Review: Gregor Thum’s Uprooted: How Breslau came Wrocław during a century of expulsions

Of all the troubled national relationships that defined the bloody course of twentieth century European history, few come close to the that between Germans and Poles. While the present state of relations between the two cultural nations is substantially better than at any point since the 18th century, with Poles making up the largest national minority in German society as of 2018, the legacies of partition, Nazi rule and the gigantic border shifts that defined the post 1945 geopolitical landscape in Central Europe are likely to continue to define collective memories for generations to come.

Originally published in German, Gregor Thum’s comprehensive exploration of one of the most difficult recent histories of any city in Europe spares no details in its portrayal of the suffering of inhabitants-whether Germans or Poles, during the decade that uprooted or destroyed the cultural and ethnic patchwork of Central Europe into the apparent homogeneity of the post-War world. In the autumn of 1944, Hitler designated the capital city of Silesia on the border of historically German speaking Europe, Breslau, as a ‘Fortress City’ in expectation of a coming Soviet victory over the Wehrmacht forces still left in Poland. This order ensured that the unfortified university town with a hitherto only lightly damaged historic centre would be almost completely destroyed in one of the bloodiest sieges of the second world war. After the capitulation of German forces in May 1945, the shift of the German border to the Oder-Neisse line made the historically German dominated Silesia into the westernmost region of a newly recreated Polish state, completely transformed Breslau into a new culturally and linguistically polish city named Wrocław. This necessitated a large transplanting of population, cultural capital and even statues from areas of eastern Poland now lost to the Poles themselves, such as the former polish city of Lwów.

Uprooted: How Breslau came Wrocław during a century of expulsions is divided into three parts. The first examines the initial takeover of Polish (and Soviet) forces, the monumental processes of resettlement of German inhabitants (or those deemed German) and the settlement of new polish inhabitants and beginnings of urban rebuilding until the mid-1950s. The second part focuses on the process of incorporating the city (now officially known as Wrocław) into the reconstituted Poland, the various successes and failures of ‘Polonization’ and the aggressive removal of German cultural memory and the utilisation of historiographic narrative to reconcile the sudden entry of the Silesian area into polish cultural heritage. The third and final part analyses the continuing processes of identity formation in the city after the fall of Communist Poland in 1989 and the continuing legacies of border change to the present day. This narrative, which by necessity incorporates the history of the post-1945 period across Poland, presents a broad picture of the processes of expulsion and cultural renewal, but one that complements other work on the topic and usefully serve as a good introduction to the period.

Although brief, Thums account of the siege of Breslau and the war years stands up in comparison to military histories such as those of Anthony Beevor in its attention to detail, and his methodological approach does not separate the two principle ethnic groups in the narrative-even if it is the Germans and not the Poles, who were never present in the city in great numbers until the post-war years, that get the majority of the attention in part one. While the later parts deal almost exclusively with the new Polish population, Thum reveals that for number of years a surprisingly large number of ethnic Germans continued to covertly inhabit the ruined city in uneasy but mostly peaceful coexistence with new Polish families, complicating the idea of a clean ‘Zero Hour’ in 1945 and highlighting the dichotomies between private citizens and state power in the border changes of the 1940s.

A particularly interesting chapter in Part Two, ’Cleansing memory’, showcases the thoroughness of Thum’s analysis and his talent for incorporating detail at a microhistory level, in this case the etymological debates over the renaming of place names in Silesia to integrate them into a homogenous Polish state and reclaim them from German dominance. This seemingly trivial task was carried out in great urgency during 1945 and 1946 as the administration and transport network in the ‘new Poland’ came ‘close to losing its bearings’.[1]Towns acquired multiple names and with most road signs removed, it was often necessary for locals to follow the temporary Cyrillic signs of the Red Army to orientate themselves.[2] The new Polish place names introduced by the Commission for the Determination of Place Names from early 1946 therefore assumed both a practical and propagandistic purpose, removing geographic uncertainty but also establishing the legacy of supposed ancient Slavic settlement in the recovered territories. Often this process gave German place names with no historical Slavic equivalent title new invented names, which were then passed off as ‘re-Polonization’ for the purposes of propaganda.[3]  intriguingly, Thum shows that sometimes even polish cartographers were in disagreement over naming convention, with the town of Neisse being variously renamed ‘Nisa’ from corresponding historical sources and ‘Nysa’ from the Silesian dialect of local Autochthons (indigenous citizens allowed to stay in Poland with proof of their Slavic heritage).[4] As throughout the book, Thum’s even handedness does not prevent him from making controversial judgements. For him, very little separated the arguments of the Polonization of German names in the recovered territories after 1945 and the Germanisation of Polish names in the Third Reich only a few years before.[5]

While effective as a wider study of the new Polish territories after 1945, Uprooted remains most thought provoking in discussion of its central and well-chosen subject. Thum’s selection of Breslau, a city that unlike much of its rural surroundings was indisputably German speaking long before the twentieth century, is a particularly good case study in how the dilemmas of expulsion and border movement transcended German, Polish, Silesian and even Ukrainian narratives throughout the post-war decades. His analysis easily overcomes one of the main dilemmas that continued to dog German-Polish relations and historiography of the wartime experiences of central Europe into the 1980s and 1990s: the question of moral equivalency between the crimes committed by Germans under Nazism and those by the native populations of central and eastern Europe during the expulsion of millions of Germans from early 1945 to 1948. Thum unusually characterises the ending of Breslau’s identity as a German city as one that began not in 1945 but in 1933 with the first steps in the persecution of German Jews by the Nazi regime.[6] Conversely, he pulls no punches in portraying the intensely difficult human cost of mass expulsion for cross-national minorities in Silesia, returning Jews even the Autochthones themselves against an often zenophobic, intensely nationalistic Polish state.

Uprooted is both a thrilling piece of historical scholarship and an antidote to the assumption that the problems in Poland’s recent border shifts have been comprehensively overcome. While placing doubt on the success of the current Polish government’s continuing attempts to rebrand Wrocław into a showcase of the Polish middle ages and what he calls ‘the Lwów Myth’ expellee narratives of the current population, Thum ends his book optimistically, arguing that through ‘freethinking’ and prosperity, modern Wrocław has ‘already begun to give new life to its genuine medieval legacy….as a colourful and vital marketplace at the crossroads of Europe’.[7]

[1] G.Thum, Uprooted: How Breslau Became Wrocław during a Century of Expulsions (Woodstock, 2011) p.244.

[2] G.Thum, Uprooted: How Breslau Became Wrocław during a Century of Expulsions (Woodstock, 2011) p.245.

[3] Ibid., p.248.

[4] Ibid., p.250.

[5] Ibid., p.250.

[6] Ibid., p.xix.

[7] Ibid., p.408.

Advertisements

The Dangers We still Live With: Confrontation, Nuclear Weapons and False Memory Syndrome in 2017

In the course of the past year, it has seemed that the apparent global peace and stability of the post-1989 period has died a death. The shocks of the election of Donald Trump, the implications of Brexit, the rise of right wing populism across the Western world and the continued political confrontation between Russia and NATO, have all made 2017 seem not only depressingly bleak but almost on a knife edge of global catastrophe. And it seems that it isn’t only Cold War obsessives, such as this author, who think so. The long running and well informed chronometer of nuclear paranoia, the Bulletin of Atomic Scientist’s ‘Doomsday Clock’, was this January raised to a nigh unprecedented time of two and a half minutes to midnight, the highest it has been since 1953 and the bleak days of the early Cold War, when the USA and USSR tested and developed their first thermonuclear weapons within months of each other. Add to this the threat of global warming, now more than ever an observable and dangerous phenomenon that is still being explained away by politicians in the highest corridors of power as a ‘Chinese hoax’, and you have a global picture that has even been described by some as a return to instability of the 1930s, simply because no historical analogy exists.

Particularly when speaking of nuclear weapons, many are following the lead of the Bulletin and appraising the present as in fact even more dangerous than the MAD doctrines of the Cold War decades, where the risk of nuclear war was not only a cultural and political touchstone but one very seriously and extensively prepared for by governments across the world. Former Cold War Warriors such as Henry Kissinger, Robert Gates and even the key statesmen of Perestroika, Michael Gorbachev have warned of a return to the animosity of the Cold War years fueled by a mutual distrust. There are even some, such as a former chief of MI6 John Sawyers, who have described the situation, with its lack of apparent bipolar stability, as of greater danger than the Cold War itself. But is it really wise to project the experiences of the Cold War onto the present?

At the turn of the 1990s, as many as 70,000 nuclear weapons were in arsenals around the world. Today, and despite a vast shrinkage in nuclear stockpiles, the global count of weapons remains at 15,000, mostly in the hands of either the United States or the Russian Federation. Under the 2010 New START Treaty, these nations should both have around only around 1500 warheads mounted on 800 strategic launchers on short term alert. As a result, and disregarding the uneven strategic balance of the Cold War until the 1970s, deployed nuclear weapons are, in 2017, at their lowest number since the late 1950s*. Disregarding the realities of nuclear strategy, this is however, a number still sufficient to distribute a warhead to every city in the world with a population of over 300,000, if you distribute them according to the number of urban areas of that size listed by the UN in 2016. Needless to say, it was only during Donald Trump’s first official call with Vladimir Putin, in February 2017, that the current US president, a man with the authority to launch over half of the nuclear weapons in the world today, was apparently made aware of this most recent and important nuclear disarmament treaty.

Seen at face value, the world of today is still far less concerned with the dangers of world war than it was in any decade of the Cold War, and, almost reassuringly, the problem is still talked of as a future possibility and not as an inevitability, as it was seen in the 1930s. Yet no one could deny that the tension, and uncertainty of such thinking is being revived, and on a scale unseen since the end of the Cold War order in the late 1980s.Perhaps the problem is not that the dangers of nuclear weapons have suddenly seen a resurgence, but that they never went away in the first place. The 1990s, a decade thought of by many as one of post-Cold War optimism and global co-operation, was in reality little different, in many ways, from the Cold war decades that preceded it with regard to international crises. Although vastly on the decrease, nuclear weapons stockpiles in the US and Russian Federation were several times greater than today, and deployed weapons remained in many cases presumably set in their Cold War configurations and locked onto their Cold War era targets until the symbolic US-Russian de-targeting agreements of 1994 removed this last trace of MAD war planning. The Norwegian Rocket Incident of January 1995, when the launch of an international research rocket over the North Sea was interpreted as a dangerous threat in the Kremlin for over half an hour before it was identified, or the Taiwan Straits Crisis between 1995 and 1996 both illustrate that post-Cold War incidents between nuclear armed states are not necessarily less dangerous than their Cold War equivalents. What was undeniably different about these scenarios to those of the Cold War era, however, was the absence both of an ideological mind-set, and of a move away from the strategic ideas of bipolarity to that of an undeclared Pax Americana. For now, the predominance of the United States as the world’s only superpower is still assured, but the disastrous wars of the Bush administration long ago ended the illusion that a liberal Anglo-Saxon hemisphere could be trusted to keep the peace, much less prevent new destabilisation in areas where its interests conflicted with others. Add to this a disturbing growth of nationalist populism and authoritarian realpolitik from Moscow to Washington, Hungary to Istanbul, not to mention the significant presence of anti-EU, pro-isolationist nationalism in Europe, and you have grim reality of a world increasingly uncertain of who is in control at all. The seminal British expert on the fall of the Iron Curtain, Timothy Garton-Ash, wrote in his excellent and terrifying thought piece for the Guardian in January 2017, that during Trump’s presidency the world could enter ‘an age of global confrontation’, and thus far his predictions have only been reinforced by the first half of 2017.

What has been noticeable in the past few months, is perhaps again the feeling of living in an unpredictable world, with a potential for catastrophic destruction over which the vast majority of humanity has no control. So, what can the worried individual can do about it. Joining CND is better than nothing, but it seems very unlikely to be able to affect political change towards the peripheral nuclear weapons nuclear in the climate of a western democracy such as Britain, never mind in the two countries that, strategically speaking, actually matter. The International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons (ICAN) and Global Zero, although modern and effective movements, remain disappointingly and almost counter intuitively unknown: their arguments (such as the one explained here for eradicating nuclear weapons are perfectly reasonable and sensible, and, you would imagine, be immediately supported by every nation without a permanent seat on the UN security council. However, as the recent issue of whether the British Labour party, if it were again in power, commit to renewing Trident demonstrated, the silent presence of nuclear weapons in unused arsenals to repel a hypothetical aggressor has become so ingrained and self-evident that it is now perhaps ‘common sense’ to treat any discussion of their abolition as preposterous.

What should be acknowledged, along with the immense luck that the humanity has had in the last seven decades in its dealings with nuclear weapons, is that a world where the use of such weapons is unthinkable cannot be taken for granted. The election of Donald Trump last year only brought the danger of thousands of potential Hiroshima’s into frightening clarity, for it should be remembered that even in the halcyon days of Obama’s first term, not once was there a serious international attempt to forge a treaty abolishing such weapons for good. At least half of the nations of the world would support such a deal without reservation. From Brazil to New Zealand, South Africa to Nigeria, countries peripheral to the dominant northern hemisphere have little incentive to support the maintenance of weapons of mass destruction beyond their control to preserve the status of the nuclear club. But then perhaps, in an actual debate, the argument of deterrence would be brought up. Surely the existence of nuclear weapons is itself responsible for the lack of world war since 1945? Indisputably this is true, but only if the word ‘world’ is included. For though the global order has remained stable through the post-war years, war has flourished on almost every continent, and in the decidedly one-sided way that a world dominated by the political interests of a select few would be expected to exist.

In terms of human life expectancy, and the likelihood of death due to conventional war and disease, the world of 2017 is safer than ever before. In contrast, the continued existence of nuclear weapons with very little global political effort in the direction of abolition or further reduction is literally, a ticking time-bomb, that for an entire human lifetime has been ticking. It seemed for a brief, optimistic yet misleading period, to be being overturned by a ‘goodbye to all that’ attitude to global confrontation, an infectious legend that, especially in the West, has provoked inaction. Since the annexation of Ukraine in 2014, the constant tension on the Korean peninsula and the dangerous development of the war in Syria, which increasingly resembles the Cold War proxy wars of old, the dangers of nuclear confrontation are again present in public consciousness. It seems increasingly likely that it is the relative inaction of the decades after the end of the Cold War proper, where the road paved by Reagan and Gorbachev towards total and unilateral disarmament was largely forgotten, that is responsible for the present climate. If such a process has taken place, then Putin and Trump are just its current symptoms. However, if we see a return to a reality resembling the Cold War at its most chilly, with a new arms race, and even a serious armed confrontation between nuclear powers, only then will the days of the Cold War really seem more pleasant.

T. Soden

*While this statement is supported by graphs such as this one, The Federation of Atomic Scientists remains the best online source of historical and current world stockpiles.

The Current Deja Vu over Chemical Weapons, Syria and yet another UN Crisis

When I opened my web browser this morning and loaded the Guardian website-a site I now have to avoid reading every day in order to preserve any sense of optimism about the current world situation- the news seemed familiar. Far too familiar. Trump writes bellicose and threatening tweet mentioning Syria, Russia etc. Sensible UN resolutions over Syria vetoed by Russia and then similar and almost as reasonable resolution proposed by Russia vetoed by US, UK ,France, who are already in open diplomatic confrontation with Russia due to the ongoing Skripal affair. Warnings about Western military action in Syria and the crisis spiralling out of control given by senior figures on every side, including the General Secretary of the UN. All incredibly gloomy and frightening. So why does it feel like this has happened before?

Because it has. Exactly one year ago, as I was enjoying a few days of (by British standards) unseasonably hot weather in the Mosel valley, the news reports were if not the same, so similar that they could just as well have been recycled by Routers and republished today. The Assad regime (and let’s be quite clear here, it was the Assad regime despite the uncertainty) had just carried out a brutal chemical attack on civilians. A US missile strike had struck a Syrian Air Force base that had recently been shared by Russian forces. A CNN presenter with a British accent had claimed that it was ‘the worst crisis in US-Russian relations since 1962’ in a matter of fact and slightly bored manner before going on to talk about something else going wrong in the Trump presidency. Although I found this claim slightly ridiculous- it’s not as if the Cuban missile crisis was the only Cold War crisis of any seriousness from 1960 to 1989- I was feeling nervous and agitated, despite the good weather. I’d hoped then, as I have more or less every week since mid-2016, that this crisis, like every other spiralling problem in this unrestful period in world politics would quickly blow over and the parties involved would solve their differences or at least come to an uneasy truce through diplomatic dialogue. Last year,my hopes proved more or less correct, and although there was no solution to the Syrian problem, things did not come to a head.

Today, even though I share those hopes, and trust that the UN will do its job as a mediator of peace, I can’t say that I’m at all optimistic. That such a crisis could happen again so soon after the first is if anything indicative that the era we live in is not just in a temporary moment of uncertainty, a time of faltering international trust, arrogant strongman diplomacy and the politics of reactionary insularity that will soon pass, but rather a more permanent state of affairs.

This kind of fatalism is not new, nor is it novel. For some years now people have discussed the ever more frequent disputes and crises that have sprung up in Korea, Ukraine and the Middle East in an increasingly fatalistic fashion. Some forecast a new Cold War: between the West and Russia, the West and China, even (rather ridiculously) the West and Iran. What these people fail to recognise-aside from the lazy and unproductive invocation of a historical period very different to the extremely globalised international situation today- is that what is needed in the present day, if anything, is the stability brought by the Cold War itself. That at least would perhaps be preferable to the faltering of what is now commonly called the ‘international system’ (read Pax- Americana) so defended by Teresa May in her commons statement on the Salisbury poisoning a month ago.I don’t welcome a ‘new Cold War’ anywhere, with anyone. But whatever it’s dangers, the old Cold War is preferable than a new hot one.

What would be far better, I’am sure most people would agree, would be a return to the normality that we used to live in-the world of Obama’s presidency and before, where the world seemed to be actually getting better as opposed to being on the brink of chaos. But we can’t pretend that a return to this apparent ‘normality’ will solve all our problems. Compared to 2018, the early 2000s were a halycron time for international relations-yet what did that mean for much of the world, other than ensuing that actual war-unless it’s of the acceptable kind where superpower blocs crush small countries that won’t toe the line- is kept to the chambers of the UN. That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t and will never solve the inequalities of the third world, remove the ever-present dangers of nuclear weapons, hinder the ability of renegade states like Assad’s Syria to plunge the world into uncertainty again by using chemical weapons, or stop the domestic political disarray in the USA from affecting people all over the globe in ways that they neither asked for nor deserve. And we don’t even live in such relative stability as this anymore.

Syria is a case in point. Neither ‘side’ in the conflict-the US and its Allies or Assad and Russia- now respect each other as negotiating partners at all, and can barely get through a day without dismissing the other’s actions as propagandistic swill or aggressive provocation. Over fifty years ago, the world was lucky that the Cuban Missile crisis did not result in nuclear war.  Over thirty years ago, it was lucky that brilliant, visionary statesmen worked to averted the risk of war further with good intentions and realistic agreement on what was at stake. In the post-Cold War years it has remained lucky, but there’s no reason for it to remain so for ever.

So although I will be following this next crisis with morbid interest, and although I remain faithful of the ability of peace and good sense to win out, my reservoir of hope that this terrible era of history would quickly right itself went dry long ago.

A Second Litvinenko? The murky complexity of the Salisbury poisoning and the need for restraint.

When I started this blog last year, one of my major daily worries was the worsening relationship between Russia and the West. The events of Autumn 2017, the ever continuing train-wreck of the Trump presidency and the ongoing national embarrassment of Brexit have not substantially changed my mood.

The attempted poisoning of Sergai Skripal and his daughter in Salisbury at the beginning of March was a tragic event for the victims, the troubled Anglo-Russian relationship and for those injured by the collateral effects of the nerve agent used. Teresa May has acted about as well as she could do in light of the domestic pressures that such an attack entails, expelling diplomats and essentially blaming Russia for the attack in her well reasoned if depressing statement last week. The Russian government have also acted to their own, predictably aloof script and with a calculated ambiguity that Putin’s Russia has often displayed in its colder foreign policy dealings, denied the attack off-hand with an air of amused contempt designed to enrage. The attack, with it’s use of Russian produced chemical agent, Russian national target and apparent links to espionage reeks of a Kremlin sponsored hit, as the prime minister has said in her statement. But nothing is as yet particularly clear about the causes of the attack. It could be, as most of the UK press is suggesting, that the event was staged as a provocative warning to Putin’s opponents in the West, demonstrating the consequences of defying his country and seeking refuge in Britain. It could also be, as this argument follows on to claim, that the timeliness of the Russian elections was no accident and Putin-who as of yesterday renewed his own tenure in the Kremlin for a 5th term with 75% of the vote-is using the attack in some oblique way to consolidate support at home. Even, as some commentators are suggesting, Putin could be actively inviting more Western sanctions to justify his assertive foreign policy to an Russian populace increasingly sceptical about the domestic corruption of his state.

All the above may well be true, and as the poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko in 2006 all but demonstrated, the Kremlin is not above such assassinations abroad to silence its detractors. Yet on second glance, the narrative does not seem as convincing as the leaders of the conservative party, united with much of their labour opposition in apparent patriotic solidarity-have claimed. Why would Putin wish to silence Skripal, a long pardoned ex-MI6 spy exchanged in 2010, and not any one of the other higher profile Russian defectors on British soil. Why attack him now, at a time of historically low relations and with the full risk of international outcry, when it would have been so easily achievable during Skripal’s prison time in Russia in the early 2000s? And above all, why do so in a manner so clumsy and public that not only did it fail to kill Skripal and his daughter but guarantee that Russia would be immediately put under suspicion? The only detail that seems obvious about this case is that whoever carried out this attack-whether private individuals or state actors-was keen for it to be discovered, and keen for Skripal’s case to become a very public outrage, and one that brings the fear of Russia to a quaint, historic corner of England but conveniently failed to cause fatalities. If they had intended to kill Skripal-and there are many more cheaper, less obvious and more straightforward ways to kill someone than using an easily identifiable state produced nerve agent in a public place where it would be discovered -the Salisbury police would presumably be investigating a double murder.

In Britain, the world of Cold War espionage has always had a certain allure- in fiction from James Bond to George Smiley and in fact from George Blake and Kim Philby to Oleg Gordievsky. Documentary makers, journalists and historians have never been neutral when discussing the subject, with Ben Mcintyre’s gripping and at times unabashedly enthusiastic account of Gordievsky’s 1986 defection in The Times from 2015 almost fictionalising reality itself. While it is always tempting to admire the plucky British character of such accounts which often run along the lines of: ‘the moral certainties of a Russian threat that if not on the level of Hitler’s Germany, still needs to be thwarted for its own good’, spies are spies, whichever country they work for. From the sketchy details available, it seems that Skripal was no saint, and may well have betrayed fellow KGB agents during the Cold War,acts that may well provoke retribution from well connected private individuals in post-Soviet Russia as much as the Russian government itself.

I do not want to indicate that the above speculation- and it is speculation, until the full results of the police investigation are known- is in any way the full story of this painful and worrying incident. What I want to point out is that this case is far from simple, and the overwhelming feeling to immediately place the blame at Russia’s door-as many have done- is unhelpful to everyone, regardless of the ‘previous actions of Russia’ as highlighted in May’s Commons statement.  Neither am I placing doubt on the police investigation, which has the best chance of unearthing the perpetrator given time.

While the annexation of Ukraine, the resumption of Russian overflights, and the tensions in the Baltic seem to prove the narrative that Russia is fast becoming a threat to European security on par with the Soviet Red Army in the 1950s-and don’t get me wrong, Putin himself would likely love to incite such fear in the West- the trends of post-Cold War international relations simply don’t fit with this narrative, even if it would benefit many people (the UK defence establishment for example). As John Rees’s incisive article on the imperial ambitions of Putin’s Russia demonstrates, the current defence budget of Russia is far removed from a comparison with the Soviet Union and not far ahead of either the UK or Germany, and a tiny fraction of behemoth military might of the USA. Putin’s Russia is clearly still a force to be reckoned with, especially in the post-Soviet states, but with an expanded NATO and US allies Japan and South Korea surrounding its Asian borders, there can be no doubt that it is the West that holds the strategic high ground (and the greater threat) not the other way around.

Regardless of the origin of the (still publicly unknown) perpetrators crisis comes at a bad times for either Russia or the United Kingdom. Never particularly robust, even in the now halycron days of the 1990s, the strategic relationship has always been one of the more important on the European continent- and strained for it. Putin’s Russia must stop it’s provocations if it wants a normalisation of the situation anytime soon. But May’s Britain, at the moment characterised by the imperialistic buffoonery of Foreign Secretary Johnson, the fear mongering of defence secretary Williamson and a appearance of arrogant impotency due to the continued car crash of Brexit negotiations should also stop alienating its allies in Europe and quickly blaming neighbours further to the East on no evidence but that of ‘previous conduct’ if it wants to prolong its place at the top table of world affairs. Both sides must stop reading from the tired script of East-West antagonism, ignore the dangerous misnomer of  a new ‘Cold War’ and normalise relations. One way or another.

The File: A Personal History by Timothy Garton Ash

As any visitor to Berlin would tell you, in terms of financial success, the German Democratic Republic is doing better than ever. From the packed with tourists and drearily commercialised Checkpoint Charlie to the redeveloped and thoroughly capitalist Alexanderplatz and the dozens of museums specialising in the GDR, nearly 30 years after its demise modern visitors to Germany cannot get enough of the nostalgia (‘Ostoligie’) around the world’s kitschiest dictatorship. And as the international success films such as Das Leben Der Anderen (‘The Lives of Others) or Goodbye Lenin demonstrate, they don’t come just for the Ampelmannchen (the iconic hat wearing signals at pedestrian crossings): increasingly life under the police state, and the police state itself is on show. While the catastrophe of National Socialism and arch menace of the SS state remains modern history’s most vivid horror, an unavoidable landmark for present day Germany, The GDR’s ministry for state security, or STASI, is in the minds of many its apposite yet ‘totalitarian’ twin. By no means an instrument of mass murder, but one of everyday brutality, in many ways the 40 year long reign of the Stasi holds a unique interest value due to its very success. Another is it’s strangely mundane end, becoming history in mere months, chaotically and without bloodshed, or much retribution. While the suviving employees of the Nazi security services were in the immediate post war years imprisoned or executed, most of the Stasi’s 30,000 workforce simply dissolved into private life come 1990, many neither rewarded nor punished for their past careers.

The sustained popular interest in the GDR and its security apparatus is particularly brought to light if one considers the host of histories and novels available on the shelves of high street bookshops such as Waterstones. English Language studies which focus on everyday life in the GDR, such as Hester Vaizey’s Born in the GDR or Anna Funders Staziland take up an increasing amount of space in the popular history section along with the usual assortment of accounts of Stalingrad and Hitler biographies.

In The File:A Personal history, Oxford Historian and columnist Timothy Garton Ash explores a very personal history of his time in East Germany, dissecting an unsettlingly detailed Stasi file compiled through a network of mostly voluntary informers who documented his stay in the GDR. Utilising the unprecedentedly even-handed approach of the post-reunification authorities to the East German past and the unique open atmosphere of newly reunified Germany itself, Garton Ash tracks down and personally interviews many of his former informers, creating a book that is part personal memoir, part investigation into the murky and if not murderous, still profoundly unpleasant reality of the East German machine.

 

As readable and concise as his print journalism, Garton Ash is still one of the best historians and historically minded columnists today for his sense of style, and this book

Provides a gripping account of Stasi methods of surveillance, even if not as a historical ‘study’ in the formal sense.

At first glance at the blurb and title, you could be forgiven for thinking the thought the apparent premise of this book was a bit self-gratulatory and melodramatic. As Garton Ash himself discusses in the initial chapters, it is easy to wear the attention of police state apparatus as particular badge of honour for those who have never felt their threat. A lesser author could well have exaggerated the importance and danger of the Stasi surveillance during his year or so as a resident in East Germany-such files were so routine, as to be the norm for foreigners in the homogenous and relatively isolated East German society. But Garton Ash’s book is by no means congratulatory, and in fact a well thought out attempt to respond to the formidable and efficient, if remarkably petty, STASI security apparatus.

Beginning with the text of his file as he first read it, when, in the early 1990s, the former office for State security released all of its files for public scrutiny, Garton Ash recollects, partially from memory and partially from Stasi notes, his time as a graduate student in a still very divided Berlin at the turn of the 1980s. Indeed, as he unravels the almost constant surveillance around his movements in ‘the white heat of the Cold War’, a surprising contrast between the  is that the meticulous notes of the informants seem to remember the time better than he himself can. In particular he relates an evening in November 1980, in which his then East German girlfriend suddenly turned the lights on in his room with the curtains open, and his suspicions that this could be to make surveillance easier. The details provided in the file by IMs are thorough yet often phonetically inaccurate –Garton Ash’s birthplace of Wimbledon is recorded as ‘Wimbredew’ and his one time employer the Spectator becomes the intriguingly soviet ‘Spekta’. The apparent discrepancies between the Stasi’s official reportage and Garton Ash’s living memory is a particularly effective as a backbone for the book, and one and should that could be used more in such literature.

Garton Ash takes care in not revealing the identity of the Stasi informants, or ‘IMs’ (short for ‘inoffizielle Mitarbeiter’, or unofficial Collaborator) that largely furnished the contents of his file, but as the disclaimer at the start of the book makes clear, it is at times very easy to match informants such as ‘Michaela’ with their real life counterparts.

Garton Ash makes a particularly unusual first hand observer of the GDR, mainly because of his staunch personal opposition both as a student and up to the present day to not only the GDR regime but the ideology of Soviet Communism itself. Yet both his interest and sympathies for people on the other side of the Iron Curtain gives his work a strange quality of being between the anti-communism of older historians and the more sympathetic, if idealistic approval of the ‘fellow travelling left’, or the Marxist and leftist influenced generation of ’68. However, what sets him somewhat apart from much of the current crop of modern historians of Eastern Europe  is personal experience. Garton Ash not only spoke the languages of the Warsaw Pact with ease, living in the GDR and extensively travellign in Poland at the decade defining Solidarity protests of 1981, but combined this with as illustrious an academic career as the Eastern Europeanists and Sovietologists observing from the comfort of their Western and often American university departments.

Throughout the biographical sections of the File the honesty of its author is sometimes quite jarring, often seeming to revel with slightly unflattering pride in its unapologetic self-reflection. In the File’s more political moments, there is an understandable singlemindedness,  yet the often ambiguous phrasing of of these areas (Garton Ash describes himself politically using the conveniently unspecific label of ‘English Liberal’) sometimes reveals a narrative too eager to present itself as truth. It is no distortion to say that Garton Ash’s centre-right embrace of English individualism is stretched to some limit of credibility. This is only reinforced by what seems to be a rather strange and unsubtle anti-New Labour parallel between Eastern Bloc authoritarianism and the expansion of  Britain’s security state, CCTV camera numbers and all, ‘since 1997’ in the Afterward written in 2009. There are some sections of the File that could be stronger, and certainly some that could for a reader unfamiliar with the GDR reinforce the common view of the GDR as nothing more than a STASI prison that happened to encircle West Berlin. But to criticise Garton Ash’s objectivity would be unfair and misleading: it is now nearly twenty years since the file was published, in a period where the memory of the GDR was still very fresh and it’s  files barely explored. In any case, Garton Ash himself declares in his Afterward that ten years on, his message for a more enlightened public is far more to say‘East Germany was not only the Stasi.’This is a memoir, not a popular history text or monograph, and to claim that such nitpicks detract much from the fun of the book would be false as well as unkind. Indeed, being placed into Garton’s shoes, (or at least his perplexingly distant former self), pulling apart the reports  (or as Garton Ash calls them, ‘poisened madeleines’) that a foreign internal security service on a private citizen and were then made fully public  barely a decade later has an element of human interest that surely rivals that of a bestseller for gripping interest value.

Overall, the File is an enjoyable and unusual read that conjures up not just the experience of living in the GDR as a foreigner but an insight into how close in proximity the boundaries of the Cold War could lie for active observers like Garton Ash. Just as interestingly, it gives a window into the early years at the coal face of a ‘hands on’ historian and public intellectual such as Garton Ash and how close current affairs, personal memories and history can become, especially if the object in question is yourself.

Small Towns in Germany: How the Cold War transformed the Rhineland

The very choice of Bonn as the waiting house for Berlin has long been an anomaly; it is now an abuse. Perhaps only the Germans, having elected a Chancellor, would have brought their capital city to his door.

In ‘A Small Town in Germany’, John Le Carré’s late 1960’s ode to the ugly realities of the Allied presence within West Germany, Bad Godesburg, a Bonn suburb and the then seat of political power and international missions in the Federal Republic, is described in particularly unflattering terms. An ‘unnatural capital village’ lacking in both ‘political identity and social hinterland’, Le Carré’s town is ‘permanently connected to impermanence’, a wasteland of ‘giant buildings, still unfinished’ rising ‘glumly out of untilled fields’.

This image of the temporary seat of West German politics highlights a transformation in the importance of a provincial town and area that is perhaps unique in the history of Europe. The rapidity of its installation and the almost complete dominance of foreign interests in its design made Bonn and the surrounding Rhine hinterlands one of the most strategically important areas in the world. The elevation of the historically significant, yet divided Rhineland to this position was arguably one of the most influential geographic effects of the Cold War, and one that even today, with the restoration of Berlin as capital of a unified Germany, remains evident, at least in economic terms. Bonn remains Germany’s official Federalstadt, with almost half the employees of the Federal Republic working within its urban area.

The political context of the plot of Le Carré’s novel, a future resurgence of the far right in the Federal Republic as a consequence of the political unrest of 1968, proved to be far from the truth of continued West German prosperity and eventually successful reunification decades later, but his description of the perpetual impermanence of the Bonn Republic proved to remain applicable for almost 40 years.

 

Situated the heart of Western Europe, The Rhineland has always been a place of cultural, political and symbolic power. The width and navigability of the Rhine itself, effectively cleaving the European continent in two from the North Sea to the Swiss Alps, has combined the attractions of great commercial traffic and economic wealth with strategic benefits that have remained just as attractive from the Roman period to the atomic age. With the defeat of Nazi Germany in 1945 and the coming of the Cold War, the area retained its key and highly prized qualities and symbolism. However, this new era arguably transformed the Rhineland for the first time into an axis of national and international political concentration unique in the history of Europe. With the division of the now defeated and significantly reduced German heartland into successor states of competing political ideology and authority, the historically divided and somewhat conservative catholic Rhine hinterlands could become the nexus of the West German Federal Republic, and with it forge a distinctly Rhenish path to the future reunified nation of the present day.

The Rhineland of the pre-war years was dominated by political separatism, and a resurgent nationalism stoked by ever-present Franco-German mistrust. De-militarised under the Treaty of Versailles, occupied until 1925 and markedly reduced by the French absorption of the Alsatian area to the west of the upper Rhine, the German speaking Rhine area was home to the short lived Aachen based Rhenish Republic of 1923-1924 and broadly mistrustful of the Berlin governments of the Weimar Republic and even to some extent their Nazi successors. Despite the strong catholic population in the area, and traditional distrust of the Prussian dominated north and East, the Rhine’s symbolic significance in German national culture (Siegfried reputedly slayed his dragon in the hills around Bonn and several of Wagner’s operas owed much to the mythical qualities of the Rhine as German Heimat) and its location on the border of the Reich made it a rallying point for German nationalism, whatever that may be. With the capitulation of Nazism in 1945, akin with the rest of the former Reich, much of the area lay in ruins. The centres of Cologne, Dusseldorf and Mainz were all but destroyed by bombing and the commercial infrastructure of the region was weakened by fierce fighting along the Rhine itself. Yet, as the westernmost and most populated area of divided Germany, the region was almost immediately the focus of attempts to make a new republic. The long standing pre-1933 major of Cologne, Konrad Adenauer, campaigned successfully for Bonn, until then a historic and prosperous yet otherwise provincial small city south of Cologne, to be made the capital of the new republic, although, as with many aspects of the Rhineland’s Cold War reorganisation, this was never meant as a permanent move.

 

The elevation of the Rhineland in particular to political significance by Cold War politics was perhaps in hindsight, almost inevitable. Even before the Second World War, the area’s urban population and economy dominated German national culture to an extent only matched perhaps by the far larger Prussian heartlands to the east, and with the gradual but complete destruction of Prussia as a regional identity and the considerable shrinking of Germany’s borders post 1945, it was only rivalled by the far smaller districts around major cities such as Frankfurt, Hamburg and Munich, not to mention the now divided and occupied Berlin. However, this political significance was no accident, and a very specific product of the meeting of Allied policies of Denazification and the removal of any German resurgence and the distrust of the early Cold War. The structure of the Federal Republic, which was designed to discourage and prevent the political putsches and paramilitary activity that destroyed the Weimar Republic of the recent past, relied on geographic distribution as much as democratic principles. The placement of the national courts in Karlsruhe and the German National bank in Frankfurt necessitated the need for a national capital elsewhere, to combat the risk of a military coup, something that with its relative obscurity, Bonn easily provided.

Finally, yet not unimportantly, situated to the very west of the newly founded Federal Republic, which directly bordered on the German Democratic Republic and with it, the Warsaw Pact to the East, it is not hard to see the attractiveness of the Rhineland as the political centre of the new Germany. Despite the economic and political advantages of the Rhineland it’s military significance, once fixed on the proximity to France, now looked eastward, and the military and civilian elites in Bonn knew this as much as NATO planners over the border in the low countries. If there was ever to be an armed confrontation between East and West in Europe, it would likely have been decided on the fields to the immediate east of the Rhineland.

As a political and geographic entity, the Rhineland has never been insignificant, yet its importance was transformed by the specific conditions of the early Cold War just as much as Berlin was divided by it. The want of reunification, the still very recent processes of de-Nazification and the need to mould the Federal Republic into an obedient protectorate state combined with the threat of Soviet military power just over the border to elevate the area into an attractive proposition for Allied planners and German elites. Bonn may be once more a small city in Germany, yet its legacy lives on.