Reassessing Cold War Europe (Routledge Studies in the History of Russia and Eastern Europe)

Reassessing Cold War Europe

This book presents a comprehensive reassessment of Europe in the Cold War period, 1945–1991. It shows that, contrary to popular belief, relations between East and West were based not only on confrontation and mutual distrust, but also on collaboration. The authors reveal that – despite opposing ideologies – there was in fact considerable interaction and exchange between different Eastern and Western actors (such as states, enterprises, associations, organisations and individuals) irrespective of the Iron Curtain. This book challenges both the traditional understanding of the East–West juxtaposition and the relevancy of the Iron Curtain. Covering the full period, and taking into account a range of spheres including trade, scientific– technical co-operation, and cultural and social exchanges, it reveals how smaller countries and smaller actors in Europe were able to forge and implement their agendas within their own blocs. The book suggests that these lower-level actors were engaged in mutually beneficial co-operation, often running counter to the ambitions of the bloc leaders, the rules of Cold War interaction were not, in fact, exclusively dictated by the superpowers. Sari Autio-Sarasmo is a Senior Researcher at the Aleksanteri Institute (Finnish Centre of Russian and Eastern European Studies), University of Helsinki, and Adjunct Professor at the University of Tampere, Finland. Katalin Miklóssy is a Researcher at the Aleksanteri Institute, University of Helsinki, and Adjunct Professor at the University of Helsinki, Finland.

Routledge Studies in the History of Russia and Eastern Europe

1 Modernizing Muscovy Reform and social change in seventeenth-century Russia Edited by Jarmo Kotilaine and Marshall Poe

8 Cossacks and the Russian Empire, 1598–1725 Manipulation, rebellion and expansion into Siberia Christoph Witzenrath

2 The USA in the Making of the USSR The Washington Conference, 1921–22, and ‘Uninvited Russia’ Paul Dukes

9 The Many Deaths of Tsar Nicholas II Relics, remains and the Romanovs Wendy Slater

3 Tiny Revolutions in Russia Twentieth century Soviet and Russian history in anecdotes Bruce Adams

10 Popular Religion in Russia ‘Double belief’ and the making of an academic myth Stella Rock

4 The Russian General Staff and Asia, 1800–1917 Alex Marshall

11 Eastern Christianity and the Cold War, 1945–91 Edited by Lucian N. Leustean

5 Soviet Eastern Policy and Turkey, 1920–91 Soviet foreign policy, Turkey and communism Bülent Gökay

12 The Caucasus under Soviet rule Alex Marshall

6 The History of Siberia Igor V. Naumov Edited by David N. Collins 7 Russian Military Intelligence in the War with Japan, 1904–5 Secret operations on land and at sea Evgeny Sergeev

13 Rural Women in the Soviet Union and Post-Soviet Russia Liubov Denisova Edited and translated by Irina Mukhina 14 Reassessing Cold War Europe Edited by Sari Autio-Sarasmo and Katalin Miklóssy

Reassessing Cold War Europe

Edited by Sari Autio-Sarasmo and Katalin Miklóssy

First published 2011 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2010. To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk. © 2011 Sari Autio-Sarasmo and Katalin Miklóssy for selection and editorial matter; individual contributors their contribution The right of Sari Autio-Sarasmo and Katalin Miklóssy to be identified as editors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Reassessing Cold War Europe / edited by Sari Autio-Sarasmo and Katalin Miklóssy. p. cm. – (Routledge studies in the history of Russia and Eastern Europe; 14) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Europe, Western—Relations—Soviet Union. 2. Soviet Union— Relations—Europe, Western. 3. Europe, Western—Relations— Europe, Eastern. 4. Europe, Eastern—Relations—Europe, Western. 5. Europe—History—1945–46. 6. Cold War. 7. World politics—1945–89. I. Autio, Sari. II. Miklóssy, Katalin. D1065.S65R43 2011 303.48′2404709045–dc22 2010014972 ISBN 0-203-84138-7 Master e-book ISBN ISBN: 978-0-415-58769-3 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-203-84138-9 (ebk)

Contents

Notes on contributors Glossary of terms and abbreviations List of tables Acknowledgments Introduction: The Cold War from a new perspective

vii ix xi xii 1

SARI AUTIO-SARASMO AND KATALIN MIKLÓSSY

1 The Soviet Union’s acquisition of Western technology after Stalin: Some thoughts on people and connections

16

PHILIP HANSON

2 Economic interest in Soviet post-war policy on Finland

33

TATIANA ANDROSOVA

3 CoCom and neutrality: Western export control policies, Finland and the Cold War, 1949–58

49

NIKLAS JENSEN-ERIKSEN

4 Knowledge through the Iron Curtain: Soviet scientific–technical cooperation with Finland and West Germany

66

SARI AUTIO-SARASMO

5 Learning from the French: The modernization of Soviet winemaking, 1956–61 JEREMY SMITH

83

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Contents

6 Soft contacts through the Iron Curtain

100

RIIKKA NISONEN-TRNKA

7 Internal transfer of cybernetics and informality in the Soviet Union: The case of Lithuania

119

˙ RINDZEVIC ˇ IU ¯ TE ˙ EGLE

8 New advantages of old kinship ties: Finnish–Hungarian interactions in the 1970s

138

KATALIN MIKLÓSSY

9 Soviet women, cultural exchange and the Women’s International Democratic Federation

157

MELANIE ILIC

10 Overcoming Cold War boundaries at the World Youth Festivals

175

PIA KOIVUNEN

11 Room to manoeuvre? National interests and coalition-building in the CMEA, 1969–74

193

SUVI KANSIKAS

Bibliography Index

210 227

Notes on contributors

Tatiana Androsova has a PhD in economics and she works as a senior researcher at the Institute of Universal History, Russian Academy of Sciences (Moscow). Her recent publications include ‘Soviet–Finnish relations in the Cold War context’ in Northern Europe. Problems of History. Issue 6. Russian Academy of Sciences (Institute of Universal History, Moscow, 2007). Sari Autio-Sarasmo is a Senior Researcher at the Aleksanteri Institute (the Finnish Centre for Russian and East European Studies) and Adjunct Professor at the University of Tampere. Her recent publications include ‘Khrushchev and the challenge of technological progress’ in Khrushchev in the Kremlin (Routledge, 2011). Philip Hanson is an Associate Fellow of the Royal Institute of International Affairs in London and Emeritus Professor of the Political Economy of Russia and Eastern Europe, University of Birmingham. Many of his books and articles have been on the Soviet and post-Soviet economies. Melanie Ilic is Reader in History at the University of Gloucestershire. She specialises in Soviet women’s history. Recent publications include two volumes co-edited with Jeremy Smith: Soviet State and Society Under Nikita Khrushchev (Routledge, 2009) and Khrushchev in the Kremlin (Routledge, 2011). Niklas Jensen-Eriksen received a PhD from the London School of Economics and Political Science in 2004, and is now an Adjunct Professor at the University of Helsinki. He has published widely on business–government relations and international political economy. Suvi Kansikas is a PhD candidate in political history at the University of Helsinki. Her research interests include the history of European integration, Cold War international relations and political economy. Her latest publications include articles on Soviet policy towards European integration. Pia Koivunen is a PhD candidate at the University of Tampere. She is the

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Notes on contributors

author of ‘The 1957 Moscow Youth Festival: propagating a new peaceful image of the Soviet Union’, in Ilic and Smith (eds), Soviet State and Society under Nikita Khrushchev (London: Routledge, 2009). Katalin Miklóssy is Adjunct Professor at the University of Helsinki and researcher at the Aleksanteri Institute (Finnish Centre of Russian and Eastern European Studies). Recent publications include ‘Khrushchevism after Khrushchev: the rise of national interest in the Eastern bloc’ in Khrushchev in the Kremlin (London: Routledge, 2011). Riikka Nisonen-Trnka is a doctoral researcher. She is working in the Aleksanteri Institute at the University of Helsinki on the project Competition in Socialist Society. Recent publications include ‘The Prague Spring of science: Czechoslovak natural scientists reconsidering the Iron Curtain in 1948 and 1968’ in Dramatic Milestones in Czech and Slovak History (Routledge, 2010). Egle˙ Rindzevicˇiu¯te˙ is a post-doctoral Research Fellow (Browaldh Scholarship) at the Gothenburg Research Institute, University of Gothenburg, Sweden. Besides five articles, she has published a monograph Constructing Soviet Cultural Policy: Cybernetics and Governance in Lithuania After World War II (2008). Jeremy Smith, PhD, is Senior Lecturer in Russian History at the Centre for Russian and East European Studies, University of Birmingham. His recent publications include two volumes co-edited with Melanie Ilic: Soviet State and Society Under Nikita Khrushchev (Routledge, 2009) and Khrushchev in the Kremlin (Routledge, 2011).

Glossary of terms and abbreviations

CC-CPSU

Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union CHINCOM US-led trade embargo on China CIA Central Intelligence Agency USA CMEA Council for Mutual Economic Assistance CoCom Coordinating Committee Comecon Council for Mutual Economic Assistance CPSU Communist Party of the Soviet Union CSCE Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe CTT Scientific Council for Cybernetics and Computing Technology EEC European Economic Community EFTA European Free Trade Association FCMA Friendship, Cooperation and Mutual Assistance FSTC Finnish-Soviet Trade Chamber GATT General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade GDR German Democratic Republic GKNT State Committee of Science and Technology (Soviet Union) GOSPLAN State Planning Organization (Soviet Union) Gostekhnika State Committee for the Introduction of new Technology into the National Economy (Soviet Union) GRU Soviet Military Intelligence ICI Imperial Chemical Industries IEC International Electrotechnical Commission IMF International Monetary Fund IUPAC International Union of Pure and Applied Chemistry IUS International Union of Students KGB National Security Agency of the Soviet Union KIM Communist Youth International KIT Kaunas Institute of Technology (Lithuania) LAS Institute of Physics and Mathematics (Lithuania) NATO North Atlantic Treaty Organization NEC National Economic Council (Lithuania) NPDC National Patent Development Corporation (USA)

x

Glossary of terms and abbreviations

OEEC PCC SCDB SDP STR UN USSR VINITI VPK WFDY WIDF

Organisation for European Economic Co-operation Political Consultative Committee of the Warsaw Pact Special Computer Design Bureau Social Democratic Party (Finland) Scientific and Technical Revolution United Nations Union of Soviet Socialist Republics All-Union Institute for Scientific-Technical Information (Soviet Union) Soviet Military-Industrial Commission World Federation of Democratic Youth Women’s International Democratic Federation

List of tables

1.1 1.2 1.3 9.1

9.2 10.1

Annual volumes of machinery imports from 14 OECD countries, 1955–78 Shares in machinery imports from the West and in fixed investment selected industries and years Estimated shares of 1985 Soviet production that came from imported plants, selected products Numbers of delegates to the fifth WIDF Congress (Moscow, 1963) and sixth WIDF Congress (Helsinki, 1969) Social background of congress delegates The World Festivals of Youth and Students, 1947–73

21 22 27

167 167 176

Acknowledgments

This volume is based on the three-year-long international collaboration of the members of the project Knowledge Through the Iron Curtain – Transferring Knowledge and Technology in Cold War Europe (KIC) (www.helsinki.fi/ aleksanteri/kic). The KIC project has been funded by the Academy of Finland (2007–09) and has been also supplemented by the Finnish Graduate School for Russian and East European Studies at the University of Helsinki, and the Baltic and East European Graduate School at Södertörn University, Sweden, in addition to the Finnish Doctoral School of History. The Aleksanteri Institute (the Finnish Centre for Russian and Eastern European Studies, University of Helsinki) not only hosted the KIC project but, most importantly, has offered us an interdisciplinary research environment with a rich discursive culture. We are deeply indebted to Professor Markku Kivinen, the Director of the Aleksanteri Institute and to Professor Vesa Oittinen for the numerous theoretical discussions that contributed a great deal to the development of our analysis. Without the efficiency and skill of the Institute’s staff, the work of the project would have been practically impossible. Together with the Institute, the KIC project was able to organise an international conference with 200 participants on the subject, entitled ‘Cold War Interactions Reconsidered’. The KIC project’s researchers have cooperated with several national and international research projects and networks, of which intellectual support was given by the project Conflict and Community: Transatlantic Relations in the Long Twentieth Century led by Professor Marjatta Hietala and Professor Jussi Hanhimäki, at the University of Tampere. The Nordic networks, Northern Europe – from Cold War Division to Restructured Europe and the Nordic and North/Central European Network of Cold War Researchers (NORCENCOWAR) have provided a lively and insightful arena for vivid discussions. We thank all colleagues for the valuable comments we received on papers that we presented in several national and international conferences, including the BASEES, AAASS and ESF workshops. Additionally, there are several people who assisted us in the various stages of our research process. The editors are especially grateful to Professor Pauli Kettunen (University of

Acknowledgments

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Helsinki) for the theoretical advice and analytical conversations on our paradigm. The help of Dr Markku Hyrkkänen, Dr Joni Krekola, Dr Mikko Majander, Taru Korkalainen, Dr Rósa Magnusdottir and Dr Thomas Fischer was invaluable for the different chapters. We warmly thank Dr Julie Fedor who has done huge work in translating one chapter and checking the language of chapters written by non-native English speakers. Co-operation with Julie has been smooth and effective throughout. Since there are so many people in archives and libraries who have helped us to conduct the research, it is almost impossible to mention all the names and organisations to whom we are indebted. This is why we want to acknowledge the important work done by the archival and library staff in Finland, Hungary, Russia, Sweden, United Kingdom, United States, Czech Republic, Lithuania and Germany. Without the valuable work they do, research would be impossible.

Introduction The Cold War from a new perspective Sari Autio-Sarasmo and Katalin Miklóssy

From the perspective of historiography, the collapse of the communist system in Eastern Europe in 1989 and the disintegration of the Soviet Union in 1991 were perceived as the beginning of a new era that would bring fundamental changes in the interpretation of this period. It seemed that the epoch of grand narratives of law-governed historical processes had also come to an end. Francis Fukuyama even declared the end of history, now that the struggle of the Cold War had culminated in the victory of the righteous, Western liberal democracy and market economy. Almost the same conclusion was reached by Karl Popper, who claimed that the notion of history as a suprapersonal power with its own direction had suffered a decisive defeat with the termination of the Cold War.1 There were high hopes of an impending revolution in historiography due to the supposedly vanishing bipolar mindset and to the opening of the Eastern archives, providing scholars with new evidence.2 The end of the Cold War thus represented a unique opportunity to expand our understanding of the Cold War era. In practice, however, the newly available materials seldom generated new approaches, or even new research questions. Now, 20 years on, the research continues to be dominated by an emphasis on the bipolar confrontational nature of the Cold War and by the superpower approach, in Eastern and Western scholarship alike. Whereas the focus on bipolarity implies a simplified perception of the supposed inner cohesiveness of the opposing political blocs, the superpower angle, on the other hand, over-accentuates the extent to which the superpowers shaped the course of world events. During the Cold War, researchers largely focused on the question of how the Cold War had begun (and especially who was to blame for this); after 1991, the focus shifted to explaining the war’s end. We now have detailed information on the high-level political decision making and international political bargaining, which still seems to represent the main line of inquiry in the research. Inevitably, perhaps, narratives of the ‘winners’ of the Cold War emerged, depicting its end as representing the triumph of the victorious West, and of the United States in particular.3 Current, often West European-based, research emphasizes the influential role played by the European powers and their leaders’ policies, as well as highlighting the

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evolution of European institutions as a factor determining the outcome of the Cold War. The level of analysis remains mostly on the macro level of high politics and of international relations between state actors. One of the baseline assumptions underpinning the prevailing Cold War studies is the notion that the Iron Curtain acted as an impermeable barrier dividing two monolithic blocs.4 If we look beyond the superpower sphere, however, we can find other, very different, levels of interaction that played an equally important role in affecting people’s everyday lives in the Cold War era; moreover, it becomes evident that the Iron Curtain was by no means impassable. The volume Reassessing Cold War Europe takes into account the existence of the blocs and the underlying bipolarity at the level of world politics, but it also recognizes the fact that not all developments in Europe were outcomes of the bipolar structure. The main argument of this volume is that relations between East and West were based not exclusively on confrontation or unceasing mutual distrust, but also on collaboration. We claim that Cold War bloc politics and the East–West ideological dividing line did not in fact penetrate the whole of society, on either the Western or the Eastern side of Europe. Beneath the bipolar structure, multileveled interaction was taking place between different types of actors, between people, institutions and states. These lower-level actors below the great powers’ arena engaged in mutually beneficial cooperation, which quite often ran counter to the ambitions of the bloc leaders. Furthermore, our special focus on Eastern Europe offers a sharper picture of the plurality of motives at play here, thus challenging the totalitarian view of a monolithic Soviet-led bloc. East European states are viewed as individual actors in the European sphere. In many respects this volume aligns with the newly emerging contours of Cold War research that are still on the margins of the mainstream scholarship, much of which remains primarily focused on international relations and diplomacy. Interestingly, more diversified approaches have emerged in recent years, and with a special angle on Europe. Perhaps the most striking and innovative development in the latest Cold War literature is the new approach to the East European states, which have now been recognized as more independent actors in the political processes, not only as members of the Soviet bloc.5 This represents a genuinely fresh perspective on the Cold War. On the whole, however, as far as the current scholarship is concerned, the Cold War world remains divided into two blocs, and confrontation and conflict are its main characterizing features.

Introducing a new paradigm to Cold War studies In Reassessing Cold War Europe, we introduce a new paradigm of multileveled– multipolar interaction that opens up fresh ways to analyse, view and interpret the developments in Europe during the Cold War. Our understanding of the term ‘paradigm’ is more limited in scope than either the highly influential definition introduced by Thomas Kuhn, who used the term to refer to a

Introduction

3

‘comprehensive explanation of the world of affairs’,6 or what Mary Fulbrook later called ‘meta-theory’ that ‘represents mutually incompatible ways of viewing the world’.7 We also differentiate our usage of the term from that of the distinguished Cold War historian Odd Arne Westad, who applied it with reference to possible patterns of interpretation offering alternative ways, different co-existing directions, for analysing the past.8 Our paradigm of multileveled–multipolar interaction articulates a theoretical framework that redefines the vocabulary of key-concepts and builds up a new conceptual structure as a means of analysis. It implies a new mode of explanation in the study of an era and allows us to re-evaluate the significance of time boundaries in a radically different way. Paradigms can be conceived properly through central concepts that provide scholars with the necessary prism through which to approach a complex entity, to identify the underlying condensed idea behind a system, era or larger theme to be studied. The traditional paradigm known as the Cold War is built upon a cluster of concepts such as confrontation, conflict, Iron Curtain, bipolarity, superpowers, and détente. This obviously prevailing paradigm characteristically reflects an antithetical worldview based on a ‘thesis–antithesis’ interpretative logic which is sustained and safeguarded by emphasizing the significance of certain fields of historical research, such as the study of diplomacy, security, military, or political–economic systems. The key idea underpinning this understanding is revealed by the overwhelming focus on difference of incompatible systems and the static nature of the relentless contradiction of structures. Even détente is treated as a unique and limited period that is overruled by the ‘normal state of affairs’, which is based on juxtaposition. In this understanding, change is generated by the struggle and victory of one or the other pole of opposing political systems. This type of interpretation that these realms of historiography represent has been extended to become the main explanatory model to be applied in other fields too, in addition to the ones listed above. Any other approaches have been perceived from this point of view and have been mostly regarded as exceptions – exceptions that ultimately merely prove the rule. We suggest instead a new theoretical approach relying on different key concepts, which have the potential to change our understanding considerably. Our paradigm is based on the dialogical relation of underlying differences, with an emphasis on continuous interaction, interlinked-ness, discourse and the flow of ideas. This view accentuates the fact that the dominant status quo is in fact constant motion and change, which are rooted in interplay. For our paradigm, static and rigid structures are rather questionable surfacelevel constructions that always reveal their inner dynamics when put in a wider temporal context. Hence, in our perception, the static as phenomenon is an exception. If we look at the contradictory surface structures of political– ideological–economic systems, we argue that multileveled–multipolar interaction actually weakened them because interaction was dysfunctional in terms of how the structures were supposed to work. According to the same

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logic, we would question the reasonableness of defining strict periods for investigation. The Cold War itself is a scholarly concept that can be challenged by shifting the focus of study from the static to the dynamic, from structures to continuous change. Hence, we argue that significant processes usually associated with this era in fact started before, and kept continuing after the end of the Cold War period as traditionally defined. To put it somewhat differently, the underlying question has to do with how one should grasp the decisive factors that characterize the whole era: is the glass half full, or half empty? Thus, whereas the traditional Cold War researchers are likely to assume that the glass was always half empty, since the actors and the situations could never live up to the expectations of the people or of generations of scholars, Reassessing Cold War Europe argues that there was much more going on that has yet to be raised to the light of attention. Introducing new concepts and reinterpreting old ones can help to grasp the major differences between the traditional approach and our new paradigm.

Interaction – instead of confrontation Traditionally, in the Western and Eastern historiography alike, the Cold War era has been investigated primarily as a political–military confrontation between the Eastern and Western blocs, dominated by the Soviet Union and the United States respectively. This volume, in contrast, relies on the well-grounded assumption that, under the shallow surface of bipolar juxtaposition, there was a wide space of vivid interaction. For the actors of the Cold War era, entering the interactive sphere meant stepping outside of bloc regulations into a relatively free space where dealings with others were determined only by the rules set by the parties involved themselves. Ironically, the existence of a control-free sphere was advantageous for the bloc-leader superpowers, too. The genuine necessity for an ideologically based and politically consistent defence of superpower status was a huge limitation that could be avoided only by engaging in the interactive space. Here the superpowers were able to act as though they were ordinary states, without the heavy burden of political rhetoric, and could drive national interest, instead of the interest of the blocs they led. In the case of the Soviet Union in particular, this unofficial interaction offered useful contacts with profitable partners, without which the Kremlin’s ideological credibility would have suffered. This fact explains why several Western states, such as West Germany, were able to maintain active economic relations with the Soviet Union as early as from the late 1950s. The Soviet Union created its own strategy for knitting together a network of cooperative partners in the West. This uncontrolled interactive space benefited everyone, but it was particularly useful for the smaller states of the Eastern bloc, labouring under the limitations of self-determination. This more relaxed form of connections was available to them not only in relation to the West, but also to each other and even to the Soviet Union. However, because this stage of potential collaboration

Introduction

5

was invisible and officially undefined, the individual actors could estimate their own possibilities on this arena only subjectively. This explains why it was the case that the different actors could simultaneously have such widely diverging perceptions of the prospects for such collaboration. Their available elbow room also fluctuated over time, mostly depending on how the socialist countries estimated their room for manoeuvre vis-à-vis the Soviet Union. Since the individual member countries were bound to the Soviet Union differently in terms of modes of dependency, and since Moscow’s good will towards its allies also changed from time to time, so too did the possible range of interaction with the West vary.9 The sphere of interaction was strongly connected to the Soviet needs to establish new kinds of networks in the mid-1950s.10 From the early Khrushchev era it was evident that economic development based on extensive growth had reached a dead-end. The goal of ‘catching up and overtaking the West’ required a modernization strategy where a Western-style intensive development model was held up as an ideal to be aspired to. This meant that in order to acquire such development, the Soviet Union needed Western technological help, which is why it had to establish new contacts with technologically more advanced states. This aim was furthered by the introduction of a new political line, the principle of peaceful coexistence that was to serve as the ideological ground for the opening up towards the West. The concept of peaceful coexistence was widened to describe relations between the communist and capitalist countries in the 1960s, and this shaped the Soviet Union’s possibilities for cooperating with the West.11 Détente was a Western response to the Soviet endeavours. The Western countries eventually showed their willingness to find new channels and new modes for coming to terms with the Soviet-led bloc. The Conference for Security and Cooperation (CSCE) in Europe was a culmination of this rapprochement and made the sphere of interaction transparent and ‘official’.12 This sphere of interaction was naturally also useful for the Western countries that now enjoyed the possibility of starting cooperation with the East on a new non-ideological platform. For the United States as a characteristically nonEuropean actor, the space of interaction was not inevitable. It is also important to remember that geographically, Europe was the Soviet Union’s neighbour, whereas it was just a faraway continent for the United States – a fact that strongly defined the United States’ attitude towards Europe.13 The sphere of interaction also offered an opportunity to influence the Cold War situation and its underlying structures in an indirect and more complex way than through the sheer superpower contest. For instance, the United States affected the inner cohesion of the Eastern bloc by providing advantageous trade relations to the small socialist countries, and hence Washington was able to damage the sense of loyalty which these countries felt towards Moscow.14 The effects of the alternating periods of tension and rapprochement were, however, visible in the multileveled interaction. In the late 1970s, when the colder phases of the Cold War juxtaposition returned after the détente

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period, the interactive sphere became non-contoured and unofficial once more. Thus, we argue that the utilization of the interactive space resembled the power relations on the superpower level.15

Europe as an arena of collaboration – instead of divided by the Iron Curtain Europe has traditionally been reflected upon as a divided space where the superpower juxtaposition was the most visible. Sometimes Western Europe has been seen as an actor of international politics that tend to evolve towards an integrated entity, whereas Eastern Europe has been just another word for the Soviet-led bloc, i.e., the enemy.16 The chapters in this volume interrogate the central motif of the ‘Iron Curtain’, a phrase which implies a firm boundary that divides two sides insuperably. We point out that this ostensibly metal-like mental border not only leaked, but actually failed to prevent dynamic and vivid contacts.17 Although the Iron Curtain was in some places a concrete dividing line (such as the Berlin Wall, or the barbed wire lining frontiers), it never did become an insurmountable mental boundary. Actually, Europe became self-evidently the main arena of interaction in the Cold War era owing to the geographical closeness of the states of opposing blocs and to the memory of centuries-long interrelatedness that survived despite the post-World War II bloc arrangements. Europe is an interesting research subject precisely because of the fact that, although its space was divided most transparently by the Iron Curtain, this continent still bore strong evidence of a shared cultural hemisphere, in addition to vivid memories of traditional networks, trade relations and political alliances. Besides, the division of Eastern and Western Europe was a relatively coincidental decision: the Central European countries on the Eastern side of the Iron Curtain were not inherently susceptible to communist ideas, but rather drifted towards the unavoidable as a consequence of world politics. Although the newly established People’s Democracies had to adopt socialism, the old cultural ties of those countries lay in Europe.18 Old traditions and the natural need to maintain connections helped to reestablish contacts between East and West. Hence, the multileveled–multipolar interaction that emerged comprised recognition of the traditional pre-Cold War relations that had now taken on new inventive forms, and served as a reminder of the more relaxed ways of dealing with each other. However, taking into consideration this space of interplay, it is hardly surprising that the Cold War juxtaposition started to fade away in the 1980s at precisely the same time as the volume of interaction increased dramatically in Europe.

Multipolarity under bipolarity According to the traditional approach to the Cold War, the world was divided into two blocs that were led by the two superpowers, the United States and

Introduction

7

the Soviet Union. In the scholarly works some space was recognized as a neutral area between the two blocs, but the significance of this space in shaping the development of the Cold War was largely overlooked or underestimated – partly because the main aim of the neutral states was to preserve the possibility of cooperating with both blocs and to stay out of the political disputes. The bipolar setting and any changes in its balance had a huge impact on the historiography as well as on other social sciences, producing a rather narrow interest in politically significant issues. Furthermore, due to this strict bipolar division and the consequent limited access to sources, the focus was necessarily biased, on both sides of the Iron Curtain. In practical terms, investigations rested on at best half of the evidence and in the West, at least until the 1970s, research was greatly influenced by the Anglo-American interpretation.19 Another approach was to see the Cold War as a conflict between rivalling socio-economic systems, socialism and capitalism, which ended with the victory of the latter. Hence, recent economic and political histories have often adopted a modified lens based on a hindsight perspective on the outcome of the contest, and the analysis is often coloured by what we might call a ‘we now know’ attitude.20 The interpretation of the end of the Cold War as representing the victory of the West, and particularly of the United States, has dominated Cold War studies throughout the past decade. Now, however, the most recent studies have rejected the bipolar and unipolar (whereby the United States features as the only hero) understanding, and have focused more on Europe and on European political processes. Still, it is only rarely that new interpretations have emerged of the development behind the encounters at the highest level in international relations and diplomacy. This volume argues that besides the surface of bipolar juxtaposition, there existed diverse forms of interaction between states, organizations and individuals, irrespective of ideological–political differences. The sphere of interaction was a multilateral space by nature because it was uncontrolled by the superpowers and was not subject to the bipolar laws of the Cold War. Although the basic pattern of interaction was bilateral cooperation, the uncontrolled multilateral space nevertheless made the emergence of countless bilateral connections possible. As mentioned earlier, without the constraints of the bloc constructs, the superpowers were just ordinary countries like any others, and, by the same token, the small states of the military blocs were independent actors, in spite of their size or their ability to influence the international arena. All states had their own aims in seeking cooperation, and these were geared towards finding the best fit with their own goals, whether economic, political or cultural.

Focus on small actors instead of superpowers The role of the smaller states and small actors has been overlooked or underestimated in the Cold War historiography. Their actions in the international

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arena have been explained mostly in relation to the politics of the Soviet Union or the United States.21 It has generally been assumed that change in the international system could only be generated by major powers and not by minor actors.22 In the East, this perception was rooted in the hegemonic view on world affairs whereby the Soviet Union had the special self-appointed messianic role of fighting for the communist cause on behalf of others in international politics. In the West, in accordance with the dominant realist perception of international relations, only the big and powerful countries required serious scholarly attention because these countries had the greatest capacity and the most visible influence on the course of events.23 The long shadow of Sovietology can also be discerned here. Sovietology tended to explore the Eastern bloc mostly from Moscow’s point of view and offered a simplistic picture of a supposedly coherent community. According to Peter Katzenstein, however, small states can surprise with their flexibility and creativity in foreign policy performance.24 Although Katzenstein studied the West European small states, his views also hold true in the East European context, especially if we examine the reactions of the small states to rapidly changing situations. On these occasions the decisive factor was how the political elite estimated its possibilities for manoeuvring. The chapters in this volume revisit the content and the changing nature of the small state25 status that appeared in European political processes, especially from the 1960s onwards. Moreover, by focusing on the actors below the superpower level we can reveal a deeper, more complex and also more pluralistic picture of the international stage. We treat the smaller states as actors in their own right, pursuing their own interests and forming their own relationships with greater powers or with each other. European ‘greater powers’ such as West Germany, France and Great Britain were part of the West, hence their role was defined by their alliance with the United States. Still, they negotiated their own, sometimes divergent politics vis-à-vis the United States and the Soviet Union.26 Though the scope of European state actors was dependent on superpower politics, there was still room for the smaller states to acquire their own space of action. By studying the smaller states more closely, we can find diversity, and a range of national strategies designed both to cope with the status quo and to increase leverage. From the point of view of interaction, the smaller states on both sides of the Iron Curtain were ready to establish relations whenever there was a possibility to do so without raising the threat of superpower intervention. The most dominant approach to the Cold War international relations, the realist school, has argued that non-state actors are practically irrelevant for the analysis of the international arena. Reassessing Cold War Europe relies on contrasting liberal views, represented for instance by James Rosenau, who has stated that the international system is equally shaped by sub-state actors (such as organizations, enterprises and individuals) which cross state-boundaries through their actions. Rosenau has denied that the term international still has valid meaning, and has demanded the introduction of new concepts

Introduction

9

like post-international, global or world politics, that would recognize the state as just one actor amongst many influencing the global arena.27 Our book is dedicated to studying the flow of ideas, inventions and goods, as well as the mobility of people through the Iron Curtain. We argue that the interaction of non-state actors in particular had an ultimately decisive influence not only on the state actors, but also on the bipolar juxtaposition of the Cold War.

New views, fresh topics and advanced interpretations The volume Reassessing Cold War Europe consists of 11 chapters introducing new interpretations on East–West connections, transfers and collaboration. The chapters investigate Cold War Europe on three intertwined levels from the point of view of multileveled interaction. The macro-level analysis looks at developments in the international system. This gains additional elaboration through the intermediate level, which takes into account various European states and their actions in the Cold War framework. The focus on the micro level brings single actors such as enterprises, societies, organizations and individuals to the fore. By analysing these different levels through different actors, it is possible to see how the different layers within the societies influenced the processes and changes that took place during the Cold War. The highest political decision-making level determined the direction of the politics and thus the political development of the Cold War. Intermediate and micro-level actors occupied key positions in executing the decisions made at the superpower level. The biggest and most influential bloc members were important, but the motives of smaller actors were quite often shaped by factors other than those related to the superpowers or other great powers. It was these two lower and operational levels that determined the practice behind the macro-level decision making. Only by taking into account these different levels is it possible to construct an in-depth and thorough picture of the processes that shaped the Cold War in Europe. The timeframe of the chapters extends from the 1950s to the 1990s, encompassing the main phases of the Cold War era. The main focus is on the Eastern point of view, and how the socialist bloc interacted with the West. Through the case studies, the volume also brings to the fore several examples of intra-bloc activities, as well as activities in-between the blocs. The special role of Finland between East and West is the theme of several case studies. Neutral Finland28 offers particularly fruitful material for analysing the possibilities for acting in-between the blocs and dealing with both very successfully at the same time. One of the volume’s main themes is the East–West/West–East transfers that were based on multileveled interaction through the Iron Curtain. Transfer of know-how and technology shaped the economic aims and policies on both sides of the Iron Curtain and become one of the main issues addressed in the Cold War era debates.

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Philip Hanson’s chapter is an overview of the technology flows into the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) from the late 1950s to the early 1980s with special emphasis on micro-level action. Hanson divides the channels of technology transfer into two: negotiable and non-negotiable. Negotiable channels were legal commercial transfers in the form of advanced capital goods. The role of the individual was important here. Individuals were involved in such transfers on both sides of the Iron Curtain: in Great Britain and the Soviet Union. East–West interaction was active at the highest level of the societies, but also at the lower levels of practical cooperation. Nonnegotiable channels were classified but important and highly organized means of transferring technology to the Soviet Union. Hanson shows that in spite of technology flow to the Soviet Union, the Soviet economic system tended to slow down technological change because the planning system could not assimilate imported technology as planned. In her chapter, Tatiana Androsova gives a broad view of the economic relations between the Soviet Union and Finland during the Cold War period. Based on the long history of trade connections, neutral Finland proved to be a useful partner for the Soviet Union after World War II. The Soviet decision not to occupy Finland but to conclude a wide Friendship, Cooperation, and Mutual Assistance (FCMA) treaty with Finland, gave the small neutral state a special role in-between the East and West. Androsova shows how the Soviet Union used economic policy, mainly long-term trade agreements, as a tool in order to restrain Finland’s overly strong orientation towards Western trade. Business cooperation, secured by the personal contacts and strong state-level trade networks, was based on clearing trade which proved to be valuable for both sides. This mutual benefit gave small Finland rather wide elbow room for manoeuvring in its relations with the Soviet Union, which makes for an interesting case study of the interaction between East and West and the role of small actors in connection to the superpowers. Niklas Jensen-Eriksen examines the East–West trade from the point of view of neutral non-communist states, and describes the attempts to incorporate them into the Western export control system, the CoCom. He focuses on Finland, which was the Soviet Union’s most important non-communist trading partner at certain points during the 1950s and 1960s. Officially neutral, Finland cooperated with the US government in order to prevent re-exports of Western strategic goods to the Eastern bloc. This cooperation was based on micro-level contacts between the United States and Finland. Jensen-Eriksen’s chapter also indicates that although Finland and other small neutral countries had to take into consideration the policies of the United States, they were still able to promote their own economic interest and to reap substantial benefits from their position in the grey area of Europe. The neutral countries became mediators between Western and Eastern blocs and they benefited from the Cold War, as they were able to form profitable links through the economic ‘Iron Curtain’ that CoCom had erected in the middle of Europe.

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Sari Autio-Sarasmo investigates Soviet know-how and technology transfer from the West. Her main focus is on the officially approved channel of transferring technology: scientific–technical cooperation. In order to modernize the Soviet economy, the Soviet leadership started to establish bilateral scientific– technical connections with the Western states from the mid-1950s. Based on an efficient and organized system, the Soviet scientific–technical cooperation network became one of the most important channels of Soviet know-how and technology transfers from the West during the Cold War. The case studies of the Soviet scientific–technical cooperation with neutral Finland and West Germany show that the cooperation was motivated by economic rather than political considerations. Focusing mainly on practical cooperation, the chapter shows how this multileveled interaction through the Iron Curtain was far more active and unrestricted than has previously been thought, and how scientific–technical cooperation evolved into normal high technology trade in spite of Cold War trade restrictions and CoCom. Jeremy Smith foregrounds the wine industry in the East–West technology transfer. In his chapter Smith shows how the Khrushchev era changed attitudes towards the connections to the West, and how the transfer of knowledge increased during the 1950s. The case study of the Georgian wine industry demonstrates how the reform of the Soviet wine industry took place within a broader context of increasing scientific and technological contacts with the West. The Soviet–French cooperation in wine industry led to a major reform of the wine industry in Georgia. While modernization of the wine industry brought minimal economic returns, it served other important goals for Khrushchev: high quality wine and participation in international competitions provided means for displaying the supremacy of the Soviet Union. Riikka Nisonen-Trnka’s study brings a significantly new angle to the abovementioned types of West-to-East technology transfer. Nisonen-Trnka introduces an interesting example of East-to-West transfer and illuminates how the Czech invention of soft contact lenses landed in the United States, revolutionizing the whole contact lens industry in the West. This chapter examines how this transfer affected the ability of the small actors, mostly scientists and entrepreneurs, to act inside – and outside – of the blocs, and to interact with state actors. The study reveals the hidden practices and informal networks that played an important part in the success of this type of technology transfer. Egle˙ Rindzevicˇiu¯te˙ ’s chapter investigates another rarely studied type of technology transfer, examining internal transfers within the Soviet Union, with reference to the case of Lithuania. The analysis of the subject underlies the multilayered centre–periphery perspective of Eastern Europe that applied simultaneously to the Eastern bloc as well as to the inner structure of the Soviet Union, which further complicates the traditional bipolar approach of Cold War studies. The transfer of high technologies (especially those that were associated with cybernetics and computers) from the Soviet centre to non-Russian republics, was a highly complex and sensitive process. In this process, the role of informality and individual connections was particularly

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important. The local, in this case Lithuanian, actors had to manoeuvre within the limitations of centrally set policies in order to channel high technologies to their republic. In doing so they often relied on inventive networking and retrospectively they interpreted this process as an act of national resistance. Rindzevicˇiu¯te˙ reveals how the period of relative economic autonomy (1957–65) was used in the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic to construct a computer industry and to establish cooperation with other Soviet republics, but also with Eastern bloc countries. In addition to the topic of technology transfer, the volume considers several themes that are related to the exchange of ideas, values and material goods, as well as to the mobility of people through the Iron Curtain. Transfer of knowledge, information and most importantly ideals bore a tremendous significance, especially for the people of the East. Katalin Miklóssy’s chapter shows how two small countries on different sides of the Iron Curtain, Finland and Hungary, developed a new kind of relations during détente. Miklóssy discusses the case of a new type of networking initiated between the Hungarian communist elite and the Finnish Social Democrats in the 1970s. Multiple formal and informal contacts furthered the flow of social democratic ideas which introduced changes in the mindset within the Hungarian party on several levels, probably most importantly in connection with the growing liberalism of the decision making. The expansion of multidimensional political and cultural relations between Finland and Hungary strengthened a mutual interest in becoming better acquainted with the other. It provided fruitful ground for increasing interaction between peoples on the broader spectrum of these societies, a fact that multiplied and intensified the exchange of information and ideas. Melanie Ilic investigates how the women of the Eastern bloc established contacts with women in the West. The study deals with the Women’s International Democratic Federation during the 1950s and 1960s, a period in which its major activities were still conducted in Europe, before its focus area moved to Latin America. This period is particularly interesting because it demonstrates that the various processes of knowledge exchange and the flow of ideas took place not only from West to East, but in both directions. Value-laden discourses on the Soviet ideals of social justice regarding sexual equality, children’s rights or women’s role in society affected the second wave of the Western feminist movement. The analysis also reflects upon the interaction between the different levels of Soviet state power, the organization and the generation of active and politically engaged women who contributed a great deal to the prevailing political perceptions. Pia Koivunen’s chapter demonstrates how the World Youth Festivals offered extraordinary opportunities for East–West interaction. Although these festivals were designed by the Soviet Union to bring together Eastern and Western youth in a politically secured space, they nevertheless enabled the relatively free exchange of ideas, values and even material goods. This type of interaction was conducted in a multipolar arena of individuals coming

Introduction

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from different countries and backgrounds, and this made control effectively impossible, Koivunen argues. Her micro-level analysis, which embraces a longer period, from the late Stalinist years until the early Brezhnev era, also indicates that the young people of the 1960s and 1970s reached adulthood at a point when the erosion of the communist system had become obvious and revolutionary mass processes were beginning to take place. East–West interaction also frequently took indirect forms. The strong desire for increased contacts with Western countries furthered inventive and imaginative political manoeuvring on the part of the small Eastern bloc countries. Suvi Kansikas discusses how the smaller socialist states learned strategies for gaining more scope for their actions within the Eastern bloc. Kansikas approaches the subject by analysing the interaction between three interlinked levels: the evolution of the trans-national economic organization (Council for Mutual Economic Assistance (CMEA)) that depended, on the one hand, on the aims of the Soviet superpower and on the other hand, on its allies’ national goals. The case sheds light on the ability of the small ‘powers’ to successfully hinder primary Soviet interests regarding integrative tendencies. Kansikas argues that the Soviet Union was in fact powerless vis-à-vis its own allies, who concluded informal alliances and invented unofficial methods in order to rule out Soviet policies that ran counter to their interests. The different case studies here testify to the fact that the development of Cold War Europe was far more complicated – if one looks behind the superpower arena – than has previously been thought. The highest level of political decision making was not the only motor of change. This volume demonstrates that the smaller states exerted a remarkable influence on the development of the Cold War by constantly searching, testing, challenging and pushing the limits of their elbow room, and hence the boundaries of the possible. They took advantage of the hegemonic rivalry between the superpowers and started to exploit the possibilities for renegotiating their status. We argue that the multileveled–multipolar interaction that took place through the Iron Curtain gradually effected major changes in both sides’ attitudes towards one another. Exposure to a different value system and the increasing flow of information eventually led to the collapse of the Berlin Wall. This outcome of the Cold War cannot be explained without considering the role of small actors and the different levels and forms of interaction. Ultimately, Europe grew to symbolize a space for collaboration which was no longer bound by the constraints of the blocs.

Notes 1 P. Kettunen and J. Aunesluoma, ‘History in the Cold War and the Cold War in the present’, in J. Aunesluoma and P. Kettunen (eds), The Cold War and the Politics of History, Helsinki: Edita, 2008, p. 10. 2 O. A. Westad, ‘Introduction’, in Odd Arne Westad (ed.), Reviewing the Cold War: Approaches, Interpretations, Theory, London: Frank Cass Publishers, 2000, pp. 3, 12.

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3 It is only in the recent literature that interpretations presenting the United States as the only hero have been challenged as far too one-sided. See Michael Cox, ‘Who won the Cold War in Europe? A historiographical overview’, in Bozo, Rey, Ludlow and Nuti (eds), Europe and the End of the Cold War. A Reappraisal, Routledge, Cold War History series, 2008, p. 9. 4 See e.g. F. Halliday, Rethinking International Relations, London: Macmillan, 1994, pp. 170–90; and R. Service, Comrades: A World History of Communism, London: Macmillan, 2007. 5 See e.g. Bozo, Rey, Ludlow and Nuti (eds), Europe and the End of the Cold War. A Reappraisal, Routledge, Cold War History series, 2008; Wenger, Mastny and Nuenlist (eds), Origins of the European Security System. The Helsinki Process Revisited, 1965–1975, Routledge, CSS studies in Security and International Relations, 2008; Bange and Niedhart (eds), Helsinki 1975 and the Transformation of Europe, Berghahn Books, 2008. See also Cs. Békés, ‘The Warsaw Pact, the German question and the birth of the CSCE process, 1961–70’, in Helsinki 1975 and the Transformation of Europe, pp. 113–28. 6 Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970 (orig. 1962). 7 Mary Fulbrook, Historical Theory, London – New York: Routledge, 2002. 8 O. A. Westad, ‘The new international history of the Cold War: three possible paradigms’, Diplomatic History, vol. 24, no. 4, Fall 2000, pp. 551–52. 9 K. Miklóssy, ‘Khrushchevism after Khrushchev: the Rise of National Interest in the Eastern Bloc’, J. Smith and M. Ilic (eds), Khrushchev in the Kremlin: Policy and Government in the Soviet Union, 1953–1964, London: Routledge, forthcoming 2011. 10 See e.g. Y. Gorlizki and O. Khlevniuk, Cold Peace. Stalin and the Soviet Ruling Circle, 1945–1953, Oxford University Press, 2004. 11 See e.g. A. Kähönen, The Soviet Union, Finland and the Cold War. The Finnish Card in the Soviet Foreign Policy. Helsinki: SKS, 2006, pp. 30–31. 12 On the Eastern strategies in the OSCE see e.g. D. Selvage, ‘The Warsaw Pact and the European security conference, 1964–69: sovereignty, hegemony and the German question in origins of the European security system’, pp. 85–86, in Origins of the European Security System. The Helsinki process revisited, 1965–1975. Andreas Wenger, Vojtech Mastny, and Christian Nuenlist (eds) Routledge, CSS Studies in security and international relations, New York, 2008. 13 See e.g. J. L. Gaddis, The Cold War, London: Allen Lane/Penguin, 2005, pp. 32–33. It is possible to see this in US attitudes towards the CSCE process in the early 1970s. See e.g. M. C. Morgan, ‘North America, Atlanticism, and the making of the Helsinki Final Act’, in Wenger, Mastny and Nuenlist (eds), Origins of the European Security System, p. 30. 14 See e.g. J. Aunesluoma, ‘Finlandization in Reverse. The CSCE and the Rise and Fall of Economic Detente, 1968–75’, in Bange and Niedhart (eds), Helsinki 1975 and the Transformation of Europe, p. 100; especially active (though also for other reasons) was the FRG. See e.g. Helsinki 1975 and the Transformation of Europe and especially the chapter by Békés, Ionescu and Grozev/Baev. 15 See e.g. H. Parr, ‘Anglo-French Relations, Détente and Britain’s Second Application for Membership of the EEC, 1964 to 1967’, in Ludlow, European Integration and the Cold War, 2007, pp. 92–93. 16 Poul, Villaume and Odd Arne Westad (ed.), Perforating the Iron Curtain. European Détente, Transatlantic Relations and the Cold War, 1965–85. Museum Tusculanum Press, Copenhagen, 2010. 17 There are new culturally oriented studies. See e.g. G. Péteri (ed.), Nylon Curtain: Transnational and Trans-Systemic Tendencies in the Cultural Life of State-Socialist Russia and East-Central Europe, Program on East European Cultures and Societies, Norway: Trondheim, 2006. See also on this subject Kritika, vol. 9, no. 4, Fall 2008.

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19 20 21

22

23 24 25

26 27 28

15

On how the Iron Curtain evolved into a powerful metaphor and psychological state, see P. Wright, Iron Curtain from Stage to Cold War, Oxford University Press, 2007. Some West European states even expected that East European states might break away from the Eastern bloc. On the attitudes of France see G.-H. Soutou, ‘The Linkage between European Integration and Détente: the contrasting approaches of de Gaulle and Pompidou, 1965 and 1974’, in Ludlow, European Integration and the Cold War, Ostpolitik-Westpolitik, 1965–1973, 2007, pp. 11–12. See also G. Martin, ‘ “Grandeur et depéndances”: the dilemmas of Gaullist foreign policy, September 1967 to April 1968’, in Ludlow, European Integration and the Cold War, p. 37; M.-P. Rey, ‘France and the German Question in the context of Ostpolitik and the CSCE, 1969–74’, in Bange and Niedhart (eds), Helsinki 1975 and the Transformation of Europe, pp. 59–60. A special attitude towards Europe became evident in Mikhail Gorbachev’s idea of a ‘European common home’; see e.g. M.-P. Rey, ‘Gorbachev’s New Thinking and Europe, 1985–89’, in Bozo, Rey, Ludlow and Nuti (eds), Europe and the End of the Cold War, pp. 25, 28. C. Kennedy-Pipe, The Origins of the Cold War, London: Palgrave-Macmillan, 2007, p. 15. This approach was exemplified by the title of John Lewis Gaddis’ book, We Now Know: Rethinking Cold War History, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. See J. L. Gaddis, The Cold War, pp. 120, 134. This is evident also in the recent Cold War studies. See e.g. V. Dujardin, ‘From Helsinki to the missiles question: A minor role for small countries? The case of Belgium (1973–85)’, in Nuti, The Crisis of Détente, 2009, pp. 72–85. See the widespread perception of the small states as too weak to change their circumstances: R. Rothstein, Alliances and Small Powers, New York: Columbia University Press, 1968; Marshall R. Singer, Weak States in the World of Power. The Dynamics of International Relationships, New York: The Free Press, 1972. K. Waltz, Theory of International Politics, Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1979. P. Katzenstein, Small States in World Markets, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985. For definitions of small states, see e.g. D. Vital, The Inequality of States: A Study of the Small Power in International Relations, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967; F. Von Daniken, ‘Is the notion of small state still relevant?’, in Laurent Goetschel (ed.), Small States Inside and Outside the European Union, Interests and Politics, Boston-Dordrecht-London: Kluwer Academic Publisher, 1998, pp. 43–48; R. Rothstein, Alliances and Small Powers; R. Keohane, ‘Lilliputians’ Dilemmas: Small States in International Politics’, International Organisation, vol. 23. no. 2, Spring 1969, pp. 210–91; L. Goetschel, ‘The Foreign and Security Policy Interest of Small States in Today’s Europe’, in L. Goetschel (ed.), Small States Inside and Outside the European Union. Interests and Politics, Boston-Dordrecht-London: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1998, pp. 13–32; J. A. K. Hey, Small States in World Politics. Explaining Foreign Policy Behaviour, Boulder, Colorado – London: Boulder, 2003, pp. 2–4. R. G. Hughes, Britain, Germany and the Cold War. The Search for a European Détente 1949–1967, Cold War history series, Routledge, 2007. J. Rosenau, Turbulence in World Politics. A Theory of Change and Continuity, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990. See e.g. M. Majander, ‘Post-Cold War Historiography in Finland’ in T. B. Olesen (ed.), The Cold War – and the Nordic Countries. Historiography at a Crossroads. University Press of Southern Denmark, 2004.

1

The Soviet Union’s acquisition of Western technology after Stalin Some thoughts on people and connections Philip Hanson

Like other late-developing countries, the Soviet Union got part of its economic growth from the absorption and diffusion of technologies already in use in more advanced nations. During the Cold War this was an especially contentious process. My aim in this chapter is to give an account of some of the actors and actions involved in technology transfer in that period, both those actors and actions involved in cooperation across the East–West divide and some of what might euphemistically be called unilateral activity – in other words spying. The channels by which the transfer of technology occurs are many. Some channels, such as the purchase of machinery embodying technology new to the importing country, or the purchase of licences on such technology, involve a buyer and a (legal) seller and therefore require the willing participation of firms controlling the technologies concerned. These I have called ‘negotiable’ channels. Other channels, such as copying or reverse engineering, that is taking a single foreign machine and working back from it to a design on which to base one’s own production, or industrial espionage we might classify as non-negotiable: they occur without the participation of the owner of the technology, and often without their knowledge. In Stalin’s time, apart from a spurt of turnkey projects and other large contracts with Western firms in the First Five-Year Plan, and then a flow of the United States Lend-Lease supplies of equipment during World WaII, non-negotiable channels predominated. But soon after the death of Stalin in 1953, the Soviet Union began to open up to the outside world. Commerce with the more developed West expanded and negotiable channels of technology importation became more substantial. My aim in this chapter is to characterise some of the human connexions involved in post-Stalin transfer of technology from the West to the Soviet Union. This is part of the micro-level analysis that is one of the objectives of this volume. I will look at examples in two main areas: negotiable transfer in the form of the import of advanced capital goods (‘embodied technology’) and non-negotiable transfer in the form of industrial espionage. In each case

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the focus will be on communication, both East–West and within the Western and Soviet communities involved: who negotiated what with whom, and how? How were objectives and constraints decided upon? How were objectives implemented? The next section gives some basic information on technology flows into the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), mainly from the late 1950s to the early 1980s, with some assessment of the impact of such flows and the role of the Western strategic embargo. Much of the information is based on Soviet sources: Soviet press reports and discussions, Soviet foreign-trade data and other Soviet economic statistics. The sections that follow are reviews of the players involved in some particular stories and their roles: in the negotiable supply of technology mainly to the civilian economy and in the non-negotiable military–industrial espionage revealed in some Soviet files (more precisely, in the contents of those files to which I was given access in the mid-1980s). In writing this chapter I have drawn on work I published in the 1980s, on the economics of Western technology transfer to the Soviet Union, and I have added some preliminary material on the roles played by a handful of interesting individuals. What I have added to earlier analyses is an account of individuals’ involvement in East–West economic cooperation, drawn mainly from memoirs and biographies. I stress the roles of networks, primarily on the Soviet side and in the United Kingdom.

Soviet technology acquisition from the 1950s to the 1980s: stimuli, constraints, dimensions and impact It has been persuasively argued that a centrally planned economy will exhibit an aversion to foreign trade in comparison with a market economy of similar size, resources and development level.1 For the central planner, foreign sources of supply and demand have an obvious disadvantage: they are not under the planner’s administrative control. Foreign trade partners, at any rate outside the Council for Mutual Economic Assistance (CMEA) trading bloc of allied communist countries, cannot be told what to produce and offer and what to purchase; all domestic enterprises, in Soviet-type planning, could be told exactly what to do, and where. They may not always have done what they were told, but they were there in the plan. Foreign firms introduce an element of uncertainty into a Soviet-style national plan. This logic is powerful. It clearly operated at the upper levels of the planning process, among political leaders and State Planning Organization (Gosplan) staff. There were screening rules that sought to exclude the acquisition of production inputs from abroad if it could be shown that they were available domestically.2 But this was not the whole story. After Stalin, with terror relaxed, planning became, to a greater extent than before, a process based to some degree on meeting demands from ‘below’ – from enterprises.

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Soviet production enterprises, under Khrushchev, Brezhnev and their successors, had good reason to try and get the planners’ permission to acquire foreign machinery and, in some cases, current material inputs. They were being given output targets that usually increased year by year; often they were instructed to upgrade quality or to introduce some product that was new to them. Their potential domestic suppliers were in practice apt to be late in supplying what was ordered, lax in quality control, behind the West in technology, and not responsible for after-sales service, maintenance and the supply of replacement parts. Western suppliers sought profit, were driven, by and large, by competition and were subject to the discipline of real contract obligations. At the micro-level, therefore, they were generally more attractive as suppliers. And money was no object to the Soviet enterprise: once an input was written into the plan, the funds to pay for it were included, too. Therefore it is reasonable to suppose – and the Soviet press was full of anecdotal evidence to support this – that bids for foreign inputs to be incorporated in the plan were plentiful. When it came to exports, the opposite applied. There were special material incentives for undertaking and completing an export order, but the usual perception of an enterprise director was that the costs exceeded the benefits. You would have to meet, in practice, more stringent quality standards than for domestic deliveries; you would be penalised for failing to meet delivery dates, and – horror of horrors – foreign customers expected after-sales service. It was a common observation in Soviet writings that being given an export contract was seen as a punishment. This is possible to see for example in the writings of Nikolai Smelyakov, a Deputy Minister of Foreign Trade.3 At the lower levels of the hierarchy, in other words, the system was exportaverse but import-inclined. Insofar as branch ministries sought to make life easy for ‘their’ enterprises – and post-Stalin they generally did – enterprise preferences got transmitted up to the central planners by those ministries. At that higher level, therefore, the planners faced a pressure from below that tended towards a deficit in the trade balance. Soviet planners and top policy-makers were financially conservative, so they fought against this pressure. The balance of convertible-currency payments exercised a major constraint on the commercial acquisition of technology from the West. Finland was a bilateral-settlement trade partner, so imports of Finnish machinery were constrained separately by the overall levels of transactions that could be balanced between the two countries. Basically, the planners rationed ‘hard-currency’ imports. There were also some more subtle ways of making ends meet. A ministry or an enterprise could be told to tie exports to its imports. This could hardly work by mere instruction. But if you could arrange a ‘product payback’ deal, in which the foreign supplier of, say, an ethanol plant accepted repayment in some of the resulting ethanol, this would allow a useful import that paid for itself and linked up the incentives on both sides of the deal. Another example, that became politically contentious in the 1980s, was gas-for-pipeline contracts:

The Soviet Union’s acquisition of Western technology after Stalin

19

imports of large diameter pipe paid for by some of the increased flow of gas for export through the resulting pipeline. There were limits to these product payback deals, however. Often a Western machinery supplier was not in the business of handling the product from its machinery, and had to bring in a third party to make the transaction stand up – which increased the cost of the deal. In general, the import of machinery and licences was constrained by the planners’ aversion to building up foreign debt and by the exigencies of other import requirements – such as grain. Another constraint on the commercial, negotiable acquisition of machinery and licences was the Western strategic embargo, operated by the Coordinating Committee (CoCom) of NATO member-states less Iceland plus Japan. The United States also had a national Commodity Control List that was somewhat longer than that by which CoCom was supposed to be guided.4 The strategic embargo was meant to prevent the delivery to potential adversaries of items that could more or less directly enhance their military capabilities. It extended beyond weapons systems or other military materiel to what are known as ‘dual-use items’, so quite a range of non-military items were on the list. Special permission from CoCom was, in principle, required for any sale of such dual-use items to Warsaw Pact or other communist countries. Neutrals such as Finland or Austria were not members but were still subject to CoCom influence; as a rule European companies, even in nonCoCom countries, did not want to jeopardise relations with the United States.5 They operated with three control lists: the International Munitions List, the International Atomic List and the International Industrial List. Firms based in any CoCom country were simply not supposed to export to the Soviet Union or to other communist countries any items on the first two lists. Items on the Industrial List (dual-use items) were subject to scrutiny and their export might be allowed on a case-by-case basis. In 1985 the British version of the Industrial List ran to 62 closely printed pages, about 40 of which covered electronics, computing and telecommunications. At that time the delegations’ meetings were reviewing about 100 proposed export deals a week. Agendas and minutes were not published. What proportion of Western exports had passed through this process and been approved is unknown. For the United States in the late 1970s it was about 4 per cent but a large share of US exports to the Soviet Union consisted of farm products. The equivalent figure for Europe would be higher. In principle, the focus of CoCom restrictions was narrow: only those items that might directly enhance Warsaw Pact military capabilities were to be excluded from trade. An example of a generally-accepted approval was the advanced machine-tools destined for AvtoVAZ. Apparently, CoCom scrutiny determined that these could indeed be used in the production of cars but could not be adapted for use in the production of tanks. There were also cases, however, where a deal had been approved at national or CoCom level but was alleged by critics to have provided a military-technology benefit to a target nation.

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The most obvious Soviet counter to the strategic embargo was industrial espionage. But this was not confined to the acquisition of technology for military purposes. On occasion it was used to acquire items for other purposes, presumably in the hope that this would be cheaper than buying them. So far as trade was concerned, the top Soviet policy-makers would from time to time make some strategic decision that had a big effect on the scale and composition of technology imports. There were not, in my view, many such decisions. The first, I suggest, was Khrushchev’s adoption in the late 1950s of a ‘chemicalization’ campaign – a drive to update the lagging Soviet chemical industry – and his choice to make machinery and complete-plant imports a key element in the campaign. Once it was decided to modernise the Soviet chemical industry, opting for technology imports was well-nigh unavoidable. The industry was so far behind that reliance on domestic research, development and innovation would have been a recipe for failure. This strategic decision produced a strikingly long-lasting priority for chemical technology among overall technology imports, a story to which we will return. Khrushchev’s action in ordering the import of grain after a harvest failure was the second strategic decision. Stalin had chosen to let peasants starve rather than buy grain from capitalist states. The decision to rely on grain imports after the bad 1963 harvest imposed a constraint – given export earnings and the Soviet aversion to borrowing – on the import of machinery. A third strategic decision was taken probably by the Brezhnev–Kosygin leadership, though it may have had its origins under Khrushchev. This was the decision to go for large-scale domestic production of passenger cars, and to do so by importing a giant turnkey project, the AvtoVAZ complex in Tol’yatti, in which Fiat played the leading role. Given these three decisions, institutional inertia probably accounts for the subsequent development of commercial importation of technology until the time when Gorbachev changed the terms of engagement with the West – including by allowing joint ventures in the USSR by Soviet and foreign firms. Soviet commercial purchases of licences unaccompanied by machinery are poorly documented but appear to have been small.6 The purchase of machinery and equipment was the main channel of commercial technology acquisition from the West. The notion of ‘machinery imports’ sounds simple. In practice it covers sales of individual machines, sales of linked sets of machines and entire plants. Many plant purchases by the Soviet Union were in the form of ‘turnkey projects’. Usually a turnkey project involved a contract between a Soviet foreign trade organisation, on the one hand, and a main contractor, on the other. The former would have worked closely with the relevant Soviet branch ministry and with Gosplan in preparing the deal on the Soviet side. The latter would, typically, do the design work, arrange sub-contracts with specialist suppliers on the Western side, take responsibility for assembling and installing all the equipment, train Soviet workers to operate it and demonstrate the

The Soviet Union’s acquisition of Western technology after Stalin 21 plant operating at design (contract) capacity before handing over to the Soviet enterprise; it would also usually be responsible for subsequent servicing and spares. Licences to operate the technologies embodied in the machinery were often part of the deal. It was the Western main contractor’s ability to manage a large and complex project that was part of the deal. From the mid-1950s to the late 1970s the volume of machinery imports from the West grew very rapidly, at about 24 per cent a year over the period as a whole (see Table 1.1). This growth was faster than that of any major Soviet domestic indicator such as national income, fixed investment or industrial output. It is therefore plausible that technology imports played an increasing role in the economy. On some measures, the role of imported Western capital goods, even in the late 1970s or early 1980s, looks modest nonetheless. In earlier work I offered very tentative estimates of machinery imports from the West increasing from about 2 per cent of total Soviet machinery and equipment investment in the mid-1950s to 5.1–6.4 per cent in 1977–78, or, including imports of largediameter pipe which the USSR could not produce, to around 10 per cent in 1983.7 Just how to value imported machinery, once it was inside the Soviet Union, was problematic, however. It appears that Soviet practice was to price it in roubles at the dollar (or DM or franc or sterling) price times the official exchange rate. That almost certainly meant undervaluing it. But by how much is hard to say. Almost by definition what was imported did not have any Soviet-made equivalents that were precisely comparable and which might have guided rouble valuation. What can be shown securely enough is that machinery imported from the West was particularly important in particular industries. This is related to the subject of people and networks, so it is worth some attention here. One way of identifying industries by the extent of their usage of imported technology is to compare their shares in machinery imports with their shares in total ‘productive’ investment. This is done for a few selected industries and years in Table 1.2. In this, admittedly limited, selection the chemical industry stands out as the Table 1.1 Annual volumes of machinery imports from 14 OECD countries, 1955–78 ($mn at 1964 prices) 1955–57 average 1976–78 average

145 2064

Source: Derived from Hanson, 1981, p. 129, Table 8.1. The sources and methods are described there. Briefly, the estimates begin with annual OECD data on exports of machinery and equipment (SITC 7) to the USSR, and these are adjusted to 1964 prices using a weighted average of the machinery price series of the countries concerned, as reported by the UN (weighted by shares in Soviet imports of machinery). Note: The only significant non-communist source of machinery imports not included here is Finland, which was not a hard-currency trade partner.

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Table 1.2 Shares in machinery imports from the West (MKW) and in fixed investment (I), %, selected industries and years 1960/61

Steel Food processing Engineering (MBMW) Chemicals Timber, paper, pulp

1975/76

MKW

I

MKW

I

1.4 7.8 5.0 35.9 6.4

8.3 4.5 8.3 4.1 2.6

1.9 2.2 20.0 11.0 2.1

3.0 3.1 10.2 4.1 1.9

Source: selected figures from Hanson, 1981, Table 8.2.

clearest major recipient of machinery imports relative to investment in the industry. The engineering sector is not in 1960–61, but becomes later, another major recipient. In the case of engineering, almost the whole of the technology-import story between 1960 and 1980 is to do with the motor industry. Investment figures for the motor industry alone are not available but for some years equipment imports classified as for the motor industry are identified. In 1970 they were 36.6 per cent of total imports of Western machinery, when the engineering sector as a whole was receiving only 10–11 per cent of total national investment. The comparable figures for 1975/76 are 13.0 per cent and 10.2 per cent. The imports were almost entirely to do with AvtoVAZ and Tol’yatti, for which machinery imports peaked around 1970.8 To avoid misunderstanding, it should be added that these branch or sector MKW figures show how much imported machinery went for use directly by particular industries. Benefits from these imports could show up in other branches of the economy. For example, Western-supplied mineral fertiliser plants were operated by the chemical industry but their products helped to raise crop yields in agriculture. And what was the impact of all this commercial acquisition of advanced technology from the West? One plausible upper estimate for the late 1970s is that it could have added 0.5 per cent to the growth rate of the industrial sector at that time;9 the most likely realistic estimate would be somewhat less than this. From a survey of chemical-plant exporters conducted in 1978 I found that Soviet assimilation – at any rate of chemical technology – was poor. The plants did usually operate at the design level of output, but in Western Europe output would generally have exceeded that level. Manning levels were somewhat higher than they would have been in Western Europe. Above all, the lead-time, from the start of contract negotiations to the beginning of commercial operation of the plant, was on average of 26 turnkey projects, six years and 10 months, or three to four years longer than would have been the case on average in Western Europe.10 The Soviet economy benefited from

The Soviet Union’s acquisition of Western technology after Stalin

23

these imports. But the Soviet economic system impeded not only domestic innovation but also the assimilation of imported technology. In other words, if one can generalise from the industry that was most favoured with technology imports, those imports helped, but not as much as they would have done if Soviet economic institutions had themselves worked well. Meanwhile the Soviet economy faced a growth slowdown for reasons unconnected with the rate at which foreign technology was assimilated. At best, the import of Western technology made Soviet output a bit higher than it would otherwise have been, but it did not prevent the growth slowdown.

People, connexions and technology transfer: commercial deals This section consists of three stories that may help towards an understanding of the human perceptions, communications and behaviour that propelled the negotiable transactions just reviewed. The first has only a passing connexion with technology transfer but does illustrate one way in which political and commercial networks could be woven together on the Western side. In the autumn of 1971 I was working at the British Embassy in Moscow when Harold Wilson paid a visit. He had been Prime Minister from 1964 to 1970 and was to be Prime Minister again from 1974 to 1976. In 1971 he was Leader of the Opposition. This was his eighteenth visit to the Soviet Union – on the face of it, a surprisingly high number.11 In his public appearances Wilson always used a somewhat recalcitrant pipe as a stage prop. At a press conference for the Soviet media he demonstrated the Russian version of his act, requesting a match to light his pipe: ‘Spichki pozhaluista.’ I don’t think his Russian vocabulary extended far beyond those two words, but he wasn’t going to let his Russian audience down. They loved it. He was slightly less popular, unofficially, at the Embassy, where he was staying.12 Why 18 visits by September 1971? Wilson first visited the Soviet Union in 1947 at the age of 31, when he was Secretary for Overseas Trade at the Board of Trade. He negotiated with Anastas Mikoyan, Soviet Deputy Prime Minister and Minister for Foreign Trade, over the purchase of Soviet wheat.13 They almost reached a deal, but Mikoyan’s insistence on restructuring a Soviet war-loan prevented its conclusion. They apparently got on well. But, in Mikoyan’s words, ‘When an Armenian is dealing with a Yorkshireman, what chance is there of an agreement?’ In the course of 1947 Wilson made three official visits to Moscow; during the last of those visits – by now President of the Board of Trade – he managed to conclude a trade agreement.14 Very early in his career, in other words, Harold Wilson had acquired a reputation for knowing about trade with Moscow. The Conservatives won the 1951 general election and Wilson was out of government. He accepted a number of consultancies that were wholly or in part to do with Anglo–Soviet trade: with the timber importer Montague Meyer, with Marchon Products, who manufactured detergents, and with

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Kagan Textiles.15 The companies valued, in addition to his general ability, his knowledge of officials and politicians in London and Moscow. Even in these years of late Stalinism Wilson’s activities touched on commercial transfer of technology. He helped push through, for Montague Meyer, the sale to the Soviet Union of a new kind of equipment for making chipboard. And in a pamphlet published in 1952 he advocated, among other things, a relaxation of strategic export controls, contrary to US wishes.16 Wilson was not the only British politician to get involved in East–West trade, but he seems to have been the only leading British politician to have been engaged both in official trade negotiations when in office and in commercial deals when in opposition, over a lengthy period of time. He was never a communist or fellow-traveller, and was only briefly and selectively on the left of the Labour Party. The Soviet politicians with whom he established good working relations, Mikoyan and Aleksei Kosygin, were in many ways – given their environment – rather like him: clever political operators who were primarily practical people concerned with bread-and-butter issues. There were other British politicians who were also active as consultants or intermediaries in East–West trade. The Labour left-winger Ian Mikardo (1908–93) was one, along with another Labour Member of Parliament (MP), Jo Richardson. Mikardo was an influential back-bencher who never held a government post.17 It appears that such activity involved only a very few politicians, and those who did have East–West trade as a sideline tended to be Labour MPs. So far as I have been able to ascertain, Wilson’s and Mikardo’s activities in East–West trade were independent of one another. One of the conditions for the Soviet Union to embark on substantial commercial imports of technology was that there needed to be people in middle-level or high positions who had a realistic understanding of what was on offer and what Soviet production could gain from such transfers. Academic economists might have a very general, broad-brush appreciation of the ways in which technology imports could enhance domestic productivity, but they were neither politically influential nor qualified to identify particular technologies and types of equipment.18 Most senior Party officials, by the 1970s if not earlier, had some engineering training, but that training was often superficial and their acquaintance with the outside world was typically nil or thereabouts. A few senior political figures did have such knowledge. Kosygin knew light industry and he knew something of the outside world. ‘Kosygin knows Manchester like the back of his hand’, an associate of Harold Wilson told me in 1971. That might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but there is no doubt that Kosygin led the way, first under Khrushchev and then under Brezhnev, in pushing for more imports of technology.19 A lower-placed but also influential official, Nikolai Smelyakov, exemplifies the sort of knowledge and experience that played a part in decisions to import technology. The unusual thing about Smelyakov is that he put many

The Soviet Union’s acquisition of Western technology after Stalin 25 of his observations and reflections into the public domain, in a Novyi mir article in 1973 and a book published the following year.20 Smelyakov trained as a steelmaker, served on a trade delegation to Germany in 1941, presumably while the Molotov–Ribbentrop pact still held, and in the United States as chairman of Soviet trade representation, Amtorg, in the 1950s. He became a Deputy Minister of Foreign Trade in 1959. In the brief period of détente in the early 1970s he was able to publish some rather striking observations on foreign technology and on Soviet technological shortcomings. He was a long-serving Deputy Minister, credited by traders with contributing to the continuity and trust in, for example, Finnish–Soviet trade relations.21 Export success, he argues, is the best test of the quality and technological level of a product. If a machine is not purchased on the world market it is not needed on the home market. In saying this he was aware, and many of his readers would have been aware, that Soviet machinery barely travelled; its performance on world markets was very poor. In reality domestically made machinery was what was predominantly used in domestic production, but the implication of what he was saying was that the Soviet Union should have been using far more imported equipment.22 He described the US, West German and Japanese machinery as particularly impressive. Japan, he said, was outstandingly successful in applying new technology to production. Lead-times in the construction of new capacity were very short in Japan, and the Japanese had a highly effective system for absorbing foreign know-how and using domestic research and development to improve on it. Foreign quality and reliability were vividly described. ‘As a foundryman I was most impressed by the defect-free Japanese castings . . . We looked hard and found only perfect surfaces without blisters or other flaws. . . . The main thing was the reliability of the machinery and the methods used . . .’.23 There will not have been many Soviet officials who knew from first-hand experience exactly how far Soviet industry lagged behind the West in particular fields of technology, but there must have been a reasonable cohort of such people. What those people needed, if they were to act on their knowledge, was unequivocal approval and encouragement from the political leadership to engage in the systematic commercial acquisition of foreign machinery and know-how, and cooperation in doing this from the central planners and the branch ministries.24 The first of these requirements came in fits and starts from the late 1950s and, it could be argued, peaked in the détente of the early 1970s. One of its features was the strategy of importing whole plants for the chemical industry. This stems from Khrushchev’s chemicalization campaign. By establishing certain informal priorities and empowering particular people, this strategy seems to have acquired an inertial momentum of its own. The Soviet chemicalization drive was launched by Khrushchev’s chauffeur. He complained to his boss that the Soviet-made car tyres he was using blew

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out or otherwise deteriorated far too quickly. Investigation at tyre plants showed that the original 1930s imported technology was not being properly applied. Somewhere along the way Khrushchev grasped that the entire Soviet chemical industry was decades behind that of the United States and Western Europe, and decided that catching up in that industry would be a top priority.25 The chemicalization drive starts in 1958 and chemical plant imports gather pace soon afterwards. In the post-war Soviet Union these chemical turnkey projects brought a degree of close collaboration between Soviet and Western citizens that was unprecedented. For the construction of the polyester fibre plant at Mogilev by the Polyspinners consortium, following a 1964 contract, 52 Soviet engineers spent three months in the United Kingdom with constructors John Brown on the process engineering phase; 20 Soviet machinery inspectors spent two years in the UK; at least 110 Soviet specialists underwent training in the UK; 200 British technical staff spent several months at a time over two years in Moscow on the detailed engineering work; and a ‘few hundred’ families of British construction supervisors and technicians spent up to four years at the site in Mogilev.26 This sort of extended mutual acquaintance was not entirely without precedent: there were Western-guided turnkey projects in the Soviet Union during the First Five-Year Plan, and there were patches of close personal cooperation during the war. But these early chemical plant projects were the first post-Stalin close and extensive personal encounters that arose out of Soviet trade with the West. Individually, the Fiat-led Tol’yatti project was larger, but the chemical industry led the way. These deals were an abrupt departure from the arms-length dealing involving very few, and politically safe, Soviet officials that had previously characterised East–West trade. Nikolai Patolichev was the Minister of Foreign Trade (1958–85) who oversaw the process of importation. He was a Deputy Foreign Minister in 1956–58, but earlier in life he had attended the Military-Chemical Academy (1937), been Party organiser in the Yaroslavl’ rubber products factory (1938) and been Obkom (provincial party committee) First Secretary for Yaroslavl’ from 1939 to 1941.27 He seems to have played a role in checking up on the exploding car tyres. Once Patolichev was appointed minister, he oversaw the import of chemical plant, along with much else, for the better part of three decades. A Russian biographical website lists in his biography the percentages of 1985 Soviet production of a number of items that came from imported plant (see Table 1.3). This is treated as a testament to Patolichev’s work, not as any sort of criticism. The original source of these numbers is not given on the website. Where they overlap, they are somewhat higher than estimates for the chemical industry in 1970 made by the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA).28 Given the time-profile of imports, however, and the time-lags between importation and operational use, the figures shown here are compatible with the CIA numbers.

The Soviet Union’s acquisition of Western technology after Stalin 27 Table 1.3 Estimated shares of 1985 Soviet production that came from imported plants, selected products Chemicals Ammonia Urea Complex fertilisers

93 70 54

Sulphuric acid Polyethylene Synthetic fibres

60 90 42

45 30 93

Profile steel Cars Trucks

35 67 15

Other Pulp Paper Air-conditioners

Source: www.pseudology.org/people/Patolichev.htm (accessed 17 April 2009).

What this shows is an industry that was very largely rebuilt after 1958 on the basis of imported plant. The motor industry – or more precisely the production of passenger cars – is another example, starting about a decade later. Timber, paper and pulp was another, smaller beneficiary. The striking thing about chemical plant imports is that they remained comparatively high over a long period. The share of chemical machinery in total machinery imports from the West was consistently well above the chemical industry’s share in value added or in total fixed investment. See Table 1.3 above.29 They fluctuated over time, of course, both absolutely and in their relative importance, but they were high years after Khrushchev’s chemicalization campaign had been forgotten. In 1960 they were 35.9 per cent of all hard-currency machinery imports; in 1977 they were 36.2 per cent of a much-enlarged total.30 It seems a plausible conjecture that once the late 1950s–early 1960s campaign set a priority for such imports, institutional inertia preserved that priority. Here was an industry that qualified for machinery imports last year; unless something drastic is done, it keeps that priority this year. Patolichev’s past association with the industry, I suggest, helped to keep this priority in place. The volume of chemical plant imports was squeezed at times by the pressure to pay for large imports of grain, and in the early-to-mid-1970s by the massive importation of motor industry equipment for AvtoVAZ, but it kept bobbing back up. In this it appears likely that another influential figure played a role: Leonid Kostandov (1915–84), the long-serving Minister of the Chemical Industry. Several executives I interviewed in the British chemical industry in 1977–78 said that they knew him well; and had a high opinion of his energy and professionalism. When the Thatcher government decided to engage more actively with the Soviet leadership in 1983, one of the people invited was Kostandov, who was by then a Deputy Prime Minister. He came to the

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United Kingdom as a guest of Imperial Chemical Industries (ICI), a British industrial giant that dominated the UK chemical industry for several decades and has more recently been split up.31 The negotiations that preceded many Soviet–Western trade deals involved senior representatives of the branch ministries involved on the Soviet side.32 This appears to have been the normal arrangement, for obvious reasons, where machinery imports into the Soviet Union were concerned. Kostandov seemed to the Westerners he dealt with to have something approaching a free hand to roam the Western world, or at any rate the West European countries, checking out possible chemical equipment for purchase.33 This, I believe, was unusual. Kostandov also had a surprisingly high standing in the Soviet hierarchy. Being a branch industry minister and then a Deputy Prime Minister entails, of course, a great deal of seniority. But his formal position did not by itself qualify him for the funeral ceremony on Red Square and burial in the Kremlin wall that were accorded him.34 And the publication of a volume in his honour on the ninetieth anniversary of his birth is a striking testimony to his salience in Soviet history.35 Both Patolichev and Kostandov, I suggest, served the cause of technology transfer into the Soviet chemical industry, to which they both had strong links, well beyond the duration of Khrushchev’s chemicalization campaign. Perhaps the rigidity of the system they served produced this outcome through institutional inertia; it is hard to know what role if any was played by major initiatives of their own. But their long service in their key official positions and, it appears, their high informal status within the Soviet system made the long-term priority for imports of chemical plant possible.

Espionage and all that: the Farewell files In January 1986 I was given access by French counter-intelligence to five documents from what they called the ‘Farewell’ files. I have described the material and inferences from it elsewhere.36 Here I will offer a brief account, with some reflections. French intelligence said the material, of which undoubtedly I was shown only a part, came from a Soviet official who had passed it over in 1981–82 before disappearing, presumed executed, in late 1982. What I saw ran to several hundred pages, 230 pages in the form of original Russian-language, top-secret documents and the rest in French and English translation. I was not allowed to copy any of these papers, only to read and make notes.37 I shall probably never be sure of the authenticity of what I saw, but my judgement was that it was indeed genuine. It was all to do with the spetsinformatsiya (special information) system operated under the Soviet MilitaryIndustrial Commission (VPK) and involving, amongst other acquisition agencies, National Security Agency (KGB) Directorate T (for ‘Technology’): a report on the uses made in 1979 in 12 military-related industries; the

The Soviet Union’s acquisition of Western technology after Stalin

29

equivalent report for the following year; a set of tasks for information acquisition in rocketry and space technology in 1981–85; a Directorate T report for 1980; and a table of 27 pages assembled by (I assume) French analysts, showing the ‘most critical’ acquisition tasks from two VPK plans. So one had lists of technological information to be obtained and reports back from customer-ministries about what use they had made of the spetsinformatsiya. The acquirers and the users of spetsinformatsiya formed quite a broad church: the users included not only the nine ‘military’ industries which at the time formed the VPK empire but also the ministries of Chemicals, Petrochemicals and Electrical Equipment; the acquirers included not only KGB Directorate T and the Soviet Military Intelligence (GRU) but also the State Committee for Science and Technology (GKNT), the Ministry of Foreign Trade, the State Committee for External Economic Relations, that handled military sales to Third World countries, and the Soviet Academy of Sciences. The listing suggests that some of the people whose commercial activities were described earlier – Smelyakov, Patolichev and Kostandov – did not operate in a world insulated from intelligence work. Intriguingly, a list of government ministers under Khrushchev includes Nikolai Smelyakov in a non-trade position. He is shown as Minister for General Machine-building in 1956–57; that was one of the VPK ministries, and I assume this is the same Nikolai Smelyakov. The association does not make these people spies. I doubt whether intelligence work was a major part of what they did. But like any Soviet official who spent time abroad, they were not isolated from the world of intelligence. The documents reveal an elaborate and extensive system of industrial information-collection. But it is clear that a lot of what was done under this heading was not what one usually thinks of as espionage. The KGB T report notes that 80 per cent of the material acquired for the aerospace industry was not classified. It rebukes sources at the Berlin residency for trying to get bonuses by passing off openly available company reports as classified documents. One KGB T report that apparently went down well with the customers was on Chinese computerization. At the same time, there was serious work being done. KGB T acquired 200 embargoed radio-electronic products in 1980. Armour-piercing shells were being developed; it was reported, on the basis of spetsinformatsiya on the use of tungsten in Western shells. Infra-red reconnaissance equipment was being developed using a type of micro-condenser acquired in the West. And so on. Of course, all involved were meeting targets and ticking boxes. The rouble figures given for savings in domestic research, development, testing and evaluation through the use of spetsinformatsiya were part of a bureaucratic game. I concluded at the time that one might have been able to deduce something from them if one had a range of 10 or a dozen years of such reports to analyse; from the two to three years of dodgy data that were available, any conclusions about the impact on East–West military competition would not stand up.

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At all events, Soviet industrial espionage was a large-scale operation. It was carried out primarily but not only for military purposes. The VPK was probably more efficient in developing products on the basis of foreign technology than the civilian economy was. It faced real competition – with NATO weapons systems. It incorporated some real competition amongst its own design teams. It got the pick of the available scientists and engineers and the pick of domestic material inputs. It got, in general, the priority attention of planners – a scarce resource in itself. But the Farewell files also suggest that the spetsinformatsiya system probably fell short of nullifying the strategic embargo.

Conclusions Soviet acquisition of Western technology, both commercial and clandestine, contributed to Soviet economic growth. There is nothing surprising in that: all late-developing countries get a boost from technologies developed in the more advanced countries. What was distinctive about the Soviet Union and other Warsaw Pact countries, in this particular context, was that they were doubly handicapped. They were outside the global development of international capital flows and transnational companies, a development that helps to diffuse technologies across countries.38 And they had an economic system that, in comparison with market capitalism, tended to slow down technological change; and the system had that effect both on domestic research, development and innovation and on the assimilation of imported technology. One change over time probably made technology transfer to the Soviet Union increasingly difficult. This was the rise of electronics and computing. The first post-World War II wave of militarily-critical technology was the development of nuclear weapons. This was carried out in the United States in a military research and development enclave under the auspices of the state. That was something the Soviet Union could replicate, and did, at impressive speed. The same goes for the second wave of military technology – missiles. The third wave, of information technology, was different. It revolutionised battlefield control systems and allowed ‘smart’ weapons of various kinds to come into being. But the underlying computer technology did not come from a sheltered military research enclave; it came from the civilian economy and was absorbed more quickly by banks and toy-makers, for example, than by the military. This, the Soviets were not well placed to emulate. To make things worse for them, the coverage of the strategic embargo tended to widen as more and more civilian industrial technology incorporated micro-processors which it was deemed the Soviets should not easily acquire. Against that general background, cooperative relationships between Soviet people and enterprises, on the one hand, and Western (mainly West European) people and companies, on the other, did in fact develop. A British ex-Prime Minister facilitated Anglo–Soviet business deals, exploiting contacts he

The Soviet Union’s acquisition of Western technology after Stalin 31 developed as a junior minister in the depths of the Stalin era. Technically knowledgeable Soviet trade officials developed a realistic understanding of how far behind their country lagged in this or that technology. A Soviet branch minister became very much persona grata with his Western counterparts – the directors of big chemical companies. And many engineers and technicians from West European countries worked with and trained their Soviet counterparts, often spending long periods of time in the Soviet Union while doing so. What lasting effect these relationships had, it would be hard to say. Most of those involved are now retired or have passed on. At all events, their experience of cutting deals and working together, though often frustrating on both sides, was not one of confrontation.

Notes 1 Franklyn D. Holzman, Foreign Trade under Central Planning, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1974, pp. 8–9, 140. 2 Metodicheskie ukazaniya k razrabotke gosudarstvennykh planov razvitiya narodnogo khozyaistva SSSR, Moscow: Ekonomika, 1974, p. 595. 3 Nikolai Smelyakov, ‘Delovye vstrechi,’ Novyi mir, no. 12, 1973, pp. 203–40. 4 For more on CoCom see the chapters in this volume by Sari Autio-Sarasmo and by Niklas Jensen-Eriksen, and also an earlier study of mine: Philip Hanson, Western Economic Statecraft in East–West Relations. Embargoes, Sanctions, Linkage, Economic Warfare, and Détente, Chatham House Papers 40, Routledge and Kegan Paul for RIIA, 1988. 5 Hanson, Western Economic Statecraft; Pekka Sutela, ‘Finland’s Eastern Trade: What Do the Interviews Tell,’ paper presented at the IEHC conference, Helsinki, August 2006. 6 Philip Hanson, Trade and Technology in Soviet–Western Relations, New York: Columbia University Press, 1981, Chapter 5; I understand that archive materials do not substantially alter this assessment (private communication from Sari Autio-Sarasmo, 17 May 2009). 7 Hanson, Trade and Technology, pp. 129–31; Hanson, Western Economic Statecraft, p. 24. 8 Hanson, Trade and Technology, pp. 137–38. 9 Hanson, Trade and Technology, Chapters 2 and 9. The positive impact on agriculture – albeit in a losing cause – was probably quite large. A large chunk of the imported chemical plant produced ammonia, urea and final-stage mineral fertilizers; these boosted crop production. See Chapter 10 of the same book. 10 Hanson, Trade and Technology, Chapter 11. 11 It has recently been confirmed that the British security service, MI5, maintained a file on Wilson from his election as an MP in 1945, and that his commercial contacts in the Soviet bloc were the main reason for this. MI5 was also interested in some of Wilson’s associates among East–West traders, notably Joseph Kagan and Rudy Sternberg. See Christopher Andrew, Defence of the Realm. An Authorized History of MI5, London: Penguin Press, 2009. 12 Lady Killick, the Ambassador’s wife, said (I was told), ‘You can’t open a door in the Embassy without finding Harold Wilson having a pee.’ 13 This was a year (harvest year 1946–47) when there was a famine in the USSR. See Michael Ellman, ‘The 1947 Soviet famine and the entitlement approach to famines’, Cambridge Journal of Economics, 24: 5, 2000, pp. 603–30. I have no reason to believe that Wilson would have known about this. My Birmingham colleague,

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14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38

Philip Hanson Professor R. W. Davies, tells me he knew nothing about a famine in 1946–47 until a short story on the subject was published during the Khrushchev thaw (communication of 27 May 2009). Philip Ziegler, Wilson. The Authorised Life of Lord Wilson of Rievaulx, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1993, pp. 65–66. Lord Kagan (he was ennobled by Wilson) was, I was told by Yulius Kagarlitskii in 1983, related to the Kagarlitskii family of Moscow (including the literary scholar Yulius and his son the leftist dissident and latter-day leftist writer Boris). Ziegler, Wilson, 1993, pp. 90–91. www.britannia.com/EBchecked/topic/381966/Ian-Mikardo (accessed 17 June 2009). Leonid Abalkin in 1989 was the first academic economist to be appointed to a government position in the post-Stalin USSR. Hanson, Trade and Technology, Chapter 5. Smelyakov, ‘Delovye vstrechi’, 1973, pp. 203–40. Sutela, ‘Finland’s Eastern Trade’, 2006. Smelyakov, ‘Delovye vstrechi’, pp. 203–40. Smelyakov, ‘Delovye vstrechi’, pp. 227–28. See the chapter by Sari Autio-Sarasmo, which draws on archive materials on this subject. Nikita Khrushchev, Khrushchev Remembers, London: Deutsch, 1971. Hanson, Trade and Technology, p. 108. www.pseudology.org/people/Patolichev.htm (accessed 17 April 2009), and http:// dic.academic.ru/dic.nsf/ruwiki/191188 (accessed 17 April 2009). CIA, Soviet Chemical Equipment Purchases from the West: Impact on Production and Trade, ER 78–10554, 1978. For more detail see Hanson, Trade and Technology, Table 8.2. Hanson, Trade and Technology, pp. 136, 138. Archie Brown, ‘The change to engagement in Britain’s Cold War policy: the origins of the Thatcher–Gorbachev relationship,’ Journal of Cold War Studies, 10:3, 2008, pp. 3–47. Sutela, ‘Finland’s Eastern Trade’. Author’s interviews in the late 1970s. New York Times, 8 September 1984. V. A. Lyubartovich (ed), Gosudarstvenniy chelovek: Leonid Kostandov – inzhener, ucheniy, rukovoditel’ khimicheskoi promyshlennosti: k 90-letiyu so dnya rozhdeniya Leonida Arkad’evicha Kostandova, Moskva: Akademkniga, 2005. In detail in Philip Hanson, ‘Soviet Industrial Espionage: Some New Information,’ RIIA Discussion Papers no. 1, London: RIIA, 1987; more briefly in Philip Hanson, ‘Soviet industrial espionage,’ Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, 43: 3, April 1987, pp. 25–30. The first of these is now a rather rare publication. Chatham House turned down a request by an American publisher to re-publish it. So far as I know, I was one of three academics invited to view the material, and the only one to accept. It is true that communist-era Hungary and Romania operated for many years with foreign joint, and that the USSR did so from 1986. On the whole, however, these were rather limited in size and industrial scope.

2

Economic interest in Soviet post-war policy on Finland1 Tatiana Androsova

Long-term strategy Military–strategic considerations are the primary factor shaping Russia’s interest in Finland, whose territory lies at the juncture of East and West. At the same time, Russia’s policy towards its small Western neighbour has traditionally also paid special attention to geographic and economic factors. In the 1920s–1930s the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) failed to achieve any significant presence in Finland’s economic life, but even then, conquering the Finnish market was viewed as a matter of global significance.2 This position was to become the basic point of departure for Soviet post-war policy on Finland. The drafting of a blueprint for future relations, with an emphasis on Soviet domination of Finland’s foreign trade, was essentially completed in spring– summer 1944. Above all, it was considered vital that Finland be drawn away from the influence of the USA and England. With this aim, the USSR assumed the role of Finland’s chief supplier of commodities of vital importance for Finland; oil first of all. These measures were directed at increasing the Soviet share in Finland’s foreign trade within as short a period as possible.3 At Moscow’s insistence, Germany’s former allies were obliged to pay war reparations in the form of commodity supplies. This was a decisive factor in the case of Finland, since it opened up the opportunity for a cardinal reorganization of the Finnish industrial structure. Soviet experts viewed the creation of a Finnish metal industry operating in accordance with USSR specifications as an essential guarantee backing up Soviet influence in Finland. Therefore, under the treaty on war reparations (17 December 1947) output from machine building, ship building, and the cable and turbine industries was to comprise two thirds of total supplies made under the reparations programme. This arrangement was viewed as a prototype for future economic links.4 Despite rumours of a possible imminent Soviet occupation, the Soviet leadership’s plans ruled out such direct methods of exerting influence in Finland.5 In the West, too, observers were convinced that there would be absolutely no point in a Soviet occupation of Finland. It was noted in particular that the USSR was ‘striving to change Finland’s economic structure,

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forcing the Finns to create a large-scale metal industry, whose market opportunities, after completion of the reparation payments, will be located exclusively in the east, particularly in China’.6 In fact, the USSR itself was to become the main purchaser not only of Finnish machine-building and ship-building manufacturers, but also of the producers of a series of other sectors, created or re-created anew in the process of Finland’s fulfilment of her war reparation obligations.7 While political aims were paramount, it is also certainly the case that business cooperation with Finland had economic value for the USSR.8 It should be noted, however, that the Soviet economic interest in Finland was rarely spoken of directly in the USSR.9 Instead, the emphasis was initially placed on how important the high-capacity secure Soviet market was for Finland. Soviet–Finnish relations were depicted as an exemplary model with which it was possible for countries with different political systems to engage in mutually profitable economic cooperation. In actual fact, in the conditions of the building confrontation with the West, it would be difficult to over-estimate how important uninterrupted imports from Finland were for the Soviet side. This chapter focuses on the development of the Soviet–Finnish trade relations and processes within the economic relationship between Finland and the USSR during the Cold War.

The quest for a reliable trade partner The assumption that, after the war, the USSR would have to engage in extensive and long-term economic, political and cultural cooperation was a key element in Soviet plans for the post-war world order. In addition to industrial raw materials, the USSR also needed modern machine technology, which it was counting on receiving primarily from the USA and England. Washington began the systematic winding up of economic relations with the USSR even before the war had ended, from the spring of 1945. The English were being pushed towards the Soviet market by a dollar deficit, which meant that large-scale orders for supplies of manifold industrial equipment and raw materials would have been extremely timely. Ultimately, however, it was political considerations that proved decisive.10 Initially, Sweden was essentially the only full-fledged supplier of highquality steel and steel products to the USSR. Swedish supplies of goods to the USSR were renewed in late 1944 under an agreement concluded on 7 September 1940. In October 1946 the parties agreed to a five-year extension of this treaty and to credits amounting to one million dollars for Soviet orders. Sweden provided the USSR with ball- and roller-bearings, tungsten and molybdenum wire, and other goods essential for re-building the economy. It was no coincidence that the American government attempted to exert direct influence over Stockholm in an attempt to prevent negotiations with the USSR.11 Ultimately, however, rapprochement with Sweden failed to eventuate: in the Soviet leadership’s opinion, the policy of Sweden coincided

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with the interests of the Western powers.12 Meanwhile, Denmark and Norway were striving for even closer contacts with the West. Nevertheless, the USSR concluded agreements with them in 1946 stipulating supplies of raw materials and materials for industry in exchange for foodstuffs and ready-made goods.13 Austria was also viewed by Moscow as a potential ally and economic partner. But investments in the Austrian economy (in particular, to re-build the oil industry) could not bring immediate returns. Moreover, neutral status imposed its own limitations. Great hopes were initially placed on France, with whom the USSR signed a trade agreement on the most-favoured-nation principle in December 1945. Reductions in supplies of French goods, however, began to take place as early as mid-1947 and from February 1948 the Western economic blockade became systemic in nature. The scale of Finnish supplies to the Soviet Union was relatively small in comparison with the amount of essential machinery and equipment that could potentially have been supplied by the Marshallized countries, but in the case of Finland, the fundamentally significant factors were the long time frame of cooperation, the structure of deliveries, and the issue of compliance with standards set in the USSR. The Soviet economic interest in Finland was not limited merely to the demand for finished articles and equipment. When the top Soviet leadership assessed the prospects for Soviet–Finnish relations with a view to developing a long-term strategy, they noted in particular the scope for learning from the Finns, predominantly in the area of industrial technology.14 In subsequent assessments of the concrete ways in which Finnish expertise could be utilized with a view to fostering the most rapid development of Soviet productive forces, it was pointed out that, besides having produced interesting technological innovations of their own, the Finns also stood out in terms of their ability to achieve maximum results at minimum cost through optimized production, sound organization, and the rational use of industrial labour.15 Soviet officials noted in particular the value of Finland’s longstanding business contacts with Western countries, which provided a way for the USSR to utilize the latest technological achievements, first and foremost, of the industrial experience of the USA, Canada and Sweden.16

Finland between East and West From the outset, the formulation of Soviet policy towards Finland took into account Finland’s delicate position between East and West. The Soviet side tried to avoid unnecessary tension and the desired results were achieved quite quickly, through a strategy whereby the Soviet side managed to avoid laying down ultimatums, but was still able to set concrete deadlines for the fulfilment of Finnish reparation obligations.17 By the late 1940s, Finland’s dependence on the Soviet market had reached a level which made it possible to adjust both her domestic and foreign policy.18 The main milestone here was the Treaty on Friendship, Cooperation and Mutual Assistance (FCMA), which

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was to set the course of the two countries’ relations for the entire subsequent period. Moscow succeeded in persuading the Finnish government to sign this political pact in April 1948 in view of ‘the Finns’ strong interest in settling the most important questions of the Finnish economy as rapidly as possible’.19 In the opinion of the Americans, the only possible means of drawing Finland away from Soviet political influence was via the reduction of Soviet– Finnish trade links. This was one of the aims of the loans provided through the Export-Import Bank in the 1950s and directed primarily at the development of the wood processing industry. The receipt of credit in May 1952, for example, stipulated the allocation of no less than 7.5 milliard Finnish marks for this purpose.20 In addition, Washington manoeuvred with a view to reinforcing German influence in Finland. In February 1953 Finland was offered long-term credit in Deutschmarks for the purchase of machinery and equipment, subject to the ‘minor political condition’ that Finland provide de jure recognition that the country was no longer at war with Germany. Significantly, the Finnish government turned down this offer of credit, not for fear of arousing dissatisfaction on the part of Moscow – where, incidentally, it was expected that Helsinki would accept the deal – but because the Finns viewed the West German proposal as constituting ‘a real danger of expansion’, threatening the development of Finnish industry. In their efforts aimed at limiting supplies of goods from the ‘strategic list’ to the USSR, Washington and London acted not only via local banks and firms, but also by bringing direct pressure to bear on Helsinki.21 It was a matter of open discussion in the West that the drive to reduce Finnish metal-industry and ship-building production had ‘both economic and political aims behind it’.22 Finland’s attractiveness to foreign capital was linked not only with the country’s extensive natural wealth, but also with Finland’s dependence on imports of energy sources, oil and coal. Most important of all, however, was the fact that business contacts with Finland provided a way of securing a presence ‘at the closest doorway to the Soviet Union’.23 Moscow preferred to keep ‘this door’ open, as a possible means of controlling developments on this front flank of the Cold War. The attitude taken in Moscow towards this rather risky and costly enterprise was a highly conscientious one. It was considered vital that, at the very least, economic cooperation be rendered as advantageous as possible for the Finns.

Plans and reality In November 1944, the Finns were promised a crisis-free economic relationship with the USSR.24 In practice, honouring this pledge was no easy task, given the ‘machinations of foreign reaction’: until at least the beginning of the 1950s, the Soviet leadership viewed Finland as a ‘military bridgehead against the USSR’. Nevertheless, the most important cause of the endemic problems that soon arose in the Soviet–Finnish cooperation lies rather in the incompatibility of the scales of the two countries’ economies

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on the one hand, coupled with the similarity of their industrial structures on the other. Initial proposals earmarked the Finnish wood processing and pulp and paper industries as the primary candidates for tying in to the Soviet market. At any rate, this was certainly the course recommended by the Chair of the Soviet Control Commission in Finland, A. Zhdanov, one of the architects of Soviet policy in Finland.25 Ultimately, however, these plans went unrealized, because the sectors in question happened to be high-profile sectors of the Soviet economy, too. Instead, the USSR’s secure and highcapacity markets became a kind of experimental ground for Finland, useful for testing and refining new models of automated production, and a fall-back option in the event of any deterioration of the trade cycles on world markets.26 Although Finland’s relations with Western states posed an obvious threat to Soviet influence, there was never any question of imposing an absolute ban on such relations. In the first place, it was in Moscow’s interest for Finland to act as an intermediary; and secondly, it is unlikely that such a ban would have been possible in any case. Even though the structure of Finnish industry had been substantially adjusted through the war reparations programme, the Finnish economy would continue to be dominated by the wood processing sectors, which were traditionally oriented towards Western markets. In the early 1950s the West’s share of Finnish foreign trade exceeded 80 per cent. In the interests of the Soviet drive to prevent Finland from veering off too sharply towards the West, attempts were made to improve the mechanisms for organizing Soviet–Finnish trade relations, as well as devising new forms of economic cooperation. In December 1946, the parties adopted mutual accounts on a clearing basis and also developed a procedure for coordinating the volumes of commodity circulation through the use of protocols which fixed the list and volumes of export–import deliveries for the forthcoming period. From the outset, the Soviet side devoted special attention to the question of concluding long-term trade agreements with Finland, since the advance planning of trade relations would effectively neutralize any economically or politically motivated attempts to ‘wriggle out’ of accepting Soviet orders further down the track.27 By skilfully playing a ‘waiting game’, the Soviet side gradually brought Helsinki around to initiating more long-term trade relations. In May 1950, the Finnish delegation submitted a concrete proposal during negotiations on concluding a long-term trade agreement for a maximum term of one and a half years. The time frame on offer was too narrow, however, to accommodate the Soviet government’s plans for bringing about cardinal changes in the structure of the Finnish economy. The Soviet side thus proposed to the Finns that an agreement be signed for at least five, and preferably 10 years. After additional negotiations, a ‘compromise’ solution was found, and on 13 June 1950 the USSR and Finland signed the First Five-Year Agreement, covering the 1951–55 period.29

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Both the Soviet–Finnish long-term agreements, which stipulated a mostfavoured-nation regime and which were traditionally over-fulfilled, and Soviet credits, which were never tied to any political or economic conditions, were geared towards supporting industrialization with a view to lessening Finland’s economic dependence on Western European industry. In 1949–56, in the interests of balancing mutual accounts, attempts were made at multilateral cooperation within a framework of trilateral trade agreements concluded with East European states in addition to the USSR and Finland.30 In the West, where the development of Finland’s trade–economic relations with the East was being observed with interest, this experiment in trilateral relations was studied particular closely. At an economic conference in Geneva in spring 1952, ‘many countries drew up plans for expanding their trade with the East based on the example of Finland’. In a 1953 UN Commission report devoted to European economic development issues, it was recommended that all the countries of Europe should follow the example of Finland, which had achieved ‘excellent results in its eastern policy’. In September 1953 the Paris leadership of the Secretariat of the Committee for the Development of International Trade Exchange wrote to S. A. Harima, the Chair of the Finnish–Soviet Trade Chamber (FSTC), requesting support and advice with regard to setting up an FSTC-style organization to promote the development of trade between France and the USSR.31 For the most part, however, the achievements in Soviet–Finnish trade relations were quantitative in nature, accomplished by expanding the scale of economic cooperation. To all intents and purposes, the Soviet Union had nothing to offer the growing Finnish economy in the early 1960s – hence the chronic imbalance in mutual accounts.32 As a result, when it came to the question of further expansions of trade with the USSR, the conduct of the Finns became noticeably more cautious and restrained.

Finnish foreign trade From 1 April 1957 a system of trade based on so-called ‘global quotas’ was introduced in Finland, whereby Finland gained the opportunity to utilize export income earned from the sale of her goods in any of the countries covered by this system. The system was preserved after Finland signed a Protocol on Multilateral Trade and Payments with the majority of Western European countries (the so-called ‘Helsinki Club’) in October 1957. In addition, the payment regime existing between Organisation for European Economic Co-operation (OEEC) countries was extended to cover goods exported by Finland. Having freed up restrictions on a large range of imports, the Finnish authorities lost the power to influence Finnish firms when it came to deciding from which country goods should be purchased. As a result, there was a reduction in Finland’s trade with socialist countries. The level of this trade dropped from 30 per cent in 1957 to 25.3 per cent in 1958. Trade with the USSR decreased by approximately 17 per cent over the

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same period.33 Meanwhile, the volume of Finland’s trade turnover with Western countries grew by 25 per cent over the 1957–59 period, compared to a rise of only 10 per cent in trade with the USSR. Negotiations over the conclusion of a Second Five-Year Trade Agreement for 1956–60 were ‘quite tense; the Finns were extremely reluctant to agree to concessions, even though our proposals were made taking into account Finland’s actual needs for particular imported goods’. Moreover, during this period there was increasing talk in Finland of the need to adhere to the traditional geographical distribution of foreign trade and to set the trade with the socialist countries at a ‘reasonable’ level.34 In the 1950s, the Finnish drive towards expanded links with Western countries, mostly in Scandinavia, but also with England and West Germany, continued to be viewed by the Soviet side as a substantial flaw in Finland’s foreign policy course.35 Moscow was prepared to do everything in its powers in order to retain control over the situation in Finland. As early as in 1954 the USSR was prepared to take Finland’s interests into consideration when negotiating quotas for trade with England.36 Changes were gradually taking shape in the moods of the Soviet leadership, partly under the influence of the ‘thaw’ which set into international relations after the 1955 Geneva conference. Paradoxically enough, the further Finland moved away towards the West, the more loyal the USSR’s behaviour became. On the eve of the so-called Night-Frost Crisis in 1958 the Soviet Union announced that, for political reasons, it was prepared to purchase anything necessary from Finland, even agricultural commodities.37 A year earlier the Finns had finally succeeded in attaining Soviet agreement for Finnish supplies of meat and milk produce to Leningrad within a border-trade framework.38 It should be noted that the USSR imported foodstuffs exclusively from Eastern bloc countries, which makes such indulgence extremely significant, coming as it did at a time when Finland was actively engaged in seeking out her own niche in the community of integrating European states. There were several causes for this change in mood. In the first place, it was in the USSR’s interests that Finland should have a modern economy. Given that the USSR did not have the wherewithal to enable such modernization itself, it was decided to loosen the Soviet grip. By the mid-1970s, the level of mutual understanding between the political leaderships of the two countries had reached the point where it was possible, if needs be, to adopt a ‘hands-off’ approach in tracking the course of Finland’s domestic and foreign policy.39 This was the case despite the fact that Soviet rhetoric had changed little, with the emphasis on the danger of Finland being drawn out of the orbit of the Eastern bloc remaining in place. Further, the USSR itself was oriented towards wide-ranging economic cooperation; even in Cold War conditions, the need to develop such cooperation was taken as a given. While there was a hefty political element to Moscow’s decisions, both with regard to Finland’s associate membership of the European Free Trade Association (EFTA), and in connection with the signing of the customs

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declaration with the European Economic Community (EEC), economic considerations also left a noticeable imprint.40 As early as at the beginning of the 1950s, observers in Helsinki noted that Moscow was using relations with Finland as a means of advertising the USSR’s potential as an economic partner prepared to cooperate beyond the borders of the Eastern bloc.41 The integration of Finland into Western Europe represented a rare opportunity in this connection, especially since Moscow had managed to engineer for itself ‘soft’ terms of competition on the Finnish market. The Soviet leadership opposed the European integration of Finland because of fears related to the Soviet ability to compete, among other reasons.42 Under the agreement with EFTA, Finland pledged to gradually lower customs tariffs on imported industrial goods covered by the EFTA convention, pending the full abolition of such tariffs in 1970. This regime was applied to the USSR, too, on the basis of a customs agreement concluded on 24 November 1960. Simultaneously, a ‘Law on Guaranteeing the Country’s Foreign Trade’ was passed in Finland, empowering the government to regulate foreign trade for the 1962–70 period. The law’s passage was followed by a whole series of measures aimed at expanding the circle of countries coming under a non-licensed imports regime, as well as increasing ‘global quotas regulating the trade in those goods still subject to restrictions’. Thus, according to the new customs tariff introduced on 1 July 1960, the importation of goods was to be conducted on the basis of licences (global and individual), irrespective of the country of origin. From 30 December 1961, licences were abolished for goods imported from the member-countries of the ‘Helsinki Club’, but were preserved for imports from the USSR. In addition, a supplementary and constantly updated list of Soviet goods subject to licensing was introduced. Even though licences were freely issued, there was a consequent decrease in the Soviet share in Finland’s foreign trade from 14.5 per cent to 12.7 per cent in 1961.43 The Soviet trade mission in Helsinki insistently called for the abolition of this list, citing the 1947 trade agreement which stipulated a most-favourednation regime. From 1971 the ‘negative list’ was subjected to stage-by-stage reduction. In addition, a series of Soviet goods were imported to Finland duty-free from the outset. For Finland, the most important of these goods was oil.44 Although the 1960 customs agreement with Finland guaranteed the USSR more favourable market conditions compared to non-member-countries of EFTA, at the initial stage the benefits gained through the reduction of customs tariffs applied to a very narrow range of goods, the value of which was equivalent to less than 1 per cent of Soviet exports to Finland.45 Later, too, the advantages gained were relatively slight, insofar as these advantages were tied to expanding the list of goods imported from the USSR, mostly by increasing the export share of machinery and equipment. Soviet trade experts pointed out to their superiors that the expansion of Soviet advance orders in Finland was directly dependent ‘upon [Soviet] production’s compliance

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with international demands with regard to quality, servicing of technology, delivery periods, etc.’46

The sticking point quality As a result of economic growth and scientific–technological progress, the Finnish demand for science-intensive and technologically complex products was growing constantly, alongside a relative decrease in the demand for raw materials. In the 1960s Finland purchased over 70 per cent of essential machinery and equipment from the Soviet Union’s main competitors: the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG), England, Sweden and other European countries, as well as from the USA, while the USSR’s share in Finnish imports of automated products comprised less than 1 per cent. In the 1950s and 1960s, the share of automated products in Soviet exports to Finland did not exceed 5–7 per cent.47 The problem proved insoluble, either with the help of specialization and industrial cooperation, or by means of establishing direct links between Soviet Foreign Trade associations and Finnish firms. This situation carried over into the 1970s when the share of machinery and equipment in Soviet exports did rise somewhat, reaching levels of 8–9 per cent. Still, the USSR’s involvement in meeting Finnish demands for imported automated produce remained at essentially the same level as in the 1960s.48 The Soviet side made periodic attempts to put all the problems down to the unwillingness of the Finns to purchase automated technology in the USSR, attributing the difficulties in relations to ‘the general direction of the Finnish ruling circles’ economic policy’ and emphasizing that in free market conditions, ‘the government, no matter what its composition, is left with less and less scope to regulate the country’s foreign trade in accordance with its own trade-political considerations’.49 In actual fact, the root of the difficulties stemmed from a global problem of the Soviet economy, the entirety of which (with the exception of the military-industrial complex) was plagued by extreme shortages. The development of foreign trade was hindered by the poor quality of Soviet technology and a lack of export quotas, including on the most important raw materials. After the Finnish joint-stock company Neste completed construction of the first oil-processing plant in late 1957, the Finns agreed to purchase a maximum of 50 per cent of all imported oil from the USSR, citing the high price, incommensurate quality and supply problems associated with Soviet oil. Intent on avoiding becoming dependent on a single supplier of raw oil, they also pointed to a ‘disparity between the structures of production and consumption’.50 In the early 1970s, the fact that the Soviet Union was incapable of ‘fully satisfying the Finns’ demands for a range of goods’, was being explained in terms of the ‘limited nature of resources’. Given the USSR’s indebtedness to Finland, the Finns were reluctant to sign new contracts for the delivery of machinery and equipment to the USSR.51 By the early 1970s, Moscow was

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interpreting the quota-restricted export resources and the slow speed at which new contracts were being concluded as a threat ‘to preserving economic and political influence in Finland in the direction necessary for us’. It was proposed that, in future, ‘special emphasis should be placed on the expansion of cooperation between individual branches of the economy’. This was aimed at helping the USSR to create conditions ‘for expanding our sales of machines and equipment, first of all’.52 Effectively, however, these measures did not have any impact. In the late 1970s, the Soviet trade mission was still lamenting the absence of ‘due coordination and contacts in the work of import and export associations in the allocation of major contracts for the delivery of equipment under import’, as well as ‘the large number of failures on the part of [Soviet] industry, the insufficient competitiveness of certain types of machinery and equipment and components in terms of quality and delivery periods, [and] slapdash fulfilment of contracts with regard to quality of execution and delivery delays’.53 Over the 1946–69 period the USSR’s proportion of Finland’s total trade turnover decreased from 20.7 per cent to 13.3 per cent.54

Attempts to bring cooperation onto a new level As the cooperation expanded, more and more effort was required, above all, with a view to ensuring the smooth and regular flow of foreign trade links, management and knowledge exchange. A standing Intergovernmental Finnish–Soviet Commission for Economic Cooperation was created in 1967 in an attempt to improve the coordination of business relations. Finding ways to utilize the latest achievements of Western science and technology was a matter accorded special importance in the USSR. In the economic race of the Cold War, it was essential to avoid giving ‘carte-blanche to the Americans’ at all costs. This was the point emphasized by the Foreign Trade Minister N. S. Patolichev during a meeting with staff of the Soviet trade mission in Helsinki on 15 November 1960. When it came to expanding the structure of Soviet deliveries to Finland, it was proposed that the focus be placed on supplies of gas, electric power equipment, and equipment for atomic energy stations. The minister also emphasized the USSR’s interest in imports from Finland. When it came to developing scientific–technological cooperation, Patolichev called upon the staff to utilize ‘not only the experience of the Finns’, and to organize ‘the appropriate observation’ for this purpose.55 In a report entitled ‘Scientific-Technological Cooperation between the USSR and Finland in 1960’, the Soviet embassy recommended, in view of Finland’s rapid industrial development, that scientific–technological cooperation be preserved and expanded, a process which would then in turn ‘contribute to rapprochement with neighbouring countries in the political-economic sphere, too’. The report, which contained concrete recommendations aimed at improving trade–economic and scientific–technological cooperation with Finland, urged Soviet economic organizations to devise a plan of measures

Economic interest in Soviet post-war policy on Finland 43 aimed at ‘enabling not only the maintenance, but also the further development of stable Soviet-Finnish links’.56 Soviet economic scholars argued that if, with the active help of the USSR and the other socialist countries, Finland made the transition to scienceintensive and technologically complex production, then this could lead to ‘a certain weakening’ of Finland’s economic links with the EEC, insofar as it would enable the introduction of ‘a mechanism of non-price competition, under which the level of customs tariffs is less important. In addition, the price for technologically complex products is not particularly dependent on the magnitude of transport outlays’. Hence, this would open up an opportunity ‘for broad diversification of the geography of exports, and, consequently, for a reduction of dependence on any one particular region’. It will be noted that the supporters of this plan for Finnish industrial development seemingly overlooked the fact that, as Finland made her rapid advance along the path of technical and technological progress, she was being liberated from excessive dependence not only on the West, but on the USSR too.57 In the late 1960s–early 1970s a concrete programme was developed in the USSR with the aim of combating this dangerous tendency. The programme’s most important point was a treaty on broad cooperation in a range of sectors of the economy. Simultaneously, the goal of signing a new ‘enlarged’ treaty with Finland on scientific–technological cooperation was set. Meanwhile, however, the Finns were attempting to delay the process of preparing the draft treaty and to postpone related discussions. The Soviet trade mission believed that this unwillingness to take on any obligations to the USSR was linked to the forthcoming series of negotiations between Finland and the EEC. The ‘deadlock’ on the question of the treaty was only successfully broken with President Kekkonen’s visit to Moscow in July 1970. A treaty covering a period of 10 years was signed in April the following year.58 The chief branches of cooperation under this treaty were ship-building, energy, timber, wood processing and the pulp and paper industry, as well as the exchange of patents and licences, and environmental protection. In June 1975, representatives of Soviet and Finnish academic, state and business circles organized a seminar to discuss new forms of cooperation. The parties were unanimously agreed that long-term, stable economic links were the ‘most appropriate to the present level of development of productive forces, [and] the contemporary stage of development of the STR [Scientific and Technological Revolution]’. In accordance with their ‘instructions’, the Soviet participants spoke of the development of economic and industrial cooperation ‘both theoretically, and concretely’. They spoke about the development of cooperation between the USSR and Finland as well as about the prospects for the development of economic cooperation between East and West. The Finnish representatives, in their turn, focused attention on the disparities in scale between the two economies, and, ‘in view of this, the impossibility of Finland taking part in the realization of major joint projects on her own’. Citing problems related to the use of Finnish labour, particularly construction

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workers, several thousand of whom had been specially trained for work in the USSR, they showed an interest in the joint planning of economic links not only with the USSR, but also with the Council for Mutual Economic Assistance (CMEA) countries. In addition, they expressed a desire for increased Soviet exports of oil and gas; continued cooperation in the field of atomic energy; and the conclusion of 10 to 15-year agreements enabling Finnish firms to draw up future production plans, although they were also apprehensive about being tied too rigidly to their Soviet partners.59 A long-term cooperation programme covering a 15-year period was signed in 1977. The programme was extremely broad in its scope, ranging from the development of trade, to the deepening of processes of specialization and manufacturing cooperation in industry, and joint realization of major construction projects not only on the territories of the two countries, but also in third countries, joining forces on scientific-research tasks, and others. An integrated approach to the development of cooperation was designed to promote growth in the volumes of mutual trade. The value of the trade turnover was to grow from 9 milliard to 12 milliard roubles in 1981–85, and from 14 milliard to 16 milliard roubles in 1986–90. It should be recalled here that during the period of the First Five-Year Agreement (1951–55) the value of the trade turnover between the USSR and Finland did not exceed 1 milliard roubles.60 Grandiose plans notwithstanding, it never did prove possible to overcome the lopsided nature of the development of Soviet exports, which continued to be dominated by raw materials. Furthermore, in unstable world market conditions, the Eastern trade dependence on oil supplies not only hindered the drawing up of realistic economic plans, but also had a negative effect on the state of the mutual balance of payments. Alongside traditional trade, major construction projects were aimed at facilitating equalization of the trade turnover, at the same time providing a chance for small and large Finnish enterprises to become participants in Eastern trade, which had long remained a ‘select club’. Ninety per cent of total exports to the USSR were handled by around 40 enterprises, the list of which was headed by seven enterprises with exports in excess of 500 million Finnish marks. A total of over 300 Finnish construction firms were involved in the largest construction works at Kostamuksha and Svetogorsk alone. Small and medium enterprises began to participate actively in industrial cooperation, including on a compensatory basis with Baltic and Karelian partners. The growth of production cooperation was paralleled by an expansion in cooperation in the sphere of high technology. In the early 1980s, the joint production of atomic ice-breakers became the most important direction here. The transition to this project was enabled thanks to experience accumulated in manufacturing electric locomotives and equipment for the pulp and paper industry, as well as the wide participation by Soviet enterprises in supplying components and spare parts for ships produced in Finland on Soviet orders.

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From 1974 the USSR became Finland’s most important trading partner (around 20 per cent). As of 1980, Finland occupied second place in the USSR’s Western trade (after the FRG). Against the background of expanding trade volumes, however, the pace of structural change was extremely slow. Soviet exports had traditionally been dominated by energy and raw materials. In the early 1980s, 75 per cent of Finland’s total oil requirements were met by supplies from the USSR. Supplies of coal, natural gas, electric power, and atomic energy also made up a significant share. While the Soviet share in imports of machinery and equipment had increased, it still remained less than 5 per cent. Meanwhile, Finland was the largest Western purchaser of Soviet technology. Around half of Finnish exports were made up of metal manufacture (ships, machinery and equipment, cables). The really tangible changes had affected, above all else, the structure of border trading that was developing especially rapidly from the 1970s onwards.

The shutdown of the special trade relation in the 1980s Despite all efforts, only the intervention of an external factor – the sharp rise in world oil prices – saved the USSR from the role of eternal debtor, or rather, postponed the inevitable. In the early 1980s, the problem of imbalance became extremely acute. By this point the balance in Finland’s favour was three times higher than the acceptable limit.61 It is a marker of just how serious the situation had become that it was no longer possible to avoid acknowledging it. Despite warnings from the authorities that export quotas to the USSR would be cut, Finnish manufacturers refused to face up to the situation, and continued to count on the fact that the Soviet market could ‘swallow’ anything. In the USSR, too, there were deep concerns over the situation which, as far as the economic planners were concerned, had arisen too rapidly, in the space of only two years. Part of the blame was laid upon the leading trade officials, who were criticised for their failure to give sufficient advance warning of the impending catastrophe. Moscow expressed confidence that it would be possible to eliminate the deficit before the expiry of the Five-Year Agreement in 1985, but, meanwhile, calls were being made ever more insistently on both sides for the trade turnover to be wound up immediately. In the USSR, all the ministries and foreign trade associations received strict instructions to take measures aimed at expanding the structure of supplies to Finland. The Finns were also racking their brains over what more could possibly be purchased from the USSR to the sum of several million roubles, and on a permanent basis. The range of possible solutions to the problem was narrow: reduction of Finnish exports; expansion of imports from the USSR; or a compromise solution. Any alternatives, such as raising credit limits, or introducing correctives to the system of accounts, were dismissed as pointless tinkering. Meanwhile, the question was being asked: how could such a situation possibly have arisen

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in a trade relationship that was under the protection of the leaderships of both countries in question? After all, the Finns had taken great pride in their competence when it came to trading with the Soviet Union. But the trade mechanism, with the Intergovernmental Commission as its coordinating centre, had been created taking into account the differences between the two systems – namely, the fact that in Finland, trade was conducted by private enterprises, whereas in the USSR it was the domain of state structures. Even though this system was far from ideal, it was not deemed expedient to change it.62 By the mid-1980s, the Soviet share in Finland’s foreign trade was threatening to cross the acceptable limit of 25 per cent, only to drop precipitously to the level of 5 per cent as a result of the sharp fall in world oil prices and the deep economic and political crisis in the USSR.63 The sudden collapse of Soviet–Finnish trade became one of the main causes of the economic depression in Finland in the late 1990s. There had been talk in Finland of the dangers of an overly rigid attachment to the Soviet market both before and after the Second World War. In the opinion of the political right, the long-term programme consummated in 1977 was nothing less than ‘a leap into the unknown’.64 But if this was indeed a leap, then perhaps it would best be described as a high-altitude parachute jump – slow-motion, beautiful to watch, and undertaken in full knowledge of the risk of a rough landing. For decades, this leap was followed with unconcealed envy by the observers mentioned by Zhdanov in his time. For all the difficulties of the Soviet–Finnish relationship, in the context of the mounting world economic crisis, even the most powerful Western economists looked wistfully upon the cooperation between the USSR and Finland as a kind of island of stability.

Notes 1 Translation from the original Russian by Julie Fedor. 2 Arkhiv Ministerstva ekonomicheskogo razvitiya i torgovli RF [henceforth Arkhiv MERiT RF], f. ‘Torgpredstvo SSSR v Finlyandii’, op. 1359, d. 10, no page number; Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Torgpredstvo SSSR v Finlyandii’, op. 4, d. 1, ll. 1–14. 3 Russian State Archive of the Economy (RGAE) f. 413, op. 13, d. 4585, ll. 4–10. 4 Russian State Archive of Socio-Political History (RGASPI), f. 77. op. 3, d. 39, l. 25; RGASPI, f. 77, op. 3, d. 41, ll. 29–30; RGASPI, f. 77, op. 3, d. 46, l. 57. 5 RGASPI, f. 77, op. 3, d. 39, l. 40. Zhdanov’s papers contain a note: ‘Don’t let slip the fact that occupation [of Finland – T. A.] is out of the question’; RGASPI, f. 77, op. 3, d. 46, l. 241. 6 Cited from Finnish translation: ‘Onko Suomi Anschluss’in partaalla?’, France Illustration, 20 May 1950. The Archives of President Urho Kekkonen (UKA), 21/134. 7 Archive of Foreign Policy of the Russian Federation (AVP RF), f. 0135, op. 39, papka [henceforth p.] 209, d. 10, ll. 13 and 79; AVP RF, op. 33, p. 181, d. 50, l. 235. 8 In the 1950s the number of the USSR’s trading partners doubled, from 40 to 80; ‘Razvitie ekonomiki i vneshnei torgovli SSSR’ (M. V. Nesterov’s speech at the FSTC’s fifteenth anniversary celebrations); AVP RF, f. 196, op. 36, p. 128, d. 39, l. 21.

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9 AVP RF, f. 07, op. 25, p. 318, d. 26, l. 1. In the early 1980s, cooperation with Finland was considered an important factor in providing the USSR’s economic growth; interview with foreign trade minister N. Patolichev in Kauppalehti newspaper, 27 April 1982. 10 Vneshnyaya torgovlya, no. 10, 1945, pp. 8–13; Izvestiya, 28 December 1947. 11 Izvestiya, 3 September 1946; Izvestiya 9 October 1946. 12 AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 39, p. 209, d. 10, ll. 84–85. 13 Izvestiya, 10 July 1946; Izvestiya 31 December 1946. 14 RGASPI, f. 77, op. 3, d. 39, l. 26; See also Niklas Jensen-Eriksen’s and Sari Autio-Sarasmo’s chapters in this volume. 15 The USSR made extensive use of the Finns’ own achievements in sectors such as the timber, wood processing and paper industries, non-ferrous metallurgy, food industry, agriculture, and others. 16 AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 45, p. 230, d. 20, ll. 2–29. 17 RGASPI, f. 77, op, 3, d. 46, ll. 242–43. 18 J. Nevakivi, Zdanov Suomessa, Keuruu: Otava, 1995; Miten Kekkonen pääsi valtaan ja Suomi suomettui, Keuruu: Otava, 1996; T. Androsova, ‘Sovetsko–finlyandskie otnosheniya v 1956–62 godakh’, Voprosy istorii, no. 9, 1998, pp. 52–66; ‘Finlyandiya v planakh SSSR kontsa 1940-kh-serediny 1950-kh gg.’, Otechestvennaya istoriya, no. 6, 1999, pp. 47–64. 19 T. Androsova, ‘Vuoden 1948 YYA-sopimus Suomessa Neuvostoliiton politiikan yhtenä päävälineenä’, in V. Vares (ed.) Poliittista ystävyyttä. YYA-sopimus 60 vuotta. Henkivakuutusta, reaalipolitiikkaa, ystävyyttä, Turku: 2009, pp. 19–32. 20 AVP RF, f. 135, op. 42, p. 89, d. 16, ll. 14–15. 21 AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 38, p. 204, d. 5, ll. 250, 332; AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 38, p. 204, d. 8, ll. 11–12. 22 Foreign Affairs, January 1953; AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 38, p. 204, d. 5, ll. 205, 264. 23 World, April 1954; AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 38, p. 205, d. 16, ll. 104–5. 24 RGASPI, f. 77, op. 3, d. 41, l. 31. 25 RGASPI, f. 77, op. 3, d. 39, l. 25. 26 RGASPI, f. 17, op. 137, d. 710, ll. 97–102. 27 Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Torgpredstvo SSSR v Finlyandii’, op. 8093, d. 360 (reverse pagination), ll. 45–1. 29 UMA 58B1 NL, 59. Muistio kokouksessa ulkoasiainkomissaari Mikojanin luona 26. heinäkuuta 1945; UMA 58B1 (NL), 58. Muistio koskien neuvotteluja Moskovassa heinäkuu-elokuussa 1945; RGAE, f. 413, op. 13, d. 4590, ll. 15–19; UMA 58B1(NL), 58. Muistio J. Nykoppille 18. syyskuuta 1946; UMA 58B1 Venäjä, 26. Muistio 19. toukokuuta 1950. 30 Suomenmaa, 11, 12, and 15. February 1966; Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Torgpredstvo SSSR v Finlyandii’, op. 10874, d. 36, ll. 67, 69, 70. 31 AVP RF, f. 196, op. 28-a, p. 109, d. 4, ll. 16–17. 32 UMA 58B1 NL, 134. Kauppatilanteesta Neuvostoliiton kanssa. 33 AVP RF, f. 196, op. 32–6, p. 111, d. 1, l. 4. 34 AVP RF, f.0135, op. 42, p. 89, d. 16, ll. 8–9. In the opinion of V. Tanner, one of the most emblematic figures on the Finnish political scene, this share ought not to exceed 20–25 per cent. 35 AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 38, p. 204. d. 8. l. 25. 36 AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 38, p. 204, d. 6, ll. 158–60; AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 38, p. 204, d. 8, l. 137. UMA 58B1 NL, 113. Muistio keskustelusta Kremlissä 6. helmikuuta 1954 ulkomaankauppaministeri Mikojanin ja ministeri Auran välillä. 37 UMA 12L, 124. U. Kekkosen vierailu Moskovaan 31.toukokuuta 1958. 38 As of 1949 the Finnish side had been proposing a border-trade initiative. 39 Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Torgpredstvo SSSR v Finlyandii’, op. 10874, d. 44-a, l. 137;

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40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64

Tatiana Androsova Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Torgpredstvo SSSR v Finlyandii’, op. 10874,d 45, ll. 27, 29, 38. T. Androsova, ‘Sovetsko-finlyandskie otnosheniya v 1956–1962 godakh’, Voprosy istorii, no. 9, 1998, pp. 58–60. UMA 12L Venäjä, 35. Suomen lähetystö Moskovassa, raportti no. 32, 10. marraskuuta 1952. See also Suvi Kansikas’ chapter in this volume. Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Torgpredstvo SSSR v Finlyandii’, op. 10874, d. 54, l. 66. AVP RF, f. 196, op., 36, p. 128, d. 40, ll. 6, 90. Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Torgpredstvo SSSR v Finlyandii’, op. 10874, d. 44-a, l. 235; Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Torgpredstvo SSSR v Finlyandii’, op. 10874, d. 73, ll. 10–11. AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 44, p. 95, d. 12, l. 31. AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 44, p. 95, d. 12, ll. 75–77. AVP RF, f. 196, op. 36, p. 128, d. 40, l. 136; AVP RF, f. 196, op. 28-a, p. 109, d. 5, l. 46. AVP RF, f. 196, op. 52, p. 280, d. 23, l. 239. AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 42, p. 89, d. 16, l. 10. Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Upravlenie torgovli s zapadnymi stranami’, op. 11622, d. 19, ll. 41–42, 63–64, 67; Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Upravlenie torgovli s zapadnymi stranami’,op. 12256, d. 13 (reverse page-numbering), ll. 73–72, 84; Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Upravlenie torgovli s zapadnymi stranami’, op.11625, d. 22, ll. 16–17; See also M. Kuisma, Kylmä sota, kuuma öljy. Neste, Suomi ja kaksi Eurooppaa 1948–1979, Porvoo: WSOY, 1997, pp. 443–50. The indebtedness was partly a result of the specificities of statistical data processing in Finland, that is, large advance payment reflected in trade statistics only after the finished articles had been delivered in full. AVP RF, f. 196, op. 45, p. 215, d. 30, ll. 77–79; AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 42, p. 89, d. 16, ll. 5–24. Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Torgpredstvo SSSR v Finlyandii’, op. 10874, d. 81, ll. 38–42. AVP RF, f. 196, op. 45, p. 215, d. 30, l. 69. See also Sari Autio-Sarasmo’s chapter in this volume. Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Upravlenie torgovli s zapadnymi stranami’, op. 11623, d. 27, ll. 62–72. AVP RF, f. 0135, op. 45, p. 230, d. 20, ll. 2–29. AVP RF, f. 135, op. 57, p. 122, d. 13, ll. 31–37. Arkhiv MERiT RF, f. ‘Torgpredstvo SSSR v Finlyandii’, op. 10874, d. 44-a, ll. 218, 219, 247, 58. AVP RF, f. 135, op. 57, p. 122, d. 13, ll. 25–29. UMA 58B1 NL, 177. Hallituksen selonteko eduskunnalle 18.5.1977 pitkän ajanjakson ohjelmasta vuoteen 1990. The former USSR’s total debt to Finland comprised around 670 million euros. Taking into account the partial clearing of this debt in the form of provision of goods and services, the debt was cancelled ahead of schedule in 2008. Kauppalehti, 27 April 1982, pp. 4–5. R. Hjerppe, Finland’s Trade and Policy in the 20th Century, Helsinki: Ministry of Finance. Economics department, April 1993. Discussion paper No. 37, p. 23. Demari, 17 November 1977.

3

CoCom and neutrality Western export control policies, Finland and the Cold War, 1949–58 Niklas Jensen-Eriksen

The Western export control system against the Eastern bloc, the CoCom (Coordinating Committee), has attracted more attention from students of trade and financial relations than probably any other economic aspect of the Cold War.1 This is not surprising. CoCom, which was set up in 1949–50, was an ‘economic arm of NATO’,2 whose purpose was to restrict the flow of strategic materials and technology to the socialist countries. It became, in effect, a vital part of the ‘Iron Curtain’, which is said to have divided Europe firmly into two separate areas. At the macro level the situation therefore appeared to be clear. Yet, at the intermediate level of states and governments, or at the micro level, where companies and businessmen operate, the situation was less clear, as this chapter sets out to show. Small countries and their people did have to take into consideration the policies of the superpowers, often more extensively than was admitted publicly, but this does not mean that the small actors would have been unable to pursue their economic interests and form profitable links through the Iron Curtain. This chapter examines Anglo-American efforts to ensure that the noncommunist neutral and small countries of Central and Northern Europe (Austria, Switzerland, Sweden and Finland) would not become ‘loopholes’ undermining Western export control policies towards the Eastern bloc. In particular, the chapter will focus on the case of Finland, which played an important role in the transfer of goods and technology between East and West. Even if most Finnish exports were directed to Western markets, Finland also traded extensively with the Soviet Union throughout the Cold War. At times during the 1950s and 1960s, the small country was in fact the Soviet Union’s most important non-communist trading partner.3 In addition to weapons and atomic materials, the Western embargo lists contained a wide variety of industrial items and raw materials with the capacity to enhance the Eastern bloc’s military potential. The list of products covered by the embargo, but sold to the Soviet Union by Finland, was long. The items of most concern to Western observers were tankers, electric power equipment and copper. According to the United States Battle Act classifications, the Finns exported 62 million dollars worth of strategic goods to

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the Eastern bloc in 1956. Given that the total value of Finnish exports to the bloc in that year was 211 million dollars,4 trade in strategic goods was clearly a significant part of Finland’s ‘Eastern trade’. Although there is a vast literature on CoCom, most of it focuses on the Anglo-American debates on the overall structure of the export control system. The role of small and neutral countries has received much less attention, even where they had an important impact on the effectiveness of Western export control policies.5 After all, as Jan Stankovsky and Hendrik Roodbeen have observed, ‘third countries or “alternative trade partners” have historically been the Achilles’ heel of every embargo’.6 There are a few published works on other neutral non-communist European countries,7 but the Finnish case has so far attracted little scholarly attention.8 There is no comprehensive study on the topic and several important questions remain unanswered: What was the position of Finland in the CoCom embargo? To what extent did Western countries try to limit their exports to Finland, or Finnish exports to the Soviet Union? What does the Finnish case tell us about relations between the CoCom and the neutral countries? Could they trade freely with the socialist states, thereby undermining the whole rationale of the embargo? Could they assume the role of economic mediators between East and West, or did the Western embargo policies put a stop to any such efforts? This chapter is based mainly on the government records of the United States, and the United Kingdom; documents produced by the CoCom secretariat and distributed to CoCom members; and published works. Finnish archival sources have also been studied, but they tend to contain very little information on clandestine links with Western powers. This is probably due to the fact that the Finnish officials tried to minimize the risk of such information being leaked to the Soviets. It will be argued that although the desire to maintain good relations with its powerful neighbour became a cornerstone of Finnish foreign policy during the late 1940s, Finland and many other countries in the grey zone between the Western and Eastern blocs were gradually partly incorporated into the Western embargo system. Confidential records indicate that Finnish officials and industrialists cooperated with the CoCom countries in preventing the re-export of Western goods. Yet, if one looks more closely at the activities at the intermediate and micro levels, it becomes clear that the activities of CoCom did not stop many Finns from becoming mediators in the economic Cold War.

Neutrals and the economic Cold War The outbreak of the Cold War put the neutrals in a difficult position. They hoped to extend their trading links with Eastern Europe, and to remain neutral in the emerging Cold War, but at the same time they had to protect their economic relations with the members of the Western alliance and in particular

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the United States – the leading economic power in the post-war world, and a supplier of crucial raw materials to European nations.9 All the members of NATO except Iceland joined CoCom, but those European countries that stayed out could not necessarily trade freely with the socialist countries either. According to Jürg Martin Gabriel, the United States government expected the neutral countries to become ‘supporting states’ in the economic Cold War.10 Sweden and Switzerland were the first neutrals to attract intensive attention from the United States and its West European allies. The United States government blocked a number of Swiss and Swedish attempts to buy essential goods from the Western superpower. This had the desired effect and both countries agreed to limit their exports of strategic goods to Eastern Europe. These agreements were informal and confidential, and therefore the Swiss and Swedish governments could argue that they had not abandoned their non-aligned status.11 In reality, however, the cooperation was often extensive. For example, Tor Egil Førland has concluded that, ‘it is hard to spot the difference in substance between the embargo policy of neutral Sweden on the one hand and that of CoCom members Denmark and Norway on the other’.12 The cases of Switzerland and Sweden suggest that the United States government was willing to use economic pressure in order to influence the economic policies of neutral countries. However, they also showed that the Americans were willing to make compromises, because cutting off supplies in order to strengthen the embargo against the Eastern bloc would undermine other policies of the United States, in particular its desire to support noncommunist countries, and to integrate them into an American-led Western world economy.13 The willingness of the United States to show restraint became even clearer in the Austrian case. Until 1955, the country was occupied by Anglo-American, French and Soviet troops. The Austrian government feared that its open participation in Western embargo policies would antagonize the Soviets and therefore prevent the reunification of the country.14 Although some agencies of the United States government wanted to classify Austria as a Soviet satellite, the State Department felt that this would undermine its efforts to promote the economic recovery of Austria and its reintegration into the Western world. The United States government therefore adopted a ‘calculated risk policy’, which meant that if it had to choose ‘between a flow of materials into the Soviet area and the partitioning of Austria, the former would certainly be the lesser evil’.15 The Americans did set up a screening committee in Vienna, which did its best to control the sales and utilization of strategic materials originating from the United States. They also gradually persuaded the Austrians to cooperate unofficially with CoCom. Up to December 1955, the Austrian government had extensive powers to control the country’s foreign trade, which made unofficial cooperation with CoCom easier than it would have otherwise been.16

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Finland and the birth of CoCom How did Finland react to the new Western embargo policies? One might assume that it was difficult for the small Nordic country to adopt policies similar to those of the Swedes and the Swiss. Compared to Finland, or to Austria, the distance of these two nations from the Iron Curtain was greater both in geographical and psychological terms. Both Sweden and Switzerland had managed to stay out of the war, and both had relatively strong economies and defensive forces as well as stable political systems. In contrast, when the Cold War began, it was unclear whether Finland was on the Western side of the curtain at all. The Second World War had left the country in a politically and militarily exposed position, and it had to work hard to maintain friendly relations with its large neighbour and former enemy, the Soviet Union, which had emerged as one of the two superpowers in the Cold War world. Finland had managed to escape Soviet occupation in 1939–40 and again in 1944, but for several years after the war it seemed possible that the Soviets or the Finnish Communist Party might soon take over the country. By the end of the 1940s, it had become clear that this was not going to happen, or at least not in the near future. Finland would be able to retain its Western-style political and economic system, but at the same time the Finns had to ensure that they did not give the Soviets any pretext for trying to change this situation. Finland therefore could not join CoCom or any other Western political or military association; nor could it cooperate with them openly. Finland did not become a communist state, but it was left in the space between the two blocs. There were no Soviet troops in Finland, except at the base at Porkkala, but nor were there any Western troops, as there were in Austria. If the Soviets attacked Finland, the West would not defend it, because the country was not vital enough to warrant starting a third world war over it.17 Furthermore, although most Finnish exports were directed to Western markets, trade with the Soviet Union was also exceptionally important for the small country. Finland had to make heavy war reparations payments to the Soviet Union between 1944 and 1952, and these deliveries later promoted the expansion of commercial trade between the two countries. In 1950 the First Five-Year Agreement between Finland and the Soviet Union was concluded. This and subsequent agreements formed the basis of the bilateral Finnish–Soviet trade until the end of the Cold War.18 When the United States and its West European allies set up CoCom in 1949–50, they had to decide whether the export control policies directed against the Eastern bloc would apply to Finland as well. In the end the CoCom members decided that Yugoslavia, which had recently broken away from the Eastern bloc, and Finland were special cases. As such, neither was freed entirely from export restrictions, but both were treated differently from Eastern bloc countries.19 Decisions on export licences were made on a case-by-case basis. Western countries only banned exports in exceptional circumstances, while in most cases they merely tried to ensure that no more

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sensitive goods were sold to Finland than was necessary for the health of the Finnish economy, and for normal peaceful requirements. The West should not, for example, sell Finland unnecessary amounts of transport equipment, which could be useful to invading Soviet military forces.20 The United States government would allow shipments of goods with the highest strategic value, such as certain raw materials, but only on condition that they were clearly essential for the Finnish economy; that they were to be used domestically by reliable companies for non-military purposes; that they were not to be re-exported to the Eastern bloc; and that the quantities did not exceed Finnish short-term requirements.21 As far as strategic controls were concerned, Finland was halfway between the Western alliance and the communist countries, as G. W. Harrison from the Foreign Office told the Finnish Minister in London, Eero A. Wuori, in June 1950.22 How do we explain the fact that the Americans and their Western allies failed to adopt a stricter export policy towards Finland? In theory, the Western countries could have forced Finland to submit; after all, the small country was strongly dependent on trade with the West. Between 1951 and 1955 the UK bought 24.9 per cent of the average annual Finnish exports; the Soviet Union bought 17.5 per cent; and the United States 6.2 per cent.23 Up to the early 1950s, the United States was a particularly important source of scarce raw materials, semi-manufactures, and machine tools for Finland.24 In reality, however, the United States could not employ economic sanctions against Finland, because this would be contrary to other objectives of the Western alliance, namely the desire to prevent Finland from falling into the hands of the Soviets. As the communist takeover of Finland had started to seem less likely during the late 1940s, the Americans had gradually relaxed their export control policy towards the small country despite the fact that by doing so they were indirectly supporting Soviet reconstruction efforts. In order to fulfil Soviet demands for war reparations, the Finns had to expand their metalworking industries significantly, as well as importing large quantities of raw materials, components, and machine tools from non-communist countries. The United States government did demand that American goods not be incorporated into products delivered to the Soviet Union, but rarely complained about the fact that shipments and credits from the United States made it possible for Finland to redirect other resources to the manufacturers of war reparations goods.25 Although the Americans were not happy about the fact that the Finns were shipping strategic goods to the Soviet Union, they realized that failure to sell vital raw materials and components to Finland could seriously hurt the health of the Finnish economy. This would have been an unwelcome development, since it was ‘the United States’ primary objective in Finland to do what is possible to foster the maintenance of Finnish independence for the purpose of preventing the domination of Finland by the Soviet Bloc’.26 Furthermore, in their efforts to support Finnish independence the Americans and the British Foreign Office relied heavily on economic methods and

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therefore tried to exploit the various cultural and economic tools at their disposal in order to strengthen Finnish links with the West.27 The Finns were simply unable to stop their exports of strategic goods to the Soviet Union. The Finnish engineering and shipbuilding industries were not competitive in Western markets at the time, and hence could not find alternative customers. Furthermore, the Soviets would regard open cooperation with CoCom as an unfriendly act. Finnish officials did, however, realize that they should cooperate with the United States to some degree. Yet no negotiations similar to those that preceded the United States agreements with the Swiss and the Swedish were held, and no formal or informal agreements were drafted. Instead, Finnish officials simply began to quietly comply with the United States’ re-export regulations. Finland maintained licence controls on its trade with the Soviet Union throughout the Cold War, and was therefore able to keep its promise. The Americans gradually became convinced that the Finnish government was both willing and able to prevent the re-export of goods, but decisions on export licences were nevertheless made in Washington only after careful consideration. The Screening Committee of the American Legation in Helsinki, which consisted of the Commercial Officer and the military attaches, studied the merits of individual Finnish licence applications, in cases when it was not self-evident whether a licence should be granted or not.28 In particular, the committee considered whether a given shipment could be deemed crucial for Finnish industrial production or development and whether there was a real risk of it being re-exported to Eastern bloc. The export control cooperation between the United States and Finland was based on micro-level connections. In the process of screening Finnish applications, the Legation gradually forged close links with many Finnish companies and officials who were usually willing to supply it with the information required. The few companies that did not cooperate were placed on a United States Watch List.29 The Finnish officials displayed ‘a frank and cooperative attitude’30 towards the Americans, and ‘scrupulously observed United States export control regulations’.31 When the Americans asked, the Finns gave them information on Finnish-made strategic goods sold to the Eastern bloc.32 From time to time, the Americans heard rumours about secret re-exports of their goods to the Eastern bloc, but United States diplomats in Helsinki always found these rumours to be unfounded.33 It is possible that some clandestine trade deals were nevertheless made between individual Finnish businessmen and the Soviets, but both the American and Finnish officials did their best to stop this trade. The United States Embassy in Helsinki believed that the Finnish controls were ‘reasonably effective’, and reported so to Washington.34 In short, the micro-level contacts between relatively unknown officials and businessmen had a clear impact on the United States’ policy towards Finland: the Americans gradually learned that Finland was a reliable non-communist country, which did what it could to stop re-exports.

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From Korean War to détente The outbreak of the Korean War in 1950 increased tension between the two blocs in Europe considerably. This change in macro-level conditions had a clear impact on the position of small and neutral countries in the Cold War international trade. The Western embargo was tightened, and the United States also put more pressure on the neutral countries. In the Finnish case, the Americans were no longer entirely content with the earlier informal assurances, and therefore the Finnish foreign ministry was now obliged to give written assurances that the Finns would not re-export goods bought from the United States to other countries. The Finns were told that their written and oral ‘assurances are considered satisfactory by the United States Government and adequate to prevent the diversion to other destinations of United States goods shipped to Finland’.35 Following the outbreak of the war in Korea, the United States and its West European allies also launched large rearmament programmes, which in practical terms had more impact on Finnish foreign trade than the written assurances given by the Finnish foreign ministry. Finland’s Western trading partners reserved a large proportion of their industrial capacity and available raw material supplies for rearmament work. The United States government was still ready to give sympathetic consideration to Finland’s needs, but because of the general scarcity of goods and the intensification of the Cold War, the American officials were less and less willing to grant licences to shipments that might somehow benefit the Soviets. The needs of the United States military and those of its allies were naturally a higher priority. The Americans, however, hinted unofficially that if the Finns were ready to reduce their exports of strategic goods to the Soviet Union, they could expect more favourable treatment from the United States licensing authorities.36 The Western countries did hope that the flow of valuable goods from Finland to the Soviet Union would end when the war reparations had been paid in 1952. The Finnish–Soviet trade agreements that were concluded in the early 1950s indicated that this was not going to happen. In addition, they made Finland increasingly vulnerable to Soviet pressure. The enlarged Finnish engineering and shipbuilding industries were not internationally competitive and therefore it would have been difficult to market their products to Western countries. The Soviet Union was willing to buy them, and to sell Finland vital raw materials in return. The agreements were economically beneficial to Finland, but many Finnish and Western observers feared that the Soviets could use these economic ties to pursue political ends.37 Finnish exports continued to undermine the CoCom embargo against the Eastern bloc, but on the other hand the Americans welcomed the fact that treaties helped to maintain employment levels in Finland and strengthen the Finnish economy. Economic crisis might have helped Finnish communists to strengthen their position in Finnish political life.38 If the Western alliance were to nevertheless employ sanctions against Finland this would have been

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fiercely resented in Finland, and would have presented Soviet and Finnish communists with a first-class propaganda argument. The Soviet Bloc might then have been able and willing to step in to supply the strategic goods withheld by the West, thereby further increasing the already alarming reliance of Finland on its trade with the Bloc. The Americans also estimated that CoCom members would probably be unable to agree on joint policy, since the West European members of CoCom, and above all the Nordic countries, would most likely refuse to accept the tightening of export controls against a fundamentally friendly and pro-Western country.39 Having considered these factors, the Americans decided not to take any ‘coercive measures’ against Finland, but to continue to carefully screen exports of strategic materials to the country. They did, however, start to develop new ways of expanding Finnish trade with the West. This seemed particularly important in 1952, when demand on Western markets for Finnish products was declining, while Finnish sales to the East were increasing. United States officials expected that trade with the Eastern bloc would account for 30–35 per cent of Finnish foreign trade in 1953, making the Soviet Union the most important trading partner for Finland, displacing Great Britain, which had traditionally been the most important destination for Finnish exports.40 United States officials in Washington and Helsinki studied various proposals aimed at increasing Finnish trade with the West, some of which were rather imaginative. These scenarios included the purchase of Finnish goods for the United States armed forces in Europe; the diverting of Yugoslav and Formosan pulp and paper purchases, which were funded by the United States government, to Finland; as well as the general placing of American-funded off-shore procurement contracts in Finland.41 Many of these projects turned out to be impractical – an outcome which had been recognized as a probable conclusion from the start – but some were implemented successfully, such as the Greek purchase of Finnish timber, which was financed by the United States government.42 Western fears of the Soviet Union’s desire to obtain strategic materials and technology from Finland were not entirely unfounded. In the mid-1950s the post-Stalinist leadership of the Soviet Union became interested in a more extensive utilization of Western technology. According to Tatiana Androsova, Finland was an obvious first target for this policy.43 A scientific and technology exchange agreement was signed between Finland and the Soviet Union in 1955. The Soviet Union hoped that the agreement would help it to acquire Western technology via Finland. The Soviets had similar hopes with regard to Nordic scientific cooperation. The situation was difficult for Finland, since the country could not afford to endanger its trade relationship with the West by allowing the latter’s technology to flow through Finland to the East. At the Finns’ demand, the treaty included a paragraph excluding from the exchange technology imported to Finland from third countries. Furthermore,

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many Finns were suspicious of the whole Finnish–Soviet agreement, and scientific cooperation in general was mostly limited to cultural exchange in the early days. The Soviets did not pressure the Finns strongly in this case, even if they were not happy with the situation.44 Although the United States government decided not to take any coercive measures against Finland, its diplomats did complain repeatedly and mostly fruitlessly about the sale of Finnish-made ships and other strategic goods to the Soviet Union.45 Yet, in the mid-1950s, this started to seem a much less serious problem than previously, from the American point of view. In 1953, Stalin died and the fighting in Korea ended. As the tension in East–West relations declined, the British, in particular, began to advocate relaxation of the embargo against the Soviet Union for both economic and political reasons. In 1954, the CoCom countries eventually agreed to cut the export controls list by nearly 50 per cent.46 In 1958, many of the remaining goods were also removed from the CoCom list.47 The structure of Finnish exports to the socialist states did not change, but because of the macro-level changes in international relations, a shift did take place in the way these goods were perceived by the Western alliance. Most of those Finnish export products that had previously been classified as strategic items were now regarded as normal peaceful goods, which all West European countries could sell freely to the Eastern bloc. There was no longer any reason for the Western powers to assume that the Finns were undermining CoCom policies, except on a limited scale.48 As a result, the United States adopted an even more understanding attitude towards Finnish attempts to balance the demands of East and West. The Finnish policy was summarized by the American Embassy in Helsinki in January 1958 in sympathetic terms: The [Finnish] government’s policy on East-West trade and security controls is to sell to the [Eastern] Bloc countries what it needs to sell in order to meet its essential import requirements and to maintain domestic industries; however, within the limits which it regards as imposed by economic and political necessity, to cooperate with COCOM, CHINCOM and Battle Act controls as far as possible. When the marginal economic condition of an industry is threatened or when denial of a certain commodity proves an economic hardship for the country, the tendency is to trade in the commodity in question, unless it is of the highest strategic category. There is, of course, the element of political pressure from the Soviet Bloc as well.49 The US State Department and British Foreign Office were still concerned that the extent of Finnish–Soviet trade made Finland vulnerable to Soviet pressure,50 but from the point of view of CoCom controls Finland had ceased to be a problem. This situation did not change until the early 1980s, when the Americans became concerned about the Finnish sales of high technology goods to the Soviet Union.51

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CoCom: a blessing in disguise for the neutrals? From a purely political point of view, the neutral countries had reason to be anxious about the decision of the Western alliance to impose restrictions on the East–West trade. After all, because of pressure from the United States, they had to adopt ‘export restrictions that contradicted the very essence of their neutrality’,52 as Jan Zielonka has noted. Yet, from the economic point of view CoCom was almost a blessing in disguise for some neutrals, despite the fact that it meant that they had to show some restraint in their business dealings with the socialist states. Finland was a case in point. As the small country was not formally a member of CoCom, it could and did continue to export to the Soviet Union many of those types of goods that the members of the Western alliance had placed on their export control lists. In this way, Finland actually benefited from the Cold War: while the overall East–West trade declined, this opened up new profitable trading opportunities for Finnish companies. In 1953, Finnish exports to the Soviet Union represented 47.7 per cent of total West European exports to the Soviet Union. The Finnish share of total East European imports from Western Europe was 23.9 per cent.53 It has to be noted, however, that these impressive figures probably reflected more the overall decline of East–West trade than an absolute increase in trade between Finland and the socialist countries. The Finnish sales of tankers and other ships to the Soviet Union attracted more attention from the Americans during the 1950s than any other sector of Finnish–Soviet trade. They also illustrated how the small country could benefit from its position as a neutral country. In war time, tankers could be used to transport oil to Soviet armed forces and supply submarines, and in peacetime they could facilitate the expansion of Soviet oil exports. At the beginning of the 1950s, Soviet tanker capacity was inadequate and it remained so for the rest of the decade, despite Soviet attempts to expand their tanker fleet by launching a domestic construction programme and buying foreign-built tankers. According to the United States Central Intelligence Agency, new Soviet-built tankers were based on outmoded designs, which no doubt increased Soviet willingness to buy foreign tankers. They did manage to buy a few tankers from Sweden and Denmark, but the Americans were gradually able to persuade these and other West European countries to refrain from selling additional ones to East European countries. Despite objections from the United States, in 1953 Denmark did choose to honour a commitment it had made in 1948 to deliver two tankers to the Soviet Union.54 After 1953 the only non-communist European country that was still willing to build tankers for the Soviet Union or its allies was Finland. For example, the Finnish–Soviet Five-Year Trade Agreement for the years 1951–55 stipulated that Finland would build three icebreakers, 20 small (1100-ton) tankers, 14 3200-ton ocean steamers, and a large number of smaller vessels,

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such as tugboats and barges, for the Soviet Union. In a supplementary trade agreement that was concluded in 1952 after the reparations had been paid, the Finns agreed to build four 4000-ton tankers, and two more if this proved possible.55 Neutrality offered similar, although not always as extensive, advantages to companies in other industrialized non-aligned countries. While the Swedes and Finns traded mainly with the Soviet Union and to a lesser degree with the Poles, Austria managed to re-establish its traditional trading links with those East European countries that had once formed a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, as well as assuming a role of ‘bridge builder’ in Central Europe.56 In 1953, the combined share of Finland, Sweden, Austria and Switzerland of Soviet imports from Western Europe was 56.3 per cent, while their share of all East European imports from Western Europe was 45.8 per cent.57 Furthermore, the neutral countries sold mostly manufactured goods to the Eastern bloc, and bought raw materials in return. As the socialist countries gave priority to machinery imports, and were often reluctant to buy consumer goods, neutral countries became an important source of Western technology for them.58 The general relaxation of CoCom controls on East–West trade, which began in 1954, was not necessarily beneficial from the neutrals’ point of view. Politically it was easier for the neutrals to breathe in the era of ‘détente’, but at the same time their presence in the communist markets began to deteriorate in relative terms. When the Soviets and their satellites could buy German, French or British goods, they were not quite so keen as before to buy Finnish or Austrian ones.59 The neutrals began to lose ground, but nevertheless continued to play a more important role in the East–West trade than the small size of their economies would lead one to expect. In 1963, the Finnish share of all Soviet imports from Western Europe was still 24.4 per cent. The figure was much lower than before, but the Finnish share was nevertheless still significant.60 Finland continued to be an important source of Western technology for the Soviet Union even after the CoCom restrictions were relaxed. The CoCom powers had allowed the Finns to install some Western-made components into machines sold to the Soviet Union even in the chilliest days of the Cold War, and now this process became easier. During the following decades, the Finns made extensive use of production methods, innovations, machine tools, raw materials and components which they had bought from the members of the Western alliance to produce goods for Soviet consumption. In fact, almost all Finnish goods sold to the Soviet Union contained some Western elements. Even in cases where the Soviets could have bought goods directly from the CoCom countries, they often chose to place orders with Finland. This was partly a result of the low level of Soviet hard currency earnings. As the Finnish–Soviet trade was barter trade, the Soviets did not have to spend their limited hard currency holdings when making purchases from Finland. Furthermore, the Soviets were anxious to expand trade between the two

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countries, because it made Finland dependent on the Soviet Union, and weakened Finnish ties with the Western world.61 Yet, by the end of the 1950s, the Finns had noticed that there were serious obstacles, which effectively limited the growth of Finnish–Soviet trade. Above all, it had become increasingly difficult to find Soviet products that Finnish customers would be willing to buy. This was a serious problem, because it imposed severe limits on the ability of the Finns to expand their exports to the Soviet Union. Trade had to be on balance; because of the barter nature of the Soviet–Finnish trade, the level of Finnish exports to the Soviet Union could not exceed the level of Finnish imports from that source. The Soviets could sell the Finns raw materials, but their ability to manufacture attractive industrial goods was very limited. When Finnish imports of manufactured goods were liberalized during the late 1950s and 1960s, the uncompetiveness of Soviet industrial goods became clearly evident. The Finnish government continued to regulate imports of oil and certain raw materials in order to protect Soviet–Finnish trade, but the re-introduction of quotas on manufactured goods would have been contrary to the obligations of the Finnish trade agreements with the Western countries. In conclusion, it was the level of Finnish raw material purchases that defined the extent of Finnish–Soviet trade. During the late 1950s, the Soviet share of total Finnish foreign trade began to decline, and it was not until the oil crisis of 1973 that this trend was reversed.62 The other neutral countries had also noticed that the peculiar nature of the socialist economies tended to make them less attractive trading partners than capitalist countries were. The Swiss experience was a case in point. The strategic export controls were sometimes blamed for the fact that the Swiss trade with Eastern Europe never really took off, but recent research suggests that the disappointing performance had more to do with other factors. Bilateral trade and financial arrangements between Switzerland and the socialist countries never worked very well; the Swiss companies were more interested in exporting to Western countries, while the East Europeans were not keen on buying Swiss-made consumer goods, and gradually became more involved in trade with other socialist countries at the expense of non-socialist ones.63 In 1949, the socialist countries bought 8.4 per cent of total Swiss exports, but by 1970 this figure had declined to 4.1 per cent.64 Austria’s trade relations with the socialist countries were also hampered by the latter’s efforts to centralize foreign trade in the hands of state agencies, as well as by their desire to promote intra-bloc trade at the expense of trade relations with other countries.65 During the 1950s and 1960s, the Eastern bloc absorbed roughly 10–15 per cent of total Austrian exports.66 Yet, the Austrians were more interested in developing trade relations with East European countries than the Swiss were, as well as being more able to form useful contacts with the officials of socialist countries. Austrian trading companies started to operate as middlemen in trade between capitalist and communist

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countries, and as a result Austria became one of the most important centres of the East–West transit trade.67

Conclusion Small non-communist neutral states and their companies and businessmen were not insignificant players in the economic Cold War. Both superpowers had cause to keep a close eye on them. The United States and its main West European allies feared that the operations of the small countries would undermine efforts to limit the flow of strategic goods to the socialist states. The Soviet Union, on the other hand, regarded these countries as useful sources of Western technology and goods. With the help of goods produced by capitalist enterprises, the socialist countries could try to modernize their economies and to catch up with the West. It was easier to acquire the required imports from the neutral states than from CoCom members, especially during the coldest years of the superpower confrontation in the early 1950s. When the CoCom regulations were gradually loosened from 1954 onwards, the neutral states started to lose ground in the East–West trade in relative, but usually not in absolute, terms. The small neutral countries were not in a position to ignore the views of the superpowers completely. They were partly incorporated into the Western embargo, but the transfer of goods and technology to the Eastern bloc never entirely stopped. This was partly due to the vulnerable position of front-line states like Austria and Finland, which could not afford to antagonize the Soviets, but also to the desire of these countries to benefit from their status as neutral states. In fact, they gradually became important mediators in the East–West trade. In this respect, the fact that they had been left in the space between the two blocs turned out to be an advantage. How do we explain the fact that the United States was not more successful in curtailing the exports of countries like Austria and Finland to the Eastern bloc? The main reason for this was the fact that employing economic sanctions against these countries would have been contrary to other policies of the United States, in particular its attempts to incorporate them into the noncommunist world economy and to prevent them from falling into Soviet hands. Although the CoCom countries were able to limit the sales of some strategic goods by the neutrals to the socialist countries, the neutrals were still able to reap benefits from their non-aligned status. Yet, as the Finnish case illustrates, there were limits to how much the trade between communist and capitalist countries could grow. The Soviets were able to sell energy and raw materials to Finland, but were mostly unable to produce manufactured goods that would be competitive in a capitalist market place, where customers could freely choose their supplier. In fact, it could be argued that the most serious impediment to the growth of trade between the neutral capitalist countries and the socialist bloc was not the Western embargo, but the existence of the

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socialist system itself, which reduced the ability of the East European countries to produce and offer competitive export products to other countries.

Notes 1 See for example G. Adler-Karlsson, Western Economic Warfare 1947–1967. A Case Study in Foreign Economic Policy, Stockholm economic studies. New series IX, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1968; A. P. Dobson, US Economic Statecraft for Survival 1933–1991. Of sanctions, embargoes and economic warfare, London and New York: Routledge, 2002; T. E. Førland, Cold Economic Warfare: The Creation and Prime of CoCom, 1948–1954, Oslo: University of Oslo, 1991; I. Jackson, The Economic Cold War. America, Britain and East–West Trade, 1948–1963, Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire and New York: Palgrave, 2001; M. Mastanduno, Economic Containment: CoCom and the politics of East–West trade, Cornell studies in political economy, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992; R. M. Spaulding, Jr., ‘ “A gradual and moderate relaxation”: Eisenhower and the revision of American Export Control Policy, 1953–1955’, Diplomatic History, vol. 17, no. 2, 1993, pp. 223–49; V. Sørensen, ‘Economic recovery versus containment: the Anglo–American controversy over East–West Trade, 1947–1951’, Cooperation and Conflict, vol. XXIV, 1989, pp. 69–97. 2 R. T. Cupitt and S. R. Grillot, ‘COCOM is dead, long live COCOM: persistence and change in multilateral security institutions’, British Journal of Political Science, vol. 27, no. 3, 1997, p. 361. 3 Adler-Karlsson, Western Economic Warfare, 1968, p. 267. 4 NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1955–59, box 3492. 760E.5 MSP/ 2–2758. Douglas Dillon, Deputy Under Secretary of State for Economic Affairs, to President Eisenhower, 11 February 1958. 5 A. Dobson, ‘Some thoughts about concepts and explanation’, in J. Eloranta and J. Ojala (eds), East–West Trade and the Cold War, Jyväskylä Studies in Humanities 36, Jyväskylä: University of Jyväskylä, 2005, p. 21. 6 J. Stankovsky and H. Roodbeen, ‘Export controls outside COCOM’, in G. K. Bertsch, H. Vogel, and J. Zielonka (eds), After the Revolutions. East–West Trade and Technology Transfer in the 1990s, Boulder: Westview Press, 1991, p. 71. 7 See in particular K. Ammann, ‘Swiss trade with the East in the early Cold War’, in Eloranta and Ojala (eds) East–West Trade and the Cold War, 2005, pp. 113–31; J. M. Gabriel, The American Conception of Neutrality after 1941, updated and revised edn., Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002, pp. 109–22; B. Karlsson, Handelspolitik eller politisk handling. Sveriges handel med öststaterna 1946–1952, Meddelanden från Ekonomisk-historiska institutionen vid Göteborgs universitet 66, Göteborg, 1992; P. Luif, ‘Strategic embargoes and European neutrals: the cases of Austria and Sweden’, in V. Harle (ed.), TAPRI Yearbook 1986: Challenges and Responses in European Security, Avebury: Aldershot, 1986, pp. 174–88; H. Roodbeen, Trading the Jewel of Great Value. The Participation of The Netherlands, Belgium, Switzerland and Austria in the Western Strategic Embargo, Leiden: Leiden, Rijksuniv., Proefschrift, 1992; A. Schaller, Schweizer Neutralität im Ost–West-Handel. Das Hotz-Linder-Agreement vom 23. Juli 1951, Bern: Verlag Paul Haupt, 1987. 8 There are, however, important but brief remarks about the Western embargo policies towards Finland in the works of several Finnish historians: J. Hanhimäki, ‘Self-restraint as containment: United States’ economic policy, Finland, and the Soviet Union, 1945–1953’, The International History Review, vol. XVII, no. 2, 1995, pp. 287–305; J. M. Hanhimäki, Containing Coexistence: America, Russia, and the ‘Finnish Solution’, Kent, Ohio; London: Kent State University Press, 1997; M.

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Kuisma, ‘A child of the Cold War – Soviet crude, American technology and national interests in the making of the Finnish oil refining’, Historiallinen Aikakauskirja, no. 2, 1998, pp. 136–42; M. Kuisma, Kylmä sota, kuuma öljy. Neste, Suomi ja kaksi Eurooppaa 1948–1979, Porvoo: Werner Söderström Osakeyhtiö, 1997; T. Paavonen, Suomalaisen protektionismin viimeinen vaihe. Suomen ulkomaankauppa-ja integraatiopolitiikka, Historiallisia tutkimuksia 198, Helsinki: SHS, 1998. Ammann, ‘Swiss trade with the East in the early Cold War’, 2005, pp. 122–23; Dobson, ‘Some thoughts about concepts and explanation’, 2005, p. 5; Luif, ‘Strategic embargoes and European neutrals: the cases of Austria and Sweden’, 1986, p. 180. Gabriel, The American Conception of Neutrality after 1941, 2002, p. 120. Ammann, 2005, pp. 123,125–27; Roodbeen, 1992, pp. 236–43; Karlsson, 1992, pp. 171–81,188–89; T. E. Førland, ‘Foreign policy profiles of the Scandinavian countries: Making use of CoCom’, Scandinavian Journal of History, vol. 19, no. 2, 1994, pp. 171,175–79; B. Karlsson, ‘Neutrality and economy: the redefining of Swedish neutrality, 1946–52’, Journal of Peace Research, vol. 32, no. 1, 1995, pp. 37, 43–46. Førland, ‘Foreign policy profiles of the Scandinavian countries’, 1994, p. 176. M. Mastanduno, ‘Trade as a strategic weapon: American and alliance export control policy in the early postwar period’, International Organization, vol. 42, no. 1, 1988, pp. 137–39, 146. Roodbeen, 1992, p. 27. A. Einwitschläger, quoted and translated by Roodbeen, 1992, p. 289. Roodbeen, 1992, pp. 290–98. N. Jensen-Eriksen, ‘Market, Competitor or Battlefield? British Foreign Economic Policy, Finland and the Cold War, 1950–1970’, 2004, pp. 28–29. P. Viita, Kapitalismin ja sosialismin puristuksessa. Suomen ja Neuvostoliiton taloussuhteet 1944–1991. Helsinki: BSV Kirja, 2006, pp. 12–14, 20; See also T. Keskinen, Idänkauppa 1944–1987, Porvoo: Kauppalehti, 1987, and Autio-Sarasmo’s and Androsova’s chapters in this volume. Current Economic Developments No. 187: Modified Application of Export Controls to Finland and Yugoslavia Recommended. 31 January 1949. Foreign Relations of United States [hereafter FRUS] 1949, volume V, pp. 75–76; The Executive Secretary of the Advisory Committee on Requirements (Garrett) to the Director of the Office of International Trade of the Department of Commerce (Blaisdell), 3 March 1949. FRUS 1949, volume V, pp. 88–90. NA. FO371/87211. UR3437/11. European Recovery Department, FO, to Chanceries of British Embassies in the OEEC countries, April 14, 1950, Annex A: ‘Results of Paris discussions in November, 1949, January and March 1950’; UR3437/13. ‘Security Controls on Exports to Finland. Brief for the U.K. Representative’, 1 May 1950. NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1950–54, box 2122. 460E.6131/9– 1851. SD airgram to American Legation Helsinki, 10 November 1951. NA. FO371/94607. NF1051/5/G. G. W. Harrison’s memo on his meeting with Wuori, 21 June 1950. Suomen Tilastollinen Vuosikirja. Uusi sarja LXVII 1971, p. 159. On United States–Finnish economic relations see for example H. Heikkilä, ‘Credits of Export-Import Bank to Finland, 1945–48’, Scandinavian Economic History Review, vol. XXX, no. 3, 1982, pp. 207–25; H. Heikkilä, ‘The United States and the question of export licenses to Finland 1947–1948’, Scandinavian Journal of History, vol. 8, 1983, pp. 247–59. Hanhimäki, ‘Self-restraint as containment’, pp. 295–97; Kuisma, Kylmä sota, kuuma öljy, pp. 30–31; UMA 58B2. Yhdysvallat, yleistä. Johan Nykopp, Washington, to the Finnish Ministry for Foreign Affairs, 20 February 1952.

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26 NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1950–54, box 2122. 460E.6131/9– 1851. SD airgram to American Legation Helsinki, 10 November 1951. 27 Hanhimäki, Containing Coexistence, 1997, pp. 96–136; Jensen-Eriksen, ‘Market, Competitor or Battlefield?’, 2004, pp. 28–38; Kuisma, Kylmä sota, kuuma öljy, 1997, 27. 28 NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1950–54, box 2120. 460E.119/11– 1350. Henry F. Arnold, American Legation Helsinki, to SD, 13 November 1950. 29 NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1950–54, box 2121. 460E.119/8– 2052. G. A. Stanford, American Legation Helsinki, to SD, 20 August 1952. 30 NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1950–54, box 2122. 460E.6131/4– 1051. John M. Cabot, American Legation Helsinki, to SD, 4 April 1951. 31 NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1950–54, box 2123. 460E.9331/9– 1453. American Legation Helsinki to SD, 14 September 1953. 32 NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1955–59, box 1989. 460E.60/1– 3058. American Embassy Helsinki to SD, 30 January 1958. 33 For example, NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1955–59, box 1989. 460E.60/1–3058. American Embassy Helsinki to SD, 30 January 1958. 34 NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1955–59, box 1989. 460E.60/1– 3058. American Embassy Helsinki to SD, 30 January 1958. 35 UMA 58 B2 Yhdysvallat. Laivatutkan hankinta USA:sta 1951. A note by the American Legation in Helsinki to the Finnish Ministy for Foreign Affairs, 30 April 1951. 36 NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1950–54, box 2120. 460E.119/4– 2051. ‘Memorandum of Conversation’ 20 April 1951; 460E.119/8–2251. ‘Memorandum of Discussion with Foreign Ministry officials on application of U.S. export controls and allocation procedures to Finland’. W. Barnes, 22 August 1951. 37 Jensen-Eriksen, 2004, pp. 33–39. 38 NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1950–54, box 2122. 460E.6131/4– 451. John M. Cabot, American Legation Helsinki, to SD, 4 April 1951. 39 Progress Report on a Program of Possible US Actions To Lessen Finland’s Economic Dependence on the Soviet Bloc. 22 June 1953. An appendix to Progress Report by the Under-Secretary of State (Smith) on the Implementation of NSC 121. 25 August 1953. FRUS 1952–1954, volume VIII, pp. 761–62. 40 Progress Report by the Under-Secretary of State (Smith) on the Implementation of NSC 121. 25 August 1953. FRUS 1952–1954, volume VIII, p. 758. 41 Progress Report on a Program of Possible US Actions To Lessen Finland’s Economic Dependence on the Soviet Bloc, 22 June 1953. An appendix to Progress Report by the Under-Secretary of State (Smith) on the Implementation of NSC 121. 25 August 1953. FRUS 1952–1954, volume VIII, pp. 764–67. 42 H. Rautkallio, Paasikivi vai Kekkonen. Suomi lännestä nähtynä 1945–1956, Helsinki: Kustannusosakeyhtiö Tammi, 1990, pp. 284–86. 43 T. Androsova, ‘Neuvostoliiton ja Suomen suhteet Urho Kekkosen ensimmäisellä presidenttikaudella’, Historiallinen Aikakauskirja, 1996, no. 1, pp. 14–15. 44 J. Nevakivi, Miten Kekkonen pääsi valtaan ja Suomi suomettui, Helsinki: Otava, 1996, pp. 203–6; Androsova, ‘Neuvostoliiton’, 1996, pp. 14–15; S. Autio-Sarasmo, ‘Soviet economic modernisation and transferring technologies from the West’, in M. Kangaspuro and J. Smith (eds), Modernization in Russia since 1900, Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 2006, pp. 116–18; Keskinen, Idänkauppa, 1987, pp. 171–73; P. Jauho, Ensiksi kielsin konditionaalin, Helsinki: Terra Cognita, 1999, pp. 198–201; V. Pernaa, ‘Reaalipolitiikan pelimerkkejä – Tieteen ja kulttuurin suomalais-neuvostoliittolaisen valtiollisen yhteistyön synty’, in V. Pernaa (ed.), Ajankohta. Poliittisen historian vuosikirja 2000, Poliittinen historia. Helsingin ja Turun yliopistot, 2000, pp. 199–202, 214. 45 For example, NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1950–54, box 2122.

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46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56

57 58

59 60 61

62

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460E.6131/8–1952. SD telegram to American Legation Helsinki, 19 August 1952; 460E.6131/7–2954. Jack K. McFall, American Legation Helsinki, to SD, 29 July 1954. Mastanduno, ‘Trade as a strategic weapon’, 1998, p. 143. F. Cain, Economic Statecraft during the Cold War. European Responses to the US Trade Embargo, London: Routledge, 2007, pp. 90–92. UMA. Dee 1. Memos of the Commercial Department of the Finnish Ministry for Foreign Affairs, 1945–59. ‘Vientiä itäblokin maihin koskevat kieltotavaralistat.’ Kai Somerto, 13 September 1958. NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1955–59, box 1989. 460E.60/1– 3058. American Embassy Helsinki to SD, 30 January 1958. See for example N. Jensen-Eriksen, ‘Just rhetoric? The United Kingdom and the question of Western economic aid to Finland, 1950–1962’, in Eloranta and Ojala (eds), East–West Trade and the Cold War, 2005, pp. 93–111. P. Rantanen, Talviministeri. Diplomatian näyttämöiltä politiikan parrasvaloihin, Jyväskylä. Helsinki: Gummerus, 2000, pp. 92–96. J. Zielonka, ‘Introduction: Eastern Europe in transition’, in Bertsch, Vogel and Zielonka (eds), After the Revolutions, 1991, p. 8. Adler-Karlsson, 1968, pp. 266–67. Førland, Cold Economic Warfare, 1991, pp. 227–38; ‘The growth and employment of the Soviet Tanker Fleet, 1 January 1951 through 31 March 1957’. Central Intelligence Agency, Office of Research and Reports, 27 September 1957. www.foia.cia.gov/princeton.asp (accessed 1 March 2010). NARA. SD. RG59. Decimal Files on Finland 1950–54, box 2122. 460E.6131/10– 1052. G. A. Stanford, American Legation Helsinki, to SD, 10 October 1952. A. Komlosy, ‘Österreichs Brückenfunktion und die Durchlässigkeit des “Eisernen Vorhangs” ’, in G. Enderle-Burcel, D. Stiefel, and A. Teichova (eds), “Zarte Bande” – Österreich und die europäischen planwirtschaftlichen Länder, Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Staatsarchivs – Sonderband 9, Wien: 2006, pp. 7, 89, 105. Adler-Karlsson, 1968, pp. 266–67. Karlsson, 1992, pp. 35–37; A. Resch, ‘Die Aussenhandelsbeziehungen zwischen dem RGW-Raum und Österreich in der Nachkriegszeit – dargestellt im Spiegel der österreichischen Aussenhandelsstatistik’, in “Zarte Bände”, pp. 46–47, 67–72; Roodbeen, 1992, p. 229; Viita, Kapitalismin ja sosialismin puristuksessa, 2006, pp. 91–92. Komlosy, ‘Österreichs Brückenfunktion’, 2006, pp. 103–4; Roodbeen, 1992, p. 315; Viita, 2006, pp. 76–77. Adler-Karlsson, 1968, p. 267. Nevakivi, Miten Kekkonen, 1996, pp. 197–200; P. Sutela, Finnish Trade with the USSR: Why was it different? BOFIT Online 7/2005, Helsinki: Bank of Finland, BOFIT – Institute for Economies in Transition, 2005, p. 8. Available http://www. bof.fi/bofit/tutkimus/tutkimusjulkaisut/online/index.htm?year=2005 (accessed 17 March 2010); Viita, 2006, pp. 6, 44, 77. Sutela, Finnish Trade with the USSR, pp. 5,8; Viita, 2006, pp. 41–43,105–6,121–23; T. Androsova, ‘Suomen ja Venäjän/Neuvostoliiton väliset kauppapoliittiset suhteet 1944–62’, Ennen ja Nyt, no. 1, 2002, http://www.ennenjanyt.net/1–02/ androso2.htm. Ammann, ‘Swiss with the East in the early Cold War’, 2005, pp. 128–30. Roodbeen, 1992, p. 229. E. Kubu˚ , ‘Restoration and regularisation of economic cooperation under the circumstances of accelerating Cold War. Czechoslovak–Austrian economic relations in 1945–55’, in “Zarte Bände”, p. 215; Roodbeen, 1992, pp. 272–73. Resch, ‘Die Aussenhandelsbeziehungen’, pp. 62–63. Komlosy, ‘Österreichs Brückenfunktion’, 2006, pp. 89–90, 103–4.

4

Knowledge through the Iron Curtain Soviet scientific–technical cooperation with Finland and West Germany Sari Autio-Sarasmo

After its victory in World War II, the Soviet Union had political and economic challenges to meet if it was to redeem its position as a superpower alongside the United States. The most fundamental task facing the Soviet leadership was the need to modernize Soviet economy. In the Soviet Union it had been realized that intensive economic growth in the United States and Western Europe was mainly based on technological progress as opposed to increases in labour and capital input.1 Thus, during the leadership of N. S. Khrushchev (1956–64) a modernization model was adopted the primary aim of which was to transform extensive economic growth into intensive growth with the help of sophisticated technology.2 This modernization model forced the Soviet leadership to embark on a more active quest for cooperation with the West, with a view to sharing in the benefits of Western technological progress.3 This chapter investigates how the Soviet Union created the system used to transfer foreign technology from the West during the Cold War. Technology was transferred through the system of scientific–technical cooperation which created a base for multileveled interaction in technology transfer between the Soviet Union and West European states. The Soviet Union’s main Western trade partners from the 1960s, Finland and West Germany, were at the core of Soviet networking.4 The main aim of the chapter is to analyse how the Soviet Union organized and implemented technology and know-how transfer from Finland and West Germany, and how the scientific–technical cooperation eventually evolved into normal high technology trade. The analysis is carried out on three intertwined levels. The macro-level analysis looks at developments in the superpower politics (particularly the restrictions placed on international trade), and how these affected the Soviet Union’s technology transfer. The intermediate level examines Finland, as a small neutral Nordic state, and West Germany, as a member of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO). Finland was the first capitalist state to conclude an agreement on scientific–technical cooperation with the Soviet Union in 1955. West Germany entered into a similar agreement with the

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Soviet Union at the end of the decade. The analysis here focuses on the state-level scientific–technical cooperation and traces the changes that took place within this cooperation. The micro-level analysis foregrounds enterprises: Nokia (in Finland) and Siemens (in West Germany). Both enterprises were large conglomerates with a wide range of products and both had active trade connections based on scientific–technical cooperation with the Soviet Union. The micro-level analysis enables insights into the practical cooperation between the partners and the Soviet Union, demonstrating that knowhow transfer through the Iron Curtain was more active than has previously been thought, and that such transfers were clearly motivated by economic rather than political considerations. Technology transfer from West to East was researched widely in the 1960s and 1980s.5 Historical research on scientific–technical cooperation from the Eastern point of view has remained an unexplored area, mainly because of the limited archival material and restrictions caused by the bipolar approach of the earlier Cold War historiography. This chapter analyses the Soviet scientific–technical cooperation with the West from the point of view of multileveled interaction. The Finnish and West German cases are investigated from the Soviet point of view, based on Russian materials collected from the major political and economic archives in Russia. The time frame is defined by the accessible archival material from the mid-1950s to the mid-1970s and other evidence relating to the late 1980s.

Creation of the Soviet system of technology and know-how transfer After World War II, the military–industrial complex was a prioritized branch of industry in the Soviet Union. Connections between the civil and military sectors, such as existed in the West, were never established in the Soviet Union. This served to isolate, for example, the prioritized and developed space programme from wider research and development (R&D).6 As a result, the automatization of basic industry – the main aim of the new modernization model – proved to be problematic. This is why the Soviet leadership was forced to seek out cooperation with the West and to transfer foreign know-how and technology in order to boost technological progress in Soviet industry. During the Cold War, the task of transferring technology from the West was, however, more demanding than during the interwar period. All technological innovations became more or less connected to military rivalry during the Cold War, which dictated the superpower politics. The United States wanted to forestall the Soviet Union and to restrain the expansion of the socialist bloc. To this end, the United States raised a multilateral high technology embargo (CoCom), which was implemented by NATO members in 1949.7 CoCom posed an important challenge to the Soviet Union’s aims of transferring Western technology in order to build the foundations for the modernization of industry.

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Another challenge for the Soviet leadership was the Soviet Union’s new role as bloc leader and superpower. In order to maintain and reassert its new role, it was imperative that the Soviet Union show its supremacy in the field of technology, too. Thus it was important that the technology transfer from the West be ideologically trouble-free and approvable from the point of view of the whole bloc and the members of the Council for Mutual Economic Assistance (CMEA).8 This was no longer a question affecting the Soviet Union alone; the issue now had ramifications for the entire Soviet bloc, and for the historically determined victory of communism over capitalism.9 CoCom restrictions placed limits on normal trade, and as a result the Soviet Union was forced to seek alternative methods and new channels for obtaining technology from the West. The new type of technology transfer launched in this connection was scientific–technical cooperation, which constituted a non-commercial and officially approved channel for transferring technology. In contrast to interwar technology trade, which had only involved machinery, transfers through the scientific–technical cooperation now also involved transfers of know-how and expertise. From the mid-1950s the Soviet Union concluded numerous inter-governmental agreements on scientific– technical cooperation with Western governments.10 Immediately after the adoption of the new modernization model, several projects aimed at transferring new technology to the Soviet Union were launched. In early 1957, the State Committee for the Introduction of New Technology into the National Economy (Gostekhnika) investigated how technology transferred to date had been mobilized in the Soviet Union. The inspection’s findings were disturbing. Although there had been serious attempts to disseminate the transferred technologies to R&D institutes and enterprises, no processes of mobilization had eventuated.11 The new technology was not being exploited and new solutions were not being investigated, which meant that Soviet R&D was not deriving any benefit from the transfers. The main problem with dissemination proved to be not the technology itself, but the lack of coordination between the transferring organizations and ministries which effectively prevented the new technology from being implemented at the enterprise level or in R&D institutes.12 Also, there was no clear plan as to what kind of technology was needed and where to deliver the technology. The problem was solved by creating an organ that was to be in charge of transferring technology as well as coordinating the dissemination of that technology. The plan for a new State Committee of Science and Technology (GKNT) under the USSR Council of Ministers was discussed by the Central Committee (CC) of the Soviet Communist Party (CPSU) in late 1957.13 The plan envisaged the introduction of a comprehensive system for investigating the latest findings in the field of technology in the Soviet Union and inside the Soviet bloc as well as abroad. The GKNT was tasked with acquiring innovative technologies, and transferring and disseminating them throughout Soviet R&D. The GKNT was to coordinate all technology and know-how transfer

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in the Soviet Union, as well as creating new technology acquisition and implementation strategies for the future.14 As early as in 1958, the administrative organ of the State Committee was approved in the CC CPSU and the GKNT’s operational work started immediately.15 Because of the restrictions governing technology trade, scientific–technical cooperation became one of the GKNT’s main objectives. Technology and knowledge transfer from abroad through scientific–technical cooperation was promoted especially actively in the early 1960s. The Soviet leadership recognized that, despite the serious efforts that had been made in the scientific– technical cooperation within the CMEA countries, advanced Western technology was needed throughout the whole socialist bloc.16 This realization led to more target-oriented scientific–technical cooperation on the part of the Soviet Union. In order to establish the scientific–technical cooperation on a strong knowledge base, the GKNT made use of Soviet specialists’ pre-existing links with international scientific associations, which the GKNT viewed as a source of information on technological progress in the West. Reports written by Soviet specialists participating in international conferences and exhibitions formed an important source of background information for the GKNT’s work.17 While the information collected by the various sources formed the basis for practical cooperation, information was also disseminated within the Soviet Union itself through the All-Union Institute for Scientific-Technical Information (VINITI).18 Soviet scientific–technical cooperation had two purposes. On the one hand, it was geared towards the transfer of know-how, whereby the specialists, during their visits abroad, familiarized themselves with specific technological problems and learned to use the technology in question. On the other hand, it was also aimed at technology transfer, which included a trade dimension. Transferred technology could be used directly in Soviet industry or for the processes of reverse engineering, that is, the deduction of the techniques of manufacture from examination of the product itself.19 The main over-arching aim was to enable the Soviet Union to share in technological progress. The GKNT was in charge of preparing the foreign missions that formed the cornerstone of the process of knowledge transfer in scientific–technical cooperation, and taking care of arrangements in the target countries. Technology advisors (sovetniki) in the Soviet embassies were under the command of the GKNT and worked as coordinators between the GKNT and foreign partners. Their task was to collect information on the technology and knowhow in the station country as well as proposing possible targets for the missions.20 In the Soviet Union, ministries and different subcommittees had the power to propose themes for the missions and to nominate the specialists that were sent. Research institutes and production units could also propose missions when a special technology or particular information was needed. The main purpose of these missions was to seek solutions to specific problems and to obtain information that was lacking in the Soviet Union.21

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The specialists sent on the missions were those who had the expertise enabling them to acquire the necessary information during the visits. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, when the Soviet specialists sent abroad were mainly senior engineers and technicians from the related ministries and production units, there was no special process of selection. Knowledge of the language of the destination area was mentioned as desirable but not compulsory for candidates for missions.22 Delegations were usually accompanied by interpreters, but by the late 1960s, language skills had become a more important element in the missions. Since the technological processes had become more complex, specialist language skills were required in order to gather the relevant information. The GKNT report from 1969 mentioned that the language proficiency of the delegates travelling abroad was very poor. Without foreign language skills, specialists were unable to communicate or collect information effectively. The missions had become ‘just normal tourist trips’, the report complained.23 As the role of specialists received greater emphasis, so the selection process also became tighter, especially in those fields with strategic importance. In the 1970s, the scientific abilities and foreign language skills of the specialists were investigated and their political reliability thoroughly vetted by the party organs before they were sent abroad.24 A report on technical progress produced by the science and education unit under the CC of the CPSU in 1969 noted that the benefits brought by the international missions were remarkably large when compared to the rather modest investments involved. According to the report, the total investment in foreign missions comprised 2.5 million roubles in 1967, whereas the benefit derived from the missions amounted to 240 million roubles. This was mainly achieved through the networking between Soviet scientists and their Western colleagues.25 Although the GKNT system proved to be efficient, the transferred technology failed to boost the development of Soviet R&D and the modernization plans of the economy as had been hoped. In fact, the Soviet planning system would appear to be the main cause of the problems hampering utilization of foreign know-how and technology.26

Soviet scientific–technical cooperation with neutral Finland The Finnish–Soviet agreement on scientific–technical cooperation was signed in 1955. This was the first treaty in which two states with different economic systems agreed to engage in scientific–technical cooperation, and it soon became a model for Soviet scientific–technical cooperation with the West.27 Initial cooperation was established at the level of a Soviet–Finnish scientific– technical commission which was based on state-level cooperation. The partners involved in this intermediate level of interaction were the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Academy of Sciences on the Finnish side, and, on the Soviet side, the GKNT, the Academy of Sciences and related ministries.28 The development of the Soviet–Finnish scientific–technical cooperation unfolded in strict accordance with the GKNT’s operational plan. At the

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early stages, Finnish–Soviet scientific–technical cooperation was mainly confined to Soviet specialists’ visits to factories and production units. It was not long, however, before the visits became more target oriented, focusing more on intentional knowledge and technology transfer. The themes of the missions as well as other connections were discussed and set out by meetings of the Soviet–Finnish scientific–technical commission.29 The GKNT’s technical advisor at the Soviet embassy in Finland drew up a multitude of reports on the development of the Finnish economy and technology. The Soviet side then proposed targets for possible visits to Finland based on the content of these reports.30 Initiatives were handled by the Soviet– Finnish commission for scientific–technical cooperation; the Finnish side of the commission would then make contact and negotiate with the Finnish enterprises. The Soviet specialists visiting Finland came mainly from Soviet ministries and state enterprises. Initially, the information they collected was very pragmatic. After visiting Finnish production units, Soviet specialists documented observations, mostly of a practical nature, noting, for example, details related to laboratory equipment, lighting and organization of work.31 In the 1960s, when the visits became more target oriented and more focused on technological observations, Soviet specialists started to produce detailed reports with descriptions of the relevant technology, illustrated with dozens of photographs and construction drawings. With each passing visit, the resulting reports became more and more detailed, but without moving beyond the stipulations of the scientific–technical cooperation model.32 The scientific–technical cooperation with the Soviet Union and the visits of the Soviet specialists were generally viewed quite positively in Finland, but sometimes the Finns were annoyed by the obviously target-oriented behaviour of the Soviet delegates. The main reason for this negative attitude on the part of the Finnish hosts was the Soviet side’s keenness to obtain detailed information on those processes that were forbidden, for example, by patent agreement.33 Nevertheless, although Finnish enterprises were reluctant to risk patent rights or licence agreements with their Western partners, no restrictions were imposed on the visits or cooperation, and no negative commentary was published in Finnish newspapers. This permissive attitude was based partly, of course, on political realism, but it also reflected the fact that cooperation with the Soviet Union was profitable for Finland. Finland imported from the Soviet Union raw materials and energy which were not available domestically and were vital to the Finnish economy. Finland paid for these imports with exports of research-intensive and highly processed products, which served to develop Finnish R&D.34 Long-term trade agreements with the Soviet Union brought predictability to the Finnish economy and enabled long-term and in-depth projects with a reliable partner. Finnish–Soviet trade was based on a clearing system and bartered trade which was profitable for Finland, especially in the 1970s and early 1980s. Although the trade balance was not always profitable for the

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Soviet Union, barter trade helped the Soviet Union to save hard currency for trade with other partners.35 Superpower politics was not the dominant factor shaping the Soviet– Finnish scientific–technical cooperation, but as one of the USSR’s main Western trade partners, Finland received special attention from the Soviet side. After the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, the Finnish response to this event was monitored by the Soviet embassy for the GKNT. According to one secret report, no serious consequences of the events of 1968 were evident in the scientific–technical cooperation with Finland and the cooperation had developed satisfactorily during the latter part of 1968. This helped the Soviet side in its task of creating new connections with Finnish R&D and developing the exchange of specialists during 1969.36 After the 1969 decision to give up domestic R&D in computer science in the Soviet Union in favour of copying the IBM 360 series, the Soviet Union needed cooperation with Finland, especially in the field of computer technology.37 The push to deepen the scientific–technical cooperation with Finland in the field of computer science started almost immediately after the above decision. At the end of January 1970 Professor Hans Andersin, president of the Finnish Society for Data Processing, answered to the proposal of the Soviet Academy of Sciences to start scientific–technical cooperation in the field of computer science. The head of international relations at the Academy, C. G. Korneev asked for comments from the main Soviet specialist in the field, Academician A. A. Dorodnitsyn, head of the Academy’s computational centre. According to Dorodnitsyn, the cooperation was essential for Soviet computer science. The newly built Soviet computer’s ‘architecture’, as well as its operating system, was copied from the IBM 360 model. Because IBM did not sell those machines to the Soviet Union and since other socialist countries had only earlier versions of IBM computers, Finland, as a Western state, was the only place where Soviet specialists could study the original computer properly. Thus, Dorodnitsyn emphasized the importance of the possibility of Soviet specialists spending longer periods in Finland for this purpose.38 Dorodnitsyn’s recommendation and Andersin’s positive answer were taken seriously in the Academy of Sciences and cooperation in computer science with Finland began shortly afterwards. Soviet specialists were interested not only in particular computer technologies but also in applications. Through the scientific–technical cooperation, visits were arranged to Finnish enterprises at which the latest computer technology was in use. From summer 1971, Soviet delegations visited several locations and enterprises in Finland. Some target enterprises, such as Nokia, were interesting for the visitors from the point of view of production of electronic devices, whereas the Bank of Finland and the computing centre of the enterprise Enso-Gutzeit were attractive because of the computer-based applications they used.39 Cooperation continued actively; in 1974, for example, a Finnish–Soviet joint symposium was held under the title: ‘Small Computers and Distributed Data Processing’.40 Finnish specialists

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also visited the Soviet Union, and these visits led to the initiation of joint projects in the field of computer science.41 Through the scientific–technical cooperation with Finland, the Soviet Union was able to fulfil the main aim of the cooperation, namely, ‘to exploit more rapidly the achievements of science and technology and new methods of production’.42 During the 1970s the Soviet–Finnish scientific–technical cooperation divided clearly into two parts. In scientific cooperation, the partners were mainly academic institutes, scientists and other experts, and the main focus was transfer of know-how. The other part of the cooperation, that is, technical cooperation, meant in practice technology trade. A good example of an enterprise that created a beneficial trade connection with the Soviet Union through the Soviet–Finnish scientific–technical commission was Nokia – one of the most important conglomerates in Finland from the early twentieth century onwards. Nokia embarked upon cooperation with the Soviet Union through the scientific–technical commission in 1957. Cooperation mainly took the form of Soviet visits to Nokia production units and the transfer to the Soviet Union of some basic industrial products such as timber and cable industry produce. In the 1960s the cooperation became more focused on technology transfer and during the 1970s, when transferred technology became more developed, the cooperation also became more trade oriented.43 Nokia soon became one of the main targets for Soviet analysis of the technological base and development in Finland as well as one of the most attractive trade partners.44 In the 1980s, when Finnish technological know-how had reached quite high levels, Nokia already had direct trade relations with the Soviet partners within the limits of the established trade regulations between Finland and the Soviet Union. Direct relations between the partners were based on personal connections between Nokia management and staff, especially CEO Kari Kairamo, and the Soviet partners. This micro-level cooperation was connected to the intermediate level in accordance with the trade agreements concluded between Finland and the Soviet Union. The deepening of trade relations was connected to the level of transferred technology: from the 1970s to the late 1980s Nokia had widened trade into the field of automatic telephone exchanges, robotics, automation, computer technology and wireless communication systems. This deepening of trade relations yielded a profit. The Soviet Union became an important business partner for Nokia. During the economic recession in Finland in the 1980s, Nokia could count on Soviet orders and thus managed to avoid economic meltdown. Through the trade with the Soviet Union based on scientific–technical cooperation, Nokia managed to generate a remarkable level of growth.45 After the era of détente and the relatively permissive embargo policy of the 1960s and 1970s, relations started to cool down in the early 1980s; the CoCom embargo was tightened and Nokia’s trade with the Soviet Union became a sensitive issue.46 Nokia was very dependent on increased Soviet trade but at the same time, the company was also dependent on American

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components. Because of this, Nokia was forced to take account of the restrictions set by the high technology embargo. The United States had started to look upon the technology trade under the scientific–technical cooperation as ‘suspicious’.47 In the 1980s, the micro-level cooperation between Nokia and the Soviet partners was connected to macro-level politics. Even in this more restrictive atmosphere, however, Nokia was still able to continue and even intensify its trade with the Soviet Union, as well as importing components from the United States. This development shows quite clearly how the neutral state of Finland was able to cooperate in both directions, but it also shows how practical cooperation was nevertheless politicized by the macro-level superpower politics. According to former US Deputy Minister of defence during the 1980s, Richard Perle, Nokia concluded a secret agreement on cooperation with the Pentagon during this period. By allowing Finland to export high technology containing American components to the Soviet Union, the United States was able to keep track of what was going on in terms of technological developments in the Soviet Union. In the late 1980s, politics become tighter. In 1987, in order to continue the chosen policy, Finland concluded an intergovernmental agreement with the United States which, according to the former Finnish ambassador to the United States, Paavo Rantanen, considered Finland to be equal to the NATO countries. Finland could now obtain Western high technology and components from the United States but was forbidden from transferring that technology to the Soviet Union in any form.48 This was not a problem since the Finnish–Soviet trade was already declining at the end of 1980s in any case.

Soviet–West German scientific–technical cooperation: bypassing the East–West divide From the mid-1950s, one of the Soviet Union’s main targets for technology and knowledge transfer in Western Europe was West Germany.49 As an already developed industrial state, West Germany offered the technology and expertise that the Soviet Union needed. This need for technology and know-how was the explicit reason cited by the Soviet Union for seeking cooperation.50 However, the cooperation between West Germany and the Soviet Union was fraught with challenges caused by the political circumstances of the Cold War. As a member of NATO, West Germany was also a member of CoCom. This connected the cooperation to superpower politics and made bloc-to-bloc cooperation more complicated. The cooperation with the Soviet bloc, from the West German point of view, had a strong political dimension, linked to the unification of Germany in the 1950s and early 1960s.51 In spite of the politically charged relationship, West Germany and the Soviet Union had a mutual interest in establishing trade relations.52 In the mid-1950s in particular, the Soviet Union was seen as an ‘engineer state’ and attitudes in the West German enterprises towards the Soviet partners

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were slightly reserved but largely positive.53 This relatively neutral attitude enabled the Soviet Union to start an active search for cooperation with West Germany. Soviet specialists were sent to scientific conferences and technology exhibitions in West Germany in order to collect information and to establish connections with Western enterprises and specialists.54 During the conferences, Soviet specialists visited not only the exhibition stands but also the production units of West German enterprises with the aim of familiarizing themselves with the technology and solutions provided by the enterprises. After the excursions, visitors delivered detailed reports, which analysed the main fields of the technology they had seen. Based on the visits made to various technology exhibitions in West Germany, Soviet interest was directed in particular towards those firms which were pioneers in the specific technology of interest.55 During the mid-1950s, connections were established and several smaller trade agreements between the Soviet Union and West Germany were concluded.56 In the field of scientific–technical cooperation, the main step towards more systematic interaction was taken in 1957, when the Soviet Union invited West Germany to enter into an official trade agreement and to start scientific–technical cooperation.57 The trade agreement was duly concluded in 1958, and in 1959 the cultural and scientific–technical cooperation between the Soviet Union and West Germany was premised on intergovernmental agreement.58 The practical side of the Soviet–West German scientific– technical cooperation seems to have differed from the Finnish case. Instead of proceeding via state-level commissions, connections with West German enterprises, initiated by the GKNT and approved by the CC of the CPSU, were established directly through the Soviet embassy in Bonn.59 Although the scientific–technical cooperation differed from the administrative structure, as in the Finnish case, visits were the main means of transferring know-how. Initially Soviet specialists’ visits were directed towards several West German enterprises, mainly to conglomerates such as Siemens, whose production range was wide. On the Soviet side, visits were well prepared and Soviet specialists were assigned clear plans of action for their visits. As in Finland, background information on the enterprises and advanced technology was collected by the Soviet embassy as part of the planning process.60 The sending organization drew up a list of questions on technological processes to be answered during the visit, based on detailed knowledge of the receiving enterprise’s production. The GKNT’s action plan for each proposed visit also included a strategy for disseminating the collected information in the Soviet Union after the specialists’ return home.61 In practice, however, the technology transfer attached to the scientific–technical cooperation meant direct trade between the Soviet Union and West Germany from the outset. The interest in cooperation was mutual: visits were also proposed to Soviet partners by the German side, and were seen as useful for the development of the West German industry and trade.62 The groups of visitors from West Germany were rather small compared to the delegations from the Soviet side.

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West German delegations consisted mainly of the directors of the collaborative enterprises whose interest was focused primarily on certain specific Soviet applications in industrial production that might be of use to them.63 There were always more visitors from the Soviet side than vice versa; the range of Soviet interests was wider; and the Soviet reports written on the missions were more comprehensive.64 In contrast to the Finnish case, the Soviet–West German cooperation was influenced by superpower politics, which created visible problems for microand intermediate-level cooperation in the early 1960s. As a member of NATO, West Germany was tied to the decision making within the bloc. Hence, for example, despite the fact that the Western pipeline embargo against the Soviet Union was not viewed positively by the West German enterprises involved in Soviet trade, West Germany nevertheless joined the embargo in 1961–63.65 In April 1962 the Soviet embassy in Bonn reported that West German newspapers were accusing ‘states of the Eastern bloc’ of ‘scientific-technical espionage’. The accusations caused deep concern, because they meant the cancellation of proposed Soviet visits to West German enterprises.66 A clear example of the connection between enterprise-level cooperation and higherlevel politics was the negotiations held in the spring of 1963 between the Soviet embassy in Bonn and the West German enterprise Siemens Schukkert. Siemens Schukkert’s directors were reluctant to expand technical and economic cooperation with the Soviet partners. The directors of Siemens invoked the CoCom restrictions to explain their unwillingness to continue economic cooperation, that is, to sell more electric locomotives to the Soviet Union.67 They were worried about the possible problems that continuing trade with the Soviet Union might cause the government of West Germany or Siemens. A report sent by the Soviet embassy in Bonn emphasized the fact that the German attitude towards Soviet initiatives had changed radically only in the past six months.68 If the Soviet–West German cooperation in the early 1960s was characterized by the macro-level political intentions and superpower politics, the latter part of the 1960s was more focused on intermediate and micro-level cooperation and economic matters. In June 1968 the West German minister for scientific research Gerhard Stoltenberg mentioned in the course of negotiations with the Soviet embassy in Bonn, that there would be no objections on the part of the West German government should the Soviet Union be inclined to sign an agreement on cooperation with Siemens in the field of computer technology.69 This proposal was made just before the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia; but according to a recent report issued by the GKNT in early 1969, the Czechoslovakian ‘events’ (sobytiya) did not have any serious consequences for the Soviet–West German scientific–technical cooperation. The Czechoslovakian case had aroused some negative political attitudes in West Germany but the majority of the economic, scientific and industrial partners involved in the cooperation did not respond to the situation at all; on the contrary, cooperation was in fact intensified.70 This was in line with the

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political situation in West Europe, where improving East–West relations was seen as more important than the repressions taking place within the Soviet bloc.71 At the intermediate level, the changes in the West German domestic policy – namely, Willy Brandt’s new Ostpolitik and, in August 1970, the Moscow treaty concluded between West Germany and the Soviet Union – expanded the West German trade to new levels and proved to be useful for both sides.72 In January 1971, a West German delegation visited the GKNT and held discussions with the leading Soviet decision makers on deepening the trade and technological cooperation. This included large joint projects in the Soviet Union, such as Daimler-Benz’s LKW-factory on the Kama River, among others.73 In autumn the same year, the Soviet delegation made a return visit to West Germany and Soviet specialists visited several West German enterprises. At the end of the visit, the leader of the delegation, GKNT Vice Director Dzherman Gvishiani, concluded an agreement with Siemens on scientific–technical cooperation.74 From the point of view of micro-level cooperation and the aims of the Soviet Union, the Siemens–GKNT agreement was very important. The agreement did not differ from the intergovernmental agreements on scientific– technical cooperation: it not only dealt with technology transfer, but included scientific cooperation in the field of computer science. The agreement with Siemens was an important step for the Soviet Union and the GKNT – something which was clearly visible in Gvishiani’s report to the CC of the CPSU. Gvishiani emphasized the advantages of Siemens as a cooperative partner: Siemens had no problematic patent issues, it had its own large R&D division, and it was not dependent on American components. Gvishiani stated: ‘Siemens is a European enterprise and willing to cooperate with the Soviet Union’.75 This comment clearly illustrates the problems with which the Soviet Union had to contend while attempting to transfer technology and know-how from the West. The Soviet–West German cooperation received extensive coverage in the Soviet media, albeit from the Soviet point of view, of course. The report on Gvishiani’s trip to West Germany, issued by the official Soviet news agency TASS, emphasized the West’s deep interest in Soviet achievements in the field of science and technology. Thus, for example, TASS reported that the West German enterprise Siemens had bought a licence for a Soviet welding machine.76 The agreement initiated a period of active trade relations between the Soviet Union and Siemens, with the latter launching exports of computers and components to the Soviet Union and the other CMEA countries.77 In 1972 a joint commission was established on economic, technical and scientific cooperation between the Soviet Union and West Germany. In the same year, a general agreement on trade was concluded, which meant the normalization of trade relations between West Germany and the Soviet Union.78 A secret GKNT plan for the years 1973–75 envisaged wide-ranging cooperation

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with West German enterprises, especially Siemens.79 In the mid-1970s, West Germany was the largest Western exporter of machines and instruments to the Soviet Union.80 West Germany’s deepening cooperation and increasing high technology exports to the Soviet Union caused anxiety in the United States. According to American estimates, about 6 percent of Siemens’ computer exports in the late 1970s were going to the Soviet Union through the cooperation with the GKNT. The United States was unable to act through CoCom to prevent such activities, however, because CoCom decisions were not legally binding on member nations.81

Conclusion With the help of the GKNT’s scientific–technical cooperation the Soviet Union created an effective system for transferring know-how and technology from the West. The scientific–technical cooperation proved to be highly effective; knowledge and technology were transferred to the Soviet Union during the Cold War in substantial quantities. The significance of these transfers in terms of impact on the economic modernization process or economic growth, however, remained rather low. The most important outcome would appear to have been the creation of a network of trade and cooperation involving multileveled interaction between the two blocs, based on the Soviet scientific–technical cooperation with the West. The Soviet Union’s need for foreign technology activated intermediate and micro-level actors, who started to seek out opportunities to interact and cooperate with the Soviet Union in spite of, and moving beyond, their pre-set roles, both in the West (in the case of West Germany), and in-between the blocs (in the case of Finland). Intermediate- and micro-level analysis of the practical cooperation under the bipolar structure opens up a significantly different view on the interaction between East and West in Cold War Europe. On those occasions when the Soviet Union was able to overcome the influence of CoCom through the scientific–technical cooperation, both Finland and West Germany acted somewhat differently to what we might expect based on their respective positions vis-à-vis the superpowers. At the beginning of the 1960s West Germany was tied quite strongly to the political dimension of the East–West cooperation, but during the late 1960s it started to move towards more independent policy which culminated in the new Ostpolitik with regard to the Soviet Union. Because of the détente phase at the macro level in the late 1960s and 1970s, at the micro level, West German enterprises were able to cooperate with the Soviet partners more freely. Superpower politics and the political content of the trade were shifted to macro-level and state-level rhetoric. In the late 1980s, the issue of German unification came to the fore again, and this diverted attention away from economics and back to politics. In Finland, developments seem to have followed a reverse trajectory. In the early phase of the cooperation Finland was able to cooperate with the Soviet

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Union relatively freely, given the lack of restrictions imposed by macro-level politics. The CoCom restrictions were taken into account and the cooperation was based on mutual trust in both directions. Subsequently, however, mainly in connection to the cooling phase in détente and technological progress in Finland, this situation changed. During the late Cold War period, in the 1980s, Finland was forced to cooperate in both directions in order to maintain its neutral status and to secure its economic growth. In the West German micro-level cooperation, political considerations were put to one side and economic benefits came to the fore; in Finland, on the other hand, the microlevel cooperation was politicized by the macro-level politics. In the ensuing situation, Finland was able to maintain its neutrality by trading in both directions.

Notes 1 J. Berliner, Soviet Industry from Stalin to Gorbachev, Surrey, 1988, p. 249; G. Holliday, Technology Transfer to the USSR 1928–1937 and 1966–1975. The Role of Western Technology in Soviet Economic Development, Boulder, Colorado, 1979, p. 59; E. Hoffman and R. Laird, ‘The Scientific-technological Revolution’ and Soviet Foreign Policy, London, 1982, p. 93. 2 Hoffman and Laird, ‘The Scientific-technological Revolution’, 1982, pp. 7–8; S. Autio-Sarasmo, ‘Soviet economic modernisation and transferring technologies from the West’, in M. Kangaspuro and J. Smith (eds), Modernization in Russia since 1900, Helsinki, 2006, pp. 110–11. 3 This was a clear continuation of the policies of former Russian leaders; S. Fitzpatrick, The Russian Revolution, Oxford, 1994, p. 19; P. R. Gregory and R. C. Stuart, Soviet and Post-Soviet Economic Structure and Performance, fifth edition, New York, 1994, p. 8; Technology and East–West Trade Report, Office of the Technology Assessment, US Congress, November 1979, pp. 214–15, 217. 4 ‘Ulkomaankauppa’, Suomen taloushistoria 3. Historiallinen tilasto. Kustannusosakeyhtiö Tammi, Helsinki, 1983, pp. 218, 232.; Vneshnyaya torgovlya SSSR 1922–1981, Ministerstvo Vneshnei torgovli. Jubileinyi statisticheskii sbornik, Moskva, 1982. 5 See Phil Hanson’s chapter in this volume. 6 I. Susiluoto, Suuruuden laskuoppi. Venäläisen tietoyhteiskunnan synty ja kehitys, Helsinki: WSOY, 2006, pp. 172–73. 7 P. Hanson, Trade and Technology in Soviet-Western Relations, London: Macmillan, 1981, p. 223; G. Bertsch, ‘Technology transfers and technology controls: a synthesis of the Western-Soviet relationship’, in R. Amann and J. Cooper, eds, Technical Progress and Soviet Economic Development, Oxford, 1986, pp. 127–28; P. Hanson, The Rise and Fall of the Soviet Economy. An Economic History of the USSR from 1945, Longman: 2003, p. 161; I. Jackson, The Economic Cold War. America, Britain and East–West Trade, 1948–1963, New York: Palgrave, 2001; see also Niklas Jensen-Eriksen’s chapter in this volume. 8 One of the means used to address the problems involved in transferring Western technology to the Soviet Union was the adoption of the concept of the ‘scientifictechnical revolution’ (STR). 9 This is especially clear in Khrushchev’s rhetoric; see J. L. Gaddis, The Cold War, Allen Lane, 2005, p. 84; W. Taubman, Khrushchev. The Man and his Era, London: Free Press 2003, pp. 427, 511.

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10 Bertsch, ‘Technology transfers and technology controls’, 1986, pp. 117, 120; Holliday, Technology Transfer to the USSR 1928–1937 and 1966–1975, 1979, p. 47. 11 Russian State Archive of Contemporary History (RGANI), f. 5, op. 40. d. 67, ll. 4–9. 12 RGANI, f. 5, op. 40, d. 52, ll. 1–6. 13 In the plan the state committee was named the Gosudarstvennyi nauchnotekhnicheskoy komitet (GNTK). Later the name was fixed as Gosudarstvennyi komitet nauki i tekhnologii (GKNT). See e.g. L. Graham, Science in Russia and the Soviet Union, Cambridge: Cambridge University History, 1993, p. 181; see also Suomen ja SNT-liiton välisen tieteellis-teknisen yhteistoimintakomitean neuvostolaisen puolen uudelleenjärjestelystä. The Archives of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs of Finland (UMA) 476 NL 13/3647–55. 14 RGANI f. 5, op. 40, d. 52, ll. 13–19. 15 RGANI f. 5, op. 40, d. 121, ll. 29–30. 16 J. Wilczynski, Technology in COMECON. Acceleration of Technological Progress through Economic Planning and the Market, London: Macmillan, 1974, pp. 145, 296–97. There was active scientific–technical cooperation within the CMEA countries. See e.g. RGANI, f. 5, op. 61, d. 55a, ll. 219–21. 17 RGANI, f. 5, op. 40, d. 67, ll. 104–15. A good example of this was the Soviet Union’s membership of the International Electrotechnical Commission (IEC). See http://www.iec.ch/index.html (accessed 29 June 2009). 18 VINITI (Vsesoyuznyi institut nauchnoi i tekhnicheskoi informatsii) was established in 1952. It collected and produced summaries from 22,000 scientific journals and publication series, and about 8000 books from 130 countries in 70 different languages. It was re-organized under the jurisdiction of the GKNT and the Academy of Sciences. J. Seppänen, Tieteellis-tekninen informaatio Neuvostoliitossa. Suomen ja Neuvostoliiton tieteellis-teknisen yhteistoimintakomitean julkaisusarja 2, Helsinki, 1978. On the structural connection to the GKNT see RGANI, f. 5, op. 40, d. 52, ll. 13–19. 19 M. Hietala, Innovaatioiden ja kansainvälistymisen vuosikymmenet. Tietoa, taitoa, asiantuntemusta, Helsinki eurooppalaisessa kehityksessä 1875–1917, Helsinki: Historialliner artis to 99: 1992, p. 265; Technology and East–West Trade Report, p. 100. 20 RGANI, f. 5, op. 61, d. 59, ll. 45–55. 21 Russian State Archive of the Economy (RGAE), f. 9480, op. 7, d. 805, l. 57; RGANI, f. 5, op. 61, d. 55a. l. 1–229. 22 RGANI, f. 5, op. 40, d. 121, l. 38. 23 RGANI, f. 5, op. 61, d. 59, ll.186–87. 24 RGANI, f. 5, op. 66, d. 196, ll.128, 130, 134–36. This also included families. 25 RGANI, f. 5, op. 61, d. 55a, l. 219–28. 26 S. Autio-Sarasmo, ‘Soviet economic modernisation and transferring technologies from the West’, 2006, pp. 120–22. 27 A. K. Romanov, ‘Suomen ja Neuvostoliiton välisen tieteellis-teknisen yhteistyön tuloksia’ in Suomen ja Neuvostoliiton välinen tieteellis-tekninen yhteistoiminta 30 vuotta, Helsinki, 1985. 28 Suomen ja Neuvostoliiton välisen tiedeyhteistyön kanavat, Suomen ja Neuvostoliiton välisen tieteellis-teknisen yhteistoimintakomitean julkaisusarja 11, Helsinki, 1981, pp. 1–2. 29 RGAE, f. 9489, op. 7, d. 925, ll. 139–42. See also Pöytäkirja 7.3.1959. File: Soviet-Finnish scientific-technical cooperation 1956–59. Archive of the enterprise UPM-Kymmene, Finland. 30 Archive of Foreign Policy of the Russian Federation (AVP RF), f. 135, op. 42, p. 89, d. 16, ll. 5–24. See also RGANI, f. 5, op. 61, d. 59, ll. 45–55; and Russian State Archive of Scientific-Technical Documentation, Samara branch (RGANTD), f. 80, op. 1–1, d. 290, ll. 1–7.

Soviet scientific–technical cooperation with Finland and West Germany 31 32 33 34

35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

47 48

49 50 51

52

53 54 55

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RGANTD, f. p-18, op. 2–6, d. 205, l. 1–12; RGAE, f. 9480, op. 3, d.1611, l. 41. RGANTD, f. p-175, op. 4–1. d. 157, ll. 1–135. Neste Oy:n vastaus TT-komissiolle 16.10.1961. 13/3647–55 UMA. P. Parkkinen, ‘The impact of the trade with the Soviet Union on Finnish economy’, p. 195 and N. Smelyakov, ‘Industrial cooperation and joint production in Soviet-Finnish economic ties’, pp. 101, 106 in Möttölä, Bykov and Korolev (eds.) Finnish–Soviet Economic Relations, Macmillan Press, 1983. See Tatiana Androsova’s chapter in this volume. RGANI, f. 5, op. 61, d. 59, l. 45–55. Susiluoto, Suuruuden laskuoppi. pp.152–53; see also Egle˙ Rindzevicˇiu¯te˙ ’s chapter in this volume. Archive of the Russian Academy of Sciences (ARAN), f. 579, op. 13, d.162, ll. 72–73; TT-komitea. Poˇ ytaˇkinjat 1967–71 Kansio 275, UMA. ARAN, f. 579, op. 13, d. 162, ll. 17–34. From the Finnish side see ‘Neuvostoliittolaisen delegaation Suomen vierailu’. TT-komitea: saapuneet kirjeet. 1/1–30/6–71 UMA. ‘Selostus Finnish-Soviet symposiumista 13.5.1975’. TT-komitea: matkakertomuksia 1956–78. UMA. ‘Matkakertomus matkasta Tallinnaan’. TT-komitea: matkakertomuksia 1956–78. UMA. M. Kaje and O. Niitamo, ‘Scientific and technical cooperation between a small capitalist country and big socialist country’ in Möttölä, Bykov and Korolev (eds.) in Finnish-Soviet Economic Relations, Macmillan Press, 1983, pp. 143–44. M. Häikiö, Sturm und Drang. Suurkaupoilla eurooppalaiseksi elektroniikkayritykseksi 1983–1991. Nokia Oyj:n historia, Osa 2, Helsinki: Edita, 2001, pp. 49–52. RGANI, f. 5, op. 61, d. 59, ll. 62–69. Häikiö, Sturm und Drang, 2001, pp. 52–57, 251, 254. On political changes, see e.g. Bozo, Rey, Ludlow and Nuti (eds), Europe and the End of the Cold War. A Reappraisal, Routledge, Cold War History series, 2008; and L. Nuti (ed.), The Crisis of Détente in Europe. From Helsinki to Gorbachev, Routledge, Cold War History series, 2009. Häikiö, 2001, pp. 125–27; Soviet Acquisition of Western Technology. April 1982. Library of Congress, Washington DC. Documentary film ‘Kauppasotaa pinnan alla’ [Tradewar under the Water] by Ari Lehikoinen. Presented by Channel one YLE on Finnish Television, 7 December 2008. Former US Deputy Minister of Defence Richard Perle and former Finnish ambassador to the United States in 1986–88 Paavo Rantanen were interviewed in the documentary. Perle was in charge of the Nokia negotiations. The Finnish–US agreement remains secret until 2011. As early as in 1960 West Germany was prioritized over the United States when it came to cooperation in technology transfer; RGAE, f. 9480, op. 7, d. 805, l. 9. RGAE, f. 9480, op. 7, d. 805, ll. 39–41. See e.g. R. G. Hughes, Britain, Germany and the Cold War. The Search for a European Détente 1949–1967, London: Routledge, 2007, pp. 90, 126, 132; K. Rudolph, Wirtschaftsdiplomatie im Kalten Krieg. Die Ostpolitik der Westdeutschen Groβindustrie 1945–1991, Frankfurt: Campus, 2004, pp. 172–76, 188. O. W. v. Amerongen, Der Weg nach Osten. Vierzig Jahre Brückenbau für die Deutsche Wirtschaft, München: Droemer Knaur, 1992, p. 137. This was clear especially during the pipeline embargo; see Rudolph, Wirtschaftsdiplomatie im Kalten Krieg, 2004, pp. 118, 158–59. Rudolph, 2004, p. 117, 296. RGANI, f. 5, op. 40, d. 121, ll. 54–55. RGANI, f. 5, op. 40, d. 98, ll. 9–20. Siemens and AEG participated actively in the work of the IEC; RGANI, f. 5, op. 40, d. 67, l. 59.

82 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Sari Autio-Sarasmo See e.g. Amerongen, Der Weg nach Osten, 1992, p. 77. Rudolph, 2004, p. 121; Amerongen, 1992, p. 83. Amerongen, 1992, pp. 334–35; ARAN, f. 579, op. 13, d.147, ll. 1–15. RGAE, f. 9480, op. 7, d. 805, ll. 7–8, 12. See e.g. RGAE, f. 9480, op. 7, d. 805, ll. 119, 200–203, 204, 205–6. The information included catalogues, advertisements, literature and other published information that was openly accessible. RGAE, f. 9480, op. 7, d. 816, l. 304. See e.g. RGAE, f. 9480, op. 7, d. 816, ll. 74–75, 76, 78. For the West German interest and point of view, see Rudolph, 2004, pp. 116–17. RGAE, f. 9480, op. 7, d. 816, ll. 74–75, 88–89. This was the case with Finland and other Western partners; see RGANI, f. 5, op. 61, d. 59, l. 182. See e.g. Rudolph, 2004, pp. 158–62. See also Amerongen, 1992, pp. 210–11. RGAE, f. 9480, op. 7, d. 805, l. 138; RGAE, f. 9480, op. 7, d. 805, l. 153–54. RGAE, f. 9480, op. 7, d. 805, ll. 404–6; The Krupp enterprise had also sold 20 locomotives to the Soviet Union in 1961 and 1962; Rudolph, 2004, p. 179. RGAE, f. 9480, op. 7, d. 805, ll. 404–6; RGAE, f. 9480, op. 7, d. 816, ll. 74–75, 76, 77. ARAN, f. 579, op. 13, d. 147, ll. 137–40. RGANI, f. 5, op. 61, d. 59, ll. 133–96. A. Wilkens, ‘New Ostpolitik and European integration in the policies in the Brandt era’, in P. Ludlow (ed.), European Integration and the Cold War. OstpolitikWestpolitik, 1965–1973, Routledge, Cold War History series, 2007, p. 72. Rudolph, 2004, p. 296; On the Moscow treaty see e.g. http://www.ena.lu/moscowtreaty-12-august-1970-020302439.html (accessed 16 October 2009); F. Caciagli, ‘The GDR’s targets in the early CSCE process: another missed opportunity to freeze the division of Germany, 1969–73’, in Wenger, Mastny and Nuenlist (eds), Origins of the European Security System. The Helsinki Process Revisited, 1965–75, Routledge, CSS Studies in Security and International Relations, 2008, p. 111. Rudolph, 2004, pp. 294–95, 298–300. RGAE, f. 9480, op. 9, d. 2509 A, l. 18–26. RGAE, f. 9480, op. 9, d. 2509 A, l. 18–26; RGAE, f. 9480, op. 9, d. 1461, ll. 20–28. RGAE, f. 9480, op. 9, d. 1461, ll.29–30. Wilczynski, Technology in COMECON, 1974, p. 113. See also Amerongen, 1992, p. 129. Rudolph, 2004, pp. 302–3; See also RGAE f. 9480, op. 9, d. 1710, ll. 98–111. RGANI, f. 5, op. 66, d. 191, ll. 6–237, especially l. 77. Vneshnyaya torgovlya SSSR 1922–1981; Rudolph, 2004, p. 274. Technology and East–West Trade Report, pp. 12, 27, 155–56, 160, 164, 185, 180–81, 189, 224.

5

Learning from the French The modernization of Soviet winemaking, 1956–61 Jeremy Smith

While vodka has been famed as the alcoholic drink of preference in Russia for centuries, the lands of the former Soviet Union also boast a proud heritage within the global history of winemaking. The Soviet Union’s southern republics of Georgia and Armenia have both laid claim to being the birthplace of wine, with some archaeological evidence supporting these claims.1 In addition to the Southern Caucasus, wines of less renown but in much larger quantities have been produced for centuries in Moldova, Ukraine, Russia itself and Central Asia. The drive to increase the production of Soviet wines in the 1950s led to an increase in vineyard area from 400,000 hectares to 1.1 million hectares by the early 1970s, making it the second largest grape producing country in the world. Partly because a large proportion of these grapes were devoted to the production of raisins, and partly because of low productivity in many regions where vineyards were subject to harsh winters, the actual production of wine was less impressive. But the Soviet Union was still the fifth largest wine producer in the 1970s.2 Towards the end of the Communist period, the Communist countries of Europe were producing between them 16.5 per cent of the world’s total wine, about half of this in the Soviet Union.3 In addition to this heritage, Georgian wine has achieved some notoriety from the more salacious accounts of the later life of Georgia’s most famous son, Iosif Stalin, as well as the Russian embargo on Georgian wine, which was a significant part of the prelude to war between the two countries in 2008. In spite of this, the history of wine in the Soviet Union tends to receive only cursory treatment in general works relating to the history of wine, and has not been subject to any serious scholarly treatment by Western specialists on the Soviet Union. One reason for this neglect is precisely what makes it of interest to this volume: for most of its history, winemaking evolved separately in the southern parts of the Soviet Union from the rest of Europe, and involved completely different techniques. The end products were also distinctive with sweet wines (red and white) predominant, while they are relatively rare in other major wine-producing regions. While a number of European grape varieties were introduced into the Soviet lands at various points in time, a large proportion of vineyards continued to grow grape varieties that were exclusive to this part of the world.

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While Nikita Khrushchev’s occasional pursuit of détente with the West is well understood,4 this is seen mostly in terms of the new challenges posed by nuclear weaponry and the imperial ambitions of the Superpowers during the period in which Khrushchev dominated Soviet politics as First Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) (1953–64). Less well understood is the economic dimension of Khrushchev’s opening to the West. Although confident of the Soviet Union’s military capabilities, Khrushchev was acutely aware of the gap in certain key areas of technology between East and West, and the impact this was having on Soviet domestic production. It was under Khrushchev, as a result, that the pursuit of technology exchange through the Iron Curtain became a systematic aim of Soviet policy. In turning in this direction, Khrushchev was both drawing on the experience of the East European states that had only recently been subjected to Communist takeover, and sending out a signal to those states that existing contacts should be pursued with renewed vigour, and new contacts established. This was therefore a crucial period for the understanding of the redrawing of the Iron Curtain in terms of technology exchange. While rather insignificant in the overall development of international relations and the Soviet economy, the case of Soviet–French cooperation in the wine industry provides an informative case study for the way the transfer of knowledge developed in the 1950s. French and other European wine and especially cognac manufacturers were involved to a limited extent in the industry in the late Tsarist period, but international isolation returned in the early years of the Soviet Union and was even more marked at the beginning of the Cold War. This changed dramatically in the years following Stalin’s death. In the 1950s, Soviet leaders showed a renewed interest in the scale and quality of production of wine in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), including such prominent figures as Anastas Mikoyan and Aleksei Kosygin. As we shall see, the reform of the Soviet wine industry took place within a broader context of increasing scientific and technological contacts with the West. But the special attention shown to wine was motivated in large part by its position as a prestige product, one which was well suited to Khrushchev’s plans to put the achievements of the USSR on display for the world to see. In the case of wine, Soviet achievements could be displayed not only through casual contacts, but could also be demonstrated directly through participation in international competitions. As a part of this process, Soviet winemakers were encouraged to study and learn from practices employed in other wine-making countries, although an even greater emphasis was put on a massive domestic research and development programme. The international dimension of Soviet wine was provided with a further, most likely unforeseen, boost as a result of the Sovnarkhoz reform of 1957 which devolved economic decision making, especially in light industry and consumer products, to the regions of the USSR including the national republics. It was the Soviet republic of Georgia in particular that took advantage of this devolution to seek to position itself as a significant international

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force in winemaking. It was only natural that Georgia should look to the most renowned wine-producing country in Western Europe – France – for ideas as to how the performance of their own wine industry might be improved. As we shall see, a number of circumstances converged to create the opportunity for technology exchange across the Iron Curtain between Georgia and France in the later part of the 1950s. Khrushchev’s opening up of greater contacts with the West, mostly for a variety of specialists, coincided with the new regime of General de Gaulle in France and a pronounced emphasis on the modernization of the Soviet wine industry. This chapter looks at each of these circumstances in turn before examining the actual progress and achievements of contacts between Georgian and French winemakers. This final section of the chapter is based on materials from the principle archives in Georgia as well as those in Moscow and the main Soviet journal of the winemaking industry.

Khrushchev and technology exchange with the West Nikita Khrushchev’s major domestic preoccupation in the mid-1950s was to improve the standard of living of the population of the Soviet Union. The achievements of Soviet technology were vividly demonstrated to an awestruck world with the launch of Sputnik in 1957, a year after a record harvest was announced, thanks largely to the initial successes of Khrushchev’s Virgin Lands campaign. In spite of these successes, however, Khrushchev was continually reminded of, and humiliated by, the extent to which the USSR had fallen behind the USA in terms of basic consumer goods, housing, and transport. American citizens were enjoying a standard of living which, according to Khrushchev’s own convictions, should only be achievable under a socialist system of production. Intensive investment of scientific expertise in the space programme or the mobilization of hundreds of thousands of farmers into the Virgin Lands might indicate the potential that system contained, but deficiencies in basic technology and know-how exposed Soviet workers and farmers to a gap in living standards with the capitalist West, especially the USA, that Khrushchev found increasingly intolerable. Khrushchev viewed advanced technology as the key to moving the USSR’s economic performance beyond the dependence on extensive growth underpinned by the mobilization and redeployment of the country’s most abundant resource – people. This strategy was still evident in the Virgin Lands campaign, but the depopulation caused by the Great Patriotic War and the low birth rates subsequent to it highlighted the immediate need for an alternative way forward. Khrushchev’s obsession with technology as a panacea for all of the Soviet Union’s economic ills is well documented.5 Even the major administrative reforms designed to improve economic performance – in agriculture, the abolition of Machine Tractor Stations and favouring of large state farms at the expense of private plots, and in industry, the decentralization of economic planning – were underpinned by the assumption that technological

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advances would allow the new forms of enterprise to flourish. In agriculture the key technologies focussed on mechanization (tractors, combine harvesters and other machinery) and on fertilizers. While the former was to be based on existing automobile plants enhanced by new technologies, the latter was linked with progress in armaments and space technology through the massive investment in the chemicals industry and chemical research announced at the XX Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in 1956 and the even more ambitious projections of the 1959–65 Seven-Year Plan.6 The imperative to develop and utilize new technology underpinned not just the Seven-Year Plan, but many of Khrushchev’s other post-1957 programmes, including the controversial education reform announced in 1958. This had as its key aim the education of a new generation of Soviet citizens who would have sufficient mastery of computers and other technologies to be able to bring the development of socialism into a new phase.7 In spite of official bravado about the superiority of Soviet science, the value of technology developed outside the borders of the Soviet Union had never been denied in practice. The initial phases of the industrialization drive of the 1930s had been largely dependant on the import of capital goods from Germany, Sweden, Italy, Great Britain and the United States – especially those involving technology not yet available in the Soviet Union. In the postWar years, the East European states in the new Soviet sphere of influence were not only plundered for their plant and equipment, they provided a constant source of high technology machine tools and, in a departure from earlier practice, their scientists and laboratories were redeployed to Soviet territory. Scientific cooperation outside the Soviet bloc was, however, limited. Despite a 1945 pledge by Vyacheslav Molotov to develop ‘closer ties of Soviet science with world science’, almost all contact with foreign scientists, including reporting on research conducted abroad in Soviet science journals, was brought to an end in 1947.8 The thaw in international relations which followed Stalin’s death accelerated the process of greater economic interaction with the West, which had already been evident in the last years of Stalin’s life. The USSR’s exports to Western Europe almost doubled from 174.1 million dollars (all figures are in 1971 dollars) in 1950 to 332.6 million dollars in 1953. The USSR’s imports from Western Europe rose in the same period from 176.1 million dollars to 306.7 million dollars. All of this increase in trade was, however, accounted for by primary goods (raw materials). What changed dramatically under Khrushchev was the increased trade in manufactured products. Here, Soviet exports to Western Europe grew from 34.5 million dollars in 1953 to 76.8 million dollars in 1954, and rose steadily to 243.8 million dollars in 1962. The equivalent figures for Soviet imports of manufactured goods from Western Europe are 199.3 million dollars in 1953, 254.3 million dollars in 1954, and 889.6 million dollars in 1962.9 These increases surpassed those in relation to North America, reinforcing the supposition that greater interaction with Western Europe was a key plank of Soviet foreign policy, as it was

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thought to have the additional advantage of driving a wedge between the USA and its European allies.10 The growth of trade with capitalist states was a key indicator of the possibilities provided by the post-Stalin thaw in East–West relations, but the real key to increasing Soviet productive capacity was the acquisition of technology and know-how. In pursuing this end, Khrushchev departed from Stalin’s policies in two major respects: firstly, agriculture was regarded as an important area of technological development to almost the same degree as industry. Thus the first clear step in the direction of greater interaction with the West in technology development was the establishment of an agricultural exchange programme with the US state of Iowa in 1955.11 Secondly, a far greater degree of personal interaction with foreign states was allowed. On the initiative of the Presidium of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR in June 1954, contacts between Soviet and foreign scientists were reopened.12 The earlier closed policy was formally renounced by a joint resolution of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and the Council of Ministers of the USSR, issued on 28 May 1955. This resolution castigated a number of USSR ministries for their neglect of technology development, but in particular condemned the practice of many ‘[research] institutes spending significant sums on research which has already been published abroad’.13 The results of this reorientation were already evident in 1955, when 739 foreign delegations visited the Soviet Union, compared to only 156 in 1950.14 Travel by Soviet scientists and officials to countries outside the Communist Bloc increased by an even greater extent. Zhores Medvedev describes the cultural shift that this new policy entailed as delegations returned from abroad to publicize the learning they had acquired rather than focussing on the negative aspects of the capitalist lands they had visited, as had been the tendency under Stalin. Medvedev remained scathing of the failure to absorb the lessons of Western science however, largely because the spirit of East–West competitiveness still dominated scientific enquiry: If the Americans construct some establishment for theoretical research which costs 100 million dollars, instead of sending a few dozen scientists to the USA to work in this establishment and constructing something quite different ourselves, we construct one like it, or one somewhat more powerful but on the same principle, for 500 million roubles which will probably be obsolescent even before it is completed.15 While such cynicism was well grounded, it should not lead us to conclude that nothing was achieved through the study of foreign technology. By 1957 the momentum for engaging in foreign technology exchange gained greater impetus for two reasons: the first was the fear engendered by the Hungarian uprising of 1956 that the Soviet population might, too, take to the streets if living standards continued to be held back (as well as political freedom). The second was Khrushchev’s victory over the ‘anti-Party Group’ which

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secured his unshackled personal authority and left him a free hand to pursue his own agenda. The one long-standing CPSU stalwart to survive the affair and retain some influence over Khrushchev was Anastas Mikoyan, who had long been a champion of the Soviet consumer. By this stage, the exchange of scientific and other delegations had become the standard mechanism for the acquisition of foreign technology and know-how. One of the most successful examples of this approach resulted from trips by delegations of architects and engineers to Sweden to examine Swedish housing developments. These exchanges resulted in the blueprints for the famous Khrushchevki apartment blocks which underpinned the massive housing programme launched within weeks of the defeat of the anti-Party Group in 1957.16 The greater confidence in the Soviet Union’s ability to enter world markets on equal terms, demonstrated by the dramatic increase in exports of manufactured goods, was also reflected in another area that is of relevance to the development of the Soviet wine industry: international competition. Khrushchev’s continual boasts that the USSR could surpass the USA and other capitalist countries were manifestly empty when it came to the economy, but a convincing illusion of superiority could be maintained by engaging in direct competition in specific areas. The most expensive of these was the space race, where the success of Sputnik was followed in 1961 by Yuri Gagarin’s first manned space flight. A more direct form of competition came in athletics and other sports, where Soviet success at the 1956 Melbourne Olympics provided another propaganda victory for Communism over capitalism. As we shall see, Soviet entry for a short period into international wine competitions represented an attempt to establish international credentials in a more sophisticated area of achievement.

The Soviet wine industry and relations with France While of limited economic significance, the Soviet wine industry provides an interesting case study for the development of technology exchange between the USSR and the West in the Khrushchev years for a number of reasons. Unlike in other areas, especially those related to the high technology defence and engineering industries, the sector was not subject to sensitivity, secrecy, or a desire on the part of the USSR not to reveal the actual size of its technology deficit. The differences in techniques and nature between Caucasian and West European wines meant that contacts with the West could be pursued on the basis of a mutual exchange of knowledge without involving the embarrassing admission that Soviet technology and products were inferior to those produced in capitalist countries. Although the wines were different in character, they could be compared at international competitions and the best Soviet wines were shown to be equal or superior to those of the most famous winemaking regions of Europe. By the mid-1950s economic reconstruction in the aftermath of the devastating impact of Hitler’s armies could be said to be complete in some of the

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most important industries and infrastructures, but the repopulation of vineyards destroyed in the course of war in the other main winemaking regions of the USSR – Moldova and Ukraine – had not been a priority. Thus the opportunity was now presented to rebuild an entire sector based on progressive techniques and technologies. The fact that the Moldavian SSR and western Ukraine consisted of territory annexed from Romania and Poland meant that links with other Eastern Bloc winemakers, especially Romanian and Hungarian, were already strong. Showing off the quality of Soviet wines not only provided international bragging rights, but was also in line with the leadership’s message that the needs of the Soviet consumer were now being accorded priority. Finally, unlike many industries and agricultural sectors, the dominant player in global terms was not the USA, but France. France became the major focus of exchange activity in winemaking in the 1950s, although smaller countries like Belgium and especially non-aligned countries like Switzerland and Austria also received some attention in line with the USSR’s policy of dealing with neutral countries in an effort to widen the cracks in the NATO-led CoCom embargo.17 The collapse of the Fourth French Republic in 1958 provided the USSR with an opportunity to test out its new stance of cooperation and openness with a country whose relationship with the Soviet regime had been ambiguous and shifting since 1917. Links between the aristocracy and intellectuals and high levels of lending and investment in Tsarist Russia meant that France felt the impact of the Russian Revolution more than any other major power. Throughout the 1920s France remained the most implacable opponent of Soviet power. This shifted with a change of government in 1936 presenting Stalin with his first chance to support a Popular Front policy. Although Soviet–French contacts were at a minimum during the war, the allied victory had cemented the new relationship between the victorious European powers. Nevertheless the relationship strained under a certain tension underpinned by the fact that the French Communist Party was the largest in the West. Although France was a NATO member, de Gaulle suspended active participation in 1959 allowing him to pursue an independent path in international affairs. This opened up an opportunity for the Soviet Union to woo a major power, and France became an especial focus for Soviet efforts at détente, as well as an attractive target for attempts to divide the West. Although ideologically opposed, it was convenient for both the French and the Soviets to develop closer ties towards the end of the 1950s.

Modernizing Soviet winemaking Thus it was against a background of a shifting international scene, a conviction that technology provided the way forward for economic development, a renewed emphasis on consumption and standards of living, and a desire to show off Soviet achievements both to the citizens of the USSR and internationally that the modernization of the Soviet wine industry was embarked

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on. The poor performance of the sector since 1945 cannot be accounted for only by the war damage suffered in the western republics. According to published statistics, the area devoted to vineyards for the whole USSR fell from 425,000 hectares in 1940 to 378,000 hectares in 1953.18 Productivity was also poor and the subject of numerous complaints in the late 1940s, as was the quality of Soviet wines. The response to this was mostly administrative, an attitude that lasted at least through to March 1954. Then, an instruction of the Ministry of Economy of Food Products of the USSR warned against ‘serious shortcomings in work with cadres in the wine industry’, employing typical Stalinist language about the lack of discipline and Communist education being at the root of the problems experienced by the sector. In a sign of things to come, however, this instruction also detailed measures ‘to liquidate technical backwardness in the wine industry’.19 Evidently, and again in typical late Stalinist fashion, the solution to shortages in the stock of grape vines was to import stock from the new satellite states of Eastern Europe. This approach came under attack in the summer of 1955, when a series of entreaties on the part of the leading Communist party and state bodies of the Ukrainian and Moldavian republics to import large amounts of vine stocks from Bulgaria, Romania and Hungary was repeatedly denied by the Soviet Ministry of Trade and Council of Ministers, citing the proliferation of disease among the vines of those countries.20 By that time, Mikoyan and Kosygin had already taken in hand the reform of the winemaking industry. As a part of that process, the official Soviet wine tasters had concluded in February 1955 that ‘wines prepared from imported materials did not have sufficient character’.21 The practice of drawing on the resources of the satellite states to make up for shortcomings in the Soviet domestic economy had had its day. In line with the philosophy of Khrushchev and his supporters, economic success was to be achieved by two closely related strategies: increased deployment of new technologies, and the advance of technology through increased investment in technological research and closer relations with the international technological-scientific community. The new, technology-based approach was confirmed for the wine industry in a memo to Kosygin from the Deputy Minister for the Economy of Consumer Goods, M. Makhinya, on 22 June 1955, in which the emphasis was on improving basic techniques over questions like storage of grapes and longer term measures based on technological development.22 That the wine industry was being singled out for special attention was confirmed by a resolution of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union of 30 June 1956 ‘for the improvement of production and state deliveries of fruits, berries and grapes’. The emphasis of this resolution was on the mechanization of the industry, with contracts arising for the supply of tractors and specialized machinery for use in vineyards. Fertilizers and insecticides were also to be more widely used.23 The output of wine was set to rise by 2.8 times between 1957 and 1965, and it was clear that foreign technology was to play an important part in this. Unfavourable comparisons

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were made with the developing wine industries of France, Italy and Argentina. Envious eyes were cast towards France, where automated production lines were capable of bottling 1,500–503,000 bottles of wine every hour.24 This new direction was clearly reflected in the pages of the principle journal of the Soviet wine industry, Vinodelie i vinogradarstvo SSSR. From the mid-1950s this journal grew in length and frequency, and developed from a rather anodyne presentation of micro-techniques in viticulture and wine preparation, celebrations of the successes of state vineyards, and latest findings on the treatment of disease. From 1955 onwards there was a clear emphasis on the mechanization of viticulture and winemaking and the use of new techniques and technologies at all stages of the industry. Initial interest was on the development and deployment of tractors and specially adapted agricultural machinery in the vineyards themselves. Later in the decade, however, more and more attention was paid to the processes of grape fermentation, storage, bottling and other techniques, with mechanization being the watchword. Elaborate new techniques for creating sparkling wines were a particular obsession.25 At the same time, but especially from 1957 onwards, Vinodelie i vinogradarstvo SSSR turned its attention to winemaking practices in other countries. At first, the emphasis was on the East European Communist states, but major articles were also devoted to Switzerland, Austria, Belgium, France and the New World. The bulk of the articles devoted to these countries focussed on the nature of wines produced, their qualities and the quantity of wine production, as well as potted histories. But they also paid some attention to techniques and technologies, with some recommendations as to what lessons could be learnt for Soviet winemaking. Belgium and Holland were held up as examples of how grapes could be grown in greenhouses in cooler climates, and where especial attention was paid to the production and storage of edible and seedless grapes, with lessons for Turkmenistan, Western Georgia, and the Crimean shoreline.26 From France, great admiration was expressed for the use of specially designed Derot Teknoma tractors and Doisselet cultivators.27 Accounts of winemaking in other countries had a similar focus on the science and application of mechanized methods in the industry.

The Georgian wine industry in the 1950s Given the concentration of Soviet winemaking in the non-Russian republics of Moldova, Ukraine and Georgia, the industry was especially affected by the Sovnarkhoz reform of 1957, which decentralized economic decision making to some extent and handed control over the economy within the parameters set by the central plan to regional Sovnarkhozy, which outside Russia came under republican control. When the 1955 policy of greater international cooperation in technology was combined with the 1957 Sovnarkhoz reform, it had the probably unanticipated effect of encouraging the republics to

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conduct their own limited forms of international relations. In the case of winemaking, it was the Soviet republic of Georgia that took the lead. The Georgian wine industry was under particular pressure in the late 1950s, with a mandate under the Seven-Year Plan to double both the planting of vineyards and the output of wine.28 The frustrations of the more centralized planning system were still evident in a 1957 request from the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Georgia to the authorities in Moscow (apparently ignored) for a further 250 KD-35 tractors to be ordered from a factory in Romania in order to meet the plan requirements for planting a further 23,000 hectares of vines.29 But by then, Georgia had already taken its own steps to seek technological advancement from abroad, with a visit in May 1957 by the Georgian Deputy Minister of Agriculture Ivan Khokhlov to Austria to study the uses of mechanization on mountain slopes. Among other things, he was particularly impressed by a new type of vineyard pruners which he witnessed in Graz, half the size of those that were used in the Soviet Union. He also noted the existence of an Agricultural High School for Gardening and Viticulture.30 Further high level visits followed, such as one to the USA in 1960 to carry out a study of agricultural techniques there.31

Georgian–French technology exchange in the wine industry But it appears that the groundwork for technology exchange with France over winemaking had already been made, and had come about more or less by accident. On 19–20 September 1955, a delegation of members of the French parliament visited Georgia. The delegation was led by the President of the Assemblé Nationale Pierre Schneiter, who happened to be a winemaker himself. Over the two days of their visit, the delegates tasted a number of Georgian wines and champagnes. For the most part their impressions were positive – the Chkhaveri was singled out by Schneiter for especial praise, while defects were pointed out in the Mukuzani. The delegates pointed out the different qualities of Georgian champagne compared to French, and Schneiter remarked that the ingredients of Georgian champagne ‘did not have sufficient aroma’. This did not, however, seem to affect the quality of table wines. In fact when asked, the French delegates offered the opinion that Georgian wines could well be exported and, in terms of quality, compete with French wines in world markets. Although the remarks were generally positive and were confined to the tasting of the final wine products, officials of the Georgian Ministry for Production of Consumer Goods who organized the tastings drew broad conclusions about the organization of the industry and the operation of particular enterprises. Finally, the French Communist parliamentary deputy André Merse proposed that a delegation of French wine specialists should visit the Soviet Union, and was especially keen for Georgian winemakers to visit wine establishments in France.32 It appears to have taken until 1958 for this exchange to materialize, with a group of 23 winemaking specialists from Georgia making the trip to the

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French vineyards of Bordeaux, Burgundy, Champagne and Cognac.33 A follow-up trip was made in October 1960 to cover the Château Haut-Brion and Château la Mission Haut-Brion estates in Bordeaux, Moët et Chandon Champagne and Hennessy Cognac which it had not been possible to include in the first trip.34 The Soviet delegation noted a number of differing practices on this trip, including the cost-saving use of crown caps rather than natural cork for champagne, the effect of oak barrels on cognac, and the employment of mechanized processes in bottling, corking and labelling. The Soviets were particularly impressed by the pooling of resources among Bordeaux winemakers in cooperative businesses for the recycling of the by-products of winemaking into ethyl alcohol, oil, fertilizers, a base for tartaric acid, and fuel.35 At a meeting with the leading French wine specialist and a pioneer of wine microbiology, Jean Ribéreau-Gayon of Bordeaux University, the Soviet delegation discussed the use of different acids for stabilizing wine and other aspects of the professor’s research. Perhaps to the chagrin of the advocates of mechanization, the published report of the Soviet delegation noted Ribéreau-Gayon’s opinion that for the highest quality wines, manual processes in fermentation were still necessary. The professor looked forward to further collaboration and scientific exchanges between Soviet and French winemakers.36 Another group of 23 Georgian wine specialists made a more extended journey through France from 23 June to 4 August 1961. The itinerary for this trip suggests that the specialists were not averse to using the occasion for purposes beyond exchange of ideas over winemaking. In addition to the winemaking regions of Bordeaux, Charentes, Burgundy and Champagne, they visited Paris, Orleans, Tours, Poitiers, Ruffec, Périgeux, Limoges, Montluçon, Moulins, Neufchâteau, and Verdun. While some of these cities have winemaking connections and the visit to Verdun was justified by the wish to express solidarity with victims of the great imperialist war, others were of purely historic and touristic interest. The proliferation of scientific exchange travel after 1955 did, naturally, provide a new experience for citizens whose opportunities for travel had been severely restricted, and the suspicion lingers that a place on such a trip was a highly valued prize. The report of this delegation to the Central Committee of the Georgian Communist Party, under whose auspices they travelled, contained a thorough historical account of winemaking in France, the characteristics of different wines and wine regions, and details of practices and techniques.37 They also provided an instructive list of 21 recommendations for the winemaking industry in Georgia. The recommendation to increase the specific gravity of red wine by extending planting of specific types of Georgian red grape shows their readiness to adapt the lessons of their travels to the particular conditions in Georgia, but in other respects they drew directly and enthusiastically on what they had witnessed in France: grapes for champagne should be pressed in whole bunches as in Champagne, wines should be matured in

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oak barrels and cognac left to age in ventilated storerooms, while champagne should be left in bottles for three to four years, as they were in France. Grapes should be transported in small baskets to avoid damage and so on. Concern over sloppy practices which affected the quality of wine was expressed, with insistence that existing rules on leaving grapes to mature fully before picking and rules on the immediate sorting of grapes after collection be enforced more strictly, that the practice of leaving fermentation vats in the open air should be ended immediately, that wine should be transported only in bottles and not in barrels, and that only high quality ingredients should be used in making cognac. How far practices in Georgia varied from those in France was highlighted in a number of recommendations of an experimental nature: the planting of trellised vineyards, using sealed vats with a submerged cap for certain wines as was the custom in Bordeaux, securing barrels with wooden hoops and storing empty barrels under cover to prolong their useful life, and using concrete vats with controlled temperatures for more ordinary wines. Partial mechanization figured prominently, with requests made to adapt SSh-20G tractors for fertilizing vines, to make sticky labels as a step towards mechanical bottle labelling, and the wider use of thermostatic controls and pneumatic presses. A further recommendation was to create ornamental bottles, as was common in cognac. More wide-reaching changes were envisaged with the recommendation to concentrate the production of wine in large enterprises and make greater use of blending. The argument here was that large establishments producing varying quality of wine could, by blending them, ensure that each label would have similar characteristics year after year. In the interests of higher quality, the body that oversaw wine production in Georgia, Samtrest, should establish a separate body to take care of secondary wine production (processing, aging, bottling and transportation of wine).38 It is notable that while some of the measures recommended by these specialists were aimed at reducing costs, none of them addressed any increase in production of wine or cognac. The emphasis was on improving quality. The tone of these recommendations suggests that, in spite of the reassurances of Schneiter’s 1955 delegation, it was generally assumed that Georgian wines, champagne and cognac were of an inferior quality to those produced in France. The emphasis on quality rather than quantity for this particular product was at least partly in tune with Khrushchev’s general aspirations for the economy, and the adaptation of technologically advanced Western techniques and the wider use of machinery to improve production was exactly what the post-1955 emphasis on international scientific exchange was aimed at.

Soviet wines in international competition The international exposure of Soviet winemaking became even more pronounced with the Soviet Union entering some of its best wines into international competitions. The main regular international competition in the

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Communist bloc took place in the Yugoslav city of Ljubljana, where Soviet wines were entered in 1955, 1957 and 1958. In 1958 Moscow hosted its own competition, and in the same year Soviet wines competed in Brussels and Budapest, in Budapest again in 1960, and in Erfurt in 1961.39 Although the Belgian competition was the only one held outside the Communist bloc, French, German and Italian wines were also entered in all of these competitions. At Ljubljana in 1955 Soviet wines won nine gold, 36 silver and eight bronze medals.40 By 1957 the performance improved to 25 gold and 30 silver medals, finishing ahead of the major West European competitors including France, Italy, Austria, Spain and West Germany.41 It is unlikely, however, that the best West European wines were entered in these competitions, and when Moscow hosted its own contest results were disappointing, with only a haul of silver medals to boast about. At the time of the Ljubljana success, the judges noted that even the victorious Soviet wines had grave defects and displayed extremely high acidity.42 Although the policy of modernizing and improving the wine industry and showing it off to the world applied to the Soviet Union as a whole, there is also some evidence of internal competition between Soviet republics. Georgia in particular proved keen to promote its own wine industry, which formed a substantial proportion of its relatively small economy. This became especially marked following the decentralizing measures of the 1957 Sovnarkhoz reform. As well as taking the lead in sending delegations to France, in 1958 Georgia set up its own centralized production base.43 Records of both international competitions and internal Soviet wine reviews held in Georgian archives show that especial significance was attached to the performance of Georgian wines in comparison to those produced in other Soviet republics.44

The Tbilisi Wine Congress of 1962 The most significant achievement of Georgia in this regard was the success of its offer to host the X Congress of the International Bureau of Vines and Wines in 1962, which was approved by the Central Committee of the CPSU in May 1960. The Soviets saw this as an opportunity to show off developments in their own wine industry, including the preparation of table wines, the cultivation of grapes, new measures to combat vine diseases and so on.45 The event was attended by 210 foreign and a similar number of Soviet wine specialists from about 39 countries from 13 to 18 September 1962, at a total cost of over 100,000 roubles. The largest overseas delegation (62) by some way came from France. Opening the Congress, the Chairman of the Georgian Council of Ministers Georgi Dzhavakhishvili, expressed the hope that the Congress would ‘help strengthen relations between peoples, creating an atmosphere of practical collaboration, and broadening scientific and cultural links’.46 The delegates visited vineyards, scientific institutes, and winemaking enterprises in Georgia and the Crimea, which were carefully

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prepared in advance. After the close of the Congress, some delegates were able to travel to other winemaking parts of the USSR, including Armenia, the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic (RSFSR), and Uzbekistan. In Georgia, tastings of 40 wines and six cognacs were organized, and a further 20 local wines were tasted in the Crimea. Each delegate was able to depart with a gift of five miniatures of different wines.47 The programme of the Congress provides clues as to how the Soviets were trying to present their own place in winemaking to the rest of the world. Alongside the more obvious topics on viticulture and the combat of disease, there was a separate session on ‘the mechanization of vines according to different methods of cultivation’, one on ‘the history of viticulture in the USSR’, and several sessions devoted to the latest and future technological developments in viticulture and winemaking.48 At this Congress it is almost as if we can see in microcosm what the Khrushchev project stood for – economic progress based on technology development, an improving quality of life for the Soviet citizen, and a renewed standing in the world based on the history and achievements of the USSR. There is no real way of assessing how great the impact of international contacts and the exchange of technologies was on the Soviet winemaking industry. Nor is it possible to provide any authoritative comment on any improvement in the quality of Soviet wines. What is clear is that the wine industry underwent some radical changes from the mid-1950s. The overall area devoted to vines in the USSR actually fell from 425,000 hectares in 1940 to 342,000 hectares in 1950, but then grew rapidly to 1,046,000 hectares by 1960.49 Output of wine rose even more rapidly, from 197,000,000 litres in 1940 to 1,340,000,000 in 1965, and continuing to rise to 2,680,000,000 litres by 1970, whereafter it levelled off.50 The production of champagne also accelerated during the 1960s, from 370,000,000 litres at the beginning of the decade to 867,000,000 litres at the end.51 Two things had clearly had an impact: the application of new technologies in viticulture increased the annual grape harvest, exaggerating the effect of the overall expansion of vineyards. Secondly, the industry was taken extremely seriously, and was frequently addressed at the highest levels of the CPSU and the Soviet Council of Ministers. The wine industry was never that important in economic terms, but it did embody some of the key values of the Khrushchev era: consumption growth, improvements in quality as well as quantity, development and application of new technology in an area that was dominated by tradition, and the spirit of peaceful coexistence in a world of competing ideologies. The willingness of the Soviet leaders and winemakers to study and learn from the rest of the world was of extreme importance when it came to high technology areas such as plastics and computers, but it was precisely in those sectors that technology transfer was restricted. The less significant area of winemaking, as well as providing an opportunity for the Soviet Union to show off its civilized credentials, can be seen as a model for how the Soviet Union would have liked to have engaged in technology exchange more broadly during the Khrushchev era.

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Nikita Khrushchev’s vision of a thriving economy driven by the most advanced technology and techniques employed abroad, with the advantages a rationally planned economy could bring to the application of those technologies, was shared by Soviet winemakers, especially those from Georgia. The primary concern of delegations which visited France between 1958 and 1961 was to learn from the foremost winemakers of the world how to apply technology in order to provide a high and consistent quality of wine production. To achieve these aims, however, would have required considerable investment and the patience to wait several years for results. Perhaps perversely, the planned economy, whether in its decentralized Sovnarkhoz or centralized Gosplan-led version, was not suited to such long-term investment, especially in consumer industries. The pressure to meet plan targets year on year and to prioritize quantity over quality led, in the opinion of many Georgians even today, to a significant lowering of standards in the output of Georgian wine during the years of Eduard Shevardnadze’s leadership in the Republic. Ultimately, the imperatives of growth and targets outweighed other aspirations. But Khrushchev had hoped and believed that the application of advanced technology would mean that quality and quantity could be achieved simultaneously. The experience of the wine industry shows that specialists shared those aspirations and embraced the opportunity to learn from their peers in capitalist countries.

Notes 1 Simon Kabysh, ‘Caucasian wines: a survey of viticulture and wine-making’, Caucasian Review no.6, 1958, 69–78, p. 69. 2 Ron S. Jackson, Wine Science: Principles, Practice, Perception (2nd edn), San Diego and London: Academic Press, 2000, p. 522. 3 Kym Anderson, The World’s Wine Markets: Globalization at Work, London: Edward Elgar, 2005, p. 19. 4 See Aleksandr Fursenko and Timothy Naftali, Khrushchev’s Cold War: The Inside Story of an American Adversary, New York and London: W. W. Norton, 2006. 5 Sergei N. Khrushchev, Nikita Khrushchev and the Creation of a Superpower, Philadelphia: Pennsylvania University Press, 2000, pp. 214–17; Nikita Khrushchev, Khrushchev Remembers: The Last Testament (transl. by Strobe Talbott), Boston: Little, Brown and co., 1974, p. 54. 6 Ronald Amann, ‘The Soviet chemicalization drive and the problem of innovation’ in Ronald Amann and Julian Cooper (eds), Industrial Innovation in the Soviet Union, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982, p. 147. 7 Jeremy Smith, ‘Khrushchev and the path to modernization through education’ in Markku Kangaspuro and Jeremy Smith (eds), Modernization in Russia since 1900, Helsinki: SKS, 2006, pp. 221–36. 8 David Holloway, ‘Science, technology and modernity’ in Ronald Grigor Suny (ed.), The Cambridge History of Russia, volume III: The Twentieth Century, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006, 549–78, p. 563. 9 Paul Marer, Soviet and East European Foreign Trade, 1946–1969: Statistical Compendium and Guide, Bloomington and London: Indiana University Press, 1972, pp. 224, 232.

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10 Ted Hopf, ‘Moscow’s foreign policy, 1945–2000: identities, institutions and interests’ in Suny (ed.) The Cambridge History, 662–705, p. 676. 11 Fursenko and Naftali, Khrushchev’s Cold War, p. 236. 12 Konstantin Ivanov, ‘Science after Stalin: forging a new image of Soviet science’, Science in Context, 15 (2), 2002, 317–38, pp. 322–23. 13 ‘Postanovlenie TsK KPSS i Soveta Ministrov SSSR ob ulushcheniya dela izucheniya i vnedriaya v narodnoe khozyaistvo opyta i sdostizhenii peredovoi otechestvennoi i zarubezhnoi nauki i tekhniki’ 28 May 1955, KPSS v rezoliutsiyakh, Moscow: Izdatel’stvo politicheskoy literatury, 1986, p. 505. 14 Ted Hopf, Social Construction of International Politics: Identities and Foreign Policies, Moscow, 1955 and 1999, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2002, p. 96. 15 Zhores A. Medvedev, National Frontiers and International Scientific Co-operation, Nottingham: Spokesman Books, 1975, pp. 118–19. 16 Mark B. Smith, ‘Khrushchev’s promise to eliminate the urban housing shortage: rights, rationality and the communist future’ in Melanie Ilic and Jeremy Smith (eds), Soviet State and Society under Nikita Khrushchev, London: Routledge, 2009, pp. 31–32. 17 See Niklas Jensen-Eriksen’s chapter in this volume. 18 Narodnoe khozyaistvo SSSR v 1961 godu: statisticheskii ezhegodnik, Moscow: Gosstatizdat, 1962, p. 376. 19 Georgian State Archive [hereafter GSA], fond 1909, opis 1, del 1772, ll. 1–12. 20 Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Rossiskoy Federatsii [hereafter GARF] f. 5446, op. 89, d. 1010, ll. 80–87. 21 GARF f. 5446, op. 89, d. 855, l. 122. 22 GARF f. 5446, op. 89, d. 856, ll. 78–80. 23 Kabysh, ‘Caucasian wines’, Caucasian Review no.6, 1958, p. 78. 24 A. F. Kharitonov, ‘Perspektivi razvitiya vinodel’cheskoy promishlennosti na 1959–65 gg.’, Vinodelie i vinogradarstvo SSSR no.6, 1958, p. 5. 25 e.g. A. B. Zhurin, ‘Bystree vnedryat’ novuyu tekhniku v vinogradarstvo’, Vinodelie i vinogradarstvo SSSR no.2, 1958, pp. 1–3; A. F. Kharitonov, Perspektivy razvitiya vinodel’cheskoi promyshlennosti na 1959–65 gg.’, ibid. no. 6, 1958, pp. 1–8; A. Brusilovskii, ‘Avtomatizatsiya kontrolya i regulirovaniya protsessov nepreryvnoi shampanizatsii vina’, ibid. no. 5, 1959, pp. 1–6. 26 A. M. Negrul, ‘Vinograd v teplitsakh Bel’gii i Gollandii’, Vinodelie i vinogradarstvo SSSR no. 3, 1958, pp. 42–46. 27 A. S. Gorchavenko, ‘Vinogradarstvo Frantsii’, Vinodelie i vinogradarstvo SSSR no. 4, 1960, pp. 42–46. 28 D. E. Tabidze and G. E. Veridze, ‘Gruzinskaya SSR’, Vinodelie i vinogradarstvo SSSR no. 8, 1957, p. 9. 29 Party Archives, Georgian filial (Partarkhiv Gruzinskogo filial IML pri TsK KPSS) [hereafter PGFIML], f. 14, op. 33, d. 303, ll. 3, 36. The archive is currently housed under the III Section of the Archival Administration of the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Georgia. 30 PGFIML, f. 14, d. 354, op. 34, ll. 1–10. 31 PGFIML, f. 14, op. 36, d. 415. 32 GARF f. 5446, op. 90, d. 610, ll. 92–98. 33 GSA f. 1909, op. 1, d. 1580, ll. 1–3. 34 N. V. Osipov, ‘Na vinodel’cheskikh predpriyatiyakh Frantsii’, Vinodelie i vinogradarstvo SSSR no.2 (201), 1961, p. 16. 35 Ibid, pp. 16–17. 36 Ibid. p. 18. 37 PGFIML, f. 14, op. 37. d. 455, ll. 1–31. 38 Ibid, ll. 28–30. The definition of secondary wine production is taken from

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39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

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A. G. Nedelko, English–Russian and Russian–English Dictionary of Viticulture, Wine and Spirits, Moscow: Russo, 2005, p. 268. GSA f. 1909, op. 1, d. 1921; E. M.Tartakovskii, ‘X Mezhdunarodnyi congress po vinogradarstvu i vinodeliyu v Tbilisi’, Vinodelie i vinogradarstvo SSSR no. 7, 1962, p. 1. Anon, ‘Sovetskaya vinodel’skaya promyshlennost’ za sorok let’, Vinodelie i vinogradarstvo SSSR no. 7, 1957, p. 7. Kabysh, ‘Caucasian wines’, Caucasian Review no. 6, 1958, p. 78. Ibid. GSA f. 1793, op. 1, d. 334, l. 3. GSA f. 1909, op. 1, d. 1775; d. 1992. GARF f. 5446, op. 95, d. 760, ll. 36–39. ‘X Mezhdynarodniy congress po vinogradarstvu I vinodeliiu v Tbilisi’, Vinodelie i vinogradarstvo SSSR no. 8, 1962, p. 2. GARF f. 5446, op. 96, d. 734, ll. 113–16. GARF f. 5446, op. 96, d. 734, ll. 117–19. Narodnoe khozyaistvo SSSR v 1970 g.: statisticheskii ezhegodnik, Moscow: 61 Statistika, 1971, p. 335. Narodnoe khozyaistvo SSSR v 1975 g.: statisticheskii ezhegodnik, Moscow: Statistika, 1976, p. 297. Narodnoe khozyaistvo SSSR za 70 let, Moscow: Finansyi i statistika, 1987, p. 272.

6

Soft contacts through the Iron Curtain Riikka Nisonen-Trnka

The first practicable soft lens was developed by the Czechoslovak chemist Otto Wichterle (1913–98) at the turn of the 1950s and 1960s. In 1965, the Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences sold the licence for the patent of the invention and its manufacturing to the United States. In 1982, The Economist described the case of the soft contact lens as one of the ‘most celebrated east-to-west transfers of technology’.1 Historians of the Cold War period have commonly referred to transfers either as transfers of ideas within the socialist bloc, such as the Soviet Union exporting its models of political organization to Eastern Europe, or transfers of ideas and technologies from West to East. From both perspectives the smaller East European countries have been viewed as receivers.2 Such an approach perpetuates the stereotypical picture of the Cold War whereby socialist countries are associated almost exclusively with poor quality products and with the borrowing or theft of Western innovations. As Karen Johnson Freeze put it: ‘The crumbling infrastructures and environmental degradation revealed after 1989 made it difficult to believe that the educational level in these countries, especially in science and technology (regardless of their prewar level of development), had been very high.’3 This chapter discusses a case of an East-to-West transfer of an innovation which was produced in a small socialist country, attracted the attention of American businessmen, and went on to revolutionize the contact lens industry worldwide. It is a historical fact that the number of East–West transfers of technology was low. An in-depth study of one of the few examples of such transfers can help us not only to understand why East–West transfers were rare, but also to identify and examine those factors that did occasionally enable successful East–West transfers to take place. More broadly, when placed in context against the background of the Cold War, this act of transfer can be seen as a manifestation of continuous cooperation between the two competing world systems. The production of the soft lens was a result of the cooperation of these two worlds. The role of individuals – of the inventor and his colleagues – is a crucial part of the soft contact lens success story. Developments in Czechoslovak society, economy and in the scientific sphere in the late 1950s and 1960s

Soft contacts through the Iron Curtain 101 created frameworks within which the transfer became possible. But, as the end of the story in the 1970s and 1980s illustrates, ultimately, individual agency was dependent on the prevailing political climate. Accordingly, by the time The Economist appraised the transfer in 1982, the Czechoslovak state had given up the rights to the invention, and the inventor, who had actively taken part in the Prague Spring, had become persona non grata in his home country. Otto Wichterle was a chemist with a ‘bourgeois’ background. Due to his roots, he did not and probably could not have joined the Communist Party despite the fact that as a student in the 1930s, he had been a supporter of left-wing politics.4 The story of the lens and its inventor illustrates the complicated and inseparable relation between pragmatism and ideology and the struggle between political and practical economic aims. Approaching the case both at the state level and the individual level and setting it within a transnational context makes it possible to reveal the complexity of political, economic and scientific motives attached to the transfer. In addition, this article analyses the practices ‘behind the scenes’ – in particular, the possible impact of Otto Wichterle’s bargaining and networking skills on the successful transfer of the lens. Wichterle’s role as an individual – his actions, improvisation skills and persistence, as well as his ability to construct and exploit networks – are amongst the most important elements discussed in this case study. In today’s Czech Republic the fact that the soft lens was a Czechoslovak innovation is well-known: its inventor has been the subject of a documentary film5 and many articles. Yet the case has not been subjected to detailed historical analysis to date. This article is based mainly on archival materials held in the archives of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic and the National Archives of the Czech Republic. The analysis, which combines archival materials with autobiographies and interviews, offers a fresh approach to the history of technology.

From hobby to business The invention of the first soft contact lens was assisted by several coincidences and the timing was important. In 1952, on a train between Olomouc and Prague, Otto Wichterle, a university professor at the time, observed a fellow passenger. The latter, who turned out to be an ophthalmologist working for the health ministry commission, was reading about metal implants for eyeball replacement. The two fell into conversation, and Wichterle suggested that it would be better to make such parts from hydrophilic organic polymers that would blend better with the rest of the eye. He mentioned the possibility of using cross-linked polymers,6 which were unknown at that time. Wichterle did not yet have such material, but was sure that he could synthesize some. He also mentioned plans for his department to start investigating a class of polymers called hydrophilic, or water-loving, gels. In Czechoslovakia, research on hydrogels had begun to develop in the 1940s and 1950s, but at this stage

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there was still no specialized institution pursuing basic research in polymer science.7 As it turned out, Wichterle’s idea about pursuing research on hydrogels did not meet with approval at the Technical University’s Institute of Chemical Technology, where Wichterle worked at the time. Ironically, the opportunity to start research on hydrogels presented itself after Wichterle and his colleague Drahoslav Lím were dismissed from the Technical University in the political purges of 1958 – an attempt by the party to authenticate its power after the uprisings in Hungary and Poland in 1956.8 Although Wichterle was not a party member himself, he did have access to the higher echelons of power. His peer and a former fellow-student, Frantisˇek Sˇ orm (1913–80) – the two had been amongst the very best in their class – had held an important position in the Academy since the beginning of his career, and in 1962 he was chosen as its president. Sˇ orm was also a member of the Central Committee of the Czechoslovak Communist Party, and had a great deal of say in scientific matters. It was only natural that Sˇ orm, a prominent biochemist himself and an active communist, should have promoted the position of chemical sciences in Czechoslovakia. His role did not go unnoticed in the West either.9 In 1959, Wichterle was assigned a leading role in the establishment of the Institute of Macromolecular Chemistry10 within the Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences. At the institute, he continued his research on the polymerization of lactams. The government supported his research with a considerable sum of money. This support made it possible for the institute to purchase new modern equipment.11 In the brand-new institute, Wichterle and his colleagues, Drahoslav Lím in particular, continued their research on hydrogels. Lím played a crucial role in developing the material, which was known as polyHEMA (hydroxyethyl methacrylate). The results of the work on the first samples of hydrogels were published in Nature in 1960,12 and they attracted the attention of scientists worldwide.13 The invention of the material was the first step; but at this stage it was still unclear how exactly it could be used to produce lenses. Wichterle was firmly convinced that the material could be used in optics.14 In Wichterle’s own words, he knew nothing about lenses before inventing them. The optical industry in Czechoslovakia was not well-developed at the time. According to Wichterle, the ‘poor years’ of this period motivated him in his search for something new. Wichterle himself later described these challenges as an advantage – it was precisely during this period that he made a number of discoveries which would prove to be crucial in his later enterprise.15 Work on the lens was complicated by manifold obstacles. As far as the realization of production was concerned, the main problem was that Wichterle was working within the Academy of Sciences. There was a clear organizational separation of basic and applied research in Czechoslovakia: the Academy of Sciences was responsible for basic research, and the pursuit of applied research was against the rules.16 However, Wichterle and his colleagues managed to carry out some research outside the institution. In 1959 they achieved good results for the practical use of the lens on patients in an eye clinic. Mass

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production was still not possible, but positive results indicated potential for further developing a technique for the production of soft contact lenses.17 However, the state experts did not believe in the potential of the lens. Heavy industry was prioritized at the time, and it is not surprising, therefore, that the idea of producing small lenses did not fit into the future perspective of socialist policy in the 1950s.18 Without support from the state to enable development of the lens technology, Wichterle came close to abandoning the idea. In 1961, however, Wichterle decided to make yet another attempt – this time on his own kitchen table. Later he explained that for him, producing lenses had always been a hobby – as he put it, he was a chemist who spent more time on his ‘hobbies’ than on actual chemical research.19 Accordingly, the first practicable soft contact lens was produced on a device set consisting of a gramophone motor and parts from his son’s ‘Merkur’ toy construction set. One of the major problems associated with the rigid contact lens was the discomfort that it caused on hot days. The new lens, on the other hand, was permeable and allowed the escape of heat and carbon dioxide and the entry of fresh oxygen. Additionally, the soft lenses were considerably cheaper to produce than the rigid ones.20 Working together with a Czech ophthalmologist, Wichterle tested lenses on patients. Successful experiments led to a patent application in 1961. Wichterle continued producing lenses at home together with his wife Linda, who kept up with the production by herself while her husband was at work. News of the innovation filtered through, and Wichterle and his colleagues were paid a visit by officials from the State Planning Commission and the Ministry of Foreign Trade. The visitors found it difficult to understand why Wichterle was not utilizing the production possibilities offered by the brand-new institute.21 As they understood that the rules of the Academy of Sciences had hindered Wichterle in his research, the state officials responded to the innovation by allowing Wichterle to pursue applied research within the framework of the Academy of Sciences. The state had now given the green light for applied research on the lens. However, Wichterle was constantly concerned about research funding: in order to maintain the world-class level of the institute, financing was required from outside of the Academy of Sciences. Wichterle was not alone in drawing this conclusion; the state, too, was keen to increase the efficiency of the research. In fact, the scale of the support provided by the state came as a surprise to Wichterle. Representatives of the State Planning Commission had asked him how many workers he would need for the hydrogels research. In an attempt to test the waters, Wichterle had come up with the inflated figure of 40, and the commission responding by promising 42 new scientific workers.22 Considering the poor state of the Czechoslovak economy at the time, Wichterle’s ability to gain state support for his project not only demonstrates his skills in dealing with the decision makers but implies that high hopes must have been placed on the development of this research field. Within a relatively short period of time, the decision makers had changed

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their mind on the lens. The scepticism of the earlier period had given way to generous support. This reflects a broader shift in the overall policy of the Czechoslovak state in the 1960s; policy was now aimed at increasing the efficiency of research and improving the country’s economic performance. Wichterle was very aware of the importance of personal contacts both inside and especially outside of his country, and also outside of basic research. He and his colleagues worked at maintaining good ties with industry and with foreign partners. Without such connections, the application of scientific ideas would be impossible.23 Wichterle, who later described himself as an entrepreneurial spirit (podnikatelský duch),24 not only developed networks but also began to apply some pressure on the state. Even before the licence for his contact lens was actually sold in 1965, Wichterle used his invention as a tool for accelerating matters in his dealings with the state authorities. In January 1964 he warned that time was running out; unless the lens was sold in the very nearest future, Czechoslovakia would lose the race with the West to produce the first soft contact lens. According to him, this would be a great loss for the Institute of Macromolecular Chemistry in particular, because only a stable flow of currency would ensure the institute’s future.25 Wichterle’s soft contact lens breakthrough took place at a time when Czechoslovakia had deliberately begun to increase scientific cooperation with the West. The process of opening up toward the West was closely linked to the practical goal of reforming the economy, which had been in a deep crisis that culminated in 1961. The country needed hard currency in order to finance high-level research in the natural sciences. Such research also demanded expensive equipment which often had to be purchased from the West. Indirectly, then, the goal of participating in the scientific–technical revolution26 paved the way for the transfer of the contact lens.

The lens’s world tour At first, Wichterle and his colleagues concentrated their promotional work on Europe. According to Wichterle, his policy was to be open about the research to all those who expressed an interest, because he thought that broad publicity would be the best means of promoting his research. Wichterle and his colleagues believed that the patent on the lens would be sufficient to secure the innovation, and that consequently there was no need to make a secret of it.27 They were well aware of the importance of international cooperation in research. The number of foreign visitors to the Institute of Macromolecular Chemistry was large; Wichterle and his colleagues participated actively in international conferences and scientific organizations. Building networks – taking part in international academic meetings and meeting foreign colleagues – was a precondition for proceeding with commercialization of the innovation. Wichterle was probably one of the first Czechoslovak scientists without party membership to be allowed to travel

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abroad as early as in the late 1950s. During the International Union of Pure and Applied Chemistry (IUPAC) Congress in London in 1963 Wichterle visited Professor Harold Ridley, a well-known specialist on contact lenses at the time. Ridley was sceptical initially, but as soon as Wichterle was given the opportunity to present the invention and to demonstrate the lens that he was actually wearing himself (Ridley did not believe at first that Wichterle was wearing anything on his eye), the professor’s interest increased. Wichterle was invited to give a lecture to the Royal Medical Society, where he met George Nissel, probably the best-known specialist in the production of hard contact lenses. The meeting proved very successful and it gave Wichterle new ideas for the lens production. Following his inspiring discussion with Nissel, Wichterle came up with a new patent.28 In Europe, the soft contact lens made its most important debut in France, in the spring of 1964. According to Wichterle, however, at this stage the lens was perceived more as a curiosity than as a real alternative to the hard lens. The trip to France was followed by visits to Austria and Italy. The lens’ travels that year reflect broader changes in the climate at the time: the year 1964 marked the most dramatic growth in foreign academic relations since the war. For natural scientists, travelling to the West had now become easier and study trips to the West were even supported by the state.29 When the time came to head for more concrete commercial cooperation, however, it was the Americans who finally stepped in. The timing was favourable for the Americans. The gap between East and West was growing steadily. From the beginning of the 1960s Czechoslovakia was consciously trying to resume economic relations with the USA, which had been seriously harmed in the early 1950s, when Czechoslovakia had lost its most-favoured-nation trade status with the USA, as a result of which exports to the USA had almost ceased altogether. According to historian Igor Lukes, the change in the relations with the USA was strongly supported by the Foreign Minister Václav David, who compared the situation with that of neighbouring countries such as Poland, noted for having ‘long ago abandoned the harsh attitude that once characterised the Soviet bloc’s relations with Washington’. The liberalization of trade went so far that in 1967 the Czechoslovak Embassy even took out an advertisement in The New York Times calling for stronger East–West ties and announcing that Czechoslovakia was ‘taking all steps required to eliminate, finally, the remainders of the obstacles put in the way of (East–West) trade at the time of the Cold War’.30 The Americans had their own motives for seeking out business opportunities in Eastern Europe. Interestingly, American businessman and journalist John Kiser wrote in the late 1980s that it was in America’s own interests to take more advantage of Soviet technology.31 In his account of cooperative agreements in science and technology between the USA and the Soviet Union, Yale Richmond argues that while the US motivation was primarily political, this was also a matter of solving practical problems in US science and technology.32 The Americans began to show real interest in Wichterle’s

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innovation in 1964. Several American businessmen and eye specialists visited Prague during the spring of 1964.33 The optometrist Allan A. Isen, a representative of Frontier Contact Lenses, Inc., visited the Institute of Macromolecular Chemistry in February. He had learned about the lenses from a fellow countryman, who had brought a sample of them to the USA. Wichterle and his colleague Jaroslav Hnídek asked Isen about the conditions for production and distribution of lenses in the USA. What Isen told them must have sounded very promising to the Czechoslovaks. Isen had been impressed by the Czech lenses. Enthusiastically he explained to his hosts that the lenses he had tested earlier had never fitted as perfectly as the Czech ones, which he had been able to wear for ‘two days without a break’. In the negotiations Isen highlighted the fact that his production in the USA was several years ahead of Europe due to the participation of technicians (not only ophthalmologists, as in Europe), who had a better understanding of the production. He told the Czechoslovaks that the contact lens market in the USA was currently determined by the high price, not the demand. However, he estimated that if the new soft lenses succeeded in reducing prices, then this could mean a quadruple growth in sales. Isen also reassured his hosts by denying reports that preparations for producing the soft lens were already underway in the USA. According to Isen, these rumours had only been a way of exerting pressure on the Czechoslovaks to sign an agreement. Isen also showed interest in technical cooperation with the Czechs. He raised an attractive proposal to provide them with some valuable instruments. In their dealings with Isen, the Czechoslovaks were careful not to reveal the details of the technique they were using, and did not correct him when he betrayed a mistaken understanding of how the production worked.34 Isen was planning to return to Prague in the following summer but left open the question of whether the Czechoslovaks would produce all the lenses for the US market themselves, or whether the production would take place in the USA. The first company to come forward with a concrete proposal for trading the lens, however, was the National Patent Development Corporation (NPDC). This was a smaller American firm, owned by lawyers Jerome Feldman and Martin Pollak. The firm focused on screening and buying patents on various devices, technologies, and materials, before licensing them to other companies or trying to market the products itself. Back in 1961, the firm had contacted the Soviet leadership with a view to purchasing the rights to Soviet inventions. The Soviets were interested in the offer and invited the firm for a visit. The NDPC subsequently conferred with some 250 Soviet scientists and technicians and won rights to market 14 Soviet innovations in the USA. An agreement was signed with Amtorg, the Soviet trade wing that was located in the USA. Feldman learned about Wichterle’s innovation in the USA from Bob Hope’s ophthalmologist, whom he met at a cocktail party in Los Angeles. Feldman then sent a telex to his partner Pollak who was in Moscow at the time, and who decided to make a detour to Prague.35 In Czechoslovakia, Pollak first contacted Polytechna, the institution

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charged with selling rights to patents. Foreign trade in Czechoslovakia was conducted by state agencies under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Foreign Trade. At first the Polytechna staff had no idea of Wichterle’s existence. After calling around different institutes they finally found him, and a meeting was arranged with the Americans. The Czech chemist’s dramatic presentation of his discovery must surely have impressed the Americans: after taking the lens from his eye, Wichterle threw it onto a dirty floor; stepped on it with his shoe; and sucked it in his mouth, before replacing the same lens in his eye. The meeting resulted in a concrete offer on a licence agreement. Later the same year a delegation from a French company visited Prague with a competitive offer, but according to Wichterle they failed to formulate their concept as clearly as the Americans had done.36 By purchasing the spinning technology and the rights to make and market polyHEMA, the NPDC had found its first important product. The contract was concluded in March 1965. Pollak and Feldman found an investor in Robert Morrison, a businessman from Pennsylvania. Before the NPDC reached an agreement on the cooperation with Morrison, whose laboratories were located in Harrisburg, Wichterle and his colleague had the opportunity to visit him. They observed that the American had ‘mobilized everything’ at his enterprise in such a way as to impress his guests from ‘a less developed state’. The visitors were shown technical ‘toys’, which Wichterle assumed were there for the purpose of impressing the visitors from the East. Although the technical level and the organization of the enterprise were seemingly high, the Czechs were not impressed by the production, which offered nothing new. Compared to the French production units which Wichterle had already seen, Morrison lagged far behind. Wichterle also took a strong personal dislike to Morrison, whom he found arrogant and snobbish. A meeting was held in Morrison’s ostentatiously lavish residence, and Morrison ‘childishly boasted about his richness and success as a self-made-man’.37 Despite all the flaws, Morrison’s money made him an attractive partner at the time.38 The initial US launch of the soft lens was difficult. Characteristically, the early reception was mostly positive and people were interested, yet the soft lens was considered more as a curiosity than a real potential alternative for the old hard lenses.39 In the West, contact lenses were still produced from hard plastic. According to John Kiser, even after testing a sample lens on his own eye, one of the leading specialists in ophthalmology continued to insist: ‘It can’t work! Read my book!’.40 Pollak and Feldman had wrongly assumed that the producers of hard lenses would be interested in the possibility of incorporating soft lens technology into their own production processes.41 At first, Pollak and Feldman could not find a buyer for the technology. They eventually contacted Bausch & Lomb of Rochester, New York, a major firm in the optical business and a solid company looking for new business opportunities.42 In 1966 the NPDC sublicensed to Bausch & Lomb the rights to gels and to the manufacturing. The agreement gave Bausch & Lomb exclusive licence to the new lens

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material and Wichterle’s spinning and manufacturing technology. The manufacturing involved two methods: a centrifugal spin-casting of the lenses, and a lathe-cutting technique. The production lines were built in the Institute of Macromolecular Chemistry, and then sent by plane to the USA, where they were installed by Czech specialists.43 In return, the NPDC received a licensing fee, plus half of all Bausch & Lomb’s domestic lens profits.44 The transfer of the soft contact lens technology to the US prompted an intense interest in hydrophilic materials, such that hydrogel studies were transformed into a whole new field.45 The advance of the new invention proved to be rapid. The soft lenses were soon prescribed more often than hard lenses, mainly because they were comfortable to wear. In 1966 Science noted that the method of using hydrophilic polymers for contact lenses was a ‘notable early entry into East–West technological trade’.46 Ironically, an invention produced in a socialist country had become a pawn of the capitalist market economy. The Academy of Sciences was pleased with the trade: by the end of 1966 the NPDC had paid the Academy of Sciences a considerable sum of money, including the annual royalties. The licence agreements with the USA led to a fast improvement in a further development of the contact lens. According to the report of the Presidium of the Czechoslovak Academy of Science this development was firm proof that the right path had been chosen; the case of the soft contact lens indicated the right method for dealing with licences, as well as showing how obstacles could be overcome.47 Wichterle’s institute also profited from the lens. The author of the article ‘Research and Industry in Czechoslovakia’, published in Science in 1966, was evidently impressed by the Institute: ‘It is full of expensive modern equipment, a good deal of it American.’ While this Western observer spoke highly of the Institute, he also presented it in many ways as an untypical example of an East European research institution. The author saw the Institute as a marker of changing trends in Eastern Europe and of the ‘growing awareness in communist countries of the need for practical steps to encourage basic research that will stimulate industry’.48 The author of the article stated the Institute’s growth had been made possible by state support and licence fees from the US amounting to over a million dollars.49

‘The spring is over and will never return’ 50 – the impact of normalization The Warsaw Pact invasion of Czechoslovakia in August 1968 and the subsequent return to ideological conformity in the 1970s – the so-called ‘normalization’ period – had dramatic consequences for the entire Czechoslovak society. In Czechoslovakia, the economic pragmatism of the 1960s now gave way to the stagnation of the 1970s – a change which also had inevitable consequences for science and foreign trade. Despite the lens’ worldwide success, the story did not have the happy ending which the inventor might have hoped for. During the Prague Spring, Wichterle made use of his favourable

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position and became an active reformer. At the height of the Prague Spring he even became involved in politics. He was able to capitalize on the lens’ success, holding it up as an example of more effective trading with the West. Although he did not see himself as a politician, his statements promoting many capitalist practices were of course political.51 However, from the perspective of the so-called ‘normalizers’, Wichterle’s greatest sin was his involvement with the issuing of the critical statement of the Prague Spring, the so-called ‘Two Thousand Words’ Manifesto calling for more freedom and democracy.52 As a consequence, he was removed from his position at the institute and forbidden to travel. State support for development of the lens was withdrawn during the normalization period, and Wichterle’s success was officially nullified in many ways.53 He was allowed to continue working, but he was only offered very short contracts, and was not allowed to work in teams. The new head of the institute constantly tried to pressure him into retiring.54 The purging of scientific institutes was common practice at the time; the by-laws of the Academy of Sciences were modified and in the early stages of normalization, all the directors of institutions within the Academy were dismissed from office.55 As Stanley B. Winters states, they were replaced by ‘opportunists and party hacks’ who enjoyed the trust of the Party.56 Meanwhile, the opponents to the invasion believed that the prevailing situation was a passing phase that would last only a year or two. It was not until the year 1973 that people in Czechoslovakia began to think of the situation as a long-term one.57 From the state’s perspective, the situation at the beginning of the 1970s was also problematic: the scientific and economic benefits of macromolecular research were evident, but the individuals holding the most important scientific positions in the field were politically dubious. As a signatory to ‘The Two Thousand Words’, Wichterle was a highly suspicious individual in the eyes of the Soviets. The new leaders of the Academy had to prove their loyalty to the occupiers. Furthermore, they had to bolster up their own authority. At the level of academia, the normalization measures also included the limitation of international cooperation. The reorganization of foreign scientific relations was a part of the normalization policy. Cooperation with the West and Czechoslovak scientists’ involvement in international scientific organizations was reduced to a minimum. In practice this meant reorientation towards Eastern Europe.58 The normalized regime disapproved of any Czechoslovak scientists having any individual Western contacts. The Academy’s new ‘normalized’ leadership gave more weight to political loyalty. In this respect the normalization put an end to the more professionally oriented practices inside the Academy that had dominated the institution for most of the 1960s. The Academy’s new leadership justified the changes by claiming that, while it was true that the Czechoslovak representation in the main organs of international scientific organizations had indeed increased in the 1960s, the relevant posts were occupied by individuals who were politically unacceptable.59 Those who were now considered suspicious were removed from their earlier positions.

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Now, however, much more so than in the 1950s, the policy was in conflict with the wider requirements of the time. The occupation had not ended the scientific–technical revolution; the ‘integration of world science’ was advancing regardless. A large wave of emigration was one of the most serious consequences of the invasion.60 Around 100,000 people emigrated in the wake of the invasion. Many of them were scientists and scholars. This brain drain was a significant problem for the state; historians can only speculate about the full extent of its impact on Czechoslovak science. More than 40 people from Wichterle’s institute fled to the West.61 Significantly, before the August events there had not been any emigration from the institute whatsoever – a fact that had made Wichterle proud. One of those who decided to leave the country after the invasion was the co-inventor of the polyHEMA, Wichterle’s colleague Drahoslav Lím, who did not return from a business trip to the USA.62 Given that Lím was one of the most important scientists in the field of macromolecular chemistry, his emigration must have been puzzling for state officials.63 Unlike his colleagues, Wichterle never seriously considered emigrating.64 In his case, this seems to have been a matter of principle. Wichterle knew that he could become rich if he decided to stay in the USA, but he had never been driven by money, and he was relatively well-off in his home country in any case. Even during the normalization period, the government never tampered with the financial rewards which Wichterle had gained from the licences.65 Moreover, his professional ambitions had most probably been fulfilled by this stage. Privately, he even admitted to being pleased with the situation, since he now had more time than ever for his family and hobbies.66 During his numerous trips to the West Wichterle had had the opportunity to acquaint himself with the other side of the Iron Curtain. However, this experience had not turned him into an admirer of American society. In an interview with the American John Kiser, Wichterle provocatively referred to the United States as a totalitarian society. According to him, there was less diversity in America than in Russia, where the people, ‘after they get comfortable with you, take you to their homes and everyone in the family has an independent opinion’. In the USA, in contrast, Wichterle had not had even ‘one good political discussion’.67 Despite the measures that limited Wichterle’s work at home, he was still able to continue with his research. Travel restrictions and bans were among the most effective measures of the normalization in science. From the state’s perspective, these restrictions were a double-edged sword: they prevented emigration and brain drain, but they also resulted in economic losses and held back scientific progress. The prohibitions reflected official policies – the aim was to limit Western cooperation. According to the new political guidelines issued by the government, trips to capitalist states were to be allowed only when they clearly profited the Czechoslovak state and would lead to concrete results. A maximum of only one foreign trip per year would be allowed, after which the scientist in question would have to wait another seven years before being granted permission to travel again.68

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Patents under attack By the beginning of the 1970s the lens production in the United States had become so attractive that a number of the competitors of the NPDC and Bausch & Lomb were copying the technology, regardless of Wichterle’s patents. In order to defend the patent and the exclusive licence, the Academy of Sciences’ American partners took the cases to court. In addition, some of the competitors also tried to nullify Wichterle’s patents. In 1975 Martin Pollak from the NPDC asked Wichterle to be a witness at one of the trials. Wichterle was still under a travel ban, however, and received almost no information about the case proceedings, either from the Americans or from his chiefs at the Academy.69 The Czechoslovak state seemed to acknowledge that significant economic interests were at stake here; yet the behaviour of the officials involved in the issue was contradictory. Hence, for example, at one point in 1975 Wichterle was told that he would be allowed to travel to the United States. The representative of the patent centre of the Academy of Sciences highlighted to Wichterle how important it was that he be personally present at the legal proceedings. The licence agreements on Wichterle’s patents indeed accounted for the greatest part of the licence fees earned by the country at the time. During the preparation for the trials, however, this permission was suddenly withdrawn. The head of the institute asked Wichterle to feign illness or a fear of flying to explain his failure to attend, but Wichterle refused to lie. The lawyer whom Wichterle consulted later explained to him that the issue was essentially a political one.70 Wichterle suggested that his chiefs reveal to the Americans the real reason for his failure to attend the hearing: after all, it was a well-known fact that Czechoslovaks were not free to travel. Wichterle himself was proof of this policy; he was constantly having to turn down invitations to international symposia.71 He never did receive an explanation from his chiefs at the Academy as to why his permission to travel had been withdrawn so abruptly. Wichterle himself believed the following to be the most plausible explanation: Only one week before Wichterle’s trip was supposed to take place, Gustav Husák (1913–91) had been elected president of Czechoslovakia – not unanimously, as the official line had it, but against the wishes of the staunchest ‘Brezhnevites’ in the party leadership. Their predictions that Husák, if elected, would allow people under Soviet ‘house arrest’ to travel had perhaps prompted Husák to forbid Wichterle’s trip. Forbidding Wichterle from travelling may have helped Husák to avoid conflict with the Soviets after entering office.72 Meanwhile, the American litigations continued. In autumn 1975 Wichterle was again told that his participation as a witness was essential. It was so essential, in fact, that the Academy and its American partners agreed to arrange for the first hearing to be held in Prague, at the Intercontinental Hotel, in September 1975. The Academy covered the costs of numerous American lawyers and professional experts. In the course of the hearing it

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became obvious that the trial would take years, and would require the continuous participation of Wichterle as a key witness. Moreover, the Czechoslovak officials realized that organizing a hearing in Prague was much more costly than sending Wichterle to the USA. The desire to save on expenses was probably the key factor that led to the lifting of Wichterle’s travel ban.73 In August 1976, Wichterle was allowed to travel for the first time after the period of the travel ban – this time to attend a trial in Chicago. The constant legal proceedings in the United States had made the Czechoslovak representatives anxious. Wichterle attributed his bosses’ hesitant behaviour to their basic ignorance with regard to the technical details of the dispute, as well as their desire to avoid taking any responsibility for the outcome. The result was that in May 1977 the Academy of Sciences sold the patents of both the gels and the processing to the NPDC. In addition, the Academy concluded a buyout contract with the NPDC, which meant that Czechoslovakia gave up all proprietary claims.74 The money which the state gained from selling the patents roughly corresponded to the earnings that the licence had brought the state in a single year.75 According to Wichterle, the American partners had sensed that the Czechoslovaks were wavering, and seized the opportunity to obtain the patents. In this context it is not surprising that, as the greatest Czechoslovak expert, Wichterle was not consulted by the Americans.76 After selling the rights to the Americans, the Academy’s only remaining obligation comprised their pledged commitment to allow Wichterle to appear as a witness in any future trials. It was an excellent deal for the Americans – they retained access to the inventor’s expertise, but no longer had to pay the Academy.77 Thus, from 1977 onwards Wichterle was used as a witness in law suits between American firms.78 Wichterle was opposed to the contract which the Academy had made behind his back and took the case to court. He won the case, and the Academy was ordered to pay him the interest.79 Meanwhile, the lens was also a source of tension in Czechoslovakia’s relations with the Eastern superpower. After the invasion, Czechoslovakia had once again become an integral part of the Soviet bloc and one of its most loyal members. This situation had an impact on the lens production as well. In 1977, the same year that the patent passed into the possession of the American company, the Soviets made the lens into a political issue. The Soviet side viewed this (non-military) invention as a manifestation of distrust, and a Cold War issue. One Soviet visitor to Czechoslovakia complained that the Czechoslovaks were hiding information from their Soviet comrades, while simultaneously providing the Americans with research results and technology. It remains unclear whether Soviet suspicions here were related to the fact that the Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences had given up the patent. The Soviet mistrust was exacerbated by rumours that every NATO soldier was to be equipped with a pair of soft lenses which would protect them from poison gas. This led to a process of investigation being launched. The Soviets were eventually promised that from now on, they would receive unlimited access to information concerning the lens technology, free of charge. On paper, the

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agreement was reciprocal, but in practice, the Soviets were unable to offer anything of use to the Czechoslovaks in return.80 In 1977 Wichterle reported to the Health Ministry about the Soviet attitude to the lens production. According to Wichterle, the field of contact lenses was new for the Soviets. Wichterle knew that the Soviets, ‘who as we know in various technical fields prefer conservative technology and well-trodden simple paths’ were about to buy ‘old-fashioned’ technology from the West German company Titmus-Eurokon. In Wichterle’s opinion the Soviets were not sufficiently well-informed, because when they had visited Czechoslovakia, they had been introduced only to the production line in Spofa-Ergon, where, in 1964, Wichterle and his colleagues had installed a production line similar to the one in the USA. The Soviets had not been introduced to Wichterle’s most recent innovations. Wichterle went on to criticize his compatriots. In his words, the incompetence of the leading workers at the factory, where the ‘bosses are just as incompetent as our foreign trade’, had actually led to the total collapse of production. According to Wichterle, a machine that had originally produced 200 lenses in an hour now produced less than that in the course of a quarter of a year. This led Wichterle to make private attempts at developing new technology. He worked alone, without partners, building new prototypes in his workroom at home and at the institute. At the end of 1976 he was confident that the improvements represented by the new technology which he had produced in this way were significant enough to attract the attention of certain ‘actors’ who were not afraid of being in contact with him. Wichterle’s Soviet colleagues were not well-informed about his research; most likely they were even not allowed to stay in contact with him. Wichterle felt insulted by the fact that he was not consulted as an advisor by the Czechoslovak factory producing the lens, and that he was kept at a distance from the Soviet experts whom the Czechoslovaks had invited in to save ‘what could no longer be saved’.81 In his memoirs, Wichterle writes that a meeting with the Soviets was nevertheless organized through informal channels (the Soviets actually wanted to meet with Wichterle). Although they expressed a willingness to engage in direct cooperation with Wichterle, no such cooperation eventuated in the near future. On the contrary, a Russian colleague of Wichterle was to face punitive proceedings in Moscow for having spent time in a private apartment with someone who had been punished for signing up to ‘The Two Thousand Words’.82

Conclusion The liberalization of Czechoslovak society in the late 1950s and 1960s created favourable conditions for the transfer of the soft contact lens. For an industrialized country like Czechoslovakia, stagnation of the domestic economy was a strong impulse for economic reform. The ‘economic pragmatism’ of the 1960s created fertile ground for the transfer – the country needed hard currency, and research and development needed increased efficiency. The small

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country was under pressure to pursue its own economic activities and to innovate in order to keep abreast of the economic competition and to move forward with the scientific–technical revolution. Much more so than big countries with plentiful resources, it was particularly dependent on international cooperation. As this chapter has shown, the transfer of the soft lens required not only government support, but also an opening up towards the West at the macro level. In order to succeed, however, the transfer also needed individuals who were both capable of playing by the socialist rules of the game, on the one hand, and aware of the sensitivities involved in cooperation with the West, on the other. Otto Wichterle’s agency was not limited to his role as inventor. Without his networks and his understanding of the economic potential of the lens, together with his determination to promote his case, the transfer would have been highly unlikely. Wichterle actively bargained with the state and he knew how to gain access to the power centres. Wichterle was also very active in utilizing foreign contacts, for example, in the form of involvement in international conferences, or through ‘promotional’ trips abroad. Significantly, the successful transfer of the lens was also very dependent on the activity of American businessmen. After the period of Cold War isolationism and embargo, the Americans’ interest in Eastern technology was growing. Consequently, in this case, an innovation made in a socialist country would ultimately be transformed into a capitalist product. It is highly likely that the lens’ success was also reliant upon factors related to distinctive elements of Western culture, such as fashion and consumerism. Indeed, according to The Economist, the lens’ market was based on vanity.83 It is perhaps noteworthy in this connection that the inventor himself always wore eyeglasses, and never contact lenses.84 Czechoslovakia’s ability to improvise the way it played the Cold War game was a strength in the 1960s, but it was to become a weakness in the new climate of the 1970s. A policy that, from the Czechoslovak perspective, looked like pragmatism, reached its limits when it came into conflict with the Soviet interests. The normalization measures that extended to science were a result of the policy changes. The newly installed scientific decision makers’ treatment of Wichterle was intended to prove their loyalty in the eyes of the Soviets. It is fair to say that Wichterle’s rise and fall can be viewed as a barometer of the changing official line. Ultimately, the Czechoslovak decision makers’ mistrust of Wichterle meant that they lost a significant flow of currency to the state. Because of the travel ban, Wichterle had to refuse invitations to a number of international conferences and meetings. This had long-term consequences as Wichterle was unable to keep in touch with US developments regarding the licences. The story of the lens culminated in 1977 when the Academy of Sciences, fearful of incurring heavy legal expenses, sold all the patent rights to the Americans behind Wichterle’s back. The rules of the capitalist game were unfamiliar to the Czechoslovak officials, who were keen to prove their

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loyalty to the Soviets. The trials show that Wichterle’s expertise was highly valued by the American side. At the same time, Wichterle was also an excellent tool for the Americans who could use him as a witness for moneymaking purposes. Later, Wichterle was not too keen on talking about the soft contact lens, claiming that the invention ‘belonged to the past’. Perhaps this was not only a statement about the failed politics of the state during the normalization period, but also a sign of his personal modesty.85 Money and prestige were never driving forces in Wichterle’s life. As he put it himself, ‘A measure of a man is how he deals with those unexpected confrontations with reality called chance’.86 The story of the lens shows that there are limits to the argument that technology and business formed apolitical channels of communication in the Cold War. Although individual scientists often saw cooperation with the West as an integral and necessary part of their work, at the state level, cooperation with the opposing system was always a Cold War issue.

Notes 1 ‘Picking Ivan’s Brains’, The Economist, 15 May 1982. 2 J. Connelly, Captive University. The Sovietization of East German, Czech and Polish Higher Education 1945–1956, Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2000; M. David-Fox and G. Péteri (eds), Academia in Upheaval. Origins, Transfers and Transformations of the Communist Academic Regime in Russia and East Central Europe, USA: Library of Congress, 2000. 3 K. J. Freeze, ‘Innovation and technology transfer during the Cold War. The case of the open-end spinning machine from Communist Czechoslovakia,’ Technology and Culture, vol. 48, no. 2, 2007, pp. 252–53. 4 R. Nisonen, ‘Politiikkaa ja piilolinssejä – akateemikko Otto Wichterlen toiminta Prahan kevään ja normalisoinnin aikana’ [‘Politics and contact lenses – Otto Wichterle and the Prague Spring and the ensuing normalization’], Historiallinen aikakauskirja, no. 3, 2006, p. 293. 5 Wichterle, documentary film, directed by Tomásˇ Kudrna, the Czech Republic 2005. 6 Hydroxyethyl methacrylate. 7 I. Kraus, Deˇjiny technických veˇd a vynálezu˚ cˇeských zemích, Praha: Academia, 2004, p. 261. ˇ eskoslovensku v letech 1953–63: Zamysˇlení nad soucˇasným 8 A. Kostlán, Veˇ da v C stavem bádání a jeho mozˇ nostmi, in A. Kostlán (ed.) Veˇda v Cˇeskoslovensku v ˇ eské letech 1953–1963. Sborník z konference, Prague: Archiv Akademie veˇ d C republiky, 2000, 582. 9 Science, vol. 145, p. 799. 10 Ústav makromolekulární chemie. 11 P. Kratochvíl, ‘Otto Wichterle, pru˚ kopník makromolekulární chemie’, in F. Sˇ mahel (ed.) Ucˇenci ocˇima kolegu˚ a ˇzáku˚, Praha: Akademia, 2004, pp. 95–96. 12 O. Wichterle and D. Lím, ‘Hydrophilic gels for biological use’, Nature, vol. 185, 9 January 1960. 13 J. Kopecek, Obituary Otto Wichterle (1913–98), in Nature, http://www.nature.com/ nature/journal/v395/n6700/full/395332a0.html (accessed 2 March 2010). ˇ R) – (19-I), 14 Archives of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic (A AV C Interview with Wichterle, 12 December 1981. Interviewer Professor Neal J. Bailey, Ohio State University.

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ˇ R) – (19-I), 15 Archives of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic (A AV C Interview with Wichterle, 12 December 1981. Interviewer Professor Neal J. Bailey, Ohio State University. 16 V. Slamecka, Science in Czechoslovakia, Columbia University Press, 1963, pp. 8–9. 17 O. Wichterle, Vzpomínky, Prague: Nakladatelství evropského kulturního klubu, 1992, p. 111. 18 F. Houdek and J. Tu˚ ma, Jan, Objevy a výnálezy tisíciletí. 111 milníku˚ prˇírodoveˇ dy, techniky a mediciny, Prague: Nakladateství Lidové noviny, 2002, p. 367; O. Wichterle, Vzpomínky, p. 112. ˇ R) – (19-I), 19 Archives of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic (A AV C Interview with Wichterle, 12 December 1981. Interviewer Professor Neal J. Bailey, Ohio State University. 20 See for example V. K. McElheny, ‘Research and industry in Czechoslovakia’, Science, vol. 153, 1966, 620–22. 21 O. Wichterle, Vzpomínky, 1992, pp. 114–16. 22 O. Wichterle, 1992, pp. 146–47. 23 V. K. McElheny, ‘Research and industry in Czechoslovakia’, p. 620. ˇ R – (020-R). Interview with Wichterle. C ˇ eskoslovenský rozhlas, 24 A AV C 13 February 1990. ˇ R – Osobní fond (Personal papers of Otto Wichterle) (OW): Zpráva 25 A AV C o cˇinnosti akademika O. Wichterla za rok 1963. 26 R. Richta, Civilization at the Crossroads. Social and Human Implications of the Scientific and Technological Revolution, Prague: International Arts and Sciences Press, 1969, p. 16; J. Wilczynski, Technology in Comecon. Acceleration of Technological Progress through Economic Planning and the Market, London: Macmillan, 1974, p. 6. For more detail on the scientific–technical revolution and the Czechoslovak science, see R. Nisonen-Trnka, ‘The Prague Spring of science: Czechoslovak natural scientists reconsidering the Iron Curtain’, Europe–Asia Studies, vol. 60, no. 10, December 2008, p. 1756. 27 O. Wichterle, 1992, p. 150. 28 O. Wichterle, 1992, pp. 151–52. 29 R. Nisonen-Trnka, ‘The Prague Spring of science: Czechoslovak natural scientists reconsidering the Iron Curtain’, p. 1757; Interview with Jirˇí Kopecˇek via e-mail with the author, 1 August 2007. 30 I. Lukes, ‘Changing patterns of power in Cold War politics: the mysterious case of Vladimír Komárek’, Journal of Cold War Studies, vol. 3, no. 1: 61–102, Winter 2001, pp. 88, 89. 31 J. W. Kiser, Communist Entrepreneurs, New York: Franklin Watts, 1989, p. 5. 32 Y. Richmond, Cultural Exchange and the Cold War. Raising the Iron Curtain, Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003, p. 69. 33 O. Wichterle, 1992, p. 152. ˇ R – OW, Zápis o jednání s Allanem A. Isenem Frontier Contact Lenses, 34 A AV C Inc. dne 22. a 24.2.1964. 35 J. W. Kiser, 1989, pp. 80–81. ˇ R – OW. 36 O. Wichterle, 1992, p. 155; A AV C ˇ R – ÚMCH C ˇ SAV, zprávy, Akademik O. Wichterle M. Dreifus, zpráva 37 A AV C o cesteˇ do USA. 29.10–12.11.1964. 38 O. Wichterle, 1992, p. 157. 39 O. Wichterle, 1992, p. 153. 40 J. W. Kiser, 1989, p. 83. 41 J. W. Kiser, 1989, p. 83. 42 J. W. Kiser, 1989, p. 84. 43 O. Wichterle, 1992, p. 159.

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44 http://www.answers.com/topic/gp-strategies-corporation?cat=biz-fin (accessed 10 March 2010). 45 http://www.nature.com/nature/journal/v395/n6700/full/395332a0.html (accessed 10 March 2010). 46 V. K. McElheny, ‘Research and industry in Czechoslovakia’, pp. 621–22. ˇ R – Presidium C ˇ SAV, B, 6. zasedání, 17.3.1966. Zpráva o stavu výroby a 47 A AV C exportu kontaktních cˇocˇek za rok 1965. 48 V. K. McElheny, ‘Research and industry in Czechoslovakia’, pp. 620–21 49 V. K. McElheny, ‘Research and industry in Czechoslovakia’, pp. 621–22. 50 Quotation from the ‘Two Thousands Words’ Manifesto, 27 June 1968. See J. Navrátil, The Prague Spring 1968. A National Security Archive Document Reader, Budapest: Central European University Press, 2006, pp. 177–81. 51 R. Nisonen-Trnka, ‘The Prague Spring of science: Czechoslovak scientists reconsidering the Iron Curtain’, p. 1767. 52 See J. Navrátil, The Prague Spring 1968. A National Security Archive Document Reader, pp. 177–81. 53 O. Wichterle, 1992, pp. 188–90. 54 O. Wichterle, 1992, pp. 204–5. 55 See: A. Misˇková et al., Cˇ eskoslovenská akademie veˇ d 1969–1972. Restaurace ˇ R. 30, Prague, komunistické moci ve veˇ deˇ . Sesˇity ústavu pro soudobé deˇ jiny AV C 1998, p. 63. 56 S. B. Winters, ‘Science and politics. The rise and fall of the Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences’, Bohemia Band, vol. 35, 1994, pp. 286–87. 57 O. Tu˚ ma, ‘Spolecˇenské a politické souvisloti termínu normalizace’, in Antonín Kostlán (ed.) Veˇ da v Cˇ eskoslovensku v období normalizace, Prague: Výzkumné ˇ R, centrum pro deˇ jiny veˇ dy, spolecˇné pracovisˇteˇ Ústavu pro soudobé deˇ jiny AV C 2002, pp. 20–21. 58 A. Misˇková et al., 1998, p. 69. 59 A. Misˇková et al., 1998, p. 72. 60 R. Nisonen, ‘Emigraatio ja maanpakolaisuus’, Idäntutkimus, vol. 3, 2003, pp. 67–78. 61 J. Jindra, ‘Tschechische Chemiker im Exil 1948 bis 1989’, in Antonín Kostlán (ed.) Wissenschaft im Exil. Die Tschechoslowakei also Kreuzweg 1918–1989, Praha: Výzkumné centrum pro deˇ jiny veˇ dy, spolecˇné pracovisˇteˇ Ústavu pro soudobé ˇ R, 2004, p. 377. deˇ jiny AV C ˇ R–ÚMCH C ˇ SAV, zprávy. Zahranicˇní styky ÚMCH v letech 1962–72. 62 A AV C ˇ R – OW. Conclusion – United States District Judge Laughlin E. Waters 63 A AV C 3.2.1982. 64 Wichterle, 1992, 67, 180. 65 J. W. Kiser, 1989, p. 99. ˇ R – OW. Dopisy. 66 A AV C 67 J. W. Kiser, 1989, pp. 94–95. ˇ R – OW. Dopisy. 68 A AV C 69 O. Wichterle, 1992, p. 223. 70 O. Wichterle, 1992, pp. 224–27. ˇ R – OW. Dopisy. 71 A AV C 72 O. Wichterle, 1992, pp. 224–29. 73 O. Wichterle, 1992, p. 231. ˇ R – OW, Rozsudek. Judgement of the District Court of Prague 1: October 74 A AV C 23, 1981. O. Wichterle pp. 234; J. W. Kiser, 1989, pp. 85–86. 75 O. Wichterle, 1992, pp. 160–61. OW Osobni fond, Dosavadní styl výzkumu meˇ kkých kontaktních cˇocˇek u nás a v zahranicˇí. 1976. 76 O. Wichterle, 1992, pp. 232–34. 77 O. Wichterle, 1992, p. 234.

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78 O. Wichterle, 1992, pp. 232–34. ˇ R – OW, Rozsudek. Judgement of the District Court of Prague 1: October 79 A AV C 23, 1981. 80 O. Wichterle, 1992, pp. 216–18. ˇ R – OW. Zpráva pro s. ministra zdravotnictví C ˇ SR o nové technologii 81 A AV C gelových cˇocˇek. 15 November 1977. 82 O. Wichterle, 1992, p. 211. 83 The Economist, 5 September 1998, p. 83. ˇ R – (19-I), Interview with Wichterle, 12 December 1981. Interviewer 84 A AV C Professor Neal J. Bailey, Ohio State University. ˇ R – (020-R), Interview with Wichterle. 85 A AV C 86 J. W. Kiser, 1989, p. 71.

7

Internal transfer of cybernetics and informality in the Soviet Union The case of Lithuania Egle˙ Rindzevicˇ iu¯ te˙

This chapter investigates the internal transfer of cybernetics and computer technologies within the Soviet Union in the 1950s–60s. Focusing on the Soviet Socialist Republic of Lithuania (the Lithuanian SSR), the transfer of cybernetics is approached as a complex process of formal and informal interactions. The main argument is that internal techno-scientific1 transfer was not limited to centrally set policies. Internal transfer also took place through a dialogue between the political and scientific centres (Moscow, Leningrad) and the periphery (Vilnius), and in this dialogue, informal networks had a social and economic importance that cannot be overestimated. Recent decades have seen an upsurge of research on the technical, political and philosophical implications of the international travel of cybernetics between the two opposing regimes, communism and capitalism.2 Not much is known, however, about the internal transfer of cybernetics and computer technologies within the Soviet Union. The existing histories concentrate on the scientific centres such as Moscow, Leningrad and Akademgorodok, and disregard non-Russian scientific centres in other Soviet republics. Similarly, the focus has been on formal scientific institutions, which has meant that the informal organization of Soviet techno-science has received little attention.3 True, the efforts of individual scientists who often acted against the official academic system, such as Lev Landau, Pyotr Kapitsa and Andrei Sakharov, have been thoroughly explored. Such studies have served, however, to perpetuate the dualistic representation of the organization of Soviet science as a centralized formal system, which was counteracted by a few dissident individuals. There were good reasons why the previous research relied on a homogeneous and centralized notion of Soviet science. The Soviet organization of science and industry was based on both geographical and institutional centralization. Core scientific research was geographically concentrated in the major Russian and Ukrainian cities such as Moscow, Leningrad, Novosibirsk and Kyiv. Further, scientific research was institutionally centralized under the Soviet Academy of Sciences and the Industry and Defence ministries. It must be recalled here that the primary role of Soviet universities was education and not research. This system was economically steered by the

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All-Union State Planning Committee (Gosplan).4 In addition, Soviet propaganda sought to identify ‘Soviet’ science with ‘Russian’ science and systematically suppressed references to scientific communities in other, non-Russian republics.5 In turn, both Russian and Western histories of ‘Soviet science’ have focused almost exclusively on Russian scientific institutions, although it was not unusual to include institutions located in Ukraine or Belarus in histories of ‘Russian science’.6 Quite strikingly, the Soviet Union still emerges as a centralized unitary agent in the histories of Soviet techno-science produced to date. Focusing on the Lithuanian SSR, this chapter questions this unitary view of the Soviet Union by drawing attention to internal micro-level agencies in East–East transfer. Besides Western and local historiographies, the analysis is based on the new data obtained from eight specially conducted semistructured in-depth interviews with pioneering Lithuanian scientists. These interviews give a unique insight into the formal and informal interactions between individuals and institutions engaged in the internal transfer of cybernetics and computer technologies. Although the internal transfer took place within the centralized system, it did not always stem from the All-Union centres. The Lithuanian SSR case shows that the periphery offered important innovations both to the Soviet centre and the Comecon (Council for Mutual Economic Assistance) countries (East–East) on the one hand and to capitalist countries (East–West), on the other.

Lithuania: the Soviet West? Lithuania was occupied and annexed to the Soviet Union with the help of rigged elections in 1940. Deportations of the population started before World War II and were continued after re-occupation of the country in 1944. The years 1944–53 saw painful collectivization and organized guerrilla resistance in the countryside. Cities and larger towns were depopulated: many Lithuanian scholars and engineers fled to the West, or were killed, deported or made redundant in line with cadre purges.7 Outside of academia there was a significant shortage of qualified teachers of mathematics; for instance, in 1955–56, only 18.3 per cent of mathematics school teachers were educated to degree level.8 The knowledge-thirsty students of Vilnius University (VU), re-opened in 1944, lived in shocking poverty.9 The Lithuanian economy shrank continuously until 1955 and did not start to recover until the late 1950s.10 In this context of post-war hardship it was not difficult for the official Soviet propaganda to portray Lithuania as a client republic which was intrinsically dependent on knowledge and finance flows from the central All-Union institutions. Furthermore, unlike Estonia and Latvia, Lithuania had experienced only very low levels of urban industrialization in the 1920s–30s11 and retained its agricultural profile throughout the whole Soviet era.12 Besides agriculture, the electricity, construction and building materials sectors were

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prominent features of Lithuania’s economy. In the Soviet Union these sectors attracted much less techno-scientific transfer from the West.13 The Lithuanian SSR did not, therefore, appear to be an obvious candidate to drive the scientific and technical revolution in the Soviet Union. For obvious reasons, the Lithuanian SSR had no institutional instruments enabling it to act as an international economic actor. Even during the period of economic decentralization (1957–64) the Lithuanian SSR was not allowed to establish direct economic relations with the Eastern bloc, let alone with the West. As in other Soviet republics, the foreign travel of Lithuanian scientists and visits by foreign scientists and engineers to Lithuania were strictly regulated through Moscow. For example, in 1958 even the chairman of the Council of Ministers of the Lithuanian SSR had to apply to the Central Committee of the CPSU for permission to visit an international fair in Leipzig, East Germany.14 Finally, Lithuanian exports outside of the Soviet Union made up only 0.8 per cent of all Soviet foreign exports. The bulk of the exported produce was not competitive in the Western markets: the majority of Lithuanian exports went to socialist and third world countries.15 Despite all this, together with Estonia and Latvia, Lithuania was regarded by Soviet Russians as their ‘own little West’.16 This view was charged with both positive and negative values. The post-1990 historiography claimed that the Baltic republics boasted a higher labour culture and, as an economic region, specialized in developing Soviet high-tech industries.17 Hence, for example, the All-Union minister of electronic industry A. Shokin was the most frequent visitor to the Lithuanian SSR compared with other All-Union ministers.18 Nevertheless it is difficult to agree with those historians who attribute to the Soviet republics an intentional labour division similar to that which existed in the Comecon countries. For example, the production of data processing machines was devolved in Hungary because East Germany was to specialize in this industry.19 The following analysis suggests that specialization of the Lithuanian SSR in high-tech industries should not be wholly attributed to the central planning. Furthermore, the unambiguously positive view of the strategic all-union function of the Baltic region held by historians was questioned by the Lithuanian scientists interviewed for this study. Some of them insisted that it was an intentional Soviet policy not to concentrate the production of advanced technologies in the Western parts of the country. These territories were perceived as politically less reliable and therefore unsafe for developing strategic technologies.20 In addition, from the central government’s point of view it was undesirable that a Soviet republic develop its own viable economy. Both republics and regions were meant to form functional branches of a single and unitary Soviet economic system.21 Internal transfer of cybernetics and computer techno-science to Lithuania, therefore, had to negotiate a tension between the relative recognition of the economic potential of the area, on the one hand, and the political goal of keeping the Soviet republics dependent on each other and the centre, on the other.

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Soviet cybernetics travels to the Lithuanian SSR Arguably one of the most influential and versatile theories of the twentieth century, cybernetics, was outlined by the American mathematician Norbert Wiener in his Cybernetics: Or Control and Communication in the Animal and the Machine (1948) and occupies quite a special place in the history of Soviet science. Cybernetics can be described as a theory of control through information loops or feedback. Its original purpose was to improve antiaircraft missile defence. The design and construction of war machines led to a rethinking of control in both man-made systems and natural systems. At interdisciplinary conferences organized by the Josiah Macy Foundation in New York,22 cybernetics expanded beyond military engineering. Among other things, cybernetics was instrumental to the birth of both the Internet and the idea of societies and economies as open systems which are self-governed by feedback.23 The birth of cybernetics coincided with intensifying anti-Western campaigns in the Soviet Union. In 1946 Andrei Zhdanov launched a series of campaigns against Western influences in the arts and sciences which were echoed in the Lithuanian SSR.24 In 1948 the attacks on Lithuanian scientists were initiated by Juozas Zˇ iugzˇ da, the vice president of the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences (LAS). Both the formation of NATO and the establishment of CoCom, which declared a high technology embargo on the Soviet Union in 1949, further reinforced the rising anti-Western orientation in the Soviet Union.25 In parallel the Soviet academic institutions embarked on a systematic programme to construct a ‘Russian’ science.26 Although, as Gerovitch has pointed out, similar ideas to those of Wiener were developed by an innovative Russian mathematician Andrei Kolmogorov, cybernetics was officially classified as an American science and was at odds with Soviet anti-Western and nationalizing policies.27 Importantly, cybernetics was prohibited as a ‘reactionary bourgeois’ ‘pseudoscience’ by Soviet ideologues, who, as Gerovitch has observed, were neither scientists themselves nor had actually read Wiener.28 The Soviet government’s response to this major scientific breakthrough was thus one of denial and rejection.29 The first public criticism of Wiener appeared in the Soviet press in May 1950. In 1953 the Russian academic journal Issues of Philosophy criticised cybernetics on the grounds that Wiener defined ‘information’ as neither matter nor energy, which contradicted Marxism–Leninism.30 Particularly damaging to cybernetics was its intellectual affiliation with genetics, because modern genetics regarded hereditary processes as information processes. The notorious Trofim Lysenko’s attack on genetics as ‘unscientific, idealistic, metaphysical, reactionary, scholastic, feeble and sterile’31 was echoed in all scientific institutes in the Lithuanian SSR.32 Another associate of cybernetics, general systems theory, was praised in the West as a tool to bring about ‘the death of ideology’. This was not to the liking of Marxist–Leninist ideologues.33 It is important to note that, as Krementsov has pointed out, the banishment of

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cybernetics stemmed not only from the central government, but also from internal career struggles among Soviet scientists.34 As a result, being a captive of Cold War polarization, cybernetics acquired the aura of a cutting-edge non-Soviet science, practised by non-conformist individuals. As a pioneering Lithuanian scientist in economic cybernetics put it, to be able to engage in cybernetics, a former ‘pseudo-science’, was an indicator of scientific freedom.35 The official rehabilitation of the scientific status of cybernetics began in 1955, shortly before de-Stalinization was launched, and was reinforced by the construction of the first computer in the Soviet Union.36 On both sides of the Iron Curtain computers were of strategic military importance.37 Despite the fact that, unlike cybernetics, computers could not be declared to be ‘pseudo-machines’, their construction was kept strictly secret.38 Based in Kyiv, Ukraine, the Russian scientist Sergei Lebedev constructed the first Soviet digital computer MESM (1951–52). Lebedev’s next computer BESM (1953) was genuinely powerful for its time. In October 1955 BESM was presented to the public for the first time at a conference in Darmstadt and its serial production under the name of BESM-2 started in Kazan in 1958.39 The advance in Soviet computer industry was reinforced by changes in both techno-scientific and foreign policies. At the July 1955 Plenum, Nikolai Bulganin, who replaced Malenkov as the Chairman of the Council of Ministers, emphasized the necessity for techno-scientific exchange with the West.40 The following year, in July 1956, Bulganin announced the launch of ‘the scientific and technical revolution’.41 This was the start of official recognition of the new computer technology as a vital instrument to transform Soviet industry and economy. In summer 1955 the first article defending the scientific status of cybernetics appeared in the journal Issues of Philosophy. The legitimization of cybernetics was eventually echoed in the Lithuanian SSR. The year 1955 saw pacification and normalization of life in the republic, as the armed anti-Soviet resistance was suppressed. The first computing machines and newly graduated scientists from the Soviet scientific centres started to arrive in Vilnius. The introduction of cybernetics and computers to Lithuania is related to the work of two scientists: physicist Adolfas Jucys, and mathematician Vytautas Kubilius, both graduates of the Steklov Institute (Leningrad branch). It was thanks to the efforts of Jucys that the analog computer ELI-12 was donated to VU by Moscow University in 1955.42 The first public lecture about cybernetics was delivered by Kubilius in 1957, thus a few years later than in Russia.43 Published by Zˇ inija (a Lithuanian branch of Znanie), 600 copies of the lecture were circulated. In 1958 the term ‘cybernetics’ appeared in the Great Soviet Encyclopaedia and a Russian translation of Wiener’s The Human Use of Human Beings was published. Significant works by Western scholars of cybernetics such as W. Ross Ashby and Sir Stafford Beer were also translated into Russian (in 1959 and 1963 respectively).44 During the 1960s terms drawn from cybernetics became firmly established components of Soviet public discourse on governance.45 The Soviet

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government invested so much hope in this newly rehabilitated science of communication and control that cybernetics came under suspicion as a ‘red science’ in the United States.46 Despite the fact that, as historians of Soviet science have noted, this cybernetic hype did not directly translate into sustained progress for the Soviet techno-scientific industries, cybernetics remained closely coupled not only with computers but also with the economy.47 It is quite symbolic that Kubilius’s lecture on cybernetics coincided with the establishment of the Lithuanian National Economic Council (NEC) in Vilnius in June 1957. The transfer of cybernetics and computer industries in Lithuania took place in the context of economic decentralization, driven by Nikita Khrushchev’s Sovnarkhoz reform. The Sovnarkhoz reform replaced the branch governance of certain economic sectors with territorial governance. So far historians have described this period as bearing mainly negative consequences for the development of Soviet Russian sciences and technologies. Territorialization, it was argued, brought about only inefficiency and chaos and hindered scientific development.48 But the reception of Sovnarkhoz reform by Lithuanian scientists and engineers was quite strikingly different.49 During 1957–64 the Lithuanian government acquired direct responsibility for about 83 per cent of Lithuanian industries.50 It has to be added here that this relative autonomy was to prove short-lived: in October 1965 the NEC was closed down. Nonetheless, although by the 1970s about 82 per cent of Lithuanian industries had been returned to the all-union or union-republic ministries, Lithuanian historiography emphasized that this brief period of increased economic autonomy had significantly contributed to the rapid growth of hi-tech industries in the republic.51

Formal institutions and informal networks It is hardly surprising that the internal transfer of cybernetics to Lithuania relied heavily on informal networks. As Philip Hanson put it, the main problem with the Soviet economic system was in fact inadequate planning.52 The same holds true for Soviet techno-science. Pervasive red tape, censorship and restrictions rendered the importance of informal networks ever more important. Informal networks facilitated access to Western scientific literature which was deposited into special collections. In order to gain access to the current knowledge it was absolutely essential to be connected to an institution and to the leading scholars in the field. Although informal networks are an important feature of any Western scientific environment, their role was particularly vital in the Soviet Union. In the conditions of a shortage-driven economy, informal networks were crucial for securing a technical and financial base for scientific research and training.53 To some extent black market and blat or access to individuals who had access to goods were just as important in Soviet techno-science as in the everyday life of Soviet citizens. Personal contacts and individual transfer of knowledge were especially important during the 1950s. According to Gerovitch, only very few English-

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language copies of Wiener’s Cybernetics were circulated among Soviet scientists in the leading institutes. In 1949 Glavlit refused to authorize publication of Fedor Maiorov’s The Electronic Calculation Solving Device, the first Soviet textbook on computers. The Academy Institute of Computer Technology and Special Design Bureau No. 245 of the Ministry for Machine-Building and Instrument Construction, the first institutes set up for the construction of computers, were established in 1950 but kept strictly secret. It was only in July 1954 that the Soviet Academy of Sciences declassified its BESM.54 True, news of computing spread by word of mouth. A Lithuanian mathematician Jonas Kubilius recalled that he first learned about computers in 1951 from the Russian mathematician Boris Delauny during his studies at the Steklov Institute.55 Even after the declassification of computer research, however, knowledge about computers was still spread predominantly via individual contacts within the Lithuanian SSR. One such platform for face-to-face interaction was provided by Kubilius’s mathematics seminars dedicated to probability theory and discussions about information theory, launched in November 1955.56 Kubilius’s presentation to the plenary session of a conference at VU on 14 April 1956 is the first record of a academic discussion about computers.57 One year later Kubilius delivered the abovementioned first officially sanctioned public lecture on cybernetics in Lithuania. At the same time, students at VU were learning about cybernetic techno-sciences at the seminars led by young mathematician Vytautas Statulevicˇius in 1956–57.58 A graduate of the VU’s Department of Physics and Mathematics, Statulevicˇius was encouraged by Kubilius to enrol in the Department of Probability Theory at Leningrad University (1954–57). Like Kubilius, Statulevicˇius was supervised by Yurii Linik and later became the key figure in Lithuanian mathematics.59 In 1962 Statulevicˇius was appointed deputy head of science at the Institute of Physics and Mathematics (LAS), and later became director of the Institute (1967–95). The years 1956–57 saw the introduction of cybernetics into the domain of academic and public knowledge in the Lithuanian SSR. At this stage the key actors were individual scientists such as Jucys, Kubilius and Statulevicˇius. Soon thereafter collective actors such as academic institutions and industrial complexes emerged and became active in the internal transfer of cybernetics. The transfer of cybernetics as a scientific theory was not costly, but the transfer of computer technologies demanded a solid economic investment which was not possible without solid political and financial back-up. At this point the internal transfer required collaboration between top scientists, economic planners and party leaders at both All-Union and republican centres. In parallel with the NEC, State Committees for Science and Technology (GNTK) were established under the All-Union and union-republic Councils of Ministers in 1958. Furthermore, during the Sovnarkhoz period many scientific institutions were placed under the NEC. By 1961 the NEC of the Lithuanian SSR was in charge of 26 organizations for scientific research

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and design.60 Both Jucys and Kubilius were behind the institutionalization of cybernetics and computer techno-sciences in Lithuania. In 1960 Kubilius, together with Russian mathematician Efrem Maimin, organized the Central Scientific Laboratory for Economic Research at VU, which soon acquired computer machines.61 In 1962 Kubilius was appointed head of the Scientific Council for Cybernetics and Computing Technology (CCT) under the LSSR Committee for Coordinating Scientific Research. The mission of this council was to promote cybernetics, mathematical linguistics, economic cybernetics, neurocybernetics and computer technologies.62 In 1967 the Computer Centre was opened at the Institute of Physics and Mathematics (LAS) – 12 years after the creation of its equivalent at the All-Union Academy of Sciences in Moscow. The director of the centre was Mifodijus Sapagovas, a 27-year-old graduate in mathematics who received his degree in Kyiv under the supervision of the famous cybernetician Viktor Glushkov. A decade later, in 1977, a separate Mathematics and Cybernetics Institute was organized at LAS by dividing the Institute of Physics and Mathematics.63 It was pragmatic reasons that kept cybernetics tightly connected to computer technology in the Soviet Union. As Conyngham has noted, as of the mid-1960s the competition for scarce computing equipment increased dramatically.64 Academic scientists bombarded Gosplan with requests for new computers to assist their ‘cybernetic research’. In this way they formulated their needs in terms of Bulganin’s discourse on the leading role of cybernetics in the top priority development, the scientific-technical revolution. A distinguished Lithuanian mathematician noted that the term ‘cybernetics’ was used as an umbrella for very diverse scientific problems, especially those which were not easily accommodated by traditional scientific disciplines but needed computer technologies.65 The first digital computers reached the Lithuanian SSR in the early 1960s. The LAS acquired its first BESM-2M in 1961; it was put into operation in July 1962, three years later than in Moscow.66 Vilnius University received a less powerful computer, Minsk-14, in 1963. In 1968 the LAS replaced BESM-2M with a more powerful and reliable BESM-4. In terms of computer machines the Lithuanian SSR lagged behind Russia. Although BESM-6 was designed in the early 1960s, the LAS installed it only in 1972.67 But the Lithuanian SSR was not unique in this respect. For example, in 1960 the Estonian Academy of Sciences designed its own computer according to the scheme of M-3, which was developed first by the Moscow Institute of Energy and then by the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in 1959. Although M-3 was inferior in its capacity to BESM, it was only in the 1970s that it was replaced by the IBM clones Minsk-22 and Minsk-32.68 In Lithuania, Minsk-22 was installed in VU and the Kaunas Institute of Technology (KIT) in 1971. By the second half of the 1960s there were formal institutional networks for cybernetic techno-science in place within the Lithuanian SSR. Formal organizations could hardly function, however, were they not to rely on informal channels or social relations between particular individuals. Informal

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networks were especially important for the internal transfer of computing machines within the academic sector. In 1955–84 the academician A. A. Dorodnitsyn was head of the Computation Centre at the All-Union Academy of Sciences and in charge of the commission which distributed computers within the All-Union and republic branches of the Academy of Sciences. Interviewed scientists recalled that Jucys (LAS) had good relations with Dorodnitsyn and invited him to come to Lithuania on an official visit to the republican government. The official visit included a visit to the Zˇ uvintas national park – a strategic move, because Dorodnitsyn was known as a passionate collector of birds’ eggs and shells. That the transfer of BESMs to Vilnius was mediated by the sophisticated discussions about crow eggs held in Latin between Dorodnitsyn and the director of the national park is probably more than a metaphor.69 Interestingly, Dorodnitsyn was described by Lithuanian scientists as a dissident, ‘a man who was clearly against the Soviet government’ – a label which sits curiously alongside Dorodnitsyn’s specialization in missile technology. The LAS provided assistance to Dorodnitsyn not only by helping him to pursue his zoological interests, but also by organizing academic events, such as a symposium between the Soviet Union and Finland about the use of computers in governance. Informal connections with G. Marchuk, the head of the Science and Technology Committee, were also used by the LAS to facilitate research funding applications. On the other hand, the LAS invited distinguished scientists such as Glushkov and Marchuk to give seminars about the use of new technologies in economy and governance to the Central Committee (CC) of the Lithuanian Communist Party (LCP). The informant emphasized that these events with high profile guests helped to convince the CC LCP about the importance of investing in the technical base of science. As a result, it became easier to obtain funding for new equipment, especially computers.70 Even at later stages informal networks and personal interaction were vital in the internal transfer of knowledge. A good example is the construction of Akademset’, a computer-based relay network connecting the key Soviet scientific research institutes, which was started in 1981. Under the direction of R. Jakubaitis, the network was developed at the Institute of Electronics and Computer Science in Riga, Latvia.71 A leading Lithuanian computer scientist recalled that the computer connections were established and worked quite well, but ‘there were no databases. Because good information was secret and [any information] which was not secret was not any good and nobody needed it. We joked that we had a net but no fish’.72 The scientist thus suggested that Soviet attempts at formalizing the scientific transfer seemed to be predestined for failure. Informal networks facilitated internal transfer of technology by enabling horizontal cooperation among academics, research and development (R&D) and industries within the republic and Comecon countries. For example, Laimutis Telksnys and the Special Computer Design Bureau (SCDB) collaborated with cardiologists at the Palanga Institute of Physiology and

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Pathology of the Cardiovascular System in the Lithuanian SSR and the Erfurt Medical Academy in East Germany. In addition, the Bureau collaborated with the Czechoslovakian Academy of Sciences, particularly the Institute for the Theory of Automation and Information. However, the power of informal networks was severely limited when it came to external transfer. For example, Telksnys recalled an attempt at horizontal international collaboration with East Germany. After the success of the optical character reading device Ru¯ ta 701 at the Leipzig Fair in 1969, a proposal for cooperation came from the Japanese company Toshiba, which suggested replacing transistors with integrated circuits. It was also proposed that Ru¯ ta 701 be presented at the International Osaka Fair. This initiative was blocked by Moscow. Furthermore, it was proposed that Ru¯ ta 711 be co-produced with an East German partner. Although experimental versions were produced in 1973 under this scheme, Moscow later withdrew support for this project at the final stage.73 The optical character reader was produced only in Vilnius. Telksnys was not allowed to travel abroad until the collapse of the Soviet Union. In this way individuals and companies in the Lithuanian SSR had much more restricted possibilities for trading and cooperating with both the Comecon and the Western countries than, for example, their counterparts in Hungary did.74 Nevertheless, the above examples suggest that Lithuanian scientists challenged the boundaries of permissibility. Their efforts at cooperation demonstrate that horizontal cooperation with East Germany or Japan was not unthinkable. Informal networks were long lasting. This was probably due to the fact that they were well anchored in formal organizations. Kubilius was the rector of ˇ uplinskas was in charge of high-tech industries VU in 1958–91, while Algis C for the 32 years that he was active at the NEC and in high posts in Sigma. From 1959 Telksnys was the senior engineer at the SCDB for about 30 years, and during the same time Statulevicˇius and Sapagovas occupied leading posts at the Institute of Mathematics and Cybernetics. These well anchored informal networks, the following section suggests, empowered local manoeuvres which were embedded in nationalist narratives.

Local manoeuvres in the centralized system The Lithuanian SSR was a small Soviet republic which occupied only 0.3 per cent of Soviet territory and contained 1.3 per cent of the USSR’s population. Perhaps due to its smallness, Lithuania’s party authorities, local economic planners and scientists had some space to manoeuvre in order to amplify, subvert or even contest centrally set policies on industrial and scientific development. A good case of such manoeuvring is the history of the Vilnius Computer Factory (VCF) and the adjunct SCDB, which this study’s informants presented as a struggle of local initiatives versus central policies. Designed on the model of the Moscow Computer Factory, the VCF was created by reorganization of the cash register manufacturing facility that was

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built in 1957.75 At the early stage the VCF was hardly a cutting-edge company. In 1959 its constructors were engaged in the modernization of EV80–3, a Soviet clone of IBM 604 which was an accounting machine originally designed in 1948 and copied by Niisshetmash, the Institute of Computers in Moscow. However, it was on the basis of this work that the first innovation, an original Lithuanian computer EASP-S, was developed in December 1962.76 In the 1940s–50s the Lithuanian SSR suffered great losses in terms of individuals qualified in mathematics and the exact sciences. In the 1940s–50s the physics, mathematics and astronomy sub-section at the Institute of Physics and Technology at the LAS employed only one mathematician, Adolfas Jucys.77 In 1948 Jonas Kubilius, the future distinguished Lithuanian mathematician, had no choice but to go to Leningrad, to pursue his research degree at the Mathematics Institute there.78 However, the scientists interviewed for this study emphasized the local resistance to moves to import a trained labour force from Russia. Regardless of the scarce local resources, the influx of Russian workers was to be prevented. It was held that the VCF and SCDB should be staffed only by ethnic Lithuanian engineers. Here an ethnic Lithuanian was an individual who spoke Lithuanian and was rooted in the territory of the Lithuanian SSR. Sending local workers and engineers for training to Russia, however, was not perceived as problematic. In 1957 the VCF sent the first four workers to the Leningrad and Riazan computer factories for training. Next year, three engineers were sent to the Moscow computer factory.79 When the VCF was reorganized into a computer-producing facility, a large training scheme for computer specialists was initiated, because there were no such experts in Lithuania. During ˇ uplinskas acted as head of the 1958–65, a graduate of KIT (1952) Algis C Agency for the Management of the Production of Instruments at the NEC. ˇ uplinskas gathered over 100 persons who wanted to change their In 1959 C qualification and sent them for training to Moscow. The trainees were provided with accommodation and salaries. Upon their return to Vilnius they were not only employed as engineers, programmers and constructors at the VCF, but were also supplied with individual apartments – a rare luxury at that time. In the words of a Lithuanian mathematician, ‘they were treated as a real elite’.80 In 1960 Sniecˇkus, the first secretary of the Lithuanian CP, requested that the All-Union State Planning Committee approve the employment of all of KIT’s computer science graduates at the VCF.81 The head of the Planning Committee, Aleksandras Drobnys, was also determined to keep the Russian labour force at bay.82 As a result the VCF and SCDB employees were mostly ethnic Lithuanians.83 The history of the Sigma industrial association presents another case of local manoeuvring which sometimes actively sought to transgress the central directives. Established by merging seven factories and three design companies in 1965,84 Sigma (‘sum’ in Latin) was the forerunner of an entirely new type of company in the Soviet Union. Its units had legal autonomy and some economic independence.85 A subordinate to Minipribor (the Ministry of

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Instrument Manufacture, Means of Automation and Administrative Systems) and part of the All-Union conglomerate Soyuzelektronshchetmash, Sigma was one of the largest factories in Lithuania. In the late 1980s it employed ˇ uplinskas over 18,000 workers, including about 6,000 engineers.86 Headed by C (1965 to 1990) Sigma was known as ‘a Lithuanian factory’, both in the republic and throughout the Soviet Union. Both Lithuanian historians and the informants of this study regarded the establishment of Sigma as a peak of Lithuanian high-tech industrial development. Sigma’s production was sought after, although it was exported mainly internally within the Soviet Union and socialist countries, such as East Germany and Poland. A key figure in the SCDB and cybernetic technoscience transfer from Lithuania to Soviet centres was Laimutis Telksnys. A graduate in electrotechnical engineering from KIT (1953) and the son of a political prisoner, Telksnys enrolled in the Moscow Institute of Automation and Remote Control. In 1960 he completed his postgraduate (aspirant) dissertation under the supervision of V. S. Pugachev – the pioneering Russian ˇ uplinskas’s urging, Telksnys scientist in stochastic control systems.87 At C returned to work in Vilnius. Led by Telksnys, the bureau produced original computers, such as the EVT 80–2 Ru ¯ ta in 1963 and Ru¯ ta 110 in 1969. The major important innovation was an optical character reading device, Ru¯ ta 701, which was the first industrially produced device of its kind in Europe and received the Great Gold Medal at the International Leipzig Fair in 1969. Another innovation was a removable disk drive R401 – the first in the Soviet Union. A significant contribution was the creation and development of devices for the identification of stochastic processes in 1963, which were reportedly used to detect the first nuclear tests in China. In the period leading up to 1974, a total of 704 computers in the Ru¯ ta series were made at the VCF and exported to other Soviet republics and Bulgaria, Romania, East Germany, and Poland.88 As a Lithuanian mathematician recalled, Ru¯ ta 110 was especially popular and other Soviet republics often used informal levers with a view to gaining the ability to purchase them.89 However, in January 1967 the decision was made to stop developing original computers in the Soviet Union.90 In line with this resolution the VCF stopped developing new computer technologies and instead focused on copying the IBM S/360 series and producing smaller devices for statistical calculations of economic data (M5000, M5010, M5100), the production of which continued until 1984.91 It was Khrushchev’s economic decentralization which made the training of Lithuanian engineers possible, as greater autonomy in decision making was granted to republican economic bodies. Although the Lithuanian government was not entitled to make decisions about the formal staffing structures in the republic’s industrial companies or academic institutions, it had some room to manoeuvre when it came to selectively hiring individuals for these centrally set staff positions.92 As an interviewed scientist put it, ‘there were Russian and Lithuanian factories in Lithuania. The computer technologies and microelectronic factories were even called “Lithuanian factories” [litovskii zavod].

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Welding factories and others were Russian’. Dominated by ethnic Lithuanian staff, Sigma, according to its former employee, was considered ‘a bad factory’, because it was ideologically incorrect. Sigma was legitimized, however, by the good quality of its products.93 The high official of the Lithuanian SSR Gosplan Institute emphasized that economic planners were very keen to ‘deflect’ any attempts to build nonprestigious plants in Lithuania and used all possible means to support ‘clean’ and ‘advanced’ industries.94 Naturally, they were not always successful; this was exemplified clearly in the case of Ignalina nuclear plant, which featured RBMK type reactors. At its completion in 1984, the Ignalina nuclear plant stood out as the most powerful nuclear plant in the world. As in the case of the VCF, Lithuanian science and economy planners devised a scheme to mobilize labour locally by training electrical engineers at KIT. On this occasion, however, the scheme was rejected by Moscow.95 The Ignalina plant was staffed by Russian specialists who populated the newly erected adjacent town of Sniecˇkus (currently Visaginas). As a result the Lithuanian share of the population in the area decreased to 64.3 per cent in 1979.96 The Ignalina plant was arguably regarded by Moscow as strategically more significant than the VCF and for this reason was not to be operated by Lithuanians. The clash between Ignalina and nationalist attitudes was manifested in popular protests against the enlargement of the plant. On 16–18 September 1988, Sa ˛ ju¯dis and the Green Movement organized a protest campaign against the building of a third reactor at Ignalina. The campaign was widely televised and reported in the press and had an important influence on the further development of the independence movement.97 Later, unlike the VCF, the Ignalina plant came to be described not as an achievement of Lithuanian techno-science, but as a manifestation of Russian colonization in the public imagination and local historiography.98

Conclusion In the course of around 15 years (1955–69) the Lithuanian SSR built a fullyfledged infrastructure from scratch: academic institutes for computer and cybernetic research, government councils, higher education programmes, design bureaus and factories. If in 1957 there were only two mathematicians promoting cybernetics and computer science in the Lithuanian SSR, a decade later, in 1967, the CCT had 40 members and the SCDB had 653 employees.99 This development, one Lithuanian scientist recalled, was ‘a kind of resistance’, which was empowered by Khrushchev’s economic decentralization reform.100 However, the development of Lithuanian computer sector did not escape Soviet bottlenecks. In 1968 there were only nine computers in Lithuania. The BESM-4 at the LAS was about 40 times slower than the BESM-6 used at the All-Union Academy of Sciences.101 In 1972 the numbers increased to 18 computing centres, and 29 other organizations with computers; only 25 more computing centres would be established in the next five years.102

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In this way, the Lithuanian SSR lagged behind the All-Union centres in Moscow and Leningrad. Nevertheless, the case of Ru¯ ta computers showed that there were moments when the Lithuanian SSR proved itself capable of generating important innovations which were transferable not only to the East, but also to the West. Lithuanian companies, institutions and individuals had virtually no possibilities for direct horizontal cooperation with the West. However, efforts were made to establish such cooperation. Although Lithuanian actors were aware of official centralization and control, they were willing at least to try to act internationally. Their failures did not prove an obstacle to the later creation of widespread narratives presenting the history of Lithuanian techno-science as a national achievement. Being transferred from the West, cybernetics appealed to Soviet Lithuanian scientists as a symbol of freedom and openness. Scientists perceived the rehabilitation of cybernetics as symptomatic of a meltdown of Stalinist scientific censorship and proof of the porosity of the East–West divide. On the other hand, to work in the fields of cybernetics and computer sciences meant to be part of a highly centralized system of science and the economy. ‘American’ cybernetics reached Lithuanian scientists through a ‘Russian’ filter. However, Lithuanian scientists engaged in discursive subversion of the Soviet reality of centralism and constructed their own autonomy both as scientists and as citizens of Lithuania. The development of Lithuanian computers was presented as a blend of both patriotism and ethnic nationalism, and the desire to be part of universal science, of an apolitical technical modernity. Finally, although informal strategies proved successful only in internal transfer within the Soviet Union and failed to materialize in the shape of external East–East and East–West transfers, the significance of such attempts should not be underestimated. The Lithuanian case demonstrates that internal transfer of techno-scientific innovations was an important locus for the practices of active self-government among actors who were assumed to be subordinate, such as the LAS, the heads of companies and economic planners.

Notes 1 The notion of ‘techno-science’ is used interchangeably with ‘science and technology’. 2 For West–East transfer of cybernetics see L. Graham, Science in Russia and the Soviet Union: A Short History, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993; S. Gerovitch, From Newspeak to Cyberspeak: A History of Soviet Cybernetics, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002. On Soviet cybernetics and computer science see G. Trogemann, A. Y. Nitussov and W. Ernst (eds), Computing in Russia. The History of Computer Devices and Information Technology Revealed, Braunschweig: Vieweg, 2001; D. Pospelov and Ya. I. Fet (ed.), Ocherki istorii informatiki v Rossii, Novosibirsk: Scientific Publishing Centre of the Siberian Division of RAS, 1998. 3 See L. Lubrano, ‘The hidden structure of Soviet Science,’ Science, Technology and Human Values, vol. 18, no. 2, 1993, pp. 147–75. This study, however, focused on formal cooperation expressed in co-authored publications.

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4 L. Graham, ‘Big science in the last years of the big Soviet Union’, Osiris, vol. 7, 1992, pp. 49–71; A. Kojevnikov, ‘The phenomenon of Soviet Science’, Osiris, vol. 23, 2008, pp. 115–35. 5 M. Froggatt, Science in Propaganda and Popular Culture in the USSR under Khrushchev (1953–1964), Unpublished Ph.D. diss., University of Oxford, 2006, Ch. 2., pp. 91–92. For the nationalization of Russian science since the nineteenth century, see M. D. Gordin, ‘Points critical: Russia, Ireland, and science at the boundary’, Osiris, vol. 24, 2009, pp. 99–119. 6 Graham, 1993; Gerovitch, 2002; S. V. Klimenko, ‘Computer science in Russia: a personal view’, IEEE Annals of the History of Computing, 1999, vol. 21, no. 3, pp. 16–30; Trogemann, Nitussov and Ernst (eds), 2001. 7 J. Starkauskas, Represiniu˛ struktu¯ ru˛ ir komunistu˛ partijos bendradarbiavimas ı˛tvirtinant okupacinı˛ rezˇ ima˛ Lietuvoje, 1944–1953 m., Vilnius: Lietuvos gyventoju ˛ genocido ir rezistencijos tyrimu ˛ centras, 2007, pp. 643–44, 682–83. In 1946 ethnic Lithuanians held only 35 per cent of all managerial positions in republic-level government organizations. L. Truska, Lietuva 1938–1953 metais, Kaunas: Sˇ viesa, 1995, pp. 83–84, 137. 8 V. Stake˙ nas, Lietuvisˇki metai. Profesoriaus Jono Kubiliaus gyvenimo trajektorija, Vilnius: Margi rasˇtai, 2001, p. 193. 9 One literary critic has recalled the shocking conditions of Soviet student life; he lived in dilapidated buildings with no running water or electricity. As the student stipend was not sufficient for even the most basic needs, heavy manual labour, such as night-shift work off-loading cargo trains, was an important source of income for male students during the whole Soviet period. Stake˙ nas, 2001, p. 76; V. Aresˇka, Kumele˙ vardu Emilija. Prisiminimai ir apma˛stymai, Vilnius: Lietuvos rasˇytoju ˛ sajungos leidykla, 2007. 10 Only in 1959–61 did Lithuanian agriculture experience a more significant growth. B. Puizinavicˇius, Lietuva po Stalino. Politine˙ s ir ekonomine˙ s raidos bruozˇ ai 1953–1965 m., Vilnius: Karminas, 2000, pp. 21–23, 48. For management of Soviet Lithuanian industries see S. Grybkauskas, Pramone˙ s valdymas sovietine˙ je Lietuvoje 1965–1985 m.ı˛tampos ir konfliktai, Vilnius, 2007. 11 During the interwar period, the agricultural and textile (ca 20 per cent) industries prevailed in Lithuania. In 1939 as many as 73.8 per cent of inhabitants worked in the agricultural sector. However, there were no large companies in either of these branches. Truska, pp. 12–14. 12 And was the leading producer of meat, milk and grain per capita in the Soviet Union. In 1988 Lithuania produced 141 kg of meat per capita, whereas the Soviet average was 62 kg. Lietuva 1940–1990, Vilnius: Lietuvos gyventoju ˛ genocido ir rezistencijos tyrimu ˛ centras, 2005, p. 538. 13 P. Hanson, Trade and Technology in Soviet–Western Relations, New York: Columbia University Press, 1981, p. 136. 14 Puizinavicˇius, 2000, pp. 42–43. 15 Under the name of the Soviet Union, 172 companies exported their production abroad. Lietuva 1940–1990, p. 539. 16 Within Baltic studies, the phrase ‘Soviet West’ designates Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. Within the Soviet Union, however, ‘the Soviet West’ also included Ukraine. A. Melezin, ‘Soviet regionalization: an attempt at the delineation of socioeconomic integrated regions’, Geographical Review, vol. 58, no. 4, 1968, pp. 611–12. 17 For Baltic economic and technological exceptionality see R. Misiunas and R. Taagepera, The Baltic States. The Years of Dependence 1940–1990, London: Hurst & Company, 2006, pp. 184–85; Lietuva 1940–1990, p. 534. 18 Grybkauskas, 2007, p. 62. 19 Z. Szentgyörgyi, ‘A short history of computing in Hungary’, IEEE Annals of the History of Computing, vol. 21, no. 3, 1991, p. 50.

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20 Interview with a Soviet Lithuanian mathematician Vytautas. 20 December 2005, Vilnius, Lithuania. Since some of the informants are still professionally active, their names are anonymized. 21 O. Zinam, ‘Soviet regional problems: specialization versus autarchy’, Russian Review, vol. 31, no. 2, 1972, p. 132. 22 S. J. Heims, The Cybernetics Group, Cambridge and London: The MIT Press, 1991. 23 S. Gerovitch, ‘The cybernetics scare and the origins of the internet’, Baltic Worlds, vol. II, no. 1, 2009, pp. 32–38. 24 In Vilnius, the Writers’ Union meeting took place on 1–2 October 1946. Truska, p. 170. For more on the role of Zhdanov’s campaign in the formation of the Russian national identity, see A. A. Sidiqqi, ‘Germans in Russia: Cold War, technology transfer and national identity’, Osiris, vol. 24, 2009, p. 136. 25 S. Autio-Sarasmo, ‘Soviet economic modernisation and transferring technologies from the West’, in M. Kangaspuro and J. Smiths (eds), Modernization in Russia since 1900, Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 2006, pp.114–15, Gerovitch, 2002, pp. 17, 19, 40. 26 Froggatt, 2006, Ch. 2, p. 2. 27 Gerovitch, 2002. 28 See Materialist, ‘Komu sluzhit kibernetika’ (1953), in D. A. Pospelov and Ya. I. Fet (eds), Ocherki istorii informatiki v Rossii, Novosibirsk: Nauchno-izdatel’skii tsentr OIGGM SO RAN, 1998. For an excellent overview of the anti-cybernetics debates in the Soviet Union see S. Gerovitch, ‘ “Russian scandals”: Soviet readings of American cybernetics in the early years of the Cold War,’ Russian Review, vol. 60, no. 4, 2001, pp. 545–68. 29 D. Holloway, ‘Innovation in science – the case of cybernetics in the Soviet Union,’ Science Studies, vol. 4, no. 4, 1974, pp. 299–337; S. Gerovitch, ‘ “Mathematical machines” of the Cold War: Soviet computing, American cybernetics and ideological disputes in the early 1950s’, Social Studies of Science, vol. 31, no. 2, 2001, pp. 253–87. 30 Wiener stated that ‘information is information, not matter or energy. No materialism which does not admit this can survive at the present day’. N. Wiener, Cybernetics, Or Control and Communication in the Animal and the Machine, Cambridge: The Technology Press of MIT, 1965, p. 132. 31 With the editorial support of Stalin in July 1948. 32 The biologist M. Natkevicˇaite˙ -Ivanauskiene˙ was the only Lithuanian geneticist. However, some other scientists, such as J. Dagys and P. Sˇ ivickis, were also repressed. Every higher education institution was instructed to uncover its own ‘mendelist-morganist’. J. Rubikas, ‘Genetika vakar ir sˇiandien’, Pergale˙ , no. 3, 1966, pp. 114–15. 33 F. Fischer, Technocracy and the Politics of Expertise, Newbury Park: Sage, 1990; I. Susiluoto, The Origins and Development of Systems Thinking in the Soviet Union: Political and Philosophical Controversies from Bogdanov and Bukharin to Present-Day Re-Evaluation, Helsinki: Suomalainen tiedeakatemia, 1982. 34 N. Krementsov, Stalinist Science, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997. 35 Interview with a Soviet Lithuanian economist Meinardas. 8 November 2007, Vilnius, Lithuania. 36 The main defenders of cybernetics came from the military sector: mathematician Aleksei Liapunov, the chief mathematician of the Soviet atomic project Sergei Sobolev and Anatolii Kitov, the deputy head of Computation Centre 1 of the Ministry of Defence. 37 P. Edwards, The Closed World: Computers and the Politics of Discourse in Cold War America, Cambridge: MIT Press, 1996. 38 Gerovitch, ‘ “Mathematical machines” of the Cold War: Soviet computing,

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45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

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American cybernetics and ideological disputes in the early 1950s’, Social Studies of Science, vol. 31, no. 2, 2001. B. N. Malinovskiy, ‘Sergey Alexeevich Lebedev’, Computing in Russia, p. 118. Pravda, 17 July 1955, pp. 2–3; cf. Froggatt, 2006, Ch. 2, p. 12. J. Pavitt and D. Crowley, ‘The hi-tech Cold War,’ in Pavitt, J. and Crowley, D. (eds), Cold War Modern. Design 1945–1970, London: Victoria and Albert Museum, 2008, p. 167. L. Telksnys and A. Zˇ ilinskas, ‘Computers in Lithuania’, IEEE Annals of the History of Computing, no. 3, 1999, p. 36. J. Kubilius, Kas yra kibernetika? Apie masˇinas, kurios pavaduoja kai kurı˛ smegenu˛ darba˛, Vilnius: Draugija, 1957. In Russia, cybernetics was first publicly discussed in seminars organized by I. A. Poletaev, Kitov and M. G. Gaaze-Rapoport in the second half of 1954. M. G. Gaaze-Rapoport, ‘O stanovlenii kibernetiki v SSSR’, Kibernetika: Proshloe dlia budushchego. Etiudy po istorii otechestvennoi kibernetiki, Moscow: Nauka, 1989, p. 64. None of these authors was translated into Lithuanian. Interestingly, the fact that the scientific language of cybernetics in Lithuania was primarily Russian does not seem to have undermined the a-Soviet status and liberalizing power of cybernetics. E. Rindzeviciute, Constructing Soviet Cultural Policy: Cybernetics and Governance in Lithuania after World War II, Linköping: Linköping University Press, 2008; see also Gerovitch, 2002. A. I. Berg, ‘Nauka velichaishchikh vozmozhnostei (1962)’, in D. A. Pospelov and Ya. I. Fet (eds) Ocherki istorii informatiki v Rossii., Novosibirsk: Nauchnoizdatel’skii tsentr OIGGM SO RAN, 1998. M. Castells and E. Kiselyova, The Collapse of Soviet Communism: A View from the Information Society, Berkley: University of California, 1995. S. Gerovitch, ‘InterNyet: why the Soviet Union did not build a nationwide computer network’, History and Technology, vol. 24, no. 4, 2008, p. 336. J. Rudokas, Istorija, kuria galime didzˇ iuotis, Vilnius: Gaire˙ s, 2002. V. Tininis, Sniecˇ kus. 33 metai valdzˇ ioje, Vilnius: Karminas, 2000, p. 179. Lietuva 1940–1990, p. 535. P. Hanson, The Rise and Fall of the Soviet Economy: An Economic History of the USSR after 1945, Harlow: Longman, 2003. For a definition of the shortage economy, see J. Kornai, Economics of Shortage, Vol. A–B, Amsterdam: North-Holland Publishing Company, 1980. Gerovitch, ‘Mathematical machines,’ 2001, pp. 266, 272, 273–74. J. Kubilius, ‘Kibernetikos pradzˇ ia Lietuvoje’, Mokslas ir gyvenimas, no. 6, 1999, p. 2. Stake˙ nas, 2001, pp. 182, 230. Kubilius, 1999, p. 3. Interview with a Soviet Lithuanian physicist Simonas. 14 December 2005, Vilnius, Lithuania. Among Kubilius’s coursemates was G. Marchuk, later president of the All-Union Academy of Sciences. In 1971 the All-Union Academy of Sciences awarded Statulevicˇius the Markov prize for scientific achievements in probability theory. Stake˙ nas, 2001, p. 182. Puizinavicˇius, 2000, p. 41. Students were graduating in economic cybernetics from 1966 and a separate department for Economic Cybernetics and Finance was established at VU in 1977. Vilniaus universiteto istorija. 1940–1979, Vilnius: Mokslas, 1979, pp. 52, 79, 342. Stake˙ nas, 2001, p. 231. In 1990, the Mathematics and Cybernetics Institute was renamed the Mathematics and Informatics Institute.

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64 W. Conyngham, ‘Technology and decision making: some aspects of the development of OGAS’, Slavic Review, vol. 39, no. 3, 1980, pp. 426–45. 65 Interview with Vytautas, 2005. 66 L. Telksnys and A. Zˇ ilinskas, ‘Computers in Lithuania’, IEEE Annals of the History of Computing, no. 3, 1999, p. 31. 67 Telksnys and Zˇ ilinskas, 1999, pp. 32–36; G. Crowe and S. Goodman, ‘S. A. Lebedev and the birth of Soviet computing’, IEEE Annals of the History of Computing, vol. 16, no. 1, 1994, p. 20. 68 H. Susi, ‘Selected aspects of scientific research’, in T. Parming and E. Järvesoo (eds) A Case Study of a Soviet Republic. The Estonian SSR, Boulder, Colorado: Westview Press, 1978, p. 379. 69 Interview with a Soviet Lithuanian mathematician Algirdas. 19 December 2005, Vilnius, Lithuania; interview with Vytautas, 2005. 70 Interview with Vytautas, 2005. 71 P. Högselius, The Dynamics of Innovation in Eastern Europe, Cheltenham: Edward Elgar Publishers, 2005. 72 Interview with Algirdas, 2005. 73 Interview with Algirdas, 2005, Telksnys and Zˇ ilinskas, 1999, p. 35. 74 See Szentgyörgyi, ‘A short history of computing in Hungary’, IEEE Annals of the History of Computing, vol. 21, no. 3, 1991. 75 In comparison, in 1959 the Moscow Calculating-Analytical Machines Plant serially produced M-20 computers. Crowe and Goodman, p. 20. 76 Telksnys and Zˇ ilinskas, 1999, p. 33. 77 Stake˙ nas, 2001, p. 186. 78 Stake˙ nas, 2001, pp. 156, 162. 79 V. Bagocˇiu¯nas, Vilniaus skaicˇ iavimo masˇinu˛ gamykla, Vilnius: Mintis, 1973, p. 6. 80 Interview with Algirdas, 2005; also Telksnys and Zilinskas, p. 31. 81 Puizinavicˇius, 2000, p. 43. 82 Grybkauskas, 2007, p. 81. 83 Rudokas, 2002, p. 261. 84 The Vilnius Electronic Computer Factory, the Paneve˙ zˇ ys Factory of Precise Mechanics, the Pabrade˙ Computer Factory ‘Modulis’, the Telsˇiai Computer Factory, the Taurage˙ Computer Nodes Factory, the Special Computer Design Bureau and the Special Technical Bureau for the Construction of Automated Technology. 85 L. Holmes, The Policy Process in Communist States. Politics and Industrial Administration, London, Sage Publications, 1981, p. 57. 86 Rudokas, 2002, p. 105. 87 Telksnys and Zˇ ilinskas, p. 31. 88 G. Grigas, ‘The first Lithuanian accounting machine’, IT Star, vol. 6, no. 1, p. 7. 89 Interview with Algirdas, 2005. 90 A. Nitussov and B. N. Malinovskiy, ‘Economic changes in the sixties and the internationalisation of the Soviet computing’, Computing in Russia, p. 165. 91 Rudokas, 2002, p. 109. 92 Puizinavicˇius, 2000, p. 43. This strategy of the ‘Lithuanization’ of Vilnius through factory staffing was not unprecedented. A similar strategy, according to Balkelis, was employed by the famous Lithuanian engineer and cultural patron Petras Vileisˇis as he staffed his newly established factory railway with ethnic Lithuanians in the predominantly Polish Vilnius at the beginning of 1900s. T. Balkelis, The Making of Modern Lithuania, London and New York: Routledge, 2009, p. 43. 93 Interview with Algirdas, 2005. 94 Interview with a Soviet Lithuanian economist Mindaugas. 19 December 2005, Vilnius, Lithuania.

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95 Interview with Vytautas, 2005. 96 Misiunas and Taagepera, p. 290. 97 For an overview of the role of ecological movements and the Ignalina plant in the formation of Lithuanian nationalism, see R. Balocˇkaite˙ and L. Rinkevicˇius, ˇ ernobylio bei Ignalinos iki Zˇ aliu ‘Sovietine˙ s modernybe˙ s virsmas: nuo C ˛ ju ˛ jude˙ jimo ir Sa˛ ju¯dzˇ io’, Sociologija. Mintis ir veiksmas, no. 2, 2008, pp. 20–40. 98 It should be noted that this image of the Ignalina plant was strongly modified in the 2000s. The European Union requirement to close the plant by December 2009 was intensively debated in the mass media. Once again, the Ignalina plant became a symbol of a lack of sovereignty, as the emphasis was placed on the Lithuanian government’s inability to take its own decision over whether to close the dangerous plant. 99 Rudokas, 2002, pp. 260–61. 100 Interview with Algirdas, 2005. 101 M. Sapagovas, ‘ESM ir mokslas,’ Mokslas ir technika, no. 10, 1968, p. 11. ˇ ernikovas, ‘Efektyviau naudoti ESM,’ Mokslas ir technika, no. 4, 1972, 102 J. C pp. 2–3.

8

New advantages of old kinship ties Finnish–Hungarian interactions in the 1970s Katalin Miklóssy

New type of cooperation This chapter investigates how two small countries, situated on opposite sides of the Iron Curtain, developed a new type of interaction during the 1970s. The decade can be characterized by the détente in East–West relations, with the general relaxation culminating in the negotiation process leading to the Helsinki Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE). The CSCE brought a significant change to the Cold War bipolarity by introducing a safe arena where representatives of Eastern and Western countries could meet more freely. The CSCE provided an institutional framework for multilateralism that particularly served the interests of the small countries with limited elbowroom. For these countries, the CSCE offered – for the first time in the Cold War period – the opportunity to cross the Iron Curtain and establish political contacts that were not regulated by the bloc-leader superpowers. By performing actively on this multilateral stage, these countries were able to further their national aims more effectively. Therefore, keeping the CSCE process alive just to maintain this arena of interaction became a goal that was shared in common by the smaller countries. Finland and Hungary emerged as examples of how this European agenda could generate a unique, mutual trust between a capitalist and a socialist country. Trust in itself established an in-between-space that was devoid of ideological connotations and of the bipolarity-coded political mindset. Trust made it possible for these actors to step outside of their Cold War positions and share a plain language that was practically anchored and revealed even secret aspirations. Owing to this more honest attitude towards one another, Finland and Hungary developed a new type of networking enabling the multiplication, diversification and broadening of contacts on all levels. Since these networks expanded vertically and horizontally to different spheres of political and social life the flow of ideas and even confidential information reached a wide range of people in both states. This study analyses interaction between the two countries on three levels. On the macro level of the Cold War context the main question is what kind of strategies these small state-actors invented during the Helsinki process in

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order to come to terms with the overwhelming Soviet influence in their region. The intermediary level of analysis investigates how the similar macro-level strategies brought these countries closer to each other. The focus here is on the Finnish and Hungarian leaderships’ coordinated manoeuvres to further national interests through mutual assistance. On the micro level, the relations are discussed through the prism of personal and institutional networks. This research sheds new light on the Hungarian communists’ close links with the Finnish political elite, particularly with the social democrats – a liaison that led to the marginalization of the comradely contacts with the Finnish communists. As the study will also show, the bilateral relations were based on mutual benefits. Consequently, this was not only a case of socialist Hungary needing a Western country’s help; Finland also required assistance on significant issues from its East European partner. Furthermore, this study provides an insight into dramatic changes that took place in the forms of networking during the 1970s. The chapter introduces new evidence based on extensive archival research in Finland and Hungary. In addition, the analysis draws on interviews conducted with central figures of the time. The picture is further supplemented by memoirs and other published primary documents. There are several central concepts in the Cold War historiography that seem to lag behind the emerging evidence on that era. For example, the elbowroom of the small countries in and near to the Soviet sphere of influence has often been reduced to a simplistic centre–periphery image whereby Moscow was able to exercise an overwhelming power over its smaller allies and neighbours.1 This chapter argues that the boundaries and limitations of the political blocs were not as impenetrable as has been assumed. Despite the pressures of living in proximity to a domineering great power, smallness in fact turned out to be a huge advantage for manoeuvring and building strong alliances across the Iron Curtain. These alliances enabled the small countries to drive national aims more successfully.

Hungary and Finland: convergent difficulties from divergent angles The Cold War looked quite different from the perspectives of Eastern Europe than it did from the global or even the European angle. The fluctuation of colder and more relaxed periods seldom reflected the state of top-level East–West relations, but it did depend on the sensitive power-balance inside the Eastern bloc. Nikita Khrushchev flagged up major changes by moderating the Soviet control over the bloc members. In his famous ‘secret speech’ at the Twentieth Party Congress in 1956 Khrushchev declared that different models of building socialism were possible.2 This announcement generated liberal reform experiments in some socialist countries later in the 1960s. Hungary launched a new economic programme that introduced a socialist market economy model in 1968.3 Restrictions were placed on direct interference by central planning agencies, and this meant that companies gained

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more freedom to make decisions about their production profiles, finance and marketing, including even foreign trade. The production sphere was brought closer to the market, and as a result, economic actors became more sensitive to the needs of the people. This new focus resulted in an increase in the production of consumer goods. The programme created possibilities in the industrial sector for small-scale private entrepreneurship (already present in agriculture).4 The re-orientation towards Western markets was an indirect indication of an intention to decrease Eastern trade. The leadership even held secret negotiations with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank, both institutions representing the liberal international economic order.5 The main reason for the reform, however, was the drive to acquire popular support for the regime.6 The leadership knew that János Kádár, the first secretary of the party (1956–88) who had come to power with Soviet assistance following the 1956 revolution, was a hated man.7 Hence, welfare policy emerged as the central instrument in the Kádárist consolidation, even though it depended on the administration’s strong economic performance, i.e. on continuous growth. In the event, the reform programme was a success story right from the beginning. In addition to bringing about a steady rise in living standards, the programme also opened the way to a considerable reduction of control more broadly. Tolerance towards society and the media became the key features of the Kádárist system that eventually improved relations between the power-holders and the people. The benign period of Eastern bloc history ushered in by Khrushchev came to an abrupt end with the Czechoslovakian crisis in 1968. Before the Brezhnev doctrine, the range of possibilities for deviating from the Soviet model had been somewhat vague and ambiguous. The line dividing the potentially negotiable from the absolutely non-negotiable and untouchable was unclear. The new Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev’s ‘restricted sovereignty’ marked a radical turn away from the liberal alliance policy.8 Brezhnev declared that the common goals of the Eastern bloc enjoyed priority over the sovereignty of the member states.9 Thus, 1968 was not the best year to initiate a daring economic reform in Hungary, and since the Hungarian agenda resembled the Czech experiment, Kádár invented a new tactic.10 He was aware that the Soviet leadership needed trustworthy allies in times of an internal crisis within the bloc. Consequently, Kádár sacrificed Hungary’s foreign line. He wanted Soviet approval of his reform policy in return for his demonstration of loyalty. For a while this deal seemed to be working, but once the crisis was over in 1970, the Kremlin started to put pressure on the Hungarians with the aim of overthrowing the Kádárist circle.11 Brezhnev understood how tempting the increasing Hungarian liberalism and the expanding private sector were, and he feared that Kádár’s experiment could spread around the bloc.12 The Soviet position was emphasized by simple but effective means: since the Hungarian economy was dependent on cheap Soviet energy and raw materials, it was sufficient to ration these supplies in order to get Brezhnev’s message through.13

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The decision to return obediently to the old command economy was duly made by the Hungarian side in 1972.14 In the meantime Brezhnev also introduced a new conservative atmosphere and tightened the ideological grip. It became clear that after Khrushchev’s flexible ‘sixties’ the Eastern bloc was now entering a colder, more hierarchical era. On the other side of the Iron Curtain, Finland’s Cold War position was also uneasy, despite the fact that the country maintained a Western liberal democracy, market economy and neutrality. The Finns had vivid memories of the aggressive Soviet attack during World War II and of Soviet meddling in their foreign affairs ever since, demanding that Finland refuse Marshall Aid and sign the Friendship, Co-operation and Mutual Assistance Treaty with the Soviet Union. From the Eastern bloc’s point of view, Finland became a ‘friendly’ state that was often dealt with in the context of the socialist community. The post-war presidents J. K Paasikivi and Urho Kekkonen developed a new strategy for dealing with the Soviet Union: it was assumed that in order to maintain independence it was necessary to limit cooperation with Euro–Atlantic institutions and to allow the Finnish Communist Party to play a prominent role. Although the country claimed to be neutral, the Kremlin exercised considerable influence in Finnish political life. Since foreign policy is led by the head of state, Moscow took measures to ensure that the Paasikivi–Kekkonen line would prevail in the presidential elections well into the 1980s.15 It remains a much debated issue today whether the timorous Finnish policy-making of the Kekkonen-era (1956–82) was an outcome of the vagueness of the Cold War situation whereby the Finns misread the actual Soviet threats and hence exercised overly cautious self-control, or whether certain Finnish politicians put ‘the Kremlin card’ to cunning use in domestic power plays. In any case, there appears to have been significant Soviet involvement in major Finnish decisions, particularly concerning Finland’s relation to the West. By the late 1960s in order to counterbalance the Eastern pressure, Finland wanted to affiliate more clearly with Western institutions like the European Economic Community (EEC) and the Nordic customs union. Moscow’s objection to the Finns’ Western orientation was, however, made clear to President Kekkonen.16 The first signs of hope for small countries came with the CSCE process which symbolized the opening up of the East–West relations. By supporting the Soviet initiative for starting the dialogue, Finland stood to gain a great deal. The Finns wanted to develop East–West trade relations that could help pave the way to the EEC. Acquiring positive visibility in the international arena as a mediator in the bipolar juxtaposition could improve the country’s image as a neutral state – an image which was being questioned in the West at the time. In the early 1970s the pejorative term ‘Finlandization’ spread internationally and stigmatized the Finnish stand. The term, coined by the West German right-wing politician Franz-Josef Strauss, referred to the Soviet Union’s intentions to intervene in Europe’s affairs just as it meddled in Finnish politics. According to Strauss, the Soviet Union was using the CSCE process

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as a pretext to expand its influence further west.17 This accusation overshadowed the Finnish role as mediator, throwing suspicion on Finland’s independent and neutral position. The Finns, like the Hungarians, had to fight against a Soviet-loyal image in order to strengthen relations with the West. Interestingly, the two countries invented similar strategies for neutralizing Soviet pressures and their convergent aims brought them closer together.

Finding a shared agenda: the Helsinki Process In March 1969, the Consultative Committee of the Warsaw Pact announced a call for a European dialogue on security at its Budapest meeting.18 At the time of the Budapest Declaration, the Kádárist leadership concentrated on domestic policy, in order to keep the reform alive, and did not pay much attention to the Soviet initiative other than supporting it loyally. Nevertheless, when Brezhnev started to exert pressure on the Hungarian reform from 1970 onwards, Kádár’s circle understood that the CSCE was a unique opportunity to turn this large-scale Soviet endeavour into something really useful for the Hungarian interests. It offered a means of escaping from the suffocating Brezhnevite grip – ironically enough, with the full blessing of the Soviet Union. The Finns were also quick to respond to the Budapest Declaration and suggested that the dialogue should be materialized through a concrete negotiation process. Finland was also willing to take responsibility for the practical arrangement of these negotiations.19 In 1969 Urho Kekkonen visited Hungary, and the Hungarians were grateful for the visit because of their sensitive situation, arising out of the 1968 invasion of Czechoslovakia in which Hungary had been forced to participate, despite Kádár’s unwillingness.20 The West protested against the intervention and Kádár feared that it would cast a shadow across his plans for expanding Western trade relations. Thus, the Finnish president received a more than warm welcome in Budapest. Kekkonen also had an agenda of his own: he wanted lobbying support from the Hungarians concerning the main stage of the CSCE negotiation. Geneva and Vienna were competing with Helsinki at the time and Kekkonen naturally wished to anchor the process to Finland. The Hungarians calculated that the Finnish request could fit in with the Soviet interests, so it was not difficult to promise help to the Finns in this matter. Kádár also kept his word and defended the cause of Helsinki in the Eastern bloc negotiations, as well as using private discussions to lobby the Russians, who were still hesitating.21 The success of the CSCE process became a common goal for both countries. The Hungarians sought to establish individual relations with the Westerners, because most of all Hungary needed working trade contacts to compensate for its dependence on the unbalanced Soviet trade and the USSR’s controlling influence on domestic policy. Thus, their absolute interest was to keep at least the preparation phase of the CSCE on the bilateral level and to avoid multilateral meetings involving the presence of Soviet representatives exerting

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pressure on the socialist countries to act in accordance with Soviet instructions. Hungary was eager to speed up the whole process, particularly through one-to-one lobbying.22 As the Hungarians explained to the Finns in private discussions, since the economy was the base of the political structure, developing strong bilateral economic collaboration was one way in which two small countries could take action in order to promote European détente.23 From the Finnish point of view, the Hungarians’ negotiating strategy did not endanger the success of the negotiations. The Hungarian delegations, like the Finns, tried to act as mediators and to avoid open conflicts between the Eastern and Western sides. In order to secure the East–West approach, the mediators began to collaborate on various issues. A good example of this cooperation was the case of the ‘third basket’, which represented a central point of confrontation between East and West. The Finns discussed the problem with the Hungarians and requested their assistance in working on the opponents inside the Eastern bloc.24 Since the third basket concerned humanitarian contacts, it was a delicate matter for the socialist countries and particularly for the Soviet Union. Kádár tried to convince the other communist leaders that besides the security matters addressed by the first basket, the second basket (i.e., economic relations) should be given more weight in the common strategy and if the price of this was accepting the third basket (i.e. humanitarian contacts), then so be it – this would not be such a serious threat after all.25 Fearing that the CSCE might fail, the Hungarians even suggested that instead of one final conference there should be a series of conferences, in order to ensure continuity of the negotiation process.26 For them, the CSCE was significant not so much as a one-off event but as a method for resolving forthcoming conflicts and expanding détente, which would also hopefully extend to the internal relations within the Eastern bloc.27 In this sense, Hungary deviated significantly from the common line of the Soviet-led group, which wanted a quick negotiation process and a political declaration of mutual understanding but not a thorough discussion of issues and definitely not a detailed political action plan or practical results, as sought by the West.

Kinship ties reconsidered The year 1969 turned out to be a watershed in Finnish–Hungarian relations. All of a sudden, Finland was in the limelight of international attention, and the Hungarians started to revisit their relations to a country that now seemed full of surprises. The fact that the two nations were remotely related through the Finno–Ugric language-family had always been considered as constituting a unique fraternal bond. Despite the continuously repeated internationalist rhetoric it never seems to have occurred to the Kádárist circle that this sense of kinship actually ran counter to the idea of working-class solidarity. This basic affinity had a tremendous influence on the formation of cordial Finnish–Hungarian state relations that were more intimate and trusting than Hungary’s relations with any socialist country.28 The rhetoric of ‘family ties’

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was used often, particularly in two situations: on one hand, it could open doors and help to establish preliminary good will for any negotiations. On the other hand, when a consultation reached a dead end, bringing up kinship was a kind of ‘circuit-breaking’ device enabling a fresh beginning to discussions, coloured by the abovementioned positive atmosphere, which could then serve as the basis and point of departure for a new round of talks. The concept of family represented psychological–emotional capital, and the Hungarians exploited this capital extensively. Behind the sentiment, there was also an obvious pragmatic reason for the reawakening Hungarian interest: the Finnish neutrality model was extremely tempting. Looked at from the angle of an Eastern bloc country, Finland represented an example of a state that had achieved an extraordinary balance as far as its relations with the Soviet Union were concerned. The Finnish political manoeuvring showed that it was possible to maintain flexible relations with the West without provoking harsh Soviet sanctions. What mattered most for the Hungarians was that Finland was able to trade with the East and the West successfully: while most of the Finnish exports were directed to Western markets, Finland was also the most important non-communist trading partner for the Soviet Union in the 1960s.29 A well-balanced trade of this kind had the potential to secure the economic growth that might keep the Hungarian welfare policy alive and thus, ultimately, conserve the social peace which secured Kádár’s power. Finland’s Nordic welfare model was also a source of fascination for the Hungarian leadership. The Hungarians were not interested in all models of neutrality. Sweden, Austria and Switzerland could never provide examples for a socialist state to emulate, because their status was out of reach. Soviet-friendly Finland, on the other hand, represented a different category: it was conveniently within the realm of possibilities. Actually, the socialist regimes had no desire to go through a complete Western metamorphosis and to expel the Soviet Union altogether; they benefited too much from the Soviet Union to want to do that. The Kremlin not only financed their unstable economies but also guaranteed the communists’ power in these societies. What these smaller countries needed was a more flexible status and uncontrolled space for decision making. What they had lacked was a means of achieving this – but now the opportunity provided by the CSCE and the example of the very successful Finnish practice seemed to offer precisely such a means. The official Finnish–Hungarian relations appear to have been revisited by both sides during Kekkonen’s above-mentioned visit to Hungary in 1969. In spite of Kekkonen’s centre-right background, he was regarded by the Hungarians as a political virtuoso who even had friendly relations with Brezhnev, a person with whom Kádár found it difficult to get along.30 The Hungarian political elite were exceptionally fond of Kekkonen. Surprisingly, he was popular not only in reformist circles but also among the hard-liners, because it seemed that Moscow had greater trust in Kekkonen than it had in many of the communist leaders in the crisis years of 1968–69.31

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From his youth, Kekkonen had also displayed an interest in Finno–Ugric kinship ties, and he had maintained this affinity throughout his life, irrespective of Hungary’s communist system.32 Kekkonen and Kádár respected each other and had a great deal in common: both came to power in 1956 and both had succeeded in creating a stable domestic power-balance based on a welfare programme and consensus policy. In addition, both were in their own ways tightrope dancers seeking to balance the Kremlin and their countries’ national interests. Kádár often recalled the fact that Kekkonen had acted correctly toward his regime in the first difficult years after the Hungarian revolution when the West condemned his rule.33 Kekkonen was also one of the first Western leaders to visit Hungary in 1963, at a time when international opinion on the country was still negative.34 Finding common interest in international affairs was not difficult and this convergence of opinion strengthened the countries’ relations. As a result, toplevel contacts multiplied, and the Hungarians dropped the obligatory communist rhetoric and spoke with the Finns more frankly than they did with their communist comrades in the Eastern bloc. This revelation of their true selves helped the rapprochement, because it meant that the Finns started to gain an understanding of the compulsory double-standards governing and limiting Hungarian foreign policy actions; they began to grasp what the Hungarians wanted to achieve, on the one hand, and what was permitted to them, on the other.35 Moreover, precisely this fragile situation of a small state was something to which the Finns could relate, due to their own experience. The psychological capital of kinship linked with the atmosphere of trust thus paid off well for the Hungarians. Accordingly, the relations developed fast: during the period between 1969 and 1972 three major agreements of central importance were signed – the agreements on visa exemption, on economic–scientific–technological cooperation in 1969, and the consular treaty in 1971. All of these were milestones in the development of relations and all were targeted at increasing personal contacts between professionals, bureaucrats and ordinary people. In addition, in order to boost bilateral trade, the Finnish–Hungarian Association for Commerce was founded in Finland, and the Hungarian Chamber of Commerce created a Finnish section in 1970. When Kádár made an official visit to Finland in 1973, the welcome ceremony was on a level more appropriate for the leader of a superpower. Kádár was greeted at the airport by President Kekkonen, the Speaker of the Parliament, the entire government, the President of the Supreme Court, the Attorney General, the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, the Mayor of Helsinki and the County Governor of Southern Finland.36 Kádár later remembered the exceptionally warm and honest atmosphere of the oneto-one negotiations with Kekkonen. As Kádár emphasized, Hungary did not have such close political and cultural relations with any other capitalist country. He especially valued humanitarian contacts on the broader level of society, and called for these to be further strengthened. But Kádár had some

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complaints too: economic relations were lagging behind. The Hungarians sought more scientific–technological cooperation and Kádár was ready to use the CSCE card against the Finns. He reminded them of the second basket, which concerned the progress of trade relations between East and West. At the same time, he flattered his host by calling the CSCE process the realization of the ‘Helsinki Idea’.37 Kekkonen may have been expecting this request from the Hungarians, because Hungary, ‘the Switzerland of the socialist countries’, was known to be pressing for scientific–technological development. Since Hungary had become a member of the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT) a few weeks earlier, the Finns had no objections to entering a new phase in economic relations, too.38 If we consider the Cold War context, then it becomes evident that the Finnish–Hungarian collaboration was indeed extraordinary. Normally, political and economic relations between East and West diverged. Economic affairs were based on practical considerations and tended to come before the formation of official political contacts. Thus, for instance, Eastern and Western countries might sometimes establish official links in the form of commercial consulates, but not diplomatic relations. In our case, however, political bonds were based on mutual trust which predated and assisted the development of economic cooperation. In his report to the Hungarian Politburo (PB) following his trip, Kádár underlined the fact that Finland showed how one might step outside the mould of smallness and expand influence by acquiring a new role in the international arena. ‘Finland displayed an example for the West of how to come to terms with the Soviet Union. In the beginning Finland was harshly criticized, now the critics are applying the Finnish methods,’ Kádár said.39 Hence, according to Kádár, Finland was also a model for the West. This argument was obviously packaged for the Moscow-loyal members of the PB and with the possibility in mind that information might be leaked to the Kremlin. The underlying message was that the proliferation of contacts with the Finns was not a Hungarian attempt to re-engage with the West via Finland. On the contrary: this was a Hungarian effort to bring the West closer to the socialist countries, with the help of the Finns. Finland and Hungary were pictured in this scenario as useful mediators for the Soviet endeavour. After Kádár’s visit the bilateral relations intensified: between 1973 and 1975 fifteen Finnish and ten Hungarian ministers paid official visits to each other’s countries. In 1975 the Finnish media even noted that Budapest was the primary travel destination for members of the Finnish government.40 By 1975, the bilateral treaty network extended to nine agreements providing wide possibilities for extensive collaboration in various fields. In addition, in 1975 Finland concluded a free trade (KEVSOS) agreement with Hungary which opened up new spheres in the trade of industrial goods. The KEVSOS agreement was designed to offer Finland a priority position in the Eastern market such as no other capitalist country enjoyed, in order to counterbalance the Finnish hopes regarding the EEC. From the Eastern point of view, it was important to tie Finland to the Eastern trade and thus facilitate the flow

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of Western industrial products and technology to the Eastern bloc through Finland. The KEVSOS agreement was also especially advantageous for those Finnish companies whose products could not compete on Western markets.

Opening up to the Social Democrats The official state contacts with Moscow-friendly President Kekkonen and his centre-right party left the Hungarians unsatisfied. The most natural connection for the Hungarian communists would have seemed to be with the comrade Finnish communists. By the late 1960s, however, the Finnish communists were divided between the hardliner, pro-Moscow Stalinists, on the one hand, and the Western-type communists, on the other. From the reformist Hungarian leadership’s point of view, the Stalinist wing was untrustworthy; meanwhile, however, pragmatically speaking, as a political force, the Euro-Communists were too small to be of much use. The Hungarians were looking for more from their relations with the Finns, and since the official state-level channels seemed exhausted, the Hungarians now initiated new approaches. In order to further their interests more effectively, the Hungarians aspired to multiplying and widening their networks, extending them to unofficial party liaisons. In the late 1960s the Finnish Social Democratic Party (SDP) emerged as a central political force and government-forming party that was more critical of Soviet policies and definitely more Western-oriented than President Kekkonen and his party. Traditionally the social democrats had displayed a strong anti-communist sentiment, but their domestic power-goals in the 1960s made it necessary for them to revise their foreign policy stance, in the interests of good working relations with the President. The Soviet leadership made it clear that ‘Soviet-friendly Finland was synonymous with President Kekkonen and only President Kekkonen represented Soviet-friendly Finland’.41 Thus, the moderate wing of the SDP now launched a new, more open Eastern policy. Meanwhile, the Hungarians were aware that the SDP acted as a multidimensional mediator in East–West relations. The Finnish social democrats had especially close connections with Willy Brandt’s social democrats and tried to further Brandt’s Ostpolitik vis-à-vis Moscow and East Germany. The SDP also started to lobby for recognition of both German states. The Hungarians had high hopes of developing trade relations with West Germany, but the unresolved German question and the obligation to support the GDR seriously hindered the Hungarian ambitions.42 The solution of the German question was also a prerequisite for the CSCE process, which was important for both parties. In addition, it was well-known that the Finnish social democrats tried to persuade their fellow parties in the Socialist International to take a more flexible line in regard to Eastern communist parties with a view to enhancing détente.43 Consequently, the Hungarian political elite became interested in building networks with the Finnish social democrats, with whom they seemed to share

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so many common agendas.44 Establishing official party relations was no easy task, however; the Hungarians had been making approaches to the SDP since 1968 without success. The invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968 decreased the Finnish social democrats’ enthusiasm for building up contacts with the Eastern bloc. In March 1970 the Hungarian ambassador Rudolf Rónai was sent to Finland in an attempt to establish at least a personal connection. Because the Finnish social democrats did not consider the kinship bonds relevant to interparty relations, the Hungarians had changed tactics. Rónai was not chosen by accident: he had been the chief secretary of the Hungarian young social democrats before 1948, and was officially urged to bring up this past affiliation in the negotiations.45 The Hungarians made serious efforts to build a bridge to the Finnish SDP. The designated bridge-building organization was the Hungarian Patriotic People’s Front, which was a communist version of a civic movement. The Front, as a non-party organ, was designed to enhance the image of socialist democracy, and was responsible for organizing parliamentary elections. The Hungarians thought that, as a labour movement, the SDP might relate more easily to a non-party organization; therefore, an invitation was issued in the Front’s name for the upcoming Finnish–Hungarian Friendship Week in June 1970. As the Finnish social democrat Unto Niemi later reported, the Hungarians took every opportunity to press the importance of contacts with the SDP, and as Kádár’s personal friend, Ferenc Erdei put it, ‘the Hungarians were ready to do anything on their behalf just to establish relations with the SDP’.46 They even tried to lean on the Finno–Ugric rhetoric, a strategy which normally worked well with the Finns, and wondered why the Finnish social democrats did not acknowledge these bonds properly; after all, they had relations with the Yugoslavian and Romanian communists, but not with the Hungarians. In the space of two months, the Patriotic People’s Front sent 300 of its members to visit Finland with a view to underlining just how serious the Hungarians were in their propositions. In November 1970, even the hardliner pro-Moscow chief ideologist Zoltán Komócsin sent a personal invitation to the Finnish SDP leader Rafael Paasio, referring once again to Finno–Ugric kinship ties to further underline the good intentions.47 Paasio, however, was not very fond of the Hungarian communists, and it would be almost a year before the Finns finally surrendered and opened party relations in September 1971. Although the SDP only sent party conveners to Budapest, the conveners were nevertheless welcomed as though they were the highest representatives of the Finnish state. One curious feature of this meeting was the communist hosts’ habit of making frequent reference to their own social democratic pasts and credentials. Rezsö Nyers, a Politburo member and leading reformist, even opened up with a highly sensitive internal discourse about his ideological doubts as to whether Hungary had made the right decision in outlawing the multiparty system in 1948. Still, Nyers, an ex-social democrat himself, did

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remind the visitors that ever since the new electoral reform had been introduced in 1970, the people could choose from several candidates who were not even necessarily party members.48 By bringing up these issues, the Hungarians were telling the Finns that their party was going through significant changes in a democratic direction. This message, moreover, was sent against all odds, at a time when Moscow was tightening its ideological and political grip over its allies. The Hungarians’ honesty was appreciated by the SDP and soon the leadership began to warm towards the Hungarian relationship. Not only did top-rank politicians start to visit Hungary, but contacts were also established on other levels. By Hungarian request, the Finnish social democrats sent lecturers to the Hungarian Communist Party colleges to speak about social democratic values and the social democrats’ stance on international affairs. The social democrats also hosted delegations from the Hungarian party’s youth organization, the trade union and the People’s Front, on an annual basis. In the course of these visits, which became a standard annual procedure, a new mode of interaction emerged. Mutual trust brought about a situation where the parties not only collaborated but also acted on one another’s behalf in different arenas, furthering otherwise hidden agendas. Once the SDP was firmly established in government, the party officials’ networks started to have bearing on state-level affairs. As the Finnish Minister of Trade and Industry Jussi Linnamo told a Hungarian party delegation in 1973, ‘At the party level, the SDP was interested in furthering bilateral issues that were not yet fully developed enough to be discussed at the state level.’49 This practice of pushing official agendas through unofficial channels was rather unusual in a multiparty democracy like Finland. The Hungarians requested the Finns’ support in opening up channels to other Western social democratic parties through the Socialist International. In return, they made a promise that they would promote the development of Eastern bloc relations with the social democratic forces, as well as propagating their own well-functioning relations with the SDP at international communist conferences.50 This was what the SDP had been waiting for, and the Finnish social democrats now asked in turn for the Hungarians’ help in dealing with the Finnish communists. The Moscow-loyal branch of the divided Finnish Communist Party took full advantage of its close relations with the Kremlin, especially in the Finnish political arena. Since the social democrats did not have official party relations and hence direct communication with the Soviet party until 1974, they now pleaded with the Hungarians to use their channels to discredit the Finnish communists’ attempts to garner support from Moscow for their domestic power play. Surprisingly, Kádár agreed: he lined up with the SDP against his fellow communist comrades.51 In short, the Hungarian communists not only displayed a strong affinity with social democratic ideas, but actually reached out for practical working relations with the social democrats. By the mid-1970s the two parties developed

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very cordial relations, and interestingly, the kinship motif began to appear in the rhetoric of leading Finnish social democrats, too.52

The sphere of civic interaction The fast-developing political networks had encouraging effects in the cultural and civic spheres. Generally in East–West relations cultural contacts served as Trojan horses for Eastern political encounters with Western countries. In the Finnish–Hungarian case this mould of action changed dramatically after the Stalinist years, and culture was absolved from political responsibilities now that cordial and confident official relations had been established. Culture, therefore, could now take on another significant task: furthering the extension of civic relations between a capitalist and a socialist country. The obvious question in this situation would be: how controlled was this civic interaction, and consequently, is it possible to speak of an independent civic sphere in state socialism? The answer to these questions lies in the peculiar nature of the Finnish–Hungarian cultural relations which go back to the nineteenth century. In this late period of nation building, the traditional cultural interaction was based on civil networking, whereby individuals furthered their interest in the kinship roots of their national heritage.53 This form of genuine mutual contacts survived in spite of the communist take-over in Hungary. The cultural relations were organized partly through the Finnish Friendship Societies.54 The societies were established in 1950 with the task of building up relations with the then Stalinist Hungary; consequently, the societies were initially dominated by Finnish communists.55 Due to the fact that they tended to overlap with leftist political circles, the friendship societies served as unofficial channels of political influence to the grass-roots level of Finnish society. By the early 1970s however, the social democrats started to play a more active role, and began gradually to marginalize the communists in the organization.56 At the same time, with the rapidly improving political relations, cultural contacts were taken to a new level of frequency and volume. For example, in the year of Kádár’s visit to Finland (1973) the Finns sent a delegation of 100 people to the Finnish Cultural Week, organized in Budapest. Later that year the Finnish–Hungarian Friendship Week was celebrated by the exchange of 300 representatives from both sides.57 Along with these developments, the friendship societies began to attract more and more people. By 1980 there were about 4500 active members in 27 locations around Finland.58 The idea of these friendship societies generated the establishment of twin municipalities and twin cities that focused on practical, economic and cultural matters, and increased tourism. Finnish civic activism meant that relations not only multiplied but diversified as well. Different occupational fields and workplaces established their own twin-contacts that were neither controlled by nor connected to the friendship societies or twin cities. Representatives of the media, music, literature, theatre, the fine arts, and

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medicine, as well as wine makers, teachers, economists and even dog-breeders all had their own Finnish–Hungarian societies. The proliferating relations increased the need for more accurate information, and with the strengthening contacts of media professionals, particularly of the national broadcasting companies, more and more politically neutral knowledge became available.59 By the early 1980s the Finnish civic interest in Hungary was so high that it became a constant pressure for the Finnish politicians. There was a queue of Finnish cities waiting for partner cities to be approved and appointed on the Hungarian side. Thus, each official visit had a special agenda, whereby the Finns tried to further twin relations of municipalities and cities.60 Since Finland and Hungary took a firm stand in supporting the third basket of the CSCE, the good relations of civilians served also as a showcase of how two small countries could handle the issue in an exemplary manner. There was, however, one small detail that Kádár was reluctant to discuss over the years. Hungary stubbornly refused persistent Finnish requests to establish a Friendship Society in Hungary.61 The rejection of such a harmless request seemed inconsistent with the Hungarian aims of fostering closer relations. But the issue here was not a desire to restrain interaction between civilians. The ultimate problem was that only one friendship society was allowed: the Hungarian–Soviet Society, and the Hungarians did not want to expose this society to competition which might have embarrassing results. The fine balance that the Hungarian leadership was trying to maintain between the Western-oriented national interest and Soviet expectations had to be extended to Finland as well. Still, the Hungarian official statements did acknowledge the special status of the Finnish–Hungarian contacts: Finland was always listed first, immediately after the obligatory reference to the Eastern bloc, whenever Hungary’s cordial foreign relations were mentioned.62

The aftermath of the Helsinki Conference: the new phase of the relations A new phase in interactions started to emerge in 1976 with signs of apparent setbacks in the CSCE process. The Finnish and Hungarian performances were both received very positively during the Helsinki process. Their successful orchestration of the sometimes quarrelsome meetings earned the Finns a new international status as effective mediators and bridge builders. Hungary, for its part, succeeded in exploiting the ‘third basket’, concerning human rights and cooperation in the humanitarian field, for its own ends. Hungary interpreted the agenda of human rights by focusing exclusively on minority issues, and in so doing, the Kádárist administration gained international attention. The Soviet leadership considered the minority question a dangerous subject that should not be allowed to play a significant role in the political practice.63 The growing Western emphasis on human rights provided a new opportunity for the Hungarian leadership to rethink the cornerstones of its foreign

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policy. The openly displayed concern for minority rights improved the image of the Kádárist regime and the West’s appreciation meant new trade relations. Viewed from the West, it seemed that a small satellite had emerged that was beginning to act as a saviour of human rights – an unprecedented phenomenon in the socialist bloc. This was also a clear sign that the country had moved away from Moscow’s command and found a more independent role in the international arena. Consequently, Kádár became the West’s ‘favourite communist’. The fact that his perception of human rights did not include any subject other than the all too convenient minority question did not harm the reputation of the ‘soft dictator’.64 Advocating the topic of the nation – i.e., the Hungarian minorities abroad – was an auxiliary strategy for approaching the people at a time when the reform programme had been halted at Moscow’s demand, leading to stagnation of economic growth and living standards. In other words, the active use of the nationhood idea disguised as minority and human rights was in many ways practical for the Kádárist leadership. The problem was that after 1975 the achievements of the Final Agreement came into jeopardy. The Soviet Union wished to tighten the ranks of its allies before the first CSCE follow-up meeting, in Belgrade in 1977. The Kremlin required that its allies adopt a uniform stance.65 Kádár’s role during the CSCE also reawakened suspicions in Moscow. In his speech at the Final Summit in Helsinki in 1975 Kádár referred to the fragile, insecure status of his country, which needed a balanced Europe to exist.66 The speech was perceived as scandalous and Kádár had to assure the other communist leaders that he had no aspirations to redraw the map of Europe.67 To counterbalance the Soviet pressure, the Hungarian leadership turned once more to the Finns for help. The Hungarian Foreign Minister Frigyes Puja suggested to his Finnish counterpart Kalevi Sorsa that in order to save the Belgrade meeting, Finland and Hungary should act together and mediate between the sides.68 The Hungarians wanted to raise the Finnish–Hungarian relations as an example of fruitful East–West interaction that was worth emulating. The Hungarians were so worried about losing their favourable Western contacts that they proposed that the Helsinki Final Agreement should be included as compulsory principles in all East–West relations.69 Bilateralism was not in the Finnish interest, however, because Finland achieved international visibility via its skills in mediating multilateral disputes. By and large, for the Finns, multilateralism represented the core of the CSCE.70 They did not understand that what lay behind the Hungarian plea: for Hungary, multilateralism amounted to a compulsory lining-up with the Soviet-led bloc. The Finns could offer only to incorporate the Final Agreement into the Finnish–Hungarian relations. This, however, was nothing new, given that the relations had to all intents and purposes functioned on these principles for years in any case. Losing the common international agenda with the Finns did not seriously damage the relations; it just turned the focus back to the bilateral issues. Since the Hungarians learned how advantageous the third basket was in acquiring Western trade relations they investigated

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minority policies and found once again that the Finnish practice was not only worth following but worth propagating as well.71 Soon the Hungarians began to criticize the treatment of minorities by their fellow socialist regimes.72

Conclusion The pressures and opportunities of the Cold War juxtaposition created a situation where the small countries could revisit the ways in which they interacted with the threats of the superpowers and with each other. Détente generated a positive atmosphere for the development of international relations and the CSCE provided a channel for re-approaching East–West relations. For the Hungarians, the extraordinary Finnish ability to maintain equilibrium between the Soviet pressures and Finnish national interest looked like an ideal example of how to operate wisely in the international arena. Revisiting traditional state relations and establishing new contacts with the Finnish social democrats, the Hungarian communists launched a new type of networking. The cordial bilateral relations expanded to different segments of society from the top political decision makers to the state administrative level down to the grass-roots level of ordinary citizens. Beyond the national level the countries acted together in furthering international agendas and also assisted each other in achieving their individual goals. The 1970s can be considered as a period in which the perception of Finno–Ugric kinship ties was redefined, and filled with a new, modern content. This reconstituted brotherly bond became a practical instrument for strengthening what amounted to very down-to-earth, pragmatic relations. The Hungarian political elite’s multiple formal and informal contacts also marked a general change in the overall mindset of the leading circles. The relations and particularly the flow of social democratic ideas had a direct influence on the growing liberalism of the Hungarian decision making. As a visible result, in 1976–77 the Kremlin-loyal hardliner comrades were shut out from the party. This also represented a definite turn towards a less ideological, more pragmatic policy-making, marking a completely new era of state socialism.73 In 1978 the reform policies were reintroduced without much prior consultation with Moscow. A strong case can be made for arguing that this gradual political change was partly influenced by the multidimensional interaction between peoples in the broader spectrum of these societies.

Notes 1 Skilling has described this phenomenon as ‘a group of man-made satellites which travel in pre-ordained orbits from the Moscow launching pad’. H. Gordon Skilling, Communism National and International. Eastern Europe after Stalin. Toronto: University Press, 1963, p. 131. 2 Zhores A. Medvedev and Roy A. Medvedev (eds), The ‘Secret’ Speech Delivered to the Closed Session of the Twentieth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union by Nikita Khrushchev. Nottingham: Spokesman Books, 1976, pp. 61–62.

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3 See the article by the reformist vice prime minister Jenö Fock in Társadalmi Szemle 10/1965. See also János Kornai, A szocialista rendszer. Kritikai politikai gazdaságtan, Budapest: Heti Világgazdaság, 1993, pp. 496–534; and György Földes, Az eladósodás politikatörténete. 1957–1986. Budapest: Maecenas, 1995, p. 43. 4 Zs. Varga, Politika, paraszti érdekérvényesítés, termelöszövetkezetek Magyarországon 1957–1967. Budapest: Napvilág, 2001. 5 Hungarian National Archives, Budapest (HNA), OL-M-KS-288-15/115.öe., 46–47; Robert Gilpin, The Political Economy of International Relations, Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1987, pp. 72–74. 6 HNA OL-M-KS-288-4/88.öe., 38–40. 7 S. Balogh, V. K. Németné and L. Sipos (eds), A Magyar Szocialista Munkáspárt ideiglenes vezetö testületeinek jegyzökönyvei. I. Budapest: Intera, 1993, pp. 40–42. 8 R. Hutchings, Soviet – East European Relations, Wisconsin: University Press, 1983, p. 41. 9 First published in Pravda, 13 November 1968. 10 The reform started officially in January 1968 but the preparations began as early as December 1964. In: Magyar Szocialista Munkáspárt (MSZMP) határozatai és dokumentumai 1963–1966, Budapest: Kossuth, 1975, pp. 98, 265–66, 348–64. The reform programme was made public in Népszabadság, 25 April 1965. 11 Pravda, 3 February 1972; HNA – OL-M-KS-288-5/574.öe. 12 HNA – OL-M-KS-288-5/575.öe., 33–39. 13 HNA – OL-M-KS-XIX-A-83.b.MT.hat. 3139/1972/663.d 14 HNA – OL-M-KS-288-4/119. and A MSZMP határozatai és dokumentumai 1971–1975, Budapest: Kossuth, 1978, p. 377. 15 H. Meinander, Tasavallan tiellä, Helsinki: Schildts, 1999, pp. 295–303. 16 K. Rentola, Vallankumouksen aave, Helsinki: Otava, 2005, pp. 72–75. 17 Franz-Josef Strauss’s article on Finlandization was first published on 23 February 1972 in The Times in joint editions with La Stampa, Die Welt and Le Monde. 18 A Varsói Szerzôdés szervezete 1955–1980, Budapest: Kossuth, 1981, pp. 137–42. 19 M. Reima, Kekkosen katiska, Helsinki: Edita, 2008, pp. 26–36. 20 Kádár did not line up with Dubcek’s opponents and behind the scenes he mediated between Prague and Moscow until mid-July, trying to avoid the threat of military conflict. HNA – OL-M-KS-288-5/452.öe. 21 HNA – OL-M-KS-288-; The Archives of President Urho Kekkonen, Orimattila (UKA) 22/13 – 1969. 22 Several documents of the Archives of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs of Finland, Helsinki (UMA) testify to the noticeable haste shown by the Hungarian officials in furthering the negotiations. UMA 7 B ETYK Suhtauminen ja kannanotot. 1971–73. 23 The Finnish Labour Archives, Helsinki (FLA) – SDP/KV UNKARI 1969–90. 24 FLA – SDP/KV UNKARI 1969–90. 25 On several occasions; see, for example, the speech to the meeting of party leaders on 1 August 1973, in HNA – OL-M-KS-288-5/613.öe., 119–27, or at the yearly gathering on the Crimean peninsula, 30–31 July 1973, in HNA – OL-M-KS-28811/3612.öe, 10–18. 26 UMA 7 B ETYK 9 September 1971. 27 UMA 7 B ETYK 22 November 1971. 28 Hyvärinen, Virkamiehiä, viekkautta ja vakoilua, Helsinki: Otava, 2000, pp. 277–78. 29 See chapters by Androsova and Jens-Eriksen in this volume. 30 On Kádár’s dislike of Brezhnev, see HNA – OL-M-KS-288-5/575.öe., 98–144. 31 Tibor Huszár, Beszélgetések Nyers Rezsôvel, Budapest: Kossuth, 2004. 32 Kekkonen first visited Hungary as a student activist for the nationalist movement, the Ardent Finns, in 1928. 33 HNA – OL-M-KS-288-5/621öe.

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44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71

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UKA 22/8 – 1963. See the analysis of the Hungarian political line in 1973. UKA 23/15 – 1973. UKA 23/15 – 1973. HNA – OL-M-KS-288-5/621. UKA 23/15 – 1973. HNA – OL-M-KS-288-5/621. Paul Jyrkänkallio’s accounts of the status quo in the Finnish–Hungarian relations UKA 22/34 – 1976. Viktor Vladimirov, Näin se oli, Helsinki: Otava, 1993, p. 122. HNA – OL-M-KS-288-5/667. Mikko Majander, ‘Die Ostpolitik der Sozialdemokratische Partei Finlands und die Deutsche Frage’, in Edgar Hösch et al. (eds), Deutschland und Finnland im 20. Jahrhundert. Munich: Veröffentlichungen des Osteuropa-Instituts Münchem, Reihe Forschungen zum Ostseeraum, Band 4, 1999, pp. 199–234. Interview with László Kovács. 4 May 2007, Brussels, Belgium. FLA – SDP/KV UNKARI 1969–90. FLA – SDP/KV UNKARI 1969–90. FLA – SDP/KV UNKARI 1969–90. FLA – SDP/KV UNKARI 1969–90. FLA – SDP/KV UNKARI 1969–90. HNA – OL-M-KS-288-32/1; FLA – SDP/KV UNKARI 1969–90. FLA – SDP/KV UNKARI 1969–90, see also FLA – SDP:n Puoluetoimikunta 15.5.1973. See Kalevi Sorsa’s memoirs in Kansankoti ja punamulta, Helsinki: Otava, 2003, pp. 169–72; Heikki Koski’s memoirs in Virkamieshallitus viinit ja läänit, Helsinki: Like, 2005, pp. 209–37. Raija Oikari, Vallankäytöstä Suomen ja Unkarin kirjallisissa ja kulttuurisuhteissa. Jyväskylä: Jyväskylän yliopisto, Ph.D Thesis, 2001. The first bilateral cultural agreement was signed in 1937. After WWII a new agreement was concluded in 1959 that had similar characteristics to the pre-war pact. Helena Honka-Hallila (ed.), Meidän Unkari. Suomi–Unkari Seura 1950–2000, Helsinki: SUS, 2000. Interview with Heikki Koski. 9 September 2009, Helsinki, Finland. UKA 23/15 – 1973. Statistics on membership of the Finnish–Hungarian Societies 1950–2008. The Archive of the Finnish–Hungarian Society, Helsinki. Interview with Tuulikki Rostela. 25 August 2009, Helsinki, Finland. Interview with Heikki Koski. 9 September 2009, Helsinki, Finland. See also Koski’s memoirs. UKA 23/15 – 1973; UKA 22/34 – 1976. UKA 22/34 – 1976. See V. Lapskin’s article in Krasnaya zvezda, 3 January 1975. The expression ‘soft dictatorship’ was first used by Csaba Horváth, Magyarország 1944-tôl napjainkig, Pécs: Prezident, 1993, p. 116. HNA – OL-M-KS-288-11/4053.öe., 1–7. J. Kádár, A szocializmus megújulása Magyarországon. Válogatott beszédek és cikkek. 1957–86, Budapest: Kossuth, 1986, pp. 252–57. J. Kádár, Internacionalizmus, szolidaritás, szocialista hazafiság, Budapest: Kossuth, 1977, pp. 390–96. UKA 22/34 – 1976. UKA 22/34 – 1976. UKA 22/34 – 1976. From the mid-1970s studies were published about Finland and the Finnish minority policy. For example: U. K. Kekkonen, A finn külpolitika útja, Budapest:

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Kossuth, 1975; Zs. Bernáth, Egy nyár Finnországban, Budapest: Gondolat, 1975; V. Kardos, Ahogy én láttam Finnországot, Budapest: Göncöl, 1978; E. Szíj, Finnország, Budapest: Panoráma, 1979. 72 HNA – OL-M-KS-288-5/707.öe., 120–27. 73 Ervin Csizmadia, Diskurzus és diktatúra, Budapest: Századvég, 2001, pp. 23–41.

9

Soviet women, cultural exchange and the Women’s International Democratic Federation Melanie Ilic

Historians have for many years been challenging the idea of the ‘Iron Curtain’ serving as an impenetrable barrier between East and West. Whilst ‘Cold War’ politics were being played out between the Western and Eastern blocs in Europe, a whole variety of international organizations successfully sought to unite people across the political, ideological, cultural, economic and even technological divide, not only in Europe but around the world. This study examines one of the gaps in the Iron Curtain from the Soviet perspective by focusing on the role and work of Soviet women in the Women’s International Democratic Federation (WIDF), particularly in the 1950s and 1960s.1 The study of WIDF provides an interesting example of the processes of cultural exchange during the Cold War, which operated at a number of different levels. At the micro level, individual women regularly came together despite the supposed barriers imposed by the drawing of the Iron Curtain after 1945. Women’s international movements were not specific to the postSecond World War period by any means, but after 1945, women themselves and women’s issues came to feature much more prominently in government politics as well as on both national and international policy agendas. At the intermediate level, WIDF operated as an important organization to bring people together from around the globe and to discuss issues of concern to women worldwide. WIDF was particularly active in the cultural Cold War played out in Europe after 1945. The Soviet Union was now able to promote the advancement of women in socialist countries and the very idea of sexual equality that was soon taken as a model for the emerging second wave of feminism in many Western countries. At the macro level, WIDF operated in the realm of ideas. Its own remit and regular appeals promoted what it believed to be universal ideals and human values, which should be shared on a global scale for the benefit of all societies around the world. A comprehensive history of WIDF has not yet been written. This chapter draws on a range of WIDF’s own publications dating from the 1940s through to the 1970s, including its periodic Information Bulletins and its magazine, Women of the Whole World/Zhenshchiny mira.2 The chapter focuses particularly on the official reports of two of the WIDF-sponsored World Congresses of Women, convened in Moscow in 1963 and Helsinki in 1969. These two

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congresses took place before and after a significant change in the leadership of WIDF, which also initiated a shift in the geographical orientation of the Federation’s work outside of Europe. The years between 1963 and 1969 also witnessed a shift in the Soviet leadership after the ouster of Khrushchev in 1964. This chapter draws in part on materials relating to the Moscow and Helsinki congresses held in the files relating to the Finnish Women’s Democratic League in the People’s Archive (Kansan Arkisto) in Helsinki. As the particular focus of interest in this study is on the role of Soviet women in WIDF, the chapter also draws, amongst other sources, on the Moscow archival records of the Soviet Women’s Anti-Fascist Committee, the magazine Soviet Woman/Sovetskaya zhenshchina, contemporary newspaper reports and a number of Russian-language booklets and articles published to commemorate notable WIDF anniversaries.

Women’s International Democratic Federation (WIDF) Khrushchev’s ‘thaw’ and his pursuit of ‘peaceful coexistence with the West’ from 1956 certainly facilitated increased contact between East and West by opening up the Soviet Union to foreign tourists, international observers and invited visitors, as well as by permitting the travel of a whole variety of different Soviet delegations overseas. Yet it is also important to note that the origins and formation of WIDF and Soviet women’s participation in this international organization significantly predate Khrushchev’s period of office. From the Soviet perspective, the origins of WIDF even predate the organization’s official foundation on 29 November 1945, followed by its first meeting in Paris on 1 December 1945. In the interwar years, Soviet women were active in organizations such as the Women’s International League of Peace and Freedom (WILPF, established in 1915), they were aware of the work for women and children conducted by the League of Nations, and a number of Russian women had participated in the World Congress of Women against War and Fascism in Paris in 1934.3 At the outbreak of the Second World War in the Soviet Union in 1941, Soviet women gathered at an All-Union Women’s Meeting in Moscow in September to protest against German aggression and the spread of fascism. From this meeting emerged the Soviet Women’s Anti-Fascist Committee.4 At this time, the Soviet Women’s Anti-Fascist Committee issued a broad appeal in the form of a booklet entitled To Women of the Whole World and it met annually in the years that followed.5 Soviet women from the Women’s Anti-Fascist Committee were amongst the international delegates in attendance at the founding conference of the Union of French Women in Paris in the summer of 1945, where it was decided to investigate the possibility of setting up an umbrella international democratic women’s organization. An initiative committee was established, with representatives from eight different countries, including the Soviet

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Union, to pursue this end. A total of 850 delegates from 40 different countries attended the International Women’s Congress in Paris from 26 November to 1 December 1945, which, on its final day, convened the first meeting of WIDF.6 Eugenie Cotton (France) was elected as WIDF chair, a position she held until her death in June 1967. WIDF headquarters were established outside of the Soviet Union, initially in Paris, but were then relocated to the Soviet zone in Berlin from 1951.

Soviet influence and European support for WIDF From a photograph of the Soviet delegation to the 1945 Paris congress, it is possible to count at least 12 women in attendance, and a further report notes that there were 42 Soviet participants.7 One of these, Elena Kononenko, came away from the congress with the feeling that Soviet women stood as the advanced guard of the women’s peace movement.8 From the Soviet Union, WIDF’s executive committee included Zinaida Gagarina, vice-president of the Soviet Women’s Anti-Fascist Committee, and on its Secretariat, Tatyana Kochelova and later Zinaida Gurina. Most importantly, Nina Vasil’evna Popova (Soviet Union) was elected as one of the vice-chairs, a post she held until her retirement from WIDF in 1968. Considering the high status occupied by Nina Popova in Soviet national politics, in domestic social and voluntary organizations and in the processes of international cultural exchange in the Cold War period, and notwithstanding her work in the WIDF hierarchy, it is surprising that it is only very recently that a comprehensive biographical study of her long life has been published.9 During the mid-1930s, Popova was engaged in government, party and educational work in Moscow. After the outbreak of the Second World War, she was active in the foundation and running of the Soviet Women’s Anti-Fascist Committee, one of the key organizations responsible for the establishment of WIDF. Popova was elected a candidate member of the Central Committee at the XX Communist Party Congress in 1956, at which Khrushchev presented his renowned ‘Secret Speech’ and which introduced the principle of ‘peaceful coexistence with the West’. At the WIDF fourth congress in Vienna in 1958, Nina Popova declared that: The principle of peaceful coexistence between states from different political systems is a permanent and inseparable principle of Soviet foreign policy. . . . To defend peace means to strengthen confidence between peoples, to know each other better, to learn about each other’s living conditions, about the progress realised in science, culture and the arts of each country. . . . 2200 foreign delegates from 89 countries have visited the Soviet Union in the past two years.10 Popova’s extensive government and party work earned her a number of

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awards, medals and honours, including the Order of Lenin twice and the International Stalin Prize in 1953 ‘for strengthening peace between nations’. Until her retirement in 1968, Popova chaired the Soviet Women’s Committee. In this capacity, she served on the editorial board of Sovetskaya zhenshchina. From its first edition in 1951, Popova also contributed to WIDF’s own monthly (then from 1966, quarterly) publication, Zhenshchiny mira, and the organization’s regular Information Bulletin. She was a presidium member of the Soviet Committee for the Defence of Peace from 1955 and a member of the World Peace Council from 1958. She also sat on the Soviet Committee for Solidarity with Asian and African Countries and the Soviet Committee for European Security and Disarmament. Amongst Western and Southern European women, WIDF attracted many of those who had been active in wartime partisan and resistance movements in Europe, particularly in France, Spain, Greece and Yugoslavia.11 These were women who had broadly progressive and leftist sympathies after 1945. After overt criticisms of US foreign policy, especially in Asia and Indonesia, were raised by Eugenie Cotton in the late 1940s some of the long-established Western women’s organizations came to regard WIDF as a ‘red threat’. The Congress of American Women, affiliated to WIDF, for example, was the subject of an intense investigation by the United States Congress committee on un-American activities in 1949.12 In addition to this, the predominant position played by Popova and other Soviet women in WIDF’s foundation and day-to-day running, as well as the funding and support provided to WIDF by the Soviet government, left the organization open to the charge from some of its Western critics, including the renowned American feminist campaigner and activist Betty Friedan, that it was operating as a ‘communist front’.13 It is worth noting, however, that far from all of WIDF’s financial support came directly from the Soviet Union, and in fact the federation appears to have taken steps to ensure its own independent financial security. WIDF raised fees and subscriptions from its affiliated national organizations for membership and through sales of its magazines. It also engaged in its own widespread fundraising campaigns, whereby women from wealthier nations in the industrialized countries of Europe and the United States would directly sponsor attendance at congresses and council meetings by women from the developing world.14 Grand bazaars were held at the World Congresses, where handicraft and folk art items sent in from women’s organizations from many different countries were put on sale. The 1963 World Congress was partly sponsored by the mass purchase by 100,000 Finnish women of pearls to be given as souvenir necklaces to the delegates.15 International solidarity funds were set up to receive donations to sponsor the congresses in Moscow and Helsinki, with instructions to send payments to bank accounts in London, Berlin and Prague as well as Moscow itself. To its Western critics, WIDF was regarded as an organization responsible for spreading ‘communist propaganda’, and, as the Soviet Union was keenly aware, not all political parties, in the UK for example, lent their support

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to the federation.16 A potentially fractious ideological divide, therefore, was evident amongst the various women’s groups that were active in the international arena in the post-war period.17 Despite such Cold War hostilities, women from both sides of the Iron Curtain were able to establish a number of vibrant trans-national organizations and to act with a unity of purpose in pursuit of their shared goals. The mass participation by women at the various World Women’s Congresses during the 1950s and 1960s, with WIDF’s own congresses following immediately after these, is testament to this.

WIDF remit WIDF’s declared remit can be summarized under four broad appeals: first, to win, implement and defend the rights of women and to promote their equality worldwide as mothers, workers and citizens; second, to ensure the security and future happiness of children and to defend their rights to life, well-being and education; third, to prevent the spread of fascism and to win and defend national independence and democratic freedoms; and, fourth, to put an end to war, militarism and aggression in all of their manifestations, and to struggle for peace and universal disarmament. WIDF claimed to unite women across the globe irrespective of race, nationality, religion, political outlook or party affiliation, and it claimed to help in the establishment of ties of friendship and solidarity amongst women worldwide. Membership of the federation was dependent on membership of an affiliated international, national or local women’s organization that accepted WIDF’s goals and/or supported its aims. It was only possible to join the federation as an individual member under exceptional circumstances. WIDF recognized that, although many countries had enshrined women’s rights and even the principles of sexual equality in their constitutions and legislative enactments, women generally were not provided with the conditions in which to realize these rights in practice and that women around the globe continued to face discrimination. Likewise, many children worldwide were living in conditions of hunger and ill-health, with often very limited access to medical care and with little chance of gaining an education.18 From its foundation and during the early years of its operation, WIDF was explicit in its recognition of the work of the many other national, trans-national and international organizations operating on issues relating to its own remit. This was particularly true of a variety of Western women’s organizations and peace movements, which WIDF often saw as pursuing a largely ‘bourgeois agenda’ that it believed did not meet the needs of women worldwide. In raising such criticisms, WIDF thereby assigned a rather pejorative interpretation to the terms ‘feminism’ and ‘pacifism’. For example, Western women’s pacifist organizations, it was argued, opposed warfare only in principle, but not, as the example of the Second World War had so recently demonstrated, when their own perceived freedoms and independence were under threat.

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Eugenie Cotton and WIDF drew a clear distinction between ‘pacifism’ and the active pursuit of peace.19 Under the title ‘Our Women’s Peace Movement has Nothing in Common with Pacifism’, extracts were published of Nina Popova’s presentation to the meeting of the WIDF council in Moscow, 17 to 22 November 1949. Popova argued that ‘pacifism’ implied only the passive rejection of war. In contrast, WIDF was engaged in an active struggle, one that has ‘greater depth and efficiency’. She continued that, ‘it is the task of the national organizations of women to take an active part in the implementation of this programme of the struggle for peace, employing all forms of work and mass action.’20 Moreover, WIDF did not endorse the idea of unilateral disarmament, favouring instead a programme of international multi-lateral disarmament, in which the Soviet Union was seen to take the lead by introducing a ban on the testing of nuclear weapons from 31 March 1958. For example, a speech by an Indian delegate at the 1963 World Congress of Women argued that ‘disarmament means the giving up of arms and the supply of arms to imperialists as well as to others and not unilateral disarmament’.21 WIDF strongly opposed the formation of military pacts, such as the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), and the stationing of overseas military bases on foreign soil. Despite this, WIDF appears to have remained comparatively silent about the emergence of the Warsaw Pact and the establishment of Soviet military bases in the Eastern bloc. Similarly, it was claimed that the various cooperative movements with an interest in improving the lives of children relied primarily on charitable and philanthropic organizations to do so, rather than even attempting to address the underlying causes of child poverty, neglect and abuse through effective government social welfare policies. From WIDF’s perspective, such organizations had only a one-sided and vague approach to tackling the central issues of promoting women’s rights, advancing child welfare or protesting against the threat of war and armaments developments. WIDF’s proclaimed unique selling point, therefore, according to its own publications, was that it combined all of these related concerns in one umbrella organization and that it sought democratic solutions to these perceived wrongs. It explicitly aimed to inform and to mobilize women across the divisions of the socialist and capitalist nations, as well as across continents and hemispheres. WIDF delegates worked alongside the United Nations (UN) in the pursuit of their aims and were instrumental in having 1 June each year declared as ‘international children’s day’, marked officially for the first time in 1950.22 WIDF’s relationship with the UN and its specialized agencies, including its Commission on Women’s Rights, however, was not without its own problems.23 On 6 April 1954, the UN removed consultative status B from WIDF, which the federation regarded as a ‘discriminatory action’. It was not readmitted until June 1967. WIDF was granted consultative status B to the UN Economic and Social Council in 1968. At the WIDF sixth congress in Helsinki, it was announced that, on 28 May 1969, this had been upgraded to

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consultative status A.24 Consultative status allowed WIDF to provide expert information or advice to the Council and to represent the interests of their membership. WIDF was allowed to send its representatives to sit as observers at public meetings of the Council and, after its status was upgraded, to request that items of special interest be raised on the Council agenda. It would be impossible to estimate the true level of support for WIDF. Various publications by and about the organization make extravagant claims for its role, estimating that it represented 135 million women in 64 countries by 1951.25 By the time the World Women’s Congress and the WIDF third congress convened in Copenhagen in June 1953, WIDF claimed to represent 140 million women in 66 different countries (including 54 organizations in capitalist and colonial countries).26 WIDF encouraged the establishment of national women’s organizations in different countries on all continents and helped in the running of local campaigns related to its remit. A decade later, WIDF claimed to represent 200 million women in over 100 different countries around the world, making it, so it believed, the largest, as well as the most influential and authoritative, of the international women’s associations. By this time, WIDF delegates were attending a whole range of different world congresses on the organization’s behalf and representatives were sent to such events claiming to speak on behalf of all women worldwide.

The exchange of ideas in differing cultural contexts Given its wide remit and extensive membership, it is not surprising that WIDF was subject to internal debates about its purpose, ambitions and even its own name. In this respect, therefore, WIDF served not only as a forum for extensive cultural exchange during the decades of the Cold War, especially where the status of women was concerned, but also as a site in which the cultural gaps that existed between women from different nations could be identified and discussed. In the late 1940s and early 1950s there was some debate over whether the term ‘imperialism’ was appropriate for use at WIDF meetings and in its publications because this was thought to be potentially alienating for some delegates to its congresses, particularly those from colonial countries still living under imperial rule.27 There were overt criticisms of United States foreign policy on Vietnam, Korea and Malaya in particular, as well as concerns about the post-war remilitarization drives evident in West Germany and Japan. At the WIDF second congress in Budapest, 1 to 6 December 1948, Andrea Andreen, head of the Swedish delegation and a leading figure in WIDF in her own right as one of its honorary vice-presidents, called for ‘more prudence’ and ‘more diplomatic’ language to be used in WIDF resolutions. She feared that ‘in politics, prestige is more important than peace’.28 Nina Popova, however, pointed to women’s experiences in the ‘second imperialist war’ in Spain, to US accusations of Soviet aggression, and the build up of arms in the ‘Anglo-Saxon’ bloc, including the United States:

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‘they want, as the Russian saying goes, “to make a wise person seem guilty of the errors of the fool”.’29 Despite attendance by representatives and delegates at WIDF congresses, the federation continued to be critical of ‘pacifist’ organizations, such as the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom, and ‘feminist’ groups, such as the UK Six Point Group and the International Council of Women.30 WILPF was often openly critical of Soviet domestic and foreign policy, and at one stage WIDF accused WILPF of being a fascist organization. WIDF’s own commitment to the promotion of peace was called into question by its concerns about women’s situations in such countries as Israel and Korea, and by women’s engagement in national independence movements. Despite the imposition by the Soviet Union of a ban on nuclear testing from 1958, there was also some criticism of the Soviet Union’s own claim to playing a leading role in peace promotion because it was not able to differentiate its own activities from other peace initiatives being taken elsewhere. Likewise, the use of the term ‘emancipation’ in the federation’s official publications was called into question because it had close associations with feminist groups that had raised their own criticisms of WIDF’s close connections with Communist Party organizations.31 The organization discussed instead the use of the more liberal-sounding term ‘equal rights for women’. Despite its advancement of a peace agenda, some of WIDF’s own publications and documents used militaristic language to report on its proceedings: these women were soldiers – soldiers of peace; they were heroines in the struggles against colonialism, neo-colonialism and imperialism and in the fight for national independence in Cuba, Algeria, Indonesia and the countries of Africa and Latin America; they were true patriots in Spain, Greece, Portugal and Iraq, in the Middle East and Latin America.32 The WIDF Manifesto adopted at its fourth Congress in Vienna, 1 to 5 June 1958, included the phrases ‘active force in the struggle for security’ and ‘march forward’.33 Nina Popova herself endorsed the need to conduct an ‘ideological propaganda war’ to publicize the aims of WIDF.34 Soviet women, in particular, were regarded as the ‘advanced guard’ of the WIDF movement. The organization’s self-declared remit included the ‘defence’ of children and of life. Women were regularly exhorted ‘to struggle’ and ‘to fight’ in order to secure their rights and to put them into practice. This was also the language of the peace and disarmament objectives. There was even some debate about the organization’s own name. From a critical liberal Western perspective, the contemporary use of the word ‘democratic’ was identified very closely with communist countries. It was argued that WIDF could not justify the claim to be democratic in any way that other women’s organizations were not. The term was seen to have little relevance for women living in countries, in Asia for example, that were not yet considered to be democracies.35 There was also some discussion in the 1950s over whether the name ‘International’ should be replaced by ‘World’. It is worth noting here that in 1956 the Soviet Women’s Anti-Fascist Committee

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stopped calling itself ‘anti-fascist’ as this was thought to promote a specific political agenda that no longer met the aims of the committee.36 By the 1950s, internal tensions were also in evidence in specific areas of WIDF’s policy agenda, often reflecting the different economic conditions and the religious foundations of the constituent countries represented in the federation. For example, some questioned whether it was right for WIDF to be calling for ‘equal pay’ when women in some countries had not yet even secured the right to work or to be paid for the work they already undertook. Mokova Dagmar, speaking in 1958 on behalf of the Girls’ Commission of the World Federation of Democratic Youth, pointed out the following: the jobs being created by scientific and technical developments in the West were being dominated by men; whilst women and girls in Europe did not receive equal pay for their work, women in many countries of Africa, Asia and the Middle East received practically no pay whatsoever for their work; women around the world lacked basic social and political rights, including the right to vote; and girls and young women were subject to the practices of forced and child marriage.37 Women’s political rights could not be guaranteed in colonial countries, in countries where women did not yet have the right to vote or in countries where women were engaged in national liberation struggles. As WIDF’s own resolutions adopted in 1958 pointed out: In the field of political rights, according to United Nations figures, there are still eleven countries in which there is no right to vote for women. In the majority of protectorates and dependent countries, political rights are non-existent. In some countries women have limited political rights. In other countries, electoral laws contain discriminatory clauses limiting women’s electoral rights.38 Whilst delegates from some countries promoted a ‘women’s right to work and equal pay’ agenda, women from the strongly Roman Catholic countries of Latin America, for example, questioned whether it was right for mothers to go out to work at all if this meant that their children would be left in nurseries.39 Not all women, those in Italy included, had access to divorce or the right of custody to their children. Similarly, women’s representative from various religious organizations, such as Christian youth groups, Muslim and Catholic women, felt unable to support WIDF’s promotion of atheism.40 Leading representatives from the Soviet Women’s Anti-Fascist Committee were clearly aware of the negative image that the Soviet Union had in many countries. They tried to address criticisms of what was regarded as aggressive Soviet foreign policy, that Soviet workers were exploited by the demands of having to work on fast-running machines and with high output targets, that overall standards of living were lower than in many Western countries, and that the Soviet family was being destroyed by the fact that women were

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expected to go out to work and to engage in heavy physical labour. The Soviet Union was also criticized for its attacks on serving religious personnel. Some of its more critical observers claimed that nothing particular had been achieved in the Soviet Union that had not already been witnessed elsewhere.41 In addition, Islanda Robson pointed out that despite Soviet women’s relatively advanced political standing, women were poorly represented at the highest echelons of Soviet power.42 In order to counter such criticisms and to demonstrate the realities of Soviet women’s lives, the Soviet Women’s Anti-Fascist Committee extended numerous invitations to foreign delegations in the post-war years.43

Cultural exchange through the Iron Curtain The World Congresses of Women and the WIDF congresses that followed them provided the opportunity for women from a wide variety of backgrounds and from around the globe, irrespective of the supposed divide imposed by the Iron Curtain, to gather together to exchange ideas and to discuss issues of mutual interest and concern. It is now evident that women’s international networks thrived in the post-war years, despite the Cold War. After congresses in Paris (1945), Budapest (1948), Copenhagen (1953) and Vienna (1958), the fifth WIDF congress was convened, on the initiative of its Soviet members, at the Kremlin Palace of Congresses in Moscow from 24 to 26 June 1963, and the sixth WIDF congress was convened in Helsinki from 14 to18 June 1969 under the banner ‘The Role of Women in the World Today’. Table 9.1 illustrates the level of support for these gatherings, and Table 9.2 offers a breakdown of the social background of congress participants. These congresses offered the opportunity for representatives from national and international women’s organizations to present reports on the status of women and the advancement of equal rights in different countries and to offer accounts of women’s lived experiences around the world. These country-by-country reports not only allowed the delegates to identify the particular and sometimes unique issues that women faced on a national level, but they also allowed the congress to identify the common problems faced by women globally. The work of the 1969 Helsinki congress, for example, was broken down into five different commissions, each discussing and reporting on current issues of concern to the federation: solidarity with women and children in Vietnam, women in the family, women at work (convened by Valentina Tereshkova), women in society, and women in the fight for national independence, democracy and peace.44 WIDF, it was claimed, offered the complex and unified structure required to bring activists together in order to deal with issues affecting women and to seek their resolution. In capitalist countries, for example, despite strident claims and legislative initiatives on equal rights issues, women still faced discrimination in many spheres of their activities. In newly independent countries, recently freed from the constraints of colonialism, women were

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Table 9.1 Numbers of delegates to the fifth WIDF Congress (Moscow, 1963) and sixth WIDF Congress (Helsinki, 1969)

Number of delegates including: guests observers Number of countries represented including: Europe Asia Latin America North America Africa Oceania Number of women’s organizations including: affiliates to WIDF

Moscow, 1963

Helsinki, 1969

1543 116 136 113 27 23 25 2 34 2 181 63

482i 93 26 20 15 2 28 2 190ii 123

Sources: 1963: WIDF World Congress of Women, Moscow, 24–29 June 1963 [n.d.], pp. 3, 83. See also WIDF Information Bulletin, Special edition, June 1963, pp. 2–5; N.V. Popova, Zhenshchiny mira i sovremennost’, Moscow: Izdatel
stvo ‘Znanie’, 1966, p. 77; and for preliminary figures, Nina Popova, ‘V edinstve nasha sila’, Pravda, 24 June 1963. 1969: WIDF, World Women’s Congress: Documents and Information [n.d.], p. 7. Notes: i Plus guests and observers. ii A further 14 women’s organizations had confirmed their participation but were not able to send delegates. The Congress was attended by officials from the United Nation’s Commission on the Status of Women and its Economic and Social Council.

Table 9.2 Social background of congress delegates

MPs Science and education Students Artists Medical workers/doctors Religious personnel Lawyers Journalists Writers/poets Housewives Workers Peasants/co-operative farmers Government ministers Social workers Woman cosmonaut

Moscow, 1963

Helsinki, 1969

533 211 59 34 72 4 38 78 25 288 85 41

10 85 11

1

7 11 74 6 67 84 5 2 10 1

Sources: 1963: WIDF World Congress of Women, Moscow, 24–29 June 1963 [n.d.], p. 83. 1969: WIDF, World Women’s Congress: Documents and Information [n.d.], p. 7.

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only just beginning to take their place in social and political life. The discussions at the congresses clearly established that one of WIDF’s tasks was to challenge traditional and cultural practices and beliefs that confined women to the home, to family obligations and the upbringing of children. WIDF also recognized that the equal rights agenda carried with it equal responsibilities, and called on women themselves to expand their sphere of activity beyond the domestic realm. By 1963, Soviet women, in comparison with many other women in the world, had every reason to boast about their recent achievements that were both clearly set down on paper and relatively advanced in reality. In the early 1960s, they had reason, too, to feel optimistic about their future. Most of the delegates to the Moscow congress were visiting the Soviet Union for the first time and, as Eugenie Cotton pointed out, were now able to witness Soviet achievements at first hand. Perhaps Soviet pride is best summoned up in Khrushchev’s speech on the opening day of the congress, which is worth citing here at some length: Your congress is taking place in a country where a woman has already for a long time enjoyed the fruits of socialism. She is a full member of society, enjoying all of the benefits of our socialist construction. Her rights are not only guaranteed by law, but are also provided in reality. Soviet women take a huge role in the task of communist construction. They occupy an evident place in all of the electoral bodies of Soviet power: 390 women are deputies of the USSR Supreme Soviet; more than two thousand women are deputies of union republic Supreme Soviets; more than 700,000 women are deputies of local soviets. In our country, millions of women are engineers, managers in production, scientists, agronomists, chairs and brigadiers on collective farms. Women are more than half of all specialists with higher education. Three quarters of doctors and almost half of all teachers are women. Communists always speak with conviction, and I want to say on this festive day of the opening of the World Women’s Congress that the genuine liberation of women, her potential to demonstrate all of her capacities and talents in work and social affairs can be realised only under socialism. There are people who argue that woman is of a different constitution from man, and that she should occupy a different, subordinate role in society. The position of women in the Soviet Union refutes this. There is an especially clear example of the equality between Soviet men and women: sitting in our hall is the heroic conqueror of the starry skies, Valentina Tereshkova. . . . Socialist, communist peace provides a shining example of the equality of men and women.45 Although it is relatively easy from a twenty-first century perspective for his-

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torians to identify the limits of Soviet achievements in realizing gender equality and to point to the manifest shortfalls in the area of guarantees of women’s rights in the USSR, we must also remember that many of the ‘progressive’ women involved in the emerging second wave feminist movement in the West and around the world looked to the Soviet Union at the height of the Cold War as a model for the advancement of women’s rights as workers and as mothers, in politics and in culture.46 Eugenie Cotton’s report noted: Soviet women contribute in the most striking fashion to the advancement of women which is taking place nowadays throughout the world, and there is no doubt that the women of the whole world will draw great encouragement from the fact that some of their essential demands already have been achieved by their Soviet sisters, as it is always helpful to be supported by precedents.47 As Khrushchev had indicated in his speech, and as Popova and a number of other contributors themselves pointed out in their own 1963 congress reports, recent Soviet achievements in scientific and technical development, as well as their advanced thinking on equality between the sexes, had just recently allowed the Soviet Union to send the first woman into space. Valentina Tereshkova (along with crew member Valerii Bykovskii) was present at the Moscow congress, the first convened in this new ‘era of the cosmos’.48 Khrushchev’s wife, Nina Petrovna, was also one of the delegates.49 Reporting on the panel investigating ‘the role of women in the world today’ at the Helsinki congress, WIDF General Secretary Cecile Hugel noted: The desire of peoples to live in good neighbourliness and to help one another, regardless of the social system of their countries, the colour of their skin, of the religion and customs of their neighbours, is already improving between states. These relationships are more and more being based on peaceful co-existence, co-operation, cultural exchanges and, in many cases, on reciprocal assistance on the basis of mutual benefit and respect.50 Likewise, in her message sent to the 1969 Congress, Indira Ghandi noted that it was not possible for governments to solve world problems alone. Non-official organizations, individuals and women’s organizations were able to play a vital role in shaping public opinion.51 It is worth noting that broader political issues were sometimes at play on the congress floor, and these sometimes reflected tensions that existed not only between East and West, but significantly also between different socialist countries. In Moscow, for example, official congress reports hint at the level of dissatisfaction expressed by members of the Chinese delegation, who were accused of interrupting debates and disrupting meetings. The Chinese delegates, along with the representatives from Albania, voted against the

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adoption of the congress ‘Appeal’. In turn, the Chinese delegation was accused of falling into the hands of the imperialists.52 As noted earlier, the years between the Moscow and Helsinki congresses witnessed a major shift in the leadership of WIDF following the death of Eugenie Cotton. Nina Popova stepped down from her post but the Soviet Union remained well-represented in WIDF’s executive organs. At the WIDF sixth congress on 18 June 1969, Hertta Kuusinen (an outstanding figure in the Finnish women’s movement and a member of the leading body of the Democratic League of Finnish Women) was elected as the new president of WIDF. Valentina Tereshkova was elected as one of the vice-presidents. The audit committee and secretariat were also to include as yet unnamed representatives from the Soviet Union.53

Conclusion From the 1970s onwards the centre of location of WIDF’s major activities began to move outside of Europe and mainly to Latin America. In the broader context, this reflected the contemporary shift towards a more intensive globalization of the Cold War. It was reflective also of a generational shift. Those coming into politics in the 1970s had experienced a less immediate engagement with the realities of combat and upheaval during the Second World War and had less personal investment in memorializing its outcomes. Although Valentina Tereshkova, representing the Soviet Women’s Committee, was still involved in WIDF’s formal organizational structures and continued to attend the World Congresses of Women, the federation came to have less relevance for the interplay of the Cold War superpowers in the specifically European context. It is also worth noting that, as two particular examples embedded in this study illustrate, WIDF itself was not immune from the broader political and ideological debates and hostilities that were taking place within the socialist camp during the early decades of the Cold War, particularly over the different paths that socialist states identified to achieve their goals. The expulsion of members of the Yugoslav Women’s Front in 1948 and the disruption noted by the Chinese delegates (supported by those from Albania) at the Moscow 1963 congress, following the Sino–Soviet split of 1961, reflected WIDF’s willingness to be guided by the line set by the Soviet Union in international relations. Finally, this chapter, through a case study of the Women’s International Democratic Federation, has shown that macro-level Cold War ideological divisions transcended the barriers purportedly imposed by the drawing of the Iron Curtain after 1945. Sexual equality, children’s rights, disarmament and national independence were ideas that united progressive and feminist thinkers across Europe, and socialism was much evident in the emergence of Western welfare states after 1945. As Catriona Kelly has recently pointed out in connection with Cold War-era cultural diplomacy in the realm of children’s

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rights, ‘Soviet ideas of social justice, where they chimed with those accepted elsewhere, could cross borders and play a role in shaping international statements’.54 In the Soviet Union, Khrushchev’s willingness to endorse a policy of peaceful coexistence with the West from 1956 initiated a thaw in the Cold War, redrew the boundaries of the Iron Curtain, and broadened the avenues for social contact and cultural exchange.

Notes 1 In Russian: Mezhdunarodnaya demokraticheskaya federatsiya zhenshchin (MDFZh). 2 The magazine was published in a number of different languages. This chapter makes reference to both English and Russian-language issues. At the Moscow 1963 Congress, Eugenie Cotton noted about the magazine: ‘Its essential aims remain the same: to preserve its character as a great family where every woman finds the comfort of friendship and solidarity of other women in the search for the solution of all the problems which interest women as women, that is as mothers and citizens’. See Kansan Arkisto [hereafter KansA], 1D SNDL H NKDL, Moskova 1963, box 409. 3 Vera Bil
shai, ‘Zhenshchiny v bor
be za mir’, Krest
yanka, no. 6, 1963, pp. 2–3. 4 Similar anti-fascist organizations were formed by young people (sponsored by the Communist Party’s youth section, the Komsomol) and Soviet Jews. 5 K zhenshchinam vsego mira! Vystupleniya na zhenskom antifashistskom mitinge, sostoyavshiemsya v Moskve v kolonnom zale doma soyuzov 7 sentyabrya 1941 g., Moscow: OGIZ, 1941. See also Women’s Anglo-Soviet Committee, Soviet Women Call to You, London: H. Clarke and Co., n.d. [1942]. 6 Delegates from a further 12 countries were prevented from attending the congress because of delays in issuing visas. The congress claimed to represent 80 million women worldwide; 181 separate organizations were represented at the congress. 7 See Elena Kononenko, ‘Klyatva materei’, Vsegda s vami: sbornik posvyshchennyi 50-letiyu zhurnala ‘Rabotnitsa’, Moscow: Izdatel
stvo ‘Pravda’, 1964, pp. 526–30 (p. 527). Besides Popova, the Soviet delegates included Kononenko, Zinaida Troitskaya [see photo]; and Tat
yana Zueva, Zinaida Yermol
eva, Anna Karavaeva, Aleksandra Yablochkina and Anna Pankratova: Nina Popova, ‘Vazhnoe istoricheskoe sobytie’, Sovetskaya zhenshchina [hereafter SZh], no. 1, 1945, pp. 3–6. See also Zinaida Gagarina, ‘Pervyi mezhdunarodnyi zhenskii kongress’, SZh, no. 1, 1946, pp. 4–6. 8 Kononenko, ‘Klyatva materei’, p. 530. 9 N. V. Borisova, Nina Popova: zhizn
kak sozidanie, Yelets, 2005. 10 WIDF IV Congress, Vienna, 1–5 June 1958, Documents, p. 147. KansA 1D SNDL H NKDL. The WIDF bureau meeting in Berlin, 2–5 July 1960, issued a declaration on disarmament, which stated that ‘peaceful coexistence between countries with different social systems implies non-aggression, mutual respect for territorial integrity and sovereignty, and non-interference in the internal affairs of other countries’. See WIDF Information Bulletin, no. 6, August 1960, pp. 1–3. 11 Alongside Yugoslavia’s expulsion from the Cominform in 1948, the members of the Yugoslav Women’s Front were accused of being ‘false anti-fascists’ and were excluded from WIDF. This, however, did not mean that all Yugoslav women were excluded from the organization. See WIDF Information Bulletin, no. 41, November–December 1949, p. 1: Zinaida Gourina, ‘Courage in the Fight for Peace’; and p. 4: Dolores Ibarruri, ‘The Struggle Against the War-Makers is the Sacred Duty of All Women’.

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12 Report on Congress of American Women (1949), www.archive.org/stream/reportoncongress1949unit/reportoncongress1949unit_djvu.txt (accessed 1 March 2010). See also Francisca de Haan, ‘Progressive Women’s Aspirations for a Better World: the Early Years of the Women’s International Democratic Federation (1945–50), published in abbreviated form as ‘Hoffnungen auf eine bessere Welt: Die frühen Jahre der Internationale Demokratische Frauenföderation (IDFF/WIDF) (1945–50), Feministische Studien, no. 2, November 2009. 13 See the contribution by Teddi Holt in Robyn Rowland (ed.), Women Who Do and Women Who Don’t Join the Women’s Movement, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1984, p. 51. 14 For example, the Federation of Swiss Women for Peace and Progress paid for South African delegates and the Netherlands Women’s Movement assisted Indonesian delegates in their attendance at the 1957 WIDF council meeting in Helsinki. See WIDF IV Congress, Vienna, 1–5 June 1958, Documents, p. 29. KansA 1D SNDL H NKDL. 15 WIDF Information Bulletin, special edition, World Congress of Women, Moscow, June 24–29, 1963, p. 3. 16 Russian State Archive of Contemporary History [hereafter RGANI], f. 5, op. 28, d. 123, l. 68. 17 See, for example, Francisca de Haan, ‘Continuing Cold War Paradigms? The Women’s International Democratic Federation and the Historiography of Transnational Women’s Movements’, Women’s History Review, vol. 19, 2010, and Leila J. Rupp, Worlds of Women: The Making of an International Women’s Movement, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997. 18 Many of the WIDF publications and congress reports used in this study include a statement of the organization’s remit. For an English-language succinct account, see Nina Popova, ‘For a world without arms and wars, a world without slavery and oppression: fifteen years of the Women’s International Democratic Federation’, Soviet Woman, no. 12, 1960, pp. 2–3. See also: L. I. Petrova, Mezhdunarodnaya Demokraticheskaya Federatsiya Zhenshchin za mir, ravnopravie zhenshchin i schastie detei, Mostva: Gosudarstvennoe izdatel
stvo politicheskoi literatury, 1956; Desyat
let Mezhdunarodnaya Demokraticheskaya Federatsiya Zhenshchin, Mostva: 1955; S. Gilevskaya, 15 let Mezhdunarodnoi Demokraticheskoi Federatsii Zhenshchin (material dlya lektorov i dokladchikov), Moscow: Izdatel
stvo ‘Znanie’, 1960; 20-letie Mezhdunarodnoi Demokraticheskoi Federatsii Zhenshchin (iz materiala plenuma Komitet sovetskhikh zhenshchin), Riga: 1965. 19 See, for example, Z. N. Gagarina, Mezhdunarodnoe demokraticheskoe dvizhenie zhenshchin v bor
be za mir, Moscow: Izdatel
stvo ‘Znanie’, 1952, p. 7. 20 WIDF Information Bulletin, no. 41, November–December 1949, p. 5, and the supplement to SZh, no. 6, 1949, pp. 9–10. See also N. V. Popova, ‘Sovetskaya zhenshchina v bor
be za delo mira i sotrudnichestva mezhdu narodami’, SZh, no. 6, 1947, pp. 5–6, ‘Vysoko derzhite znamya mira!’, SZh, no. 2, 1949, pp. 16–17, ‘Zhenshchiny SSSR – aktivnye bortsy za mir’, SZh, no. 5, 1949, p. 10, and ‘Zhenshchiny mira otstoyat mir’, SZh, no. 6, 1950, pp. 51–52. 21 KansA, 1D SNDL H NKDL Moskova 1963, box 409. 22 Gagarina, Mezhdunarodnoe, p. 22; Zhenshchiny mira [hereafter ZhM], nos. 9–10, 1965, p. 6. 23 Elizabeta Popova, ‘O komissii po pravam zhenshchin organizatsii ob”edinennykh natsii’, SZh, no. 2, 1949, pp. 53–54, and ‘Komissiya po pravam zhenshchin OON ne opravdyvaet nadezhd zhenshchin mira’, SZh, no. 4, 1949, p. 56. 24 See SZh, no. 4, 1946, p. 7, no. 3, 1947, p. 42, and no. 2, 1949, p. 12; WIDF VI Congress, Helsinki, 18 June 1969, Documents and Information, 6/1969, pp. 2, 14, KansA 1D SNDL H NKDL. See also the relevant annual Yearbook of the United Nations.

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29

30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46

47

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Gagarina, Mezhdunarodnoe, p. 7. Bol
shaya Sovetskaya Entsiklopediya, vol. 27, 1954, p. 9. See, for example, RGANI, f. 5, op. 28, d. 122, l. 3. WIDF Information Bulletin, no. 33, December 1948–January 1949, p. 19. For more on Andrea Andreen, see the feature article in ZhM, no. 2, 1953, pp. 11–12, and the interview in ZhM, no. 1, 1959, pp. 18–20. The second World Congress of Women attracted 390 delegates of 51 nationalities from 38 different countries: see WIDF Information Bulletin, no. 33, December 1948–January 1949, p. 2. WIDF Information Bulletin, no. 33, December 1948–January 1949, p. 12. The Moscow council meeting also expressed WIDF’s support for the Chinese revolution and formation of the GDR, raised objections to the formation of NATO, a point that was specifically supported by women from Scandinavian countries, and offered support to the women of Vietnam and Indochina: see Marie-Claude Vaillant-Coutourier’s report in WIDF Information Bulletin, no. 41, November– December 1949, p. 2. RGANI, f. 5, op. 28, d. 122, l. 6; d. 452, l. 43. On other tensions between WIDF and WILPF, see RGANI, f. 5, op. 28, d. 452, ll. 164–65. RGANI, f. 5, op. 28, d. 453, ll. 244, 270. See, for example, Elena Uspenskaya, ‘Mir nesushchie’, Vsegda s vami, pp. 531–36; and Lidiya Petrova, ‘Sovetskie zhenshchiny v bor
be za mir’, SZh, no. 3, 1950, pp. 5–6. See WIDF IV Congress, Vienna, 1–5 June 1958, Documents [n.d.], p. 10, KansA 1D SNDL H NKDL. Borisova, Nina Popova, p. 125. RGANI, f. 5. op. 28, d. 453, ll. 245, 247, 270. See for example, RGANI, f. 5, op. 28, d. 452, ll. 112–13. WIDF IV Congress, Vienna, 1–5 June 1958, Plenary Session, pp. 154–56, KansA 1D SNDL H NKDL. On the WFDY, see the chapter by Pia Koivunen in this collection. WIDF IV Congress, Vienna, 1–5 June 1958, Documents, p. 16, KansA 1D SNDL H NKDL. RGANI, f. 5, op. 28, d. 122, ll. 68–69, 77. RGANI, f. 5, op. 28, d. 122, l. 77. RGANI, f. 5, op. 28, d. 123, l. 49. RGANI, f. 5, op. 28, d. 452, l. 238. Islanda was the wife of singer Paul Robson and had visited the Soviet Union on several occasions. There are numerous reports on delegations to and from the Soviet Union in RGANI files. KansA, 1D SNDL Hu, box 418: Press Release No. 5, 17 June 1969. See also Krest
yanka, no. 8, 1969, pp. 22–24, and ZhM, no. 3, 1969, pp. 32–37. ‘Poslanie N. S. Khrushcheva Vsemirnomu kongressu zhenshchin’, Pravda, 25 June 1963. For a more extensive examination of the role and position of women in the Soviet Union in the period, see M. Ilic, ‘Women in the Khrushchev era: an overview’, in M. Ilic, S. E. Reid and L. Attwood (eds), Women in the Khrushchev Era, Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2004, pp. 5–28. See, for example, the statement in the reports of the WIDF fourth congress: ‘Great encouragement has been given to women of the whole world by the example of Soviet women. Those of us who had the privilege to attend the seminar on the rights of women in Moscow in 1956 were able to judge the important positions which Soviet women hold in the political, social, economic and cultural life of the country and the high positions which are open to them’. WIDF IV Congress, Vienna, 1–5 June 1958, Documents, p. 5, KansA 1D SNDL H NKDL. WIDF World Congress of Women, Moscow, 24–29 June 1963 [n.d.], p. 8, and KansA, 1D SNDL H NKDL, Moskova 1963 (box 409).

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48 See the report on the congress by Anna Karaeva, ‘Pered bol
shoi vstrechei’, Pravda, 23 June 1963, and the speech by Popova, Pravda, 24 June 1963. Tereshkova called the Vostok 6 aircraft that had allowed her to circle the globe in 88 minutes ‘a feminine spaceship’: see WIDF Information Bulletin, Special edition, June 1963, pp. 14–15. For more on Tereshkova, see Sue Bridges, ‘The Cold War and the Cosmos: Valentina Tereshkova and the First Women’s Space Flight’, in Ilic, Reid and Attwood (eds), Women in the Khrushchev Era, pp. 222–37. 49 See the photo in ZhM, no. 9, 1963, p. 14. 50 KansA, 1D SNDL Hu, box 418. 51 KansA, 1D SNDL Hu, box 418: Press Release No. 4, 16 June 1969. 52 KansA, 1D SNDL Hu NKDL Moskova 1963, box 407, and WIDF Information Bulletin, special edition, World Congress of Women, Moscow, June 24–29 1963, p. 5. 53 KansA, 1D SNDL Hu, box 418: unnumbered Press Release, 18 June 1969, and WIDF Documents and Information 6/1969, pp. 44–47. See also ZhM, no. 3, 1969, p. 19. 54 Catriona Kelly, ‘Defending children’s rights, “in defense of peace”: children and Soviet cultural diplomacy’, Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History, no. 4, vol. 9, 2008, pp. 711–46 (p. 740). On the role of WIDF in instigating these debates, see p. 726.

10 Overcoming Cold War boundaries at the World Youth Festivals Pia Koivunen

The Cold War viewed from ‘below’ This chapter explores social, political and cultural exchange among young Europeans across the East–West divide from the late Stalin period to the early Brezhnev era. The setting for the research is a Soviet-sponsored cultural celebration, the World Festival of Youth and Students (henceforth World Youth Festival), which gathered young people at biennial intervals with a view to manifesting peace and friendship. While it was the communist youth leagues, in association with the communist parties of the Soviet Union and other socialist countries, that initiated, organized and controlled the youth festivals, the communist dominance did not completely determine the course and the function of the event. Young people found their own ways, both within and outside of the official festivities, to utilize the festival for their individual purposes. The study looks beyond the official propaganda and discusses the forms of informal, unofficial interaction that managed to bypass the control imposed by the socialist system. It focuses on what happened in those spaces beyond the reach of communist control. Until recently, Western research mostly viewed the World Youth Festivals through the prism of a bipolar world order. Scholars tended to highlight the propagandist aims and functions of the event, together with its links to Soviet foreign policy.1 Soviet historiography, for its part, emphasized the gathering’s significance in terms of fostering peace, democracy and unification of young people, while hiding the negative aspects from the public.2 This chapter represents a new approach to studying the World Youth Festivals – one which also takes into account the cultural and social aspects of the youth celebration.3 It moves beyond the picture shaped by the ‘Cold War mindset’ and opens up new insights into the Cold War period by shifting the research focus to a perspective ‘from below’. This means that micro-level and individual festival participants, ‘small actors’ as opposed to ‘big actors’ such as states, move into the centre of the analysis. Examining the micro level enables a demonstration of how individuals acted in the circumstances created by the Cold War and helps to expose the vulnerabilities of the socialist system. Focusing on the micro level does not mean challenging the existence of the bipolar system

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as such. The analysis of the micro-level action becomes meaningful only when it is explored in conjunction with the macro and intermediate levels. In this study, the macro level refers to the bipolar system, while the intermediate level refers to the organizations and the people who, as representatives of the socialist system, implemented the macro-level plans. More concretely, these include communist and democratic parties and youth leagues, as well as the local and international bodies formed for the purpose of organizing the festivals. The World Youth Festivals brought together a diverse group of young people from 14 to 35 years of age. As Table 10.1 illustrates, during 1947–73, each festival drew approximately 10,000–34,000 participants representing from 71 to 140 countries. This chapter focuses in particular on European participants; first, because all the festivals held during the research period took place in Europe, which meant that the local effects were most visible there, and second, because the majority of the participants came from European countries.4 People involved with the festivals were from two major groups: official and unofficial. The official festival people included organizers, national delegations, foreign and local journalists, and well-known figures invited as honoured guests. The group of unofficial people – local youngsters and adults as well as foreign tourists outside the national delegations – comprised those who mostly had no access to official events but who could encounter festival guests on the street and in other public places, outside the designated programme. The research draws on memoirs and interviews, which open up a new way to understand the festivals and the cultural Cold War as a social phenomenon. The informants and authors of the memoirs employed in the study include Soviet, Finnish, British, East German, Irish, American and Swedish festival participants. Drawing upon narratives produced by both East and West Europeans enables studying the interaction that penetrated the ‘Iron Table 10.1 The World Festivals of Youth and Students, 1947–73 Festival city

Year

Number of countries

Participants

Prague Budapest Berlin Bucharest Warsaw Moscow Vienna Helsinki Sofia Berlin

1947 1949 1951 1953 1955 1957 1959 1962 1968 1973

71 82 104 111 115 131 112 137 138 140

17 000 10 400 26 000 30 000 30 000 34 000 18 000 13 140 20 000 30 000

Source: J. Krekola, ‘Kuumia tunteita ja kylmää sotaa nuorisofestivaaleilla’, in E. Katainen and P. Kotila (eds) Työväki ja tunteet, Turku: Työväen historian ja perinteen tutkimuksen seura, 2002, p. 253.

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Curtain’. The interaction of young people can also be traced in archives. The Soviet Communist Youth League (Komsomol), departments of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) and state bodies all reported on youth behaviour at the different festivals. These documents offer a window onto a different range of events than oral history or memoirs do. Delicate issues that the memoirists or interviewees did not wish to mention in their reminiscences might appear on the pages of archival reports. Therefore, cross-reading archival documents with oral history enables young people’s interactions to be scanned more thoroughly.

Playing the Cold War with youth festivals Youth had been a special target-group for Soviet propaganda from as early as the 1920s. The Communist Youth International (KIM),5 founded in 1919, represented the Soviet efforts to influence young people internationally, until its dissolution, along with the Communist International, in 1943. Towards the end of World War II, the Soviet regime began to develop new foreign propaganda methods and organizations, such as the World Peace Council, the World Federation of Trade Unions and the Women’s International Democratic Federation.6 Youth and students gained their own organizations with the creation of the World Federation of Democratic Youth (WFDY) and the International Union of Students (IUS) in 1945 and 1946 in London and Prague respectively. Upon the outbreak of the Cold War in the late 1940s, the WFDY and the IUS quickly came to be referred to as Soviet ‘front-organizations’.7 Erwin Breßlein and Joël Kotek have seen a direct line of continuity from KIM to the WFDY and the IUS, which carried on disseminating communism behind new facades.8 Yet, the WFDY and the IUS developed under very different circumstances compared to KIM. By the end of the war, the Soviet Union had become an acknowledged power and that gave it a more legitimate position to catalyse an international youth movement than before. Another crucial difference was that, unlike KIM, the WFDY and the IUS avoided making any direct references to communism. The new organizations replaced class struggle and world revolution with new slogans calling for democracy, peace and friendship. Furthermore, while KIM had been an openly communist organization, which did not even try to reach other non-communist groups, the WFDY and the IUS sought to touch a chord also in noncommunist spheres. The new youth and student fronts and especially their most well-known flagship event, the World Festival of Youth and Students, served as an excellent tool in the cultural Cold War – the fight for hegemony in the realm of cultural values.9 Universal human slogans of peace and democracy notwithstanding, at the macro and intermediate levels, the Soviets also aimed at influencing young people around the globe politically, and recruiting new members to the WFDY and the IUS. Furthermore, the youth celebrations

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served as useful settings for demonstrating the superiority of the socialist over the capitalist system in the field of culture and sport. In fact, the Soviet Union was projecting its new identity through competition not only with the capitalist countries, but also with the newly established People’s Democracies. After the emergence of the new socialist countries in Eastern Europe and in Asia, the Soviet delegations to the youth festivals were used to emphasize the Soviet role as the leader of the communist world.10 While the Soviets ‘played’ the cultural Cold War with the youth festivals, the United States fought back with Western consumer goods and popular culture spread through international exhibitions, radio stations and Western youth organizations, which were created as a counterweight to Soviet youth fronts and were covertly aided by the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA).11

Who would travel to a communist rally and why? A Finnish participant in the Budapest and Berlin festivals in 1949 and 1951 respectively, recalls that young people of his generation had an enormous desire for a peaceful world and great enthusiasm for the Soviet Union. ‘It was like a dream’, he writes, ‘to be able to travel through the Soviet Union [to the Bucharest festival]’.12 After World War II, many people throughout Europe shared this sentiment and actively took part in the fight for peace. The World Youth Festival provided channels for manifesting these ideas. The fact that the Soviet Union had come out as one of the winners of the war, and was engaged in building a new socialist society, also helped to recruit new supporters. Throughout the Cold War period, most young people who participated in the festivals were either members of communist or democratic youth leagues, or sympathized with communism. Political beliefs served as an underlying impetus for jumping on a festival train, particularly in the late 1940s and 1950s, when the generation born in the 1920s–1930s crowded the festivals. This generation had personally gone through the war and felt a strong desire to preserve the peace. Being part of a peace festival meant contributing to this aim in a tangible way.13 The next generation, the young people of the 1960s and 1970s, found their motives elsewhere. From the 1960s onwards, the common enemy of the war generation, fascism, was replaced by imperialism, and the political background of participants widened, as the new left, small groups of liberals, and even a few conservative youth leagues from some European countries found their way to the festival to manifest ‘anti-imperialism, peace and friendship’.14 Besides the peace-activism dimension, desire for foreign travel was among the key motives of interviewees and memoirists. Massively subsidized by local youth organizations and the socialist countries, a festival trip offered a relatively cheap way to travel in the days before the expansion of mass tourism in the 1960s. In addition, the specific destinations were themselves tempting. When the first World Youth Festival was launched in 1947 very few West Europeans had ever visited a socialist country. Sheer curiosity to see socialism

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first hand prompted young people to decide upon the festival as a means of exploring the unknown.15 The high-quality cultural programmes – concerts, ballet and art exhibitions – as well as international friendship games, featuring top East European athletics stars, also tempted young Europeans.16 In fact, many Western young people became so enthusiastic about the festival and the opportunities which it offered to visit socialist countries that they ended up travelling around a series of different World Youth Festivals, attending several times over. The phenomenon of ‘socialist youth festival tourism’ was born. ‘Festival tourism’ and ‘tourist delegates’ – that is, young people taking part in the festivals just for fun – did not fit in with the plans envisioned by the festival organizers. In August 1956, a WFDY council meeting pointed out that: We are for the development of youth tourism and the Executive Committee has just taken some important steps in this matter, proposing to set up a specialized WFDY service and to help achieve favourable travelling conditions for young people. This, however, has nothing to do with the Festival, which is an event of a very different level, open to representative and national movements.17 This quotation, although it is a WFDY statement, aptly reflects the Soviet vision for the festival. It was intended to be a politically motivated, official gathering, at which carefully selected and nationally representative delegations would manifest the ideas of peace, friendship and democracy while showcasing the achievements of their young representatives in arts, sports and culture. Festival participants were supposed to be making a political statement, not visiting a tourist resort. Western youth leaders, on the other hand – British, Danish and Dutch in particular – preferred a celebration based purely on cultural and sports programmes, without rigid political agendas. This major difference of opinion unfolded early on in the history of the WFDY, and remained thenceforth one of the dividing lines between the East and West European youth organizations.18 The discussion about cultural activities versus the presentation of political agendas also illuminates the differences in the motives for participation. In the West, joining a festival delegation was essentially a matter of individual volition. Socialist delegates, in contrast, were carefully screened and selected, and only the most loyal and suitable individuals were accepted into the delegations. A typical Soviet delegation comprised a cultural group; a sports group; a political leadership or bureau including representatives of the Komsomol central committee and the CPSU; and a group of young workers and peasants from different republics and regions of the country, representing the variety of occupations and classes.19 Unlike the members of Western delegations, representatives of socialist countries could not take part in the festivals just for the fun of travelling, since each of them was appointed a special duty. For example, a Soviet Karelian

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woman recalled that when she worked as a Finnish interpreter during the Moscow 1957 festival, her work tasks meant that she had no time to enjoy the festivities. Another Soviet woman had no time to associate with foreigners because of endless rehearsals before and during the festival for performances in the opening and closing ceremonies.20 Foreign delegates also remarked upon the isolated nature of the Soviet delegations. A number of reports to the CPSU central committee mention that Soviet delegations had been criticized by foreign delegates for their lack of visibility. Young people who were enthusiastic about the Soviet Union would have liked to meet Soviet young people outside the planned programme, but in practice this was often impossible since the only places Soviet delegates seemed to appear in public were in concert halls, sport stadiums and other venues connected to the official programme.21 In effect, the Soviet strategy was to demonstrate the country’s successes, but without letting young representatives of socialism mingle with ‘suspicious Western youngsters’. A parallel guardedness existed in the People’s Democracies. Karin Taylor points out in her article on the 1968 Sofia festival that young Bulgarians who were to be in contact with foreigners were instructed to be polite but to avoid becoming involved in any political discussions. According to one of Taylor’s interviewees, only the Komsomol activists could meet with foreigners because only they could be trusted not to be ‘corrupted’ by the West.22 Strategies for dealing with the control varied. Some individuals themselves strove to avoid ‘contact with the West’, while others barely paid any attention to the control. During the Moscow 1957 festival, one protective mother took her daughter away from the city for the duration of the festival; a shady episode from the family history had led her to conclude that hanging around with foreigners brought trouble.23 A Soviet delegate to the Helsinki 1962 festival recalled that there were certain restrictions governing whom the Soviet delegates could meet, but he could not remember the details, partly because such restrictions were so standard at the time that he took them for granted as self-evident.24 Distrust was also present in the West. For example, many employers disapproved of their young workers taking part in a communist exercise. In the 1940s and 1950s in particular, a number of Finnish participants were surprised to find upon returning home from the festival trip that their old jobs were no longer waiting for them.25

Glimpses of alternative realities The official programme of the World Youth Festival contained a number of events which in theory provided spaces for the free exchange of cultural and political views. Yet, according to interviews and archival records, these gatherings were often very formal and pre-planned in nature, such that free discussion was, if not impossible, then at least difficult. Organizers of seminars and meetings prepared lists of speakers and outlines of speeches in advance, leaving little or no room for spontaneous debate.

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In her travel diary of the Berlin 1951 festival, Anni, a Finnish girl, records what is perhaps the most typical narrative of festival encounters with foreign young people. Anni lists numerous activities arranged by the hosts: school and factory visits, meetings with different delegations, demonstrations, sporting and cultural events, and mass meetings. Interaction with foreigners was almost exclusively linked to the formal official programme. Anni mentions only two encounters with individuals, which might be called ‘superficial’ personal contacts, but which were still seemingly important to her. One day Anni exchanged postcards with ‘a comrade’, whose nationality or sex she does not mention. Another encounter took place at the point of her departure. Anni writes that ‘I got pictures of two East German girls Helga and Hella, and it was very difficult to leave them’.26 What makes the last encounter particularly interesting is that Anni remembers the names of these German girls, who appeared out of nowhere at the last minute only to say goodbye and whom she then saw for the first and apparently the last time. Such brief encounters, recalled later as friendships, were common among interviewees. Names had become part of the festival narratives and the faces were preserved in photographs, although no contact had been kept alive after the friendly goodbyes at the end of the festival. Having a likeminded friend, albeit far away, reinforced the feeling of trans-national solidarity and made these brief encounters memorable. Experiences similar to Anni’s were typical during the Stalin period, when xenophobia and stricter control prevailed. From the Khrushchev period onwards, a wider range of possibilities for expressing non-conformist ideas and finding arenas for informal action became possible. The archival materials of the CPSU central committee and the interviews dealing with the festivals of the latter half of the 1950s contain more descriptions of antiSoviet or otherwise inappropriate behaviour among festival participants than materials from the late Stalin period. Although the majority of festival participants did not question the official discourses, the actions of the more intractable minority did leave behind archival traces. Not all delegates, not to mention local young people who were not officially involved in the festival but used it as an opportunity to seek out contact with foreign visitors, behaved as obediently as the Finnish girl. Young people were curious and enthusiastic about the things that were forbidden: Western culture, condemned as bourgeois, and the ‘other side’s truth’ of current affairs. Because every national delegation could decide upon the content of its cultural performances at the festivals, normally unaccepted parts of Western culture became available to East Europeans. These included, for example, jazz and rock music, abstract art and ballroom dancing. Young artists are a particularly good example of a group that found ways to exploit such contacts with Western culture. A Soviet saxophonist Aleksei Kozlov brought himself up-to-date on the newest Western jazz trends during the Moscow festivities; it was not only the music, but also the outfits of the visiting musicians that impressed him. The festival proved to be useful also for a Soviet film director

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Renita Grigor’eva, who was part of the organizing team for a film festival held as part of the youth festival programme. According to her, it was interesting to meet with foreign filmmakers and talk about professional matters. The youth festival also fostered networking among young film workers, many of whom were later to meet again at the next festival in Vienna in 1959.27 Conversations between festival participants and locals about delicate issues of recent history and current affairs gradually started to emerge after the death of Stalin in 1953. At the Warsaw 1955 festival, relations between West Germans and local Poles were inflamed when a group of West German delegates visited a wartime cemetery and found the graves of German soldiers. When asked about the graves, the Poles replied: ‘We don’t know. We were in Auschwitz at the time.’ A few minutes later, some Polish women walked towards the Germans, shouting: ‘How dare you come here, get out of here, immediately’.28 Political debates were sparked particularly after 1956, thanks to the Twentieth Party Congress of the CPSU, which condemned Stalin’s crimes, and the uprising in Hungary. Discussions on Soviet actions in Hungary and revelations about the CPSU’s past generated numerous mentions in archives and contemporary accounts. An Icelandic student witnessed one of the discussions about the Hungarian events during a train trip: Few things were discussed more than Hungary and the Russians were often able to hear versions other than they had read in their papers – which had stated that the inhabitants of Budapest had wept with gratitude for the intervention of the Red Army. For example, I was travelling in a railway car filled with English and Russians, and the English gave the Russians a complete account of the underlying causes of the Hungarian Revolution and its terrible conclusion.29 According to archival accounts, in addition to the British, Americans and Poles were amongst the most eager to take these issues up. For example, at an official meeting of Polish and Hungarian delegations, Poles shouted out that what had happened in Hungary was a revolution and not, as the Soviets would have it, an imperialist attack. The Hungarians tried without success to cool the situation down.30 In the late 1950s and early 1960s, the political discussions among festival participants reflected the process of the disintegration of the communist world. For example, in Helsinki in 1962, Albanians appalled Soviet delegates by presenting alternative paths for building socialism. An Albanian youth leader Todi Lubonja attacked the ‘revisionist’ ideas of peaceful coexistence as well as disarmament, and suggested the Cuban revolution as an example for the Third World revolutionaries.31 At the Sofia festival in 1968, non-political groups attended the festival on a large scale for the first time. Although the Soviets had been suspicious of the social democrats and the International Union of Socialist Youth in advance, it was the new left that ended up

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criticizing the socialist system and causing trouble. According to a Finnish participant of the Sofia gathering, members of the new left held spontaneous demonstrations and discussions on the state of socialism; naturally, the festival organizers looked askance at this.32 Yet, it is noteworthy to point out that unofficial and spontaneous presentations were marginal; formal and official interaction remained the most common form in the later festivals, too. An East German participant of the Berlin 1973 and Moscow 1985 festivals remembers that there was ‘nothing really spontaneous, talking was nice but more or less “official”, [it was] not really easy talking about daily life, since they [Westerners] have also been picked centrally, I guess’.33 This memoir felicitously reflects the thinking moulded by the socialist system. An East German youth automatically expected that his Western counterparts had gone through the same kind of selection process as he had done himself. This case was obviously a success story for the system, since the person in question did not gain access to alternative realities through his experience, but remained stuck in the reality handed down by the system.

Offering alternative truths from outside In addition to unofficial discussions among festival participants and local young people – discussions which were usually relatively innocent in nature and were mostly based on sheer curiosity – more organized methods of providing alternative information to East European young people were also employed. Western non-communist youth organizations, aided covertly by the CIA, as well as Christian youth organizations and Zionists were involved in this kind of action. The only West European festival hosts, Vienna and Helsinki, offered the best venues for playing the cultural Cold War, combating the communist efforts at the youth festivals. The Berlin festival of 1951, held before the city was divided by the wall, and the unusually open Moscow 1957 festival, also excited those who wished to fight the ‘other side’. Except for those with CIA connections, these groups used rather moderate methods. For example, Christian and Zionist groups aimed at having free discussions with local Christians and Jews, and delivered literature that was unavailable and quite often illegal in Eastern Europe.34 What was, nonetheless, common to all of these groups was their shared target: the socialist system and its restrictions. The CIA-supported groups implemented the most determined anticommunist activities. Their methods varied from circulation of leaflets to organizing acts of physical aggression. In the lead-up to the 1957 festival, the CIA contacted 25–30 young members of the National Student Association who were due to attend the Moscow event. According to one of the participants, Gloria Steinem, the CIA did not put heavy pressure on them, but gave them financial assistance to travel and a quite moderate briefing on what to talk about with locals. In Vienna 1959 and Helsinki 1962, CIA-supported groups organized counter-festivals, which were aimed at influencing festival

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participants with ‘free world’ culture. Another way to discourage young people from the socialist spheres was to show the horrors of the socialist system, as happened in Vienna, where Austrian non-communist youths took festival guests to the Hungarian border to look at the ‘true face of socialism’: watchtowers and barbed wire fences to stop people from fleeing to the West.35 After 1962, youth festivals were hosted exclusively by socialist countries, which made organizing counter-festivals impossible. Those with a critical stance towards the socialist regimes formed a responsive ground for Western anti-communist propaganda. Dissidents, who were usually not official festival delegates, but local young people, started to utilize the youth festivals especially after 1956. Compared to Brezhnev-era dissent, which was persistent and subversive in its tone, dissenting behaviour under Khrushchev was disorganized and short-term.36 Based on the procuracy documents, a typical Soviet dissident, who was apprehended in connection to the Moscow 1957 festival, seems to have been a young male who used the presence of foreigners in order to have conversations with them and obtain illegal literature. Usually Soviet dissidents identified themselves not as anticommunist or anti-Soviet, but rather as anti-Stalinist. Many of them believed in socialism and acted out of a desire to reform the system, not to crush it.37 In this respect, the youth festivals worked not as catalysts for non-conformism, but as channels for building up networks with foreigners and obtaining alternative sources of information outside the official socialist media.

Crossing physical and moral boundaries Control over mobility and travelling was one of the most tangible and direct ways in which the socialist system restricted people’s lives in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union. In this regard, the World Youth Festivals offered some limited possibilities for crossing the Iron Curtain. Among the festival venues, Berlin, as a divided city, and Vienna and Helsinki, as capitals of neutral countries, provided opportunities for jumping over to the other side, yet the numbers of successful defections remained relatively low. During the Berlin 1951 festival, 81 people managed to defect to West Berlin, but from 1961 onwards, the Berlin Wall, a concrete materialized version of the Iron Curtain, made fleeing more difficult. At the second Berlin festival in 1973, only five of 50 people who tried to escape succeeded.38 In Vienna in 1959, six East European delegates applied for asylum and in Helsinki in 1962, nine East German delegates managed to ‘change sides’.39 Festival participants also crossed the East–West border symbolically by reestablishing family contacts which they had lost because of Cold War restrictions. Making contact with family members was one of the functions of the festivals mentioned most frequently by interviewees and memoirists.40 During the 1920s–1940s, due to the Bolshevik revolution and two World Wars, thousands of people emigrated from East to West, and vice versa. Towards the end of the 1940s, travelling back and forth between the two sides became

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complicated as the relations between Soviet Union and the former allies were increasingly strained. Families were split up and many were unable to see their relatives for years. This was the situation of an Irish delegate to the Moscow 1957 festival, who recalls that the best part of the Moscow trip was ‘finding my cousin and aunt in Moscow, who had been out of contact since my uncle had to leave them in 1938’.41 A Soviet Karelian Finn saw the Helsinki 1962 festival as a chance to meet her cousins. She was born in Petrozavodsk after her Finnish parents had moved to the Soviet Union to build communism in the 1930s. She managed to join the Soviet delegation as an interpreter, travelled to Finland for the first time, and saw her family.42 For West European young people, crossing boundaries at the festivals often meant testing and extending not just the physical but also the moral boundaries of acceptable behaviour. Both Soviet and Finnish archival reports from the festivals contain evidence that alcohol consumption, love affairs and other kinds of behaviour regarded as inappropriate tempted some members of the delegations. For example, a report by the Soviet Ministry of the Interior mentions that young Scandinavians, Britons and Americans appeared to be drunk in the evenings and brought local girls back to their hotel rooms.43 This kind of behaviour tested the limits of the local norms, but also those of the delegates’ own cultural worlds. Once abroad, young people were away from the normal daily surveillance of parents, teachers and other elders, and this made it easier to break out from the norms. Because consuming alcohol and having premarital sex were taboo issues in the West, too, these things were more easily tried far away from home, where the consequences were less serious. Promiscuity, especially women’s loose behaviour, is perhaps most notorious in connection with the Moscow 1957 festival. As Kristin Roth-Ey has shown, the Moscow festival brought the winds of sexual liberation to the Soviet Union, challenging the socialist moral codes. Rumours about loose behaviour projected the fears of Western influences, which threatened socialist values and were thought to corrupt young people. According to Roth-Ey, the discussion about loose behaviour touched upon ‘the very meaning of Sovietness’.44 The myth of ‘festival children’ (deti festivalya), that is, bi-racial children born to Soviet women nine months after the event, is a major part of this discussion and remains the most repeated image of the Moscow festival among Russians.45 Intimate contacts between festival participants resulted in relationships and even marriages. Long-lasting relationships were more common within individual national delegations, primarily because international marriages rarely became reality due to the restrictions in the socialist countries.46 For example, a Finnish male participant fell in love with a Russian girl, whom he wrote to and visited a year later. They even had plans to marry, but these dreams broke down as the Soviet authorities did not let the Russian girl move or even travel to Finland.47 Also at the 1957 festival, two Libyans who wanted to marry local girls were turned down because the Soviet official ‘did not

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know foreign languages’. She could not read their passports and was consequently unable to register their marriages.48 These examples illustrate the contradictions between the aims of the festival organizers and the reality during the fortnight-long celebrations. Despite the surveillance over delegates and the attempts to build up controllable circumstances, the socialist system became vulnerable when thousands of young people were gathered together. Moreover, even carefully selected, loyal delegates and trusted citizens might act against the moral and legal standards of the socialist system. Young people obeyed the socialist norms or used the official discourse when it was necessary to do so – they ‘spoke Bolshevik’ or participated in the official ‘performance’.49 Yet in private, their interests might lie elsewhere.

Consumables across the Iron Curtain As economic historians have shown, the socialist economy was incapable of providing the living standards that the socialist utopias had promised. People in the Soviet Union had to rely on alternative ways of gaining consumer goods: through the black market, tourists, and the web of individual contacts – the so-called ‘blat’ system. The communist party not only regulated the distribution of goods, but also attempted to manipulate consumer tastes and habits at the ideological level. The socialist norm was to consume rationally, modestly, avoiding the bourgeois way of irrational unbridled consumption. As Susan Reid put it, ‘rational consumption was an aspect of communist morality, which in general entailed self-discipline and voluntary submission of the individual to the collective will’.50 The significance of the World Youth Festivals in terms of consumption and consumer tastes was two-fold. First, young foreigners, with their clothes, hairstyles and accessories, appeared as mannequins of Western consumer culture. They showed what was available on the other side, and gave the lie to the official line given to the Soviet and East European youth, according to which young people in the capitalist countries lived poorly. Seeing Western workingclass youths with clothing and hairstyles that under socialism were associated with the petty bourgeoisie, signalled to Soviet and East European young people that a gap existed between the talk of their leaders and what they saw with their own eyes at the festival. As the Soviet dissident Vladimir Bukovsky put it, ‘all this talk about “putrefying capitalism” became ridiculous’.51 Second, various kinds of consumer goods, from nylon stockings to watches and even refrigerators and drugs moved through the Iron Curtain. It is impossible to measure the amounts of goods sold or exchanged during the festivals. Yet, drawing on interviews, memoirs and organizers’ reports, the trading and exchange of goods seems to have been a relatively common phenomenon. Most of the sellers and ‘swappers’ were ordinary festival participants, who wanted to exchange pins, small souvenirs or just contact details, or who had brought a small amount of goods which they planned to sell in

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Eastern Europe.52 Trade at the youth festivals usually meant transfers from West to East. Nevertheless, various items did move in the opposite direction as well. According to a report by the Soviet Ministry of the Interior, Finns bought vodka, guitars and balalaikas (stringed instrument), which, according to the report, were much cheaper than in Finland. These records also state that foreign guests bought cameras, vacuum cleaners, radios, televisions and other such things; Romanians even carried fridges back home.53 Alongside the quite unsystematic transfer and exchange of items, organized trading also took place. According to the statistics of the Democratic Youth League of Finland, it made a substantial profit during the youth festivals in Berlin 1951, Bucharest 1953, Warsaw 1955 and Moscow 1957.54 Trading on this scale did not go unnoticed by the authorities, who reported that Finns and Poles were the most active traders at the Moscow 1957 festival.55 The reason why the youth league needed to find ways to make money can be found partly in the Finnish domestic situation. The Finnish Ministry of the Interior was not willing to support a communist organization; the youth league’s archives contain numerous applications for permission to organize fund-raising activities, but the Ministry turned most of them down.56 It is curious to note that while the organization was requesting help from the Soviet state to cover travelling costs, it was simultaneously planning business activities for the forthcoming festival. It is easy to understand the Soviet Union’s readiness to put money into propaganda, and Finland seemed to be a low-risk investment in this respect. In this case, however, the Finns were exploiting Soviet helpfulness, rather than falling victim to Soviet propaganda. Foreign goods sold well because these items were rare, but also because the quality of the local goods was sometimes so poor that the local people preferred having foreign-made alternatives. The West was not the only source of modern consumer goods for the Soviet Union; the East European countries also served as exporters in this sense.57 Generally, acquiring foreign goods was perhaps not such a rare phenomenon as Western people thought at the time. Many contemporary accounts and memoirs mention that Soviet people purchased jeans, jazz records and other such items through the black market or blat.58 In the circumstances of shortages and poor distribution of goods, people developed methods of spontaneous purchasing of goods whenever the opportunity presented itself.59 The case of a Soviet athlete illustrates this. A Soviet interpreter recalls that, at the Helsinki 1962 festival, a Soviet athlete surreptitiously tried to exchange dollars he had received earlier in a competition abroad. The money, however, turned out to be counterfeit, and a local bank teller handed him over to the authorities. The athlete’s festival trip ended abruptly, but the Soviet delegation managed to avoid a scandal by negotiating with the Finnish embassy.60 Ever since the relations between the Soviet Union and the Western countries improved and various cultural exchange programmes, international congresses and tourism began to proliferate in the late 1950s – early 1960s, the possibilities for meeting foreigners and buying foreign things exploded. In

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this context, the youth festivals ceased to be unique meeting places as they had been in the 1940s and 1950s but now they rather belonged to the array of opportunities that offered ‘glimpses beyond the Iron Curtain’, as Karin Taylor has described them.61

A Trojan horse for the Socialist system? Some commentators have viewed the World Youth Festival and the brief era of liberalization under Khrushchev as the beginning of a kind of countdown to the end of socialism. Soviet saxophonist Aleksei Kozlov called the Moscow festival ‘an irreversible blow’ to the socialist system.62 A student activist and a Soviet representative in the International Union of Students, Nikolai Diko, used the symbol of the ‘Trojan Horse’ to reflect the significance of the peace celebration, which started to gnaw away at the socialist system from within.63 But was the World Youth Festival truly such a powerful event and if it was, how did it contribute to the downfall of the system? On one hand, the youth festivals provided informal spaces for experiencing ‘the other side’. This was a sort of in-between-space, which escaped the control of the socialist system and was not determined by the bipolar thinking. The growing amount of contacts and opportunities to hear alternative views certainly contributed to the general discontent in Eastern Europe, which in the long run weakened the socialist system, finally leading to its collapse. In this respect, the festival worked against the primary goals envisioned by the organizers, and thus one could view it as a Trojan horse. On the other hand, the festivals neither dealt a death blow to the system, nor represented the only way for people living under socialism to experience foreign cultures. East–West interaction increased especially after the death of Stalin and continued to grow thereafter. From the late 1950s onwards, various international festivals, competitions, cultural exchanges and mass tourism offered similar kinds of opportunities for getting in touch with the other side. What, nonetheless, is unique for this celebration, is the colossal scale of the event. No other happening gathered people together in such numbers and from so many different parts of the world on a single occasion. Thus, the youth festivals multiplied the likelihood of success in terms of unofficial interaction. While the World Youth Festival did not singlehandedly put an end to the socialist system, experiences enabled by these events made a big difference in individual lives. As the examples embedded in this study have shown, the Iron Curtain did not prevent people from being in contact with the other side. Finally, the importance of the World Youth Festival in this process was to function as a channel for finding paths to cope with the extraordinary circumstances constructed by communist regimes.

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Notes 1 See for example F. Barghoorn, The Soviet Cultural Offensive, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1960; Courtship of Young Minds. A Case Study of the Moscow Youth Festival, New York: East European Student and Youth Service, inc., 1959. 2 See for example V. Moshnyaga, Vsemirnaya federatsiya demokraticheskoi molodezhi, Moscow: Molodaya Gvardiya, 1976. 3 See e.g. K. Roth-Ey, ‘ “Loose girls” on the loose? Sex, propaganda and the 1957 Youth Festival’, in M. Ilic, S. E. Reid and L. Attwood (eds), Women in the Khrushchev Era, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004; K. Taylor, ‘Socialist orchestration of youth: the Sofia Youth Festival and encounters on the fringe’, Ethnologia Balkanica, vol. 7, 2003; J. Krekola, ‘Kuumia tunteita ja kylmää sotaa nuorisofestivaaleilla’, in E. Katainen and P. Kotila (eds), Työväki ja tunteet, Helsinki: Työväen historian ja perinteen tutkimuksen seura, 2002. 4 The European majority among the participants was especially high during the 1950s: at the Berlin 1951 festival, 95.6 percent of the participants came from European countries; in Warsaw 1955, 83 percent; and in Moscow 1957, 76 percent. RGASPI, f. 17, op. 137, d. 546, l. 102; RGASPI, f. 3-m, op. 15, d. 8, ll. 19–22; P. Koivunen, ‘Moscow 1957 Youth Festival: propagating a new image of the Soviet Union’, in M. Ilic and J. Smith (eds), Soviet State and Society under Nikita Khrushchev, London: Routledge, 2009, pp. 50–51. 5 KIM is abbreviated from the Russian name for the Communist Youth International, Kommunisticheskii internatsional molodezhi. 6 For the Women’s International Democratic Federation see Melanie Ilic’s chapter in this volume. 7 For the origins and the organizational structure of WFDY and IUS see J. Kotek, Students and the Cold War, London: Macmillan, 1996, pp. ix–xi, 64–66; R. Viitanen, Punainen aate sininen vaate – Suomen demokraattinen nuorisoliitto 50 vuotta, Helsinki: SDNL, 1994, pp. 103–24; R. Cornell, Youth and Communism. An Analysis of International Communist Youth Movements, New York: Walker and Company, 1965, p. 74–95. 8 E. Breßlein, Drushba! Freundschaft? Von der Kommunistischen Jugendinternationale zu den Weltjugendfestspielen, Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 1973, pp. 7, 78; Kotek, Students, p. 59. 9 For the cultural Cold War see for example P. Major and R. Mitter, ‘East is east and west is west? Towards a comparative socio-cultural history of the Cold War’, in R. Mitter and P. Major (eds), Across the Blocs: Cold War Cultural and Social History, London: Frank Cass, 2004, pp. 1–22; H. Krabbendam and G. Scott-Smith, ‘Introduction: Boundaries of Freedom’, in G. Scott-Smith and H. Krabbendam (eds), The Cultural Cold War in Western Europe 1945–1960, London: Frank Cass, 2003, pp. 1–5; W. Hixson, Parting the Curtain: Propaganda, Culture and the Cold War, 1945–1961, New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 1998. 10 RGASPI, f. 17, op. 128, d. 731, ll. 8–9; J. Riordan, ‘Soviet Sport and Soviet Foreign Policy’, Soviet Studies, vol. 26, no. 3, 1974, pp. 322, 327, 340, 342; RGANI, f. 5, op. 17, d. 442, ll. 58–73. 11 Greg Castillo, ‘Domesticating the Cold War: household consumption as propaganda in Marshall Plan Germany’, Journal of Contemporary History, 2005, pp. 261–88; Hixson, Parting the Curtain, pp. 124, 193; R. Wagnleitner, CocaColonization and the Cold War. The Cultural Mission of the United States in Austria After the Second World War, Chapel Hill & London: The University of North Carolina Press, 1994, pp. 275–96; K. Paget, ‘From Stockholm to Leiden: the CIA’s role in the formation of the International Student Conference,’ in Scott-Smith and Krabbendam (eds), The Cultural Cold War in Western Europe 1945–1960, pp. 134–67.

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12 Pekka Kanerva, unpublished memoir, May 2006. 13 Group interview with Finnish participants, 16 March 2006, Tampere, Finland; Interview with a British male delegate to Berlin 1951 festival. 12 December 2007, Birmingham, UK; E. Alenius, Salatut tiet. Muistelmat, Helsinki: Painatuskeskus, 1995, p. 108; J. Myrdal, Maj. En Kärlek, Stockholm: En bok för alla, 1998, p. 92. 14 Cornell, Youth and Communism, pp. 128–35; OSA, 134–6–41, Kevin Devlin, ‘Using the Youth’, 20 July 1973, pp. 2, 4. 15 Interview with a Finnish male delegate to Moscow 1957 festival, born in 1934, 30 March 2009. 16 M. Yu. Prozumenshchukov, Bol
shoi sport i bol
shaya politika, Seriya ‘Kul
tura i vlast’ ot Stalina do Gorbacheva. Issledovaniya
, Moscow: Rosspen, 2004, p. 154; J. Riordan, Sport, Politics and Communism, Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1991, pp. 128–29; Interview with a Finnish male delegate to Bucharest 1953, born in 1936, 14 June 2007, Oulu, Finland. 17 The Council of the World Federation of Democratic Youth. XI meeting. Sofia, August 20–23 1956, p. 17. 18 RGASPI, f. 17, op. 128, d. 247, l. 212. 19 See for example RGASPI, 1-m, op. 3, d. 870, ll. 4–5. 20 Eila Lahti-Argutina’s memoir; Interview with a Soviet female, born in 1935, 23 May 2007 Moscow, Russia. 21 RGANI, f. 5, op. 28, d. 363, l. 189. 22 Taylor, ‘Socialist orchestration of youth: the Sofia Youth Festival and encounters on the fringe’, Ethnologia Balkanica, vol. 7, 2003, pp. 50, 54. 23 Interview with a Soviet female, born in 1942, 29 September 2007, Moscow, Russia. 24 Interview with a Soviet male delegate to Helsinki 1962 festival, born 1940, 24 July 2007, Tampere, Finland. 25 Group interview with Finns, 16 March 2006. 26 KansA, Tauno ja Anni Mikkolan kokoelma, Anni Mikkolan festivaalipäiväkirja 1951. 27 A. Kozlov, ‘Kozel na sakse’ – i tak vsyu zhizn, Moscow: Vagrius, 1998, pp. 108–10; Interview with Renita Grigor’eva, 12 June 2008, Moscow, Russia. Renita Grigor’eva is Nina Popova’s daughter, of whom Melanie Ilic writes in this volume. 28 RGANI, f. 5, op. 28, d. 363, l. 200. 29 OSA, 95–2–174, ‘The Vienna Youth Festival’, 15 June 1959, p. 3. 30 TsAOPIM, f. 4, op. 104, d. 31, l. 161; OSA, 94–4–113, Collins, ‘Polish Youth’s “Magnetism” in Moscow’, 5 August 1957, pp. 1–4. 31 OSA, 96–1–68, ‘Albania at the Helsinki Youth Festival’, 4 October 1962, pp. 1–4. 32 A report by the Soviet Committee of Youth Organizations to the Komsomol Central Committee on some problems concerning the international preparations for the Ninth World Youth Festival in Sofia (Informatsiya o nekotorykh problemakh mezhdunarodnoi podgotovki IX Vsemirnogo festivalya molodezhi i studentov Sofii). This document is part of a self-made document collection (spravochnye materialy), which is held in the Komsomol archive reading room. Interview with Reijo Nikkilä, 14 November 2008, Helsinki. 33 Interview with an East German male delegate to Berlin 1973 and Moscow 1985 festivals, 1 January 2008. 34 RGANI, f. 5, op. 33, d. 55, ll. 1–7; TsAOPIM, f. 4, op. 104, d. 31, ll. 4, 67, 81. 35 H. Wilford, The Mighty Wurlitzer. How the CIA Played America, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2008, pp. 141–48; J. Krekola and S. Mikkonen, ‘Backflash of the Free World: US Presence at the World Youth Festival in Helsinki, 1962’, a draft article; S. L. Stern, Gloria Steinem. Her Passions, Politics, and Mystique, A Birch Lane Press Book, 1997, pp. 111, 119. 36 R. Hornsby, ‘Voicing discontent: political dissent from the secret speech to

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37 38 39

40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

58

59 60

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Khrushchev’s ouster’, in Ilic and Smith (eds), Soviet State and Society under Nikita Khrushchev, pp. 164–65, 174, 176–77. GARF, f. 8131, op. 31, d. 80257, d. 79834, d. 89228; See also Hornsby, ‘Voicing Discontent’, pp. 164–65, 169, 176–77. Viitanen, Punainen aate, p. 216; K. Krenzer, Ulkopoliittista uskottavuutta. Kokoomusnuorten osallistuminen Itä-Berliinin nuorisofestivaaleille vuonna 1973, unpublished MA dissertation, University of Helsinki, 2007, p. 62. H. Hautmann, ‘Die Weltjugendfestspiele 1959 in Wien’, www.klahrgesellschaft.at/ Mitteilungen/Hautmann_3_99.html (accessed 22 June 2009); S. Hentilä, HarppiSaksan haarukassa. DDR:n poliittinen vaikutus Suomessa, Helsinki: SKS, 2004, p. 101. See for example K. Chernin, In my Mother’s House, New York: HarperPerennial, 1994, p. 268; GARF, f. R-9401, op. 2, d. 491, l. 376; Interview with a Soviet male, 24 July 2007. Interview with an Irish male delegate to Moscow 1957, born in the 1930s, 31 January 2008. Eila Lahti-Argutina, unpublished memoir, May 2006. GARF, f. R-9401, op. 2, d. 491, ll. 221–22, 393, 432; KansA, 1F, Suomen festivaalikeskus HEC, Yhteenveto Suomen osallistumisesta Moskovan festivaaliin, pp. 13–14. Roth-Ey, ‘ “Loose girls” on the loose? Sex, propaganda and the 1957 Youth Festival’ in llic, Reid and Attwood (eds), women in the Khrushchev era, 2004, pp. 90–91. Roth-Ey, ‘Loose girls’ 2004, pp. 75, 86, 94 note 47; Koivunen, ‘The Moscow 1957 Festival’, p. 60, n. 73. For a detailed account on free sexual relations amongst the WFDY workers see Myrdal, Maj. En Kärlek. Interview with a Finnish male delegate, 30 March 2009. GARF, f. R-9401, op. 2, d. 491, l. 378. For ‘speaking Bolshevik’ see S. Kotkin, Magnetic Mountain: Stalinism as a Civilization, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995; for ‘performative discourse’ see A. Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More. The Last Soviet Generation, Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2006. Reid, S. E., ‘Cold War in the kitchen: gender and the de-Stalinization of consumer taste in the Soviet Union under Khrushchev’, Slavic Review, 2002, p. 219. V. Bukovsky, To Build a Castle. My Life as a Dissenter, London: Andre Deutsch, 1978, p. 113. Taylor, ‘Socialist orchestration of youth’, 2003, p. 56; Interview with a Finnish delegate, 14 June 2007; Interview with a Finn, 30 March 2009. GARF, f. R-9401, op. 2, d. 491, ll. 387, 393, 404. Viitanen, Punainen aate, pp. 265–66. GARF, f. R-9401, op. 2, d. 491, l. 432. KansA, Suomen festivaalikeskus, 1F, Gcb, muut anomukset. Iu. Gerchuk, ‘The aesthetics of everyday life in the Khrushchev thaw in the USSR (1954–64)’, in S. E. Reid and D. Crowley (eds), Style and Socialism. Modernity and Material Culture in Post-War Eastern Europe, Oxford & New York: Berg, 2000, pp. 81–82. See S. Belfrage, A Room in Moscow, London: Pan Books Ltd., 1958; Chernin, In My Mother’s House; M. Hindus, House without a Roof. Russia after Fortythree Years of Revolution, Garden City & New York: Doubleday & Company, 1961; J. Gunther, Inside Russia Today, New York: Harper & Brothers, 1958. Reid, ‘Cold War in the Kitchen’, 2002, pp. 211, 216. Interview with a Soviet male delegate, 24 July 2007.

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61 Taylor, ‘Socialist orchestration of youth’, 2003, p. 58. 62 Radio programme on Radio Svoboda, Svobodanews.ru, 27 July 2007, ‘50 let nachala Vsemirnogo festivalya molodezhi i studentov v Moskve’, http:// www.svobodanews.ru/Transcript/2007/07/27/20070727180009190.html (accessed 4 June 2009). 63 Interview with Nikolai Diko, 8 June 2008, Moscow.

11 Room to manoeuvre? National interests and coalition-building in the CMEA, 1969–74 Suvi Kansikas The beginning of the Cold War saw the world divided into two antagonistic camps. To delineate the divide, both sides of the conflict embarked on an alliance-building process. In the socialist camp the process led as early as 1949 to the establishment of an organization for economic cooperation, the Council for Mutual Economic Assistance (CMEA). The CMEA was established with extensive plans to create a system of socialist division of labour, but its tasks were soon degraded to handling practical questions of facilitating trade.1 In Western Europe, the integration process culminated in the establishment of the European Economic Community, the EEC, in 1957. In the late 1960s, economic and political integration gained new ground, as it became a key goal for European states on both sides of the Iron Curtain. In essence, the goal was to achieve economic growth and at the same time, in the face of the Cold War, to strengthen the unity of the alliances. In 1969, the EEC began to implement its Common Commercial Policy, which aimed at establishing a customs union. It was expected that this would lead to economic hardship, especially for East European CMEA states that were more dependent on trade with West European countries. A political impasse was created as any agreement with the EEC as an institution was inconceivable for the CMEA member states because it would have meant breaching the policy of non-recognition to which they had adhered since the inception of the EEC.2 The aim of this chapter is to evaluate how the CMEA as an organization sought to overcome the challenge to the member states’ foreign trade created at the turn of the 1970s by the new EEC policies. The challenge felt all the more grave, as the socialist countries were simultaneously confronted with an economic decline. The starting point is that all member states, with the possible exception of Romania, were in favour of the political goals of the organization – that is, finding a united position against the Western bloc. However, they were not able to forego their national economic interests in the negotiations. The issue of a trade policy against the EEC became a question of finding a balance between political unity and economic sovereignty. Thus, the other aim of the chapter is to analyse how much room there was to pursue national interests within the CMEA institutional framework. The argument

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of the chapter is that the East European CMEA countries found strategies to manoeuvre for more independence during the early stages of the negotiations on a common foreign trade policy. The Soviet Union was able to find instruments to impose its will on the CMEA and to regain its leadership in the integration process only in 1972, after which it was better able to control the negotiations. CMEA decision making is analysed on three intertwined levels of Cold War international relations. The primary focus is on the CMEA, which is understood as the inter-mediatory level in the study. Because CMEA decision making was based on national sovereignty, its statute formally allowed all member states to pursue their national interests within the organization. Due to the lack of a supranational organ, the CMEA lacked credible decisionmaking powers. Therefore most of the organization’s decisions had to be reached in other fora. This gave way to unofficial, behind-the-scenes manoeuvring that was not part of, but had an effect, on CMEA decision making. The analysis of the CMEA thus needs to be supplemented by factors at play at both the micro and macro levels of bloc politics. The micro-level analysis deals with bilateral relations amongst the socialist countries. The micro-level factor most relevant for this study is that while the Soviet Union was the political and economic superpower, which the smaller CMEA at times resisted, it also had an ideological leverage over its allies: all the party leaders in the socialist countries were to some extent dependent on Soviet support for their legitimacy. The single most important macro-level or international system level factor was the Cold War. It created for the bloc leader additional superpower goals, the most crucial of which was maintaining the coherence of the bloc. Any developments or deviations in the relations with the outside, capitalist world, were under special scrutiny and were the top priority for the Soviet Union.3 Therefore CMEA decision making cannot be analysed separately from the broader context of Cold War international relations, because the issue at hand – a policy against the EEC – was also a high-level political question. The CMEA has been a neglected theme in recent studies on Cold War international relations. Prior research on the CMEA and the EEC has usually focused on some particular aspect of development in the relations, deemed relevant to the policy making of the EEC.4 Some studies have focused on the CMEA’s development,5 but none of this research includes assessments encompassing both the political and economic sides of CMEA policy making. Two more recent studies on the CMEA decision-making mechanism, produced by political scientists, have not placed the CMEA in the context of Cold War bloc politics.6 More crucially, even recent analysis on CMEA–EEC relations has mainly been based on policy outcome, as researchers have not been able to access the inner workings of the CMEA.7 Therefore the research has more or less been based on assumptions about what was going on behind the Iron Curtain.8 The archive of the CMEA, held in the Russian State Archive of the

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Economy, is not accessible to researchers. The institutional decision-making process can nevertheless be analysed by using materials from the member states’ archives. This chapter is based on documents of the Soviet and German Democratic Republic (GDR) diplomatic missions to the CMEA.9 The GDR documents used in this chapter include internal German correspondence and the materials from meetings of the CMEA Executive Committee.10 The Soviet material consists primarily of correspondence between the CMEA Secretariat and the Soviet mission; almost all documents on internal Soviet policy making are still inaccessible.11 Additional information can also be found in the documents on the Warsaw Pact and the meetings of the party leaders collected by the Parallel History Project on Cooperative Security.12

Independent manoeuvring, Soviet dominance and their limits The traditional, realist paradigm on the Cold War has highlighted Soviet total control over its allies. The view is challenged in this chapter through a re-evaluation of the centre–periphery framework. The ability of the periphery, i.e. Eastern Europe, to resist the policies of the centre, the Soviet Union, is evaluated in an analysis of the small member states’ room to manoeuvre within the boundaries set by the CMEA and the bloc framework. Analysing the smaller bloc members as independent actors will shed new light on their agency during the Cold War period. In addition, the chapter offers a new theoretical framework on the socialist bloc by linking the analysis on the CMEA to the official and unofficial ways in which the bloc functioned. The CMEA was an inter-governmental organization, where the formal representative and decision-making powers lay with the state and not the party leadership. The CMEA decision making was based on the principle of national sovereignty. According to its statute, the organization’s resolutions were not binding upon its member states but they had to be approved by the national legislatures. It did not have a supra-national decision-making organ that could coordinate the member states’ trade and economic policy. Initially, all resolutions therefore had to be made on the basis of a unanimous vote. The weak institutional structure led to inefficient policy making on all fields of economic cooperation. Soviet proposals to enhance the decision-making powers of the organization highlighted two competing interests. The increase of the CMEA decision-making powers could have led to improvement in overall bloc economic development, but this would have been at the expense of the member states’ national sovereignty. Therefore the East European member states were torn between their interest in economic growth and their fear of losing control over their national economies.13 The CMEA’s inability to reach decisions also meant that in effect, the decisions had to be negotiated in other fora. These tended to be those fora where the Soviet Union had better means of controlling its allies. Due to the structural asymmetry in the socialist bloc arising out of the presence of one great power and a number of relatively small states, bilateral relations provided

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a means for the Soviet Union to use its political and economic leverage over its allies.14 There was also another instrument that allowed the Soviet Union to control the decision making of its allies. This was the supremacy of the party over state rule, a particular aspect inherent in the socialist system. Consequently, the socialist bloc’s structure was not only asymmetrical, but also hierarchical.15 The two institutional pillars of the bloc, the CMEA for economic cooperation, and the Warsaw Pact for political cooperation, had different decisionmaking mechanisms and functions, as well as decision-making powers. The highest political organ of the Warsaw Pact was the Political Consultative Committee, which consisted of the member states’ party leaders. The partystate hierarchy was also established on the bloc-level, where the intergovernmental CMEA could be overrun by the intra-party Warsaw Pact resolutions. Thus, the best forum for the smaller states to safeguard their national economic interests was within the CMEA framework where the power asymmetry could be checked by the decision-making mechanism.16 In the CMEA negotiations, the power asymmetry made the smaller states resort to intrabloc manoeuvring against the Soviet Union, as they tried to mobilize others to act against the bloc leader. The reason why foreign trade affairs started to gain more ground in the socialist bloc is that already by the 1960s, it had become apparent that the possibilities for large-scale increases through extensive growth were exhausted. The CMEA countries started to understand that rapid growth would depend on increasing economic efficiency – the sore spot of the socialist system. Due to the inability of the CMEA to provide economic growth, most of the socialist countries began their unilateral experiments with economic reform during the 1960s. Countries such as Hungary and Poland embarked on steady, but moderate reforms, while the Czechoslovakian reform programme was the most comprehensive. The aim was to increase the overall efficiency of economic performance and to shift the emphasis from heavy industry and military production to light industry and the production of consumer goods. What the East European countries were aiming for was the introduction of new markets, prices, and the partial convertibility of the currencies. All attempts at economic reform called for a certain degree of decentralization of economic decision making. Countries such as the Soviet Union soon realized the dangers inherent in meddling with the planned economy and therefore brought its own reform to a halt.17 The institutional and structural features inherent in the socialist economy created an impediment to the national reform processes. In order to promote intra-CMEA trade, all the CMEA member states would have to organize and plan their trade in a similar way. Unilateral reforms were bound to fail unless the relevant trading partners implemented similar policies. This led those CMEA countries with more ambitious reform processes to push for reforms within the CMEA and in each of the individual member states, too. There were in effect two alternative conceptions of integration within the CMEA.

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The Soviet aim, backed by a few of the USSR’s staunchest allies such as Bulgaria and the GDR, was to increase Soviet political and economic control through integration and to increase intra-bloc trade at the expense of trade with the outside world. The more developed industrial states, such as Czechoslovakia, Poland and Hungary, on the other hand, saw integration as a natural expression of economic interests. CMEA mechanisms were to be used in an attempt to maximize the member states’ benefits from trade and cooperation with all countries of the world. The existence of two groups with alternative views for future development exacerbated the latent economic and political divisions between the CMEA states.18 In the late 1960s, the existing economic and political order in Europe was challenged not just by Soviet allies, but also by their Western counterpart, the EEC. The transitional period of the EEC Common Commercial Policy came to an end in 1969. This meant that the Community would be granted the right to coordinate its member states’ trade relations towards the socialist countries. In future, all trade and commercial agreements would have to be negotiated with the EEC instead of its individual member states. The EEC customs union was a threat to the traditional bilateral trade relations which the socialist countries had so far been able to conduct. The EEC progress forced the more trade-dependent CMEA member states to start reconsidering the policy of non-recognition to which they had adhered since the establishment of the EEC in 1957.19 This was a challenge aimed particularly at the leader of the bloc, whose main goal was to keep its bloc coherent and whose main task was to provide for the economic growth of its allies. Consequently, the EEC integration process worked as an external political impulse that forced the CMEA to continue its economic integration. Reform pressures within the CMEA area were thus accumulating in the late 1960s. The questions involved concerned the issue of whether political or economic considerations should be given primacy in CMEA policy making. The next battle within the CMEA on sovereignty versus bloc unity was fought at the turn of the 1970s. The Soviet push to increase the decision-making powers of the CMEA followed soon after the invasion of Czechoslovakia, as the organization embarked on a new integration programme. The Soviet policy of limiting the sovereignty of its allies, formulated after the invasion, has been referred to as the Brezhnev doctrine. The Soviet attempt to restrict the CMEA member states’ room to manoeuvre by implementing a system of joint planning as well as a supra-national decision-making organ can be seen as an economic part of the Brezhnev doctrine.

CMEA integration stalled by Romania Alongside the national economic reforms, there was an increasing need for a common CMEA plan to enhance the functioning and coordination of the economies of the member states. The question of a common trade policy towards non-socialist third parties, particularly the EEC, arose in the course

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of the discussions on a plan for CMEA integration, and these two issues became intertwined in the negotiations on the Comprehensive Programme,20 as the plan came to be called. The aim was to guarantee improvement in intra-CMEA trade and to provide for economic growth through reorganization of the member countries’ trade flows. This would diminish the CMEA countries’ import dependency on the West European countries, and thus render the EEC customs union ineffective. In January 1969, the CMEA Executive Committee convened to discuss how to enhance intra-bloc economic cooperation and at the same time to protect itself against West European discriminating trade policies. The participants admitted that so far the CMEA had been unable to coordinate an effective trade policy. In promoting the Programme, the Soviet Union emphasized the necessity for strict coordination of actions towards the EEC and its member states. The main goal for the Soviet Union was that the Programme should guarantee that neither the CMEA nor its member states would give diplomatic recognition to the EEC, or sign any trade agreements with the EEC as a grouping. This meant that the CMEA countries would need to find a way to continue trade relations with individual member states at the bilateral level. These positions were accepted by all CMEA member states, with the exception of Romania.21 Romania, while it had chosen to remain a member of the CMEA, had in the 1960s begun to implement a foreign policy course aimed at maximizing the country’s sovereignty within the bloc framework.22 It sought to take advantage of the room to manoeuvre that CMEA mechanisms allowed. During the January Executive Committee meeting, the Romanian representative Ion Maurer declared that his country would not take part in any of the concrete measures that the other countries had approved. Romania would assess each individual case on its own merits before reaching a decision on whether or not to comply. M. A. Lesechko, the Soviet representative and the presiding chair of the Executive Committee, took note of Romanian resistance and stated that this resistance effectively made it impossible to formulate a common position. Thus the CMEA needed to continue further discussions with a view to coordinating the different positions.23 By the spring of 1971, the CMEA had reached the point of sorting out the final open questions concerning the Comprehensive Programme. Until the February 1971 Executive Committee meeting, the Romanian representatives had been opposed to the adoption of the Programme altogether and had not participated in the discussions. Now they surprised their allies with a veto. Romania would approve the decision on one condition: it wanted the Programme text to be adopted as a CMEA working document, which would not be binding upon the individual member countries. The Romanian representative also strongly emphasized his country’s wish that the CMEA Executive Committee not be granted a monopoly over the member states’ foreign trade through the Programme. The Soviet representative Lesechko made it clear that the Soviet aim was to have the plan ready and adopted at the next CMEA

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Session, scheduled to take place in July 1971. He went to great effort to gain the support of all other member states for this position. The meeting decided to reject the Romanian proposal and to adopt the Programme without alterations in July. Romania refused to sign the resolution.24 Consequently, the Executive Committee had to be convened for a meeting to discuss the issue in April 1971. The Soviet representative underlined the political and economic significance of CMEA integration endeavours. Whereas at the previous meeting Romania had demanded that the Comprehensive Programme not be signed by the individual CMEA member states, they now agreed to this point. It was clear that their position had changed in the intervening months. However, Romania also submitted a new demand. The Romanian representative Maurer tabled a memorandum calling for extensive alterations to the draft text. Romania wanted the Programme to emphasize that the national interests of the CMEA countries should take precedence over the common interest. Furthermore, the contents of the Comprehensive Programme should, according to the Romanian stance, be merely a framework scheme without any concrete commitments and time limits.25 The CMEA negotiations on the Comprehensive Programme were constantly stalled by Romanian resistance and unwillingness to participate in the work. In general, according to the ‘interested party principle’, it would have been permissible for Romania to refuse to take part in the discussions on CMEA-level measures if it so wished. It was the political implications of the issue in question that made the Soviets so keen to find a united position here. In the conditions of the Cold War, a common policy against the EEC was a question of the highest foreign policy relevance. There was no room for deviations or refusals to participate here. The socialist bloc needed to act in unison against the capitalist world. Romania was able to secure its room to manoeuvre in the negotiations using the vague formulation of the CMEA decision-making principles. It could veto a project under discussion by the other member states, even though it had chosen not to participate in it. The Soviets could not put a stop to the Romanian manoeuvring; they could only try to negotiate the impasse created by it. Thus, once the Soviets had been able to mediate the prior objections, Romania ingeniously came up with new demands. It seems that in the spring of 1971, the Soviets resorted to all available means to secure Romania’s participation, both at the multilateral level through the CMEA discussions, and presumably also through bilateral channels. The Soviet CMEA representative, Lesechko, was personally involved in trying to turn the reluctant Romanians’ heads to agree to the common line on the Comprehensive Programme. In addition, he sought support for the Soviet stand from all the other states so as to put pressure on Romania. Through his personal efforts he was able to convince Romania to come to accept this point.26 Some parts of the Programme were still unresolved even after the final extensive negotiations in April. Since the countries had not been able to

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reach a conclusion on the EEC policy, the details of their position and the manoeuvres were not included in the final text.27 The main reason why the Soviets settled for a compromise is arguably that they felt they were starting to lose their credibility as bloc leader. After over two years of indecisive negotiations, they wanted to put an end to the negotiations and walk away with what they had.

Hungary and Poland coalesce In the intra-CMEA discussions, the Soviets were able to isolate the Romanian position and gain support from the other member states to oppose Romanian manoeuvring. There was, however, another group of states within the CMEA that sought to advance their own agendas into the CMEA work and the Comprehensive Programme. In the spring of 1971, Hungary demanded that a decision be taken on the details of how the CMEA as an organization could establish and maintain relations with third parties, particularly the EEC. Hungary emphasized the pressing nature of this issue, given the policies which the EEC was planning to implement. The CMEA should look into practical questions that would allow the organizations to start discussions with the EEC. They needed to start this work as soon as possible. When the issue was discussed at the next Executive Committee meeting in April 1971, Poland voiced demands similar to those made by the Hungarian representative. The Soviet stance, backed by Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, the GDR and Mongolia, was that at this stage the work should be just a preparatory exploration of different possibilities. None of these countries viewed the issue as urgent. The meeting ended in a compromise: the CMEA Secretariat would start to prepare a working paper on the issue, but the work would not be rushed. A proposal was to be submitted in one year’s time, that is, by March 1972.28 Work on the EEC policy continued. The October 1971 Executive Committee meeting, the first to be held after the adoption of the Comprehensive Programme, was again characterized by Romanian opposition. The Romanian representative Maurer handed over yet another proposal, marking a volte face in the country’s position. Whereas it had previously refused even to discuss the matter, it now demanded that the CMEA Secretariat establish official contacts with the EEC. In addition, each CMEA member state should also be allowed to acknowledge the EEC. Romania justified this proposal by citing the economic damage caused by the EEC customs and tariff discrimination. The Romanian veto was considered highly problematic, since it was seen as an excuse for Romania to seek out relations with the Community independently. All countries noted that the proposal could not be ignored, as this would give Romania an incentive to acknowledge the EEC.29 The Soviet position, supported by Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, the GDR and Mongolia, was that the question of relations with the EEC was first and foremost a political question. Therefore the decision could not be made on

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economic grounds. Poland and Hungary on the other hand argued that the CMEA needed somehow to regulate its relationship towards the EEC. They demanded that the matter be resolved as a matter of urgency.30 The Soviet representative tried to convince his partners that the threat of the EEC trade policy was not as grave as previously thought. At its meeting on 13 October 1970, the EEC had decided to extend the transitional period of the Common Commercial Policy until the end of 1972.31 Therefore the CMEA still had time to conduct a detailed study of the advantages and disadvantages that recognition of the EEC would bring. The October meeting came to yet another compromise: both the Secretariat working paper and the Romanian proposal would be discussed at the next Executive Committee meeting.32 By the autumn of 1971, Czechoslovakia, one of the more foreign tradeoriented CMEA states, seemed also to have turned in favour of establishing some kind of working relations with the EEC. As the economic pressure the EEC was able to put on the CMEA countries was mounting, Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia adamantly voiced their demand that the CMEA as an organization should negotiate its relations with the EEC.33 In fact, by 1971, several CMEA member states had already contacted various EEC organs for talks on specific areas of economic cooperation such as trade in agricultural products. These contacts did not entail diplomatic recognition of the Community, but were informal deals that enabled CMEA members to sidestep the issue of recognition. As such, they helped to overcome the difficulties that were caused by the lack of an institutional framework for CMEA–EEC trade. In order to emphasize the unofficial and non-political nature of these deals, they came to be called ‘technical contacts’.34 This label was essential for the socialist countries, since they could not discard the official policy of nonrecognition. The EEC on the other hand, indifferent to the label used, saw the contacts as a means for using its policy of divide-and-rule with regard to the socialist community. In principle the Soviet Union was opposed to these uncoordinated approaches towards the Community, which, according to its stance, came close to breaching the CMEA policy of non-recognition. It nonetheless had little means to intervene as its powers were restricted in the multilateral arena of CMEA negotiations. What the Soviet Union could do was to seek support for its position in bilateral discussions with each of the CMEA member states before the discussions convened at the CMEA-level. In the lead-up to the next Executive Committee meeting, scheduled for January 1972, the GDR representatives discussed the Romanian October veto with the Soviet partners in an effort to gain a clear picture of the Soviet position. As the Germans noted, the Soviet Union was opposed to any measures that might lead to diplomatic recognition of the EEC. However, they had started to understand that from the outset, Hungary, Poland and Czechoslovakia had not ruled out the possibility of establishing contacts with the EEC. This had led to a modification of the Soviet position. The Soviets were starting to show some flexibility on the issue, and had started to grasp that contacts could not be banned

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out of hand. They did, however, wish to carry out an examination of the advisability of establishing contacts between the organizations.35 The negotiations for the CMEA Comprehensive Programme lasted over two years. In the end, a compromise was reached between three different positions. The Soviet leading role in the organization was challenged by two alternative policy lines. Romania posed the biggest obstacle to reaching a unanimous decision on the organization’s EEC policy, as it was in general opposed to any measures that might serve to limit its sovereignty and room to manoeuvre. The other deviant position was held by Hungary and Poland, later joined by Czechoslovakia. These countries were exporters of agricultural products and manufactured goods that were targeted by quotas and tariffs as part of the Common Commercial Policy implemented by the EEC, and thus hit the hardest by the new customs union. They put pressure on the CMEA to start formulating a policy against the EEC that would safeguard their foreign trade interests. As long as there was no institutional framework to negotiate trade agreements with the EEC, the countries resorted to using unofficial channels. Both the inability of the CMEA to reach a decision and the lack of coherence in the member states’ relations with the EEC were leading to a loss of prestige for the Soviet bloc leader. Neither of its two main goals could be reached through the multilateral negotiations within the CMEA.

The CPSU takes the lead By the beginning of 1972, various CMEA organs had been discussing the organization’s trade policy towards the EEC for more than three years. At this stage, the member states were still nowhere near reaching a common position, even though the Soviet Union in particular had put considerable effort into mediating the different views and had made several concessions as far as its own goals were concerned. At this point, it was starting to dawn on the Soviet leadership that the question needed to be addressed in a more resolute way. The best means at hand for them to do so was to go through the party channel. The topic was thus included on the agenda of the Warsaw Pact meeting, where the Soviets had stronger positions to secure their goals. The CMEA policy vis-à-vis the EEC was discussed at the January 1972 meeting of the Political Consultative Committee (PCC) of the Warsaw Pact in Prague. In his opening speech, Leonid Brezhnev, the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) stated that the Soviet Union treated the issue as not only an economic, but also a crucial political, question. Consequently, this question had to be resolved in accordance with the general political line of the socialist community. The Soviet leadership held it to be imperative that the socialist countries intensify the coordination of their steps with regard to the EEC. According to Brezhnev, their policy of non-recognition had proved to be expedient. Separatist moves, Brezhnev said, were not to be permitted, because they could only damage and weaken CMEA positions.36 However, it was not the official meeting that resolved the

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issue. A decision was reached only in an unofficial discussion, after the PCC meeting had adjourned. Brezhnev gathered the First Secretaries and the Prime Ministers together to give his ‘recommendation’. He demanded that the CMEA Executive Committee work out a common position regarding relations with the EEC within three months’ time, that is, by April 1972. The participants at the gathering had no choice but to agree to the proposal, and they were further instructed to inform their governments accordingly.37 Later that spring, in March 1972, while the CMEA was still working to finalize the policy, the Soviet leader gave a speech at the Fifteenth Congress of the Soviet Trade Unions. In his speech, Brezhnev stated that the Soviet Union ‘does not ignore the situation in Western Europe, nor does it ignore the existence of such economic groupings as the “Common Market” ’.38 This was the first time that the Soviet leader actually acknowledged the EEC to be a reality. Coming as it did after 25 years of non-recognition, the speech indicated a significant change in the Soviet policy. The reasons behind this address have been the focus of many researchers. Prior research has argued that it was intended as a show of goodwill towards the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) opposition, which was still hesitating over whether to support ratification of the Moscow Treaty, signed on 12 August 1970.39 This argument can be supported by the fact that at the Warsaw Pact Prague meeting Brezhnev had spoken at length on the necessity of ensuring that the FRG ratified the treaties with the Soviet Union and Poland.40 However, it can be argued that there was another equally crucial target group for the speech: the allies. Brezhnev’s action was contrary to what had been agreed just two months earlier by the party leaders, which was that no separate moves towards the EEC were acceptable. Additionally, in this public speech, Brezhnev in fact also revealed some of the contents of the top-secret Warsaw Pact discussions. The allies were made to understand that the Soviet Union would not tolerate any attempts to twist its arm into further compromises on an issue that might prove to be detrimental to the alliance. The Soviet motive for the public speech was therefore to show its CMEA partners that the CPSU was taking the lead in formulating the position against the EEC. The manner in which Brezhnev had manoeuvred during the Warsaw Pact meeting in January indicates that the highest decision-making organs of the Soviet Union were already at work to make sure that they had the last word in the CMEA policy formulation. Furthermore, Brezhnev’s speech shows that the Soviet leadership would do whatever it took to counter any deviant positions on the part of their allies. Both these points were in fact acknowledged by Brezhnev when he talked on the international situation at the Plenum of the CPSU Central Committee in May 1972. He began his report by going through the results of the January Warsaw Pact meeting. According to him past meetings had run into difficulties because of Romanian manoeuvring. This time, however, Brezhnev was careful to emphasize that there had been a change in the Romanian comrades’ manoeuvring. They were showing more loyalty and were adhering to

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the line accepted at the meeting. Brezhnev then moved on to address CMEA affairs. The Soviet requirement was that the CMEA decide as soon as possible on practical steps to take vis-à-vis the EEC. As Brezhnev informed his colleagues, the CPSU Politburo had in fact already begun to prepare a proposition on this issue.41 While the CMEA continued its indecisive and quarrelsome negotiations, its Western counterpart proved itself capable of acting as a united community: starting on 1 January 1973, many of the EEC temporary commercial arrangements expired. The Commission was granted the right to negotiate and sign agreements with third parties. Additionally, the Community was joined by three new member states, adding to its relative power and attractiveness as a trade partner. This represented a further loss of prestige for the socialist bloc, and especially its leader. The CMEA initiative aimed at opening up contacts, voiced by Leonid Brezhnev in the March 1972 speech, did not have the intended effect on the EEC. Instead the EEC continued towards the implementation of its Common Commercial Policy. The socialist countries had no choice but to continue to seek a way out of the impasse. The Soviet side especially was becoming anxious to reach a decision. The CPSU Politburo continued its discussions on the CMEA common trade policy in early 1973. It drafted an action plan for the organization, which was adopted by the CMEA Executive Committee in January 1973. The first move would be informal contacts by the CMEA Secretariat to test the waters with a view to sounding out the possibilities for opening negotiations with the EEC.42 The CMEA demands for future negotiations were decided as follows: the CMEA should be recognized to be on a par with the EEC; the socialist countries should be granted most-favoured-nation status in EEC countries’ trade; the EEC countries should reduce customs tariffs, raise export and import quotas and sell more machinery and consumption goods to the CMEA countries. Finally, the EEC should compensate for all losses caused by the enlargement and the establishment of the free-trade zone.43 In effect, the CMEA was to take a tough stand against the Community: the Soviet goal was for the EEC to drop all its protective trade policies that were aimed at the socialist countries. The adoption of the document was vetoed by Romania, which refused to accept the provision that the CMEA member states were not allowed to separately seek diplomatic relations with the EEC.44 As previously, Romania was opposed not to the goals outlined in the action plan, but to the principles on which they were to be carried out. The proposal threatened to tie its hands and limit its room to manoeuvre in the CMEA decision making. The other deviators, Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia, on the other hand, showed no objection to the Soviet aims. They had achieved their primary goal as the CMEA had begun looking into the possibilities for establishing contacts with the EEC, which would hopefully ease their trade negotiations. The CMEA Executive Committee meeting also discussed individual countries’ contacts with the EEC organs. Representatives of both Hungary and Poland

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emphasized the fact that their countries had made ‘technical contacts’ with various EEC organs for talks on specific issues such as textile exports and that they planned on continuing to do so in future.45 This was their leverage in the negotiations: if the CMEA proved unable to help them in their economic problems caused by the lack of institutionalized relations, they could continue to manoeuvre within the unofficial framework. The ineffectiveness of CMEA decision making, as exemplified by Romanian manoeuvring, was criticized by Brezhnev at the April 1973 CPSU Plenum. He noted that there were problems in carrying out resolutions and decisions within the CMEA. In effect, the problems lay in the nature of multilateral cooperation. Resolutions and progress were too often dependent on the measures taken by Soviet partners. According to Brezhnev, the CPSU had to make it clear that objectively, the responsibility for ensuring the progress of CMEA integration lay with the Soviet Union. However, he also noted the political calculations inherent in the Soviet role as leader of the bloc: If our partners do not find solutions to their economic problems in cooperation with the Soviet Union, they are forced to start improving their relations with the west. It is because of this that our mutual relations with the socialist countries, and economic questions, carry the utmost political relevance.46 Thus it is not surprising that the Soviet leadership sought to impose its rule onto the CMEA decision making. To this end it attempted to manoeuvre in a similar fashion as it had in 1972: through forcing a consensus at a meeting of the Warsaw Pact. At the April 1974 Political Consultative Committee meeting in Warsaw, the CPSU leader Brezhnev presented his East European colleagues with a fait accompli, informing them that a decision had been taken to seek official relations between CMEA and the EEC. The appropriate CMEA organs were given orders to work out specific proposals on a prospective agreement with the EEC.47 The Soviet CMEA representative Lesechko was additionally assigned with bringing a motion to the next CMEA Session, scheduled for July 1974, calling for the main work on the issue to be shifted to the highest level – in other words, the CPSU Central Committee.48

Conclusions This chapter has shown that within the CMEA framework, the smaller Soviet bloc countries were able to pursue their national interests alone, as in the case of Romania, or through informal intra-bloc coalitions, as in the case of Hungary, Poland and Czechoslovakia. The existence of two deviant positions on the issue of a common CMEA programme for integration and foreign trade forced the Soviet Union into a compromise. In the multilateral discussions within the CMEA, the Soviet Union did not have the necessary instruments

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to force four of its allies to change their positions. As a result the member states did not have to compromise their national sovereignty in the CMEA negotiations. The unintended consequence of all this was, of course, that the CMEA was unable to counter the EEC as a united trade bloc. The Soviet Union was the leader of the socialist bloc, but it was also bound by institutional restrictions. Because the CMEA decision making was based on national sovereignty, all member states were able to pursue their national interests to some extent. Romania was able to exploit the vague formulations of the CMEA statute to secure its room to manoeuvre. Its main goal was that the policies envisioned should not include stipulations that could tie its hands and threaten its national sovereignty. Romania opted to stall the negotiations by making deviant proposals, because it knew that the Soviet Union could not let it remain outside the common policy against the EEC. The other option at hand for the East European CMEA countries was to form intra-CMEA coalitions that the Soviet Union had no means to break. The difficulty for the Soviets was that these coalitions were loose and informal, and that most of the time Hungary, Poland and Czechoslovakia were in favour of Soviet positions in the negotiations. They were not showing enough independence to warrant the use of force against them. But still, from time to time their mutual interests made them support one another’s proposals, which ran counter to Soviet aims. The means at hand for the Soviet representative in the CMEA discussions was to actively seek support from the other members against any opposition. The Soviets also used unofficial channels outside the CMEA organs to secure some of their positions prior to any public discussion. The key leverage they had in these bilateral discussions was economic. The Soviet Union knew that Hungary, Poland and Czechoslovakia needed Soviet support, because a unified CMEA stand would enhance their bargaining position against the European Community. Thus it is understandable that they did not object to the tough Soviet actions and negotiation positions in the latter stage of the policy making: they had reached their main goal once the CMEA began looking for ways to establish relations with the EEC. This meant that, with only one source of opposition left, the Soviet leadership was then able to isolate and neutralize the Romanian challenge. However, the existence of two deviant positions had already forced the Soviet Union to concede and abandon its ultimate political line of hostility. In late 1971, the Soviet leadership had been left with two choices. If it refused to modify its policy of non-recognition of the EEC, it would in effect abandon its obligations as leader of the socialist bloc. This option would leave its allies no choice but to continue developing closer ties with the Common Market. If, on the other hand, it were to loosen its antagonism and take up a leading role in the rapprochement process, it might be able to secure cohesion of the bloc. The Soviet Union chose the latter option, and in the spring of 1972 it went public with a policy change on this issue. The timing of the Soviet action, while it was largely related to intra-bloc relations, was not

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unrelated to the larger Cold War context. As the leader of the bloc, the Soviet Union had to keep in mind the wider picture of international relations. In a situation where it had to make a compromise due to the pressure put on it by its allies, it needed to find a way of gaining some benefit from this. Thus it was no coincidence that the public speech of the Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev was delivered on 20 March 1972. This was the same day on which the German Bundestag voted on ratification of the Moscow Treaty – a vote which the Soviet Union sought to manipulate via this tactical manoeuvre. The Soviet Union also benefited from its compromise in the sense that it regained the means to impose its rule over its allies. After 1972, the CPSU had two channels of influence over the CMEA. First of all, the Soviet Politburo took over the issue of formulating a policy against the EEC, which left the Soviet government’s mission to the CMEA a messenger of Politburo orders. Second, the other forms of cooperation in the socialist bloc were evoked. The General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev himself became personally involved in the issue. He spoke at Central Committee Plenums, gave speeches at other public events, and complained about CMEA difficulties at meetings of the Warsaw Pact. As the Soviet Communist Party took over the task of formulating a policy against the EEC, the CMEA’s tasks were more clearly reduced to carrying out orders from above. Naturally, the CMEA had never been able to function without party control. Each country’s CMEA agenda and instructions were decided by both the party and the state leadership. But it was the Politburo of each member state which had the last say in the matter. What the change in 1972 meant was that from thereon, the individual member states had even less ability to forge their own agendas into the CMEA discussions. This chapter has shown that the Soviet Union was not able to impose its will on the CMEA, but had to resort to other means of keeping its bloc coherent. In this case, the Soviet Union had to override the intergovernmental decision-making procedures of the CMEA, and to force its rule through the Party hierarchy and bilateral relations.

Notes 1 The founding members of the CMEA were the Soviet Union, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Poland and Romania. Albania joined later in 1949 and the GDR in 1950. Mongolia became a member in 1962, and Cuba joined a decade later, in 1972. Albania withdrew from CMEA cooperation in 1961, and formally revoked its membership in 1987. R. Bideleux and I. Jeffries, A History of Eastern Europe. Crisis and Change, Oxon: Routledge, 2007, pp. 477–87. 2 T. Yamamoto, ‘Détente or integration? EC response to Soviet policy change towards the Common Market, 1970–75’, Cold War History, vol. 7, no. 1, 2007, pp. 75–79. 3 W. Zimmerman, ‘Hierarchical regional systems and the politics of system boundaries’, International Organization, Vol. 26, No. 1, 1972, pp. 18–36. 4 R. M. Cutler, ‘Harmonizing EEC–CMEA relations: never the twain shall meet?’, International Affairs, vol. 63, no. 2, 1987, pp. 259–70; K. Grzybowski, ‘The Council

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for Mutual Economic Assistance and the European Community’, The American Journal of International Law, vol. 84, no. 1, 1990, pp. 284–92. P. Marer, ‘Prospects for integration in the Council for Mutual Economic Assistance (CMEA)’, International Organization, vol. 30, no. 4, 1976, pp. 631–48; M. Marrese, ‘CMEA: effective but cumbersome political economy’, International Organization, vol. 40, no. 2, 1986, pp. 287–327. R. Stone, Satellites and Commissars: Strategy and Conflict in the Politics of SovietBloc Trade, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996; L. Metcalf, The Council of Mutual Economic Assistance. The Failure of Reform, Boulder: East European Monographs, 1997. Yamamoto, ‘Détente or integration?’, 2007; A. Romano, ‘Behind Closed Doors. Contacts between EEC and CMEA in the early 70s’, in C. Meneguzzi Rostagni (ed.) The Helsinki Process. A Historical Reappraisal, Padova: CEDAM, 2005, pp. 107–22. Peter Marsh has looked into CMEA integration from the European member states’ point of view, but he too uses only published sources. P. Marsh, ‘The integration process in Eastern Europe 1968 to 1975’, Journal of Common Market Studies, vol. 14, no. 4, 1975, pp. 311–35. Russian State Archive of the Economy [henceforth RGAE]; Archive of the Parties and Mass Organisations of the GDR Foundation [henceforth BArch/SAPMODDR]. The Executive Committee convened approximately four times a year. Each member state sent a representative to the organ, normally the vice-prime minister. Its task was to see to the implementation of the CMEA Session decisions. The Session was the highest CMEA decision-making body, which normally convened once a year, comprising government delegations. The Session carried a certain prestige and authority, as its decisions were mostly published. On the CMEA institutions; see W. V. Wallace and R. A. Clarke, Comecon, Trade and the West, London: Pinter, 1986, pp. 67–72. The materials are held in the Russian Government Archive of Contemporary History [henceforth RGANI]. The author’s latest visit to the Russian archives was in October 2008. The Parallel History Project on Cooperative Security (PHP), http://www.php.isn. ethz.ch/about/index.cfm (accessed 2 March 2010). Marsh, ‘The integration process’, 1975, pp. 311–13. Stone, Satellites and Commissars, 1996. Zimmerman, ‘Hierarchical Regional Systems’, pp. 20–25. Metcalf, The Council of Mutual Economic Assistance, pp. 9–10. Marsh, ‘The integration process’, pp. 313–16. Marsh, ‘The integration process’, pp. 311–13. Yamamoto, ‘Détente or integration?’, pp. 78–81. The Comprehensive Programme for the Intensification and Improvement of Cooperation and the Development of Socialist Economic Integration of CMEA Member Countries. BArch/SAPMO-DDR, DY 30/3445, Information über die 38. Sitzung des Exekutivkomitees des RGW. Bideleux and Jeffries, A History, 2007, pp. 477–87. BArch/SAPMO-DDR, DY 30/3445, Die 38. Sitzung des Exekutivkomitees. BArch/SAPMO-DDR, DY 30/3456, Information über die 51. Sitzung des Exekutivkomitees des RGW. BArch/SAPMO-DDR, DY 30/3457, Information über die 52. Sitzung des Exekutivkomitees des RGW. BArch/SAPMO-DDR, DY 30/3457, Die 52. Sitzung des Exekutivkomitees. BArch/SAPMO-DDR, DY 30/3457, Die 52. Sitzung des Exekutivkomitees.

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Index

Amtorg 25, 106 Andersin, H. 72 Andreen, Andrea 163, 173 armament 86, 166; also disarmament 160–2, 164, 170–1n10, 182; also rearmament 55 Austria 19, 35, 49, 51–2, 59, 61–3, 89, 91–2, 95, 105, 144 AvtoVaz 19, 20, 22, 27 Baltic region or republics 121 Battle Act 49, 57 Bausch & Lomb 107 Belgrade as Belgrade meeting 152 Berlin Wall 6, 13, 184 black market 124, 186–7 blat 124, 186–7 Brandt, Willy 77, 147 Breßlein, Erwin 177 Brezhnev, Leonid 18, 24, 140–2, 144, 154, 202–5, 207, 209; Brezhnev Doctrine 140, 197; Brezhnev era 13, 175, 184; Brezhnevites 111; Brezhnev-Kosygin leadership 20 Brown, John 26 Brussels 95 Budapest 95, 142, 146, 148, 150, 163, 166, 182; Budapest declaration 142, youth festival 176, 178 Bulganin, Nikolai 123 Bulgaria 90, 130, 197, 200, 207n1, 209n34 Central European countries 6 centre-periphery 11, 139, 195 chemical 22, 27; as chemical-plant 22, 26–7; as industry 20–2, 25–8; as technology 20, 22, as machinery 27; as research 86, 103; chemicalization campaign 20, 25–8; chemistry 104–6, 108, 110 (see also macromolecular chemistry); Institute of Chemical Technology 102; Military-chemical Academy 26 CHINCOM (US-led trade embargo on China) 57 CIA (US Central Intelligence Agency) 26, 178, 183 CoCom (Coordinating Committee of Western

trade embargo) 10–1, 19, 31, 49, 50–2, 54–9, 61, 67–8, 73–4, 76, 78–9, 89, 122 Commodity Control List 19 Communist takeover 53, 84, 150 computers 11, 72, 77; as industry or factory 12, 123, 128–9, 136; as machines 126; as science 72–3, 77; as technology 30, 72–3, 123, 125–6; computerization (Chinese) 19; General System Theory 122; internet 122; Scientific council for Cybernetics and Computing Technology (CTT) 9, 126; Special Computer Design Bureau (SCDB) 10, 127, 136 Conference for Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE) 138, 141–4, 146–7, 151–3 (see also Helsinki process) Cotton, Eugenie 159, 160, 162, 168, 170, 171n2 Council for Mutual Economic Assistance; also CMEA also Comecon 13, 17, 44, 68–9, 77, 80, 120–1, 127–8, 193–9; 200–8; Comprehensive Programme 198–9, 200, 202, 208; EEC relations 194; Executive Committee 195, 198–9, 200–1, 203–7n1, 208n10; integration 193–4, 196, 197–9, 205, 208; intra-CMEA trade 196; secretariat 195, 200, 204; session of 205, 208 Crimea 95–6 ˇ uplinskas, Algis 128–9 C Cybernetics 11, 119, 120–9, 131–2, 134n36, 135n43, n44, n61, n63 Czechoslovakia 72, 76, 101–2, 104–9, 111–14, 148, 197, 200–2, 204–7n1; crisis of 140; Czech Republic 13, 101; Czechoslovak Academy of Science 108, 128; Czechoslovak Communist Party, Central Committee of 102; invasion of 72, 76, 108, 142, 148, 197; Ministry of Foreign Trade 103, 107; normalization or normalizers 77, 108–10, 114–15, 123; Prague Spring 101, 108–9; reform programme 196; State Planning Commission 103; The Two Thousand Words Manifesto 109 Dagmar, Mokova 165 Daimler-Benz – LKW-factory 77

228

Index

David, Václav 105 Delauny, Boris 125 Democratic Youth League (WFDY) 165, 178 détente 3, 5, 12, 25, 55, 59, 73, 78–9, 84, 89, 138, 143, 147, 153 dissident 119, 127, 184, 186 Dorodnitsyn, A. A. 72, 127 Drobnys, Aleksandras 129 Dzhavakhishvili, Georgi 95 East Germany also GDR 121, 128, 130, 147, 173, 195, 197, 200–1, 207 embargo also Western strategic embargo 17, 19, 29–30, 49–51, 55, 57, 61, 67, 73–4, 76, 83, 89, 114, 122 (see also CoCom) emigration 110 Enso-Gutzeit 72 Erdei, Ferenc 148 Erfurt 95, 128 espionage also spying 16, 28–9; industrial 16, 17, 20, 30; military-industrial 17; scientifictechnical 76 Euro-communists 147 European Economic Community also EEC 19, 40, 43, 141, 146, 193–4, 197–9, 200–7; Common Commercial Policy of 193, 197, 201–2, 204; trade policy of 201, 193, 197 European Free Trade Association also EFTA 39, 40 European integration 40 Farewell Files 28, 30 fascism 158, 161, 178 Feldman, Jerome 106, 107 feminism also feminist 12, 157, 160–1, 164, 169–70 FIAT 20, 26 Finland 9–12, 18–19, 21, 33–9, 40–6, 49, 50, 52–9, 60–1, 66–7, 70–5, 78–9, 127, 138–9, 141–9, 150–2, 185, 187; Bank of 72; barter trade 59, 72; clearing system and clearing trade 10, 71; economy of 36–8, 53, 55, 71; finlandization 141, 154; Finnish Academy of Sciences 70; Finnish Communist Party 52, 141, 149; Finnish Cultural Week in Budapest 150; Finnish Friendship Societies 150; Finnish Hungarian Friendship Week 148, 150; Finnish Social Democratic Party also SDP 147; foreign policy of 35, 39, 50, 147; foreign trade of 56, 60; Finnish-Hungarian Association for Commerce 145; FinnishHungarian societies 151; Finnish–Soviet agreement as intergovernmental agreement on scientific technical cooperation 57, 70; Finnish–Soviet joint symposium72; FinnishSoviet scientific-technical commission 70–1, 73, 77; Finnish-Soviet scientific-technical cooperation 70–1, 76; Finnish–Soviet trade 25, 52, 55, 57–60, 71, 74; Finnish-Soviet Trade Chamber (FSTC) 38; Finno-Ugric 143, 145, 148, 153; Intergovernmental Finnish-

Soviet Commission for Economic Cooperation 42; Night-frost crisis 39; Protocol on Multilateral Trade and Payments 38; Soviet policy on 35, 37; Treaty of Friendship, Cooperation and Mutual Assistance also FCMA with the Soviet Union 10, 35; war reparations 33, 37, 52–3, 55 France 8, 15, 35, 38, 85, 88–9, 91–5, 97, 105, 159–60 free trade zone 204 Friedan, Betty 160 Fukuyama, Francis 1 Fulbrook, Mary 3 Gagarin, Yuri 88 Gagarina, Zinaida 159 gas-for-pipeline contract 18 GATT also General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade 146 de Gaulle, Charles 85, 89 Geneva 38–9, 142 Georgia 11, 83–5, 91–7; Central Committee of Georgian Communist Party 93 German question 147; German unification 51, 74, 78 GKNT also State Committee of Science and Technology 29, 68–70, 72, 75–8, 80 Glushkov, Viktor 126, 127 Gorbachev, Mikhail 20 Great Britain 8, 10, 56, 86; Anglo-Saxon bloc 163; Anglo-Soviet trade 23 Gurina, Zinaida 159 Gvishiani, Dzherman 77 Harima, S.A. 38 Helsinki 36–8, 40, 42, 54, 56; Helsinki Club 38, 40; Helsinki Idea 146; Helsinki Final Agreement and final Summit (CSCE) 152 (see also CSCE); Mayor of 145; Helsinki process 138, 142, 151–2 (see also CSCE process); Screening committee of the American Legation in 54; Soviet trade commission in 40, 42; United States embassy in 54, 57; WIDF congress in 157–8, 160, 162, 166–7, 169–70; Youth festivals in 176, 180, 182–5, 187 Hnídek, Jaroslav 106 Hungary 12, 32, 90, 121, 128, 138, 142–8, 150–2, 154, 197, 200; Budapest Declaration 142; economic reform 140, 196; Hungarian Academy of Sciences 126; Hungarian reform 142, 196; Hungarian Chamber of Commerce 145; Hungarian People’s Front 148–9; Hungarian-Soviet Society 151; socialist market economy model 139; 1956 uprising also revolution 102, 182; within CMEA 196–7, 200–2, 204–6, 209 Husák, Gustav 111 hydrogels 101–3 hydrophilic polymers 108

Index IBM 72, 126, 129–30 Imperial Chemical Industries also ICI 28 International Atomic List 19 International Electrotechnical Commission also IEC 80 International Industrial List 19 International Monetary Fund also IMF 140 International Munitions List 19 International Union of Pure and Applied Chemistry also IUPAC, as congress of 105 Isen, Allan A. 106 Jakubaitis, R. 127 Josiah Macy Foundation 122 Jucys, Adolfas 123, 125–7, 129 Kádár, János 140, 142–6, 149, 151–2, 154 Kairamo, Kari 73 Kapitsa, Pyotr 119 Katzenstein, Peter 8 Kekkonen, Urho 141, 142, 144, 145, 146, 147, 154 Kelly, Catriona 170 KEVSOS 146–7 Khokhlov, Ivan 92 Khrushchev, Nikita 5, 11, 18, 24, 26, 29, 66, 84–8, 90, 96–7, 139–40, 158, 181, 184, 188; secret speech 159, 169 Kochelova, Tatyana 159 Kolmogorov, Andrei 122 Komócsin, Zoltán 148 Kononenko, Elena 159, 171 Korean War 55 Kosygin, Aleksei 20, 24, 84, 90 Kostandov, Leonid 27, 28, 29 Kotek, Joël 177 Kubilius, Jonas and Vytautas 123, 125–6, 129 Kuhn, Thomas 2 Kuusinen, Hertta 170 Landau, Lev 119 League of Nations 158 Lebedev, Sergei 123 Lesechko, M.A. 198–9, 205 Lím, Drahoslav 102, 110 Linik, Yurii 125 Linnamo, Jussi 149 Lithuania 11–2, 119–37 Lithuania: Ignalina nuclear plant 131, 137; Institute of Physics and Mathematics (LAS) 125–6; Kaunas Institute of Technology (KIT) 126; National Economic Council (NEC) 124–5, 128–9; Vilnius Computer Factory 128 Ljubljana 95 Lysenko, Trofim 122 Macromolecular Chemistry also macromolecular research 102, 104, 106, 108–10 (see also chemistry) Maimin, Efrem 126

229

Makhinya, M. 90 Malenkov, Georgy 123 Marchuk, G. 127, 135 Marshall Aid also Marshallized countries 35, 141 Maurer, Ion 198–200 Medvedev, Zhores 87 Melbourne Olympics 88 Merse, Andre 92 Mikardo, Ian 24 Mikoyan, Anastas 23–4, 84, 88, 90 modernization: 5, 11, 39, 66–8, 70, 78, 83, 85, 89, 129 as economic reform or reform programme 11, 84–6, 90–1, 95, 104, 113, 124, 131, 139–40, 142, 149, 152–4, 184, 196–7 Moldova or Moldavian Republic 83, 89, 91 Molotov, Vyacheslav 25, 86 Mongolia 200, 207 Morrison, Robert 107 Moscow: 5, 8, 23–4, 26, 32–3, 35–7, 39–41, 43, 45, 77, 85, 92, 95, 106, 113, 119, 121, 123, 126, 128–32, 136, 139, 141, 144, 146–9, 152–4, 157–60, 162, 166–71, 173, 176, 180–1, 183–5, 187–8; also as Moscow Treaty 82, 203, 207 most-favoured nation status also principle 35, 40, 105, 204 neutral countries also neutrality 7, 9–11, 19, 35, 49–51, 55, 58–9, 61, 66, 70, 74–5, 79, 89, 141–2, 144, 151, 184 Niemi, Unto 148 Nissel, George 105 Nokia (Finnish enterprise) 67, 72–4, 81 Nordic customs union 141 Nordic scientific cooperation 56 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) 19, 30, 49, 51, 66–7, 74, 76, 89, 112, 122, 162, 173 nuclear: weaponry 30, 84, 162; as tests: 130, 164; as plant 131 Nyers, Rezsö 148 OEEC 38 Ostpolitik 77–8, 147 Paasikivi, J.K 141 Paasio, Rafael 148 Pacifism also peace movements 159, 161–2 paradigm 2–4, 195 Parallel History Project on Cooperative Security 195 Paris 38, 93, 158–9, 166 Patolichev, Nikolai 26–9, 42 Pentagon 74 Perle, Richard 74, 81 Poland 89, 102, 105, 130, 196–7, 200–7, 209 Pollak, Martin 106–7, 111 polyHEMA (hydroxyethyl methacylate) 102, 107, 110 polymerization 102 Polytechna 106–7

230

Index

Popova, Nina Vasileva 159–60, 162–4, 167, 169–71 Popper, Karl 1 Popular Front policy 89 Prague 101, 106–9, 111–12, 154, 160, 176–7, 202–3, 209 propaganda: Soviet or communist 56, 88, 120, 160, 164, 175, 177, 187; as Western anticommunist 184 Pugachev, V.S. 130 Puja, Frigyes 152 Rantanen, Paavo 74, 81 Ribereau-Gayon, Jean 93 Richardson, Jo 24 Ridley, Harold 105 Robson, Islanda 166, 173 Romania 32, 89–90, 92, 130, 148, 187, 193, 197–207, 209 Rónai, Rudolf 148 Rosenau, James 8 Royal Medical Society 105 Sakharov, Andrei 119 Sapagovas, Mifodijus 126, 128 Schneiter, Pierre 92, 94 Scientific and Technical Revolution (STR): 121, 123; scientific and technical development 165, 169 scientific-technical cooperation 11, 66–9, 70–1, 74, 78 Shevardnadze, Eduard 97 Shokin, A. 121 Siemens: 67, 75–8, 81n55; agreement on scientific-technical cooperation with GKNT of 76–7; Siemens-Schukkert 76 Smelyakov, Nikolay 18, 24–5, 29 Socialist International 147, 149 Sˇ orm, Frantisˇek 102 Sorsa, Kalevi 152 Soviet: sphere of influence 86, 139; technology 17, 41, 45, 85, 88, 105; Women’s Anti-Fascist Committee 158–9, 164–6; also anticommunist and anti-Soviet 123, 181, 183–4 Soviet Control Commission 37 Soviet-Finnish (see also Finnish-Soviet): scientific-technical commission or Commission for scientific-technical cooperation 70–3; relations also links 34–5, 43, 46; trade 34, 36–8, 46, 60; Treaty of Friendship, Cooperation and Mutual Assistance (FCMA) 10, 35 Soviet Foreign Trade Association also Soviet Foreign Trade Organization 20, 41 Soviet-French cooperation 11, 84, 89 Soviet Military: Industrial Commission (VPK) 28; Intelligence (GRU) 29 Soviet scientific-technical cooperation 11, 69, 70–1, 78 Soviet State: Committee for the Introduction of

new Technology into the National Economy also Gostekhnika 68; Committee for Science and Technology also GKNT 29, 68–9, 80, 125 (see GKNT); Planning Organization also Gosplan 17, 20, 97, 120, 126, 131 Soviet Union, also USSR: 1, 4–5, 7–8, 10–13, 16–21, 23–6, 28, 30–50, 52–61, 66–9, 71–9, 83–90, 92, 94–6, 100, 105, 119–24, 126–30, 132–4, 141–4, 146, 152, 157–60, 162, 164–6, 168–71, 173, 175, 177–8, 180, 184–7, 194–8, 201–3, 205–7; Academy of Science of 29, 70, 72, 80, 87, 119, 125–7, 131, 135; All-Union Institute for Scientific-Technical Information also VINITI 69, 80; anti-party group in 87–8; Communist Party of also CPSU 68–9, 84, 88, 96, 177, 179–182, 202–3, 205; Central Committee of also CC-CPSU 68–70, 75, 77, 95, 121, 203, 205; Plenum of 123, 203, 205, 207; Politburo of 204, 207; Great Patriotic War of 85; housing programme in 88; Komsomol also Soviet Communist Youth League 171, 175, 177, 179–80, 190; Kremlin of 4, 28, 140–1, 144–6, 149, 152–3, 166; mechanization in 86, 90–4, 96; National Security Agency also KGB, Directorate T of 28–9; Secretariat of the Committee for the Development of International Trade Exchange of 38; Sovnarkhoz reform in 84, 91, 95, 97, 124–5; spetsinformatsiya also special information system in 28–30; vineyards in 83, 89–96; Vinodelie i vinogarstvo SSSR in 91; Virgin Lands campaign in 85; viticulture in 91–2, 96; wine industry in 11, 84–5, 88–92, 95–7 Soviet–West German cooperation 74–7 Sovietology 8 space: as programme 67, 85; as race 88; as technology 29, 86 Sputnik 85, 88 Stalin, Iosif: 13, 16–18, 20, 24, 31, 57, 83–4, 86–7, 89, 134, 160, 175, 181–2, 188; Stalinist 13, 90, 132, 147, 150; anti-Stalinist: 184; de-Stalinization 123; post-Stalinist: 56 Statulevicˇius, Vytautas 125, 128, 135 Stoltenberg, Gerhard 76 Strauss, Franz-Josef 141, 154 Sweden 34–5, 41, 49, 51–2, 58–9, 86, 88, 144 Switzerland 49, 51–2, 59–60, 89, 91, 144, 146 Telknys, Laitmutis 127–8, 130 Tereshkova, Valentina 166, 168–70, 174 Thatcher government 27 Tol’yatti 20, 22, 26 Tsarist Russia 84, 89 turnkey projects 16, 20, 22, 26 Ukraine, Ukrainian 83, 89–91, 119–20, 123, 133 United Nations (UN) 162, 165 United States also USA: 1, 4–8, 10–11, 14, 16, 19, 25–6, 30, 33–5, 49–58, 61–3, 66–7, 74, 78,

Index 81, 85–9, 92, 100, 105–6, 108, 110–13, 124, 160, 163, 178; National Patent Development Corporation (NPDC) in 106; National Student Association of 183 Uzbekistan 96 Vienna 51, 142, 159, 164, 166, 176, 182–4 Warsaw Pact: 19, 30, 108, 142, 162, 195–6, 202–3, 205, 207; Political Consultative Committee (PCC) of 196, 202, 205 Watch List 54 Westad, Odd Arne 3 West-Germany also FRG 4, 8, 11, 39, 41, 45, 66–7, 74–8, 81n49, 95, 147, 163, 203; cultural, economic and scientific-technical cooperation with the Soviet Union 74–7; 79; joint commission 77; Moscow Treaty (1970) 77, 203, 207; trade agreement with the Soviet Union 75 Wichterle, Otto 100–15 Wiener, Norbert 122–3, 125, 134 Wilson, Harold 23–4, 31–2 women: Commission on Women’s Rights 162; International Women’s Congress 159; associations or organizations 163, 166;

231

Women’s International Democratic Federation also WIDF 12, 157–73, 177; Women’s International League of Peace and Freedom 158, 164; World Congress of 157–8, 160, 162–3, 166–7, 170, 173 World Bank 140 World Federation of Trade Unions 177 World Peace Council 160, 177 World War II or Second World War 6, 10, 16, 30, 46, 52, 66–7, 120, 141, 157–9, 161, 170, 177–8, 184 youth: Communist Youth International also KIM 175, 177, 189; International Union of Socialist Youth 182; International Union of Students also IUS 188; Western noncommunist youth organizations 183–4; World Federation of Democratic Youth also WFDY 165, 177, 179, 189; World Festival of Youth also World Youth Festival 12, 175–80, 184, 186, 188, 190 Yugoslavia also Yugoslavian 52, 148, 160, 171 Zhdanov, Andrei 37, 46, 122, 134 Zˇiugzˇda, Juozas 122