mukhalatka, Crimea. “Sometimes after school was out in the summer, he’d take me to Kuntsevo for three days or so,” she would recall of the Near Dacha. “He enjoyed having me around. But it didn’t work out, because it was impossible for anybody to fit in with his way of life. He’d have his first meal at two or three in the afternoon and lunch at eight in the evening. Then he’d sit up late at the table. . . . It was too much for me.” They did go for walks in the Kuntsevo woods, and, thanks to her nurse’s lessons, Svetlana would ace her father’s oral quizzes on the names of flowers, grasses, and singing birds. But soon he would have to return to his paperwork. “At that point he didn’t need me anymore,” Svetlana continued. “I’d get restless and bored and long to leave as quickly as possible for Zubalovo, where I could take one of my friends with me and there were so many things I enjoyed. Meantime, my father thought it was being with him that bored me, and that hurt his feelings.” Svetlana’s nanny would advise her to ask forgiveness, and he would talk to her again. “I heard him mutter angrily, ‘She went away! Imagine leaving her old father like that! Says she’s bored!’ But he was kissing me and had already forgiven me, for without me he had been lonelier than ever.”¹¹⁰

18TH PARTY CONGRESS

Great powers, when menaced by a rising or aggressive power, usually build up their militaries and seek strategic alliances, but leadership in the international arena has always been costly, and each power had drawn the lesson from the Great War experience that defense trumped offense, such that any new war could not be won easily. The benefits of getting someone else to do the fighting appeared to be very high, while the risks of that other side succumbing quickly appeared to be low.¹¹¹ And so, Britain, France, and the Soviet Union were each keen to afford the others the “honor” of standing up to Germany. Stalin worried about a linkup of the others behind his back (“a united imperialist front against the USSR”). His energetic feelers for political rapprochement with Germany and, less energetically, for a binding military dimension to his mutual assistance pact with France had failed to make headway. Facing two blind alleys—Paris/London and Berlin—he opened the 18th Party Congress on March 10, in the combined Andreyev-Alexander hall of the Grand Kremlin Palace.

Stalin had not been compelled to convoke a congress. This was the first since the January 1934 “Congress of Victors,” and thus the first to take place in the wake of his terror (a “congress of survivors,” as it were). Back when admission to the party had been closed, in January 1933, membership had stood at 2.2 million, and although it had been reopened in November 1936, the ranks were still thinner by 700,000.¹¹² The congress was attended by 1,569 delegates with voting rights and another 466 without, who had been “elected” (without alternatives) in primary party organizations. Once in Moscow, as per custom, they sat with their province or republic delegations for formal photographs with Stalin and others in his inner circle. Their local newspapers, in turn, featured their presence at the congress. Factories and collective farms had sent greetings to Stalin and affirmations of the congress agenda. All this was captured in newsreels.¹¹³ Identification of congress delegates by social origin (worker, peasant, white collar) ceased—the class question having supposedly been resolved—but markers for occupation, age, and education remained. Only 63 voting delegates worked in agriculture, 230 in industry, and 110 in transport. Military and NKVD made up the second-largest group, at 283 (18 percent), while the largest comprised apparatchiks—those for whom their sole occupation was party work—with 659 voting delegates (42 percent). Another 162 (10 percent) served as functionaries in trade unions and soviets. Nearly half the delegates were thirty-five years of age or under; four fifths were no older than forty. Just under half (46 percent) had not graduated from high school.¹¹⁴

Krupskaya missed the congress, having died in agony on February 27, 1939, one day after her seventieth birthday. She had been suffering from acute appendicitis, peritonitis, thrombosis, and arteriosclerosis and appears to have had an abdominal embolism, though the precise cause of death remains uncertain.¹¹⁵ She was the only former avowed member of an opposition group in the party (in her case, from fall 1925 to fall 1926) to die naturally.¹¹⁶ Olga Ulyanova (b. 1922), the daughter of Lenin’s brother Dmitry, who lived in the Kremlin Cavalry Building, recalled that upon coming home from school, she would look up across the way to the apartment of her aunts, Krupskaya and Ulyanova, in the nearby Imperial Senate. If a light was on in the second window, it meant Krupskaya was in; if in the fifth, then Maria; if in the fourth, they were in the dining room. “I came home in the evening and looked at the window of their apartment,” Olga recalled of late February 1939. “The windows were dark. They had no light, and no longer ever would.”¹¹⁷

Krupskaya’s hand in helping create a Lenin Testament had failed to slow Stalin’s succession. He was among those who carried the urn of her ashes for burial in the Kremlin Wall on March 1. He allowed the newspapers to be filled with eulogies for a few days, but the highest-level official called upon to publish an obituary was the chairman of the RSFSR Supreme Soviet.¹¹⁸ Trotsky, in exile, rendered his own. “In addition to being Lenin’s wife—which, by the way, was not accidental—Krupskaya was an outstanding personality in her devotion to the cause, her energy and her purity of character,” he wrote (March 4). “Lenin’s illness and death—and this again was not accidental—coincided with the breaking point of the revolution and the beginning of Thermidor. Krupskaya became confused. . . . She made an attempt to oppose the Stalinist clique, and in 1926 she found herself for a brief interval in the ranks of the opposition. Frightened by the prospect of split, she broke away.” As a member of the Central Committee, Krupskaya had approved the expulsions and death sentences of Trotsky, Zinoviev, Kamenev, and Bukharin.¹¹⁹ With her death, Stalin had a chocolate factory named after her. Orders went out to the Soviet press: “Do not print another word about Krupskaya.”¹²⁰ For the proposed ribbon on the official wreath, Stalin altered the text (with his red pencil) from “closest friend of Lenin” to “closest helpmate of Lenin.”¹²¹ Stalin was Lenin’s “closest friend.”

THE TERROR’S PROMOTIONS

At the party congress, Stalin received public credit for the mass arrests. “Comrade Stalin has directed the work of purging enemies who have wormed their way into the party,” Matvei Shkiryatov, deputy head of the party Control Commission, noted in an understatement. “Comrade Stalin taught us how to fight wreckers in a new way; he taught us how to get rid of these hostile elements quickly and decisively.” One female party member told a story of how she had mailed to Stalin a denunciation of “the gang” in the Communist Youth League leadership and how he moved to eradicate them, “although he was very busy.”¹²²

The full scope of the bloodletting was not revealed, but it was secretly recorded: 15,485 of the 32,899 positions in 1939 on the Central Committee nomenklatura—the highest officials—had been appointed in the years 1937–38, a turnover of nearly half.¹²³ Of the 10,902 party secretaries of counties, cities, and districts, 6,909 had been appointed in 1937–38. Of the 333 regional party bosses, 293 had assumed their posts since the 17th Congress, most since 1937–38; only six heads of regional machines were older than forty-six; 91 percent were between twenty-six and forty years of age. Forty-four of the 71 Central Committee members were new (by contrast, at the 17th Congress in 1934, 10 of the 71 had been new). The same picture obtained throughout industry: on the railways, 2,245 of 2,968 senior posts as of November 1938 had been at their positions just one year. In the NKVD, the average age of the upper ranks fell between 1937 and 1939, from around forty-three to thirty-five. Fully 85 percent of Red Army officers were under thirty-five years of age.¹²⁴ These people, inexperienced and young, were by and large graduates of technical education.¹²⁵ A mass of graduates (even greater numbers would now follow) helped make possible extermination of their predecessors.

Pravda deemed these new cadres “healthy young representatives of a healthy young people,” one of Stalin’s core tenets. They were manifestly one of his reasons for summoning the congress: to demonstrate that the purged party was alive and well. Alexei Kosygin (b. 1904), who had graduated from the Leningrad Textile Institute just four years earlier, would become commissar of textile production. Vyacheslav Malyshev (b. 1902), who had finished technical school in 1937, would become commissar of heavy machine building. The dashing Leonid Brezhnev (b. 1906), who had graduated from a metallurgical technicum in 1935, was promoted to party boss of his home region, Dnepropetrovsk (Ukraine). The village-born Mikhail Suslov (b. 1902), who had joined the party in 1921 and taken a few training courses, had been sent in 1936 to Rostov province, where, in October 1937, after the arrest of the entire provincial leadership, he was named third and then second secretary. In February 1939, after the arrest of everyone in neighboring Orjonikidze (Stavropol) province, Suslov had been named first secretary there. “Understand it is only thanks to Stalin that we have all risen so high,” he would later explain. “Everything we have is thanks to Stalin.”¹²⁶

No less striking was the expansionism. The number of officially designated “leading personnel” hit 1.6 million in 1939, a leap from 600,000 in 1928. Overall, there were now 7.5 million administrative personnel, as compared with 1.45 million in 1928.¹²⁷ These white-collar employees and their offspring had come to dominate the spaces in higher education.¹²⁸ They were also well fed: between 1937 and 1939, when overall employment rose 10 percent, the Soviet salary fund jumped 41 percent, largely because the salary fund for administrative positions rose 66.5 percent. Especially pronounced increases were observed in supply, procurement, and, inevitably, departments introduced to control costs.¹²⁹ Despotism, too, cannot function without functionaries.¹³⁰ The terror that murdered officials en masse accentuated the ascendancy of the functionary class.

When Stalin made his way to the rostrum to deliver the main political report, the 2,000-odd attendees stood in an ovation. Making eye contact with the many delegations, the despot motioned for silence, but the applause only intensified. People desisted only when he rang the cowbell. Under a spotlight, Stalin received a new model rifle, a gift from the “proletarians of Tula” (Russia’s ancient armaments center), and he aimed it at the hall. Speaking softly, slowly, as usual, he conceded that there had been “more mistakes than might have been expected” in the cleansing of the ranks. But he pronounced the terror “unavoidable” and “beneficial.” “Our party is now smaller in membership, but, on the other side, its quality is better,” he told the beneficiaries.¹³¹

Stalin praised his creation. “As a result of the colossal cultural work conducted by the party and the Government, a burgeoning new Soviet intelligentsia was born and took shape, an intelligentsia that emerged from the ranks of the working class, peasantry, Soviet white-collar, the sweat and blood of our people, an intelligentsia that does not know the yoke of exploitation and despises exploiters and stands ready to serve the peoples of the USSR with belief and truth,” he rhapsodized, underscoring that these “young healthy people” would be genuinely Marxist cadres. “There is scarcely any necessity to dwell on the serious importance of party propaganda, of the Marxist-Leninist rearing of our laboring employees,” he told the delegates, adding, in the wake of the Short Course, that without a developed Marxist-Leninist consciousness, functionaries “will degenerate into pragmatist-pedants.”¹³²

NEW INNER CIRCLE

Stalin removed Petrovsky from candidate member of the politburo, but, uniquely, did not have him arrested.¹³³ He promoted Zhdanov and Khrushchev to full (voting) membership of the politburo, where they joined Molotov, Voroshilov, Kaganovich, Mikoyan, Andreyev, Kalinin, and the despot. Malenkov, in charge of personnel for years, finally became a member of the Central Committee, but, among party apparatchiks, Zhdanov alone enjoyed inner-circle status. In his speech to the congress on party affairs, he noted that masked enemies had infiltrated the ranks, slandered, and expelled honest Communists en masse, and singled out the new “Soviet” intelligentsia as the regime’s political base.¹³⁴ Zhdanov traveled often from Leningrad to take part in the ad hoc sessions in the Little Corner. He had become a personal favorite of the despot, as much as if not more than “Mykita” (the Ukrainianized version of Khrushchev’s name that Stalin used for his Ukraine party boss). “Only Zhdanov received from Stalin the same kind of treatment that Kirov enjoyed,” Molotov would recall. “After Kirov, Stalin liked Zhdanov best.”¹³⁵

The party would continue to serve as the regime’s indispensable ideological, personnel, and disciplinary instrument and charismatic symbol, but the state (government, military, secret police) gained more and more operational power, thanks to Molotov (government), the consigliere and longest-serving full politburo member after Stalin, Voroshilov (military), and Beria (secret police), nemesis of both Voroshilov and Molotov. Beria was elevated to one of two candidate member positions in the politburo, along with Shvernik, head of the trade unions (since 1930).¹³⁶ Stalin was uncommonly solicitous toward Beria, ordering, for example, that his household be given better accommodations after inspecting their first Moscow flat, with its shared kitchen. Beria ended up not at the Kremlin but in a two-story detached mansion, the former residence of General Alexei Kuropatkin, war minister during the Russo-Japanese War fiasco, at Little Nikitskaya Street, 28.¹³⁷ The Beria household also obtained use of a wooden dacha in the pine forest near Arkhangelskoe, but, the story goes, Stalin saw it, judged it a hovel, and moved them into the arrested Postyshev’s newer, palatial country estate.¹³⁸ “Beria’s dacha was sumptuous, immense,” recalled Svetlana, who played there with Sergo Beria (fifteen months her senior). Beria’s deputy Merkulov would later testify that “in Moscow, practically every evening, comrade Stalin summoned Beria” to the Near Dacha.¹³⁹

SOCIALIST REALISM

Nearly 19 million peasant households belonged to collective farms. Investment in mechanization and infrastructure had increased from 1.5 billion rubles in the first Five-Year Plan to 6.3 billion in the second (the third, which had commenced in 1938, would see another 5 billion). But output of tractors and combines, after having risen exponentially, was declining as the number of tanks, made at the same factories, soared.¹⁴⁰ Official harvest figures for 1937 (120.2 million tons), 1938 (94.9 million), and 1939 (105.4 million) were exaggerated. Even these numbers signified output per head below the 1913 level.¹⁴¹ Still, the state procured 36 million tons of the 1939 harvest (as compared with 10.8 million in 1928). The regime had reacted with assistance, rather than secret police barricades, to the regions that had suffered a major drought in 1936 and a lesser one in 1938, avoiding even a partial repeat of the famine of 1931–33.¹⁴² The continued underperformance of the livestock and dairy sectors, still not recovered from dekulakization-denomadization, was publicly acknowledged.

In his congress report, Andreyev, now the Central Committee secretary responsible for agriculture, called for a reduction in the size of the farmers’ household plots, which he claimed had been allowed to become their main occupation. To an extent, he was correct, although, according to official statistics, 77 percent of household plots conformed to size limits imposed by the February 1935 statute, 12 percent were below, and only 10 percent above.¹⁴³

Molotov gave the congress report on industry and the third Five-Year Plan. The heavy industry commissariat had been further divided in early 1939 into many smaller ones, reducing the power of their commissars.¹⁴⁴ Industry remained a wreck as a result of Stalin’s massacres. “If last year and today the majority of industries has not fulfilled their plan, the cause of this is our weak cadres, who were promoted to leading work during the past year,” one brave official wrote to the despot in March 1939, adding that “the atmosphere of lack of confidence and oversuspiciousness . . . blunts the initiative and energy of the personnel, and has an extremely harmful effect on all the work.”¹⁴⁵ Molotov, however, regaled the delegates with fantastic projections of annual growth in the third Five-Year Plan, of between 13.5 and 15.2 percent. Production of locomotives was supposed to reach 225 percent of the 1937 figure, coal 206 percent, electric power 200 percent. Nearly simultaneous with Molotov’s congress speech, Krokodil—the Soviet satirical journal, printed a caricature of the Third Reich. “What are you doing to propagandize the Four-Year Plan?” Göring asks Goebbels. Answer: “Prohibit the population from laughing.”¹⁴⁶

During the Soviet party congress, Industry of Socialism, a monumental art exhibition, was mounted near the Park of Culture metro station. Artists working in photography, industrial design, and even graphic and poster art had been excluded in favor of oil painters. Originally slated to open on the revolution’s twentieth anniversary, it had been mounted in an earlier form by November 1937 in a hard-to-reach hall on the Frunze Embankment, but it had not been open to the public—many of the figures depicted in the paintings had been (or were soon to be) arrested. Artists, too, were arrested, and even some of those not arrested had failed to produce their contracted works. (Soviet paints were known to be of miserable quality, and funds for purchasing foreign paints and canvases were unavailable, a fact that the artists wrote denunciations about.) Most of the works on exhibit in 1939 depicted railroads, canals, coal pits, and gold mines, as well as a Tajik weather station, Arctic exploration, and the good life of workers who enjoyed rewards like motorcycles for their labor exploits. Visitors encountered a gigantic mosaic of precious stones and metals that traced the infrastructure and natural resources of the USSR, Stalin’s epic canvas. Newsreels gave a narrated tour of the works.¹⁴⁷ First prize went to Boris Yoganson’s disconsolate In an Old Urals Factory (1937), which showed a muscular worker staring down the fat-cat owner. More innovative was Yuri Pimenov’s New Moscow (1937), which depicted a new boulevard and a prosperous Soviet way of life, symbolized by automobiles and stylish attire, in a decidedly modern look reminiscent of a Cézanne. The painting’s central figure was a woman in an open-top car—and in the driver’s seat.¹⁴⁸

HITLER INTRUDES

Stalin, in his congress report, had boasted that “it is necessary to recognize that the most important achievement in the sphere of public-political life during the reporting period . . . is the complete democratization of the country’s public life.”¹⁴⁹ He mispronounced the name of the commissariat of agriculture—calling it the Narkomzyom, accenting the last syllable, instead of Narkomzyem—and every speaker who followed copied his mistake.¹⁵⁰ Occasionally raising his right index finger for emphasis, he pointed out that the country had to have “at its disposal a well-trained army, well-organized penal organs, and a strong intelligence service.” He also underscored the system’s political fastness. “In the event of a war, the rear and the front, in view of their homogeneity and internal unity, will be stronger than in any other country, which foreign lovers of military confrontation would do well to keep in mind,” he observed, lauding himself for collectivization. “Some people in the Western press are claiming that the purge of spies, murderers, and wreckers from Soviet institutions—the likes of Trotsky, Zinoviev, Kamenev, Yakir, Tukhachevsky, Rosenholz, Bukharin, and other scum—has ‘shaken’ the Soviet system and brought disintegration,” the despot added. “Such cheap gossip merits only our contempt.”¹⁵¹

Foreign affairs took up about one quarter of Stalin’s speech, and on this score he had thoroughly reworked the text from the draft supplied by aides. He noted that the League of Nations had proved useless but argued that, given the dangerous times, it “should not be ignored.” He stressed the fact of a “new imperialist war,” now in its second year, and named Germany, Italy, and Japan as aggressors, but warned that efforts at collective security were “in disarray” because “the “non-aggressor states,” Britain and France, were playing a dangerous game. They were stronger than the fascist powers but shrank from meeting the threat, refusing to intervene in Spain, China, or Czechoslovakia “to save their own skins.” Remarking on the hysteria in the Western press over supposed German designs on Soviet Ukraine, Stalin warned countries “accustomed to having others pull chestnuts out of the fire for them”—a reference to Britain and France—that they would not succeed in pushing the Soviet Union into war. “We stand for peace and strengthening of businesslike ties with all countries,” he noted, but only “as long as these countries maintain similar relations with the Soviet Union and do not try to damage our country’s interests.”¹⁵²

When Stalin finished—congratulating the victorious working class, the victorious collective farm peasantry, the Soviet intelligentsia—the entire Andreyev-Alexandrov hall stood in thunderous applause. Editorials in Izvestiya, the government newspaper, did not elaborate Stalin’s statement that “collective security” was effectively dead or his hints that Moscow might even turn to Nazi Germany, as if that were an option.¹⁵³ Goebbels’s propaganda ministry had instructed the German press (March 13, 1939) that “you can comment on the congress of Communists in Moscow as a still greater strengthening of the Stalin-Kaganovich clique.” (Kaganovich was Jewish.)¹⁵⁴

The German ambassador, Schulenburg, was the son of a Prussian officer, tall, elegant, pious, an aristocrat of long pedigree, with a balding pate, white mustache, and impeccable manners. The childless, genial count had developed exceptionally good relations with the Soviets, as with his own staff.¹⁵⁵ He had also developed a rivalry with his predecessor in Moscow, Dirksen, now in London. They engaged in a parallel competition to normalize Soviet-German and Anglo-German relations, respectively.¹⁵⁶ Still, Schulenburg doubted that Stalin’s speech signaled a policy shift, although he did note the absence of the customary denunciations of the fascist states.¹⁵⁷ Hitler’s foreign minister showed the Führer a German translation of Stalin’s speech, but the Nazi leader remained skeptical, and, in any case, he was preoccupied: right in the middle of Stalin’s party congress, on March 15, 1939, the Wehrmacht seized the rest of truncated Czechoslovakia, making a mockery of the Munich Pact and Hitler’s pretense of merely wanting to incorporate ethnic Germans. Among the prizes were the Czechoslovak army’s advanced mechanized divisions and the famous Škoda Works, in the city of Plzeň (Pilsen), one of Europe’s premier military factories. “Give me a kiss, girls!” Hitler told his secretaries. “This is the greatest day of my life. I shall enter history as the greatest German of them all.”¹⁵⁸ The Führer annexed the Czech lands (Bohemia and Moravia) as a Third Reich “protectorate”; Slovakia became nominally independent, under a Nazi puppet. Czechoslovakia’s eastern Subcarpathian Rusyn (Ruthene) province became an independent state—for thirty hours, until March 16, when Hungarian troops invaded and annexed the southern part; Polish troops seized the northern part and established a common border with Hungary.¹⁵⁹

Hitler had intruded on Stalin’s affirmation of Soviet unity and might. The despot had Litvinov convey to Schulenburg that “the Soviet government cannot recognize the inclusion of the Czech lands in the German empire, or that of Slovakia in any form.”¹⁶⁰ An aide to the Soviet military attaché in Berlin reported, rightly, that Hitler had already achieved a windfall: advanced Czech weapons plants, advanced Czech mechanized divisions, storehouses of grain. Less positively for Germany, the attaché noted that the Nazis had absorbed a large non-German population that could create risks in Germany’s rear if the Führer pushed still farther out. On that latter score, the Soviet military aide was unequivocal: Germany was gearing up for further expansion. The question was: in which direction, “east or west?”¹⁶¹

FIXATION

Trotsky had been writing about the creation of a Fourth International since at least 1933, but the founding congress had only taken place on September 3, 1938, and was attended by fewer than two dozen delegates, at a private home outside Paris. In October 1938, he had fantasized, in a speech in Mexico he recorded on a gramophone, that “in the course of the next ten years, the program of the Fourth International will become the program of millions, and these revolutionary millions will be able to take heaven and earth by storm.”¹⁶² However absurd his “movement,” Trotsky’s pen was another matter. Commenting the day after Stalin’s political report to the 18th Party Congress, Trotsky scandalously surmised, like Krivitsky before him, that “Stalin is preparing to play with Hitler.”¹⁶³ Around the time of the party congress, Stalin ordered renewed efforts to assassinate Trotsky.¹⁶⁴

That Trotsky was still alive was almost inexplicable. He had been sentenced to execution in absentia at the first Moscow public trial (August 1936), but the attempts to have him killed probably dated to 1929 in Turkey. He had been hunted all the while he had been in Paris (1933–35) and after his relocation to Norway. The most recent effort, in 1938, led by veterans of the Spanish civil war dispatched to the United States and then Mexico, had petered out after their NKVD espionage overseers in Moscow (Sergei Spigelglas) and New York (Pyotr Guttsait) were arrested as supposed foreign spies.¹⁶⁵ A new plan would expressly forbid everyone previously involved in such efforts to take part, and would be put together by Pavel Sudoplatov (b. 1907) and Naum “Leonid” Eitingon (b. 1899), until recently the NKVD station chief in Republic Spain.¹⁶⁶

Sudoplatov was a celebrated assassin, having liquidated Yevhen Konovalets, the leader of the fascistic émigré Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN). Sudoplatov hailed from Ukraine and spoke the language. The NKVD had penetrated the OUN and even ran its branches, but Konovalets, who had been born in Habsburg Galicia and studied in Lemberg (now Lwów), was viewed as a possible figurehead who could be used by foreign powers and had working ties to intelligence officers from Nazi Germany, as well as fascist Italy, Lithuania, and Poland.¹⁶⁷ On May 23, 1938, Sudoplatov had managed to blow Konovalets up in a Rotterdam restaurant with a box of chocolates that concealed a time bomb, escaping undetected. It was bravura wet work. In November 1938, after yet another NKVD foreign intelligence chief was arrested, the thirty-one-year-old Sudoplatov had briefly shot up to acting chief. But when Beria took over the NKVD, he installed as foreign intelligence chief his Caucasus crony Vladimir Dekanozov, whose principal experience was in food processing and supply, including self-supply.

Sudoplatov was moved back down to section director. Someone in Beria’s entourage, perhaps Dekanozov, placed Sudoplatov under investigation for ties to “enemies” (i.e., the now-arrested NKVD bosses under whom Sudoplatov had worked). The assassin spent months fearing he was about to be liquidated. Damaging rumors were being spread about him, and he was not being shown documents or allowed to carry out assignments, even those Beria had expressly directed he be given. It appears that Beria contrived to firm up Sudoplatov’s position using Kremlinology: he invited him to a soccer match between Spartacus (the trade union team) and Dynamo (the NKVD team) and had him sit in the government loge; Malenkov was there, along with the full canopy of Beria cronies. “I didn’t utter a word,” Sudoplatov explained, “but my mere presence in that elevated place signaled Kruglov, Serov, Tsanava, and others to stop spreading rumors about evidence against me in the archives.”¹⁶⁸

In March 1939, as Sudoplatov tells the story, Beria took him to the Little Corner to see Stalin and proposed that Sudoplatov be named deputy chief of NKVD foreign intelligence, in order to oversee global anti-Trotskyite operations. In this telling, as Stalin lit his pipe with a match and got up and paced, the assassin took note of “the simplicity of Stalin’s reactions. It was hard to imagine that such a man could deceive you, his reactions were so natural, without the slightest sense of him posing.” Stalin was indeed an actor, especially in the Little Corner. “There are no important political figures in the Trotskyite movement except Trotsky himself,” he was said to have advised. “If Trotsky is finished, the threat will be eliminated.” Obviously, the Nazis would never resort to using a Jew even as a figurehead. Nonetheless, Stalin supposedly added, “Without the elimination of Trotsky, as the Spanish experience shows, when the imperialists attack the Soviet Union, we cannot rely on our allies in the international Communist movement.”¹⁶⁹

According to Sudoplatov, he and Beria debated innumerable scenarios for what Stalin had called the “action.” The chosen plan derived from events in civil war Spain, where, after murdering Konovalets, Sudoplatov had taken refuge and met up with Eitingon (the two knew each other from five years earlier, when they were “illegals,” operating without diplomatic cover, in Soviet foreign intelligence). The Spanish- and English-speaking Eitingon had in his circle the twenty-year-old Ramón Mercader, a Spanish-born revolutionary who carried out sabotage missions behind Franco’s lines. Back in Moscow, Eitingon did not know that he had been denounced as a British spy by arrested officials, but, thanks to his acquaintance with Sudoplatov, he was chosen to lead the latest field unit, with Mercader as its centerpiece, to penetrate the Blue House, in Coyoacán, Mexico, where Trotsky lived.¹⁷⁰

A “GUARANTEE” FOR POLAND

Alliances are often about imposing brakes, not empowerment. The Anglo-French “entente” was unwritten, which caused tremendous anxiety in France, but this was essentially a way for Britain to restrain its partner without committing itself formally to continental war. French alliances with Poland and Czechoslovakia had been meant the same way (a means to limit the smaller countries’ behavior while not fully committing France), but that arrangement had suited neither Poland nor Czechoslovakia. The Franco-Soviet-Czechoslovak alliance had afforded no such intra-alliance control and fooled no one, paving the way for the collective failure to prevent Germany’s forbidden annexation of Austria and the dismemberment of the third partner, Czechoslovakia.¹⁷¹ Germany’s military had consumed 17 percent of national production in 1938, about the same as in the USSR but double the level in Britain or France; in 1939, the German percentage would rise to 20 percent. Militarily, Britain and France were still holding to a mostly defensive posture, leaving all the initiative in the hands of the aggressor.¹⁷²

Even into 1939, Hitler’s references to the injustices of Versailles and to his desire merely to “unite” all ethnic Germans had still been eliciting sympathy in Britain.¹⁷³ But his seizure of all the Czech lands, on March 15, 1939, and recognition of an independent Slovakia blew up British domestic politics. Rumors flew that Germany was preparing similar conquests of Romania, Hungary, and Ukraine.¹⁷⁴ A Soviet military intelligence assessment (March 17) concluded that “the seizure of Czechoslovakia is the first act, the threshold to further, larger happenings,” and that even if, as some experts claimed, Germany’s next moves would be westward, it would still need raw materials for its military from the east.¹⁷⁵ That same day, British ambassador Sir William Seeds asked Litvinov what the Soviet position would be in the event of a Nazi invasion of Romania. That same evening, after consulting Stalin, the foreign affairs commissar proposed a multipower diplomatic conference involving Britain, the USSR, Romania, Poland, and others. On March 18, a Saturday, the British cabinet met. “The Prime Minister said that until a week ago we had proceeded on the assumption that we should be able to continue with our policy of getting onto better terms with the Dictator Powers, and that although those powers had aims, those aims were limited,” the minutes recorded, indicating a possible policy shift. But Chamberlain, who celebrated his seventieth birthday that day, insisted that they continue seeking to negotiate, although he did become far more willing to warn Hitler against future aggression.¹⁷⁶

German war preparations became blatant. On March 20, Ribbentrop issued an ultimatum to Lithuania to transfer the Baltic Sea deepwater port of Memel (Klaipeda), which had been awarded to independent Lithuania at Versailles, or risk military occupation. Lithuania capitulated, and the leaders of the 40,000 ethnic Germans in that country stepped up their agitation for subordination of Lithuanian foreign policy to Germany. This magnified the Kremlin’s high anxiety that the Baltic states would become staging grounds for an attack on the Soviet Union.¹⁷⁷ On March 21, Ribbentrop informed the Polish ambassador, Jan Lipski, that Poland’s territorial desires vis-à-vis now nominally independent Slovakia might be satisfied if Poland handed Germany Danzig and allowed a German-controlled special transit route through Poland to and from East Prussia. Lipski was noncommittal. So as not to drive Poland into Britain’s arms, Hitler informed his brass that no seizure of Danzig would be carried out and ordered Nazi ruffians in Danzig to desist from provocations for now. Germany would instead wear Poland down. On March 23, King Carol II, from whom no territory was sought, agreed to closely align Romania’s economy with Germany’s, creating joint-stock companies for Romanian oil, manganese, copper, and bauxite, as well as grain, corn, fodder, and pigs, to be exchanged for German armaments, machines, and investments in Romanian transport and communications. A secret protocol obliged Bucharest to expand oil production.¹⁷⁸

An alarmed Moscow sought details. Soviet tensions with Romania had only intensified, but in 1939 the NKVD would arrest a mere fifty-nine Romanian “spies,” as compared with 7,810 in 1937–38.¹⁷⁹ (Total NKVD arrests in 1939 would amount to 63,889, not only the fewest in the decade but a mere half of the next lowest year.) These statistics—compiled by the Soviet regime—give the lie to avowals that the terror constituted a campaign to root out a potential fifth column. More broadly, as Stalin also knew, the vast majority of former kulaks, national minorities, and recidivist criminals remained at large, meaning that the supposed potential fifth column of the wronged and resentful was still there, when the prospect of war surpassed that of the previous two years.

Back and forth the diplomatic volleys went. On March 25, 1939, the Polish government formally rejected Germany’s demands. Hitler secretly began to contemplate attacking Poland, to reestablish the pre-1914 frontiers in East Prussia and evict the ethnic Polish population.¹⁸⁰ On March 28, Litvinov delivered official notes to Estonia and Latvia, warning that the Soviet Union would view any state agreement—made voluntarily or under duress—that diminished the Baltic states’ independence or led to the political and economic hegemony of a third state over their territory and infrastructure as unacceptable, “with all the ensuing consequences.”¹⁸¹

Then came the sensation: on March 31, Chamberlain, who had not stood up for democratic Czechoslovakia, announced a unilateral “guarantee” of Poland’s independence in the House of Commons. His act was hardly sentimental: Poland was a dictatorship, albeit one without a dictator (since Piłsudski’s death, in 1935). But British intelligence warned Chamberlain—wrongly, as it turned out—of an imminent coup in Danzig to turn the city over to Hitler. (Vernon Kell, head of MI5, also passed on a report that Hitler had mocked the Tory PM as an “asshole.”)¹⁸² Chamberlain had noted that the French government knew of the guarantee in advance and supported it, but the way he had made it public—in response to a parliamentary question about what the government would do in the event of a German attack on Poland—gave it the appearance of an improvisation.¹⁸³ Maisky reported to Moscow that David Lloyd George, the former PM, had been told by Chamberlain on March 31, when asked why he had given a guarantee to Poland, that, “according to the information at his disposal, neither the German general staff nor Hitler would ever risk war if they knew that they would have to fight simultaneously on two fronts—the West and the East.”¹⁸⁴ That said, the British offered no specific military commitments to Poland (or, over time, to any country in Eastern Europe).¹⁸⁵

Trotsky, who had been allowed to visit London in March 1939, bitingly observed that “Chamberlain would give away all the democracies of the world (there are not many left) for one tenth of India.” Beyond personal foibles, Trotsky noted that “the fear of Great Britain and France before Hitler and Mussolini explains itself by the fact that the world position of these two colony-holding countries . . . no longer corresponds with their specific economic weight. The war can bring nothing to them, but can take a great deal from them.”¹⁸⁶

Even the appeasement-inclined governments in the British empire’s dominions denounced Hitler’s action. Britain’s lively press had a field day with Chamberlain—the beak nose, the shiny top hat, the impeccably tailored overcoat, the umbrella. The prime minister had made a career in municipal politics in his native Birmingham, following an up-and-down business career, and had only become a member of Parliament at age forty-nine, rising to minister of health (twice) and chancellor of the exchequer (twice). He had become PM, in late May 1937, only when Baldwin had decided to resign (the Tories still commanded a majority in the House of Commons). Then sixty-eight, Chamberlain was the second-oldest person to become PM, and he was widely perceived as a caretaker until the next election. He saw himself as a reformer of domestic affairs, but he got entangled in trying to resolve international issues in order to pursue his domestic goals.¹⁸⁷

Chamberlain’s guarantee of Poland’s independence, not its borders, presupposed further territorial revision, provided this was not achieved by force. The PM appears to have imagined that the British guarantee would strengthen Poland’s hand in “negotiations” with Nazi Germany over Danzig and the Corridor. Chamberlain’s idea was that London would be able to exert control in any possible Anglo-Polish alliance.¹⁸⁸ He warned Warsaw not to do anything rash to precipitate German military action—which, however, showed that, despite his assurances to the contrary at a cabinet meeting, the guarantee had, to an extent, placed the question of war or peace with Germany in the hands of a third country.¹⁸⁹ The dominant player in Poland’s ruling triumvirate, Foreign Minister Beck, was not fully trusted in London (or in Paris), and his idea of what was “reasonable” in negotiations with Germany differed from Chamberlain’s.

Chamberlain’s announcement of a British guarantee for Poland, which was soon publicly joined by France, happened to occur the same day (April 1, 1939) that Madrid, the last Republic holdout in Spain, fell to Franco’s forces.¹⁹⁰ Britain and France had already recognized his regime on February 27. On March 26, the caudillo had declared Spain’s adherence to the Anti-Comintern Pact. Although he had forged a politically and militarily unified Nationalist cause, a successful Popular Front on the right, he had still required thirty-two months, some 100,000 combined Italian and German troops, immense quantities of foreign weaponry, disorganization and mini civil war in the Republic camp, the timidity of France, and the active collusion of Britain to triumph. Altogether, probably half a million perished on both sides combined, including civilians, but after his victory, Franco would put to death more people than had all the kings of Spain combined; he offered no amnesty, instead forcing still more Spaniards into labor battalions or exile (Stalin refused to take them in). The victorious Nationalists in the locales, too, exacted vengeance, mostly on the Republic’s former rank-and-file officialdom (top leaders escaped).¹⁹¹ Franco was a criminal. The putsch he helped launch and the methods he used to prosecute the ensuing civil war constituted massive crimes against humanity. But his illegal action had galvanized the very leftist threat he had wanted to preempt. Stalin had chosen to hold back the Spanish Communist party, for the time being, but because of the inexorable ascendancy of the Communists in just about any extreme situation in which they are present in force, a Franco victory had become the lesser evil (as the fullness of Spain’s history would demonstrate). History rarely delivers moral clarities.

The British government and establishment were more or less pleased. But Britain’s reputation had suffered, France had been weakened, and Italy had become alienated from France and Britain, which had opened the path to Germany’s Anschluss with Austria. While the Spanish experience had further encouraged Chamberlain in his hopes that Britain could avoid war regardless of what happened on the continent, it had further convinced Hitler that Britain and France were afraid. Stalin had drawn the same conclusion.

Two weeks after Chamberlain’s gesture toward Poland, he issued, under French pressure, a similar guarantee for Romania, also a dictatorship. But the PM resisted calls in Britain for a “grand alliance” against Hitler, meaning one that involved the Soviet Union. He argued that such a bloc too closely resembled the old alliances that catastrophically had spawned the Great War.¹⁹² His domestic critics, numerous and vociferous, were neither consistent nor unified—not even just the conservatives—over a viable alternative policy.¹⁹³ In May 1939, the Bank of England would transfer to Nazi Germany gold valued at ₤6 million, held in London accounts by the erstwhile Czechoslovak National Bank.¹⁹⁴ Inside Whitehall, appeasement was far from dead, even after the debacle of Czechoslovakia: when the British cabinet discussed the guarantee for Poland, its members agreed that it would be operative only if the Poles did not demonstrate “provocative or stupid obstinacy” regarding Danzig and the Corridor.¹⁹⁵ The guarantee further required that the Poles themselves mobilize to fight the Germans, an action that London kept warning the Poles not to take. For all that, however, the guarantee had been publicly proclaimed. The nightmare Chamberlain had strenuously tried to avoid was now upon him: a possible second Europe-wide war.

Stalin was well informed about the brouhaha that had erupted in Britain over Hitler’s seizure of all of Czechoslovakia. The despot also likely knew that the British cabinet had discussed the possibility of asking the Soviet Union to join a coalition against Hitler but that the Poles were refusing to countenance such a move. With the guarantee, Chamberlain had effectively chosen Poland over the Soviet Union.¹⁹⁶ But to make his guarantee credible, he needed a military commitment to the defense of Poland from the Soviet Union.¹⁹⁷ Suddenly, unintentionally, Chamberlain, who left day-to-day management of Soviet affairs largely to his foreign secretaries, had placed Stalin and the USSR at the center of European power politics.¹⁹⁸ Some British foreign policy officials ignorantly predicted that Stalin would now “stand aloof,” failing to grasp the despot’s fear of a Western-German alliance behind his back.¹⁹⁹ At the same time, Chamberlain’s guarantee to Poland had given Hitler a powerful incentive to seek some sort of deal with the USSR, to secure his rear. London’s turn to Poland, in other words, unintentionally heightened the British need to talk to Stalin—lest Hitler do so.²⁰⁰

A BELATED DEMISE

Beria’s extreme urgency notwithstanding, the operation to murder Trotsky took time, and success was hardly assured. In the meantime, the NKVD commissar had ways of ingratiating himself: in the wee hours of April 6, 1939, Mikhail Frinovsky, Yezhov’s former first deputy of the NKVD, was arrested, just after he had requested to be relieved as naval commissar, “in view of my ignorance of sea matters.”²⁰¹ The regime sailed on. Friendship of Peoples, the first issue of an annual almanac, was issued in a print run of 10,000, for translations of the belles lettres of the Union republics into Russian. “The Soviet people sing,” the editor’s note observed. “Their songs speak of the joy of labor and victories, the successes of socialist construction. They do not know borders and are heard round the world. They talk of the miraculous flowering of the great constellation of eleven Union republics, each of which has become a bright, shining pearl. . . . The Soviet people have something to sing.”²⁰²

Stalin’s reading now extended to biographies of Ivan the Terrible and foreign affairs, including Yevgeny Tarle’s Talleyrand (1939), published in the series Lives of Remarkable People.²⁰³ In April 1939, not long after the Nazi occupation of rump Czechoslovakia, Stalin read an intercepted ciphered communication from the Japanese representative in Buenos Aires to Tokyo: “Taking into account that in a European war some 75 submarines of Germany would temporarily seek to paralyze England, what would happen if such powers as Japan, Germany, Italy, and Spain united?” Stalin underlined every word in this fantasy and wrote on it a quick count of the combined divisions (250) such an alliance would yield.²⁰⁴

On April 7, Lenin in 1918, Mikhail Romm’s sequel to his Lenin in October (1937), premiered to acclaim in Moscow.²⁰⁵ The film would be shown at Cannes and nominated for the Palme d’Or. The celebrated Shchukin again played Lenin, with what was regarded as even greater fidelity to his life.²⁰⁶ Gelovani again successfully played Stalin, who despite the title was the central man of action, sent in 1918 to obtain grain in Tsaritsyn, where he shows himself to be a great military commander who feeds the two capitals in the north and saves the Soviet republic. Stalin had dictated changes to the original cut. Originally entitled Assassination, for the near-fatal attempt on Lenin’s life that year, the film opens with Lenin asking Gorky, “What should we do with our enemies?” Gorky worries about “excessive severity,” but Lenin retorts, “Severity nowadays is an essential condition of battle. Such severity will be understood.”²⁰⁷

Many people who had been arrested under Yezhov were being released as victims of “enemies” who had infiltrated the NKVD. Also on April 7, the geochemist Vladimir Vernadsky noted in his diary that “Yezhov’s portrait in the Lomonosov Institute was taken down.” He added: “They say [it has happened] everywhere. This is a person who destroyed thousands, if not tens of thousands, of innocents.”²⁰⁸ The interrogator-torturers, who before had followed orders from Frinovsky, had set to beating out of him testimony against Yezhov, including how the latter had ordered that suspects be beaten to provide false testimony. Within a week Beria would send Stalin a forty-three-page confession written by Frinovsky; Stalin made notes on it.²⁰⁹ On April 10, Yezhov himself finally was arrested, evidently in Malenkov’s office on Old Square, where Yezhov had been summoned as a precaution, perhaps so that he would not commit suicide. Stalin was eating supper in his Kremlin apartment, below the Little Corner, with Khrushchev, among others, when Beria’s call about the apprehension came through. Yezhov’s arrest went unmentioned in the Soviet press.²¹⁰ “Despite all the major shortcomings and failures in my work,” Yezhov would boast, in a letter to Stalin, “I must say that, with the daily guidance of the Central Committee, the NKVD really trounced the enemy.”²¹¹ Beria wanted Yezhov to confess to failing to cleanse the bodyguards of the enemy Karl Pauker’s people, thereby putting Stalin at risk, a convenient pretext for Beria to try to stuff the Kremlin guards, now led by Vlasik, with his own people, but Stalin mostly thwarted this power grab.²¹²

Beria personally oversaw Yezhov’s interrogation at night at Sukhanovka, the most feared prison in the system, where Beria kept an office.²¹³ Almost no light ever penetrated the darkness of the five-by-seven-foot cells, some of which were located far underground. Prisoners were often not permitted to sleep or sit, but instead forced to stand all night. In the worst and tiniest cells, it was, in any case, impossible to stand, and freezing water was run through constantly. Executions took place in the site’s former cathedral, where a crematorium had been set up. The Yagodaites and many thousands of others had been buried at Yagoda’s former dacha complex, near the Kommunarka state farm, but the Yezhovites would meet their deaths at Sukhanovka cathedral, as well as at the nearby Butovo killing field. Altogether, more than 100 of the highest-ranking Yezhovites were massacred—all of his deputies, almost all department heads in the center, almost all NKVD heads in Union republics and provinces.²¹⁴

Sukhanovka lay not far from Yezhov’s luxurious dacha at Meshcherino (which now went to the Comintern chief Dimitrov). A search of the dacha, Yezhov’s Lubyanka office, and his Kremlin apartment turned up juicy finds: an arsenal of guns, 115 books written by counterrevolutionaries and anti-Soviet émigrés—the kind of literature Stalin collected in abundance. “Behind the books in various places,” the investigator noted, “were discovered three half-bottles (full) of wheat vodka, one half-bottle of vodka, half emptied, and two empty half-bottles of vodka.” In the desk the NKVD investigator found four bullet casings, marked ZINOVIEV, KAMENEV, and SMIRNOV (two). Perhaps the greatest discovery was that in Yezhov’s apartment—and not in his Lubyanka safe—he had kept a cache of documents from the tsarist-era Tiflis gendarmerie on “Koba.” Whispers of a “file on Stalin” circulated throughout the upper ranks of the regime.²¹⁵ The nature of this file in Yezhov’s possession remains unknown. For Beria, it was unclear which was more dangerous: to turn the material over to Stalin, and thus indicate that he had seen it, or to not turn it over.²¹⁶ Stalin supposedly flashed the material Yezhov had gathered on him at a politburo meeting, as if Yezhov had been acting on his own in the terror’s excesses.²¹⁷

Beria also obtained twenty pages of testimony from Yezhov that compromised his former party deputy Malenkov, which Beria evidently passed on to Stalin, but the despot chose not to allow Malenkov’s destruction.²¹⁸ Still, Beria delivered still more pleasing news: on April 13, 1939, Merkulov, his first deputy, finally managed to produce testimony with the signature of the stout Yefim Yevdokimov. Beria had personally gone to arrest him at his apartment on Grand Kisel Lane, 5, off Great Lubyanka, but Yevdokimov had held out for seven months, through broken legs and unceasing torture, which had continued in the prison hospital.²¹⁹ When confronted by former colleagues, he shouted them down for confessing to fabricated crimes; investigators were compelled to cease such confrontations, for Yevdokimov sometimes convinced others to retract their statements. When the NKVD put one former colleague in his cell to cajole him into confessing, Yevdokimov cursed him as a lowlife and the supposed plot inside the NKVD as “fabrication.” Another coaxer-informant reported that “during my stay together with Yevdokimov . . . he said that all he wanted was a bomb to blow up the investigative unit of the NKVD and fly with it up in the air, and that an apparatus that so cripples and destroys innocent people can only be called fascist.”²²⁰

But after the arrests of Frinovsky and Yezhov, Yevdokimov evidently agreed to incriminate himself, along with them. Beria was on a roll: on April 16, his minions managed to track down former Ukrainian NKVD chief Alexander Uspensky, who, after having staged his own suicide, had evaded an all-Union manhunt for five months (in Arkhangelsk, Moscow, Kaluga, Kazan, Sverdlovsk). He was apprehended outside the luggage area of the train station at Miass, in the Urals.²²¹ The interrogation of Yezhov, meanwhile, would result in twenty fat volumes. He was charged with heading a “counterrevolutionary organization”—while heading the NKVD.

Stalin’s former NKVD chief confessed to working for a veritable world gazetteer of enemy intelligence services: Germany, Britain, France, Japan, Poland. (Yezhov had in fact liquidated the Polish Communist party, on Stalin’s orders.) On April 24, 1939, Yezhov “testified” about his “pederasty,” meaning homosexual relations. As recorded in the protocols, he recounted that his first such experience dated to age fifteen or sixteen, when, along with other male youths, he was a tailor’s apprentice. Yezhov named various Soviet officials, from the army and elsewhere, with whom he claimed to have cohabitated for months; many of his male partners were married but, conveniently, for service reasons, happened to be without their wives. Among the latter category, Yezhov named Filipp Goloshchokin, at the time party secretary in Kazakhstan. More recently, Yezhov had been on a long, alcohol-soaked debauch with Vladimir Konstantinov, one of his longtime lovers (along with Ivan Dementyev). Yezhov characterized his homosexual liaisons as “mutually active.”²²² How much of this Beria embellished cannot be known. History does not record the prudish Stalin’s reaction.

TRIPLE ALLIANCE PROPOSAL

Back on April 3, 1939, Poland’s Beck had arrived in London, seeking recourse. That same day, Hitler ordered plans developed for a military attack on Poland that could begin no later than the early fall. On April 11, the Wehrmacht issued clarifying instructions that a war against Poland was to be avoided, if possible, but preparations would go forward.²²³ On April 14, the British and French governments—separately—approached the Soviets. Foreign secretary Halifax asked Maisky whether the Soviet Union would make a public declaration to the effect that it would support countries that were “victims of aggression” if they resisted such an act, by providing aid “if desired . . . and in such a manner as would be found most convenient.”²²⁴ It was a small move in the direction of the Soviets by the British government.

Also on April 14, 1939, TASS sent a secret internal report, which reached Stalin, containing a Russian translation of an article in the New York World-Telegram by its editor, Roy Howard, who had achieved renown by attaining the interview with Stalin some years back. Howard’s latest article, dispatched from Paris—beyond Soviet censors—called the Soviet Union a false “shop-window country” with ubiquitous surveillance, propaganda that covered over everything with lies, thousands of internally deported or executed political prisoners, and, as a result, a military and industry in disarray. Howard wrote that Communism had failed to find an alternative to capitalism’s stimulation, and that the standard of living remained below that of Italy. He called the Soviet system—in passages underlined by Stalin—“oriental military despotism, the iron hand, and mercilessness” and concluded, in a paragraph crossed out by Stalin, that “at the present time, despite the gigantic army and air force, in the opinion of foreign military observers, including French and British officials, the USSR has lost hope as a factor in the pending combination of forces against fascism.”²²⁵

The Soviets, in this context, upped the British ante; Litvinov (April 15) sent Stalin and Molotov a draft proposal for a formal alliance with Britain and France. Stalin edited the text, transforming it into a specific eight-point plan for an unequivocal anti-Nazi Triple Alliance.²²⁶ Litvinov was received in the Little Corner on April 16, and the next day he conveyed the final text to the British, summoning Seeds from the theater in the middle of a play; the day after that, Litvinov passed it to the French. Scholars who continue to deny that Stalin ever wanted a military alliance with the West have to explain why he offered one, in written form. British officials, internally, judged the Soviet proposal “extremely inconvenient” and hurriedly worked to douse French interest in it; the French contemplated an independent policy vis-à-vis Moscow, but only briefly.²²⁷

Also on April 17, the newly appointed Soviet ambassador in Berlin, Aleksei Merekalov, called on Ernst von Weizsäcker, state secretary at the German foreign ministry, to complain about violations of Soviet trade contracts with the Škoda Works since the Germans had taken it over. Merekalov, a former deputy commissar for trade (who spoke no German), observed that fulfillment of the contracts would indicate whether the German government was willing to “cultivate and expand economic relations with Russia.” Weizsäcker shot back that, given reports of a possible British-French-Soviet military alliance, the atmosphere for delivering war matériel to Russia was not favorable. This prompted Merekalov to inquire about current events in Europe and Soviet-German relations. Weizsäcker, sticking to his brief, stated that Germany desired “mutually satisfactory commercial relations with Russia,” to which Merekalov replied, “Russian policy has always moved in a straight line.” The envoy further pointed out that ideological differences had scarcely affected Soviet-Italian relations and did not have to “prove a stumbling block” with Berlin, especially since the USSR had refrained from exploiting the tensions between Germany and the West. Merekalov concluded that normalizing bilateral relations was possible, the refrain of Soviet trade and diplomatic officials going on six years.²²⁸

Škoda was selling the Soviets antiaircraft guns, howitzers, and naval weapons, in exchange for iron and manganese ores, nickel, tungsten, copper, tin, and foodstuffs. Stalin viewed fulfillment of the orders as important in themselves, and as a revealing test of German intentions, which remained unclear. Hitler, during a long, rambling audience granted to Grigore Gafencu, the Romanian foreign minister, in the Chancellery (April 19, 1939), raved about the British, Danzig, and being forced into war. “In the end, victor or vanquished, we shall all be buried in the same ruins,” he was said to have told Gafencu. “And the only one who will profit is that man in Moscow.”²²⁹

Romania, like Poland, expressed concerns to London that any formal security treaty involving the USSR would provoke Hitler’s wrath against them. Viscount Halifax, according to the well-informed Maisky, told Polish ambassador Raczyński that “the Soviet proposal, though serious, went further than the British government was prepared to go.” Indeed, already on April 19, according to notes of a meeting of the British government’s foreign policy committee taken by Sir Alexander Cadogan (who had replaced Robert Vansittart as the top foreign office bureaucrat), London had decided to reject the Soviet proposal without directly conveying as much. British officials reasoned that the Soviet military was in no position to extend support beyond its borders, and that friends of Britain would erupt in fury at an alliance with the bloody Communist menace. Cadogan, however, did note the risk, albeit “remote,” that an outright British rejection of the Soviet proposal might provoke a Soviet-German agreement. He also deemed the Soviet proposal politically awkward. “We have taken the attitude that the Soviets preach us sermons on ‘collective security’ but make no practical proposals,” Cadogan observed. “They have now made such, and they will rail at us for turning them down. And the Left in this country may be counted on to make the most of this.”²³⁰

The British stalled any formal response, cloaking rejection in the form of “comments” (as a German official in London noted).²³¹ Litvinov had written to Merekalov in early April 1939, regarding Britain and France, that “later, our help will be sought, which will cost them more dearly, and they will have to recompense us.”²³² But on April 19 and 21, Stalin convoked angry meetings in the Little Corner, having had the envoys to Britain (Maisky), Germany (Merekalov), and France (Surits) recalled. (Potyomkin, evidently protecting Surits, had him send a subordinate.)²³³ Especially at the second session, on April 21, “collective security” was eviscerated.²³⁴ “The atmosphere was strained to an extreme,” recalled Maisky. “Although outwardly Stalin appeared calm, puffing on his pipe, it was evident he was extremely ill-disposed toward Litvinov.” After almost six years, “collective security” had gotten nowhere. Litvinov evidently had written a resignation letter, though he did not submit it. “Molotov became vicious,” Maisky added, “attacking Litvinov unremittingly, accusing him of every mortal sin.”²³⁵ Merekalov had been summoned to the April 21 meeting only for the last of the four hours. Fresh from meeting in Berlin with Weizsäcker, he insisted that Soviet-German rapprochement was possible; after all, Hitler needed Soviet neutrality. The British had still not replied to the Soviet offer of a Triple Alliance, but on April 26 they informed Berlin that they would not accept Moscow’s proposal.²³⁶ Stalin decided to bring in the Hammer.

SEIZING FOREIGN AFFAIRS

Ten years younger than the despot, Molotov was the second-most-senior member of the inner circle. He could play violin and took tango lessons (with Voroshilov), though he stammered and was infamous for being mulish. But he had never belonged to a party opposition or the Mensheviks, let alone fought for the Whites or worked in bourgeois counterintelligence (like Beria) and, almost uniquely, was completely untainted. There had been, essentially, just that March 1936 botched Le Temps interview, after which Molotov’s name disappeared from the targets of “enemy” assassination attempts for a time.²³⁷ (Trotsky closely followed the absence, then reappearance, of Molotov’s name, speculating on its significance; Molotov followed Trotsky’s Kremlinological writings.)²³⁸ All during the terror, when Stalin had sent Molotov “materials” on someone and asked what should be done, he had invariably leapt at the cue: “Arrest.” Molotov sometimes crossed out “exile” and wrote “shoot.” When Stalin murdered Molotov’s aides, he acquiesced, and was not known to have tried to protect anyone except his wife.²³⁹ One subordinate recalled that “Molotov was often agitated, and lost his temper over nothing.”²⁴⁰ That was especially the case after Stalin had read him the riot act. At the 18th Party Congress, Stalin had publicly humiliated his number two, approving the draft of Molotov’s report beforehand but then, after he had delivered it, convening the politburo to criticize it, which Molotov then had to acknowledge to the ongoing congress.²⁴¹ Still, the indispensable Molotov proved unfailingly reliable, and possessed phenomenal grit.

Molotov had been present every single time Litvinov was summoned to the Little Corner between 1935 and 1939, with a mere two exceptions.²⁴² The chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars did not hide his antipathy for the foreign affairs commissar. Zhdanov, whom Stalin had made head of the Supreme Soviet commission for foreign affairs, a platform for spewing additional venom about dens of foreign spies, was perhaps even more rabid in his dislike. A Russian nationalist whose virulently anticapitalist, anti-imperialist speeches appeared frequently in the press, Zhdanov came to be seen as the public antipode to the cosmopolitan, multilingual Litvinov. He publicly condemned the mutual assistance pact with France—the linchpin of Litvinov’s foreign policy.²⁴³ Still, Zhdanov worked in Leningrad, and Molotov was by far the most frequent presence in Stalin’s Little Corner—logging three times the total hours of the next closest visitors (Voroshilov, Malenkov, Kaganovich, Beria, Mikoyan). In fact, Molotov not only met Stalin alone often but was present at three quarters of all recorded gatherings in the Little Corner. Few others in that regime, if any, could have borne the weight of such proximity to Stalin.

Stalin had long been directing foreign policy himself from his Little Corner, relying upon the NKVD, military intelligence, the Comintern, special envoys, and Molotov as head of government and member of the politburo commission on foreign policy.²⁴⁴ The despot summoned foreign affairs commissariat staff and ambassadors from abroad without Litvinov being present, and he had ignored Litvinov’s warnings about intervening in Spain and much else. Litvinov must have feared for his own life.²⁴⁵ Two terror waves had pulverized his commissariat, the first in spring 1937, the second in spring 1938 (which targeted those who had worked with him yet remained at large).²⁴⁶ Foreigners looked to Litvinov’s fortunes as a key to unlocking the enigma of Soviet foreign policy.²⁴⁷ During the 1939 May Day parade, Stalin allowed him to appear atop the Lenin Mausoleum for all to see.²⁴⁸ The next day, Maisky, in London, ruminating on the Soviet proposal for a grand alliance with Britain and France, concluded that “acceptance by the British Government can scarcely be doubted.”²⁴⁹ But that very night, Beria and Dekanozov, along with Molotov and Malenkov, arrived at the foreign affairs commissariat, in the form of a “Central committee commission,” to interrogate the staff. Litvinov was forced to observe the humiliation.²⁵⁰ On May 3, Litvinov received the British ambassador calmly, and Seeds, belatedly, answered the Soviet alliance proposal by reporting that Whitehall had still not come to a decision—after a fortnight.²⁵¹ That same evening, in Stalin’s Little Corner, yet another flaying of collective security took place. As Litvinov sat there impassively, Molotov lost his composure, shouting as Litvinov departed, “You think we are all fools.”²⁵²

During the Little Corner gathering, Beria had slipped out at 5:05 p.m., ten minutes before Litvinov was admitted. NKVD troops proceeded to surround the foreign affairs commissariat building on Blacksmith Bridge, diagonally across from the back side of Lubyanka. At 11:00 that night, Kremlin staff dispatched a coded message to Soviet ambassadors—which, unusually, was signed by Stalin himself—noting Litvinov’s “disloyal attitude to the Council of People’s Commissars” and the acceptance of his “request” to be relieved of his duties.²⁵³ On the morning of May 4, at the foreign affairs commissariat, Molotov announced that he was taking over. In Litvinov’s old office, he had to sort through his state papers, which lay in a disorganized pile, many unread, some smeared in butter from sandwiches—the kind of disarray the fastidious Molotov found especially distasteful.

Litvinov’s 1939 dismissal marked Stalin’s full emancipation from the foreign policy “specialists.”²⁵⁴ Unlike many Bolsheviks of his vintage, such as Litvinov, Molotov had never been part of the foreign emigration in Europe.²⁵⁵ Also unlike Litvinov, Molotov enjoyed direct access to Soviet intelligence agencies, which he would employ alongside regular channels of diplomacy.²⁵⁶ Among the cast of top minions, Molotov, further, was uniquely self-assured. “I would say,” Khrushchev later recalled, “that he was the only person in the politburo who opposed Stalin on this or that question for the second time.”²⁵⁷ Georgy Zhukov, the military commander, later recalled that “at times it reached the point where Stalin raised his voice and even lost all self-control, and Molotov, smiling, rose from behind the table and held firm to his point of view.” Zhukov added that Molotov “exerted a serious influence on Stalin, especially in foreign policy questions, in which Stalin at that time, before the war, considered him [Molotov] as competent.”²⁵⁸

A ROUTED, TRANSFORMED COMMISSARIAT

Litvinov was put under investigation for high treason, partly based upon “testimony” from Yezhov, delivered to Stalin on April 27, to the effect that, while on holiday at Merano, Italy, Litvinov, while dancing a foxtrot, had told Yezhov that “our statesmen have absolutely no culture at all.” Litvinov lost his Moscow apartment but kept his state dacha outside the city, which Beria had surrounded with NKVD troops. The story goes that Litvinov, finding his government phone disconnected, used a city line to call Beria, who “joked” that the goons were stationed there for his “protection.”²⁵⁹ Litvinov’s house arrest reverberated throughout the foreign affairs commissariat as his closest associates still at large were arrested and tortured to build a “case” against their boss. “Beria and Kobulov put me on a chair and sat on either side and punched me in the head, playing ‘swings,’” recalled Yevgeny Gnedin, the press officer of the foreign affairs commissariat. “They beat me horribly, with the full force of their arms, demanding I give testimony against Litvinov.”²⁶⁰ One foreign affairs commissariat insider who might not have been displeased at Litvinov’s removal was Vasily Korzhenko. When he heard of Molotov’s appointment as commissar, he anticipated a promotion; after all, Korzhenko had been helping direct carnage from the inside. But the Korzhenko family driver had been arrested as a Polish spy; his replacement, too, was arrested as a trumped-up spy.²⁶¹ The loyal hatchet man himself, rather than being given the expected promotion, was asked for his keys, and, back out in the corridor, NKVD operatives arrested him. He disappeared, now a victim as well as perpetrator.

Soviet diplomacy’s image abroad was being devastated by the widely discussed disappearances. As in the case of the NKVD, however, a planned separate trial of foreign commissariat personnel would never take place.²⁶² The wet work of mopping up the remaining Litvinovites fell to the Beriaite Dekanozov, who had only recently been named head of NKVD foreign espionage but now became first deputy commissar of foreign affairs. Dekanozov’s place was taken by Pavel Fitin (b. 1907), the son of Russian peasants in Siberia, who had attended a village middle school, then graduated as an agricultural engineer from the Tirmiryazev Academy, in Moscow, and became an editor at the state agricultural publisher. In March 1938, the party had him mobilized to the NKVD Central School, in Moscow, but not the newly opened NKVD School of Special Designation for training spies, outside the capital in the woods (he lacked knowledge of a foreign language). Nonethless, by August 1938 he was an intern in the NKVD’s espionage directorate, in the department for Trotskyites and rightists abroad. In January 1939, Fitin was named deputy head of Soviet civilian espionage, and on May 13, 1939, he would be promoted to the top position (while holding the rank of major).²⁶³ Sudoplatov would be advanced to deputy chief under Fitin and given a grand office at Lubyanka HQ, on the seventh floor—the old office of Abram Slutsky, the former NKVD foreign intelligence chief who had been killed with poison by his own agency.²⁶⁴

Not everyone in foreign affairs was arrested. Alexandra Kollontai, a former member of the old Workers’ Opposition and one of the world’s first female ambassadors, survived. Why remains mysterious, though she did constantly seek out Stalin’s guidance, allowing him to explain geopolitics to her, flattering his self-conception as the Lenin of our day, while also sucking up to Voroshilov, playing on his infamous sentimentality.²⁶⁵ Equally remarkable, the Litvinovite Maisky, a former Menshevik who during the civil war had been a member of the anti-Bolshevik government in Samara, was not recalled. A few diplomatic personnel, when summoned home, escaped. Raskolnikov, Soviet envoy to Bulgaria, had received a telegram from Litvinov ordering him to Moscow in connection with an unspecified new appointment, but he dragged out his departure from Sofia and, en route to the Soviet Union, managed to switch trains and abscond to Paris. (In summer 1939, Raskolnikov would be convicted in absentia.) How often Litvinov had tried to protect people, versus how often he became complicit in their destruction, remains unclear.²⁶⁶ He had written to Stalin that he was worried about nine ambassadorial vacancies (including Warsaw, Bucharest, Tokyo, and Washington), with more vacancies looming, and he underscored that “in some of these capitals there has not been an ambassador for a year.”²⁶⁷ NKVD station chiefs had been assigned to the ambassadorial positions in China and Mongolia—and they asked Lubyanka headquarters if they could inform the foreign affairs commissariat of their diplomatic activities.

A number of those now arrested in foreign affairs were Jewish. Their deliberate removal in 1937–39 did not signify a special anti-Semitism, any more than their original mass promotion into the foreign affairs commissariat, or into the Cheka, had signaled a special Judeophilia.²⁶⁸ The removal of Jews was aimed at altering the image of the regime and making way for promotion of the young, the humble, and the Slavic, as in the NKVD. Typical of the new men was twenty-four-year-old Vladimir Pavlov, an ethnic Russian who had graduated in spring 1939 from the Moscow Energy Institute and, already a candidate member of the party, found himself a top aide to Molotov. Pavlov soon became one of Stalin’s interpreters.²⁶⁹ Another example was Andrei Gromyko (b. 1909), a working-class militant from Belarus who had been trained as a Marxist economist and suddenly entered diplomatic service in spring 1939 as the new head of the foreign affairs commissariat’s American department. (He had “virtually no knowledge of foreign affairs,” American diplomats in Moscow surmised after a luncheon.)²⁷⁰ Molotov would recall that Litvinov “was an intelligent man, an outstanding personality, but one did not trust him.” By contrast, Molotov viewed Gromyko as “still young and inexperienced, but loyal.”²⁷¹

When Hitler had asserted control over his foreign ministry, which he had called an “intellectual garbage dump,” by appointing the Nazi parvenu Ribbentrop to replace the old-line aristocrat Baron Konstantin von Neurath, the takeover was said to resemble a fight of the jackboots against the striped trousers.²⁷² The Soviet foreign affairs commissariat was rocked not just by the brawling over political orientation—Britain/France versus Germany—but by class and cultural antagonisms. Litvinov had once been a young firebrand, the man Lenin had called upon to fence the money that Kamo and Stalin had heisted from the mail coach on Yerevan Square in 1907. But Victor Serge, in France, characterized the dismissed sixty-three-year-old Litvinov as “a large diplomat with a lined face resembling a very wealthy diamond merchant from Antwerp or a City banker related to the Rothschilds.”²⁷³ No love was lost between the Litvinov caste of “bourgeois” Soviet diplomats of Western three-piece suits and clubby gestures—the very features that made him acceptable in the Western world—and the latest young appointees, who often came from the workbench or the plow, such as Pavlov and Gromyko. But Pavlov aside, the newly promoted were often monolingual (as Litvinov had complained to Stalin) and out of their depth.²⁷⁴ A former textile plant manager would soon be appointed Soviet envoy to Berlin.

A POLISH HINGE?

On April 20, 1939, when Hitler celebrated his fiftieth birthday, he playfully wrote to Ribbentrop, “Please invite a series of foreign guests, among them as many cowardly civilians and democrats as possible,” adding that he wanted these foreigners to see “a parade of the most modern of armies.”²⁷⁵ Some 20,000 guests were accommodated in the grandstand alone. Celebrations were also held in other German cities, and the Free City of Danzig. The birthday festivities had actually begun the day before, when Hitler rode at the head of a fifty-white-limousine cavalcade along Speer’s newly constructed East-West Axis, the central boulevard of what was to be the transformed capital, decorated with Nazi banners and lit by torches. For the military parade, the Führer stood on the reviewing stand, flanked by generals, admirals, field marshals, and bodyguards. Arm extended in Nazi salute, he took in the largest display in Nazi Germany to date of goose-stepping columns—nearly 50,000 uniformed troops—along with tanks, artillery, antiaircraft guns, and Messerschmitt fighters and Heinkel bombers roaring overhead. According to one foreign eyewitness, Hitler “never took his eyes from the immense army on the march.”²⁷⁶

All surrounding streets and other approaches had been sealed, of course, but the British military attaché in Berlin, Colonel Noel Mason-MacFarlane, had an apartment overlooking the reviewing stand. “Easy rifle shot,” he had said to a colleague in the run-up to the Munich Pact. “I could pick the bastard off from here as easy as winking, and what’s more I’m thinking of doing it. . . . There’d be all hell to pay, of course, and I’d be finished in every sense of the word. Still . . . with that lunatic out of the way . . .”²⁷⁷ His superiors at the war office would have none of it. Again in March 1939, at the time of the invasion of rump Czechoslovakia, Mason-MacFarlane had urged headquarters in London to take energetic action, warning of catastrophe if Hitler was not “unexpectedly wafted to Valhalla.” Now, during preparations for Hitler’s birthday, he had been able to observe the swastika banners and other decorations going up. Assassination by a high-velocity rifle from his apartment remained feasible: his drawing-room window was no more than 100 yards from the reviewing stand. The noise of the crowds, not to mention the blare of the military band, could drown out any shots and allow an assassin a decent chance to escape. Again, however, the war office demurred.²⁷⁸

Following the parade, safely inside the Chancellery hall where Bismarck had presided over the Congress of Berlin in 1878, Hitler’s inner circle presented him with bronze casts, Meissen porcelains, oil paintings (including a Titian), tapestries, antique weapons, rare coins, and kitschy Nazi memorabilia.²⁷⁹ “The Führer is fêted as no other mortal has ever been,” gushed Goebbels, the instigator of the grandiosity. A collector’s luxury anniversary edition of Mein Kampf was published in both dark blue and red cases with stamped gold sword. Hitler, as state propaganda noted, had arisen from the lower ranks, and for his birthday, low-income Germans received 15 reichsmarks, plus 5 more for each dependent, as a onetime gift. Whatever the daily life hardships, Germans could be proud again. “A great man,” one seventeen-year-old girl observed, speaking for millions, “a genius, a person sent to us from heaven.”²⁸⁰

On April 28, 1939—two days after the British government had informed Berlin that it would not accept Soviet proposals for an alliance—the Führer denounced his nonaggression declaration with Poland as well as the Anglo-German naval accord, blaming the two countries, in a blistering two-hour speech at one of the fewer than a dozen Reichstag sessions since he had claimed power.

Hitler was furious over another letter from U.S. president Franklin Roosevelt pleading for assurances from the Nazi leader that he would not commit aggression against a long list of specified countries, promising him access to raw materials in return. The message had been disclosed to the New York Times before reaching Hitler, and he had summoned the 855 Reichstag deputies to the Kroll Opera House. “For the past six and a half years, I have lived day and night for the single task of awakening the powers of my people in the face of our desertion by the rest of the world,” he gloated, in front of an immense Nazi eagle. “I have conquered chaos in Germany, reestablished order, immensely increased production in all branches of our national economy, produced, by strenuous efforts, substitutes for numerous materials which we lack, prepared the way for new inventions, . . . caused magnificent roads to be built and canals to be dug, created gigantic new factories.” He congratulated himself for overcoming Versailles and reunifying Germany as well: “I have likewise endeavored to rid them of that treaty, page by page, which in its 448 articles contains the vilest oppression which has ever been inflicted on men and nations. I have brought back to the Reich the provinces stolen from us in 1919. . . . I have reunited the territories that have been German throughout a thousand years of history—and, Mr. Roosevelt, I have endeavored to attain all this without bloodshed and without bringing to my people, and so to others, the misery of war.”²⁸¹

Hitler’s speech drew hearty applause and laughs, including when he implied that he would refrain from attacking the many countries that remained under the British colonial yoke or had already been invaded by the United States over the course of its existence. His twisted thinking—calling dictatorship “order” and the Weimar Constitution “chaos”—did not vitiate the fact that Germany’s vast pool of 6 million unemployed had been returned to the dignity of work, with an economic boom absent inflation (or strikes, which were outlawed), and that Germany had incorporated Austria, the Sudetenland, the Saarland, and Memel. A once great but prostrate country had in Nazi fashion become great again, in a single generation; a lifelong nonentity had become the world’s central figure.²⁸²

Denunciation of the nonaggression declaration seemed to indicate a likely intention to attack Poland, for which Hitler might want to secure Soviet neutrality. His speech had conspicuously omitted the usual denunciations of “Judeo-Bolshevism,” which Western observers duly noted. German press attacks against the USSR ceased, as the Soviets duly noted.²⁸³ On May 3, 1939, General Karl Bodenschatz, Göring’s adjutant, warned the French military attaché in Berlin that “something is up in the East.” He repeated his warning to the Polish military attaché. (The next day was Litvinov’s dismissal.) Four days later, Bodenschatz informed the French ambassador in Berlin, Robert Coulondre, that Hitler wanted an agreement with the Soviet Union.²⁸⁴

VISIONS OF A DEAL

On the evening of May 5, the delayed Kremlin banquet for May Day parade participants took place in the St. George’s Hall, and among the artists summoned for the first time was Igor Ilinsky, the stage and film actor (of Volga-Volga fame), who read from Chekhov’s comic writing. “Everyone ate, drank, conversed,” Ilinsky complained, “and, it seemed, no one was listening to me.”²⁸⁵ Earlier that day, Merekalov had been recalled from Berlin, which left the embassy to Georgy Astakhov, the chargé d’affaires (rumored to be an NKVD intelligence operative). That same day, Karl Schnurre, head of the East European and Baltic section of the commercial policy department in the German foreign ministry, informed Astakhov, in a response to Merekalov’s inquiry regarding the Škoda Works, that its new German director would fulfill Soviet orders.²⁸⁶ Astakhov, according to the German notetaker, “was visibly gratified at the declaration and stressed the fact that for the Soviet Government the material side of the question was not of as great importance as the question of principle.” Astakhov then asked whether negotiations might be resumed. When Schnurre was noncommittal, Astakhov stressed the significance of Molotov’s replacement of Litvinov.²⁸⁷ Astakhov reported to Moscow in detail on the reaction in Germany to Litvinov’s dismissal, but he did not have access to Hitler.²⁸⁸

While Stalin’s embassy in Berlin also sought to drive home the significance of the personnel change, Germany’s embassy in Moscow buzzed with the implications of the dismissal of Litvinov (known on Nazi radio as “Litvinov-Finkelstein”). Each side’s functionaries reported that the other side looked eager for rapprochement.²⁸⁹ The timing was propitious: German economic planners were warning that Germany’s war machine might fall critically short of oil, rubber, and manganese, all of which Stalin could supply.²⁹⁰ But was Hitler interested? Internally, Göring had broached the idea of approaching Moscow, if only to frighten Warsaw into concessions.²⁹¹ Stalin had long suspected that Hitler might be simulating talks with Moscow in order to frighten London into cutting a deal with Berlin.

Britain’s stance vis-à-vis the Soviet Union offered no greater clarity, given the nonanswer to Moscow’s alliance proposal that Seeds had delivered to Litvinov (the day before the latter’s ouster was announced in the press). Litvinov vanished from public view. He was said to be playing bridge, reading poetry, taking walks at his state dacha, and learning to type. But Stalin did not authorize an arrest.²⁹² No sentimentality was involved. Litvinov’s destruction would have delivered an unequivocal signal abroad. Had the despot wanted to consign Britain and France to hell for good—and he did seem to want just that—he would be doing so with no security alternative at hand.²⁹³ Most worrisome, if he abandoned Britain and France definitively, they might cut a nightmare deal with Hitler behind his back.

A German-Japanese anti-Soviet coalition remained a possibility as well. Japan posed a significant threat to the Western powers’ colonies, and Germany sought to convert the Anti-Comintern Pact into a real military alliance with Japan in order to raise the cost of any British and French declaration of war against Germany on behalf of Poland. Sorge reported from Tokyo (May 5, 1939) that the Japanese side was divided: its navy sought to include as mutual enemies the United States and Britain, not just the Soviet Union, while Japan’s army dreamed about a joint war with Nazi Germany against the USSR.²⁹⁴ Germany was also hoping to sign binding military obligations with its Italian partner in the Axis. In Milan on May 6–7, Ribbentrop met Galeazzo Ciano, Mussolini’s son-in-law and the foreign minister, to iron out final details for a bilateral “Pact of Steel” (Mussolini had wanted to call it the Pact of Blood). Japan had been given no advance notice, but Ribbentrop informed a skeptical Ciano that Germany wanted to include Japan.²⁹⁵ For Stalin, getting some sort of deal with Hitler also promised to drive a crucial wedge between Tokyo and Berlin, and possibly with Italy, too.

NEGOTIATIONS, OF A SORT

On May 8, Molotov received British ambassador Seeds, a lifelong Russophile, as well as French ambassador Paul-Émile Naggiar, in his Kremlin office and assured them that the Soviet offer of an alliance conveyed by Litvinov still stood and that “collective security” negotiations would continue. The government chairman/foreign affairs commissar also bluntly accused the Western governments of wanting to talk “ad infinitum” and insisted that any political agreement had to be coupled with a formal military alliance. Seeds requested a public declaration of support for Britain and France in their guarantees to Poland and Romania, in a form agreeable to them, but said nothing of British and French military aid if the Soviet Union were attacked. “As you see,” Molotov wrote in a telegram to Surits (Paris) and Maisky (London), “the English and French are demanding of us unilateral and gratuitous assistance with no intention of rendering us equivalent assistance.” Maisky responded that a “relapse to the Munich policy” of capitulation to Hitler was evident in London. On May 11, as Molotov again received Seeds and Naggiar, Halifax told the Soviet ambassador in London that no three-way “guarantees” could be offered to the three Baltic states against an aggression, a central Soviet demand to remove these potential attack platforms.²⁹⁶

On May 10 at the Berghof, Hitler, with Ribbentrop in tow, received Gustav Hilger, from the Moscow embassy staff (resident in Moscow since June 1920), and Schnurre, the Soviet trade expert in the German foreign ministry, posing many questions and listening. “Will Stalin be prepared under well-known circumstances to come to an agreement with Germany?” Hitler asked, according to Schnurre.²⁹⁷ Within a week, on the initiative of General Keitel, Hitler would also meet with his German military attaché to Moscow, General Ernst Köstring, who, like Hilger, had been born in Russia (1876) and knew the language, and who, no softy on Bolshevism, confirmed the positive interpretations of German-Soviet relations that Hilger and German ambassador Schulenburg had presented.²⁹⁸ Perhaps Hitler relished an approach to Moscow as a way to upset and apply pressure against Poland and Britain, but he loathed the idea of sacrificing any war production to Stalin, which was what a deal with Moscow would have to entail. Ribbentrop was assiduously seeking Japan’s signature to the military Pact of Steel, offering to allow the Japanese to publicly portray the expansive agreement as if it were directed only at the USSR.²⁹⁹

Poland’s tensions with Germany had even pushed the Warsaw leadership into wary discussions with the USSR. Also on May 10, deputy foreign affairs commissar Potyomkin met in Warsaw with Beck, at the latter’s request. Haughty and deceitful as he might be, Beck had turned out not to be the Nazi stooge that Soviet stooges had portrayed him to be. “Peace is a thing precious and desirable,” he had declared in a speech in the Polish parliament on May 5, carried live on radio, explaining his rejection of Hitler’s demands. “Our generation, bloodied in wars, certainly deserves peace. But peace, like almost all things of this world, has its price, a high but a measurable one. We in Poland do not know the concept of peace at any price. There is only one thing in the lives of men, nations, and states that is without price—honor.” An eyewitness recalled, in relation to the otherwise deeply unpopular foreign minister, “I saw women throwing flowers into Beck’s car as he was returning from parliament”—testimony, perhaps, to the limits of Poland’s room to have cut a deal.³⁰⁰ Now, five days later, when Potyomkin hinted that Moscow would support Poland against Germany if the Poles so desired, Beck, in a rambling discourse on the “correlation of forces” in Europe and the lack of Anglo-French resolve, was said to have conceded that “Poland could not stand up to Germany without Soviet support.”³⁰¹

But the Poles backtracked immediately. On May 11, Molotov received the Polish ambassador, Wacław Grzybowski, who “clarified” his government’s official response: Poland could not accept even a guarantee of its borders by Moscow, let alone a possible alliance treaty.³⁰² The next day, Poland signed a mutual assistance pact with France that, within a mere week, would produce written pledges of mutual military aid in the event of war.

Molotov demanded nothing less from Britain and France. On May 14, he responded to the British by reiterating the Soviet insistence on reciprocal security obligations, and on including trilateral guarantees for the territorial integrity of the Baltic states, too. But Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia did not seek “guarantees” of their sovereignty, least of all from the Soviet Union, which they feared as much as or more than Nazi Germany, and Britain did not want to force them. At the same time, it remained highly uncertain whether Britain or France could persuade Poland and Romania to add the USSR to the British and French guarantees of their sovereignty or even grant unequivocal transit rights to the Red Army.³⁰³ In this context, a secret Soviet memorandum of May 15, “English Diplomacy’s Dark Maneuver in August 1914,” recounted how London had promised Berlin it would stand aside, and even secure France’s neutrality, if Germany attacked Russia but not France. Molotov underlined several passages, as if the British were engaged in the same maneuver now.³⁰⁴

ULTIMATUM

Stalin’s regime remained an exceedingly awkward potential partner for the Western powers. Mikhail Bulgakov, who had once again requested permission to leave the country and once again been refused, organized a private reading of his secret manuscript, The Master and Margarita, to his close circle of friends. “When he finally finished reading that night, he said: ‘Well, tomorrow I am taking the novel to the publisher!’ and everyone was silent. . . . Everyone sat paralyzed,” Yelena Bulgakova wrote in her diary (May 14, 1939). “Everything scared them.”³⁰⁵ On May 15, in the middle of the night, Isaac Babel was arrested at his dacha in Peredelkino. His most recent short story collection had been published in fall 1936; now the NKVD confiscated some two dozen folders and notebooks of his unpublished manuscripts, translations, and other materials. Babel suffered from his association with Yezhov, who, under interrogation, had named him as a spy. According to the interrogation protocols, Babel implicated Eisenstein (“The organizers of the Soviet film industry were preventing gifted individuals from revealing their talents to the full”), Solomon Mikhoels (“constantly dissatisfied that the Soviet repertoire gave him no chance to demonstrate his talents”), and Ehrenburg (“In Ehrenburg’s view, the continued wave of arrests forced all Soviet citizens to break off any relations with foreigners”).³⁰⁶ Babel would also sign a bloodstained protocol confessing to membership in a Trotskyite espionage organization on behalf of France, linked to Malraux.³⁰⁷

Babel’s association with the Cheka had extended beyond bedding Yezhov’s wife, Yevgeniya Gladun, the hostess of a literary salon, whom Babel called a “featherhead,” an allusion to Chekhov.³⁰⁸ “He told us how he spent all his time meeting militiamen and drinking with them,” Nadezhda Mandelstam would recall. “The word ‘militia’ was of course a euphemism. . . . M. asked him why he was so drawn to ‘militiamen’; was it a desire to see what it was like in the exclusive store where the merchandise was death? Did he just want to touch it with his fingers?” Babel replied that he just wanted to have a sniff.³⁰⁹ Now he was in Lubyanka’s inner courtyard, for good.

Stalin made some moves to indicate that terror against his own people would not govern all decision making.³¹⁰ That spring of 1939, after two years of short-lived acting directors, he had finally named a new chief of Soviet military intelligence: air force commander Ivan Proskurov, a decorated veteran of the Spanish civil war and the son of a railroad worker. Proskurov’s first deputy held the lowly rank of major, as did almost all the heads of the departments and subdepartments, and he himself was a mere thirty-two years old. They had to find and reengage the many foreign agents, who remained willing to risk their lives to serve the cause against fascism.³¹¹ NKVD foreign espionage, too, was working to reestablish its networks, straining every nerve to ascertain the intentions of Britain as well as France. Donald Maclean (code-named “Homer”), one of Moscow’s Cambridge Five spies, had been promoted to the British foreign office; another Soviet spy in the foreign office, John Herbert King, a walk-in, delivered cipher books to the NKVD. Yet another Soviet spy worked inside the French general staff, and another in the Czechoslovak foreign ministry.³¹² All these high-placed clandestine sources provided information that reinforced Stalin’s preexisting doubts about the intentions of the Western powers ever to align with the Soviets, or stand up to Hitler.

They also detailed Hitler’s plans. On May 17, 1939, Proskurov sent Stalin a six-page memorandum, “The Future Plans of Aggression by Fascist Germany,” comprising clandestine notes from a briefing fifteen days earlier at the German embassy in Warsaw by Dr. Peter Kleist, the key person for Eastern Europe in Ribbentrop’s foreign ministry. “Hitler,” Kleist was said to have remarked, based on a conversation between the Führer and Ribbentrop, “has decided to bring Poland to her knees.” According to Kleist’s account, as reported by a Soviet agent in the Warsaw embassy, German destruction of Poland’s army was expected to take a mere eight to fourteen days. Furthermore, any conflict between Germany and Poland was expected to be localized; Britain and France, notwithstanding their public “guarantees” of Poland’s territorial integrity, were expected to do essentially nothing if Poland’s demise proceeded rapidly. “The whole project arouses in Germany only one fear: the possible reaction of the Soviet Union,” Kleist was said to have stated. “In the event of a conflict, we hope, no matter the circumstances, to attain the USSR’s neutrality.” Poland might yet prove Stalin’s opportunity: the despot wrote on his copy of the secret report, “Talk to Proskurov. Who is the ‘source.’”³¹³

Proskurov was summoned to the Little Corner on May 19, along with Molotov and the Soviet military attaché to Poland. Stalin evidently heard firsthand of Hitler’s intention to instigate a pretext for an attack on Poland in the coming summer, then pivot westward against France and Britain, after which it would be the turn of the Soviet Union.³¹⁴ So it looked as though a war in the west would come first? The last major war had lasted four years. In such a scenario, Stalin perhaps could wait to see who emerged the likely winner, and reap the gains without the costs—provided, of course, that Britain did not manage to strike another deal with Hitler.

Also on May 19, Beria had executed a confidential task: Radek had his head fatally smashed on the floor of the Verkhne-Uralsk prison, where he was serving a ten-year term. Rumors were loosed that Radek had been killed in a fight with a fellow inmate. In fact, the murder was instigated by a specially dispatched NKVD team—so much for the promise Stalin had made to not execute Radek, in exchange for testimony that Radek had duly delivered against Trotsky and Trotskyites.³¹⁵ (Sokolnikov, another defendant in the January 1937 Trotskyite trial who had been spared death in exchange for his testimony, would also be murdered in prison, in Tobolsk on May 21.) The ironies, as ever, were rich: Radek had once been one of Stalin’s top advisers on German affairs.

Molotov, too, executed his own confidential task at this time. Stalin, having tried to force the issue with an offer of alliance to Britain and France, now sought to force the issue with Hitler: on May 20, the reliably blunt Molotov summoned Schulenburg and informed him that “economic negotiations with Germany have recently been started more than once but have not led to anything. . . . We have the impression that instead of economic negotiations, the German government is conducting some kind of game.” Schulenburg tried to counter Molotov’s charges, but the Hammer then struck an even bigger blow: resumption of talks for an economic agreement would now require “a political basis.” It was a Soviet invitation, delivered as an ultimatum.³¹⁶

STALEMATE

Soviet economic relations with Britain and France remained dogged by the bitterness over tsarist and Provisional Government debts, but even if the debt issues had somehow been resolved, neither Britain nor France promised nearly as much economically to the Soviets as did Germany.³¹⁷ Some sort of a political deal with Nazi Germany also presented the best chance to avoid and perhaps profit from what Stalin saw as the inevitable intracapitalist war.³¹⁸ At the same time, however, an iron-clad British-French-Soviet military alliance encircling Germany did hold appeal: it could, at a minimum, prevent an aggression by either of France’s formal allies, Poland and Romania.³¹⁹ More than that, it could potentially deter Hitler. And even if it failed to prevent him from attacking, a Western alliance, because of geography, promised to shift any fighting from Soviet onto Polish, Romanian, and French soil.

But progress in the formal talks Molotov had opened with the two Western powers in May 1939—a dozen sessions would be held altogether—was halting. Even British officials not adamantly averse to exploring a security deal with the Soviets were hard pressed to overcome the severe practical obstacles. On May 21, Halifax told Maisky again that the Baltic states outright refused a tripartite security guarantee and that the British government “cannot impose guarantees on others by force.” The foreign secretary added that “many in Britain think that a tripartite pact may push Hitler to unleash a war straight away, and therefore, rather than preventing war, the pact would hasten it.” Maisky countered by evoking “Al Capone as a model,” in the sense that “only force will make (Hitler or Mussolini) doff their cap!”³²⁰

France’s ambassador to Berlin, Coulondre, sounded a more alarming note than his British counterparts, warning Paris on May 22 that Ribbentrop was apoplectic over Polish minister Beck’s rejection of Hitler’s “generous” offer and had come around to favoring a rapprochement with Moscow as “indispensable and inevitable.” Among Germany’s objectives, Coulondre listed “the possibility of persuading Russia to play the same role in the dismemberment of Poland that the latter country had played with regard to Czechoslovakia. The ultimate object appeared to be to make use of the material resources and manpower of the USSR as a means to destroy the British empire.” He noted that “it is possible that up to the present the Führer has resisted these appeals or at any rate hesitated to commit himself to such a policy, for ideological reasons. But, even admitting that such is his present attitude, there is nothing to indicate that he will not change his mind.” Coulondre advised that “at this moment, when the Anglo-Franco-Russian negotiations seem to have entered upon a decisive phase, we should . . . bear in mind that the Reich would do its best to take advantage, to the detriment of France and Great Britain, of any failure . . . in the conversations now taking place with Moscow.”³²¹

Also on May 22, 1939, Stalin addressed a Central Committee plenum on its second day, reiterating his conviction that if it had not been for forced collectivization, “there would be no new major industry, no army and culture,” and complaining, apropos of his own concession of small household plots seven years earlier, that “the peasant on his own plot will always scheme to enlarge his interests.” He added, “If we are going to lag behind events this way in future instead of leading, then . . . we shall obtain the result of collective farms falling apart and hamlets and new individual farms being formed.” A decree followed (May 27) that circumscribed household plots, to combat the “bazaar-ification of collective farm lands,” the only document of the plenum made public.³²² Here was an empire of enslavement and political murder, founded on hostility toward private initiative and markets. That same day, the British and the French nominally acceded to Soviet demands and submitted a draft for reciprocal guarantees of security, but their response still excluded the Baltic states. Still more fundamentally, in the event of an attack on the USSR, the French and the British were promising only consultations—and through the League of Nations, to boot—not immediate military action. Molotov would angrily reject their proposal as betraying a lack of seriousness.³²³

•   •   •

ON MAY 22 IN BERLIN, Italy and Germany formally signed their Pact of Steel, which contained an open declaration of cooperation and binding consultation, and a secret protocol of military and economic union, directed against Britain and France.³²⁴ Japan declined to sign but continued negotiating with Germany. To Molotov’s blunt maneuver with Schulenburg, Germany offered no immediate response. Some German officials indulged a guarded optimism. “It seems that there still remains fairly wide scope for action in Russo-German relations,” observed Weizsäcker, the number two in the foreign ministry, in a memorandum (May 25, 1939). He added, “It should be our aim to prevent Anglo-Franco-Russian relations from assuming a still more binding character.”³²⁵ But Schulenburg warned that Soviet-German negotiations could be a mere pretext to assist Moscow in the negotiations with London and Paris. Ribbentrop, unsure of Hitler’s thinking, accentuated this caution.³²⁶ For once, though, the Führer seemed ahead of his foreign minister. Secretly, on May 23, Hitler had gathered a small coterie of military men in the Chancellery to convey his resolve for war against Poland, as a step in a looming showdown with Britain. He stressed the imperative to meet the economic challenges of military requirements but indicated that German-Soviet economic relations would be possible only if political relations improved, an unacknowledged reference to Molotov’s ultimatum/invitation. Hitler hinted that Moscow would accede to Poland’s annihilation.³²⁷

In parallel, Hitler wanted to use Japan against the Western powers. The Japanese were insisting on firm mutual obligations for a war against the Soviet Union and only loose ones for a war against Britain and France, exactly the opposite of what the Germans sought.³²⁸ Ribbentrop had tried to force the issue by telling Lieutenant General Hiroshi Ōshima, now the Japanese ambassador in Berlin, that if he could not bring about a German-Japanese alliance, Germany would have to conclude a nonaggression pact with the USSR. Ōshima spoke fluent German and had been accorded private audiences with Hitler; he fantasized with Russian émigrés about Stalin’s assassination. But the diplomatically inexperienced ultranationalist, a staunch advocate for a German-Japanese military pact, would later claim he had not relayed Ribbentrop’s threat to Tokyo.³²⁹ Be that as it may, the Tokyo establishment was divided over whether to take up the German proposal.³³⁰ On May 27, Weizsäcker wrote to Schulenburg that “one link in the whole chain, namely a gradual conciliation between Moscow and Tokyo, was said by the Japanese to be extremely problematical. Rome was also somewhat hesitant, so that eventually the disadvantages of the far-reaching step envisaged were regarded as decisive.” He added, “With the approval of the Führer, an approach is nonetheless now to be made to the Russians, though a very much modified one.”³³¹

Ribbentrop, exasperated, wrote to the German ambassador in Tokyo, Eugen Ott (May 28, 1939), that “we can no longer understand what is actually happening in Tokyo and why the Japanese government, at this advanced stage of the negotiations, are still continuing to avoid making their decision clear.” The next day, German foreign ministry officials somehow discerned that the USSR inclined toward signing an accord with Britain.³³² Soviet military intelligence spies, meanwhile, delivered copies of Ribbentrop’s internal summary of a conversation with the Polish ambassador in Berlin, supplemented by reports of conversations of the German military attaché in Poland, who expected the Poles to capitulate rather than fight. Stalin’s agents supplied him with reports leaked by the British foreign office to the German ambassador in London regarding Soviet negotiations with Britain and France. These leaks contained accurate information and reconfirmed for Stalin where British preferences lay: Berlin, not Moscow.³³³

Round and round the carousel went. German-Japanese, Western-Soviet, Western-German, and German-Italian negotiations all proceeded simultaneously. German officials, far more than British ones, had come to understand the importance of the Japanese question for the Soviet Union, and the difficulty of reconciling Tokyo and Moscow. But nothing was certain, except more intrigue. If diplomacy is the art of managing competing state interests by recognizing other states’ vital interests and keeping communication open, then finding one another’s bottom line, the principals here could barely comprehend how the other states’ systems worked, let alone their aims. Hitler now seemed at loggerheads with Britain, nearing a war over Poland, but his propaganda portrayed history since 1789 as one long march toward “Judeo-Bolshevism,” nihilism, and anarchy, which Nazism alone could halt.³³⁴ Hitler claimed a self-assigned burden to fight on behalf of “civilization” against Jews and other purveyors of international-revolutionary inequity—such as Stalin. Could the Führer really be stopped or even deflected?

CHAPTER 11 PACT

In his present mood, PM [Neville Chamberlain] says he will resign rather than sign alliance with Soviet.

SIR ALEXANDER CADOGAN,

British permanent undersecretary for foreign affairs, private diary entry, May 20, 1939 ¹

HITLER: “The scum of the earth, I believe?”

STALIN: “The bloody assassin of the workers, I presume?”

DAVID LOW, “Rendezvous,” Evening Standard, September 20, 1939

ALMOST THE ENTIRE SUMMER OF 1939, Hitler would be absent from Berlin, ensconced at the Berghof, in the Obersalzberg, with Eva Braun, his longtime companion, leaving little central government to speak of. The Führer made strategic decisions, but their shape and timing depended to an extent on who might, or might not, enjoy access to him. Foreign minister Joachim von Ribbentrop—or his liaison—was contriving to show up at the Berghof to cajole Hitler into taking the plunge of rapprochement with the “Judeo-Bolsheviks.” For such a coup de main, the insecure Ribbentrop might seem an unlikely personage. Growing up, he had been middle class, then married the heiress to a champagne fortune, acquired knowledge of French and English, traveled Europe as a wine salesman, and cajoled an aunt into legally adopting him so that he could obtain her (recently acquired) aristocratic title. “Von” Ribbentrop had joined the Nazis late (1932), and, some said, only at his wife’s urging.² Goebbels said of him, “He bought his name, he married his money, and he swindled his way into office.” For Hitler’s interpreter, Paul-Otto Schmidt, Ribbentrop called to mind the dog on the label of the gramophone company His Master’s Voice. “If Hitler was displeased with him,” Schmidt noted, “Ribbentrop went sick and took to his bed like an hysterical woman.”³ Göring mocked Ribbentrop as “Germany’s No. 1 parrot” and badmouthed him to the Führer. “But,” the Führer would respond, Ribbentrop “knows a lot of important people in England.” Göring was scathing: “Mein Führer, that may be right, but the bad thing is, they know him.”⁴

Ribbentrop was a tool. But he was not only a tool. When serving as ambassador to the Court of St. James’s—a posting he had gotten only as a consolation for originally being passed over for state secretary—he had rarely been at his post, for he was courting Hitler or negotiating with Japan and Italy for an alliance against Britain. When in London, he was mocked in British circles as “von Brickendrop,” infamous for mistreating all and sundry, including the tailors who served the British aristocracy and related stories of his imperiousness to their clientele. In Ribbentrop’s mind, however, the British had maltreated him.⁵ Now, for such a staunch Anglophobe, a deal with Moscow could be his revenge, and a stunning feather in his foreign minister’s cap.⁶ Otto von Bismarck—ostensibly a lodestar for Ribbentrop—had famously established good relations with Russia as a key to Germany’s aggrandizement. In truth, Ribbentrop could not even abide working in Bismarck’s modest old office at 76 Wilhemstrasse. (Back in the day, the Iron Chancellor had also been his own foreign minister.) Instead, the Nazi foreign minister moved his office to the former presidential palace next door, which was his official residence.⁷ But Ribbentrop operated by intuition and strove to be “radical,” rarely invoking limits (or consequences), which pleased Hitler no end. And what could be more radical, in its way, than a deal with Communist Moscow?

Molotov, too, was an Anglophobe. He was also a Germanophile, who had publicly differentiated between the “ideologues of National Socialism” and “the German nation, as one of the great nations of our times.”⁸ He doggedly insisted that a deal could be done with that swine Hitler. This view was, or had become, Stalin’s inclination, as Molotov knew. He would seem to be a fitting partner for Ribbentrop, and the two together, in turn, fitting representatives for their respective masters in the complicated game of finding the elusive rapprochement. But Molotov was negotiating with the British and the French; there were no political negotiations per se with Germany, other than the on-again, off-again trade talks. And the Far East seized center stage in the late spring and summer of 1939. There, against Japan, the Soviet Union had not even a whiff of possible “collective security” with the British or the United States (which was a supplier of strategic materials to Japan). On the contrary, with Japan armed in the east and Hitler armed to the teeth in the west, Stalin worried not only about a two-front war against the two powers that had defeated Russia in separate major wars earlier in the century, but about how Britain, opportunistically, might join one or even both.⁹

FAR EASTERN SKIRMISH

Back on May 10–11, 1939, as some twenty Mongol cavalry were grazing horses on the banks of the Halha River (Halhin Gol in Mongolian), near a cluster of huts (the village of Nomonhan, in Japanese), a Manchukuo force drove them off; the next day, the Mongols returned in numbers. Unlike the bloody clash over uninhabited hills at Lake Khasan near the Soviet-Korean-Manchukuo frontier the year before, this one concerned valuable pastures along the river, which served as a boundary.¹⁰ The Tokyo high command’s failure to impose unambiguous directives on Japan’s Kwantung Army, despite the latter’s record of high-handedness, reflected a multicenteredness in the Japanese political system that frustrated the Germans and the Soviets alike. It also allowed hotheads inside Japanese institutions to seize the initiative. The Kwantung Army had devised a new contingency war plan against the Soviet Union involving an all-out offensive toward Chita and Lake Baikal, to cut off the entire Soviet Far East. This bold design to seize a spectacular victory would expose the Kwantung Army to possibly devastating Soviet counterattack from the Mongolian salient, a vulnerability that argued for evicting the Red Army from Mongolia.

The Kwantung command, in this context, had recently issued inflammatory new guidelines, which Tokyo headquarters had rubber-stamped, for border skirmishes. “If the enemy crosses the frontier, . . . annihilate them without delay,” the new rules stated. “It is permissible to enter Soviet territory, or to trap or lure Soviet troops into Manchukuoan territory.”¹¹ The new rules even allowed local commanders to establish boundaries “on their own initiative” where ambiguity reigned (in effect, everywhere). When, during a briefing on the new rules of engagement, the latest grazing incident was reported to the Kwantung Army division commander responsible for the border, he decided, on May 13, to implement them.¹² Japanese reconnaissance discovered a pontoon bridge across the Halha to the right bank and decided to cut off this escape, entrap the “intruders,” and annihilate them. On May 19, Stalin had Molotov warn Japanese ambassador Tōgō that the Soviets possessed information concerning Japanese and Manchukuo forces violating the Mongolian frontier at the Halha River, and that “there is a limit to all patience, and I ask the ambassador to relay this to the Japanese government: that there will be no more of this.”¹³

Voroshilov, meanwhile, was receiving reports of Soviet indecisiveness from the area near the Halha River, and, on the recommendation of chief of staff Shaposhnikov, summoned a more decisive person. On May 24, in Voroshilov’s office, the deputy commander of the Belorussian military district, a cavalry specialist, received a briefing on developments along Mongolia’s borders, to which he was instructed to fly immediately. His mission was to investigate the military situation, then recommend and, if necessary, take corrective measures.¹⁴ That commander was Georgy Zhukov. Like Beria, he would prove to be another missing piece. A peasant’s son (b. 1896), he had worked the fields like all the village children (in his case from age seven), attended the local church school for three years, and, at age eleven, departed for Moscow to apprentice in a furrier’s shop (where he slept on the floor). Zhukov had been conscripted in the Great War and, despite his lowly origins, awarded two St. George’s Crosses before joining the Reds in summer 1918 and fighting in the famed First Cavalry Army. Twenty years later, the NKVD had wiped out almost all the commanders under whom he had served, making him an associate of “enemies of the people.” Zhukov would later claim that his summons by Voroshilov, without explanation, had given him pause, and that his unexpected posting to the Mongolia-Manchukuo frontier had saved his life.¹⁵

It did not take Zhukov long to see that Soviet forces facing the Japanese were a mess.¹⁶ But, incredibly, Kwantung Army intelligence had failed to notice that the bridgehead on the Halha was held by Soviet forces. On the morning of May 28, when 2,500 troops of the Japanese Kwantung Army followed through on the plan to cut off the pontoon escape route of the Mongol cavalry, then launch a frontal assault to drive them backward into waiting Japanese units, they met barrages of Soviet artillery and armor. Japan maintained air superiority, so, over just two days, the Red Air Force lost 15 fighter planes in combat, while the Japanese lost a single plane. (Voroshilov called the front and exploded.)¹⁷ But the Japanese rear unit sent to cut off the Mongol escape route was wiped out nearly to a man, and the battered Japanese troops in the frontal assault retreated.¹⁸ On May 31 at the Supreme Soviet, Molotov, in a speech almost entirely devoted to relations with the Western powers, publicly repeated the patience-running-out warning to Japan, noting that “we will defend the borders of the Mongolian People’s Republic as decisively as our own, in line with our mutual assistance pact with them.”¹⁹ But the Kwantung Army was not likely to walk away.

GERMAN CUL-DE-SAC

The Germans feared success in the Soviet-British talks, and on May 30, 1939, the German foreign ministry had suddenly been ordered to undertake “definite negotiations” with the Soviets and not to be limited to economic issues—an apparent affirmative response to Molotov’s ultimatum, a point conveyed by Weizsäcker to Astakhov, the Soviet chargé d’affaires in Berlin.²⁰ The next day in Tokyo, however, Ott suddenly became confident about German negotiations with Japan, reporting that the private secretary of Japan’s prime minister had told him that “the latter was firmly resolved to put through the [Germany-Japan] alliance,” and that the deputy war minister had told him the Japanese army would overcome the opposition of the Japanese navy.²¹ If so, this could scuttle any German talks with Moscow. On June 5, the Japanese cabinet approved a compromise vis-à-vis Germany’s demands whereby Japan assented to automatic involvement in any German-Soviet conflict and freedom to choose the appropriate moment to enter any other conflicts (such as a German-British one). This compromise represented a major policy victory for the Japanese army. But Japan’s unsophisticated representative in Berlin, Lieutenant General Ōshima, seems not to have conveyed the decision to Germany.²² Stalin, in any case, knew the real Japanese position—policy paralysis—thanks to Sorge, who had high contacts among Japanese ruling circles.

On June 4, further solid information on German plans for an invasion of Poland came from Rudolf von Scheliha, the Soviet spy in the German embassy in Warsaw, via Kleist, Ribbentrop’s aide for the east, who had recently visited the Polish capital. The German ambassador there (von Moltke) and the air force attaché had been recalled to Berlin for consultations.²³ The combination of Hitler’s designs on Poland and inconclusive German-Japanese talks could potentially push the Führer to cut a deal with the Soviet devil.²⁴ At long last, it appeared that Stalin’s long-standing use of economic talks as a pathway to political talks might bear fruit. But distrust ran deep.²⁵ And Hitler might be bluffing.

Soviet-German “talks” were not formal and not always direct. On June 14, as the German foreign ministry learned the next day, Astakhov told the Bulgarian envoy in Berlin, Parvan Draganov, that “if Germany would declare that she would not attack the Soviet Union or that she would conclude a nonaggression pact with her, the Soviet Union would probably refrain from concluding a pact with England. However, the Soviet Union did not know what Germany really wanted.”²⁶ Schulenburg had left Moscow for consultations in Berlin. On June 21, Köstring, also in Berlin for consultations, had an audience with Hitler.²⁷ Back in Moscow, on June 28, Schulenburg informed the Soviet foreign ministry that Germany sought “not just normalization but improvement in its relations with the USSR,” a stance he said had been conveyed to him by Ribbentrop and approved by Hitler.²⁸ Around this time, Ribbentrop’s Italian counterpart and confidant, Ciano, evidently “leaked” to the Soviet chargé in Rome the possibility of a German-Soviet nonaggression pact, economic agreement, joint guarantee of the Baltic states, and mediation in the relations with Japan.²⁹ But on June 30, Ribbentrop, on Hitler’s orders, suddenly directed that the haphazard political contacts be broken off and that any resumption of talks for a trade agreement be delayed.³⁰

NO ANSWERS

Soviet-Western talks were formal and direct, but fraught as well. Besides Polish acquiescence in possible Red Army transit, a second major sticking point proved to be Soviet insistence on “guarantees” for the Baltic states’ territorial integrity, to prevent Germany from using them as springboards for an attack. But the Western powers—citing the circumstance that these countries themselves were not asking for such guarantees—balked. As the Soviet ambassador would report from Paris, the Western powers viewed such a guarantee as offering Moscow “a free hand in the Baltics.”³¹ Stalin, for his part, viewed the Balts’ professed “strict neutrality” as a pretense.³² Top political figures in authoritarian Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia, as well as in democratic Finland, were publicly cozying up to the Nazis. On June 7, 1939, Estonia and Latvia had signed nonaggression pacts with Germany in Berlin; this was soon followed by visits to Estonia by chief of staff Lieutenant General Franz Halder, commander of German land forces, and Admiral Canaris, head of the Abwehr. Molotov demanded that Estonia reverse course and place itself under Soviet protection. But Estonia considered a Soviet “guarantee” of its territorial integrity the worst of both worlds: it would anger Nazi Germany and invite Soviet occupation.³³

On June 10, Molotov, through Maisky in London, communicated an unambiguous Soviet demand for British assent in preventing the three Baltic states from being used in an aggression against the USSR. Pravda (June 13) publicly dismissed possible objections.³⁴ On June 15, one month into the negotiations with the Western powers, Molotov, in a telegram to the Soviet envoys in London and Paris, wrote that the British and the French “do not want a serious agreement based on the principle of reciprocity and equality of conditions.”³⁵ Some British officials internally urged that London accede to Soviet security demands for “guarantees” for the Baltics, even while conceding that Stalin might then have a pretext to seize them. But Chamberlain—who had handed Hitler Czechoslovakia—refused.

Stalin was stupefied. The British imperialists had seized one quarter of the earth, across oceans, and yet they kept invoking “principle” in a refusal to allow him to protect himself in connection with microscopic territories, contiguous with the Soviet homeland, that until recently had belonged to Russia and that represented a threat? Around this time, at a Grand Kremlin Palace reception, the dancer Igor Moiseyev, whose folk ensemble had become among the most popular acts, was talking to Voroshilov. Stalin cherished their number “Moscow-Region Lyrical,” from the dance cycle Pictures from the Past, and, as the defense commissar asked what Moiseyev planned to stage next, Stalin approached. Apprised of the conversation, he said, “All the same, they will never stage what Stalin needs.” Moiseyev: “Iosif Vissarionovich, do you have a bad opinion of us?” Stalin: “Not at all, but what Stalin needs (he spoke of himself in the third person) you will not stage. . . . For example, will you stage the rout of England and France?” Silence ensued. Faces froze. Stalin moved on.³⁶

Domestic political pressures did compel Chamberlain to send someone to Moscow to “accelerate the negotiations.” Maisky, the Soviet envoy, had suggested on June 12 that the British send Foreign Secretary Halifax, who seemed favorably disposed to a deal, but nothing had come of it. Nor would Chamberlain consent to sending Anthony Eden, the former foreign secretary, who had met Stalin and offered to go. Instead the PM dispatched William Strang, who, during Eden’s Moscow visit, had also met Stalin. “Of all the dictators, Stalin was, in personal intercourse, seemingly most like a normal human being,” Strang would write. “In conference as we saw him, . . . his voice was low and even, his manner serene, his delivery unemphatic, his sense of humour quietly playful, his exposition concise in form, conciliatory in tone but unbending in substance. He had a rock-like quality which made him appear to be more securely founded than his rival dictators.”³⁷ But Strang was a mere foreign office functionary, and he was sent not as a special plenipotentiary, but only “to assist” Ambassador Seeds. Zhdanov, on June 29, published an essay in Pravda titled “The British and the French Do Not Want an Equal Agreement with the USSR.”

Molotov, for his part, referred to his capitalist counterparts as “crooks and cheats” internally, and to their faces he demanded that any obligations be spelled out in detail, telling Seeds that the 1935 Franco-Soviet pact “had turned out to be merely a paper delusion.” The Soviet Union’s top “diplomat” also made a point of sitting at his desk while raised on a proscenium, forcing his Western interlocutors to remain below in deskless chairs, their notepads uncomfortably perched on their laps. (Neither Molotov nor his deputy Potyomkin, who did the interpreting, took notes, according to the British side, but Molotov seemed to them to be pressing a button on his desk, perhaps to record the conversation.)³⁸ Seeds and French envoy Naggiar were also unnerved by the door behind Molotov that always seemed to be open, suspecting that Stalin was eavesdropping. (Kremlin logbooks record no meetings in the Little Corner during the time Molotov was negotiating.) Molotov introduced new demands at will, and he failed to perceive the differences in French and British proposals. Such incomprehension of nuance, on top of the disdain for diplomatic convention, might have mattered had the British government been interested in a deal. “I am so skeptical of the value of Russian help,” Chamberlain wrote privately to his sister (July 2, 1939), “that I should not feel our position was greatly worsened if we had to do without them.”³⁹

WAR

Vsevolod Meyerhold, the USSR’s most renowned theater director, who had traveled to Leningrad to finalize the choreography of a mass spectacle of physical culture involving 30,000 young athletes moving in unison to glorify the regime, was rewarded by being arrested. At Moscow’s infamous Butyrka prison, he would be tortured into confessing to espionage for Britain as well as Japan. “The investigators began to use force on me, a sick, 65-year-old man,” he wrote in a letter to Molotov. “I was made to lie facedown and then beaten on the soles of my feet and my spine with a rubber strap. . . . When those parts of my legs were covered with extensive internal hemorrhaging, they again began to beat the red-blue-yellow bruises with the strap, and the pain was so intense that it felt as if boiling hot water was being poured on those sensitive areas. . . . I began to incriminate myself in the hope that this, at least, would lead quickly to the scaffold.” Meyerhold’s interrogators had urinated into his mouth and smashed his right (writing) hand to bits.⁴⁰ Right around the same time, his second wife and lead actress, the Russified ethnic German Zinaida Reich, was brutally stabbed to death, including through the eyes, in their home.⁴¹ None of her valuables were taken.⁴² Meyerhold knew nothing of his wife’s murder; his colleagues knew nothing of his fate, only that his photographs had been taken down or cut out.

Molotov was stressing to the German ambassador that Berlin’s stance toward Soviet-Japanese relations was a key consideration in any possible German-Soviet rapprochement.⁴³ But Berlin was still looking for a deal with Tokyo, as Sorge had secretly reported on June 27.⁴⁴ On July 1, Ott conveyed to Berlin that he had still “not been able to obtain complete clarity regarding Japanese reservations.”⁴⁵ On July 2, Hitler, in Hamburg for the funeral of a military general, mentioned the possibility of an agreement with the Soviet Union in a speech to Nazi party officials.⁴⁶ On July 5, Ott wrote again to Weizsäcker: “As to the negotiations for an alliance, these arguments confirm once again that the Navy has been fighting tenaciously for a policy of waiting and seeing what America would do, and of entering the war only at a later stage.” Ribbentrop wrote on the document: “Führer.”⁴⁷ It had become evident that Germany would not be able to conclude a substantive military alliance with Japan, let alone intercede with Tokyo on behalf of Moscow.⁴⁸

Near Mongolia, as Japan’s Kwantung Army readied its counterstrike, Voroshilov was receiving denunciations of Soviet commanders in the Far East, Beria playing his part.⁴⁹ Zhukov, with the support of Grigory Stern, head of the Transbaikal military district in Chita (and the victor in the Lake Khasan border skirmish), had sacked the Soviet frontline commander in Mongolia. He also set up a belated intelligence network on the enemy and began massing troops, artillery, tanks, and planes with experienced airmen (many of them Spanish civil war veterans).⁵⁰ Colonel Akio Doi, Japanese military attaché in Moscow, who happened to be returning to Japan, warned Kwantung Army headquarters in person on his way home that although the Soviets had often shown passivity during previous border incidents, this time a firm reply could be expected. The Kwantung Army’s own intelligence warned that the Soviets had two rifle divisions, not the anticipated small subdivisional unit, poised for action near Nomonhan. Nonetheless, Major Tsuji Masanobu, the author of the new border guidelines at Kwantung Army headquarters, was determined to avenge the earlier failures. The Kwantung Army head ordered an offensive without the approval of his superiors in Tokyo, avoiding sending his directives by telegraph, lest HQ get wind and cancel them.⁵¹

The Japanese counterattack had commenced on June 26–27, 1939, with a 130-airplane raid deep behind the Soviet-Mongolian positions. Tokyo, which wanted to localize the skirmish, reacted angrily to this “defense” of Manchukuo, but the bombing proved successful. On July 1, at sunrise (4:00 a.m.), the Kwantung Army launched a ground offensive with 15,000 troops. By July 2–3 they had achieved tactical success, crossing the Halha River in force to the western bank, thanks to Tsuji’s boldness. By July 4 Zhukov was pounding the Japanese positions with Soviet-made heavy guns as well as German-made 152-millimeter Rheinmetall artillery. The latter, acquired during the cooperation with Germany, had a range (20,000 yards) double that of the Japanese guns. Japanese casualties mounted, and they retreated back across the Halha (the rest of the fighting would take place on the eastern bank). But the Soviets lost huge amounts of armor. Adding to the difficulties, Marshal Kulik, deputy defense commissar and chief of Soviet artillery, had gotten himself posted to the theater and on July 13 ordered Zhukov to withdraw Soviet artillery from the Halha’s eastern banks to the western, so as not to lose it. When Shaposhnikov, chief of staff in Moscow, heard of this the next day, he ordered Zhukov to disobey Kulik. Voroshilov, white hot, dressed Kulik down on the high-frequency phone (“Babble less about all kinds of nonsense”). On July 19, the Soviet forces at the frontier were reorganized into a unified First Army Group, to ensure Zhukov’s uncontested authority.⁵²

SUMMER OF INDETERMINACY

Besides Japan, the Baltic states presented another key to any Nazi-Soviet deal, which Ribbentrop understood, but his deputy, Weizsäcker, opposed any Baltic partition.⁵³ An internal German decision to renew bilateral economic negotiations with the Soviet Union, offering a 200-million-reichsmark credit for Soviet purchases in Germany, emerged on July 7, 1939, and was conveyed to Mikoyan three days later.⁵⁴ On July 9, Proskurov, Soviet military intelligence head, reported to Stalin on the basis of information from the Warsaw-based Soviet spy Kurt Welkisch (“ABC”), who had visited Berlin in June, that Kleist had reconfirmed Nazi plans to annihilate Poland, with a target date of late August or early September (Scheliha’s earlier report had it for July). Kleist noted that Hitler was set upon a “radical solution of the Polish question” regardless of the military position of France and Britain. “Neither the Führer nor Ribbentrop,” Kleist was quoted as saying, “believe that the Soviet Union would take part in Anglo-French military actions against Germany.” That conclusion was based upon the inconclusive state of Western negotiations in Moscow and “the recent behavior of Moscow toward Berlin. Moscow gave us to understand that it is ready to conduct negotiations with us, that it is utterly uninterested in a conflict with Germany, and that it is also uninterested in fighting for England and France.” Kleist added that Germany would keep its hands off the Baltic states, in deference to the Soviet Union, and that “peace-loving relations between Germany and Russia over the next two years, in the Führer’s opinion, are the prerequisite for resolving the problems of Western Europe.”⁵⁵

But Stalin further learned that, with Chamberlain’s approval, on July 18, 1939, Horace Wilson, an adviser to the PM, had met secretly with a “special assistant” to Göring, Dr. Helmuth Wohlthat. The full range of what they discussed cannot be gleaned from Wilson’s account.⁵⁶ Still, Germany’s ambassador to London, Herbert von Dirksen, informed Berlin that Wilson had stated that a nonaggression pact with Germany “would allow England to free itself from its obligations vis-à-vis Poland.”⁵⁷ On July 19, reinforcing the renewed push to cut a deal with Hitler, Chamberlain and Halifax, at a British cabinet meeting, carried the argument not to accede to Soviet demands to open military talks immediately and earnestly for a full alliance with ironclad commitments. But Britain conveyed its agreement to launch the military talks with Moscow, in parallel with the political ones. Maisky was fooled.⁵⁸ On July 20–21, as Stalin took in a physical culture parade on Red Square, the secretary of the British department of overseas trade, Robert Hudson, a scion of a soap king, met with Wohlthat, too, and, as if representing the British government, seems to have offered Hitler not just Danzig and the Polish Corridor but also a large British loan and the settlement of all of Germany’s colonial claims—if only the Führer would refrain from taking all of Poland by force.⁵⁹

“The Biggest Bribe in History,” ran the scandalous headline in the British Daily Express (July 22), which published leaks, evidently from Hudson, of Chamberlain’s back-channel efforts to negotiate with Hitler. Forty-eight hours later, Pravda carried word of the British offer to Germany, with details that were wildly inaccurate but repeated from the British press.⁶⁰

British intelligence had come to understand that “Germany’s future policy is in the keeping of a single man: a visionary, fanatic, and megalomaniac, a being of violent complexes,” who aimed for European domination. But they surmised that Hitler’s rearmament had resulted in a supposedly fragile German economy starved of resources, as well as a supposedly disaffected German populace. Therefore, British intelligence reasoned, Hitler could fight only short wars, and only in places like Poland and Ukraine, where he could not just expend but also grab resources. Halifax, however, wondered whether the limitations on Germany spotlighted by British intelligence might push “the mad dictator to insane adventures.”⁶¹ Chamberlain, for his part, believed that if Britain applied pressure, Germany’s strategic weaknesses would compel Hitler to back down from his domination schemes. After all, what government could avoid accommodating social and economic pressures at home? If he became too headstrong, Hitler might even be overthrown by “moderates.”⁶² “Hitler has concluded that we mean business and the time is not ripe for a major war,” the PM wrote to his sister Ida (July 23, 1939). “Unlike some of my critics I go further and say that the longer the war is put off the less likely it is to come at all.”⁶³

That same day, just as Stalin had learned of Chamberlain’s attempts once more to “bribe” Hitler, the despot further learned of Chamberlain’s pending acquiescence to Japanese pressure. Britain faced a strategic dilemma in Asia, not just Europe, and it was linked to any British policy options for the USSR. Japanese forces were blockading the British—as well as the French—concession in Tientsin (near Peking). The British Royal Navy was far away, and the United States had no intention of risking war with Japan by coming to the aid of British imperial interests in Asia. With Hitler threatening Poland, for which Britain had issued the “guarantee,” London felt constrained to sign the Anglo-Japanese Tientsin Agreement (July 24) to protect its exposed positions. London refused Tokyo’s demands to turn over the Chinese silver in British banks, but it handed over four Chinese nationals accused of assassinating Japanese nationals and then hiding out in the British concession. (The four Chinese were soon executed.) Some contemporaries dubbed the Tientsin deal a Far Eastern Munich. For Stalin, Tientsin underscored the absence of serious Western opposition to Japan’s aggression in China and its imperial ambitions, including vis-à-vis Soviet territory in the east.⁶⁴

The Japanese war minister had resumed his drive against internal opposition from the navy and the civilian government for a binding alliance with Germany against the USSR; Sorge continued to report on the talks.⁶⁵ The Kwantung Army, at the same time, was planning a renewed offensive near Mongolia. In late July, the Red Army began bringing massive reinforcements into the battle zone. Colonel Doi, back in Moscow, warned Tokyo that something very major was afoot.⁶⁶

Also on July 23, 1939, Molotov demanded of Britain and France that, before the conclusion of a political agreement, tripartite military plans against Germany be coordinated in detail. Two days later, the Western ambassadors conveyed their governments’ willingness to open military-to-military talks.

BALTIC FLIP

In Berlin, rumors had begun to circulate that Ribbentrop had fallen out of favor, because he had failed to anticipate the British guarantee to Poland and its generally hard-line position after the Nazis’ destruction of all of Czechoslovakia.⁶⁷ In fact, Ribbentrop had maneuvered himself into the catbird seat. “He asked the liaison man he kept around Hitler to tell him what the Führer had said in the circle of his closest confidants,” recalled Gustav Hilger, of the Moscow embassy. “From statements of this kind he drew conclusions about Hitler’s intentions and ideas and, at suitable opportunities, would present them to him as his own thoughts.”⁶⁸ The Wehrmacht’s insatiable supply needs, seen against the uncanny complementarity of the Soviet and German economies, and the circumstance that the Soviets could enable Germany to overcome an anticipated British blockade, had provided the foundation for a rapprochement. But the key to everything was Hitler’s planning for war against Poland, in the face of the publicly voiced guarantees to Poland by Britain and France.⁶⁹ Once Ribbentrop had learned that Hitler wanted to “isolate Poland”—that is, to remove or undercut the Anglo-French “guarantees”—the foreign minister had his opening to encourage Hitler to “seize Russia” from the British and the French.⁷⁰

Suddenly, on July 26, 1939, Schnurre, the trade official in the German foreign ministry, invited Astakhov and a Soviet trade official to a private room at a Berlin restaurant and told them that—in fulfillment of Molotov’s prior condition for a commercial treaty—a political agreement was possible, and that the fate of the Baltic states and any other Soviet desiderata would be open for discussion.⁷¹ Astakhov had no instructions for a response. “After the statement of the Russians, I had the impression that Moscow had not decided what they wanted to do,” Schnurre observed in a long memorandum the next day. “The Russians were silent about the status and chances of the English pact negotiations. . . . As a further handicap, there is the excessive distrust not only toward us but toward England as well. From our point of view it may be regarded as a noteworthy success that Moscow, after months of negotiations with England, still remains uncertain as to what she ought to do eventually.”⁷²

On July 29, Nevile Henderson, British ambassador to Germany, drove to Bayreuth to contrive a meeting with Hitler. (“Though absolutely unmusical,” Henderson would observe, “I like Wagner.”) His car broke down en route. Once finally there, during Die Walküre, he managed only to glimpse the Führer from afar. “If he had wanted to speak to me,” Henderson noted, “Hitler could have done so; for he must have been informed that I was there.”⁷³ But the envoy did not lose faith. “As I pointed out at the time to His Majesty’s Government, the Polish question was not one of Hitler’s making,” Henderson would write. “The Corridor and Danzig were a real German national grievance, and some equitable settlement had to be found.”⁷⁴

Britain had also been consulting in Baltic capitals, posing as the defender of small countries, but the Balts, perceiving fecklessness, more and more looked to Germany as the only realistic counterbalance to the USSR. Germany’s position, however, had shifted precipitously. On August 2, Ribbentrop invited in Astakhov and told him that, “from the Baltic to the Black Sea, there was no problem which could not be solved to our mutual satisfaction.”⁷⁵ The Soviet envoy, in his report to Molotov, surmised that the Germans were declaring their disinterest in the fate of former Russian Poland, the Baltic states (Lithuania excepted), and Bessarabia and repudiating any designs on Ukraine. In exchange, Germany sought Soviet disinterest in the fate of Danzig and the provinces of former German Poland, with former Austrian Poland a matter for further clarification. Germany’s ultimate aim, Astakhov concluded, was “to neutralize us in the case of war with Poland,” although, he added, any long-term acquiescence by Germany to the above arrangements was doubtful.⁷⁶

Schulenburg enjoyed more frequent access to Molotov than other ambassadors in Moscow, but still he found him largely inscrutable; the pair never developed chemistry. On August 3, Molotov acceded to the German’s request for an audience and heard the recent accommodating news from Ribbentrop firsthand. “Molotov abandoned his habitual reserve and appeared unusually open,” Schulenburg reported to Berlin the next day, but the Soviet government head nonetheless made a point of condemning the Anti-Comintern Pact and stated that “proofs of a changed attitude of the German Government were for the present still lacking.” Schulenburg further noted to Berlin that “my general impression is that the Soviet Government are determined to conclude an agreement with Britain and France, if they fulfill all Soviet wishes.” He added that the “negotiations, to be sure, might last a long time, especially since mistrust of England is also great.”⁷⁷ Hitler had become exceedingly anxious about a British-French-Soviet military convention.⁷⁸ Wittingly or unwittingly, Schulenburg was enhancing Stalin’s bargaining position.

PLAYED FOR A FOOL

To lead the long-awaited military-to-military talks with the two Western powers, Stalin appointed defense commissar Marshal Voroshilov, assisted by chief of staff Marshal Shaposhnikov, the naval commissar, and the air force head—the highest-level military group the Soviet despot could have assembled.⁷⁹ The British, after very long delay, finally indicated that they would send the Honorable Sir Reginald Plunkett-Ernle-Erle-Drax, commandant of Portsmouth. Beria, as per usual, prepared an NKVD dossier, which was unflattering to the unknown “commandant.”⁸⁰ In London, Maisky noted in his diary, in a tone of considerable optimism about Anglo-Soviet relations, that “a bloc is gradually coming together. . . . The trip of the military missions to Moscow is an historical stage.” And yet he also wrote to Moscow, “I think that, judging from the posts they hold, the delegates will not be able to make any decisions on the spot.”⁸¹ When the Western ambassadors informed Molotov who would be coming, he evidently launched a tirade, then stormed out of his own office.

Stalin received damning reports about British motives from the spy Guy Burgess, who worked at MI6 and divulged crucial information to Anatoly Gorsky (b. 1907), originally a code clerk who had become acting Soviet intelligence chief in London (since late 1938) after the arrests of two superiors in succession. Gorsky was single-handedly responsible for fourteen field agents, including Burgess, Anthony Blunt, John Cairncross, and Kim Philby. He also had to manage cryptography, photography, translation, typing, and communications.⁸² On August 3, Burgess reported to Gorsky that Horace Wilson, Chamberlain’s special adviser on foreign affairs, had told him that “the British chiefs of staff are firmly convinced that war with Germany can be won without difficulty and therefore the British government has no need to conclude a defense pact with the Soviet Union. In government circles the opinion expressed is that England never thought about concluding a pact with the USSR. The prime minister’s advisers say openly that Great Britain can do without a Russian pact.” Gorsky also reported that another source, Montagu “Monty” Chidson, had told him that “it is a fundamental policy to work with Germany whatever happens, and, in the end, against the USSR. But it is impossible to conduct this policy openly.” Gorsky added, “Chidson told me that our aim is not to resist German expansion to the east.”⁸³

Drax and his French counterpart traveled to the USSR by sea. The foreign office explained to the British public that no British or French commercial airline flew to the Soviet Union. Of course, the British had the world’s number-one air force. But they had opted not to use their Sunderland “flying boats,” because, it was said, at least eight would have been taken up to accommodate all personnel on the mission. Wellington bombers would have been capacious enough, but these were said to be “uncomfortable.” Water travel, meanwhile, could have been undertaken on fast naval cruisers, but it was said that such vessels lacked sufficient cabins. And so on. What the British and the French would not say was that they worried about the repercussions of crossing Germany, even in the air; the French in particular wanted to avoid too spectacular a method of travel, in order to avoid embarrassment if the Moscow talks failed.⁸⁴ But the Anglo-French decision to travel to Moscow by slow passenger and cargo steamers, and their dubious public explanations, conveyed a stark message to Moscow: this was a charade. On top of everything else, Drax departed the UK only on August 5.

The German foreign ministry official Weizsäcker complained in his diary (August 7) that Berlin was now straining every nerve to achieve a breakthrough, but the Soviets were not responding.⁸⁵ Hitler, with his decision to attack Poland despite British and French guarantees, had effectively backed himself into a corner, and time was running out: also on August 7, Soviet intelligence reported to Stalin that Hitler’s attack on Poland could commence as soon as August 25.⁸⁶ Suddenly, Stalin held all the cards. The despot played it slow. The tension in Berlin reached near hysteria.⁸⁷ Chamberlain, too, had played right into Stalin’s hands, but, unlike Hitler, the British PM appeared to be taking Stalin for a fool. On August 11, the risible Drax mission finally reached Moscow. It carried nine tons of baggage, but just a single person (an aide) who spoke Russian or had some experience of the Soviet Union.⁸⁸ That same day, Stalin convened the politburo and resolved to enter into official talks with Germany.⁸⁹

In the negotiations with the Drax mission, Stalin instructed Voroshilov, mapping out the steps in writing, to take a hard line, but in such a way that the British and the French would be blamed for any failure.⁹⁰ At the opening banquet for the late-arriving, low-level Western delegation, Voroshilov, in dress whites, was in top form, exuding his considerable charm as host at the Spiridonovka Palace, the main reception hall for foreign dignitaries.⁹¹ Treated to a fifty-foot-long table of delicacies, rivers of drink, musicians, and acrobats, the British and the French staggered back to their quarters in the wee hours. The next morning, first thing, Voroshilov pointedly requested their credentials. The French had balanced the British admiral with a general, Joseph Doumenc, who at least had a piece of paper signed by Prime Minister Daladier: it allowed Doumenc to negotiate but not to sign anything. Drax—tall, silver hair, blue eyes—had to admit, as the Soviets already knew, that he had no written authority even to negotiate, let alone sign, a military convention.⁹² When Voroshilov pointedly asked whether the Anglo-French mission had secured permission from their Polish ally for Soviet transit across Poland in the event of war with Germany, Drax gave no answer.

The defense commissar insisted on direct confirmation from the Poles and the Romanians. At a break in the talks, Doumenc took it upon himself to send his own envoy to Warsaw to arrange Polish agreement for Soviet passage through its territory.⁹³ On August 13, with the Nazis openly threatening Danzig, Poland had ordered a partial mobilization of its army. Two days later, the Poles publicly celebrated the nineteenth anniversary of the “miracle on the Vistula,” in which they had driven back the Red Army. In response to French inquiries about granting Red Army transit, Warsaw refused again. Soviet “assistance,” many Poles felt, would be worse than facing the Nazis. “An intelligent rabbit,” Halifax had written of the Poles, “would hardly be expected to welcome the protection of an animal ten times its size, whom it credited with the habits of a boa constrictor.”⁹⁴ But Halifax, just like the Polish government, failed to grasp that refusing the Soviets would mean facing both predators.

Voroshilov initiated a pointed discussion of each side’s common-defense contributions to a prospective anti-German military alliance. Shaposhnikov outlined a massive Soviet commitment of up to 120 infantry divisions, as well as 16 cavalry divisions, 5,000 heavy artillery pieces, 9,500 tanks, and as many as 5,500 fighter aircraft and bombers. This amounted to more than a million-man force, to be fielded immediately if necessary. The French claimed to have 110 available combat divisions. The British, reluctant to divulge “military secrets,” finally stated that they could commit 16 army divisions. So few? Pressed, the British admitted that the real number was perhaps 5.⁹⁵ (In fact, it was probably 2.) The Soviets, as a land power, had difficulty grasping the full measure of British strength, which was in the air and, especially, on the sea.⁹⁶ Be that as it may, by forcing such a conversation, one of Voroshilov’s interpreters surmised, the defense commissar had deliberately been seeking to humiliate the Anglo-French military men.⁹⁷ Fair enough. But could Stalin be faulted? As far as London was concerned, the real action was in Berlin, where the British had even let on that they did not take seriously their own negotiations with Moscow.⁹⁸

THE HITLER CARD

The Soviets, on August 12, 1939, agreed to the German foreign ministry’s proposal for political talks, requesting, however, that they take place in Moscow. Hitler contemplated dispatching his personal lawyer and minister without portfolio Hans Frank (who had previously gone to Rome to finalize the Axis accord), but on August 14 he opted to send Ribbentrop, a move that Schulenburg formally proposed to Molotov the next day.⁹⁹ That night, at around 8:00 p.m., with Drax in Moscow, Molotov received Schulenburg, who read out a statement received that morning from Ribbentrop. “Germany has no aggressive intentions against the USSR,” Schulenburg stated. “The Reich government is of the opinion that there is no question between the Baltic and the Black Sea which cannot be settled to the complete satisfaction of both countries. Among these are such questions as: the Baltic Sea, the Baltic area, Poland, Southeast questions, etc.” The ambassador proposed a lightning visit by Ribbentrop to Moscow to “set forth the Führer’s views to M. Stalin.” Molotov inquired about a possible bilateral nonaggression pact and German mediation of Soviet-Japanese relations, but said that “such a trip required adequate preparation.”¹⁰⁰ To increase the pressure on Berlin, the day before (and again two days after), Stalin had the German embassy in London informed that the Anglo-Soviet talks were proceeding smoothly and that the Poles would open staff talks with the Soviets.¹⁰¹

On August 16, Rudolf Herrnstadt, a Soviet spy handler in Warsaw, reported to military intelligence HQ in Moscow that the embassy spy Scheliha had revealed that the German invasion of Poland would commence very soon.¹⁰² On August 17, Molotov again received Schulenburg and reported a favorable reaction on the part of “the Soviet government,” but insisted first on the signing of an economic agreement, after which the Soviets wanted to see a written proposal for a nonaggression pact, and only then, about a week after the conclusion of an economic agreement, could Ribbentrop’s visit take place. The Nazi foreign minister, once apprised, on August 18–19 sent Schulenburg a brief two-article text of a nonaggression pact of twenty-five years’ duration, with details to be ironed out in person, promising a special protocol on the Baltic area. “You must keep in mind the decisive fact that an early outbreak of open German-Polish conflict is probable,” Ribbentrop instructed Schulenburg, “and that we therefore have the greatest interest in having my visit to Moscow take place immediately.”¹⁰³

With Pravda (August 19) accusing the British and the French of preparing a “new Munich” with Germany, Stalin received an intelligence report to the effect that Hitler was determined to tackle the Polish question come what may, and that he thought Moscow would “conduct negotiations with us, as she has no interest whatever in a conflict with Germany, nor was she anxious to be defeated for the sake of England and France.” Such information dovetailed with the intercepts of Schulenburg’s telegrams to Berlin.¹⁰⁴ On the evening of August 19, Schulenburg reported to Berlin that he had been received twice that day by Molotov—at 2:00 p.m., for one hour, and again at 5:00 p.m.—and that the Soviet government had presented him with a Soviet text for a nonaggression pact consisting of five articles and a postscript, to last five years, and had agreed to receive the Nazi foreign minister in Moscow on August 26 or 27.¹⁰⁵ That was the proposed date for Germany’s invasion of Poland. A German-Soviet economic agreement had been finalized in Berlin around noon on August 19, but at 4:00 p.m. local time, Soviet negotiators had informed their German counterparts that they could not sign it.

Finally, the Soviets in Berlin consented to sign the economic agreement at 2:00 a.m. on August 20, dating it the previous day. It stipulated that the Reich would export “industrial goods” totaling about 60 million reichsmarks of “current business” (trade covered by earlier clearing agreements) and 180 million reichsmarks of “new business.” The Soviets would export the same in raw materials and repay old credits. The Reich, in turn, would finance 200 million reichsmarks’ worth of the new Soviet orders. Schnurre, the lead German negotiator, noted that “the framework now set up represents a minimum,” and predicted that bilateral trade could leap to nearly 1 billion reichsmarks. The German government agreed to guarantee the loan nearly fully, at a publicly stated interest rate of 5 percent, but with a secret protocol refund of 0.5 percent, reducing the actual interest while allowing a seven-year term of payback, and not requiring an itemized list of goods. The Germans had wanted to grant a larger Soviet credit, 500 million reichsmarks or more, at a higher interest rate, with lower German government loan guarantees, shorter terms of payback (five years maximum), and a specific list of goods to contain Soviet appetites.¹⁰⁶

Later that afternoon of August 20, 1939, Hitler dispatched a personal telegram to Stalin via the German embassy in Moscow. “The conclusion of a non-aggression pact with the Soviet Union means to me the establishment of a long-range Germany policy,” Hitler wrote. “I accept the draft pact that your foreign minister, Herr Molotov, delivered, but consider it urgently necessary to clarify questions connected with it as soon as possible.” He referred to “intolerable” tension between Germany and Poland and, noting that Ribbentrop would have full powers to sign a state accord, asked that he be received on August 22, or August 23 latest. Also on August 20, nine days after his arrival in Moscow, Drax finally produced written credentials allowing him to negotiate on behalf of the British government, but Voroshilov adjourned the negotiations indefinitely. Stalin, who was micromanaging the process, sent Voroshilov duck hunting.¹⁰⁷

Pravda, on the morning of August 21, carried the announcement of the Nazi-Soviet economic agreement, calling it “a serious step in the cause of improving not only economic, but also political relations between the USSR and Germany.” Stalin effectively would supply the Germans with grain harvested by his enslaved collective farmers and oil and strategic raw materials extracted partly by his Gulag inmates, for the right to engage in a shopping spree through one of the world’s most modern economies for machines and models of modern weaponry.¹⁰⁸ That day at 3:00 p.m., Schulenburg was able to hand Hitler’s telegram for Stalin to Molotov.¹⁰⁹ Stalin underlined in blue pencil Hitler’s phrase regarding Poland (“A crisis may break out any day”), as well as the Führer’s urgent appeal (“I would be pleased to receive your immediate reply”).¹¹⁰ Stalin had Molotov summon Schulenburg back already at 5:00 p.m. Moscow time to reveal that Ribbentrop would be welcome on the 23rd. “The people of our countries,” Stalin wrote in his response to Hitler, “need peaceful relations.”¹¹¹

Stalin’s response, transmitted via the German embassy, arrived in Berlin at 8:30 p.m. local time on August 21. At the Berghof, champagne was ordered. Hitler, a teetotaler, did not imbibe, but he drummed both fists on the wall.¹¹² Just before midnight, the Nazi regime released the sensational news of its foreign minister’s upcoming Moscow visit. In Paris, the government pondered pressing the Poles into “compromise” with Hitler, to buy time. In London, the assembled cabinet sought to appear nonchalant, but MPs were asking about the apparent failure of British intelligence to anticipate such a shocking turn of events.¹¹³ Burgess informed Gorsky of a telegram from Ambassador Henderson, also on August 21: “All measures have been taken for Hermann Göring to arrive under secret cover in London on Wednesday 23rd. This will amount to a historic event and we are just waiting for confirmation of this from the German side.”¹¹⁴

At the Berghof, very early on the morning of Saturday, August 22, the Führer addressed his top brass. He had summoned them to discuss his plans for Poland even before the news had come from Moscow, with instructions to arrive in civilian attire so as not to give anything away. “It was clear to me that a conflict with Poland had to come sooner or later,” he began, according to notes taken by Wilhelm Canaris, the head of military intelligence. “I had already made this decision in the spring, but I thought that I would first turn against the West in a few years, and only after that against the East.” But the Polish situation had become “intolerable.” His only fear, he said, was “that at the last minute some Schweinhund will make a proposal for mediation.” He concluded with an injunction about the absolute necessity of taking advantage of his never-to-be-repeated spell over the German people. “Essentially,” Hitler said, leaning on a grand piano, “all depends on me, on my existence, because of my political talents.” He adjourned them for lunch. To allay worries over his precipitating a new world war, he decided to address them a second time, giving some operational details and asserting that England had no real military. Not a single top general voiced objections. Toward the end of his peroration, Hitler briefly broke off, suddenly recognized Ribbentrop from among those assembled, and, melodramatically, sent his foreign minister with a Nazi salute right from the Berghof to fly to Stalin.¹¹⁵

That same Saturday, August 22, following the emergency cabinet meeting, Henderson set out to hand-deliver Chamberlain’s latest telegram to Hitler. Received at the Berghof on August 23 at 1:00 p.m., he stated that any German-Soviet pact would not alter Britain’s obligations to Poland, but hinted again that Britain could trade Poland away, and suggested again that the very next day, Field Marshal Göring should fly to Britain surreptitiously to meet Chamberlain at Chequers, the prime minister’s country residence, to hammer out an Anglo-German accord. Ever the ingrate, Hitler berated Henderson, shouting that London’s “blank check” guarantee to Poland had ruled out negotiations. Henderson departed, then was called back, but Hitler, although calmer, blamed Britain for being “determined to destroy and exterminate Germany.” The Führer evidently felt that his theatrics, on top of any pact with Stalin, would induce the British and, in their train, the French to back down from their pledges to Poland. After Henderson departed a second time, Hitler slapped his thigh in self-congratulation at his performance. “Chamberlain won’t survive this discussion,” he said. “His cabinet will fall this evening.”¹¹⁶

Chamberlain had done more for the Nazi leader than any other foreign politician, and the British PM appeared ready to do even more, in order to avoid war over Poland—but the game was up. In the extended diplomatic three-card monte, after all the dealing and double-dealing, Stalin, not Chamberlain, had turned up the “Hitler” card.

Even as Henderson was en route to the Berghof, Nikita Khrushchev arrived at the Near Dacha, having flown in from Kiev, where he was party boss. Few Moscow party officials, let alone “provincials,” enjoyed such access to the despot’s residence. Stalin let on that Ribbentrop was flying in to Moscow the next day, then looked at his protégé and smiled. Assuming that Stalin’s twisted sense of humor was at work yet again, Khrushchev played along, asking if Ribbentrop was going to defect. Stalin replied that he had gotten a telegram from Hitler.¹¹⁷

WINDFALL

The British press phoned Ivan Maisky at home to ask if it was true that Nazi foreign minister Ribbentrop was flying to Moscow; the Soviet ambassador, out of the loop, went with his wife, Agniya, to see Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest.¹¹⁸ Göring’s proposed secret mission to London was canceled.¹¹⁹ Ribbentrop, flying on Hitler’s personal Condor, landed for a night stopover at Königsberg (August 22) and resumed his flight the next morning. His retinue was large, nearly forty persons, requiring two Focke-Wulf Condors. Genuine drama awaited on the German-Soviet frontier, at Velikie Luki. Markings on aircraft, unless they flew at very low altitudes, were generally not discernible. Stalin, ever hyperconspiratorial, had evidently not informed the Soviet border guard of his diplomatic conspiracy and, as a result, he almost destroyed his foreign policy coup. Soviet antiaircraft units fired on the Führer’s personal Condor, swastika on the tail, with Ribbentrop aboard. They missed.¹²⁰

The Nazi foreign minister reached Moscow with alacrity at around 1:00 p.m. on August 23, landing at Moscow’s main civilian airfield (near the Dynamo Stadium), a site that had been used for the coronation of Nicholas II, when a stampede over souvenir mugs had resulted in more than 1,000 deaths.¹²¹ There to greet Ribbentrop was deputy foreign affairs commissar Potyomkin, a name historically synonymous with false fronts and Russian deception. Escorted by Stalin’s personal bodyguard, General Vlasik, Ribbentrop rode in one of Stalin’s personal bulletproof ZIS limousines, outfitted with a Nazi flag. This was his first trip to Moscow and, in the words of German military attaché Köstring, the Nazi foreign minister was “nervous and agitated.”¹²² Their first destination was the freshly painted neoclassical former Austrian legation, now belonging to Nazi Germany, in the heart of old Moscow. After a short repast, Ribbentrop, accompanied by Schulenburg and Hilger, passed through the gates of the Kremlin, less than three hours after landing. They were greeted by the indispensable, physically unseemly Poskryobyshev, in colonel’s uniform, who escorted them upstairs to Molotov’s suite. In a surprise for the Germans, Stalin was present, too.¹²³

Schulenburg, by now in Moscow almost five years, had never even spoken to Stalin.¹²⁴ Schulenburg had previously served in Tehran, and his Moscow residence on Clean (Chisty) Lane “presented a lavish display of marvelous Isfahan carpets covering the walls, old weapons, shields with intricate inlaid designs, sabers, and swords,” a Soviet foreign affairs functionary observed, adding that “Persian miniatures hung all over the place, many of them erotic, which was quite shocking in those days.”¹²⁵ In Molotov’s office, Stalin’s medium height, military-style tunic, and baggy khaki trousers contrasted vividly with the tall Ribbentrop, in his European-cut suit.¹²⁶ A few aides and interpreters were present (neither Stalin nor Molotov could understand German).¹²⁷ Shaposhnikov, the elderly Soviet chief of staff, was the only military figure whom Stalin had included in both the diversionary action (the final talks with Drax) and the main battlefield (Ribbentrop). (Shaposhnikov shook in Stalin’s presence, not because he had difficulty composing himself but because he suffered from Parkinson’s disease.)¹²⁸ Ribbentrop brought a document signed by Hitler that accorded him “full power” to sign a state treaty.¹²⁹ The Nazi foreign minister’s great worry—besides contracting diarrhea from Soviet unsanitariness—was that he would be confronted by the fait accompli of an Anglo-French-Soviet military accord. Ribbentrop further worried that the wily Bolsheviks would drag out negotiations with him.

At the Berghof, having dismissed Henderson, Hitler nervously paced the terrace and sought omens over the majestic Salzburg mountains: the sky was said to go from turquoise to violet to fire red.¹³⁰ For weeks, Stalin had known that a German attack on Poland was imminent, from his intelligence sources, his Berlin chargé d’affaires, Astakhov, and even Schulenburg. Hitler’s recklessness afforded the despot enormous leverage, and he used it. Ribbentrop had sent a formal proposal on spheres of influence on the eve of the French-British military’s arrival in Moscow, but Stalin substituted his own text, which Hitler accepted.¹³¹ The two parties agreed—in the event of an unspecified conflict in Poland—to a mutual demarcation line across the country, right through Warsaw. Germany declared its “disinterest” in Romania’s Bessarabia. Stalin’s sphere of influence also included Finland, Estonia, and Latvia; Hitler was to get Lithuania. But now Stalin wanted Lithuania’s ice-free ports, Liepaja (Libau) and Ventspils (Windau). The talks adjourned so that Ribbentrop could rush to the embassy, where, at 8:05 p.m. Moscow time, he sent a telegram to Hitler, via the German foreign ministry, describing a Soviet request for Libau and Windau as “the decisive point for the final result.” The response came back with Hitler’s assent, and with such rapidity that it shocked his embassy staff.¹³² The Nazi foreign minister had even been authorized, if necessary, to grant a Soviet interest in the Turkish Straits, but Stalin had not thought to make the request.¹³³

By 10:00 p.m. Ribbentrop was back at the Kremlin with Hitler’s latest concession, on Lithuania. In the one alteration to Stalin’s draft that the Führer had been able to introduce, the Pact came into effect immediately upon signing, not ratification. The spheres of influence were written up in a secret protocol: territorially, the Germans got only what they would fight for.

The two sides discussed the Anti-Comintern Pact, which Ribbentrop avowed was not directed against the USSR. He volunteered to bring Berlin’s good graces to bear for improved Soviet-Japanese relations. Stalin replied that there were limits to Soviet patience in the face of Tokyo’s provocations; that the Soviets were ready to go to war if necessary; and that any German approach to Tokyo should not be made to seem a Soviet initiative. On Italy, Stalin inquired whether it might have aspirations beyond small, thinly populated Albania—perhaps for Greek territory. Ribbentrop answered that Albania was not insignificant, and that Mussolini was a strongman who could not be intimidated and welcomed improved German-Soviet relations.¹³⁴ During a break, as the final texts were written up in German and Russian, Stalin, Molotov, and Ribbentrop confirmed their solidarity by trashing the British.¹³⁵

Stalin mentioned that the British foreign office official John Simon, in confidential talks with Germany, had discussed a division of Europe into spheres of influence and had placed Soviet territory into the Nazi sphere. Ribbentrop was taken aback: these conversations were known to only a very narrow circle in Berlin. It was evident that Stalin had spies high up in the German foreign ministry, a problem to be addressed once back home.¹³⁶ For now, shared Anglophobia, undergirded by a shared antiliberalism, like a shared Griff nach der Weltmacht (at British expense), made for a heady cocktail. To the husband of the heiress to the Henkell champagne fortune, Stalin had lifted a glass of Soviet champagne, stating, “I know how much the German people love their Führer, and that is why I have the pleasure of drinking to his health!”¹³⁷ Still, when a giddy Ribbentrop tried to insert an effusive section into the text about German-Soviet friendship, Stalin refused. “Do you not think we should take a little more account of public opinion in both our countries?” he asked Ribbentrop. “For many years now, we have been pouring buckets of shit over each other’s head.”

Signatures were affixed at around 2:00 a.m. on August 24, a mere thirteen hours after Ribbentrop had landed.¹³⁸ He phoned Hitler from Molotov’s office with the news. “Convey my congratulations to Herr Stalin, the Führer of the Soviet people,” Hitler responded.¹³⁹ Stalin did not request the receiver, and Hitler did not ask to speak directly to him. Stalin toasted Hitler (“To the health of the Führer”).¹⁴⁰ Molotov toasted Stalin. “The atmosphere, which had been pleasant, became warmly convivial,” according to a German official present. “The ruler of Russia filled his guests’ glasses himself, offered them cigarettes and even to light them.”¹⁴¹

Photographers had been let in to record the moment for history. Hitler had sent his personal photographer so that the Führer could study Stalin’s surroundings as well as his physiognomy, for Hitler was anxious to ascertain whether Stalin’s earlobes were “ingrown and Jewish, or separate and Aryan”?¹⁴²

Lenin had condemned treaties with secret protocols and spheres of influence as “agreements between robbers behind people’s backs.” Not a mention of the Pact negotiations, even obliquely, was recorded in politburo minutes.¹⁴³ The basic text was published in Pravda (August 24, 1939), with stunning photos of Stalin and Molotov alongside the Nazi foreign minister, but without the secret protocol, of course.¹⁴⁴ The Hitler-Stalin Pact lacked a clause of invalidation in the event that one of the signatories attacked a third country. Litvinov had been trumpeting the inclusion of such a provision in Soviet bilateral nonaggression pacts as evidence of moral superiority, thundering that its absence in capitalist nonaggression pacts “means that a state which has secured by such a pact of nonaggression its rear or flank obtains the facility of attacking with impunity third states.”¹⁴⁵ On the German side, the fourteen members of the embassy in Moscow signed an oath never to reveal the secret protocol’s contents. Hans “Johnnie” Herwarth, the second secretary of the German embassy, on August 24, 1939, divulged to American ambassador Charles Bohlen the full contents of the Secret Additional Protocol signed earlier that morning.¹⁴⁶ On the Soviet side, only Stalin, Molotov, and Shaposhnikov, as well as the twenty-four-year-old interpreter, Pavlov, knew. Molotov, when asked publicly, replied that the imperialists used secret protocols all the time—an evasion that was accurate but placed the Soviets in dubious company from their own point of view.¹⁴⁷

Hitler had secured his eastern flank for his attack on Poland, preempted a possible broad anti-German coalition, and obtained insurance against the anticipated Western blockade. And then there was the sheer shock value. “That will hit like a bombshell,” he remarked to those in the Berghof—for once, an understatement.¹⁴⁸

Immediately after the signing, Molotov had repaired with Stalin back to the Little Corner between 2:15 and 3:35 a.m.¹⁴⁹ From there, in the wee hours of August 24, the two headed out to the Near Dacha. Voroshilov and the other cronies had returned there with their ducks from the military’s exclusive Zavidovo Hunting Preserve, seventy miles outside Moscow. Stalin dropped word that he had signed the Pact with the Nazis, which would allow the Soviets to determine the fate of the Baltic states, Bessarabia, and Finland and to obtain a chunk of Poland, a strategic Soviet sphere of influence and a buffer to protect the socialist homeland. Unlike what had been proposed with the Western powers, moreover, the Pact imposed no obligations on the Soviet Union to fight a war; it was not a military alliance. The treaty also drove a wedge between Germany and Japan: not only had Hitler failed to complete the negotiations with Tokyo to convert the Anti-Comintern Pact into an anti-Soviet military alliance, but he had violated the Anti-Comintern Pact’s provision that its signatories would conclude no political agreements with the Soviet Union without first consulting one another. Stalin (as Zhukov later recalled) “was sure that he had twisted Hitler around his finger.”¹⁵⁰

CRUSHING MILITARY DISPLAY

On the Mongolia-Manchukuo border, denouement approached. Grigory Stern, at district headquarters in Chita, Siberia, had drawn up a plan for an offensive involving a double envelopment, encircling the Japanese while pinning them frontally. Zhukov, who would execute the plan on Mongolia’s desert steppes, in a salient forty-five miles wide and twelve miles deep, had prepared meticulously. Logistics were nightmarish in the USSR’s expansive, underpopulated, physically challenging Asian territory, extending into Mongolia, remote from Soviet industrial centers, but 4,000 trucks had bridged the 400-mile gap from the nearest railhead to support what would be the Soviets’ first massive battlefield application of tanks and aircraft. Japan’s full-scale invasion of China had altered the strategic calculus to Soviet advantage, a fact that the Kwantung Army, which was not fighting in China, ignored. China absorbed far more of Japan’s strength—28 of the 36 Japanese divisions on the Asian mainland—than Spain had of Nazi Germany’s (which had supported an indigenous insurgency, not fought a war of conquest).¹⁵¹ That was one reason the Tokyo high command had blocked the Kwantung Army’s plan for a massive offensive, approving operations merely for evicting the Soviets from the Halha, a fact that became known to Soviet military intelligence: Hotsumi Ozaki, the leftist functionary in the Japanese cabinet who belonged to Sorge’s spy ring, had learned that Japan’s leaders, consumed with China, were adamant that the conflict with the Soviets not escalate. Whether this further emboldened Stalin cannot be established, but the despot, and the Red Army, were already thinking big.

Cloud cover interfered with aerial reconnaissance, hindering Japanese efforts to enumerate Soviet forces. The Kwantung Army resorted to observation balloons, the first of which a Soviet fighter plane shredded with a machine gun a few hours after it went aloft. Zhukov, in any case, had camouflaged his buildup of a huge strike force. He and his team installed artificial noise machines to induce the Japanese to react to ghosts, thereby inuring them to loud sounds and enabling the Soviets to move equipment (which sounded just like the artificial noise). Zhukov also had weapons and men transferred to frontline jumping-off points only at night. Knowing that the Japanese were tapping telephone lines and intercepting radio traffic, Zhukov had disinformation spread, in easily broken code, about the Soviets’ purely defensive stance and their preparations for possible military operations in the autumn.¹⁵² The Soviets had detailed intelligence on the location and movement of all Japanese troops in Manchukuo.¹⁵³ True, Zhukov, showing Stalin-like suspicion, deemed much of the intelligence forwarded to him speculative. So he organized his own ground combat reconnaissance, as well as fighter plane photography. Finally, learning that the Japanese allowed officers to take leaves on Sundays, Zhukov unleashed the full force of the First Army Group across the Halha on Sunday, August 20, at 5:45 a.m.¹⁵⁴ The Red Army achieved decisive operational surprise.¹⁵⁵

Japanese intelligence continually, egregiously underestimated Soviet capabilities—because of not only Zhukov’s disinformation but also their own prejudices and the reports, a year before, by the defector Lyushkov, whose revelations reinforced the Japanese’s condescending racism. The biggest oversights concerned precisely what Lyushkov had downplayed: the scale and firepower of mechanized corps and long-range artillery. Indeed, although the Japanese had numerical superiority on the borderland—perhaps 75,000 troops to Zhukov’s 57,000—the Soviets had a colossal advantage in armor: almost 600 tanks, more than 500 artillery pieces, 515 fighter planes.¹⁵⁶ Soviet-built heavy tanks came off assembly lines in numbers, and enjoyed clear superiority to the lighter Japanese models. More prosaically, the Soviets ingeniously used simple piano wires to trap Japanese tanks, immobilizing them long enough that they could be finished off—the kind of resourcefulness used when one does not underestimate one’s foe. Mongolia’s open grassland and low sandy hills, moreover, proved highly conducive to mechanized warfare (the opposite of the lesson the Soviets had learned in Spain’s urbanized areas), and Zhukov managed the feat of coordinating combined tank, motorized infantry, artillery, and aircraft warfare. This sophistication of strategy, tactics, and generalship surprised the Japanese, too. No less extraordinary was Soviet transport of thousands of tons of ammunition, food, and fuel over the primitive roads—more than 1,300 truckloads daily from the Transbaikal military district.¹⁵⁷ The Japanese soldiers, without even water, would take to soaking up the night dew with their towels and chewing.¹⁵⁸

Japan’s cult of fighting “spirit,” its piecemeal commitment of forces, pathetic ground support, inferior ordnance, and poor logistics, combined with its no-surrender doctrine, even in the face of superior firepower, to produce catastrophe.¹⁵⁹ Stalin had always gotten lucky in his nemeses—Trotsky-Zinoviev-Kamenev-Bukharin, and now the Kwantung Army. He also got lucky in Zhukov, whom the despot evidently had never even met, but who showed himself a self-assured corps commander whose operational mastery exposed Japan’s unsophistication in mobile warfare. To be sure, failure for Zhukov at the Halha River could have meant death in NKVD cellars.¹⁶⁰ But then again, that was true for every Soviet commander. He proved to be willing to assume great responsibility and risk. He was decisive, unsentimental, even ruthless—like Stalin. On the third day of the heavily armored offensive, when the Japanese managed to dig in on a strategic hill, causing enormous Soviet casualties, Stern suggested to Zhukov that he halt for a few days to gather forces. Zhukov rudely rejected the idea.¹⁶¹

The very next day, August 24, 1939, as Ribbentrop departed Moscow, the Japanese attempted a desperate broad-daylight frontal assault with no prior scouting or artillery or aerial softening up. This was the beginning of a literal suicide wave. Japanese commanding officers would order their soldiers to take their own lives rather than be captured. Just a week in, on August 28, Zhukov telegrammed Voroshilov: “The Japanese-Manchurian troops that violated the border of the Mongolian People’s Republic . . . have been completely surrounded and annihilated.”¹⁶²

The Japanese suffered 18,000 casualties (8,000 killed, 8,800 wounded, 1,200 sick), but the Red Army, in victory, lost even more—9,703 killed and 15,952 wounded, nearly 40 percent of its deployment.¹⁶³ Still, the entire Halha River had been cleared of Japanese by industrialized brute face, applied with no regard to costs. The thirty-nine-year-old Stern, as the senior-ranking commander and a Central Committee member, headed the list of newly named “Heroes of the Soviet Union.” The forty-three-year-old Zhukov, in his hero citation, was recognized as “a brilliant organizer, a person of unbending willpower and boundless courage.”¹⁶⁴ The text could have added a burning desire to clear his name from the scurrilous denunciations during the terror, and win Stalin’s favor.¹⁶⁵

SHOCK WAVES

Zhukov’s thrashing of the ineptly led Kwantung Army delivered a trove of captured Japanese operational documents and codes, and a blow to its reputation.¹⁶⁶ “We were quite shocked by the results,” the influential Asahi Shimbun would concede.¹⁶⁷ The Japanese, as Stalin heard from his ambassador, as well as from the military intelligence spy Sorge, were also shell-shocked by Hitler’s Pact with their enemy.¹⁶⁸ The disgraced government in Tokyo fell. The outgoing prime minister, who had misinformed the emperor, called the German-Soviet deal “intricate and baffling.”¹⁶⁹

But the Soviet Pact also produced shock waves right at home. Some proletarians wept at news of the agreement.¹⁷⁰ Thanks in large measure to the civil war in Spain, antifascism (understood globally), not just anticapitalism, had become a pillar of the Communist idea, Soviet identity, and domestic and global loyalties. Veterans of the Spanish civil war wondered why they had fought and left so many fallen comrades behind if the USSR was only going to go on to sign a pact with Nazism. Ehrenburg, who was still in Paris as a correspondent for Izvestiya, claimed he had lost his appetite—for eight months.¹⁷¹ Tukhachevsky and other top Soviet military men and intelligence agents had been shot for alleged links to the German military, while the vivid caricatures of Boris Yefimov had memorably depicted Trotsky as dancing arm in arm with Hitler. “Destroying the party and decapitating the army” as alleged agents of Hitler, Trotsky wrote, “Stalin is now openly advancing his candidacy for the role . . . of Hitler’s main agent.”¹⁷²

Stalin did not stage a Central Committee plenum to rubber-stamp the Pact or have the press blare the usual mass affirmations at factories and collective farms. The Comintern absorbed yet another moral and psychological blow. “The publication of photographs of Bolsheviks smiling at Nazis and the announcement that Germany and the USSR had signed a pact stupefied us,” wrote Jesús Hernández, who had joined the Spanish Communist party in 1922, at age fifteen, and spent more than five years in prison for it.¹⁷³ A stunned Georgi Dimitrov had sent Stalin, Zhdanov, and Molotov a summary of Western Communist reactions, cherry-picking anything supportive of Moscow’s position, but pleaded for an audience with Stalin to help him with the “exceptional difficulties” in instructing Communist parties globally.¹⁷⁴ Stalin would receive him in the Little Corner on September 7, in the company of Molotov and Zhdanov. “A war is on between two groups of capitalist countries—(poor and rich as regards colonies, raw materials, and so forth)—for the redivision of the world, for the domination of the world!” the despot gloated. “We see nothing wrong in their having a good fight and weakening each other. It would be fine if at the hands of Germany the position of the richest capitalist countries (especially England) were shaken.”¹⁷⁵

Stalin further stated in the Little Corner that “the division of capitalist states into fascist and democratic no longer makes sense.” Such a division had never held much meaning for him even when, in 1935, he had allowed the Comintern to announce a popular front against fascism, which, in the form of Nazi Germany, had become objectively progressive: “Hitler, without understanding it or desiring it, is shaking and undermining the capitalist system.”¹⁷⁶

Soviet propaganda turned on a dime. Nearly half of all expressly antifascist Soviet films (a mere thirteen in total since 1928) had appeared between late 1938 and early 1939, and all of those depicted Germany as the aggressive country—none better than Alexander Nevsky, Eisenstein’s first completed film in more than a decade.¹⁷⁷ With a score by Prokofyev and USSR People’s Artist Nikolai Cherkasov in the main role, the patriotic epic portrayed the Teutonic Knights’ thirteenth-century invasion of Great Novgorod, their capture of Pskov (owing to a traitor), and their eventual defeat by Prince Alexander, who rallies the common people in a decisive “Battle on the Ice,” set to stirring music. Nevsky had premiered on December 1, 1938, and in April 1939 the head of the state cinematography committee reported that 23 million people had seen it.¹⁷⁸ “It came out not bad, it seems,” Stalin had written on the screenplay, but after the Pact was signed, he had the film pulled.¹⁷⁹

Many Communists and foreign fellow travelers who had explained away the monstrous terror, often in the name of antifascism, now broke with the cause. “Everybody else in the world, the Social Democrats, the liberals, the conservatives, had their opinions, but we, the Marxist-Leninists, we had a scientific world outlook,” recalled Wolfgang Leonhard, a German Communist studying in Moscow in the second half of the 1930s. “We knew the fundamental answer to the riddle of the past, present, and future, for all nations and for all countries.”¹⁸⁰ But a deal with the Nazis crystallized Leonhard’s gathering doubts: “The mighty workers’ movement in Central Europe was in ruins; Hitler’s tanks dominated Europe; Lenin’s comrades-in-arms during the Russian Revolution had all been shot as spies; the Spanish Republic had been abandoned by the European democracies, its revolutionary movement stabbed in the back by Soviet agents; and finally Stalin had concluded a pact with Hitler.”¹⁸¹ Even many who wanted to remain loyal struggled to do so. “It was actually shameful, and we weren’t able to overcome this feeling of shame for a long time,” said the German Communist Ruth von Mayenburg, who traveled in secret from Moscow to Nazi Germany on life-risking missions. “One had to mobilize one’s Marxist concept of imperialism, of international struggles, of everything, in order to deceive oneself about this matter of conscience.”¹⁸²

Here, again, we see the core of Communism’s extraordinary power: its rootedness in beliefs and personal biographies, which, however, also made for its extreme vulnerability. To be sure, for those loyalists less preoccupied with Communist dogma, the Pact spurred elaborate great-power fantasies. “Perhaps we have preserved the last word,” Vishnevsky, the playwright who headed the military commission of the writers’ union, wrote in his diary after reading the announcement of the Pact in the newspaper. “In the event of war, we’ll enter last. And—it is utterly possible—we shall strike that very Germany.” Three days later, he wrote, “1) We win time; we shall observe the military prowess of countries in reality; 2) we’ll acquire experience, of much greater value than in Spain and China.” He went on to suggest the possibility of using the Pact to smash Japan for good and obtain advantageous proposals from France and Britain, and he concluded that “Germany could not be trusted: it has violated many agreements.” He foresaw an expansion of Soviet interests in the Carpathians and Balkans and on the Black Sea, in Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Romania. “It is difficult to guess how the game will turn out,” he wrote in his diary. “But one thing is clear: the world will be reshaped. . . . This is a new chapter in the history of the party and the country. The USSR has begun an activist global policy.”¹⁸³

Beria did his part, imposing a ban on the taunting of Gulag prisoners as “fascists.”¹⁸⁴ Molotov, at the USSR Supreme Soviet on August 31, denounced the “shortsighted people in our country” who were “carried away by simplistic antifascist propaganda.” Still, publicly, if obliquely, he acknowledged the confusion and consternation. “People ask, with an air of innocence, how could the Soviet Union consent to improve political relations with a state of the fascist type?” he allowed. Nonetheless, he could not help gloating. “If these gentlemen have such an irresistible desire to go to war,” Molotov said of the British and the French, “well, then, let them go to war by themselves, without the Soviet Union. (Laughter and cheers.)” He added, “We have never had any equally advantageous economic agreement with Great Britain, France, or any other country.”¹⁸⁵ The Supreme Soviet “ratified” the Pact unanimously. German ambassador Schulenburg was right, however, when he reported to Berlin (September 6) that “the distrust expressed toward Germany over many years cannot be eradicated that quickly, despite the effective counter-propaganda [of late] conducted at party and factory meetings.”¹⁸⁶

Among staunch Nazis, the shock and disgust were no less severe than at the Comintern. “A moral loss of respect in the light of our now twenty-year struggle,” despaired Alfred Rosenberg, one of Hitler’s principal tutors in anti-Bolshevism and anti-Semitism, who blamed Ribbentrop for the betrayal. Hitler assured his photographer, Hoffmann—who relayed word of dismay among the Nazi faithful—that “my party members know and trust me,” but the front garden at the Brown House, the national headquarters of the Nazi party in Munich, was littered with badges and insignia thrown away by the disillusioned.¹⁸⁷ By contrast, Ernst Köstring, the German military attaché in Moscow, paid a call on the external relations department of the general staff to congratulate the Red Army on the Pact. He had not been part of the Kremlin negotiations, but now he asserted that he had proposed a Soviet-German Pact already five years earlier, and that Ribbentrop—who was getting all the credit—had doubted the possibility of success right up “until he met personally with the great figure of comrade Stalin.”¹⁸⁸

STRATEGIC CHOICES

In the West, the Pact exploded with concussive force. “All the isms,” a British foreign office spokesman soon quipped, “are now wasms.” Chamberlain indignantly wrote to his sister Hilda (August 27) of “Russian treachery.”¹⁸⁹ Admiral Drax, too, would attribute the failure of his negotiations to Soviet bad faith, accusing Moscow of seeking talks with Britain and France merely to scare up a better deal with Hitler, a rich accusation from the British side. Still, Drax was partly correct: Stalin had effectively organized an auction for a sphere of influence in Eastern Europe. In the event, the British made no offer. Whatever Stalin’s preferences, Hitler presented not just the better deal, but the only deal. Daladier, known as the Bull of Vaucluse, had instructed General Doumenc to “bring us back an accord—at any price,” but whether a bold French initiative to break with democratic Britain could have produced a binding bilateral military alliance with the undemocratic Soviet Union remains unclear.¹⁹⁰ The French, in any case, remained joined at the hip to the British, and the latter were immovable.¹⁹¹

Chamberlain wanted to prevent further Nazi aggression, but, through thick and thin, he had held fast to his policy of conciliation with Hitler. It is not difficult to condemn the vain, overly self-confident, obdurate British PM.¹⁹² But Chamberlain’s goals of avoiding war and safeguarding the empire were widely shared.¹⁹³ And although Stalin had offered a deal, the despot did not exactly inspire trust. Indeed, unlike many of his critics (then and subsequently), Chamberlain understood that the Soviet Union was a terrifying menace, writing to his sister and sounding board, “I distrust [the Soviet Union’s] motives which seem to me to have little connection with our ideas of liberty.”¹⁹⁴ The PM’s worst nightmare was well founded: that if Britain invited the Soviets to help beat back Hitler, Stalin would take advantage, and Communism would end up occupying the heart of Europe.¹⁹⁵

Of course, had Chamberlain confronted Hitler before the latter’s seizure of Austria or of Czechoslovakia, when the Wehrmacht was weak, the PM would have had far less need to rely on the Red Army (as opposed to merely threatening Germany with a British-Soviet united opposition), but before those armed actions, few people understood who Hitler really was. Chamberlain contributed to but did not create what was a genuine dilemma: whether to work with Hitler’s professed desire not to dominate all Europe or to facilitate Stalin’s suspected desire, if invited, to encroach into Central Europe.

As a traditional conservative, Chamberlain was disgusted by Nazism, and he privately described Hitler as “the blackest devil he had ever met.”¹⁹⁶ But because the PM was unwilling to ally with Stalin, the result was not just the Munich debacle, which had severely narrowed his options, but the two-faced guarantee to Poland, the wishful thinking that Hitler might calm down once all the Germans lived under one roof or be removed by Germans worried about the socioeconomic costs of his adventurism, or, barring all that, that Germany might even serve as a bulwark against the dangerous Communists.¹⁹⁷ Such views seem delusional, but Chamberlain was hardly alone in holding them. George Kennan, the American foreign service officer in Moscow, made precisely the same argument regarding Hitler—he merely wanted to unite all Germans—and precisely the same contrast with the supposedly graver threat of Communism.¹⁹⁸ Kennan, too, was wrong, however. Hitler was at least as great a threat as Stalin. Up until 1939, Stalin had been by far the more murderous, and Communism had a clearly stated global ambition as well as party members and fellow travelers in all the main countries, but Stalin was more susceptible to deterrence than Hitler.

Despite Stalin’s domestic house of horrors, as well as the Comintern’s unscrupulous, albeit often pitiful, machinations abroad, the main armed, expansionist power seeking domination of Europe was Nazi Germany (and in Asia, Japan). Hitler’s Versailles revisionism was limitless; Stalin’s was limited to opportunities others might present. Chamberlain’s final, related error, also self-serving, was his belief that the decapitated Red Army could not really fight anyway.¹⁹⁹ Of course, the Red Army was fighting, showing its mettle against Japan all throughout the 1939 Soviet negotiations with Britain and France.

Figuring out a way to both engage and contain Stalin would not have been simple, but it was the strategic choice among two odious options, if only because Hitler’s rabid revisionism would be vastly empowered should the Nazi leader reach his own understanding with a spurned Stalin. Here, too, Chamberlain and much of the British establishment had been smug.²⁰⁰ The defector Krivitsky, a top intelligence operative for the Soviets in Europe, had in 1938 warned MI5 of Stalin’s strenuous efforts at a Soviet-German rapprochement. Additionally, General Karl Bodenschatz, for a time the military adjutant to Göring and his liaison to Hitler, relayed the fact of secret Nazi-Soviet talks to London. Foreign Secretary Halifax—no friend of Communism—had warned Chamberlain and the cabinet as early as May 3, 1939, that Stalin and Hitler could cut a deal. But at a cabinet meeting on July 19, according to the minutes, “the Prime Minister said that he could not bring himself to believe that a real alliance between Russia and Germany was possible.”²⁰¹ Even at this point, there was time for the British government. Hitler did not begin his definitive move to Stalin until late July/early August, when the war to annihilate Poland—the traditional hinge of German-Russian relations—was just weeks away.²⁰²

MORE SURPRISES

Hitler’s decision making appears linear only in retrospect. He was a gambler, but also a vacillator. He seems to have assumed that the Pact with Stalin would force the British and the French to back down over Poland, an assertion that Ribbentrop parroted, as did almost all the ingratiating German reports out of London and Paris. When Dirksen, the German ambassador to London, changed his tune, his communications stopped reaching Hitler.²⁰³ It is not clear whether anyone brought the Führer information that contradicted what he wanted to hear.²⁰⁴ “The people in the streets,” William Shirer, in Berlin, recorded in his diary on August 24, 1939, “are still confident Hitler will pull it off again without war.”²⁰⁵ But after the Pact was made public, the British and French governments publicly reaffirmed their commitments to Poland, hoping, for their part, that these renewed pledges would force Hitler to back down, averting war.²⁰⁶ In fact, Hitler did now hesitate.

Hitler—still hopeful of averting a pan-European war by scaring or enticing Britain into backing down from defense of Poland—had heeded the advice of Ribbentrop and once more had British ambassador Henderson summoned to the Chancellery. During a meeting on August 25, that commenced at 1:00 p.m. and lasted about an hour, Hitler denounced Chamberlain’s recent restatement in Parliament of the guarantee for Poland, but he also divulged that he was still prepared to make “a large comprehensive offer” to guarantee the continued existence of the British empire with German troops after he had “solved” the urgent Polish problem. Hitler called this “his last offer.” He suggested that Henderson fly immediately to London, putting a plane at his disposal. The Führer had always trained something of a jealous eye on Britain’s empire and power, and remained open to some sort of bargain, but only on the basis of full British acquiescence to his domination of the continent.²⁰⁷ Henderson insisted that any bilateral deal would require that German differences with Poland be settled through negotiations, a concession Hitler refused. “The chancellor,” Henderson would report, “spoke with calm and apparent sincerity.”²⁰⁸

Henderson would fly off to London on the Hitler-supplied plane, carrying his “last offer,” but only on the next day (August 26).²⁰⁹ Already at 3:02 p.m. on August 25, mere minutes after the ambassador’s exit from the Chancellery, Hitler issued the final order to proceed with military action against Poland before dawn the next morning.²¹⁰ But then, only four and a half hours later, Hitler called the invasion off. Frantic desist orders went out to chief of staff Halder, who was already in his command bunker south of Berlin.²¹¹ German soldiers on the front lines, when told to stand down, remarked that “Hitler got cold feet.”²¹²

It was the duce—the sole leader who had once stood up to Hitler.

Mussolini, essentially consulting no one in his own government, had signed the Pact of Steel with Germany, so Italy was on the hook for war. Now he pledged support for a war over Poland but wrote that Italy did not command the resources for a war against France and Britain. He also noted that he had been kept in the dark about the deal with Stalin. Hitler had been sure of a favorable reply from Rome. When the Italian ambassador arrived at the Reich Chancellery bearing Mussolini’s letter, only an hour or so had elapsed since the Führer had given the order for war.²¹³ Italy’s demurral was inconsequential for the German plan of battle, but it did remove a cudgel to induce France and Britain to back down and, no less consequentially, could damage Hitler’s prestige. “The Führer ponders and contemplates,” Goebbels recorded in his diary. “That’s a serious blow for him.”²¹⁴ Mussolini’s was not the only unpleasant news. The French ambassador, Coulondre, had also been summoned to the Chancellery, and he had stated to Hitler that German reports of Polish atrocities against ethnic Germans were exaggerated and that France would honor its commitments to Poland. Additionally, Ribbentrop had reported word out of London of a new mutual assistance treaty, just signed between Britain and Poland.²¹⁵

When Göring, in the Chancellery that day, asked whether the war had been canceled or just postponed, Hitler vowed to continue to break off the Western powers from Poland, in order to fight only a local war.²¹⁶ General Walther von Brauchitsch, Wehrmacht commander in chief, judged that Hitler genuinely did not know what to do.²¹⁷ Could the Führer really back down in front of his military inner circle, the German people, and the world? Would he risk a world war over Polish territories that he likely could obtain via negotiations? Chamberlain continued to relay offers of Polish territory to Germany that the Poles had explicitly rejected. Ribbentrop rightly surmised that the British PM was looking for a way out of his commitment.²¹⁸ Even if Hitler insisted on fighting a war, would it not have made the most strategic sense to accept British offers regarding Danzig and the Polish Corridor, which would have elicited the Polish government’s rejection and thereby given Britain and presumably France a firm pretext to renounce their “guarantees” for Poland’s independence and stand aside?

Germany, not Poland, had ended up nearly isolated. On August 26, 1939, Mussolini conveyed another message to Berlin: he would intervene “immediately”—if Germany supplied Italy with 7 million tons of gasoline, 6 million tons of coal, and 2 million tons of steel, among other greedy, impossible desiderata.²¹⁹ Hitler could expect nothing from his other formal Anti-Comintern ally, Japan, which remained mired in the war with China and now had allowed itself to become enmeshed in a losing border clash with the USSR, too. With neither Italy nor Japan willing or able to lend support and solidarity, suddenly only Stalin and the “Judeo-Bolsheviks” were on the Führer’s side. Grand strategy, stranger than fiction.

At the Pact’s signing, Stalin had mischievously proposed a toast to “the new Anti-Cominternist—Stalin” (then apparently winked at Molotov). But upon parting, in utmost earnestness, the despot had told Ribbentrop, “The Soviet Government takes the new Pact very seriously. It can give its word of honor that the Soviet Union will never betray its partner.”²²⁰ Here was the real “pact of steel.”

Hitler reinstated his battle orders. His thought processes remain opaque. “In my life,” Hitler told Göring on August 29, “I’ve always gone for broke.”²²¹ That same day, a resolute Poland wanted to move its troops into their forward positions and declare a general mobilization. Belgium and the Netherlands, which lay in the Nazi path toward France, had already announced general mobilizations on August 23 and 28, respectively, and no one had requested they reconsider, but the British and the French urged Warsaw to withhold an announcement in order to allow for a possible last-ditch Nazi climbdown, with “negotiations” to follow if conducted without menace. But Goebbels recorded in his diary that “the Führer views England as still taking an uncompromising stance. We must not blink.”²²² On August 31, Hitler ordered a doubling of production of a new long-range “wonder bomber” (the Ju 88) for use against Britain and its empire.

That same evening, a preplanned Nazi provocation created a casus belli against Poland: SS troops dressed in Polish uniforms attacked a German border post and a German radio station, killing seven people (six prisoners brought from Sachsenhausen concentration camp and one pro-Polish German supplied by the Gestapo) and broadcasting briefly in Polish.²²³ On September 1, after an air bombardment before dawn, 62 Wehrmacht divisions—nearly 1.5 million men—ripped into Poland, in Hitler’s biggest yet roll of what Bismarck had called the “iron dice.”

THE DISTRUST

The Führer arrived at the Kroll Opera House at 10:00 a.m. on September 1 to address the Reichstag (which had only been summoned at 3:00 a.m.). He was treated to standing ovations. British and French diplomatic notes delivered that day in Berlin threatened war—if the German government failed to “agree” to withdraw its forces from Poland and “express readiness” to negotiate. When queried whether their notes of September 1 constituted an ultimatum, the British and the French explicitly stated no.²²⁴ Mussolini, partly to save face, had intervened yet again to float the idea of an international conference, which Chamberlain had already suggested to Hitler (London was communicating with Rome).²²⁵ While the French were seeking time to evacuate Paris and the frontier zones and to puzzle out their prospective moves, the two Western powers were also trying to coordinate their military mobilizations, and a certain chaos ensued in Britain’s Parliament. Finally, on September 3, after Hitler had continued to obfuscate on the peace feelers while pressing his military invasion, and the House of Commons exploded in revolt at Chamberlain and Halifax, first Britain and then France (Daladier) declared war on Germany. Hitler was said to be “stunned.”²²⁶ In fact, he was aware that the British and the French would have to declare war. But he could not back down at this point.²²⁷ For Germany and its racial destiny, in any case, he had concluded that a war to vanquish the West was inevitable at some point.²²⁸

Incredibly, the Polish regime had failed to prepare a full-fledged war plan in the event of a German attack, even after the Nazi seizure of Czechoslovakia had made the path to Warsaw that much easier. Poland’s contingency planning was focused on a war against the Soviet Union. Most of Poland’s military supply bases remained in its western regions, considered the rear.²²⁹ Now, rather than establish a line of defense in depth on the Vistula that could be held, Poland massed its forces forward, in the Poznań salient, troops that were encircled and annihilated. Already on September 3, Wehrmacht units in the north had crossed the entire Corridor and linked up with German East Prussia. On the same day, Ribbentrop cabled Schulenburg in Moscow to gently urge the Soviet Union to occupy its sphere of Poland “at the proper time,” as agreed in the Pact, adding that “this would be a relief to us.”²³⁰ Of course, his goal was not to gain assistance for the Wehrmacht in its war effort, but to fatally poison relations between the USSR and the Western powers. (Heydrich enthused to his subordinates, “Then Britain would be obliged to declare war on Russia, too.”) Molotov was noncommittal. Poland had an army of around 39 divisions and 16 cavalry brigades, plus reserves, while Hitler had mobilized 54 divisions (out of about 80 total at the time). Stalin was waiting to see how well the German offensive went. In the event, the Luftwaffe would end up losing almost as many planes as the small Polish air force; the Luftwaffe would also expend its entire stock of bombs, while fully one quarter of Germany’s tank park would be knocked out of commission or outright destroyed.²³¹

Stalin, no less than the Polish government, was also waiting to see what concrete military actions Britain and France would undertake. As it happened, those actions proved to be minimal (indicating, perhaps, what the USSR, too, would have received from the Western powers in an alliance against Germany). The British instituted a blockade of Germany but shrank from bombing even Germany’s airfields, despite an explicit commitment to Poland to do so. The air attack plans had been quietly abandoned for fear of provoking Luftwaffe retaliation on Britain—but the Poles had not been informed. Similarly, the French government had agreed, in the protocol signed with Poland back on May 19, 1939, to commence military action against Germany within fifteen days of the start of a war, but then, in consultation with Britain, France subsequently decided it would not do so—also without informing Poland. France’s 110 divisions did not storm into Germany, which was protected by fewer than 30 divisions, perhaps 12 of them combat ready. The entire sum of French action consisted of a small attack on the Saarland, even though, privately, Wehrmacht chief of staff Halder admitted that he could not have prevented the French from occupying the Ruhr, Germany’s industrial heartland, had they moved expeditiously.²³² As France instead hunkered down against an anticipated German attack, the Poles were left to fight alone.²³³ The Polish government, in a demoralizing move, abandoned Warsaw beginning on September 5, in a chaotic evacuation southeast, by steps, toward the frontier with Romania—planning, if necessary, to try to travel on to the West and return on the backs of Western military might.

Stalin did not know for sure that the French and the British had effectively written Poland off militarily even before the war had been launched. He was also hypercautious not to walk into a Nazi trap. On September 3, the same day Ribbentrop had tasked Schulenburg, in Moscow, with ascertaining Soviet plans for Poland, Stalin’s latest ambassador to Berlin, Alexei Shkvartsev, the former head of the textile institute, was ceremoniously received at the Chancellery. When the envoy presented his credentials to Hitler, in the presence of Göring and Ribbentrop, the Führer remarked, “The German nation is fortunate to have signed the Soviet-German Non-Aggression Pact. This Pact will serve the cause of the commonwealth of these two nations in both the political and economic arenas.” Hitler vowed to uphold all the obligations he had undertaken, but he declined to provide any information on the course of his campaign in Poland.²³⁴ Would the Wehrmacht actually halt at the line agreed upon in the just-signed Pact? Would they even stop at the Polish border?²³⁵

The fact remained that both the Japanese and the German armies—two of the world’s biggest, and both bordering on the Soviet Union—were on the move at the same time.

Ribbentrop’s requests for the USSR to invade Poland became “urgent,” but Stalin needed to be sure of the battlefield and of German intentions, not to mention the need to publicly justify Soviet participation in a new partition.²³⁶ On September 5, the USSR rejected a request from Poland for military supplies and transit of war matériel, citing a desire not to be dragged into war. Two days later, directives for the initial Red Army mobilization in the Belorussian and Ukrainian military districts, bordering Poland, were issued.²³⁷ On the afternoon of September 9, Stalin had Molotov vaguely inform Schulenburg that the Red Army would be moving into Poland in a matter of days. The next day, a vast Soviet mobilization began. It produced a panicked run on shops, which was not altogether unintended: it let the Germans know the Soviets were moving to a war footing. Also on September 10, Molotov told Schulenburg that the rapidity of the German advance had surprised the Soviets, but that the Red Army had more than 3 million soldiers ready. Molotov’s initial draft of a Soviet declaration of a Red Army move into Poland, which he shared with Schulenburg, referred to the supposed disintegration of the Polish state and the resulting urgent need to aid Ukrainian and Belorussian brothers “threatened” by the German advance. Perhaps it was an unintentional slip. Schulenburg reported this calmly (the final joint communiqué would remove the offending implication), but he informed Berlin that the Soviets were in a quandary over the imminent German victory.²³⁸

On September 11, Voroshilov and Shaposhnikov wrote an order for an invasion to commence on the 14th. But this directive did not go into effect.²³⁹

That Stalin somehow trusted Hitler was laughable, as Hitler himself noted.²⁴⁰ Stalin trusted no one (other than perhaps Abram Isayevich Legner, his Jewish tailor and one of the very few people he deferentially addressed by first name and patronymic).²⁴¹ The despot had tasked one of his aides, Boris Dvinsky, with assembling a reading packet. Stalin did not travel among adoring masses in an open-top car, as Hitler did, or issue impulsive decisions. When not receiving personnel for sessions in the Little Corner, he sat there alone and read. Like Hitler, he commented or doodled on whatever he was reading. One of his most frequent marginal scribblings was “teacher.”²⁴² With Hitler, however, he had been reduced to pupil, and he had better get the lesson right. Perusing the Dvinsky-assembled dossier on Nazism that summer of 1939, Stalin examined the Russian translation of a book by the Englishwoman Dorothy Woodman, Hitler Rearms: An Exposure of Germany’s War Plans (London, 1934), which contained a blistering chapter on the sweeping scale of Nazism’s “ideological preparation for war.” She wrote of Hitler’s bathing an entire country in national hysteria and psychological exultation: molding the general will, transcending the individual. The power of those techniques had to be familiar.

Stalin also consulted an internal Russian translation of Mein Kampf.²⁴³ The Soviet population could not read Hitler’s book, which by now had sold more than 10 million copies internationally. (The Japanese public could read it, but the translator had censored many passages so that Japanese readers would not know that in Hitler’s racial hierarchy, the East Asians were subhumans, too.)²⁴⁴ Stalin directed his inner circle to read Hitler’s text as well.²⁴⁵ Whether they made it through remains unknown, but some at least grasped the existential threat Nazism posed beyond traditional German imperialism. “I forget how many pages I read, but I was unable, morally, to get through the whole thing,” Khrushchev would later recall. “I could not read it because it literally wrenched my gut; I could not look calmly at such delirium; it disgusted me, I did not have the patience, and I put it down without having finished it.”²⁴⁶ Members of the general staff and the foreign affairs commissariat evidently could not manage to finish the text, either, and some did not take Hitler’s ravings at face value.²⁴⁷

Stalin took one of his thick colored pencils and underlined frothy passages in Hitler’s tract about the Nazi Drang nach Osten (“drive toward the east”). For example: “And when we speak of new lands in Europe, we can think only of Russia and her borderlands. . . . The future goal of our foreign policy must be . . . acquiring the territory we need for our German nation.” Stalin further underlined passages in the Russian translation (1935) of Konrad Heiden’s exposé A History of National Socialism (Zurich, 1934). To wit: “Hitler, unable to control himself, simply does not know what he promises; his promises cannot be considered the promises of a solid partner. He breaks his promises as soon as it is in his interest to do so, and all the while continues to view himself as an honest person.”²⁴⁸ Heiden’s singular point was that Hitler’s opponents, as well as his (temporary) allies, dangerously underestimated him. Dvinsky also delivered to Stalin Soviet military intelligence estimates of Nazi German strength: a land army of 3.7 million men, almost half mechanized, 400,000 air force personnel, 60,000 naval personnel, more than 3,000 tanks, 26,000 guns and mortars, 4,000 planes, and 107 warships.²⁴⁹

The Wehrmacht, taking advantage of the Polish army’s lack of mobility and weak communications and control, reached Warsaw’s outskirts in just the second week of fighting. “The operation was carried out like a theatrical performance,” recalled Khrushchev. “The Germans had set up movie cameras ahead of time. The battles were filmed from both land and sea, and they sought to distribute this film as widely as possible in all countries of the world.” Hitler “proposed that Stalin take this film and have it shown through our network of motion picture theaters, to show our audiences how the Germans dealt with Danzig, with Poland, with all of Europe.” Stalin agreed to do so, provided Hitler promised to show an equivalent Soviet film to a mass audience in Germany; Hitler refused. “Nevertheless,” Khrushchev concluded, “this film was sent to us by the Germans, and we took a look at it together with Stalin. It really did have a depressing effect.”²⁵⁰ Although Pravda (September 11, 1939) contrasted Germany’s organizational and technological prowess with the “laughable mouse-like fuss” of Britain and France, scenes of Germany’s military romp in Poland were kept out of Soviet newsreels. Stalin got his own firsthand taste. On September 15, an unidentified airplane crossed into Soviet territory above Olevsk, in Ukraine. It was fired upon by Soviet forces and forced to land; it turned out, Izvestiya reported, to be a German bomber.²⁵¹

WHO WANTS WAR?

Also on September 15, after intense internal bickering and foot-dragging in Tokyo, the Japanese acceded to a cease-fire in the border war. Signed by the ambassador with Molotov, it took effect at 2:00 a.m. on September 16 and was to be followed by a boundary demarcation commission.²⁵² Japan’s military defeat at Nomonhan village had compounded its severe loss of face over its German ally’s nonaggression pact with the USSR.²⁵³ On September 17 at 2:00 a.m., exactly twenty-four hours after the truce had taken effect, Stalin gave German embassy personnel four hours’ notice of a Red Army advance into Poland. “In order to avoid incidents, Stalin urgently requested that we see to it that German planes as of today do not fly east of the Białystok-Brest-Litovsk-Lemberg [Lvov] Line,” Schulenburg reported to Berlin. “Soviet planes would begin today to bomb the district east of Lemberg. I promised to do my best with regard to informing the German Air Force but asked in view of the little time left that Soviet planes not approach the abovementioned line too closely today.” Stalin declined, but he did allow Schulenburg to edit the text of the Soviet statement on Poland for German sensitivities.²⁵⁴

There was no Soviet declaration of war. Potyomkin summoned Polish ambassador Grzybowski at 3:15 a.m. and read aloud a note, in the name of Molotov, unilaterally abrogating the Soviet-Polish nonaggression pact; the envoy refused to take the document.²⁵⁵ Poland’s high command had predicted back in June that the Red Army would attack Poland “only in the final period of a war, when disadvantageous developments had turned against us and the Russian government would have concluded that the Poles had lost the campaign.”²⁵⁶ On the radio, Molotov announced a Soviet military action supposedly necessitated by the disappearance of the Polish state and the possible ensuing chaos. “The Soviet government regards as its sacred duty to proffer help to its Ukrainian and Belorussian brothers in Poland,” he stated.²⁵⁷ In fact, the Polish government continued to function, having relocated to Kuty, in the southeast, on the Polish side of the border with Romania. Although Poland’s high command had effectively lost contact with its armies, the latter retained about 50 percent of their troop strength, and were still fighting the Wehrmacht in central and southeastern Poland.²⁵⁸

Such was the extreme narrowness of the Soviet regime that Nikolai Kuznetsov, the naval commissar, had not been informed beforehand of the Soviet invasion of Poland. He went to Molotov to complain, averring that if he was not trusted, he should not occupy such a high post. “In response, [Molotov] recommended that I read the TASS summaries of foreign news, which he ordered be sent to me from that day,” Kuznetsov recalled. “But is that really the way—the naval commissar should learn about major military and (especially important) political events which affect him, from foreign sources?!”²⁵⁹

German generals, meanwhile, had crossed the secretly agreed-upon German-Soviet demarcation line (which ran along the Pissa, Narew, Vistula, and San rivers). Schulenburg had warned Molotov, back on September 4, that the Wehrmacht, in hot pursuit of Polish forces, might have to cross over temporarily into the Soviet section of Poland. The next day, Molotov had replied in a conciliatory manner, “We understand that as the operations proceed, one of the parties or both parties might be forced temporarily to cross the line of demarcation between the spheres of interest of the two parties; but such cases must not prevent the strict execution of the plan adopted.”²⁶⁰ Whether German generals knew about the Pact’s secret protocol on the precise territorial division remained uncertain, however. Stalin had no guarantee the trespass would be temporary, or that the entire Pact had not been a ruse. When had these Nazis kept their word—over the Munich Pact? General Köstring, in the Little Corner with Schulenburg in the wee hours of September 17, had requested a delay in the Red Army offensive so that the Germans would have time to get out of the way. Stalin had declined. As some 600,000 Red Army troops poured into eastern Poland, they encountered few Polish troops, but some German units came under Soviet fire. Hitler himself was in Poland. He had set out on September 3 in his armored train, Amerika, trailed by weaponized railcars, and traveled through the front in Pomerania and Upper Silesia, on his way to Danzig, which he would reach on September 19.²⁶¹ He billeted, along with Himmler, Ribbentrop, and a huge entourage, at the Kasino Hotel in Sopot (Zoppot, in German), a Baltic Sea resort adjacent to Danzig.

On September 18, Schulenburg reported that Stalin had told him “that on the Soviet side there were certain doubts as to whether the German high command at the appropriate time would stand by the Moscow agreement and would withdraw to the line that had been agreed upon.” In response to assurances, he said that Stalin “replied that he had no doubt at all of the good faith of the German government. His concern was based on the well-known fact that all military men are loath to give up occupied territories.”²⁶² Earlier that day in Berlin, with General Wilhelm Keitel and his chief of operations, Major General Alfred Jodl, away on the eastern campaign, Walter Warlimont, senior operations staff officer, had shown the deputy Soviet military attaché a map indicating that the Lwów/Lviv/Lvov region and its valuable Drohobycz oil fields, as well as a direct train line south from Polish Kołomyja down to Romania, fell within the German sphere. But on the map that Ribbentrop had signed with Molotov in Stalin’s presence, these territories were on the Soviet side. Warlimont either had no knowledge of the secret protocol, was deliberately pretending not to know, or was just indicating the location of German forces at that moment. Molotov, on the evening of September 19, summoned Schulenburg and stated that “the Soviet government as well as Stalin personally are surprised at this obvious violation of the Moscow agreement.” Schulenburg called it a misunderstanding.²⁶³

But on September 19–20, 1939, approaching Lwów/Lemberg/Lvov—not far from where the Germans had imposed the diktat of Brest-Litovsk on Soviet Russia in 1918—advancing Red Army troops were greeted by German artillery. Both the Red Army and the Wehrmacht took casualties.²⁶⁴ Had the Germans mistaken the approaching Soviets for Poles, as some would claim? Or were the attacks deliberate? We shall never know. But the speed and depth of the Soviet military advance into eastern Poland had surprised the condescending German brass.²⁶⁵

Hitler, in “liberated” Danzig on September 19, had been soaking in the jubilation. “It was a state built on force and governed by truncheons of the police and the military,” the Führer said of Poland, with no hint of irony.²⁶⁶ The streets of the predominantly ethnic German city—like those of Vienna the year before—were festooned with swastikas, flowers, and admirers. Precisely when, and under what circumstances, the Führer learned of the armed clashes taking place near Lvov is unclear.²⁶⁷ Ribbentrop instructed Köstring over the phone to attempt to have the accepted demarcation line modified so that Germany could keep this area, Borisław-Drohobycz, and its oil fields. Köstring phoned the Soviet defense commissariat several times on September 20. “East of Lvov Soviet tanks clashed with German troops,” he stated over the phone. “There is a disagreement about who should take Lvov. Our troops cannot withdraw until we have destroyed Polish forces.” Köstring proposed, on orders from Berlin, that the Germans and the Soviets storm Lvov together, after which the Germans could hand the city over.²⁶⁸ The Soviets refused. Schulenburg also conveyed Ribbentrop’s request to retain the seized oil fields to Molotov, who rejected it—as well as Schulenburg’s fallback position of a temporary German military occupation, pending a final political adjudication.²⁶⁹

Somebody would have to back down. On September 20, Köstring got an order directly from Hitler to help negotiate an immediate German withdrawal from Lvov, which was to be abandoned to the Soviets. Voroshilov received Köstring and asked what had caused the military clashes. The German attaché answered that it had been just a small local incident. He joked that Warlimont, who had shown the Soviets the map in Berlin, was an oilman and perhaps had been seduced by the oil fields. Köstring took out his own map, which showed, in black, the line of German advance and, in blue, the agreed-to territorial division, and he again vowed that the German army would withdraw.²⁷⁰ But even while abandoning the advanced positions in eastern Poland, the Wehrmacht continued to fire on the Red Army.

On September 22, Hitler flew from Sopot to the outskirts of Warsaw to take in the devastation he had wrought.²⁷¹ As of that day, after its defenders capitulated, Lvov was in Soviet hands, and by the next day the Red Army had established full operational control over Polish territory up to the Narew, Vistula, and San rivers, a five-day romp facilitated partly by the fact that the Polish command had issued orders not to engage Soviet forces unnecessarily and instead to prepare for evacuation to Hungary or Romania.²⁷² On the afternoon of September 23, a ceremonial joint military parade was held in Brest-Litovsk to mark the German handover of the town that morning to the Soviets. Presiding over the event, on an improvised low platform, were the respective tank commanders Heinz Guderian, who had been born just 300 miles away in Chełmno (Kulm), and Semyon Krivoshein. The two shook hands. But the Luftwaffe flew aggressively low passes, and the two sides tussled over the city’s war booty.²⁷³ Guderian privately observed that relinquishing Brest was “disadvantageous.”²⁷⁴ Germany’s commanders had suffered many casualties to seize these Galician territories—needing that oil—and they remained deeply unhappy about the pullback. (Stalin also managed to hold on to the Volhynian grain fields.) Halder, the man who had planned the Polish campaign, confided in his diary, “A day of disgrace for the German political leadership!”²⁷⁵

Hitler, perhaps for the first time, had kept his word in an international agreement. But Stalin gained the impression—fatefully, it would turn out—that German “militarists” wanted war against the Soviets, and that Hitler was the restraining influence.

STALIN’S SUDETENLAND

Stalin had managed to undo the Soviet defeat in the 1920 Polish-Soviet War, reclaiming imperial Russian lands at the cost of just 700-odd lives. (Not that he cared about Soviet casualties.) The Germans in Poland, by contrast, had lost between 11,000 and 13,000 killed. At least 70,000 Poles were killed and nearly 700,000 taken prisoner by the aggressors on both sides.²⁷⁶ Hitler, in improvisational fashion, toyed with leaving a rump independent Poland of some sort, but Poland’s state effectively vanished again, partitioned between Germany and the Soviet Union, as well as Lithuania and Slovakia. Members of Poland’s government fled into Romania, hoping to proceed to France and set up a government in exile to continue the fight, but they were placed under house arrest.²⁷⁷ The Polish supreme commander’s efforts to have surviving troops evacuated via Romania or Hungary to form a new Polish army in France were interdicted by the NKVD, which sealed the border along the Zbruch River. Many of the Polish army’s now 190,000 troops, taken prisoner by the Soviets, were interned in Gulag camps, with the intention of exploiting them as slave laborers. Thousands of Polish officers were separated into special camps.²⁷⁸

Poland’s immense Jewish population of nearly 3.5 million had experienced trying times under the Polish government. Between 1935 and 1937, 79 Polish Jews had been killed, and significant incidents of anti-Jewish violence had been recorded in 97 towns; quotas introduced in 1937 had halved the number of Jewish university students. Indeed, Jews could be discriminated against within the framework of Polish law, including by exclusion from chartered professional associations. In 1937 alone, 7,000 trials took place of Jews accused of “insulting the Polish nation.” When the government suspended the validity of the passports of its citizens who had been living abroad for five years or more consecutively, in an attempt to preempt a mass flow of Jewish immigration from Nazi-annexed Austria (which had ceased to be a refuge), the act precipitated the expulsion of 17,000 Polish Jews from Nazi Germany in October 1938. The Polish regime refused to allow them back into Poland; many were trapped in a no-man’s-land, without shelter or food. Several thousand who managed to cross the border at Zbąszyń ended up in a hastily formed restricted camp—with some begging to be let back into Nazi Germany. The head of the Catholic Church in Poland, Cardinal Augustyn Hlond, had accused the Jews of “spreading atheism and revolutionary Bolshevism . . . [and] contributing to the decline of Polish morals.”²⁷⁹ On December 21, 1938, the leader of the politically powerful National Unity Camp had reiterated the oft-stated view that Jews hindered the development of the Polish nation, and urged the government to take energetic action to reduce the number of Jews. Some Polish military leaders called a departure of Jews a matter of national security.²⁸⁰ But all that turned out to be prelude: with the Nazi occupation, SS Einsatzgruppen (special action groups), as well as militarized regular police—both of which were under Heinrich Himmler—began scouring the land to murder Polish Jews and torch or dynamite synagogues.²⁸¹

The SS also targeted non-Jewish Poles. Nazi terror against the “racial enemy” in these conquered lands far eclipsed what had descended on Germany itself since 1933, and further empowered the SS institutionally. The atrocities would continue long after the main combat was over.²⁸² More than a million Poles would be forced to work as slaves in Germany. Nazi propaganda portrayed the war as having been imposed on Germany, a necessity for the very survival of the German race—a mutilation of the truth that a majority of Germans appear to have accepted, leavened, as it was, with lurid fables of Polish atrocities and German victimhood.²⁸³

Soviet terror methods were different, spurring self-destruction of existing social bonds by soliciting anonymous denunciations by aggrieved individuals against their neighbors, a story to be more fully examined below. In the meantime, the occupiers found a cornucopia. “Long trains with Soviet functionaries and their families, mostly from Kiev and Kharkov, began pulling into the station,” remarked one observer in what had been Poland’s territory. “Streets filled with crowds of shabbily dressed and dirty people frantically eyeing already modest-looking store windows. They bought almost everything available to them, especially watches—the most sought-after commodity.” Some Soviet functionaries returned to Kiev with foreign-made cars, provoking volunteerism for service in former Poland. But the Red Army arrived in these regions in torn uniforms and scrounged for food out of obvious hunger, rolling cigarettes with paper picked off the street. When the Poles ridiculed the soldiers for chasing after consumer items even though, according to Soviet propaganda, the USSR enjoyed abundance, the Red Army conscripts shot back that while the Poles had silk stockings and perfumes, the Soviets had tanks, guns, and fighter airplanes. “Frankly,” admitted one Pole, “it was a shrewd point, which often cut the discussion off.”²⁸⁴

Boris Yefimov, the Soviet cartoonist, drew a map of Europe with red arrows showing the Soviet territorial advance westward, with an irate, frightened Neville Chamberlain raising his striped trouser leg to stamp his foot impotently. But the Soviet regime had long trumpeted its policy of “peace,” an ideological pillar, and on September 18, 1939, the day after troops had burst into Poland, Izvestiya had reiterated that the Soviet Union would maintain “a policy of neutrality” in the European war. Two days later, the British and the French, rather than declare war on the USSR for invading Poland, as they had on Germany, requested an “explanation” of Soviet actions. The Soviets remonstrated in public, as they had in private, that the Polish state had “ceased to exist” and that the “vacuum” threatened the USSR, justifying the dispatch of the Red Army. At the same time, the Soviets portrayed their military action as a class and national rescue operation. The Polish state had, in fact, mistreated not just its Jews but also its large Ukrainian and Belorussian minorities. Molotov privately admitted to the Germans that the Soviet regime had heretofore not bothered much about the Ukrainians and Belorussians living in Poland.²⁸⁵ But now Soviet propaganda efficaciously cast the invasion and landgrab as Ukrainian-Belorussian “liberation.”

Censorship precluded public mention of the fact that perhaps 40 percent of the population in the territories seized by the USSR was ethnic Polish, or that hundreds of thousands of ethnic Poles were being displaced, deported, or pressed into forced labor; that at least 30,000 ethnic Ukrainians sought refuge in the German-occupied zone; that some invading Red Army soldiers had deserted by heading to the German zone; and that even some Jews, who mostly tended to flee toward the Soviet zone, preferred a return to their homes under Nazi occupation to a life under Soviet rule.²⁸⁶ What the Soviet populace might have made of such information will never be known. What we can say is that many ordinary Soviet inhabitants perceived justice in the fight against Polish “class and national oppression,” as well as in a rearranged border that reunited “blood brother” Ukrainians and Belorussians, in repudiation of Piłsudski’s “imperialist” Treaty of Riga (1920).²⁸⁷ The Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic doubled in size for the second time (the first had been 1924–26, when it was awarded territories carved from the Russian republic). Ukrainian irredentist dreams were fulfilled. “Everyone approves the seizure of (western) Ukraine and Belorussia,” wrote the regime critic and geochemist Vernadsky in his diary that fall of 1939. “The Stalin-Molotov policy is realistic and, it seems to me, correct, a Russian policy of state.”²⁸⁸

Trotsky deemed Stalin’s invasion progressive, despite the Soviet leader’s own supposed counterrevolutionary inclinations. “In the regions which must become a component of the USSR, the Moscow government will take measures to expropriate the big property owners and to nationalize the means of production,” he explained. “Such action is more likely not because the bureaucracy is true to the socialist program, but because it does not wish to and is unable to share power and the privileges connected with it with the old ruling classes of the occupied regions.” Trotsky evoked Napoleon: “The first Bonaparte brought the revolution to a halt with the aid of a military dictatorship. But when French forces invaded Poland, Napoleon signed a decree: ‘Serfdom is abolished.’ This action was dictated not by Napoleon’s sympathies for the peasants, nor by democratic principles, but by the fact that the Bonapartist dictatorship rested not on feudal but on bourgeois property. Since Stalin’s Bonapartist dictatorship rests not on private but on state property, the Red Army’s invasion of Poland must essentially bring with it the liquidation of private capitalist property, in order thereby to bring the regime of the occupied territories into line with the regime in the USSR.”²⁸⁹

Soviet dishonesty and spite were epic. Scenes for the film The First Cavalry Army, adapted from the play by Vishnevsky about the Polish-Soviet War of 1920, were being shot on location just as the Red Army had smashed across the border into Poland on September 17. It depicted the Poles, not the Ukrainians, as the perpetrators of the civil-war-era pogroms against Jews. On September 21, the film Burning Years, directed by Vladimir Korsh-Sablin, which also portrayed the 1920 Polish-Soviet War, premiered to wide acclaim (“not in terms of its artistic merits, but in terms of its political significance,” one critic sniffed).²⁹⁰ The Soviet-Belorussian film July 11, by Yuri Tarich, which would premiere October 20, similarly took up the 1919–20 events of that war, showing drunken Polish soldiers forcing Belorussian girls to dance and entertain them, in the ashes of their occupied village, until Soviet partisans fight back and unite with the Red Army to recapture Minsk on July 11, 1920.²⁹¹ Polish POWs in Soviet camps were shown July 11, rubbing salt in their wounds.²⁹²

Eastern Poland in a way constituted Stalin’s Sudetenland, an analogy that resonated in some quarters of London and Paris, too: the new frontiers, after all, corresponded to the line once proposed by Britain’s Lord Curzon. From the despot’s point of view, Poland had refused years’ worth of probes for bilateral security cooperation. And once the Wehrmacht was on the move, if he had not annexed these eastern Polish regions, Hitler would have seized all of Poland. That would have made possible the creation of a puppet Ukrainian state in eastern Poland, which, in turn, could have been used as a pressure point against Moscow to yield Soviet Ukraine in a “unification.” Of course, this was the argument that Poland had used when participating in Hitler’s dismemberment of Czechoslovakia (preventing Germany from dominating the entire territory).²⁹³ Now, instead of German troops waltzing right up to the vicinity of Minsk, significantly closer to Moscow, Stalin, as he observed privately, had managed “to extend the socialist system onto new territories and populations.”²⁹⁴ The annexation also delivered a windfall of captured Polish intelligence archives—pleasure reading for the despot, who could sift through what the Poles had made of him and his regime.²⁹⁵ In the confiscated Polish archives, the NKVD claimed to have discovered 186 secret agents—real ones—who had carried out or were carrying out missions against the USSR, and began to neutralize them.²⁹⁶

POLITICAL ECONOMY