Those Crazy Cosmonauts

On Oct. 12, 1964, three smallish men, shrunk still more by a strict diet, squeezed into an aluminum sphere 8 feet in diameter. Earlier in the year, Nikita Khrushchev learned that the Americans were planning to send the first two-man capsule into orbit, and he wanted a Soviet trio in space ahead of them. The red team had neither a three-man craft nor a rocket powerful enough to shoot such a craft into space. The idea that they could quickly build both was ridiculous, but not so ridiculous as thinking that the Soviet leader’s demand could be ignored. So this particular sphere, a Vostok tailored for one (smallish) man, had been all but emptied out, given the minimum necessary refitting and relabeled Voskhod 1. The crew, according to author John Strausbaugh, had to do without bulky space suits and helmets and wore woolen leisure suits instead.

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Imperial Tender

When reading Ekaterina Pravilova’s original, fascinating and meticulously researched “The Ruble” it is a good idea to keep in mind its subtitle: “A Political History.” For Ms. Pravilova’s multi-layered account of the evolution of the paper ruble from its inception in the mid-18th century until the post-revolutionary reforms in the early 1920s goes beyond the merely monetary. “The biography of the ruble,” explains Ms. Pravilova, “is a history of the Russian state, written in the language of money.” Regardless of the type of political system in place, she writes, “money does not simply reflect an existing (or imagined) social and political order but creates it; it is not a consequence or an attribute but an integral and constitutive part of any regime.” Ms. Pravilova, a professor of history at Princeton, shows that the ruble has been, above all, a symbol and an instrument of centralized, autocratic and imperial power.

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Demolishing a Distorted Past

Conquerors like to remind the conquered of who is in charge. One way of doing so is by the construction of monuments, symbols of the new order — and by their permanence, of its permanence. The Soviets were no exception to this rule, distinguishing themselves only by the ugliness and, not infrequently, the gigantism of the works they fashioned. Not far enough from the center of the Latvian capital, Riga, there’s an archetypal example of this genre: overbearing, grandiloquent, and brutal. It dates from the later years of the Soviet occupation, a time when the Kremlin was using memories of the “Great Patriotic War” to bolster a regime struggling to deal with ideological failure, economic stagnation, and growing disaster in Afghanistan.

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The imperfect spy

On one level, Lis Wiehl’s enthralling and grimly astonishing A Spy in Plain Sight is simply the story of Robert Hanssen, an FBI agent whose espionage activities were described by the Department of Justice as “possibly the worst intelligence disaster in US history,” a crowded field even at the time of his arrest in February 2001. “Over twenty-two years,” explained the DOJ in a 2002 report, Hanssen had “given the Soviet Union and Russia vast quantities of documents and computer diskettes filled with national security information of incalculable value.” And his betrayals had cost lives. Wiehl cites three (although there will have been more): each had been fingered as American agents by both Hanssen and Aldrich Ames, Hanssen’s predecessor as, in Wiehl’s description, “the most notorious spy in modern US history,” which gave the Soviets the corroboration they appear to have required.

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Our Enemy’s Enemy

After Nazi Germany attacked the USSR, Winston Churchill had no qualms about entering into an alliance with Stalin, whose regime he understood all too well: “If Hitler invaded Hell, I would make at least a favorable reference to the Devil in the House of Commons.”

Similar thinking does much to explain the enlistment of former (and not so former) Nazis by the Western allies in intelligence work against the Soviets after 1945…

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Cold War Cosmonaut

Readers of Stephen Walker’s fine new account of how Yuri Gagarin, a 27-year-old Soviet air-force major (he was promoted from lieutenant while circling the Earth), became the first man in space will discover quite a bit about Gagarin the man, but a great deal more about the program that put him into orbit 60 years ago, on April 12, 1961.

Vasco da Gama, Gagarin was not. For all his skill, toughness, unflappability and courage, he was no explorer. In a way, he was merely the most important of all the fauna that the Soviets shot into space. The first astronauts had relatively little control over their capsules; the first cosmonauts had far less.

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Good Fences, Bad Neighbor

In the aftermath of Russia’s takeover of Crimea, there were widespread fears that the Baltic states, notwithstanding their membership in NATO, might be next. As Aliide Naylor relates in The Shadow in the East, those fears have since eased, but extreme vulnerability (Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia could be overrun in days) and constant low- and not-so-low-level Russian aggression against the Baltic trio continue to keep nerves on edge.

Russia’s assault on Ukraine has forced NATO to relearn the power of symbolism. Several thousand troops from other NATO allies are now present in the Baltic states at any time, a reminder that the guarantee contained in Article 5 of the NATO treaty (an attack on one NATO country is to be treated as an attack on all) also extends to the alliance’s northeastern marches. Their numbers are tiny: no more, Naylor explains, than “a tripwire, unable to resist Russia’s military might in the event of a full-scale invasion — but thus far they have served as an effective deterrent.”

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Confessions of a Revolutionary

Arthur Koestler’s “Darkness at Noon” was one of the most influential novels of the 20th century, and the 20th century would have been a better century had it been more influential still. Yet until now, the book could only be read at one remove, in editions based on a hasty English translation of a German text presumed lost in the confusion of wartime.

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Bear with a sore head

Keir Giles: Moscow Rules - What Drives Russia to confront the west

Standpoint, March 28, 2019

Archangel, Russia, August 1996 © Andrew Stuttaford

Archangel, Russia, August 1996 © Andrew Stuttaford

The key message underlying Keir Giles’s trenchant, persuasive and alarming Moscow Rules is that the idea of Russia as a part of the European family is an illusion. In fewer than 200 pages he pulls that notion to pieces and then suggests what the West’s policy towards Moscow should look like if it is to be guided by reality rather than hopes or a pretty dream.

Giles, a senior consulting fellow at Chatham House, explains how Westerners are misled by geography (a portion of Russia is, after all, in Europe), language (Russians may use the same political terminology as their counterparts in the West, but they tend to mean very different things by it), and even appearance: “[T]he majority of [Russians] are outwardly indistinguishable from white members of the Euro-Atlantic community.” The misunderstanding may be deepened by, as Giles notes, the high visibility of a “Westernised” intelligentsia, whose views are not representative of the country as a whole. And there’s something else that I’d add to the pile of deceptive resemblances: The civilisations of both Russia and the West owe much to Christianity. Even the Soviet rejection of religion (based, in no small part, on the writings of a German, which is to say, a Western, philosopher) can be reread as another of the millenarian explosions that have long scarred European history. The distance between Anabaptist Münster and revolutionary Petrograd is not so very far.

The belief, against a great deal of evidence (a good selection of it neatly sketched out in this book), in the essential similarities between Russia and the West is helped, as Giles points out, from the way that “Western minds, especially liberal educated ones, rebel against national stereotypes. The taint of orientalism causes them to reject explanations for personal or national behaviours that are based on psychological constructs or worldviews that are specific to a given people or culture. The notion that a nation will behave in a given way because that is how it has always done is a hard sell in academic circles.”

But “the taint of orientalism” is not the only reason for Western reluctance to accept Russia for what it is. Elsewhere, Giles refers to the manner in which the West “and, in particular, Western Europe, [has] moved on to a postnationalist view of international relations”. That’s true enough, but the blandness of the wording (“moved on”) understates the extent to which this shift is based on a quasi-religious faith in “progress”, rather than any understanding of human nature or, beyond a cosy corner of Europe, how much of the world actually still works.

Russia’s perception of itself is, Giles maintains, “far from unique — plenty of nations have convinced themselves of their special destiny and birthright of leadership”. But, even if the West has now adopted a different interpretation of what that means, Russia has not (and, nor, I suspect, has, China, say, or India). Russia’s claim to great power status may be considerably less convincing than it was in Soviet or imperial times, but the West still needs to deal with its consequences, which can be summarised as a demand for “respect”. In this context that is a more loaded term, as Giles warns, than the English word implies. It conveys a sense that Russia should be feared too. Russia wants to be deferred to both globally (Barack Obama’s jibe that it was a “regional power” stung) and also with regard to its supposed right to control a sphere of influence in its neighbourhood.

And the way that Russia sees itself cannot, Giles argues, be wished away, or blamed on propaganda or, for that matter, on Vladimir Putin. Putin is “enacting, rather than inventing” long-term ambitions which resonate with “ordinary” Russians in a way that should not be underestimated (Giles is clearly not optimistic that Putin’s departure would mean a change for the better). “What has changed” and “dramatically” so is Russia’s “capability to achieve these ambitions”.

That’s not a comforting thought, given Russia’s resentment over the humiliations of the 1990s, its zero sum approach to international relations (something also well covered in this book), and, if necessary, its willingness to resort to violence. The best response, Giles asserts, is to accept that there are profound differences between Russia and the West that cannot be “reset” away, and then find a method to manage them. This will have to include defining “the boundaries of acceptable behaviour” and then policing them, a task that will require the West both to stick more closely together and to increase spending on the various varieties of hard power required to back up its stance.

With President Trump still prone to thinking aloud about Nato and too many European nations still unprepared to take their own defence seriously, that may be a tall order. Under the circumstances, sending a few copies of this book to Berlin and Washington DC would be a good plan.

Do Not Speak, Memory

Masha Gessen - Never Remember: Searching for Stalin's Gulags in Putin's Russia

The Wall Street Journal, March 16, 2018

Vagankovskoye Cemetery, Moscow, Russia,  March 1993 © Andrew Stuttaford

Vagankovskoye Cemetery, Moscow, Russia, March 1993 © Andrew Stuttaford

Imagine a Germany where the Third Reich’s monuments abound but memorials to the Holocaust are scarce. Hitler is venerated by millions and his dictatorship given a positive spin by an authoritarian state that never definitively broke with the Nazi past. Replace Germany with Russia, Hitler with Stalin, and the Third Reich with the Soviet Union and that is pretty much the situation that prevails in Russia today.

The unbroken connection to the Soviet era is key to understanding “Never Remember,” a short, haunting and beautifully written book by Masha Gessen, the Russian-American journalist who is one of Vladimir Putin’s most trenchant critics. About halfway through, Ms. Gessen tells how Irina Flige, an activist who spent decades trying to restore to public view memories of what occurred under communism, has concluded it is wrong to see the problem as forgetfulness because, as Ms. Gessen summarizes it, “forgetting presupposes remembering—and remembering had not happened . . .” In Ms. Flige’s words, “historical memory can exist only when there is a clear line separating the present from the past. . . . But we don’t have that break—there is no past, only a continuous present.” In contrast to Germany, there was no reckoning. There was no Soviet Nuremberg.

Ms. Gessen offers up various explanations for this, including the long duration of Communist rule and the ways in which the categories of victim and perpetrator overlapped. The trauma was something that Russians inflicted on one another. In a sense they still do. Ms. Gessen is evidently saddened and frustrated by the spectacle of a people—her people—wandering through a manufactured reality unbothered by, or oblivious to, the obscenities or incongruities that surround them. Some of the old regime’s statues were, in the false democratic dawn of the 1990s, defaced and toppled or—in the case of one statue of Stalin—dug up and exiled to a sculpture park of shame in central Moscow. Now, however, the statues stand in the same place proudly, cleaned up but unexplained, sharing space with a rare commemoration of the Soviet regime’s victims as well as statues of poets, writers, and—why not?—Adam and Eve.

The melancholy that saturates Ms. Gessen’s prose is reinforced by pages filled with Misha Friedman’s bleakly evocative photographs, images that convey unease, absence and loss. The huts and barracks of the Gulag, ramshackle to start with, and often designed to be temporary, have often just rotted away—“only the barbed wire remained,” Ms. Gessen writes. Other, sturdier structures survive, either ignored—one of Mr. Friedman’s photographs is of a ruined prison on the edge of a housing complex—or inaccessible, swallowed up in the vastness of Siberia. One camp—just one—not far from the Urals has been restored, a project begun, tellingly, on the private initiative of two local historians but now taken over by the state. While, as Ms. Gessen notes, it has not been turned into some defense of the Gulag, its message has been muffled, shrouded in a deceptive neutrality. Ms. Gessen herself is no neutral (she describes the “distinguishing characteristic of the Putin-era historiography of Soviet terror as . . . [saying] in effect, that it just happened, whatever”).

This is an angry book. Ms. Gessen makes her case with a series of vignettes ranging from the discovery of a mass grave in northwestern Russia to a trip to the region of Kolyma in the country’s far east. (“If the Gulag was anywhere, it was in Kolyma.”) The years of glasnost and Boris Yeltsin finally provided pitifully small scraps of comfort to the descendants of the disappeared—a photograph, a death certificate, something—yet the Gulag’s poison continues to seep through the generations. When Ms. Gessen visits Kolyma’s “capital” in 2017, all the people with whom she has contact are later visited by the FSB, the successor to the KGB.