In early 1955, in the brief sensation when Moscow withdrew charges against me, I was interviewed on television many times. Almost every interviewer asked whether I thought the Soviet people and their leaders really wanted peace. They clearly felt that this was a vital question to their audience and one on w’hich there were doubts.
I always replied: “They want peace as no American knows how to want it. No leader could hold his job unless the Soviet people believed he promoted peace. Here, in America, the war made people prosperous; homes that lost sons were few. In the USSR, every home suffered heavily. They were all hungry, many lost their homes and every family I luiow lost some of its men. Twenty-five million people were left homeless. Everyone in the USSR feels the burden of work to repair that loss.”
It is surprising that the American people are ignorant of the Soviet people’s profound hunger for peace. It began with the October Revolution, itself produced by war-exhaustion, its slogans: “Peace, land and bread.” The first official act of the revolutionary government, on November 8, 1917, was “to propose to all warring people and their governments … immediate negotiations for a just and democratic peace, without annexations or indemnities.” The phrase was later made famous by President Wood row Wilson who borrowed it from the Bolsheviks.
Neither Wilson nor the Anglo-American Allies nor the Germans granted peace to the young Soviet Republic of those days. The Allies denounced the Bolsheviks for even making the proposal; they demanded that Russia continue the war. Unable to fight, Lenin was forced to conclude a separate peace with Germany, a “robber peace,” in Lenin’s words, in which Germany occupied the Ukraine and the Baltic States. When Germany was defeated, both the Allied victors and Germany fought Russia for two more years.
So desperate were the Russians for peace in those days that Lenin at one time was willing to split Russia for it. In March, 1919, William Christian Bullitt went to Moscow as President Wilson’s semi-official envoy and proposed that Russian territory be divided along all the local governments in possession at the time. This would have meant a Japanese puppet state in the Far East and British and French dependencies in the Ukraine, the Caucasus, Central Asia and the Arctic ports. Lenin agreed even to this incredible hold-up, because the Russian people were dying of starvation, pestilence and war. The many puppet regimes did not agree and the powers at Versailles refused peace to the Bolsheviks, wishing to destroy them utterly.
Not by appeals for peace nor by offers of territory was peace won, but by the courage and sacrifice of the Russian people. Real peace came slowly: first the cessation of actual fighting, then trade agreements, then—after years—diplomatic recognition. The last armed invasions were in 1920, by the Poles with French help, and in 1920–21 by the Finns under Baron Mannerheim, with both German and Allied help. The Japanese were not expelled from Vladivostok until October 1922. The United States did not grant recognition until 1933, under Roosevelt.
The first appearance of the new state in any international conference was in Genoa, in 1922. The Allied powers, wishing to dump the postwar economic burdens on Germany and Russia, summoned the victims to appear. The Soviets at once proposed limitation of armaments. “The forces directed toward restoring world economy will be strangled as long as above Europe and above the world hangs the threat of new wars,” said Georges Chicherin, chief of the Soviet delegation. Failing to get response, Chicherin signed the famous Rapallo Agreement with Germany, whereby the two orphans of the conference renewed friendly relations “on the basis of equality,” each cancelling the other’s debts. It was simple, decent, effective, the first move by any nation towards helping the Germans to their feet. Had others followed it, in those days when Germany aspired towards democracy, Hitler Germany might never have arisen.
Soviet diplomacy thus marched into the world arena with two policies—peace through limitation of arms, and equal relations offered to nations under stress. These grew from Soviet ideology and also from the Soviet Union’s needs. Peace, with the chance to rebuild, was her great desire. Peace was most menaced by the appetites of the big powers; so her natural allies were among the defeated or colonial peoples. The USSR sought, first, peace on her borders. Next, she sought as much world peace as possible, because war anywhere was likely to spread.
“Peace is indivisible,” proclaimed Soviet diplomacy through Maxim Litvinov, shuttling to world congresses and annoying diplomats by proclaiming that the way to disarm is to disarm.
The Soviets were the first to sign the Kellogg Pact outlawing war, proposed by the United States. They were usually the first to sign any peace proposal, sometimes before they were invited. Litvinov won plaudits from peace organizations but did not much influence the policies of the major powers. Many lesser governments, however, benefited from Soviet diplomacy. Turkey’s existence as a modern, independent state is partly due to the support Russia gave her at the Lausanne Conference, in 1923. Modern China— both the Peking government and the vanishing forces on Formosa—rose with the help the Soviets gave Dr. Sun Yat-sen in the early twenties.
Finland’s independence was a direct gift from the Bolshevik Revolution. When the tsar fell, Finland, then part of the Russian empire, asked for independence. The Kerensky government refused. Neither Britain, France nor the U.S.A, then wanted Finland’s independence, which implied the break-up of the tsarist empire, their ally in the first world war. As soon as the Bolsheviks took power, Stalin, then Commissar of Nationalities, moved that Finland’s request be granted, saying: “Since the Finnish people … definitely demand … independence, the proletarian state … cannot but meet the demand.”
The rise of Hitler changed all the power politics of Europe. For years, the USSR had supported German demands for revision of die Versailles Treaty, considering it an evil treaty, provocative of war. But Hitler was more provocative of war than the Versailles Treaty. When the Germans and Japanese left the League of Nations, the Soviets entered it, with the announced intent of building collective agreements against aggression. Thenceforth, Litvinov sought alliances among “the democratic forces” to restrain the warlike tendencies of the Nazis.
Britain, however, under Prime Minister Chamberlain, built up Hitler, granting to him in haste everything that had for a decadie been refused to the German Republic—the remilitarization of the Rhineland, the Nazi-terrorized plebiscite in the Saar, German re armament, naval expansion, the Hitler-Mussolini intervention in Spain. British finance, which had strangled German democracy by demanding impossible reparations, helped Hitler with investments and loans. Every intelligent world citizen knew that these favors were given to Hitler because British Tories saw in him their “strong-arm gangster” against the Soviets. If any doubt remained of the aims of both the British and French foreign offices, the Munich Conference removed it. That cynical sell-out of Czechoslovakia was their trump-card in inducing Hitler to march East.
Anyone who watched, as I did, the British moves of those days, saw that Chamberlain, who spoke of “appeasing” Hitler, really egged him on. He suggested giving the Czech’s Sudetenland to Hitler before anyone in Germany dared demand it. When the Czechs seemed likely to fight rather than let Hitler march unopposed into their country, the British and French ambassadors in Prague threatened President Benes with the same policy of “non-intervention” that had already murdered the democratic government of Spain. When Nazi troops at last took possession of Czech lands, it was learned that London financiers had agreed with German industrialists weeks earlier for financing the industries thus seized.
The only ally that proposed to help the Czechs resist this sellout was the USSR. I was vacationing in a North Caucasus resort when the news of the Munich Conference came. There was cheerful approval when the Czechs threatened to resist. Several military officers made airplane reservations to Moscow. “We may have to support the Czechs.” Then news came that Benes had yielded under British and French pressure. The reservations were cancelled. “There is nothing we can do now,” an officer told me at dinner. “Better get in condition for the next aggression—against Poland or France.”
They discussed the forces behind the betrayal. Why were Chamberlain and Daladier willing to sacrifice twenty-seven Czech divisions and one of the best fortification lines in Europe? What made them give Hitler one of Europe’s best armament plants—the Skoda Works? Were they conscious traitors, or weak? A manager of a local industry said: “You can say it in four words—They’re afraid of Bolshevism.”
Hitler’s aggression next moved rapidly eastward. On March 15, 1939, in insolent violation of agreement, German troops marched into disarmed Prague. The USSR informed Germany that she “could not recognize” this seizure of Czech lands. She proposed to Britain an immediate conference of Britain, France, Poland, Romania, Turkey and the USSR to resist further aggressions. Chamberlain replied that the proposal was “premature.” At this signal, Hitler seized Memel, chief seaport of Lithuania and threatened Danzig, Poland’s outlet to the Baltic. By mid-April, seven German divisions stood on the borders of Poland awaiting marching orders; provocative incidents increased. The U.S. State Department was told by its representatives in Europe that “the highest French officials put chances of war at 10 to 1.”[4]
Voices in Britain and France demanded an alliance with the USSR to stop Hitler. “Unity with the USSR can save peace,” declared Lloyd George, Britain’s former prime minister. “Russian aid is vital to the democracies,” said Pierre Cot, former Air Minister of France. A Gallup poll, in April, found 92 per cent of British voters favoring alliance with the Soviets.[5] The USSR made several proposals for a triple alliance to guarantee both East and West Europe against the Nazis. Every suggestion was put on ice by the Chamberlain government and after delay, turned down. Chamberlain sought agreement rather with Hitler; on May 3rd he startled the House of Commons by saying he was ready for a non-aggression pact with Germany. Two days later, he refused the proposal of the USSR for a military alliance.
Even Conservatives began to protest Chamberlain’s actions. Winston Churchill, on May 7, in the House of Commons, demanded an alliance with the USSR. Under such pressure, the British and French ambassadors in Moscow wFere finally instructed, May 25, to “discuss” an alliance. Ten vital weeks had been lost since the rape of Czechoslovakia. Three more weeks were wasted in waiting for a certain Mr. Strang to get to Moscow. This representative, sent by the British Foreign Office to “handle discussions,” proved, on arrival, to have no authority to sign anything. “Discussions” continued seventy-five days, of which the British took fifty-nine to write proposals while the supposedly slow Russians used only sixteen. The Soviets were clearly in haste; the British as clearly delayed. Suddenly, Moscow learned that the British Parliamentary Secretary of Overseas Trade had been discussing with a German official a loan of half a billion or a billion pounds.
To the Moscow leaders, it was clear that Britain either trifled or was trying to push war east. War, they feared, was upon them, not with Hitler alone, but with Hitler backed by Britain and the rest of the capitalist world—the type of war they had always feared. Most people in Britain were lulled by the discussions into the belief that agreement was being reached. Lloyd George was more discerning. “The world is trembling on the brink of a great precipice,” he said.
Twice, Moscow signalled the British people that the discussions were getting nowhere. The first signal was the resignation on May 3, of Maxim Litvinov, Soviet Foreign Minister. For a decade he had symbolized to the world a program for peace through collective agreements against aggression. This program had failed, said Moscow through Litvinov’s resignation. It failed in Manchuria, in Abyssinia, in Spain, in China, in Austria, in Albania, in Czechoslovakia, in Memel—eight years of failure, because the government chiefs of the Western democracies appeased or encouraged the aggressors. Such was the message but the Western press was so used to treating Soviet affairs trivially that they implied that Litvinov must have been liquidated for some imagined fault.
After six weeks, Moscow gave another signal. On July 29, Andrei Zhdanov, chairman of the Foreign Affairs Committee of the Supreme Soviet, declared in an article in Pravda that the talks with Britain and France were getting nowhere and that he did not think either Britain or France wanted an alliance or intended to check Hitler, but might be negotiating just to keep the Russians quiet while Hitler prepared to attack them. This article made a brief sensation abroad, but most commentators dismissed Zhdanov as a hot-head.
At the end of July, when all Europe’s foreign offices knew that Hitler intended to seize the Polish corridor within a month, the Soviets made a last attempt. They suggested that Britain and France send military missions to Moscow to plan the mutual defense of East Europe on the spot. The missions waited ten days, then travelled by the slowest route; when they reached Moscow, it was found they had no authority to agree to anything. Klementi Voroshilov, Soviet Minister of War, with a galaxy of Soviet military officials, made serious proposals to an Anglo-French mission which was not authorized to accept. He proposed, if Hitler attacked Poland, to send two Soviet armies, one against East Prussia in the north and one through southern Poland against Central Germany. The Anglo-French mission replied that they must refer this to Warsaw; later they reported that the Polish government refused Soviet aid. The British and French, who had not scrupled to force the Czechs, by threats, to yield to Hitler, used no pressure to induce the Poles to accept the Soviet help.
On this, the negotiations broke down. “A frivolous make-believe at negotiations,” Voroshilov called it, in reporting to the August session of the Supreme Soviet.
So the Soviet Union made its decision. Hitler had offered a Non-Aggression Pact—he later admitted, in his declaration of war against the USSR, that the request came from him. The pact was signed between Germany and the USSR on August 23. It was not an alliance, such as the USSR offered Britain and France; it was merely an affirmation of neutrality such as the USSR had had with Germany since 1926, but which had fallen into disuse under Hitler. Molotov reported that the USSR signed because “the conclusion of a pact of mutual assistance (with Britain and France) could not be expected.”
The signing of the Pact at the moment when Europe, from hour to hour, awaited Hitler’s attack on Poland, changed the balance of forces in Europe. From East Europe, the first reactions were favorable. “Tension has lessened,” read the wires from Bulgaria. Cables from Latvia and Estonia read: “Since our two great neighbors … have agreed to maintain peaceful relations with each other, tension along the Baltic is relieved.” The Polish Foreign Minister found the situation “unchanged,” since “Poland never expected Soviet aid and did not want it.”[6] East Europe clearly hoped that the Pact, while it might not stop Hitler’s attack on Poland, would stop the eastward spread of the war.
Hitler’s allies were angry. Mussolini and Franco openly disapproved. Terrible was the blow to Tokyo, for Japan was already fighting the USSR on the edge of Mongolia, and was reported to have told Hitler that she would be ready by August to join “the big push.” The Japanese cabinet fell amid bitter attacks on Germany for signing peace with the USSR. Most wrathful of all were Hitler’s Tory backers in London. For the first time, they howled for Hitler’s blood. But hope and habit died hard in Chamberlain’s government. For ten days more, and even after Hitler marched into Poland, Chamberlain still sought a conference of the four Munich Powers—Britain, France, Germany and Italy—to settle Poland’s fate by agreement with Hitler. Only when this was refused, did Chamberlain sign the long-delayed alliance with Poland and urge the Poles to resist.
How could the Poles resist? Britain sent no assistance. The Polish Air Force ceased to function in two days; in two weeks, there was no longer an organized Polish army. The Polish government was in flight somewhere on the border of Romania, leaving only the heroic mayor of Warsaw to rally a last stand of desperate civilians. The only help that might have come in time—and the promise of which might even have prevented the invasion—was Russian help—refused by a Polish government that hated Bolsheviks more than it hated Hitler. The diehard voices in the British Tory press still hoped, not to save Poland, but, in the wreck of Eastern Europe, to “switch the war” against the USSR.
In that tragic time, when Poland was breaking, a Soviet diplomat said to me: “But for our Non-Aggression Pact, we would now be under attack, from both Europe and Asia, by the Alliance of Germany, Italy and Japan. Britain and France would have held the Maginot Line and financed Hitler. America would have been Japan’s arsenal against us, as she has been against China. By our Non-Aggression Pact, we drove wedges between Hitler, Japan, and Hitler’s London backers. It was too late to stop the invasion of Poland; Chamberlain didn’t even try. But we have split the camp of world fascism and shall not have to fight the whole world.”
So, the long struggle for peace through collective agreement of the democratic forces ended in failure. The Second World War began. But the USSR had gained, by the Non-Aggression Pact, a breathing space of nearly two years. More than that, it had split Hitler from his Western backers for the war’s duration.