What was the condition of our previous knowledge of Stalinist actuality before, let us say, 1956? We had for decades had a large amount of real information about the purges, all often rejected or ignored, while little truth and much falsehood had emerged from Moscow. We had long been faced, especially from the 1930s on, with delusions about the Soviet system, and we still need to bear in mind how Sidney and Beatrice Webb, deans of Western social science, leaders of the Fabian Society, founders of the London School of Economics, deeply ‘researched’ their Soviet Communism: a New Civilisation. Rather than repeat their particular errors (see Chapter I), let me note as further examples a few of their subheadings: ‘the Emergence of a Communist Conscience’; ‘the Vocation of Leadership’; ‘Ethical Progress in the USSR’; ‘The Maximising of Wealth’; and ‘The Success of a Soviet Agriculture’. They praised ‘the sense of freedom and equality’ found there, and used as sources the vast apparatus of Soviet falsification – thus fully ‘documented’. It would be tedious to go into the whole array of those in one way or another misled, though it is still astonishing to read the disgraceful record of Joseph Davies – US Ambassador to Moscow from 1936 to 1938.
As to truths about the terror, the first point is that the official material available to the public before 1956 was worthless. Even British Cabinet records may not jibe with first-hand memoirs. The past is full of worse. There are records cut in stone in which successive pharaohs ostentatiously reattribute, in great detail, various (often non-existent) triumphs (from Sahure to Pepi II, and from Tuthmosis III to Rameses II to Rameses III). This is akin to the Soviet rewriting of history. And as to longer term official distortion, or concealment, we should remember that the highest level of Soviet secrecy was ‘word of mouth only’.
Up to 1956, our real sources were almost entirely from émigrés, ‘defectors', and such a rare document as the local files of the ‘Smolensk Archives’, which was captured by the Germans in 1941 and eventually reached the USA. When it comes to research on this ‘unofficial material’, were these sources reliable? Even to ask the question is to distort the nature of historical research. No ‘source’ can, strictly speaking, be relied on.
In the Soviet case, as late as 1968 there was still much that had to be deduced from sources judged merely as ‘hearsay'. These did indeed tend to give much the same general story. Of the testimony given by the anti-Soviet defectors, one – Victor Kravchenko’s – took it that ‘one can only look into this or that corner and judge the whole from its parts’. Another, the physicist Alexander Weissberg, put it a little differently – that the outside world would note that his and others’ testimony were mutually confirmatory, and eventually draw the right conclusions. Yet they – and the similar evidence of Alexander Barmine, Ivanov Razumnik and all the others – were still neglected.
Concerning deeper secrets, one often had to consider material still thought to be even more disreputable by some. For example, Alexander Orlov’s The Secret History of Stalin’s Crimes was, for many, a thoroughly dubious source. A high NKVD officer who defected in 1938, he naturally aroused suspicion (and a later book of his was clearly an unreliable potboiler). And later still a further extraordinary revelation came – that he had written promising Yezhov not to give away any state secrets on condition that he and his family were left untouched – and Stalin had approved. The worst result being that the Philby spy ring was able to serve Stalinist nuclear espionage so effectively.
But Orlov’s Secret History (from deep inside the NKVD) was largely validated early on as to one or two points. Now, all his contribution to the Zinoviev Trial, and much elsewhere, is proven. Like all evidence of its type, Orlov is only reliable when he is repeating what he was told at first hand; and when giving more peripheral, indirect hearsay, he is often in error – as with, more recently, Sudoplatov. Yet just because a source may be erroneous or unreliable on certain points does not automatically invalidate all its evidence. It was none other than Edward Gibbon who said that ‘imperfect and partial’ evidence may contribute to a view of the whole, without making the historian ‘answerable… for all the circumjacent errors and inconsistencies of the authors whom he has quoted’.2
However, since 1956 and Khrushchev’s Secret Speech – followed by his openly published report to the Twenty-second Congress in 1961, with many accounts of torture and falsehood – it was (or seemed) indisputable that a regime of lies and terror had after all been in existence. And over the next few years, until 1962–4, the real fates – at one level – of high Party officials, the military and many intellectuals became known. There were many rehabilitations of those victims deemed never disloyal to the regime; and a number of books or booklets came out about some of the most important. There were also memoirs such as those of General Gorbatov. And above all, there came one of the main unforeseen cracks in the traditional Soviet story – the publication of One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, which, as Galina Vishnevskaya put it, let the genie out of the bottle, and however hard they tried later, they couldn’t put it back in’.3
Though much, nothing like the whole reality emerged. But by 1968 there was enough Soviet evidence, taken together with that given over a couple of decades by the various outsiders, to make a coherent whole.
2
What was my personal decision to tackle the missing history? When I first started to publish on Soviet subjects, one sceptic held that I was not qualified to write on these themes, since my two earliest books were a volume of poetry (Poems) and a science fiction novel (A World of Difference). I would argue that they both contribute to, or are signs of, the imagination’s grasp and scope. (And the first reference to me in the USSR is in the Large Soviet Encyclopaedia Yearbook for 1957, as a poet and anthologist.)
But I was able to plead other inputs. I had direct experience of Stalinism. In 1944–8 I was in Bulgaria, at first attached to the Third Ukrainian Front and later as Press Attaché to the British Political Mission. There, after a period of optimism, we saw the horrible realities of a Stalinist takeover.
Then, in the Foreign Office, I worked on the whole – as yet little understood – phenomenon, and briefly at the United Nations, as a First Secretary attached to the United Kingdom Delegation, visibly serving in the Security Council. I helped draft a speech by Barbara Castle – there as a (very ‘left-wing’) Minister in the Labour government – on the Gulag, with data secret from the Soviet point of view, to the Economic and Social Committee. I even passed by that fearful villain Andrei Vyshinsky – next but two or three to me in the General Assembly. And I rejoiced as President Truman gave his uncompromising speech (on the Korea aggression).
Back in London, I covered Soviet internal politics, finally switching to a fellowship at the London School of Economics – to research and write a book on that subject, which became Power and Policy in the USSR. Though the CPSU does not emerge in a very favourable light, that book was concerned above all to discover the realities behind the Kremlin fog bank: to satisfy a curiosity, to provide a light. Meanwhile, I had written a number of books, with general, or highly particular, themes – such as an account of The Pasternak Affair (1962).