The book received a positive reception in Novyi Mir (no. 10, 1968) from V. Georgiev, a Kosygin supporter. The reviewer praised Shkredov for having directly tackled what was now the country’s central task: ‘overcoming voluntarism in managing society’s system of production’, by integrating it into the framework of a broader theoretical problem – ‘the correlation between objective relations of production and the subjective, voluntary activity of human beings’. No one was naive enough not to read in these words the message that the state, by running the economy as it currently did, was doing enormous damage.
Economics was not the only science to flourish in this period. Other fields of knowledge were in a state of effervescence, uncovering new dimensions of social and cultural life, asking pertinent questions, and verging dangerously on the political. The journal Novyi Mir had become the outlet for critical thinking in many areas, not just literature. Its 150,000 monthly copies, which were distributed to the farthest reaches of the country, were eagerly awaited. It carried plenty of information on and analyses of the West and an embryonic social-democratic vision for the Soviet Union. Its initial sponsor had been Khrushchev, and Kosygin protected it as best he could, at least until 1968. As we have seen, Tvardovsky was removed as editor in 1970 and died the following year. He was buried in the Novo-Devichii cemetery in Moscow, with a small, inconspicuous grave stone amid a profusion of sumptuous ones for highly decorated nonentities.
Sociologists were also knocking at the door with studies of labour, youth and many previously neglected topics – especially urbanization (migration, families, women). They raised the problems of a new society in the making, which required novel approaches and novel solutions.
The legal world, particularly criminologists and jurists, pressed for reform of the criminal law and the abrogation of purely punitive elements. A commission was appointed for this purpose, comprising three authoritarian ministers and six liberal judges and scholars (including Strogovich), who were thus assured of a majority. It can safely be assumed that someone high up had taken care with the commission’s composition. In 1966, the same Strogovich – one of a small but combative group – published his Fundamental Questions of Soviet Socialist Legality, in which he argued strongly in favour of the rule of law with no exemptions or exceptions. The book contained powerful arguments, supported by numerous concrete examples, for protecting citizens’ rights against arbitrary infringement. Much remained to be done in this domain. He came out unequivocally against a retrograde, essentially repressive legal system – one more inclined to punish than to seek solutions, and indifferent to the many other avenues open to courts when it came to fighting crime. In effect, prison served only to transform inmates into hardened criminals.
The flourishing of econometrics and cybernetics, and the creation of a Ministry of Scientific and Technological Development (assigned to Gvishiani), mainly staffed by reformers and enjoying considerable prestige – these were so many signs of the times, with its news ideas and hopes. We may assume that Kosygin was not antipathetic to all this, even if he never openly challenged the status quo with provocative statements. Others could speak out without mincing their words in the official media. Thus, academician Nemchinov declared that ‘a system which is so harnessed from top to bottom will fetter technological and social development; and it will break down sooner or later under the pressure of the real processes of economic life’.
So we can see that it is false to claim that ‘no one’ predicted the collapse of the system, as has often been maintained in recent years: Nemchinov’s declaration dates from 1965.[2] Readers will already be aware that the years ahead became known as the ‘period of stagnation’; and now they know that they were preceded among the elite, and possibly ordinary people (but this requires research), by a ferment of considerable intellectual and practical import. It was attributable to the ‘men of the 1960s’, who many hoped would one day assume control of the party and transform Russia. But all this came to an end with ‘Brezhnevism’ and its debilitating ‘maturation’. When Gorbachev launched perestroika, the ‘men of the 1960s’ were already worn out.
YURI ANDROPOV
Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov, who closes the period we are studying, remains little-known. Here we shall touch upon various aspects of the regime’s history that are directly bound up with his personality. Then we shall sketch his short stint as general-secretary, even if the relevant archives remain closed. In May 1967, when he left the leadership of one of the Central Committee’s international departments to head the KGB, Andropov became the system’s shield. His biographers say that the scenes he had witnessed in 1956 during the uprising in Budapest, where he was ambassador, haunted him. It would also appear that the Hungarian leader, Janos Kadar, was an important influence.
Under Andropov, the KGB’s status attained its zenith. A year after he took over the agency, on 5 July 1968, the KGB became a state committee directly attached to the USSR’s Council of Ministers – something that elevated it above other committees and ministries – and its chairman became a member of the government. A candidate member of the Politburo since 1967, Andropov became a full member in 1973. The jurisdiction of the KGB, based in Moscow, extended to the whole of the Soviet Union; and it had its equivalents in all republics. Its statutory duties were espionage, threats to state security, frontier guard, the protection of official secrets and confidential documents, investigating acts of high treason, terrorism, smuggling, large-scale currency crime, and the defence of all lines of communication against electronic espionage. Which of these many tasks consumed most time and resources is not as yet clear, though intelligence and counter-intelligence may be a safe bet.
From the 1960s to the 1980s, the KGB acquired considerable influence in all spheres of life. It watched over the whole state apparatus, the uniformed police, and churches; it ran military counter-intelligence, initiated legal proceedings against opponents, and fought against the intelligentsia. These activities earned it an appalling image and reputation, as they did its master, who managed to tame the dissident movement – an issue at the heart of the propaganda war fought by and against the West. Andropov was a loyal Brezhnevite, but what else could he have been? We should add to the picture the abusive recourse to psychiatric asylums – probably the regime’s most reprehensible act.
Nevertheless, rumours and attested characteristics complicate our image of Andropov. Why was it that this rampart of an ultra-conservative system was also constantly reputed to be a ‘liberal’? To fool people? Maybe not. For a start, unlike other KGB chiefs he was first and foremost a politician, not a product of the firm. When still in charge of one of the Central Committee’s international relations departments, he was described by his aides (he had recruited some very bright ones) as someone who was very open to discussion, a great reader, with a gift for analysing foreign and domestic affairs. For his principal lieutenants (Arbatov, Burlatsky, etc.), working with and under Andropov was an unforgettable experience. In the midst of that bastion of dogmatism, the Staraia Ploshchad, Andropov’s office was the ‘free world’. They discussed all subjects with him with absolute freedom and openly expressed their disagreements. If he disapproved of one of his aides’ viewpoints, it entailed no sanctions. He himself had told them: ‘Remember that in this office we can say what we want. But don’t get carried away: once you’re out the door, don’t forget where you are.’
2
It comes from Nemchinov’s O